Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique :: :: University of Virginia Library

My drooping Muse awaken'd by your Pen
And noble Fancy's raised to life agen.
And thus regenerate, presents as Due,
The First-fruits, of her second Birth to You.

The Graces usher, Fair Example, brings
Virtue with Courage, and all Noble Things
A generous Mind can wish if I improve,
It is by imitating You, I love.
Your serious Muse and your Jocose combine
To complement each other in each line
Audacem Deus ipse juvat's very well,
Made true in Thee, where all the Muses dwell.

Henry Sanderson Esq;

To my dear Brother Mr. H. B. on his Poems.

Harry,

Since Souldier, call'd thy Brother, Captain
My Fancy has not so much Air been wrapt in,
As when the amorous couch and lovelick't Bolster
Have made me 'mong the Muses keep an old stir;
Since Bilbo-Blade hath put fist out of order
I nere approach'd Parnassus, (scarce the Border)
So then thou must not look that I should praise thee
In that Emphatick strein we now-adays see
Yet I have read thy Lines, can judg and know 'em
That few or none) have writ so quaint a Poem.
And he that has Design the like to write now,
Listen to mine Advice, I'le set him right how:
Let him be so much Merchant (cause I doubt it)
T'ensure his Paper 'ere he go about it.
And if the Cargo of his Wit be lost
Hee'l ha't again, (the Liquour's in the Toast)
Thou therefore mayst be sure none can abuse
The generous fancy of thy frolique Muse;
For he that writes to imitate thy Vein
May write, and keep the paper for his Pain.

As He that thought to write like Princely Spencer,
Prov'd in his Faculty, a very Fencer:
No more to be compar'd then Trigg to Frazier
Or Turvy-Tinker to an Acon-Brazier.

In their own sphere, thou writ'st to King and Court too:
The next Page makes the Amorous Ladies sport too.
If souldier throw off sword and fall to drink,
Here's that will match his Humour too, I think.
The willow'd Lover apt to howl and whimper
At reading thee begins to smile and simper.
And every Humour's fancy'd so compleatly
I cannot say 'tis boldly done but neatly.

William Bold Esq;

To my dear Brother Mr. H. B.

Reading thine unstrained Verse, oh how it rue'th,
That I ne followed Crambo from my youth!
And that I ne're consorted much with Those
Who use what ever's spoke, to clink ith' Close:
Had I done so, by this, I'de had the honour Sir,
T'have Rhym'd like him that nickt Nebuchadonosor
And then I wiss, I had not thus been puzzeld
To make Verse chyme, as if Dame Muse were muzzeld;
Didst see me tooth and nail (Hall) foot and leg,
Thou'dst swear my Worship were at mumble peg,
It comes so hard—Why sure 'twill vex ones Gizzard
To hunt for Rhyme like me, from A to izzard,
When started too, and I think brought about,
Tis ten to One there wants a foot—
And then to inch it out, and make it go,
I'me fain to say (Pox ont!) Dear Hall) or so.

Sometime my Brain's asleep, and words wo'nt troul
Longer (forsooth) then I do claw my Poul:

And prethee (Hall) what Muse can set a stitch,
When I am forc'd to scratch where't does not itch?

Yet since rich Masques their Whifflers have who come
Not to set off the Shew, but make it Room:
So since th'attir'st thy self, and putt'st on Sandal
To walk abroad ith' World, Ile hold the Candle,
And like a Whiffler too, if any come,
And ask what are thy Vertues, answer-Mum;
As being conscious I should do thee wrong
More by my Talk than holding of my Tongue.

Yet if to Court or Droll in Tune and Mode
The Gallant, would be (fain) put in a rode,
Let him bestow (let's see) for the device on't
Look! I was going to tell him what's the Price on't;
But He (in time) as well as Setter forth,
Will find thy Book can ne're be sold to th'worth.

Norton Bold C.C.C. Oxon. S.

