A Nights Search :: :: University of Virginia Library

When I perus'd thy smooth and lofty straines,
In this thy Search, th' invention of thy brains,
Thy curious language with thy pleasing stile,
How thou dost praise the honest, lash the vile:
And how thy verses meet, how neatly pointed,
How cleanly limb'd, and how exactly joynted;
I could not but commend them; all may see
That Nature hath been prodigall to thee.
The best of wit is thine, 'tis still thy bent
To shame the shamelesse, cleare the innocent.
Thou dost in all, so lively act thy part;
Mine eyes did bribe mine eares to steale my heart.

Thou hast not borrow'd what was at a stand,
Nor tooke up fancies at the second hand;
Nor vamp't an old conceit; nor didst thou sit
To stuffe in empty words, in stead of wit.
Thy wealthy winged raptures breathe delight
To modest minds; thy end is to affright
All from those odious sinnes: thou hast displaid
The various wayes how Younglings are betraid,
Not like to those that sufet with their bayes,
Whose names are far more lasting than their praise.

Those that will twist a wreath for thee,
Must crop the branches of the Cypresse tree.
The ancient Poets live in thee agen,
To adde a lasting glory to thy pen.
Grace beautifies thy parts; but why didst hide
Thy worth so long? 'cause thou wouldst not be try'd
By this decrepit age? rich is thy rime;
Thy wisedome speaks thee old, before thy time.

Though those despise thee (that exceptions take)
Whose tongues are dipt in the infernall lake:
The best will honour thee; and thou shalt finde
Their breath perfum'd; thou art not turn'd with winde.

I thought to chide, but this is all I'le say
Thou camst behind, to steale the wit away.
But I forgive thee: for I doe discerne,
Conceited Witts may come to thee and learne.
Though of our name time should the ruine be,
'Twill be reviv'd perpetually in thee.
I needs must love thee, Nature counts it fit:
But reason moves me, to admire thy wit.
Keepe off, you vassalls that are wed to lust,
Or here's a Mill will grinde you all to dust.

Tho: Mill Mr of Arts. Oxon.

To my adopted sonne Mr Humphry Mill, touching his Nights Search.

In all Night Search what can you finde
But humour, vapour, smoake, and winde?
Of reall goodnesse then the best
Is for the most part laid to rest.
They only, whom black night applauds,
As strumpets, panders, theeves, and bawds,
Are open-ey'd; and then each meets
To couple paires in mœchall sheets:
Who, least their guilt should come to view,
Have Centinels that lye perdue,
To keepe the viperous brood, such hatch
Both from the Constable, and Watch.

Now, least these should too much abuse
Th' uncautelous world; thy pregnant Muse
Hath laid them to the light so plaine,
That by the raptures of thy braine,
(If thou sonne Mill, pursue it still,
And dippe in Helicon thy quill;)
Not one of those thou dost display,
Shall dare to shew their face by day.

So let those Bats, and Owles that night
Love only, and detest the light,

Into Cimerian darknesse run:
For sinne did never love the Sun.
More sham'd by thy discovery: know,
The Lapidary to make show
Of his best and most orient stone,
A dusky foyle it sets upon,
To adde to th' lustre; so thy Muse
To make its splendor show, did chuse
This Argument black and obscure,
To make thy fulgence long endure.

Tho: Heywood

To his kinde friend, Master Humphry Mill, upon his speciall lines of Poetry, called A Nights Search.

My kinde friend, give me leave to tell you news,
I never in my life was in a Stews:
Nor ever visited a house of sinne,
Unlesse to cure the grinkhams they were in.
I never did by Women set such store,
To leave mens company to see a whore.

Panders and bawds to me have strangers been;
For such procurers, I have never seen
With knowing eyes: till in your booke I found them,
Where you have apprehended them and bound them
To answer for their facts: so, truth to tell,
Your booke's no bawdy house, but a Bridewell.
Where they meet punishments upon their merit,
For which your paines doe a just praise inherit.
And may all such as lead a life so ill,
Be dayly chastiz'd with the labouring Mill.

