University of Virginia Library

SONG

[When Orpheus sweetly did complayne]

IN COMMENDATION OF MUSICK

SONG

[Keepe on your maske, and hide your eye]

ANOTHER VERSION TO HIS MISTRESSE

Keepe on your mask and hide your eye
For in beholding you I dye.
Your fatall beauty Gorgon-like
Dead with astonishment doth strike.
Your piercing eyes that now I see
Are worse than Basilisks to me.
Shut from mine eyes those hills of snow,
Their melting vally do not shew:
Those azure paths lead to despaire,
O vex me not, forbear, forbear;
For while I thus in torments dwell
The sight of Heaven is worse than Hell.
In those faire cheeks two pits doe lye
To bury those slaine by your eye:
So this at length doth comfort me
That fairely buried I shall be:
My grave with Roses, Lillies, spread,
Methinks tis life for to be dead:
Come then and kill me with your eye,
For if you let me live I dye.
When I perceive your lips againe
Recover those your eyes have slaine,
With kisses that (like balsome pure)
Deep wounds as soone as made doe cure,
Methinks tis sicknesse to be sound,
And there's no health to such a wound.
When in your bosome I behold
Two hills of snow yet never cold,
Which lovers, whom your beauty kills,
Revive by climing those your hills,
Methinks there's life in such a death
That gives a hope of sweeter breath:
Then since one death prevails not where
So many antidotes are nere,
And your bright eyes doe but in vaine
Kill those who live as fast as slaine;
That I no more such death survive
Your way's to bury me alive
In place unknown, and so that I
Being dead may live and living dye.

SONG

[O when will Cupid shew such arte]

A SONG ON A SIGH.

A SONG ON THE BATHS

SONG A STRANGE GENTLEWOMAN PASSING BY HIS WINDOW

SONG ON A FRIENDS ABSENCE

MELANCHOLLY

OPPOSITE TO MELANCHOLY

Returne my joyes, and hither bring
A tongue not made to speake but sing,
A jolly spleene, an inward feast,
A causelesse laugh without a jest,
A face which gladnesse doth anoynt,
An arm that springs out of his joynt,
A sprightfull gate that leaves no print,
And makes a feather of a flint,
A heart that's lighter than the ayre,
An eye still dancing in his spheare,
Strong mirth which nothing can controule,
A body nimbler than the soule,
Free wandring thoughts not tyde to muse
Which thinke on all things, nothing choose,
Which ere we see them come are gone;
These life itselfe doth feede upon.

A TRANSLATION OF THE NIGHTINGALE OUT OF STRADA

Now the declining sun 'gan downwards bend
From higher heavens, and from his locks did send
A milder flame, when near to Tiber's flow
A lutinist allay'd his careful woe
With sounding charms, and in a greeny seat
Of shady oake took shelter from the heat.
A Nightingale oreheard him, that did use
To sojourn in the neighbour groves, the muse
That fill'd the place, the Syren of the wood;
Poore harmless Syren, stealing neare she stood
Close lurking in the leaves attentively
Recording that unwonted melody:
Shee cons it to herselfe and every strayne
His finger playes her throat return'd again.
The lutinist perceives an answeare sent
From th' imitating bird and was content
To shewe her play; more fully then in hast
He tries his lute, and (giving her a tast
Of the ensuing quarrel) nimbly beats
On all his strings; as nimbly she repeats,
And (wildely ranging ore a thousand keys)
Sends a shrill warning of her after-layes.
With rolling hand the Lutinist then plies
His trembling threads; sometimes in scornful wise
He brushes down the strings and keemes them all
With one even stroke; then takes them severall
And culles them ore again. His sparkling joynts
(With busy descant mincing on the points)
Reach back with busy touch: that done hee stayes,
The bird replies, and art with art repayes,
Sometimes as one unexpert or in doubt
How she might wield her voice, shee draweth out
Her tone at large and doth at first prepare
A solemne strayne not weav'd with sounding ayre,
But with an equall pitch and constant throate
Makes clear the passage of her gliding noate;
Then crosse division diversly shee playes,
And loudly chanting out her quickest layes
Poises the sounds, and with a quivering voice
Falls back again: he (wondering how so choise,
So various harmony should issue out
From such a little throate) doth go about
Some harder lessons, and with wondrous art
Changing the strings, doth upp the treble dart,
And downwards smites the base; with painefull stroke
Hee beats, and as the trumpet doth provoke
Sluggards to fight, even so his wanton skill
With mingled discords joynes the hoarse and shrill:
The Bird this also tunes, and while she cutts
Sharp notes with melting voice, and mingled putts
Measures of middle sound, then suddenly
Shee thunders deepe, and juggs it inwardly,
With gentle murmurs, cleare and dull shee sings,
By course, as when the martial warning rings:
Beleev't the minstrel blusht; with angry mood
Inflam'd, quoth hee, thou chauntresse of the wood,
Either from thee Ile beare the prize away,
Or vanquisht break my lute without delay.
Inimitable accents then hee straynes;
His hand flyes ore the strings: in one hee chaynes
Four different numbers, chasing here and there,
And all the strings belabour'd everywhere:
Both flatt and sharpe hee strikes, and stately grows
To prouder straynes, and backwards as he goes
Doubly divides, and closing upp his layes
Like a full quire a shouting consort playes;
Then pausing stood in expectation
If his corrival now dares answeare on;
But shee when practice long her throate had whett,
Induring not to yield, at once doth sett
Her spiritt all of worke, and all in vayne;
For while shee labours to express againe
With nature's simple touch such diverse keyes,
With slender pipes such lofty noates as these,
Orematcht with high designes, orematcht with woe,
Just at the last encounter of her foe
Shee faintes, shee dies, falls on his instrument
That conquer'd her; a fitting monument.
So far even little soules are driven on,
Struck with a vertuous emulation.

ON WESTWELL DOWNES

ON A GREAT HOLLOW TREE.

ON FAYRFORD WINDOWES

ON A GENTLEWOMAN'S BLISTRED LIPP

Hide not that sprouting lipp, nor kill
The juicy bloome with bashfull skill:
Know it is an amorous dewe
That swells to court thy corall hewe,
And what a blemish you esteeme
To other eyes a pearle may seeme
Whose watery growth is not above
The thrifty seize that pearles doe love,
And doth so well become that part
That chance may seeme a secret art.
Doth any judge that face lesse fayre
Whose tender silke a mole doth beare?
Or will a diamond shine less cleare
If in the midst a soil appeare?
Or else that eye a finer nett
Whose glasse is ring'd about with jett?
Or is an apple thought more sweete
When hony specks and redde doe meete?
Then is the lipp made fayrer by
Such sweetness of deformitie.
The nectar which men strive to sipp
Springs like a well upon your lipp,
Nor doth it shew immodesty,
But overflowing chastity.
O who will blame the fruitfull trees
When too much sapp and gumme hee sees?
Here nature from her store doth send
Only what other parts can lend;
The budde of love which here doth growe
Were too too sweete if pluckt belowe;
When lovely buddes ascend so high
The roote belowe cannot be drye.