Upon the Authour and his Poems.

Not that I do, (as Vulgar Scriblers can)
Dictate a squint, or to set forth the Man
To th'best, (as Common Painters use to do,)
Strive to make handsom, though they do not true,
No; General Applause doth plainly shew it,
No Age, e're glory'd in so quaint a Poet:
For whom, the Muses, and the Graces strove,
Which should deserve him best, to be their Love:
At length they drew the match, (yet left it fair:)
And each compounded in him, for a share:
So that He's wholly theirs; (and let him be!)
Nor do I envy them their Destiny;
But, this I'le tell the World, their choice is such;
All, may admire, but cannot praise too much.
Here, Jupiter his Mistresses may kiss,
And win without a Metamorphosis.
Cupid, the sole Commander of our Hearts,
Complies with thee, to make his golden Darts:
But let him try his skill, how 'ere it prove,
That he wounds Hearts, 'tis thou must make them love.

J. Moyle of the Inner Temple Esq;

To his ingenious Friend Mr. Henry Bold on his Poems.

My praise is insignificant, for I
Am not grown old enough in poetry;
Nor is my name yet up enough t'engage
Th'opinion of this superstitious age.

But if I say, I like what you have writ,
Some other, that believes himself a Wit,
May differ from me in Opinion. So
To find the truth, we must to poling go.

Now in this envy'ous and ill-natur'd time,
Verse is a scandal, and to print a crime.
In this half-witted and ungrateful Town
The most (that is the worst) will cry thee down
For those three hainous crimes, Truth, Wit, and Verse;
And swear it is thy Vice to meddle with theirs.

So I'll suspend Encomiums, and transmit
Those to thy book, which praises thee and it:
For Poets to praise Poets is as bad,
As if one mad-man said anothe'rs mad,

And (to say truth) men did the Muse suborn,
To claw a friend, or else to serve a turn;

Good Verse and bad were prais'd with equal wit
Just as the praiser on the humour hit.
Encomiums like farwell Sermons grew,
All car'd how well to speak, but none how true.
The Knave and Dunce with both of us did speed
As th'Poets humor'd, or the Levite fee'd.
This made wise Readers all our votes despise,
And their contempt made future writers wise.
To praise friends wits is out of fashion grown,
We only now break jests to shew our own.

Alex. Brome.

To the ingenious Mr. Henry Bold on his publishing his Poems.

The Press (of late) became as common
As Barbers-Chair or naughty Woman,
When all fanatique Humours were,
Frequently broach'd, as Ale or Beer:
But safe in neither, such a Crowd
Of Ale and History being allow'd;
A Fresh-man or an elder Brother
Was poyson'd straight by one or t'other.
Had these been extant then, th'ad thought
Thy Nectar of the common Draught,
Like those who little skill'd in Wine,
Applaud a Tavern for the Sign.
And hang their gross Opinions there
That Sack with Lime to them is rare:
Just as the Drunken Common Sewer
Does with an even throat devour
All that's sent to it, so did They
Erst swallow Books, a greedy way!
But 'twas as Mariott when he feasted,
Neither half chew'd nor half-digested.

Kind Providence which thought that Fate
Unfit for thee, ordain'd thy date
From this blest Age grown now so clear
That 'stead of Glow-worms Stars appear,
And glorious too, but when all's done,
'Tis thou that art Apollo's Son.
But 'cause I Love, I write, and not to praise,
He must deserve, is fit to give thee Bayes.

V. Oldis.

POEMS.

SONG I.

[Thou Glorious Envy, of the Nation]

1

Thou Glorious Envy, of the Nation,
Whose renowned Graces,
Far transcend the Fancies,
Of a Lovers Brain.
Whose blooming Cheeks out-vy Carnation,
While thy Look surpasses,
Those resplendent Glances,
A High-noon do raigne.
Thy Curious Locks, so nicely curl'd;
Their Every Hair,
Our Souls ensnare.

