University of Virginia Library

POEMS Written upon Severall Occasions.

Coat of Arms and Portrait.

An Addresse By the Author:

not impertinent to the following Poems.

Au Lecteur.

To his honoured friend ye authour vpon his Poems.

When w'th thy gallant Warwick thou begins,
Cosen, thou masters Muse, a style yt wins
oratorie to admiration of verse;
Degraded prose, vnflidg'd yet to reherse
an honourable note, soares not to Say
Nevil, who made them Kinges was more then they:
Whiles that great Courage wh disposèd them,
both gaue & tooke ye dandled Diadem.
more by thy quainter pen ye armie bleeds
and frisher farr than their heroick deedes.
But when thy Missalanie doth disband
thy strickter Sence (deare freind) wche doth comānd
Varietie to ramble here & there,
Flowers bandy sent, birds they inchant ye aire:
This wh is paradox I boldly give
Thy memory; when thou art dead thou'lt Live.

Vpon a Reviewe of Virgil, translated by Mr. Ogilby.

This, not to Virgil, whom I did Admire;
Not led by Custome, but a secret fire
Shot through my Soule, from his abundant Ray;
And not by Votes, led to what others Say;
I did, and doe admire Him; and I thought
A brave Adventure 'twas, who ever brought
Him, to speake current English, in the rate
Our Langvage carries now; but I may Say't
(Without a Boast) vpon this second veiwe,
This Qvill has done All that, and doth pursue
The heights of fancye, equall to his owne,
In a quicke flame, and full expression;
In weight, and number, great as the first Soule
inflamèd Virgil; moveing on the whole
Bodie, with the same Sinnewes, not a Nerve
Lost, to its vse; (lest Life, & Blood might Sterve
Within obstructed Channels;) everie veine
Rises, as High, and to be seene as plaine.
May wee beleive the Rants, some Chimists make,
To consume Bodies, which againe shall take
Being and forme; (a Resurrective Tipe
From dust & Ashes,) th' individuall, ripe
To all its former beauties, they can raise
Numerically iust, to what it was;
These Curiosities layd out, may please
Yonge Heads; & profit old Huniades,
Who has found out ye true Elixir; which
T' attempt, makes others poore, has made Him, rich.
But Wee, who move beyond Philosophye
In these Experiments, will credit thee
Great Oracle of Samos; and averre
Soules are not lost, or Dye, but doe transfer;
And the great Genius of ye Mantuan, fir'd
In a fit Clay, now breaths the same admir'd
Accents, which never any durst assay
To imitate, or open, to this Day;
But one, who with a rude & tedious Qvill
Doth wound his Readers, & his Author, Kill;
Virgil is dull & Lost; and only Phaer
Resolves his words, verball Interpreter.
Such, in a Prose, to duller Heads, may Stand
With honest meaning; But let noe bold hand
Attempt a Poet, 'cause he learnèd once
To construe Latin; and soe caught, by chance,
A Flye, in yawning; ther's a rule beyond
Your Syntax; tis a Sympathie of mind;
A Soule enricht with sacred flame, to all
The Author's Spirrit, in th' originall;
A Genius, to the primitive conceit;
Con-centricke wheels, with motion, to ye great
Idea fixt; not Skip & catch by turnes,
Or make his owne, while the rack'd Author mourns,
Tortur'd, in clumsie fingers; White Hands may
Open ye folds, and draw the veile away;
Some, now tormented thus; for all Soules have
Not Rest, when their cold Bodies kisse the Grave;
But Sensible in some things, suffer to
The iniuries Posteritie may doe
Vpon their Labours; Some, (in those blest Shades
Lost to their owne, by what noe time invades
As they bequeath'd it; in another tongve
Another Note, they know not what they Sung;)
Frequent the Corners & ashamèd sitt
Vnder vnverdant Trees; their Hands commit
Outrage on holy boughs; for through ye Place
Is nothing witherd: but still-virent Bayes
Narcissus, Hyacinth, Sweet Asphodel,
(And what our Langvage may not reach to tell)
Appeare, and make Elizium but one Grove;
Only ye Skirts, some Soules (less happie) rove;
Whose Relicts, handled by foule Thumbs, have lost
Their native Lustre; These, (who left, to boast
Numbers, which not vnworthily have plac'd
Them in Elizium, yet) on Earth disgrac'd
Would beg a Pasport, (but, who can convey
Soules, happie-seated) to revisit Day;
There, they must vexe; at lest, not there posses
Entire fruition, of a perfect Peace;
Till Time, (which fitts the Earth, to make one place
Of many orbes) shall throw away his Glasse;
Or raise another Qvill, to vindicate
The Author, and enthrone him in his State;
Here (till repairèd thus) they not inherit;
The weed, they would put on, they cannot weare it;
Triflers, on Earth, are tugging at ye Sleeves,
Ruffle ye folds, and the full Skirt vpheav's.
Soe this restorèd Maro, for a while
(Time is not measur'd there) pinch't, in ye toyle
Of all his Glorie, suffer'd; now, hee treads
Free, as Musæus, & ye clearest Heads
Of that blest confine; if a Limit may
Be set, where nothing bounds; for Place, they Say
Is but our Image; high, & purgèd Soules
Leave Time & Place, to dull earthporing fooles;
There, like Himselfe, in his first Station
Hee moves, vnchangèd in ye version;
All Hee now doth, (& not wth care) is but
To Harbinger his learnèd name, who put
New Robes of Glory on his great Remains;
Radiant, as Light; & Truth-like, free from Stains;
There, Hee prepares them, to receive a Gvest
Worthy their Harmony, their Ioy, their Rest;
And frames loud Pæans, Him to gratulate,
Worthily plac'd neare to his owne high Seate.
Soe did Great Homer, and Theocritus
Take Qvarters vp, for Virgil's living Muse;
Though to a different Honour Homer sung,
He caught his from Him, not to doe him wrong;
And Hesiod there, who sung of Ceres most,
Gave his Corne-Chaplets, Virgil's better boast,
When Hee arriv'd; Hee now his owne hath torne
In equall parts, equally to adorne
His freind; for 'tis vnlawfull any (but
Virgill's owne Selfe) another's wreath on putt;
They may participate, Soe share it there,
As they have Rivall'd in their fancyes here.
What more, may not be told; tis only left
To those who shall enioy those Ioyes, a gift;
Mean-while, iust Admirations may raise
Merit, on Earth; to give desert, a place
Beyond ye mouth of Envie; thus I yeild
My double Tribute; Hee that cannot weild
Armes, must confer his Power another way;
All cannot all things dexterously assay;
And that I may not end, without a breath
From Virgill's mouth; take it, as I bequeath
It to ye world, in Honour of this Pen,
Who made Him speake, a Dialect, for men
To wonder at; a worke worthy his Bayes
See; now Ascanius keeps an Equall pace.