TO A GENTLEWOMAN FOR A FRIEND

No marvell if the Sunne's bright eye
Shower downe hott flames; that qualitie
Still waytes on light; but when wee see
Those sparkling balles of ebony
Distil such heat, the gazer straight
Stands so amazed at the sight
As when the lightning makes a breach
Through pitchie clouds: can lightning reach
The marrowe hurting not the skynne?
Your eyes to me the same have byn;
Can jett invite the loving strawe
With secrett fire? so those can draw,
And can, where ere they glance a dart,
Make stubble of the strongest hart.
Oft when I looke I may descry
A little face peep through your eye;
Sure 'tis the boy, who wisely chose
His throne among such rayes as those,
Which, if his quiver chance to fail,
May serve for darts to kill withal:
If to such powerful shafts I yeild,
If with so many wounds I bleed,
Think me noe coward, though I lye
Thus prostrate with your charming eye:
Did I say but your eye? I sweare
Death's in your beauty everywhere.
Your waxen hands when I recall,
Your lily breasts, their melting vale,
Your damaske cheeks, your lilly skynne,
Your corral lipp and dainty chynne,
Your shining locks and amber breath,
All pleasing instruments of death,
Your eye may spare itselfe: mine owne
When all your parts are duly knowne
From any part may fetch a dart
To wound itselfe. Kill not my hart,
By saying that I will dispise
The parentage from which you rise:
I know it well, and likewise knowe
That I my myselfe my breath doe owe
To Woolsey's roofe, and can it bee
I should disdayne your pedigree?
Or is your Sire a butcher found?
The fitter you to make a wound;
Wound mee againe and more and more,
So you againe will mee restore,
But if resemblance tell the father
I think hee was an Angell rather.

FOR A GENTLEMAN, WHO, KISSINGE HIS FRIEND AT HIS DEPARTURE LEFT A SIGNE OF BLOOD ON HER

What mystery was this; that I should finde
My blood in kissing you to stay behinde?
'Twas not for want of color that requirde
My blood for paynt: No dye could be desirde
On that fayre silke, where scarlett were a spott
And where the juice of lillies but a blotte.
'Twas not the signe of murther that did taynt
The harmlesse beauty of so pure a saynt:
Yes, of a loving murther, which rough steele
Could never worke; such as we joy to feele:
Wherby the ravisht soule though dying lives,
Since life and death the selfsame object gives.
If at the presence of a murtherer
The wound will bleede and tell the cause is ther,
A touch will doe much more, and thus my heart,
When secretly it felt the killing darte,
Shew'd it in blood: which yet doth more complayne
Because it cannot be so touched againe.
This wounded heart, to shew its love most true,
Sent forth a droppe and writ its minde on you.
Never was paper halfe so white as this,
Nor waxe so yeelding to the printed kisse,
Nor seal'd so strong. Noe letter ere was writt
That could the author's minde so truly hitt.
For though myselfe to foreigne countries flie,
My blood desires to keepe you company.
Here could I spill it all: thus I can free
Mine enemy from blood, though slayne I be:
But slayne I cannot bee, nor meete with ill,
Since but by you I have no blood to spill.

ON A DISSEMBLER

Could any shewe where Plynyes people dwell
Whose head stands in their breast; who cannot tell
A smoothing lye because their open hart
And lippes are joyn'd so neare, I would depart
As quick as thought, and there forgett the wrongs
Which I have suffer'd by deceitfull tongues.
I should depart where soules departed bee,
Who being freed from cloudy flesh, can see
Each other so immediately, so cleare
That none needs tongue to speak, nor ears to hear.
Were tongues intended to express the soule,
And can wee better doe't with none at all?
Were words first made our meaning to reveale,
And are they usde our meaning to conceale?
The ayre by which wee see, will that turne fogg?
Our breath turne mist? Will that become a clogg
That should unload the mynde? Fall we upon
Another Babell's sub-confusion?
And in the self-same language must wee finde
A diverse faction of the words and minde?
Dull as I am, that hugg'd such emptie ayre,
And never mark't the deede (a phrase more faire,
More trusty and univocall): joyne well
Three or foure actions, we may quickly spell
A hollow hart: if those no light can lend
Read the whole sentence, and observe the end:
I will not wayte so long: the guilded man
On whom I ground my speech, no longer can
Delude my sense; nor can the gracefull arte
Of kind dissembling button upp his hart.
His well-spoke wrongs are such as hurtfull words
Writt in a comely hand; or bloody swords
Sheath'd upp in velvett; if hee draw on mee
My armour proofe is incredulity.

ON GRAY EYES

Looke how the russet morne exceeds the night,
How sleekest Jett yields to the di'monds light,
So farr the glory of the gray-bright eye
Out-vyes the black in lovely majesty.
A morning mantl'd with a fleece of gray
Laughs from her brow and shewes a spotlesse day:
This di'mond-like doth not his lustre owe
To borrowed helpe, as black thinges cast a show,
It needs noe day besides itselfe, and can
Make a Cimmeria seeme meridian:
Light sees, tis seen, tis that whereby wee see
When darknesse in the opticke facultie
Is but a single element: then tell
Is not that eye the best wherein doth dwell
More plenteous light? that organ is divine,
And more than eye that is all chrystalline,
All rich of sight: oh that perspicuous glasse
That lets in light, and lets a light forth passe
Tis Lustre's thoroughfare where rayes doe thronge,
A burning glasse that fires the lookers-on.
Black eies sett off coarse beauties which they grace
But as a beard smutch'd on a swarthy face.
Why should the seat of life be dull'd with shade,
Or that be darke for which the day was made?
The learned Pallas, who had witt to choose,
And power to take, did other eyes refuse,
And wore the gray: each country painter blotts
His goddesse eyeballs with two smutty spotts.
Corruption layes on blacke; give me the eye
Whose lustre dazles paynt and poetrie,
That's day unto itselfe; which like the sun
Seemes all one flame. They that his beames will shun
Here dye like flyes: when eyes of every kind
Faint at the sun, at these the sun growes blind,
And skipps behind a cloud, that all may say
The Eye of all the world loves to be gray.

ON A GENTLEWOMAN'S WATCH THAT WANTED A KEY

Thou pretty heav'n whose great and lesser spheares
With constant wheelings measure hours and yeares
Soe faithfully that thou couldst solve the doubt
Of erring Time if Nature should be out,
Where's thy intelligence? thy Soule? the Key
That gives thee Life and Motion? must thou stay
Thus cramp'd with rusty Sloth? and shall each wheele
Disorganis'd confess it is but steele?
Art's Living Creature, is thy thread all spent?
Thy Pulse quite dead? hath Time a period sent
To his owne Sister? slaine his Eeven Match?
That when we looke 'tis doomesday by the Watch.
Prithee sweete Watch be marri'd, joyne thy side
Unto an active key, and then abide
A frequent screwing, till successively
More and more Time beget Eternity.
Knowe as a Woman never lock'd and key'd
Once in twice twelve growes faint and is downe-weighed
From Nature's full intent, and cannot live
Beyond her natural span, unlesse Man give
His vanish'd bone a quick'ning, unless Man
Doe adde an Ell unto her now shrunk span,
Unless he lengthen out posteritie
Her secret orbes will faint and She all die;
Soe will thy wheeles decay, and finde their date
Unless a Key their houres doe propagate:
Then gett a key and live; my life Ile gage
Each minute then shall grow into an age;
Then lett thy Mistresse looking smile on Thee,
And say 'tis time my Watch and I agree.