And by a sweet Surprisal,
Captive all the World.
The Melting Corals of thy Lips,
Distill such Balme,
That in the quame.
Of a Heart breaking Mistriss,
He revives that Sipps.

2

Thy Graceful Motion, and Behaviour,
Might excuse a Beauty,
Less in debt to Nature,
Then thy fayrer Face.
Where Lovely Ayres, and Comely Favour
Do Conjure a Duty,
To Adore your Feature,
Dwells upon your Place.
The flowry sweets thy Breasts do wear,
Shall ne're consume,
Their rich perfume.
But make a lasting Summer,
Flourish all your Year.
Between whose Hills the Boy doth lye,
And exercise,
His Tyrannies.
Yet joyes us, that he doth his
Murthers handsomely.

3

He's blest who climbs that swelling Mountain,
In whose gloomy Valley,
Sits the Queen of Pleasure,
In her Royal Fort!
Bath'd, in the streams oth' Odorous Fountain,
Whence full joyes do sally,
In o're flowing Measure,
For the Amorous Sport.
Where circling in a Genial Kiss,
I would controule,
Disputes o'th' School:
And thence maintain a real,
Metempsychosis:
But nought can her Affection move,
Though Jove to boot,
Should Court her to't,
Florilla wanteth nothing,
To be Love but Love.

SONG II.

[Love, let me have my Mistress such]

1

Love , let me have my Mistress such,
(If I must needs have One,)
Whose Mettall will endure the Touch,
Whose Touch will try the Stone!

Let her have sense I aske no more,
A Womans Reason I abhorre!

2

Her noon like Eyes should shine so Clear,
And be so fixt on Mine,
The Salamander Babies there,
Should Kindle and Entwine,
Then Look me Dead, that Men may swear
There is no Basilick but Her,

3

If th'upper Manna-Lips distill,
The Sweets of Every food,
To Sauce the Appetite (not fill)
The Lover Limbeck's good:
To rellish which, let Love invent,
A way to Crane his Instrument.

4

The Thrilloes of her Siren Noice,
Should Charme an Adders Eare;
And were she Echo'd all to Voice,
I'de be in Love with Her:
To be Chamæleon'd who would care,
So he might juncate on such Ayre.

5

I'de have her Panther in her Breath;
And Phænix in her Breast,

The Vallies that are Underneath,
The Spicery of the East:
I'de have Her without much a do,
But Loe! I'de have her Naked too:
In spight of Fates, thus would I lye
Mandrackt to all Eternity.

SONG III.

[Mine own Basina come a long]

1

Mine own Basina come a long,
The Subject of my Song.
For thee I long:
And know my Pretty sweetness: know
Since thou lov'st me,
I welcome nothing in the World but Thee.

2

Unveyle those Damask Cheeks of Thine,
Where every graceful Line,
Is so Divine,
That were, I to receive my Death,
By thy Fair Eye,
I'de Court it, bury'd in your Pits to lye.

3

Yet cloud thy Face, thy Veile keep on!
If all should gaze thereon,

They were undone:
For it may chance thy random Darts
Will kill them too.
Whom I'de not Wish so Good a Death unto.

4

Display thine Armes: thy Wealth, unfold!
While like to Jove of old,
In Liquid Gold.
I do Carouse it in Lov's Bowle
To such a Bliss,
Our Souls shall mingle while our bodys Kiss.

5

Thus will we Live, thus will we Love,
Till even the gods above,
Shall Envious prove:
And after Death we'l Joy as They
Till that appear,
We'l have Elizium here, as they have there.

SONG IV.

[Chloris forbear a While]

1

Chloris forbear a While,
Do not o're joy me,
Vrge not another Smile
Lest it Destroy me.

That Beauty pleases most,
And is Best taking
Which soon is Woon, soon lost
Kind, yet forsaking.
I Love a Coming Lady faith! I do!
But now and then, I'de have her scornful too.