Steph: Bradwell.

To his loving friend, the Author of this Nights Search.

Friend , how comes this about? what hum'rous fit
Mov'd thee to make a Constable of thy wit?
Not such as the grave Parish yearly chuse
To lead a dronzie Watch, and take abuse
From every drunken gallant: dare not fight,
But when he's guarded on th' election night,
Made valiant by the feast; and payes for's cheare
With the shar'd profits of the following yeare.
That only makes discovery in the darke,
T'inrich the Justice, and maintaine his clarke.

But thou art one (being busie in thy part)
Who ord'rest all with Judgement and with Art.
In one Nights Search thou hast discover'd more,
Than all the Searchers that have been before.

And which is more, as I beleeve, dost show
Such vice which thy life's practice ne're did know.
Thy Muse being chaste, and ev'ry flowing line
Carr'ing a sense, or morall, or divine,
If understood; though many a clouded minde
Will not the clearnesse of th' intention finde.
This subject handled by a Blade oth' times,
That knows to court his lasse in bawdy rimes,
Would have been render'd odious: he'd have showne
The wicked ills experience made his owne.

But thy cleane working, on a matter foule,
Hath made those ills instruction to the soule.
Examples doe the wicked chiefely fright,
And nothing's knowne but by its opposite.
The bad, like Spiders, gather in those fields
Their poyson, which to good bees hony yeelds,

Tho: Nabbs.

To his kinde friend Master Humphry Mill.

Upon thy Search by night, a Search by day
Is made by some; who from thy title say,
What Search should this be? what strange things are done,
That from the glimering candle to the Sun
Are now to be produced? sure, some punke,
Some bawd half-stew'd some snuffling pander drunk
Some sattin pimp; some plush docoy: me thinks
I see the chaine made up of all these links,
With ningle, broker, breaker: and to catch
All these, one man's both Constable and Watch.

And what's all this? must we commend the wit
That spends deare time, and its owne strength to sit
O're such a brood as this? the subject's base,
We rather feare, than hope: but pause a space;
And here conceive, the Artists curious hand
May, in'ts impression, at his pleasure stand
In pure, or common matter: yet must shine
In what soe're receives it: so thy line
In those course trifles. Briefely, we commend
Not from fayre shows, and seeming, but the end

Which wise men still begin withall; begin
With th' Authours end, which is the cure of sin,
By ugly sinns presentment: and we then
Shall nothing doubt, but you'le commend his pen.
Cherish in's Search his labouring Muse, and still
Wish all faire winds breathe o're this noble Mill.

Tho: Brewer.

Upon the Book, and Authour of the Nights Search.

Many doe search and yet for want of light
Are able to discover nothing right:
If thou hadst wanted light, or sight, even then
Thy Search had been like that of other men.
But being guided by a shining light,
And making use of that thy piercing sight,
Thou hast in this one Night, discover'd more
Than all thy days, thou ever didst before.

Here thou hast found out whores, theeves, bawds & panders,
Together with their vassals, and commanders;
And in their lively colours, hast discri'd,
And painted forth their luxury and pride.
Their cursed traffique for th' infernall pit,
And their great labour, more and more to get

Into the mouth of hell; till all at the last
They and their consorts there into are cast.

Good eares will listen to thy learned verse
With approbation; and good tongues rehearse
Thy just deserved praise; as for the rest,
That have infected eares, and tongues to jeast
At what they understand not; let them still
Be slighted by thee, most Heroick Mill.

Tho: Goodeare Curiæ Wardorum.

On the variety of pleasing fancies in the Poëm, the Night Search, written by his friend Mr. Humphry Mill.

You that have skill and poetry great store,
What when a line's wel drawn how slubberd o're,
Are Patentees of censure, whose high straines
Doe rack the dull perusers lumpish braines
To keep pace with your raptures; deigne awhile,
To listen to the smooth and modest stile
Of this industrious Muse, whose merits may
(With your joynt-vote) adorn his brows with bay.