A WATCH SENT HOME TO MRS. ELIZ: KING, WRAPT IN THEIS VERSES

Goe and count her better houres;
They more happie are than ours.
The day that gives her any blisse
Make it as long againe as tis:
The houre shee smiles in lett it bee
By thy art increas'd to three:
But if shee frowne on thee or mee
Know night is made by her not thee:
Bee swift in such an houre, and soon
Make it night though it bee noone:
Obey her tymes, who is the free
Fayre sun that governes thee and mee.

ON A WATCH MADE BY A BLACKSMITH

A Vulcan and a Venus seldom part.
A blacksmith never us'd to filinge art
Beyond a lock and key, for Venus' sake
Hath cut a watch soe small that sence will ake
In searching every wire, and subtile sphere
Which his industrious skill hath order'd theire:
It scarce outswells a nut, and is soe light
A Ladies eare might well indure the weight.
Twas for a Mistrisse: pitty not his owne,
And yet not pitty when her worth is knowne,
Or els his love that ownes her: Either's name
Is carv'd within the plates: the witty frame
Hath made their letters kiss for them, while they
Have like the watch one pulse, one sympathy.

ON A GENTLEWOMAN THAT SUNG AND PLAY'D UPON A LUTE

Be silent you still musique of the Sphears,
And every sense make haste to be all ears,
And give devout attention to her aires,
To which the Gods doe listen as to prayers
Of pious votaries; the which to heare
Tumult would be attentive, and would swear
To keep lesse noise at Nile, if there she sing,
Or with a happy touch grace but the string.
Among so many auditors, such throngs
Of Gods and men that presse to hear her songs,
O let me have an unespied room,
And die with such an anthem ore my tomb.

UPON THE BLUSH OF A FAIRE LADIE

Stay lusty blood! where canst thou seeke
So blest a seat as in her cheeke?
How dar'st thou from her face retire
Whose beauty doth command desire?
But if thou wilt not stay, then flowe
Downe to her panting pappes belowe:
There take thou glory to distayne
With azure blewe each swelling veyne,
From thence run boyling through each part
Till thou hast warm'd her frozen hart,
Which, if from love thou find'st entire,
O martyr it with gentle fire.

ON A GENTLEWOMAN WALKING IN THE SNOWE

I saw faire Cloris walke alone
Where feather'd rayne came softly downe,
And Jove descended from his tower
To court her in a silver shower;
The wanton snowe flewe to her breast
Like little birds into their nest,
And overcome with whiteness there
For greife it thaw'd into a teare,
Thence falling on her garment's hemme
For greife it freez'd into a gemme.

ON CHLORIS STANDING BY THE FIRE

Faire Chloris, standing by the Fire,
An amorous coale with hot desire
Leapt on her breast, but could not melt
The chaste snow there—which when it felt
For shame it blusht; and then it died
There where resistance did abide,
And lest she should take it unkind
Repentant ashes left behind.

TO A VALENTINE

Faire Valentine, since once your welcome hand
Did cull mee out wrapt in a paper band,
Vouchsafe the same hand still, to shew thereby
That Fortune did your will no injury:
What though a knife I give, your beauty's charme
Will keepe the edge from doing any harme:
Wool deads the sternest blade; and will not such
A weake edge turne, meeting a softer touch?

A SUPERSCRIPTION ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S ARCADIA, SENT FOR A TOKEN

Whatever in Philoclea the fair
Or the discreet Pamela figur'd are,
Change but the name the virtues are your owne,
And for a fiction there a truth is knowne:
If any service here perform'd you see,
If duty and affection paynted bee
Within these leaves: may you be pleas'd to know
They only shadow what I truly owe
To your desart: thus I a glasse have sent
Which both myself and you doth represent.

POSIES

BRACELETS

AN EARE-STRINGE

A WATCH-STRING

A PURSE-STRING

A NECKLACE

A GIRDLE

A PAIR OF GLOVES

If that from glove you take the letter g,
Then glove is love, and that I send to thee,

ON THE PICTURE OF TWO DOLPHINS IN A FOUNTAYNE

These dolphins twisting each on either side
For joy leapt upp, and gazing there abide;
And whereas other waters fish doe bring,
Here from the fishes doe the waters spring,
Who think it is more glorious to give
Than to receive the juice whereby they live:
And by this milk-white bason learne you may
That pure hands you should bring or beare away,
For which the bason wants no furniture,
Each dolphin wayting makes his mouth an ewer,
Your welcome then you well may understande
When fish themselves give water to your hand.

SONNETT

My love and I for kisses play'd,
Shee would keepe stake, I was content,
But when I wonne shee would be paid;
This made mee aske her what she meant.
Pray, since I see (quoth shee) your wrangling vayne,
Take your owne kisses, give me myne againe.

TO HIS MISTRESSE

In your sterne beauty I can see
Whatere in Aetna wonders bee;
If coales out of the topp doe flye
Hott flames doe gush out of your eye;
If frost lye on the ground belowe
Your breast is white and cold as snowe:
The sparkes that sett my hart on fire
Refuse to melt your owne desire:
The frost that byndes your chilly breast
With double fire hath mee opprest:
Both heate and cold a league have made,
And leaving you they mee invade:
The hearth its proper flame withstands
When ice itselfe heates others hands.

A LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS

Ile tell you how the Rose did first grow redde,
And whence the Lilly whitenesse borrowed:
You blusht, and then the Rose with redde was dight:
The Lillies kissde your hands, and so came white:
Before that time each Rose had but a stayne,
The Lilly nought but palenesse did containe:
You have the native colour, these the dye;
They flourish only in your livery.

A RIDDLE: ON A KISS

What thing is that, nor felt nor seene
Till it bee given? a present for a Queene:
A fine conceite to give and take the like:
The giver yet is farther for to seeke;
The taker doth possesse nothing the more,
The giver hee hath nothing lesse in store:
And given once that nature hath it still,
You cannot keepe or leave it if you will:
The workmanshippe is counted very small,
The labour is esteemed naught at all:
But to conclude, this gift is such indeede,
That, if some see't 'twill make theyr hearts to bleede.

ON A GENTLEWOMAN THAT HAD HAD THE SMALL POXE

A Beauty smoother than the Ivory playne
Late by the Poxe injuriously was slayne:
Twas not the Poxe: Love shott a thousand darts,
And made those pitts for graves to bury hearts:
But since that Beauty hath regaynde her light,
Those hearts are double slayne, it shines so bright.

ON JEALOUSY

There is a thing that nothing is,
A foolish wanton, sober wise;
It hath noe wings, noe eyes, noe eares,
And yet it flies, it sees, it heares;
It lives by losse, it feeds on smart,
It joyes in woe, it liveth not;
Yet evermore this hungry elfe
Doth feed on nothing but itselfe.

OF DEATH & RESURRECTION.

ON THE BIBLE.

ON A REGISTER FOR THE BIBLE

I am the faythfull deputy
Unto your fading memory.
Your Index long in search doth hold;
Your folded wrinkles make books olde:
But I the Scripture open plaine,
And what you heard soone teach againe:
By mee the Welchman well may bring
Himselfe to Heaven in a string.

ANOTHER

[I, your memories recorder]

I, your memories recorder,
Keepe my charge in watchfull order:
My strings divide the word aright,
Pressing the text both day and night:
And what the hand of God hath writt
Behold my fingers poynt at it:
Nor can Saint Peter with his keyes
Unlocke Heavens gate so soone as these.