A Vindication of Poesie.

To Time and Honour.

Faire Albion, of the world thou fairest Ile!
And thou Deare Yorkshire, thou my native Soyle,
My Nurse, my Mother; oh, how can I pay
My Gratitude? Muse! teach me what to Say;
How shall I praise thee most? let me looke backe
To former Ages, and I heare 'em Speake
With almost wonder; what prodigious name
Can boast he Saw, he went, and overcame,
ffurther then some of ours? Third Edward's Son,
Son of brave Sire! how did he overrun
The face of ffrance? and Victorie Create
In his owne fortune; pardon, if I say't,
Hee was not Second to those names wee heare
Pronounc'd with Admiration and ffeare;
Not that Great Alexander, nor the name
Of Punicke Hannibal, nor Cæsar's ffame,
Outshine his Glories; had he seene a Day
As large in Time, he'd beene as great as they;
Him Shall I praise? or his brave father most?
Or his great Grandsire? or of Richard boast?
That Richard Lion's-heart; and from that Stemme
Bring downe the Glorie, to fifth Harrie's name,
Or the fowerth Edward; these and many more
(Though not in ffame) in Blood-inferior,
Might I repeat; but better let them goe
To swell huge Chronicle in ffolio.
How shall I praise thee most? in thy full peace!
Thy nat'rall Bounties, and the large increase
Which everie yeare forth brings; thy inborne wealth,
Thy selfe-existence, where wee need noe Stealth
Of Marchants to enrich vs; but might rest
Safe in our Selves, with native bounties blest;
Shall I praise one, or All? for All are thine.
Noe more will I admire the Southerne Shine,
Nor Easterne perfumes, nor the wealth o'th' west;
But thinke thee fairest, Sweetest, richest, Best;
fforgetting Chaucer, and Dan Lidgate's Rhime;
Loe here, the Glorie of our modern time,
A learnèd Age; Since great Elizae's reigne
And peace came in; the proud Italian
And iustly proud in Poesie, will allow
The English (though not Equall) next him now.
The noble Sidney, crown'd with liveing Bayes;
And Spencer, cheif, (if a peculiar praise
May pass, and from the rest not derogate)
The learnèd Jonson, whose Dramaticke State
Shall stand admir'd Example, to reduce
Things proper, to the light, or buskind Muse.
Many the present Age afford, of which
Heare ffalkland, Digbie, Beaumond, Carew, Rich,
In their Composures Severall; with whom
Maye, Allein, Randolph, Shirley, Rutter come;
Sons of thy wombe all these; with whom may I
(Though in a weake and humble Poesie)
Thy glories Celebrate, and quitt the Score
Nature obligeth me; I aske noe more.
Not that I covet fame; let those high names
Inherite all the Glorie of their Thames,
And live to many ages, though I fall,
In scornèd Dust, and have noe name at all:
Suffice it I may sing vpon thy flood,
Neglected Humber; or my Muse (lesse proud)
Sport in the Sedges of my neighbouring Streame,
Poore as my verse, neither deserving name.
And may the village where I had my birth
Enclose as Due, my Bodie in her Earth.

A Pastorall Ode; The Eglogue is Lost.

The Spring.