2

Ore cloud those Eyes of thine,
Bo-peepe thy Features
Warme with an April shine,
Scorch not thy Creatures:
Still to display thy Ware
Still to be fooling,
Argues how rude you are
In Cupides Schooling
Disdain begets a Suit, Scorn draws us nigh,
'Tis cause I would, and cannot, makes me Try.

3

Fayrest, I'de have the: Wise,
When Gallants view thee.
And Court, do thou despise;
Flye, they'l persue thee,
Fasts move an Appetite,
Make Hunger greater
Who's stinted of Delight,
Fall's to't the better.
Be Kind and Coy by turns, be calme & rough!
And buckle now and then, and that's enough.

SONG V.

[I'le Swear they Lye, who say they Love]

1

I'le Swear they Lye, who say they Love,
One onely Beauteous Face,
He's Mad (or Honest) does not prove
A Score in three days space.
I me a la mode My self; pretend that I
Am here all-over Love and there could Dye,
When Faith! there's no such matter seriously!

2

Most earnest Love is but in jest,
I Ladys are cheated all:
I've now a hundred Girles, at least,
That do me Servant call:
I've Courted them alike, have vow'd & sworn
My flames of Love a like, for All did burn:
When 'tis for Her, who best will serve my Turn.

3

And yet, I think my Love's as True,
As Constant every way,
As their's, who colour for't in Blew,
And Cupid's prizes play.
Shew me the Lad, who best Loves Feat can Do
I'le Do as much as He (perhaps More too)
Yet ne're could Love, above an hour, or so.

SONG VI.

[VVhat though thy Feature]

1

VVhat though thy Feature,
Fairest Creature,
Passeth curious fancy far.
And colour'd Roses,
(Cupids Posees,)
Do denounce a second Warre.
Though ne'er so rare,
Thy Beauties are,
They shall not mine Affection win,
Let her I woe,
Be willing too,
And Love me, I'le Love Her again!

2

Black Eyes are loathing,
Red Lips nothing,
Nor can busie Toying Doe't;
Or fill the Measure,
Of Love's Pleasure
Lest she give her mind unto't.
Let Her I Court,
Be mad oth' sport,
And Love, and wanton freedome show,
I hate a Maid;
That seems affraid,
And cares not where she Does or No.

SONG VII.

[Faith do but say the Word and I am gone]

1

Faith do but say the Word and I am gone,
I can assoon forego,
Mine easie suit,
As thou wouldest have it so!
'Tis but a vain persuite,
And little fruit:
In Lovers Games, when if the best be Wonne,
We come but Loosers off, when all is done.

2

Pox on't! I've Lov'd thee, now, this hour or two.
And shall I nothing get:
Still fast and Pray,
Then would w'had never met!
Ne're blush! but come away!
Love, Lov's no stay:
I Love, 'tis true; but let me tell thee too
I do not Love to make so much a do.

SONG VIII.

[Madam, Y'are not the first I've Lov'd]

1

Madam, Y'are not the first I've Lov'd
Nor shall you be the last,
Tis ten to one, but I have prov'd
As fair (perhaps as chast.)

2

And yet, to tell the pains I've lost,
Their humour still was such,
'Tis true, a little time they'd cost;
But faith, it was not much!

3

I ne're remember that I spent
Above a month, or so,
To Win a Girle with Complement,
And there's the most a do.

4

No! I have got the trick on't now,
And troth! I dare a verre,
I could do her as well as you,
And you assoon as her.

5

Then pry'thee! Love! be coy no more!
Smooth off, and be not rough,
Say but thou never didest before,
And then 'tis well enough.

6

None e're shall know what we have done,
I'le pass my promise for't,
Only be quick, and let's be gone
And there's and end oth' sport.

SONG IX.