ANTHEM FOR GOOD FRYDAY

AN ANTHEME

JUSTIFICATION

See how the Rainbow in the skie
Seems gaudy through the Suns bright eye;
Harke how an Eccho answere makes,
Feele how a board is smooth'd with waxe,
Smell how a glove putts on perfume,
Tast how theyr sweetnesse pills assume:
So by imputed Justice, Clay
Seemes faire, well spoke, smooth, sweet, each way.
The eye doth gaze on robes appearing,
The prompted Eccho takes our hearing,
The board our touch, the sent our smell,
The pill our tast: Man, God as well.

ON THE LIFE OF MAN

What is our life? a play of passion;
Our mirth the musick of division:
Our mother's wombes the tyring houses bee
Where wee are drest for tyme's short comedy:
The earth's the stage, heaven the spectator is,
Who marketh still whoere doth act amisse:
Our graves that hide us from the burning sunne
Are but drawne curtaynes when the play is done.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. MARY NEUDHAM

As sinn makes gross the soule and thickens it
To fleshy dulness, so the spotless white
Of virgin pureness made thy flesh as cleere
As others soules: thou couldst not tarry heere
All soule in both parts: and what could it bee
The Resurrection could bestow on thee,
Allready glorious? thine Innocence
(Thy better shroude) sent thee as pure from hence
As saints shall rise: but hee whose bounty may
Enlighten the greate sunn with double day,
And make it more outshine itselfe than now
It can the moone, shall crowne thy varnish'd brow
With light above that sunn: when thou shalt bee
No lower in thy place than Majesty:
Crown'd with a Virgin's wreath, outshining there
The Saints as much as thou did'st mortalls heere.
Bee this thy hope; and whilst thy ashes ly
Asleepe in death, dreame of Eternity.

ON THE DEATH OF MISTRESS MARY PRIDEAUX

Weep not because this childe hath dyed so yong,
But weepe because yourselves have livde so long:
Age is not fild by growth of time, for then
What old man lives to see th' estate of men?
Who sees the age of grande Methusalem?
Ten years make us as old as hundreds him.
Ripenesse is from ourselves: and then wee dye
When nature hath obteynde maturity.
Summer and winter fruits there bee, and all
Not at one time, but being ripe, must fall.
Death did not erre: your mourners are beguilde;
She dyed more like a mother than a childe.
Weigh the composure of her pretty partes:
Her gravity in childhood; all her artes
Of womanly behaviour; weigh her tongue
So wisely measurde, not too short nor long;
And to her youth adde some few riches more,
She tooke upp now what due was at threescore.
She livde seven years, our age's first degree;
Journeys at first time ended happy bee;
Yet take her stature with the age of man,
They well are fitted: both are but a span.

ON THE SAME M. M. P.

Sleepe pretty one: oh sleepe while I
Sing thee thy latest Lullaby:
And may my song be but as shee,
Nere was sweeter Harmonie:
Thou werte all musicke: all thy limbes
Were but so many well sett hymnes
To prayse thy Maker. In thy browe
I read thy soule, and and know not how
To tell which whiter was or smoother,
Or more spotlesse, one or th' other.
Noe jarre, no harshnesse in thee: all
Thy passions were at peace: noe gall,
No rough behaviour; but even such
In disposition as in touch.
Yet Heaven, poore Soule, was harsh to thee:
Death usde thee not halfe orderly:
If thou must needs goe, must thy way
Needs be by torture? must thy Day
Ende in the Morning? and thy Night
Come with such horrour and affright?
Death might have ceizd thee gentlyer, and
Embrac'te thee with a softer hand.
Thou werte not sure so loath to goe
That thou needst be dragged so,
For thou wert all obedience, and hadst witt
To doe Heaven's will and not dispute with it.
Yet twere a heard heart, a dead eye
That sighlesse, tearlesse, could stand by,
While thy poore Mother felt each groane
As much as ere shee did her owne
When shee groan'd for thee: and thy cries
Marrde not our eares more than her Eyes.
Yet if thou tookst some truce with payne,
Then was shee melted more againe
To heare thy sweete words, whilst thy breath
Faintly did strive to sweeten Death,
Calldst for the Musicke of thy knell,
And crydst, 'twas It must make thee well:
Thus whilst your prayers were at strife,
Thine for thy death, Hers for thy life,
Thine did prevayle, and on theyr wings
Mounted thy soul; where now it sings,
And never shall complayne no more,
But for not being there before.

CONSOLATORIUM, AD PARENTES

Lett her parents then confesse
That they beleeve her happinesse,
Which now they question. Thinke as you
Lent her the world, Heaven lent her you:
And is it just then to complayne
When each hath but his owne againe?
Then thinke what both your glories are
In her preferment: for tis farre
Nobler to gett a Saint, and beare
A childe to Heaven than an Heyre
To a large Empire. Thinke beside
Shee dyde not yong, but livde a Bride.
Your best wishes for her good
Were but to see her well bestowde:
Was shee not so? Shee marryed to
The heyre of all things: who did owe
Her infant Soule, and bought it too.
Nor was shee barren: markt you not
Those pretty little Graces, that
Play'd round about her sicke bedde; three
Th' eldst Faith, Hope, & Charity.
Twere pretty bigge ones, and the same
That cryde so on theyr Fathers name.
The yongst is gone with Her: the two
Eldest stay to comfort you,
And little though they bee, they can
Master the biggest foes of man.
Lastly thinke that Hir abode
With you was some fewe years boarde;
After hir marriage: now shee's gone
Home, royally attended on:
And if you had Elisha's sight
To see the number of her bright
Attendants thither; or Paul's rapt sprite
To see her Welcome there; why then,
Wish if you could Her here agen.
Ime sure you could not: but all passion
Would loose itselfe in admiration,
And strong longings to be there
Where, cause shee is, you mourn for Her.

HER EPITAPH

Happy Grave, thou dost enshrine
That which makes thee a rich mine:
Remember yet, 'tis but a loane;
And wee must have it back, Her owne,
The very same; Marke mee, the same:
Thou canst not cheat us with a lame
Deformed Carcase; Shee was fayre,
Fresh as Morning, sweete as Ayre:
Purer than other flesh as farre
As other Soules than Bodies are:
And that thou mayst the better see
To finde her out: two stars there bee
Eclipsed now; uncloude but those
And they will poynt thee to the Rose
That dyde each cheeke, now pale and wan,
But will bee when shee wakes againe
Fresher than ever: And howere
Her long sleepe may alter Her
Her Soule will know her Body streight,
Twas made so fitt for't. Noe deceite
Can suite another to it: none
Cloath it so neatly as its owne.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR THO: PELTHAM

Meerly for man's death to mourne
Were to repine that man was borne.
When weake old age doth fall asleepe
Twere foule ingratitude to weepe:
Those threads alone should pull out tears
Whose sodayne cracke breaks off some years.
Heere tis not so: full distance heere
Sunders the cradle from the beere.
A fellow-traveller he hath beene
So long with Time: so worne to skinne,
That were hee not just now bereft,
His Body first his soule had left,
Threescore and tenne is Nature's date,
Our journey when wee come in late.
Beyond that time the overplus
Was granted not to him, but us.
For his own sake the Sun nere stood,
But only for the peoples good.
Even so his breath held out by aire
Which poore men uttered in theyr prayer:
And as his goods were lent to give,
So were his dayes that they might live,
Soe ten years more to him were told
Enough to make another olde.
O that Death would still doe soe;
Or else on good men would bestow
That wast of years which unthrifts fling
Away by theyr distempering,
That some might thrive by this decay
As well as that of land and clay.
'Twas now well done: no cause to moane
On such a seasonable stone.
Where death is but an Host, we sinne
Not bidding welcome to his Inne.
Sleepe, sleepe, thy rest, good man, embrace;
Sleepe, sleepe, th' ast trode a weary race.