Now the Springe enters; now the Sun doth Cheare
The quick'ned Earth; and trees by Cold made bare
Now gin to bud; the Earth doth now begin
To flourish, in her Sweet and glorious Trimme;
The Silver Streams bound vp by winter's Cold
Glide fairly, where they murmurèd of old;
The goodly meadowes, russet late, and Dead,
In a fresh Dresse, are now apparelled;
The mountaine tops are bared, and where the Snow
Late covered, the Spring begins to Shew.
Thither, the Lads, dull'd with the winter's rest,
To ioy in wonted Sports, doe gladly hast;
Now Ioyes the Industrious Bee, and the Ant now
(Embleme of Providence) her selfe doth Show,
Warme in her winter's Store; doth now againe
Labour, and make provision, to sustaine
Her little bodie, for the after-day;
Now flyes the maggot, in her paintings gay,
(Signe of faire weather) and doth now invite
Decrepit years, to tas't the Spring's delight.
I will not call the Cuckooe, with the Spring,
(Vnnatural foolish Bird) let her voyce ringe
T' affright the Citie, and an Omen carrie
Of ffate, to fooles, and old men, when they marrie;
But here the Redbrest and gray Linnets Singe,
The poore wren flutters with an Eager wing,
To gaine yond' highest Sprig, and there doth pay
A Ceremonious Himne, to welcome day;
Whilst from that Grove, the haples Philomel
Sweetly, though Sadly, doth her Storie tell;
The little Dazies, shake their Deawie Locks,
The ambitious woodbine climbs againe, and mocks
The tardie Gilliflower; the lillye in
Her liveing Robe of Innocence, doth Shine;
ffor those of Cost and Art, to me are poor:
Nature is Rich, and Curious in her Store;
And this same Marigold, or violet here,
To the transplanted Tulip, I preferre;
Loe, where the Larke, borne on her active wing,
Pouers forth her Song of Ioy, vnto the Spring;
Lambs ioyous friske, and play now each with other,
Neglect the Teate, and leave the Ewe, their mother;
Inspirèd with the Time, may my Muse frame
Notes with the Larke, be Sportive with the Lambe.

The Difference.

Parted, per pale.

Whilest some Men Honours raise, from Dust and Sweat;
And others labour to attaine the Seate
Of ffavour, with a Prince; and others strive
By groveling Industrie, but low to live;
I thanke my Equall Starrs, which soe dispose,
I'me neither Scorne nor Envie to my foes;
I am noe Extract of a Prince's blood;
Nor can I bring a line downe from the flood;
I can not reach from Brute, nor bring my name
Addition to the antique Brittish ffame;
The Norman Conquest pussles my dispute;
I dare not stand the tryall, in a suite;
Nor say, from such a Knight, or such a Lord,
I am deriv'd, and give a Herald's word.
I will not bring an Ancestor againe
ffrom such a Harrie, such an Edward's reigne;
Reputed then a Squire; nor buy a Roll
To boast my Predecessors by the Poll;
Or shew the severall Matches blazoned faire,
Baron, et ffemme, and tell you how they beare
Gules, or, vert, azure,—heathen words for Red,
Yellow, green, blue; how fairly am I sted
By fortune, that the Colours, which I claime
Hereditarie, to my house and Name,
Are but the Same, whereon, and with, I write,
And which I love,—poor Common Blacke and White.
I neither boast, nor Skorne, a faire discent,
Noble, and Herald-vouchèd Ancient;
But I contemne the vanitie of these
As I doe Infamie; I would not please
Arrogance, in a Sillable; but stand
Ioyed, to behold the honor and the Land,
(Drawne from a noble Ancestrie) survive,
And by a worthy Nephew, kept alive.
I was not borne soe low; but would I bring
Wind, to swell out the Bladder whence I spring,
It would appeare as Eminent, as high,
As those, who boast a longer Pedigree;
And if not burst by malice of this Age,
May stand as long; but, why should I presage
A Ruine to my selfe? when those who now
Put vp of late, and beare a hopefull brow
May die forgotten; when those, yet to spring,
Are fall'n, and none to speake of such a thing.
When those, who glorye Heralds bookes, and all
The Sin they sprung from, shall to nothing fall,
I may survive; But what! is Poetrie
Come to be Larded, with ranke Heraldrie?
Soe some Cookes spoile good Meat; yet not amisse,
ffor divers Palats; some like that, some this:
And much good as they relish, may they finde,
A Phesant, bacon-farc'd, or pure, in kind.

Woman Charactred.

Chast, as an aged Hermit, at his Death;
ffaire, as the morning, sweeter then the Breath
Of Violets; and as the Turtle, true;
Where She affects, never enquiring new;
And (seing the world 'counts it an ornament)
She Shall be rich sufficient to Content;
Not starrs, but equall Sunns, are her faire Eyes,
Dressing the Sphere, where all perfection Lyes;
Soe sweetly modest, as in either Eye
(Without a gvide) men might read Chastitie;
The common Praise, of Lillie, and the Rose,
ffresh as in Iune, here in December growes;
Her necke, her brest, her wast; (for lower, I
Not dare to fall,) might ravish everie Eye;
To adorne these, Motion, which in soe faire state
Shee doth Expresse, Iuno might imitate;
Sober, to speake, but when her Accents come,
Minerva present, would be stricken dumbe;
A Mind beyond Expression; vertuous, more
Then Anchorites, even in their Dying Hower;
All these, in Woman; but which, which is Shee?
All women, are soe; or at least, should Bee.