[The Suns of Beauty ne're had shone]

1

The Suns of Beauty ne're had shone
But to give light to more then one:
Or if to Love me, were a Sin
I'me Damn'd to Love thee, thus again:
But Love and thoughts, are free.
Neither may they be enclos'd, or confin'd
To any special object, but unto the Generall kind:
So after single dainties,
If our Appetite be good, we may call,
And, (so we do not surfet) fit and tast and eat of all.

2

Since thy bright eyes have such an art
With every glance to win a Heart,
You wrong your Beauties & your Loves;
If what you get you do not prove.
Your winnings thus are losses,
And your Forces but in vain you employ
If, when you gain a conquest you do not the same enjoy,
And no Commander ever,
When, the Rebell foes were slaine, or did yeild,
But, to reward the Souldiers, gave the plunder of the field.

3

Love is no Pidler at his Meat,
The more he feasts, the more he'l eat!
Then spend not, all that Beauty's store,
On one, might serve a thousand more:
While thy Virgin springs are running,
What matter, who comes there, or who first,
With your cooling Waters, doth allay his eager thirst.
Then Dearest, since thou Lov'st me,
Let us reap the fruits of Love, and enjoy:
'Tis treason to our Natures, for to Love, and to be Coy.

SONG X.

[Since 'tis the pleasure, of thine Fyes]

1

Since 'tis the pleasure, of thine Fyes,
To Kill me, with Love's Tyrannize,
Faith use me kindly! let me dye,
The fairest death! Thy similing Eye
Shall give the Wound, and all true Lovers shall
Triumph at such a blessed Funeral.

2

And yet alas! who'd think that she,
Should sin so high, to Murther me!
But Heaven will quit her and disguise
The Fact, with name of sacrifice.
This onely of the gods I will implore,
That dead, I may but Love her, as before.

SONG XI

[And pry'thee why (Florella) doest thou move]

1

And pry'thee why (Florella) doest thou move
My forward Heart, not to proceed in Love?
Alas! it cannot be
My Love to thee
Divinest she,
Burnes with a fire
Cannot breath highe.
Nor shall expire:
For should I once this high blown flame let fal,
My warned Heart,
Being taught the Smart
Would learn the Art
Never to love at all

2

Perhaps 'twas pitty mov'd thee to Complain,
And thou might think, so, to redress my pain,
But oh! good faith not I!
I'le never try
That Remedy;
But will Endure,
Love's Calenture,
And not thy Cure:
For know; my Love soars with so high a wing,
'Tis pride in me,
Rather to be
A slave to thee
Then be Another's King.

3

Then chide not (dearest Fair) my passions heat?
Souldiers in Love, must never make retreat:
What though the fates decree,
Thou must not be,
A mate for me:
And Love conspire,
To cheat desire,
With Single fire.
Yet let me burn and dye; that I may see,
What Joyes they prove,
Ith' Elyzian Grove,
That Over-love.
And dye for such, as thee.

SONG XII.

[Stay smal Sinner]

1

Stay smal Sinner,
Cease thy suite!
If thy fair Words, cannot win her,
Thou wilt never bring her to't:
'Tis not all thy wiles can Doe't.
Lest of her own Accord she'l Loving be,
Faith! let her go! she's not a Wench for thee.

2

E'ne let her go!
There are more,
That now, perhaps, would gladly doe:
Thou may'st chuse of half a score,
Whilst confin'd in midst of store:
'Tis meerly Dotage, and will Madness prove,
Pox! Where she cannot like, she will not love.

SONG XIII

[Proud (Venus now at last) resigne]

1

Proud (Venus now at last) resigne,
Thy long usurped Place,
And seat Florilla on that shrine,
Who claimes the chiefer grace;

Whilst quicken'd with the hallowed fire,
Of chaste desire,
All, toward thine Altar, move
And each man dies
A Sacrifice
To thee, the Queen of Love.