ON THE DEATH OF A TWIN

Where are yee now, Astrologers, that looke
For petty accidents in Heavens booke?
Two Twins, to whom one Influence gave breath,
Differ in more than Fortune, Life and Death.
While both were warme (for that was all they were
Unlesse some feeble cry sayd Life was there:)
By wavering change of health they seem'd to trie
Which of the two should live, for one must die.
As if one Soule, allotted to susteine
The lumpe, which afterwards was cutt in twain,
Now servde them both: whose limited restraynt
From double vertue made them both to faynt:
But when that common Soule away should flie,
Death killing one, expected both should die:
Shee hitt, and was deceivde: that other parte
Went to supply the weake survivers heart:
So Death, where shee was cruell, seemde most milde:
She aymed at two, and killde but halfe a childe.

ON THE YONG BARONETT PORTMAN DYING OF AN IMPOSTUME IN'S HEAD

Is Death so cunning now that all her blowe
Aymes at the heade? Doth now her wary Bowe
Make surer worke than heertofore? The steele
Slew warlike heroes onely in the heele.
New found out slights, when men themselves begin
To be theyr proper Fates by new found sinne.
Tis cowardize to make a wound so sure;
No Art in killing where no Art can cure.
Was it for hate of learning that she smote
This upper shoppe where all the Muses wrought?
Learning shall crosse her drift, and duly trie
All wayes and meanes of immortalitie.
Because her heade was crusht, doth shee desire
Our equall shame? In vayne she doth aspire.
No: noe: Wee know where ere shee make a breach
Her poysened Sting onely the Heele can reach.
Looke on the Soule of man, the very Heart;
The Head itselfe is but a lower parte:
Yet hath shee straynde her utmost tyranny,
And done her worst in that she came so high.
Had she reservde this stroke for haughty men,
For politique Contrivers; justly then
The Punishment were matcht with the offence:
But when Humility and Innocence
So indiscreetly in the Heade are hitt,
Death hath done Murther, and shall die for itt:
Thinke it no Favour showne because the Braine
Is voyde of sence, and therefore free from payne.
Thinke it noe kindness when so stealingly
He rather seemde to jest away than die,
And like that Innocent, the Widdows childe
Cryde out, My head, my head: and so it dyde.
Thinke it was rather double cruelty,
Slaughter intended on his Name, that Hee
Whose thoughts were nothing taynted, nothing vayne,
Might seeme to hide Corruption in his brayne.
How easy might this Blott bee wipte away
If any Pen his worth could open lay?
For which those Harlott-prayses, which wee reare
In common dust, as much too slender are
As great for others. Boasting Elegies
Must here bee dumbe. Desert that overweighs
All our Reward stoppes all our Prayse: lest wee
Might seeme to give alike to Them and Thee:
Wherfore an humble Verse, and such a strayne
As mine will hide the truth while others fayne.

ON THE DEATH OF DR. LANCTON PRESIDENT OF MAUDLIN COLLEGE

When men for injuryes unsatisfy'd,
For hopes cutt off, for debts not fully payd,
For legacies in vain expected, mourne
Over theyr owne respects within the urne,
Races of tears all striveing first to fall
As frequent are as eye and funerall;
Then high swolne sighes drawne in and sent out strong
Seeme to call back the soule or goe along.
Goodness is seldome such a theam of woe
Unless to her owne tribe some one or two;
But here's a man, (alas a shell of man!)
Whose innocence, more white than silver swan,
Now finds a streame of teares; such perfect greif
That in the traine of mourners hee is cheife
Who lives the greatest gainer; and would faine
Bee now prefer'd unto his loss againe.
The webb of nerves with subtill branches spred
Over the little world, are in theyr head
Scarce so united as in him were knitt
All his dependants: Hee that strives to sitt
So lov'd of all must bee a man as square
As vertues selfe; which those that fly and feare
Can never hate. How seldome have we seene
Such store of flesh joyn'd with so little sin?
His body was not greater than his soule,
Whose limbs were vertues able to controule
All grudg of sloth: and as the body's weight
Hal'd to the centre; so the soule as light
Heav'd upward to her goale. This civill jarre
Could not hold out, but made them part as farre
As earth and heaven: from whence the one shall come
To make her mate more fresh, less cumbersome.
After so sound a sleepe, so sweet a rest,
And both shall then appeare so trimly drest
As freinds that goe to meet: the body shall
Then seeme a soule, the soule Angellicall:
A beautious smile shall passe from that to this,
The joyning soule shall then the body kisse
With its owne lipps: so great shall be the store
Of joy and love that now thei'l part no more;
Such hope hath dust! besides which happines
Death hath not made his earthly share the lesse,
Or quite bereft him of his honors here,
But added more; for liveing hee did steere
The fellowes only; but since hee is dead
Hee's made a president unto theyr head.

ON DR. LANCTON'S DEATH

Because of fleshly mould wee bee
Subject unto mortality,
Let noe man wonder at his death,
More flesh he had, and then lesse breath.
But if you question how he died,
'Twas not the fall of swelling pride;
'Twas noe ambition to ascend
Heaven in humility: his end
Assur'd us that his God did make
This peece for our example's sake.
Had you but seene him in his way
To Church, his last blest Sabbath day;
His struggling soule did make such hast
As if each breath would bee his last.
Each bricke hee trod on, shrinking strove
To make his grave and shew its love.
O how his sweating body wept
Knowing how soone it should bee swept
In mould: but while hee kneels to pray
His weighty members long to stay;
Each word doth bring a breathlesse teare
As if he'd leave his spirit there.
Hee gone, looks back, as if to see
The place where he should buried bee,
Bowing as if hee did desire
At the same time for to expire:
Which being done, he long shall dwell
Within the place hee lov'd so well,
Where night and morning hundreds come
A Pilgrimage unto his tomb.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS LEA

AN EPITAPH ON SR JOHN WALTER, LORD CHEIFE BARON

REMEMBRANCES OF THE RENOWNED KNIGHT, SIR ROWLAND COTTON, OF BELLAPORT IN SHROPSHIRE, CONCERNING HIS AGILITY OF BODY, TONGUE, AND MIND

ON THE DEATH OF SIR ROWLAND COTTON SECONDING THAT OF SIR ROBERT

More Cottons yet? O let not envious Fate
Attempt the Ruine of our growing State.
O had it spar'd Sir Rowland, then might wee
Have almost spar'd Sir Robert's Library.
His Life and th' others bookes taught but the same;
Death kils us twice in blotting twice one Name.
Give Him, and take those Reliques with consent;
Sir Rowland was a Living Monument.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LADY PENELOPE DOWAGER OF THE LATE VIS-COUNT BAYNING