Silvia revolted.

Scorne returned.

Are you the only faire, false Silvia? noe:
'Twas I that gave the lustre to your Eyes;
And sung your Beauties greater farre & moe
Then Nature gave, or all the flatteries
Of your deluding Glasse could ever Show.
I plac'd a liveing Rose
On either Cheeke; and drest
Those Lipps faire, which disclose
Pearles, in their liveing Nest.
I drest, with polish't Ivorie that brow,
And to your lockes put all the Sorceries
Of Nature; 'twas I, brought
All perfect Lineaments vnto your fframe;
And in huge Numbers taught
A Character of Beautie, in your Name.
Then are you fond, to flye your owne desert;
And your neglect, may bring my Love to Scorne;
Ile chuse another, who in everie part
Shall have more Sweets; farewell, oh false forsworne;
Ile bring an Æthiope, and with small endeavour
Raise better feature there, then you had ever.

Supplanted.

To Nicotiana. A Rapture.

The farewell.

Thus could I foole away my Time, in Toyes;
And paralel her Name
(Obscure) to all your fame;
Create a Harmonie, to all the Ioyes
I had, in Love, of you; draw threds of praise
Into a Volume; and Erect
A Trophie, to out-shine you, many waies;
But know, I doe neglect
Trifles of ffemale Love; I will not draw
A line, to Eyther, more then idle howers
Permit; (when I releasèd from the Awe
Of Sober thoughts) if lighter ffancie Skowers
Like wanton Hobbies, at a Dore; then well
In Skorne and Mockage, of your falshood, tell
Perhaps I may: Farewell.

An Epode.

Farre, from the Cittie's Strife; as far from fame,
I wish to keepe my name:
Careles of popular vote, or vaine Applause,
To mine, though for Iust Cause;
Let the bright Inke, which Phebus doth distill
Through everie Noble Qvill,
Run in a Clearer path; had I bene borne
Below my fate; the Scorne
Of other men; and had noe more extract
Then what my selfe could Act;
Yet in this obscure fortune, had I ben
Capable of a Pen;
I would have Squared a way, for my owne verse,
As void of vulgar fears,
As overborn by Selfe opinion;
I would have made my owne
Iudgment, an Equall Arbiter, to Define
The worth of everie Line;
And let ffastidious Censures of the Times
Gvild loose and borrowed Rhimes;
Such, who or want or what they have, betray
To the most Sordid way
Of Ignorance. Such as affect the vote
Of Stentor-follie's Throte,
Or ravil out the Loome of all their witt,
To play Court-Parasit'.
These waies I hate and Scorne; if what I penn'd
ffell to soe base an End,
My gviltye Qvill would splitt, my Inke would rise
Into my face and Eyes.
Iudge, Great Apollo! if I have done ought
With a presumptuous Thought,
That any name could make my numbers flye
Beyond their Poesie.
To noe Collossus could I ever bend,
Or at the Court attend,
With my owne Sin and ffollie in a Sheet;
To prostrate at the feet
Of painted greatnes. Not a Lord, one drop
Of my Iust Inke, shall hope
Beyond his merit: I dare not abase
Soe much, my free-borne Muse;
But vtter Truth. It is not in their ffate
To raise, nor Terminate,
A true Composure. Wee admire the Good,
Without Alloy of Blood;
And Iustly praise them, beyond all the Date
Of Brass or marble State.
We adde to them, if Either, and doe give
Their Vertues breath, to live,
In Mention; and the honour of one Name
Shall nere be old with ffame.
But 'tis Enough; I hate a Servitude
Either to Might, or to the Multitude.

To the Memorie of the most worthy and excellently vertuous Ladie The Ladie Alford.

Obijt: 1.6.3.6.

An Elegie.

To: D: i

To the Memorie of the Best Dramaticke English Poet

Ben: Ionson:

Vpon Ben Ionson's Booke.

Bee not Deceiv'd (Dull world) Hee is not Dead;
Rumor is false; open His Booke, and read.
It is Himselfe; there, Everie Scene affords
Words above Action; Matter beyond Words.
If, Readers, what I say, will not suffice
T' evince your follies, I dare bid you twice
What yet you have not Done; open and Read;
Recant, or else 'tis You, not Hee, that's Dead.

To my Muse.

Awake, awake! See through thy Curtains Spred,
Aurorae blushes, having left the Bed
Of old Tithonius. How She quitts the place,
With hairs Discheveld ore her ruddie face!
Rise, and salute her, crie a haile vnto her,
Prevent Appolloe, her more Active wooer:
See, how he brisks himselfe, within yond Clovd,
Readie to Enter. Now the Horses proud
Breath fire, & trample with a furious heat,
To hurrie in the Splendent Chariot. Yet
Open thy Eyes (Dull Muse) and let in Day,
Th' hast, as well as Hee, a word to Say.
Now tis too late; th' hast lost (ah rue the fate)
A Time, which even the God, would Emulate.

Wounded.