You looser livers who applaud a line
Out-does the ribauld draughts of Aretine;
In whose debauch'd opinions naught will please
But what is writ in height of wine, and ease,
Whose spleenes are tickled only at the height,
With some too lustfull passage; but will slight
What's modest and severe; whose searching eye
Graciously smiles on vainer ribauldry:
And by your approbation, praise those lines,
Which both disgrace and eke infect the times.
Draw neare and read, perchance you may descry
What may reclaime you from your luxury.
Observe the tricks of the licencious crue,
And with what wiles they plot to ruine you.
Here, see the various cheats at full displaid,
How oft-times by their plots youth is betraid;
Suppose your selves into like dangers drawne;
Take heed, take heed, your credit lies at pawne.

Read and be wise, for 'twas the Authors care
That you by these examples should beware.
His Muse meant not to please them, that take pride
To heare a handsome doxy deified;
When all that she is praised for, shall be
The neat contrivance of her letcherie.
How she escapes the watch all houres of night;
The Constable supposing her some sprite,
Dares not affront her; how her chambers be
From the rude violence at Shrove-tide free.

But what the Authour touching her shall say,
You'l viewing finde it in a differing way.
And if your judgements do conceive him right,
He aimes as well to profit as delight.
Peruse him favourably, and you shall see
Much matter handled by his industrie;
And when from him y'ave learn'd to shun grosse crimes,
Be pleas'd to thank, and praise him for his rimes.

Friend Mill, I could dwell on thy praise; but 'twill
Be a fit subject for some abler quill.
I could commend the smoothnesse of thy strains,
But 'tis a work befitteth abler brains
To do it fully: let me therefore be
Only a lover of thy worth and thee.
As 'tis expected then the learn'd and wise,
Should this your worth, as I your friendship prize.
Deign your acceptance of these lines, that thence
Your Readers may be taught a lesson hence,
From your example, kindly to accept,
What is devoted to their due respect.

For should you but dislike a line that's here,
It would encourage them to spend a jeere
Upon the lightest criticisme; and take
You for their pattern, who an error make
Of this my forward service; but I feare
These words will prove another trespasse here:
And while I labour to abate your ire,
Stirring the embers, I increase the fire.

This, and I've done; you need not feare its worth,
Only your name will serve to set it forth.
And if the ruder here affrighted gaze
At your unlookt-for raptures, stand amaz'd:
Let 'em awhile but listen, and they'l grow
(Being ravisht with those numbers from you flow)
In love with wit and fancy: and esteeme
You worthy of a laurell Anademe:
Which fame shall crowne thy temples with in spight
Of all gaine-sayers of thy Muses right.
Whose worth while other praise, let me admire;
Sith, I but adde a voyce unto their quire.

C. G. ex Oxon.

To the Ingenious Author, Master Humphry Mill, on his booke called A Nights Search.

Your Mill grindes well; and each pure line
Without a Search may sweare it thine.
An obscure subject you display,
In neat expressions cleare as day.
Rare Art that can both satisfie
The learned, and the vulgary!

This censure gives a friendly pen,
Thou art the flower of witty men.
Then take this baptisme from my quill,
A Mill a Poet, Poet Mill.

Sic approbavit, Dan: Fox. Grayes-Inne.

To his worthy friend the Author of the Nights Search.

If Decker deckt with discipline and wit,
Gain'd praises by the Bell-man that he writ;
Or laud on Brathwait waiting did abound;
When a Strappado for the devill he found.
Then may this Mill of Mills, by right of merit,
Equall (if not superior) fame inherit.
Being no Art-invented paper Mill,
That water driving not, lies ever still:
But such a Mill as (in my best account)
Deserves a Mansion on Pernassus mount.
A Mill not agitated (as I finde)
Nor set on worke by water or by winde.
Nor a poore Edifice by Art compact,
But Nature in this Mill her part did act:

That by selfe-working of a pan, and pen,
The reputation of luxurious men,
And women, given to soule-killing lust,
Or other vice, grinds as it were to dust;
Making one little world in verse to tell,
What follyes in this Universe do dwell.