Great Lady,

ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD VISCOUNT BAYNING

ON THE DEATH OF LADIE CÆSAR

Though Death to good men be the greatest boone,
I dare not think this Lady dyde so soone.
She should have livde for others: Poor mens want
Should make her stande, though she herselfe should faynt.
What though her vertuous deeds did make her seeme
Of equall age with old Methusalem?
Shee should have livde the more, and ere she fell
Have stretcht her little Span unto an Ell.
May wee not thinke her in a sleep or sowne,
Or that shee only tries her bedde of grounde?
Besides the life of Fame, is shee all deade?
As deade as Vertue, which together fledde:
As dead as men without it: and as cold
As Charity, that long ago grewe old.
Those eyes of pearle are under marble sett,
And now the Grave is made the Cabinett.
Tenne or an hundred doe not loose by this,
But all mankinde doth an Example misse.
A little earth cast upp betweene her sight
And us eclypseth all the world with night.
What ere Disease, to flatter greedy Death,
Hath stopt the organ of such harmlesse breath,
May it bee knowne by a more hatefull name
Then now the Plague: and for to quell the same
May all Physitians have an honest will:
May Pothecaries learne the Doctors skill:
May wandring Mountebanks, and which is worse
May an old womans medicine have the force
To vanquish it, and make it often flie,
Till Destiny on's servant learne to die.
May death itselfe, and all its Armory
Bee overmatcht with one poore Recipe.
What need I curse it? for, ere Death will kill
Another such, so farre estrang'd from ill,
So fayre, so kinde, so wisely temperate,
Time will cutt off the very life of Fate.
To make a perfect Lady was espyde
No want in her of anything but Pride:
And as for wantonnesse, her modesty
Was still as coole as now her ashes bee.
Seldome hath any Daughter lesse than her
Favourde the stampe of Eve her grandmother.
Her soule was like her body; both so cleare
As that a brighter eye than mans must peere
To finde a Blott; nor can wee yet suspect
But only by her Death the least defect:
And were not that the wages due to Sinne
Wee might beleeve that spotlesse she had bin.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. FISHBORNE THE GREAT LONDON BENEFACTOR, AND HIS EXECUTOR

ON THE DEATH OF MR. JAMES VAN OTTON

The first day of this month the last hath bin
To that deare soule. March never did come in
So lyonlike as now: our lives are made
As fickle as the weather or the shade.
March dust growes plenty now, while wasting fate
Strike heare to dust, well worth the proverbs rate.
I could be angry with the fates that they
This man of men so soone have stole away.
Meane they a kingdome to undoe, or make
The universe a Cripple while they take
From us so cheife a part, whose art knew how
To make a man a man, nor would allow
Nature an Heteroclite still to remaine
Irregular, but with a jugling paine
Deceive men of their greife, and make them know
That he could cure more than ere chance or foe
Dare to instring. Death now growes politique:
While Otton liv'd herselfe was weake and sicke
For want of food, therefore at him she aimde
Who bar'd her of her purpose. All is maimde,
All's out of joint, for in this fatall crosse
Behold Death's triumph and our fatall losse.

ON SIR THOMAS SAVILL DYING OF THE SMALL POX

Take, greedy death, a body here entomd
That by a thousand stroakes was made one wound,
Where all thy shafts were stuck with fatall ayme
Untill a quiver this thy marke became,
Had Cæsar fifty wounds to let in thee
Because a troop of men might seeme to bee
Comprised in that great Spirit, this had more
Whose deaths were equalld with the fruitfull store
Of hopefull vertues, though each wound did reach
The very heart, yet none could make a breach
Into his soule, a soule more fully drest
With vertuous gemmes than was his body prest
With hatefull spotts, and therefore every scarr
When death itselfe is dead shall be a starre.

EPITAPH ON MR. BRIDGEMAN

One pitt containes him now that could not dye
Before a thousand pitts in him did lye;
Soe many spotts upon his flesh were shewne
'Cause on his soule sinne fastned almost none.

TO HIS SISTER

Loving Sister: every line
Of your last letter was so fine
With the best mettle, that the grayne
Of Scrivener's pindust were but vayne:
The touch of Gold did sure instill
Some vertue more than did the Quill.
And since you write noe cleanly hand
Your token bids mee understand
Mine eyes have here a remedy
Wherby to reade more easily.
I doe but jeast: your love alone
Is my interpretation:
My words I will recant, and sweare
I know your hand is wondrous faire.

TO SIR JO. FERRERS

TO THE SAME

TO THE SAME

TO SIR EDM. LING

Sir: I had writt in Lattin: but I feare
You thinke tis durty still: and then it were
Unworthy of your hand. If Truth were tolde
Twas cause you turnde my Lattin all to gold.
But yet I hope the payment is as good
In English thankes. When hardly understood
Wee speake outlandish phrase, and thanks by arte,
Wee speake but Tongue-deepe: now tis from the heart.
May I want tongue and heart if I forgett
A thing so rare, a stranger's benefitt.
In writing to a Stranger, men are bent
To make a flourish with nice Complement.
Should I by you, as by a Stranger doe,
Your gift would sweare mee downe you were not so.
Yet give mee leave, Sir, but to darte one worde
From that full store-house where my Thanks I horde:
May every houre that travells through the glasse
Number a new content before it passe:
May you neere wish wherby to want true blisse,
Nor ever want wherby to cause a wish.

TO THE LADY KNIGHTON

Madam: due thanks are lodgde within my breast
As close as when your enigmatique chest
Embracde the hidden Angell, which I found
Like Danäe, or like to Rosamonde
Wrapt in a winding labirynth. But then
I thought mine eyes a prodigy had seene,
Two Angells joynd in one; the first a badd one,
The other good: twas Michael and the Dragon.
This is the morall if wee reade it well,
The selfe same Gold contains both heaven and hell:
To good men tis an Angell: but the evill
While they possesse it treasure upp the Divell.
O may that valiant Angell, whose bright face
Was figurde in your Golde, whose glory was
No lesse exprest in the materiall
Than in the stampe it was informde withall;
May he still guard your side and where you dwell
May still your Champion bee Saynt Michaëll.
What though that frayle Disease long siege hath layde
Unto your body? Never be dismayde.
The Languisher breaths long oft times wee see:
So soddayn blasts blow downe a sturdy Tree
When shivering Shrubs hold out: the firme and strong
Are strucke with casuall blows: the weake live long
In heavenly expectation of theyr last,
And fayrly pace, whilst others runne in hast.
Thinke when your palsy and the night is fledde
Twas part of Death; and when you rise from bed
Thinke that of all your limbs, the weakest one
Hath tasted of the Resurrection.
Thanks was my Theame: but let me thank or pray
It issues from one head, what ere I say.
O, may your dayes bee all as good as long;
May no ill happe or passion dare to wrong
Your quiet peace with the least griefe or feare,
And may your Heart keepe Christmas all the year.