The Dedication of a Poem, now lost; written in the Royall Expedition against the Scotts.

This was placed in the End of the Same Poeme.

One desiring me to read, but slept it out; Wakening.

Nay, doe not Smile: my Lips shall rather dwell
For ever on my Pipe,
Then read to you, one word, or Sillable.
You are not ripe
To Iudge, or Apprehend
Of Witt. Ile rather Spend
Six howers together in Tobacco-taking,
Then read to you, and cannot keep you wakeing.

One boasting himselfe Iudge of pure Witt.

Are you the Judge of Witt? Dread Monarch, haile!
What haughtie Poesie
Comes with vn-humbled knee
To pay due homage? Willinglie I vaile
The faire pretences which I might alledge.
Dread Monarch, Haile!
Are you the Iudge?
Wee cannot fayle
In our expectancies. How iustly fitt,
From Nettles to the Bay,
He will dispose? Noe way
T' evade his Castigations. I would Spitt
A little Rheume before my Triall come.
Adiourne thy Court, one hower at lest;
For be it knowne, I now am prest
Vpon a Sad Designe:
That done, I prostrate all the little Mine
Vnto thy Doome.

Reversed

Ænigma.

A crabbèd Stumpe: yet Sillie Husband's Care,
(Too much Indulgent, to the great impaire
Of his more profitable Howers), did dresse
And Manure it; more valewing encrease
From this vnhopefull Impe, then all the Store
Hee had beside; and he had many more:
And what his Art, or Industrie, could bring
To make it fresh, he did, in everie Thing;
Still was it Seir. Noe Leafe would ever peepe
Or Blossome Spread; but Nature as asleepe
Continued in the Trunke. The Husband (wed
To his first vndertakings), Cherishéd
The hopeles Stocke, with more then common Care;
And, to a better Soyle and better Ayre
Transplanted it; yet could he gather small
Or little Hopes that it should beare at All;
Only a liveing Sap it did retaine,
(Without all verdure: thus it did remaine
Thrice Seaven Summers, without any Show
To repay his great Care. At last one Bough,
Without or Leafe or Blossome) did produce
A ffruite, of bitter and vnsavorie Iuice.
Some who did tast it, wormewood would compare
Vnto its relish; and some others Sweare
Henbane had lesse of venome; for in Strange
Tumors it blister'd; and the blood did range
With an vnwonted Heate and violence,
Through the infected Bodies. Such offence
Came in its first production: still the fond
Artificer would hope something beyond;
Though the Cheife Gard'ner would have had it cast
Into the ffire, (or throwne out with the wast.)
Hee, with a Cultivating Hand, doth give
It all the Rites, for which, perhaps, in five,
Sixe, or Seaven yeare (though Leafe, nor other green
It ever had the least), there has bene Seene
Some fruite, which I, in Curiositie
Once tasted: tis a harsh one, and a Drie;
Worse then a Medler; but more Calme, more Safe
Vnto the Palat, then the first by th' halfe.
Loe here, the Issue, of his hopes. And now
Againe it is declin'd; for such as know
Fruit by appearance, thinke the last year's fruite
Deadlie, a Aconite; and in the root
Some say a Canker lyes; to gnaw, and wast
The tree, vnverdant from the first to the last.
Nor is it Strange (and take the Sence togither;)
The Thing, which never flourished, should Wither.

Fame.

Agonie.

An Essay;

Endeavouring to ennoble our English Poesie by evidence of latter Qvills; and reiecting the former.

Prevention!