2

Venus! alas poor silly Queen!
One god of love brought forth,
Which ne're could see, nor e're was seen,
Yet much extoll'd her Worth:
But thousand real Cupids lye,
In my Faire's Eye,
And ayme, at every Heart,
Whose Hairs do grow,
To string your Bow,
And every Beame's a Dart.

3

Apelles (once) to pourtract out
That Dame, did, for her sake,
Go ransack half the world throughout,
And plunder'd features take,
But my sweet love is more Divine,
Each graceful Line,
Her nobler Parts do bear,
And should you seek,
Upon her Cheek
There's ne're a Mole grows there.

4

Yet (Mother Venus) with your Son,
If you can, One thing do,
You shall again ascend the Throne,
And I will homage you:
Go whip your Boy, and let him try
His Archery,
If my Dear, wounded prove,
You shall redeem
Your self the Queen
And Him, the god of Love.

SONG XIV.

[Idle Sinner]

1.

Idle Sinner,
Sigh no more!
And I'le informe thee,
Of an Easier way to win her,
Then thou try'dst before:
Sullen Beauty
Must not move
Thee, in a whining
Over weening piece of Duty
To express thy Love:

But if,
E're thou mean, to have her,
At thy fancies suit,
Presume upon her favour,
Kiss, and put her to't,
And (trust me) that will Doe't.
Or else,
Tope a Glass of Claret,
Love, and hug thy friend,
For Mistress, care not for it!
Till thou seest it mend,
(If never) there's an End.

SONG XV.

[Rare Creature! Since thy Graces have]

1

Rare Creature! Since thy Graces have,
The power to Kill, and Art to Save,
(Sweet!) let thy Beauties make my Heart
A Patient, to your Mystick Art!
Thine Instruments, I will Endure.
Since, that, which makes the wound, can Cure.

2

Come! let thy locks (whose every Hair
A willing Lover doth ensnare)
Fetter my Soul, in those soft Chaines,
Where Beauty link't with Love, remains!

And keep me bound, that I may be
Thy Prisoner, yet at Liberty.

3

Thy sprightful Eyes (whose every Dart)
Hath force, to Kill (or Save a Heart)
If they shoot frowns on me (my fair)
I can but languish in despair,
Second them, with a smile, 'twill move
A faith in me, 'twas but in Love.

4

Or shouldst thou, suffer me to sip,
The flowing Nectar, from thy Lip,
Whose soveraign drops, deriv'd from thence,
(Can quicken, both the Soul, and sense)
That bliss, would soon, revive again,
Him, (whom before) thine Fyes, had slain.

5

Thy Curious Breasts, those pretty things
Whiter, then Down of Cupids wings;
If through, thy Winter Heart, they be
Frozen, to joy-chaines, for me,
Let Love, but Touch them, you shall see,
Those fetters melt, while I am free.

6

Or might I, lull'd by love's sweet charmes,
Lodge, within thy folded Armes,
Where I might find, and tast, and prove,
The Joyes, the sweets, the sports of Love;

Lockt, in those bands, I there should be
Proud, of my sweet captivity.

7

Then (Dearest) since 'tis Cupids will,
That you should heal, with what you kill;
Say! how canst thou cure, my smart,
That hast robb'd me, of my heart!
This is the best way, I can tell,
Give thine in Change, and all is well.

SONG XVI.

[Be not Distrustful (Precious love)]

1

Be not Distrustful (Precious love)
Of my true Zeal and Constancy!
Nor think, another Saint, can move,
My setled faith, from thine Idolatry!

2

Soveraign of Souls! do not repay
Protested Love, with Jealousie!
To thee mine Oraisons I pay,
And am become, Love's constant Votary.

3

While Cupid and his Priests attend,
At this same holy Exercise,

And to your Glorious beauties send,
My Heart, a Flaming sacrifice.

SONG XVII.

[I had a Love, a month a go]

1

I had a Love, a month a go,
I Woo'd, as I were madd,
And, to say truth, as handsome too,
As you would wish, t'have had:
But how it comes about,
I cannot tell,
I've e'ne forgot the face,
And know not well,
Where was the Place,
Her Beauty, or her Grace,
Did ever dwell.