Briefly, this Mill, or Microcosme appeares,
In rich endowments old, though young in yeares:
And though no paper-mill, his worthy name,
This second time prest paper must proclame.
His first deserv'd no carping, nor derision,
For 'twas a usefull Melancholy Vision.
And here behold his Nights Search, that may catch
The Constable, perhaps, with all his Watch.
And men in higher office, that are bent
Themselves (and not their Maker) to content;
Whereby the light of reason we may spie,
With Venus, Bacchus, Hermes, many lie.
But were I single (Mill) 'twere best for me,
Next to Divines, still to converse with thee:
In whose vice-hating brest, and active brain,
The Censor Cato seemes to live again.

Joan. Patridophilus.

To his judicious friend, Master Humphry Mill, on his Evening Poems.

I need not win the lookers on to buy
This piece (worth reading over:) every eye
That views thy name to't and hath heard thy praise,
Without intreaty will respect the Bayes
With favourable perusall: then shall I
Prevent the Readers willing industry;
And as it were, ambitious to be read,
Before thy rare composures, dare to spread
My courser fare at th' upper end; but 'tis
Onely to whet their appetites to this:
Which to the second course thou dost prepare,
That every palate may commend thy fare.
Taste what you like, and if ought here displease ye,
'Tis not because tis bad, but you are queasie.

Rob. Newton.

To his friend, Humphry Mill, upon his ensuing Poems.

Friend , I admire thee, for by heaven I swear,
I have not heard nor seen this many a year,
A subject fitter for my wonder, or
Rather my joy, since flatt'ry I abhor:
For, looking in thy face, I read in thee,
The perfect lines of ingenuitie.
Such is thy work, that thou to fame maist wed it,
(By true relation) though I never read it.
Should I conceive thy much aspiring flame
To reach at me? no, I admire the same.
Thy book has more than some will wish indeed,
And that the title doth too farre exceed.
If any mock the title, say 'tis flat,
I'le tell him to his teeth, 't's no matter what.
If any say thy lines do cut, or harp
Upon a jest, and say thy wit is sharp;
Thus answer him againe, that none but fooles
Will be so mad to meddle with edg'd tooles.

Ro. T. hospitii Lincoln.

To his very good friend, Mr. Humphry Mill, on his Poem called the Nights Search.

Me thinks, I heare the Punks and Panders say,
There is a Nights Search coming, let's away:
'Tis time, I see, there's not a fault hath slipt
Away by thee, but has been soundly whipt;
Some burnt i'th' hand, i'th' shoulders, elswhere some;
There's not a drunkard, filthy quean, or scum,
That's left unpunisht; nay, it may be said,
Thou hast a wit that makes the world afraid.
Men dare not kisse a wench, nor she the men,
For feare of thy two-edg'd Satyrick pen.
Go on (brave sir) to punish thus the crimes
Of these abusive and adulterous times,
That th' age to come may say there was a Mill,
That scowr'd the world from such abortive ill.

Put down your clubs, ye Constables that catch
The leather-winged bats; and you the Watch,
Go stumble home, what needs a rusty bill,
A Welch-hooke, or a halbert? here's a Mill,

That apprehends more Panders, Punks & knaves,
Than all the Beadles with their painted staves:
For this his Nights Search is a piece of worke,
That may, for ought we know, convert the Turke:
'Tis pitty then it should empaled lie,
Within the narrow verge of Britanie:
No, it shall ride in state on Neptunes back,
To th' Court of Amurath and Prester Jack.
Who knowes what vertues in't? perhaps his lines
May make them turne away their Concubines.
Grinde on brave Mill, thou art for all their frauds
The great Shrove-tuesdy to the whores & bawds.

Robert Chamberlain.

To the well-deserving, Master Humphry Mill, upon his Poems called A Nights Search.