Twas Late and Cold; when with a mightie Flame
Possest, I, to my quiet Studie came;
Rich in a high-pitch'd Rapture, well-compos'd
In every Facultie: my thoughts dispos'd
In sober Contemplation, of a Brave
Designe in witt, a Fancie which might save
A Name to Honour, and almost create
Eternitie, and Time anticipate.
Qvicke forméd in each part; soe strong, soe pure,
I could not wish a better; and Ime sure
The pregnant Age, a richer could not boast;
Which surelie might, (had Poesie bene lost),
Have rais'd a liveing flame, but (oh, the Sad
Curse of Posteritie) when now I had
Survaied it true, in all Dimension,
Of perfect feature, and the holie Crowne
Had kist with humble Reverence, which then
I thought vnrivall'd Mine, and kist agen;
I had the rich Idea in my braine,
Soe livelie fitt, so prest to entertaine
My willing Qvill, and had my pen soe neare,
I thought it done; but was prevented here.
The harvest of my Time, in which I thought
To reare my liveing Name, now fell to nought;
ffor busie, how to thawe my Iet, to Inke,
It fled my thought before I ought could thinke:
That Peice for which I thought from future Times
T' have gained whole Hecatombes of Tribute Rhimes,
Lost in a Cloud, I know not how, nor where,
Nor doth a Member of that forme appeare.
Starrs inauspicious never knew to Crosse
Our prosperous Muses with a greater Losse;
When, manie years hence, I this verse shall read,
'Twill Splitt my soule with greife, when I am dead:
Deprived Posteritie shall teare this Sheet,
Distracted in the ffate, to thinke how great
A flame might once have warm'd 'em. I could teare
A Rheme to Atomes, and all Qvills forsweare,
While I repeat it. Had the greedie fflame
Snatcht all my Trifles, and but left my Name
This Trophie, I had stood above all rage
Of present Malice, or an ignorant Age.
This glorious fruite! halfe-ripened! to be lost,
In the Cold bowells of a greedie ffrost,
Has raised in me a fire of Rage, to thawe
The Articke Circle, and make void all Lawe
Of winter, to the Russian. I could melt
Those ever Rocks of Ice, which never felt
One ray to warme them; make a Sea to fflow
Within the Continent of Alpine Snow.
But I am blind in Furie, and transgress,
All modest rules; loosing, in Emptiness
Of Passion, future Glories; and almost,
In Error, has my fantasie more lost,
Then late, in Accident; Yet will I Charme
Thy Subtle power, fearing a future harme.
Let Winter dwell vpon the Island Shore,
And with his breath bind Shallow waters ore;
Fetter, in Gviues of Christall, the full Streams
Of Tanais or Volgha; whilst our Thames
Runs with vntroubled waters, in a Cleare
And even Course. Thou hast noe Title here;
Why on my Standish, Tirant, didst thou fall?
Thou hast not right to freeze an Vrinall;
Doth not the bright-haird God in glorie Shine
(Throughout this Ile to crush all Power of thine)
Phebus, assistant to all brave designe?
Ah then, why did he suffer this of mine
To perish? sure Hee is not as of old
(When Witt Succeeded) antique Poets told,
Soe much a freind vnto the harmonie
Of Numbers, and true ayme of Poesie.
Either he never was, or he has lost,
Latelie, the Soveraigntie which they All boast.
Or if he be the nourisher of witt,
Why would he suffer Ice to smother it?
Noe! Phebus is my foe, or he has Swore,
Since Ionson Dyed, t' allow his Heirs, noe more:
I know not what to Iudge; but if I live,
Ile trye this Fancie fled, how to revive.

The many Scurrile Pamphlets (going vnder the name of Poems,) frequently printed; occasion'd this.

Vpon a late printed Booke Entituled: [OMITTED]

A Strange Maye.

The Earth, in her best verdure; and the Spring
As glorious as antique Fame, did Sing
Her constant Tempe; all the Meads were sett
With bright Enamel; and the feilds were fitt
Allmost, for the keene Sickle; which might seeme,
Iustly, a wonder, if wee doe esteeme
Our colder Latitude. For who shall Say
(Without reproofe), the Harvest is in Maye?
Now Maye it was. What vast Hyperbole
Will serve but to speake truth? the blooming Tree
Crack't with its weight of ffruite; and wee almost
Might, by the Season, August have Suppos'd:
All Eares were fill'd, and everie tongve could prate
Of Prodigie; and gvesse, I know not what.
Some wiser, left it in the Misterie,
And from the Cause, look'd what the effects might be.
The avaritious Husband claw'd his Eare,
And deem'd to have two Harvests in a Yeare.
Thus stood the Earth, to Miracle almost;
When, the more Miracle, a biteing frost,
With a bleake northerne wind, orerun the feilde,
And nipt the Swelling Graine, the fruits it kill'd;
The painted Meadowes, chilléd in their pride,
Grow wan; and flowers run backe agen, to hide
Themselves, in warmer Crannies of the Earth.
Never was such a Change, since the great Birth
Which Chaos teemed; and though it Ruine threat,
Who knowes? but when the Sun, in better Heat,
Shall mount his Throne in Cancer, with his rayes
May quicken them, and give a new encrease;
Soe satisfye our Hopes, that men may Say,
The Sun, in Iune, Conquer'd the Storme in May.

When the Cloud of Calamitie, had somewhile overspread vs, and the whole Kingdome plunged in warre

Noe more let's part, Deare Muses; high in Mirth,
I left inviting Freinds, to give a Birth
Of timelie fancie Light. How often did
I frame excuses? how more often Chidde
ffor my retirèd howers? You, my delight,
My Life, my honour; you, who more invite
My Soule, then all the world; whom I more prise
Then all my fortune, or the triviall Tyes
Of Nature, or blind Chance; for haveing You
'Tis Light, ioy, Health, to me; I never knew
A Day too long to serve you, or a night
Soe tedious or Dull, I wisht for Light.
The howers are fleet, and Time, me thinkes, has wings,
When my enfranchised Soule doth fixe on things
Soe beyond groveling Nature, as you teach.
Mortalitie has a short date to reach
The perfect notion of Things, how they are
Or how they ought; yet many things appeare
Well-formed in your Glasse, which to the Eyes
Of vulgar Sence, in vgly Chaos lyes.
I doe not blush to serve you; but I boast
(If I may Glorie ought) that being tost
Vpon the Billow of a rageing time,
I can repose my selfe; & bring a Rhime
ffrom an vntroubled thought; still soe secure
Is Innocence. Oh! when within the Mure
Of my loved Studie sett, bright rapture heaves
My fancie from the Earth; my Sence then leaves
Inferior obiects, and without dismay
Dare looke in Danger's face; & tread the way
Of freedome, vnappall'd; my chosen Muse
Leads me to Truth; but ah! it was but thus.
Time is noe more; now stormie daies disperse
Composed fancies, and distract all verse.
Alas, our Muses frighted from their rest,
Run giddilye about, with hairs vndrest;
And mantles torne, throwne Careleslie, to hide
Hardlie those parts of follie, men deride.
What but vnpolite fformes, and ffancies raw,
Can such a time produce? Yet let vs draw
Something to tell Posteritie wee might
Have done it better, in a clearer Light.
Yet Silver-footed Peace may blesse our feilds;
And (though the present season hardly yeilds
One Sparke of such a Hope) I'me confident
To see Astrea called from Banishment.
Once ere I dye, Ile see Apollo Smile;
And all the Muses frolicke in our Ile.
Ile force from yonder Hill, a Helicon
Purer then Greece or Rome have ever knowne;
And Cope with the famed Poet of the South,
Who from the Royall patronage tooke growth;
Though now his ffeathers Summed, he shoot his Qvills
When Hee, perhaps Maye wither. My Store fills
From vnexhausted Arsenals. Not then
To our late honored Laureat' shall my Pen
Doe homage for a Line; but rise as high
In a firme Rapture, and full Poesie.
Then, my dear muses, wee may meet and Sing
In Peace Secure, the fears, which wee now bring.