TO MR. RIVES UPPON HIS RECOVERY

Welcome abroad, O welcome from your bedd,
I joy to see you thus delivered:
After fower yeares in travell, issues forth,
A birth of lasting wonder, whereat truth
Might well suspect herselfe; a new disease
Borne to advance the Surgeons of our dayes
Above all others: a perfidious bone
Eaten and underminde by humours growne
Lodg'd in the captive thigh, which first of any
Halted, though furnisht with a bone too many.
No Golgotha, nor Charnell house, nor feild,
If all were searcht, could such another yeild;
A bone so lockt and hugg'd in as a barr
That back and forwards may be wrested farr,
But not pull'd out at either hole; nor could
The cunning workman come to't as hee would:
Crosse veynes did guard the soare, a hollow cave
Must wade into the flesh: the surgeon's grave
Thus being digg'd the file with harshe delay
Must grate the bone, and carve those chippes away.
Blest be the midmen, whose dexteritie
Pull'd out a birth, like Bacchus, from the thigh;
Tutors of nature, whose well guided arte
Can rectifie her wants in every part;
Who by preserving others pay the debt
They owe to nature, and doe re-begett
Her strength growne ruinate. I could be gladd
Such liv'd the dayes which they to others add.
I cannot rightly tell the happier man,
The patient or the surgeon; doe but scan
His praise, thy ease: twas sure an Extasie
That kill'd Van-Otto, not a Lethargie;
Striving to crowne his worke, he mainly tryde
His last and greatest case, then gladly dyde.
Bernard must tarry longer, should hee flye
After his brother all the world must dye,
Or live a Cripple. Griffith's happie fate
Requires the same hands still to itterate
No lesse a miracle: the Joyners skill
Could never mend his carved pate so well
As hee hath heald a naturall; the stout
And boasting Paracelsus who gives out
His rules can give man's life eternitie
Would faintly doubt of this recovery.
Hee that hath wrought their cures I thinke hee can
As well of scrappes make upp a perfect man.
O had you seene his marrowe dropp away,
Or the others brayne start out, then would you say
Nothing could cure this fracture or that bone
Save Bernard or the Ressurection.
Stand, honest Rives, stand up and looke about,
Behold thine enemie, the bone, is out:
Now smile upon thy torment, pretty thing,
How will you use it? Carry't in a ring
Like a death's head, or send it to the grave,
An earnest of the body it must have;
Or if you will you may the same translate
Into a dye because twas fortunate.
The ring were best; tis like a Dyamond borne
Out of a Rock, soe was it hewne and torne
Out of your thigh: the gemme worth nothing is
Untill it be cutt out, no more was this.
Happie are they that knowe what treasure tis
To finde lost health, they onely feele true blisse.
Thou that hast felt these panges maist well mayntaine
Man's greatest pleasure is but want of payne:
Enjoy thyselfe, for nothing worse can come
To one so schoold and versd in martyrdome.

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT

TO A FRIEND

Like to the hande which hath bin usde to play
One lesson long, still runs the usuall way,
And waites not what the hearers bid it strike,
But doth presume by custome, this will like:
So runne my thoughts, which are so perfect growne,
So well acquainted with my passion,
That now they dare prevent mee with their hast,
And ere I thinke to sigh my sigh is past:
Tis past, and flowne to you, for you alone
Are all the object that I thinke upon,
And did not you supply my soule with thought
For want of action it to none were brought.
What though our absent armes may not enfold
Reall embraces, yet wee firmely hold
Each other in possession. Thus wee see
The Lord enjoy his Lands where ere hee bee:
If Kings possesst no more than where they sate
What were they greater than a mean estate?
This makes mee firmly yours, you firmly mine,
That somthing more than bodies us combine.

A LETTER

Goe happy Paper: by command
Take liberty to kisse her hand,
More white than any part of thee,
Although with spots thou graced bee.
The glory of the clearest day,
The morning ayre perfumd in May,
The first borne rose of all the Spring,
The downe beneath a Turtle's wing,
A lute just reaching to the eare;
What ere is soft, or sweete, or fayre,
Are but her shreds, who fills the place
And some of every single grace.
As in a child the nurse descryes
The mother's lippes, the father's eyes,
The uncle's nose; and doth apply
An owner to each part; so I
In her could analyze the store
Of all the Choyce ere nature bore.
Each private peece to minde may call
Some worth; but none can match it all.
Poore emblems! they can but expresse
One element of comelinesse:
None are so rich to shew in one
All simples of perfection:
Nor can the Pencill represent
More than the outward lineament.
Then who can limbe the portrayture
Of beauties live behavior?
Or what can figure every kinde
Of Jewells that adorne her minde?
Thought cannot draw her picture full:
Even Thought to her is grosse and dull.

WITH PENNE, INKE, AND PAPER TO A DISTRESSED FRIEND

THANKS FOR A WELCOME

For your good lookes and your clarrett,
For oft bidding doe not spare it:
For tossing glasses to the toppe,
And after sucking off a droppe,
When scarce a droppe was left behinde,
Or that which nicknames wine, even winde:
For healthy mirth and lusty sherry
Such as made old Cato merry;
Such are our thanks that you may have
In blood the clarrett which you gave,
And in your service shall be spent
The spirits which your sacke hath lent.

A PARALELL BETWEEN BOWLING AND PREFERMENT

THE CAPPS

ON A GOOD LEGG AND FOOT

If Hercules tall stature might bee guest
But by his thumbe, wherby to make the rest
In due proportion; the best rule that I
Would choose to measure Venus' beauty by
Should bee her legg and foot. If husbandmen
Measure theyr timber by the foot, why then
Not we our wives? Whether wee goe or stride
Those native compasses are seldome wide
Of telling true: the round and slender foot
Is a sure index, and a secrett note
Of hidden parts; and well this way may lead
Unto the closett of a maydenheade:
Here, Emblemes of our youth, we roses tye,
And here the garter, love's deare mystery:
For want of beauty here the peacock's pride
Letts fall her trayne, and fearing to bee spide
Shutts upp her paynted witnesses to lett
Those eyes from view which are but counterfett.
Who looks not if this part be good or evill
May meet with cloven feet and match the divell,
For this doth make the difference betweene
The more unhallowed creatures and the cleane,
Well may you judge her other stepps are lighte,
Her thoughts awry that doth not tread aright:
But then there's true perfection when wee see
Those parts more absolute that hidden bee:
Nature nere layd a fayre foundation
For an unworthy frame to rest upon.
Lett others view the topp and limbes throughout,
The deeper knowledge is to know the roote:
And reading of the face the weakest know,
What beauty is; the learned looke below;
Who, looking there, doe all the rest, descrie
As in a poole the moon we use to spie:
Pardon (sweetehart) the pride of my desire
If but to kisse your toe it should aspire.

ON JOHN DAWSON, BUTLER OF C.C.

Dawson the Butler's dead: Although I think
Poets were ne'er infusde with single drinke
Ile spend a farthing muse; some watry verse
Will serve the turne to cast upon his hearse;
If any cannot weepe amongst us here
Take off his pott, and so squeeze out a tear:
Weepe, O his cheeses, weepe till yee bee good,
Yee that are dry or in the sun have stood;
In mossy coats und rusty liveries mourne,
Untill like him to ashes you shall turne:
Weep, O ye barrells, lett your drippings fall
In trickling streams: make waste more prodigal
Than when our drinke is badde, that John may flote
To Styx in beere, and lift upp Charon's boate
With wholesome waves. And as our conduits run
With clarett at a Coronation,
So lett our channells flow with single tiffe,
For John, I hope, is crownde: take off your whiffe,
Yee men of Rosemary: Now drinke off all,
Remembring 'tis a Butler's funeral:
Had he bin master of good double beere,
My life for his, John Dawson had beene here.

JACKE-ON-BOTH-SIDES

CHIMNEY-SWEEPER'S SONG.

A DEVONSHIRE SONG

UPON THE SHERIFFS BEERE

The Sheriffe of Oxford late is grown so wise
As to repreive his Beere till next assize:
Alas! twas not so quick, twas not so heady,
The Jury sate and found it dead already.