Meere flashy Poems best acceptance finde,
With men to Novels of the times inclin'd:
Expressions of a Muse enricht with grace,
(That strikes at sinnes foule and prodigious race)

Hardly from those deserved praise shall gaine,
Who but a thought of good to entertaine,
Do loath as death. Be not discourag'd then,
If censur'd by the worthlesse sort of men.
None that are wise and good, but I dare say,
To read a Poem doth so well display
(As yours) the blacknes of these monstrous crimes,
(So freely, boldly practis'd in these times:)
And with such art doth remedies apply,
To cure the soules each killing malady,
Will much delight and celebrate your praise,
With what's your merits due, the learned Bayes

Bar. Pigot.

To his friend, Mr. Humphry Mill, upon his rich conceits in his Poems called A Nights Search.

The Laws and Statutes which are now in force,
Confirm'd by justice, order such a course,
That watchmen guard the night, and while men sleep,
Their goods and persons they in safty keep.

And doe (or should) discover noctuall scouts,
As Panders, Pimps, and Bawds, their hellish routs,
And bring them to correction: where the Law
May take effect, and keep them still in awe.

But what's all that to this Nights Search of thine?
Thou hast discover'd in thy Epick line,
Whole troops of hell-hounds; and thou hast displai'd
Them to the life; that hell is now affraid
Of thee, thy Genius, and thy searching quill,
Which have reveal'd another world of ill.

Me thought, I saw thee in thy curious Search,
Much like an Eagle mounted on a pearch
To over-looke the world: and having spy'de
A knot of Night-fowles, then thou didst divide
Thy nimble feathers; there thou wouldst not stay;
But downe thou flew'st, and took'st them for a prey.
Thou didst both whip, and teach thy Night-borne prize:
Thou wast too lofty once to stoop for flyes.
Yet tender-hearted; thou couldst not endure
Those that were sore, should goe without a cure.
To those that mend not, but will sinne agen,
The Bridewell lash is easier than thy pen.
Thy booke is usefull for the Common-wealth,
I love its worth, and thee, and wish thee health.
Mount still with winged raptures; for I know
Thy mind's too spritely (long) to dwell below.

Tho: Collett.

Vpon the deserving Author, Master Humphry Mill, and his Nights Search.

Out of a drowsie slumber at mid-night,
My Muse awakes me, and commands me write
Upon this Nights Search: I was loth to rise;
But rub'd awhile my temples, and mine eyes;
Struck fire, got light, pen, inke, and paper by;
What must I write now? what! yes what? and why?
Must I crowd in among those learned ranks,
That doe already over-flow the banks
Of this our Mill, with streames from Helicon?
Are there not floods before it many a one,
Of strength enough to drive the wheele about,
But such a weake supply must be drawne out
As I can dribble through a slender quill?

Well, come away; more sacks unto the Mill.
I will make one, but by your leave my Muse,
Stand you aloofe: I other ayd must use
To praise this worke, and workeman: to be done
As it should be, by no Muse but his owne:

And her I now invoke. Fayre modest maid,
Be not in any blush or thought affraid,
That I'le attempt thy Chastity; or wrong
Thee, or thy Poet, though thou' assist my song
In chanting forth his praise; I will not quite
Ravish thee from him: one short houres delight
Intitillations thou canst give my braine,
Shall serve my turne; and then flye home againe.
Pray be not coy, but, come unto his friend,
Many a man himselfe so long would lend.
I know he'l not be angry: now she comes,
And yeelds conceit for ten Encomiums,
Were here but space to place them! O she flowes,
As if she'd turne the whole world out of prose,
Into delightfull measures; and the times
Out of rude senses into rationall rimes.
Which of the ancient Poets (with rev'rence still
Be't spoke) on vices has out-wrote our Mill?
Or of the Moderne busie ones who sweeter
Can grinde so many mischiefs into meeter?
Write, write apace, all you that boast to be
Traders in Poetry, Prentices, or free,
In praise of this rare Artist; that the earth
May be prepar'd to welcom this great birth.
This new booke of abuses whipt, and stript,
Which o're the witherd old ones head have skipt:
And by its super excellency undone
That which was call'd the Bel-man too of London.