After a storme, going a hawking.

Freedome.

I blesse my Starrs, I am vnfitt for noise;
And busines allmost shuns me, to my Choice;
I sitt retir'd, while other men are high
In State-Employments; 'tis a peircing Eye
Sees thorough Men, to dispositions;
And sorts fitt Agents to Occasions.
This with its Spectacles, Authoritie
Can Cull 'em by the head; and why should I
Repine? I glorie rather, and can Sitt,
T' emprove by them, what may be Iust, or fitt.
I'me happie, I'me exempt; that I may play
With my owne thoughts, vnvext, my howers away.
I am not in Commission of the Peace;
Noe Constable, the greater, nor the lesse;
I'de nothing Glorie, if I had ben made
Poll' gatherer of the Groats; I should evade,
Truly, to be a Parish warden; or
A domineering Elder, with the power
Our well-affected Parliament can give.
Fitt Men shall have Emploiment fitt. I live
Obscure; Blood, Tears, nor oppression
Burden my Soule; my Gvilt is but my owne;
Whilest higher Sin, attends the higher place;
Sin of Participation in the Case.
I'me as I am, Content; and free, to pittie
The faction of the Countrie, Fraud o'the Cittie.
Sometime I'le take my Stone-bow or my Gun,
With my true Servant, readie still to run,
And fetch the Qvarrie from the Brooke or Bush,—
The Mallard, Teale, the Sparrow, or the Thrush.
With these innocuous pleasures (I can rest
In my selfe quiet; and display the brest
Of all my Crime, vnto my selfe); Wee live
Gviltye, I hope of lesser Sins. I strive
Not now t' exaggerate others Crimes, nor here
To make our owne lesse then in Truth they are;
This, if the rigour of the times allow
I am content; if they will not, I know
A pleasure, 'bove their Malice; and the close
Barrs of a prison, cannot hinder those
My owne free thoughts; where I some time may have
A visit from the Muses, which shall save
My Name from Envie and oblivion.
Soe being lest my selfe, I'me most my owne;
And what, by them, was put, as a restraint,
Is by my patience, turned t' a Complement.

Vanitie.

Soe Time but turnes his Glasse; and the same Sand
Consummates his full Period; though wee Stand
Fixéd on former Ages,—happier farre
As wee suppose,—Alas, alas, they are
But the same Miserie; they knew the greife
As well as wee, which follows humane Life;
Ambition, Envie, Iealousie, Distrust
Was then, as well as now; and ever must
(While Men have their Corruptions & desires)
Delude the world. Hee scornes what thou admires;
What thou Contemn'st, he glories in; and all
The Ioyes of men are follie. What wee call
Felicitie, is but a Shadow, toste
Vpon the Fancie, and in Fancie lost.
Light as the breath wee trust to, is our Ioy;
Our Pleasure, trouble: & our Boast, a Toy;
Wee only aime at Trifles, and present
Thin formes to gvide vs, in the banishment
Of a depravéd Nature; oh, the Sad
Anxietie of Passion; I am made,
Some time, a Thousand Men, in my owne Brest.
Againe Contracted; and if one, the least
And most imperfect Shred from Nature's loome.
A despis'd Atome, in her rayes. To whom
Shall I appeale for wisedome? and get light
Of Iudgment, to informe my erring Sight?
In the Darke Maze of Error, whether run
My giddie feet? What never-resting Sun
Can tracke the path of Mortalls? or disperse
One Beame, beyond our follies and our fears.
Good God! what is our Glorie? Wee surmise
Only at truth! & though wee are not wise,
Wee are proud to boast our wants; and all our owne
Is ever best. Oh God, wee are vndone
In our owne proiect; and our glorie is
A Lumpe of Pride, a Shop of vanities;
Our learning (fairest Light) wee make a bait
To ruine Sence: and reason captivate
In gvives of Error. Into what immense
Inextricable Laberinths wee drench
Our vnderstandings! and the Charter, which
Nature gave absolute and free, wee pitch
Into a Model, with restriction,
And Artfull rules, when Reason wanted none;
For how is She Eclips'd! and Limited
To the proportion of another Head!
As though another Hercules had plac'd
Witt's great Ne vltra, never to be pass'd.
This is not the least Follie; through wee stray
As farr from Truth, in the Contrarie way.
Oh vanitie of Mortalls! to bequeath
Your Labours to Posteritie, in Death.
How doe wee Covet Glorie! and contrive
Our Being to the Future! Shall I give
My Name! and what I ever purchaséd
With Industrie, to the vncertaine head
Of a Supposéd Time? How madly spend
Wee then our oyle! Is this our Ayme? our End?
Ah, too too well, I see, in everie Line,
Wee tread this Path; and this poor verse of mine
Stands record to my Shame, that I intend
Somewhat to raise by it, and to some End:
Perhaps, to doe a greater worke then praise
Can flatter Witt into; perhaps it Strayes
With ffollie, more then I my selfe can feare;
For tell me, who are Equall Iudges here?
Alas, wee but deceive our Selves; what witt
Will here resigne? what Follye will Submitt?
Thus, discontented Fooles, wee spend the oyle
Of a Sad Life; Incessantlie All Toyle.