2

And yet; I've had a scurvy kind
Of fancy, to this Love,
Which some Girles, call, a constant mind,
And say, I faithful prove:
Sure I'me too hot to hold,
Yet, when I spye,
A high and stately brow,
Whose Majesty,

Commands us bow,
To Homage, Oh! ev'n now
(Me thinks) I'de Dye.

3

But out upon't! I've found the cause,
And know the reason, why
I can't obey femal Laws,
Nor quit my Liberty:
Where Honour keeps the Gate,
And does deny
To such, as me, or you,
The Courtesie,
To come and go,
And t'other Knickknack too
Farewell! say I!

SONG XVIII.

[Fair, give me leave, to Love]

1

Fair, give me leave, to Love,
Or Love to Leave,
The suit, my gentle hopes, promove
Your wilder scornes deceive,
I swear, by those bright Eyes,
(Love's Heavenly Mysteries)
And by those Downes of Snow,
I'me still Resolv'd to Love.

What shall I do?
Shall not my Prayers, your pitty move,
To Love me too?
Or must thine Eyes,
Still exercise,
Their Tyranise,
And I, (sad I) neglected go?

2

They must, they must; I would
Not have her Love
Upon such terms, now, though she could
My high Desires approve,
Tis more then happiness
To have the fair success
To Love, and only so.
I hate a mutual heat?
It spoiles the sport,
And so disrellishes the feat
We care not for't.
If my desire,
Can but aspire,
Her, to Admire,
I care not wher'e she'le Love, or noe.

SONG XIX.

[VVell! go thy wayes!]

1.

VVell! go thy wayes!
If e're, I Love agen,
As I have Lov'd before,
To Woe a Yoke of Dayes,
Yet ne're know what nor when,
I'le give thee leave, to hate me then,
And never Love no more.

2.

I could make shift,
To sit, an hour, and sport;
(But not t'encrease that score)
Or sigh, at a dead lift,
But, if I longer Court
Then, I shall see good reason, for't,
Faith! never trust me more.
Yet still be nice!
Usurpe the power thou hast!
Deny, as heretofore!
Uphold thy former price!
Th'art Dear, because th'art chaste:
For should'st thou now, prove, cheap at last,
I'de never Love thee, more.

SONG XX.

[Come, come, away!]

1

Come, come, away!
No Delay
To our wished delight!
Sweet quickly hast, unto thy greedy Lover!
Throw, throw aside
What may hide,
The inquisitive sight!
I'le be the only Veile that shall thee Cover:
And We,
Will both agree,
And thou shalt see,
How we the time abuse,
To trifle it away, with empty wishes,
Fond Dreams,
Are Childish theams,
Wherein the creams
Oth' sport, we alwayes loose,
And do Neglect the sweeter after blisses.

2

Come! do not Frown!
Lay thee down!
'Tis a thing must be done!
Take off thy hand-good faith! tis wondrous pretty?

Oh! what a coyle!
And a spoyle!
E're this Fort could be Wonne!
Nay, though thou cry, or bleed I dare not pitty:
And now,
I'le shew thee how
Thy Dad, did Do,
And score up, wealthy Sums
Of Kisses, on thy Lips, to heighten pleasure:
Again!
I can't refrain,
I fear no pain,
Oh! now, it comes, it comes!
'Tis all, thine own, thou shalt have standing measure.

SONG XXI.

[VVhy (Fair one) doest thou ask of me]

1

VVhy (Fair one) doest thou ask of me,
The Cause I burn in Love, for thee,
From fire (we know) the Flames arise,
So, if thine Eyes,
Can kindle, with your beam,
The flames possest,
Within my Breast,
Sweet! ask not me but them.