And herefull downe, you Citie-Owles and Bats,
That should watch in the night, (but like dull Cats,
You sleep, or goe a birding, while the Rats
Play in the streets before the Courter gates)
Fall downe (I say) you Officers of night,
Worship the glory of the Lanthorne light
That's here held up to you by th' hand of Mill,
That shews you the high way to all the ill
He has discoverd; and you should prevent.
Now if you be so ignorantly bent,
Or willfull-blinde, as, we'l not see, you say;
You may want eyes to see another day;
Or be so hood-winkt, that you may not spye
When your owne wives with other men doe lye!
And (under favour) may the City know
What tole or recompence she now doth owe
To this industrious Mill, this Watchman? nay
This glory of the night. The City may
Call him her Moon-shine; not at least deny
He's a Night-Dyall to set her Watches by.
Consider now, you that are grave and wise
In City government, and Beadles, Spyes,
Informers, and Promooters keepe in fee,
The endlesse unknowne worth of Poetry.
Which of enormities discovers more
In one Nights Search than in ten yeares before;
Had all you Officers compounded for.
And as you love to punish vice, abhorre

In gratitude to vertue; let reward
Engage the Poet then to your regard.
So shall his Muse your honour sing, and so
Your Mill more merrily the round shall go.

Richard Broome.

To Master Mill, on his Nights Search.

Where such a troop of Worthies do approve,
'Twould seeme injustice to conceal the love
I beare thy merits: which should honour'd be,
By all that do love ingenuitie.
Let me then on those champions of thy fame
Attend; and glory that I have a name
I'th' list of thy admirers, and may be
Thought on hereafter for my praising thee.
I am not skill'd in complement, nor use
At every triviall cause to rouze my Muse;
Yet truly, I would willingly bestow
That praise upon thee which I justly owe
To thy deserts; but then I must repeat
What others have deliver'd and entreat
The loane of some choice fancie, or the wit,
The matter or conceits best suiting it,

From this or that great Artist, lest I run
A new into an obligation.
But I forbeare with borrowed coyne to pay
The debt I owe, and crave a longer day;
Acknowledging how much our lewder times
Are daily alter'd by thy well-fill'd rimes.

Jo. Wilson, Interioris Templi.

To the Authour, Mr. Humphry Mill, on his worthy work, called A Nights Search.

What a good conscience hath inspir'd thy pen,
To throw it's gall upon the faults of men!
And those soule-tempting errors that entice
Loose women to be instruments of vice!
'Twas sure no Constable that's proud to weare
The title of a Parish Officer,
To help his stocke, and credit by conniving,
For by severity, there's little thriving.

Nor did a Suburbs Justice teach thee how
To look on sin with a contracted brow;
That brings him profit, and maintains his man,
That writes worse latine than Justinian.
No, no, 'twas zeale in thee, that hast refin'd
Loose Poetry (to lightnesse more inclin'd)
And taught it to instruct, not tempt the soule
With wanton raptures, unto acts are foule:
They are by thee so lively made t'appeare,
Desire dares not attempt them without feare.
What Patron shall reward thee? few there are,
Will to thy full desert a bounty spare.
Those chiefly which delight to spend their means
Upon thy punisht bawds and sore-lasht queans.
I wish I could dispose it, thou shouldst bee
Master of Bridewell, I so honour thee.
Thou would'st reform more queans with thy learn'd quill,
Than beating hemp, or turning of the mill.

Tho. N.

Ad amicum suum candidum, M. Humphredum Mill, de Poëmate faceto, cui Titulus A Nights Search.

Some loose-lin'd Rimers by lascivious Layes,
Infect the Aire; thou justly bear'st the Bayes,
Thy quill commands a blessed Memory,
Coevall with Long-breath'd Eternity:
While thou by Practise and a Poets pen,
Dost lash the Brain-sick carriages of men;
And so discreetly on a various Matter,
Thy flowing Thoughts most variously dost scatter.