LOVE COMPARED TO A GAME OF TABLES

Love is a game at tables where the dye
Of mayds affections doth by fancie fly:
If once you catch their fancie in a blott
It's tenne to one if then you enter not:
You being a gamester then may boldly venter,
And if you finde the point lye open enter:
But marke them well, for by false playing then,
Doe what you can they will be bearing men.

ON A BUTCHER MARRYING A TANNER'S DAUGHTER

A fitter match hath never bin—
The flesh is married to the skinne.

EPITAPHES ON THE MONUMENT OF SIR WILLIAM STRODE

Tread soft, for if you wake this Knight alone,
You raise an Hoast: Religions Champion,
His Cuntreys Staffe, Rights bold Distributer,
His Neighbours Guard, the Poor mans Almoner,
Who dyes with Works about him, as did He,
Shall rise attended thus triumphantly.

ON HIS LADY MARIE

Marie, Incarnate Virtue, Soule and Skin
Both pure, whom Death not Life convincd of Sin,
Had Daughters like seven Pleiades; but She
Was a prime Star of greatest Claritie.

ON HIS LADY DENYS

Denys hath merited no slender praise,
In that She well supplied the Formers daies.
Conceive how Good she was, whose very worst
Unto her Knight was This, that She dyed First.

DOUBTFUL PIECES

A SONNET

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[Mourne, mourne, yee lovers: Flowers dying]

Mourne, mourne, yee lovers: Flowers dying
Live againe, the cold defying,
But Beauties floure once dead dyes ever,
Falls as soone, and riseth never.
Mourne, mourne, yee lovers: sadly singing
Love hath his Winter, and no springing.

A SONNET

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[Sing aloud, harmonious sphears]

Sing aloud, harmonious sphears:
Let your concord reach Jove's eares.
Play your old lessons ore againe,
And keepe time in every strayne,
For now the Gods are listning to your laies
As they are passing through the milky waies.

OBSEQUIES

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

UPON HEAVENS BEST IMAGE, HIS FAIRE AND VERTUOUS MISTRESSE, M.S.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

ON HIS MISTRESSE

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A SONG

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[As I my flocks lay keeping]

As I my flocks lay keeping
Mine eyes they fell a-sleeping;
I wott I have neere wakte againe,
For when my head I raysde
I round about gazde
To seeke my love, but sought in vayne.
Let foulnesse now be saynted,
All beauty's tainted;
Since fayth she has none.
I wayle, I weepe,
I dye, I sleepe,
In sorrowes all alone.

A SONG

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[Thoughts doe not vexe me whilst I sleep]

Thoughts doe not vexe me whilst I sleep,
Griefe doe not thus disturbe mee:
Smile not false hope, whilst that I weepe,
Alas! she cannot love mee.
Had I been as cold and nice,
And as often turning,
Then as shee had I been ice,
And shee as I now burning.
Tears flow no more from my sadd eyes,
Sighes do not soe oppresse mee;
Stoppe not your ears at these my cryes,
But oh! for shame release mee.
Were you but as sadd as I,
And as full of mourning,
Very griefe would make you die,
Or at least cease scorning.

UPON A GENTLEWOMAN'S ENTERTAINMENT OF HIM

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Whether, sweet Mistress, I should most
Commend your music or your cost:
Your well-spread table, or the choise
Banquet of your hand and voyce,
There's none will doubt: for can there be
'Twixt earth and heaven analogy?
Or shall a trencher or dish stand
In competition with your hand?
Your hand that turns men all to ear,
Your hand whose every joints a sphere:
For certainly he that shall see
The swiftnesse of your harmony,
Will streightwayes in amazement prove
The spheares to you but slowly move;
And in that thought confess that thus
The Heavens are come down to us,
As he may well, when he shall hear
Such airs as may be sung even there:
Your sacred Anthems, strains that may
Grace the eternal Quire to play:
And certainly they were prepar'd
By Angels only to be heard.
Then happy I that was so blest
To be yours and your music's guest,
For which I'd change all other cheer,
Thinking the best, though given, too dear.
For yours are delicates that fill,
And filling leave us empty still:
Sweetmeats that surfeit to delight,
Whose fullness is mere appetite.
Then farewell all our heavenly fare,
Those singing dainties of the air,
For you to me do seem as good
As all the consorts of the wood;
And might I but enjoy by choice,
My Quire should be your only voice.

ON ALMA'S VOYCE

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

UPON A PICTURE

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Behold those faire eyes, in whose sight
Sparkles a lustre no less bright
Than that of rising Stars when they
Would make the night outshine the day.
To those pure lips the humming be
May as to blooming Roses flee:
The wanton wind about doth hurle,
Courting in vain that lovely curle,
And makes a murmur in despaire,
To dally the unmooved haire.
View but the cheeks where the red Rose
And Lilly white a beauty grows,
So orient as might adorne
The flowing of the brightest morne.
Sure 'tis no Picture, nere was made
So much perfection in a shade:
Her shape is soule enough to give
A senseless Marble power to live.
this an Idol be, no eye
Can ever scape Idolatry.

[DEATH-SONG]

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Come, let us howle some heavy note,
Some deadly dogged howl,
Sounding as from the crying throate
Of beasts or fatal fowle,
As ravens, scrichowles, bulls, and bears,
Wee'l bell and bawl our partes:
Till irksome noise hath cloy'd our ears,
And corrosived our hearts,
And last when that our quire wants breth,
Our bodies being blest,
Wee'l sing like Swans to welcome death,
And dye in peace and rest.

TO HIS PAPER

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Flye nimble paper, light upon those hands
Which have detained mee in perpetual bands:
Go count those ivory palmes whose lilly hewe
May represent thee to immortall view.
Mount upp unto her eyes that there may shine
Impressions of my love in every lyne;
Expresse with silent eloquence the rare
And true affection allwayes that I bare
To thy sweete reader: lett her there behold
The discontent and zealous payne enrolld
Within a lover's breast. Tell her how I
Am forc't to vent my sighes in poetry,
And pine away with pastime of a verse,
Making thee both my epicede and hearse.
Present unto her an eternal mapp
Of my disastrous fortune and mishapp:
Delineate my passion and my payne
Bredd with a deepe conceyt of her disdayne:
Perhapps her flinty hart will then strike fire,
And equall joyne her flames with my desire:
Perhapps her cheerful brow and starlike eye
Will lend a better aspect e'er I dye:
But if shee frown and thou neglected lye,
Thou know'st (deare paper) thy fowle destiny.

TO THE SAME

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Goe happie paper and for ever rest
Within the Paradise of Parthenia's breast:
Live there, O never lett thy lynes forsake her,
Tenne thousand times more happie than the maker:
Goe kisse her hands and in my name salute her,
And tell her thus that silence is her suitor;
Tell her that silence acts a sadder story,
Than oathes or vowes or frantic oratory.
The beggar that is dumbe an almes shall have
Greater than hee that hath a tongue to crave:
Be then the dailie object of her eye,
Crowd and gett uppermost wherere thou lye:
If high preferrment call thee as a guest
To lodge in the faire chamber of her breast,
Lye close and lett noe jealous eye behold thee,
If any doe lett none but her unfold thee:
And often as she reads thee smile upon her;
Tell her her dearest friend is thinking on her:
Tell her if you twoe chance to sleepe together—
[OMITTED]

[_]

(Unfinished.)