Proportion.

Man, (Screen'd, by Flesh and Blood, and wrapt within
Th' impenetrable Curtaine of his Skin),
How shall wee pourtray out? what antique Qvill,
Or famous Moderne, boasts of such a Skill?
Not great Apelles, nor fam'd Titian
Had anie Colour for the inward Man:
Much Celebrated Angelo could give
Life to his worke almost, in perspective;
And our late honoured Vandike may raise
Himselfe a Trophie, from another's Face;
But this exceeds their Cunning; all wee know
Of this, rests in our Selves, & what wee owe
Vnto Philosophie; whose gentle hand
Can put aside the vaile; and then wee Stand
Naked and plaine;
As in the outward face, and all the parts
Exterior. Each severall imparts
A diverse ffeature; & noe two can bee
Soe like in Face, such Twinns in Symmetrie,
But a discerning Eye may eas'ly find
A difference. Soe is it in the Mind;
Noe two, in the same Mold; and vnto Each,
(As in the Bodie Naturall), his pitch
Is limited, and not one Inch can adde
In Stature, to the measure that he had;
Nor Change his Face to a Complexion
Fairer then that which Nature made his owne.
Soe is the diverse Face of Reason; and
The vnderstanding, cannot put a hand,
Beyond that Reine.
It now appeares, as plainly to my Eye,
The Mind and Intellectuall Phisniomie,
As the Corporeall Shape; and I perceive
The same Discordances which wee conceive
In all exterior formes; and Each man best
Suits with his proper owne. Can I divest
My Swartie Hewe? and put vpon my face
A better Tincture? or new features place
Where the old were imperfect? Neither may
I put away my Reason, though it Stray
And be a Monster to another's Eyes!
Yet knitt soe Close vnto my ffaculties
It cannot part; noe more, then heat from fire;—
A Qvalitie Inherent and Entire:
It is the Same,
In vnderstanding, given severallie
To the proportion; & shall therefore I
Despise my selfe? because my Stature is
Perhaps an Inch or Cubit below his.
Because he (with a longer Arme) can reach
That thing, with Ease, which I with all my Stretch
Cannot attaine. There is a height beyond
His vtmost. Man, is all of Pigmey kind;
And though our Giant vnderstandings reare
Themselves on Tiptoes, to the wishéd Sphere,
How are they lesse then Nothing? & his leape
Is but to fall againe; whilst others reape
A larger Harvest, with a lesser Toyle.
But noe man has the Stocke; noe Inke, nor oyle,
Can bring a Name,
Beyond his Circumscribéd Power. Wee All
Have proper Motions; and they rise, to fall
Vnpittied, who adventure on a path
Of soe much ruine, as noe lesse then Death
Attends each Step. Yet man, in Time, be wise;
Bee thy owne Mirror; See Deformities
As well as Beauties; and correct them there,
With as much Diligence, and as great Care,
As in a glass, thy face, should'st thou perceive
A Spott, to lessen Beautie. 'Tis, beleive,
More worth thy Care, to rectifye this part
Then all thy Face; Bee happie, as thou art;
That is, Bee pleaséd with thy owne; and See
Some Creatures Creepe, as well as others Flee.

The Userper.

The Magazine.

A Pause.

G: ive me a little respite, that I may
D: rawe somewhat of a better forme. To pore
E: ver on Bookes, takes all the Ioy away;
A: nd makes a free-borne Muse, her selfe abhorre.
O: h never may the Muses know a Day
N: ot given to Libertie. I will noe more
R: ifle my braines, to please Men; or to pay
I: ust obligations. From thy liveing Store
G: rant me fresh raptures, Phebus; I will play
E: asie, and quicke; but not I can noe more
E: nvite me not (Deare Muses) to trye that
L: ittle I have, against my owne Conceit.