Thy Nobler Muse, exiles a low-bred strain,
A starv'd conceit, or fancie from a Swaine:
Each verse a rapture is, and every word
A speaking sentence; measures all accord
By due proportion; in this verse of thine
There's no harsh accent, nor a maimed line.

The sweetned musick of thy New-born lines,
Exceeds old Orpheus pipe, thou charm'st the Times.
While Mirth and Wit, with Modesty make head
To levell Vice, and strike prophanesse dead,

In this thy Search. That Surg'on wins my heart,
Who if he lance doth Anodyze the smart.
What though some Beefe-braines cannot trace thy pen,
But judge thee guilty, as the worst of men!
'Cause their low-fathomes, wedded to their Sense,
Can only judge of things ith' Present Tense!
Each Peasant cannot Cube, nor well discry
A Poets Spheare, because his Searching eye
Sublimes it selfe; we know that spotlesse name
Is wing'd abroad to wither'd Envies shame.

But let it swell, this truth Ile safely say,
Thy Marshall'd Muse hath won the field to day;
That when thou pay'st the grave thy debt, To Die,
Will mount thy purchas'd glory to the skie.

Brave Gallants that swear fealty to sin,
Yeeld Homage to a lust, or cursed Fien!
This book arrests you; bid your lusts adieu,
Shake hands with Vice, your Mistris, & that Crew;
Or read your Doome with silence, lest you feele
The circling lashes of his Scourge of steele.

Sic approbavit Eliah Palmer, Londinensis.

To his good friend the Author of the Nights Search.

Faine would I presse to drop some lines among
The wits that write thy praise; but being young,
And wanting wit, I fear 'twill be my doom,
My Muse came shuffling in to fill a room.
But my intent is good, that helps the rest;
Thy worth is more than can be here exprest.
Thou hast reveal'd those things, that such as I
May warning take: how do the harlots frie,
And burn alive! thou hast displai'd a whore
In all her postures; never man did more.

The bawd, the thiefe, the prodigall, the pimp,
The rascall pander, every hellish Imp
Shall feele thy lash: those that are rotten-ripe,
Drop down before thee; where thou giv'st a stripe,
'Tis onely 'mendment that can give them ease,
(Joyn'd with thy cures) for their foule disease.
If I should undertake to set thee forth,
I should come short in blazing of thy worth.
But in this worke, O! how dost thou excell!
I love no flattery, the world can tell.

Thy verse is full of fancie, and thy braine
Drops rich conceits, good language, that thy straine
May please the best of wits; O let it be
Made known to ages what they owe to thee!

Philip. Champernowne, Medii Templi.

To his respected friend, Master Mill, on his ensuing Poems.

When I took pen in hand to write of thee,
An ague took my joynts, no part was free:
I would thee and thy Work with praise commend,
But that I knew not when to make an end.
I thought again some pall'd conceit would fall.
Into my quill; then not to write at all
I thought it best; but by and by again,
Me thought I had a fancie in my brain.
With that my barren Muse began to spring,
She somewhat needs would speak, & this's the thing.

How richly is thy Muse adorn'd, that she
Can sound out things that thou didst never see!
She hath reveal'd the plots of hell. By kinde
Thou art a Mill indeed, for thou dost grinde

Their flesh to naught, & then condemn'st their bones
To be supprest by hard relentlesse stones.
So full of fancie, deck'd with rich conceit,
Is all thy Work, by measure, and by weight:
I thinke that by it daily many a one
Will be reclaim'd when thou art dead and gone.
He that doth read thy booke, will hate the evill,
And speake thy praise, unlesse it be a devill.
So much is found by thee, that all may say,
Ne're so much known till now (thy night is day.)

Thou dost, unfeed, without demurre or pause,
O'rethrow the guilty; but thou plead'st the cause
With art and wit, of innocents distrest,
Propounding them away t'attaine to rest;
Preverting all that may be thought or said
Against thee or thy Muse, that hopefull maid,
By all the guard of hell: and thou dost bring
Them double shame, in turning back the ring.
How could I stay to tell thy praises o're!
My candle's out, now I can write no more.

Tho. Gittyns, Interioris Templi.