2

Unriddle all the Mysteries,
The secret Arts and Trecheries,
Which practised are, ith' Paphian Cell,
And when you tell
Me, what your cause, may be,
I then may show,
Some reason too,
Why 'tis, I burn for thee.

3

Unteach thy Lips, unlearn thine Eyes
Their fair Deluding Sorceries,
And if thy Beauties, this can do,
And blind, me too,
My living flame soon dyes,
If not, my Fire,
Can ne're Expire,
Whil'st Nature lends us Eyes.

SONG XXII. On the first sight of the Lady M. W. in St. Maries Church Oxon.

1

Pox take this learning! burn these books
There's a Ladies powerful looks

Draw, my Thoughts to fix upon,
Her Divine perfection:
Whose bright Eyes do guild the day
Whilest enlighten'd, by your Ray
Love can flie no other way.

2

When from the Temple's sacred shine
She did glance her Eyes, on mine,
Cupid there, did light his Dart,
To enflame my Tender heart:
Pulpit Thunder could not move,
Eyes, or thoughts, resolved to prove,
No Religion sweet, but Love.

3

While my senses here do Jarre,
Love contrives a double Warre,
Through mine Eyes, he throwes his Dart,
Through mine Ears, assaults my Heart
So this Angel, charm'd mine Eare,
With her Singing, that I swear,
Those above might rival her.

4

But alas! Those Suns are gone!
And that Heavenly musick done!
Yet return those murthering Eyes,
To behold your Sacrifice!

Nor, think I, thou joy'st to see
Love-sick-Souls should die for thee:
But, to Sweeten death for me.

5

Or if that Lady, in whose Breast,
My fled Heart, is lodg'd a Guest,
Will Exchange (but Oh! I fear
Her's, is stray'd, some other where)
I may Live; if not; I dye,
Martyr, to her Diety,
To encrease, her Victory.

6

Her a brown Hair, a snare might prove,
To entangle captive Jove:
In the Circles of her Eye,
Cupids fetter'd Rebels lye:
Would'st thou know, who this might be
That hath stolne, my Heart, from me?
These few marks will say, tis she.

SONG XXIII.

[Faith! tell me, Chloris pry'thee do!]

1

Faith! tell me, Chloris pry'thee do!
(I'le do as much, for thee,)

Why? when I would, thou, still, say'st No?
Thou wilt, and yet, thou wilt not too.
Thou Lov'st the sport, I'me sure, if thou'lt be
Forward, as I, th'art like t'have none, for me.

2

Consider't (little Fool!) be wise!
I know the subtilty:
That which you, now so highly prize,
When, out oth' humour, I dispise.
'Tis meerly dulness? and vain foppery?
If, th'ast a mind to't speak or faith not I.

3

And, why not, this, at first, as last?
I knew thy mind was to't:
No reason, still, to pray, and fast:
Pin'd Love, must feast, when that is past.
Come! Come! be wiser 'gainst anothers suit!
And ne're make many words! but pry' thee Doe't!

SONG XXIV.

[Come Kiss me (sweet) let's banquet on delight!]

1

Come Kiss me (sweet) let's banquet on delight!
And teach Love, how to surfet! Kiss agen!

You must spend free, to sate his Appetite
Nay be no niggard! what is nine or ten?
Love soon digests these (should you thousands score)
And only, whets his stomach, still, for more.

2

I'le tast those Apples in thine Autumn cheek,
The cherries, of thy Lips, suffice not me:
Those are not single Dainties, Love doth seek
I mean to ravish all the sweets of thee:
The Tast, to other sences can't dispence;
I must have sweets, for every sweet of sence.

3

I'le Touch, those downy hills, where Love with's Bow,
Lyes, in the vally on a bed of spice,
O're which my busie hand, shall wandring go,
And search out Cupit, lurkt in's Paradice:
Thence, to thy Bower of Hony suckles where,
Venus, shall Court, my stay, to bath with Her.

4

Then shall I smel, sent from those Lips of thine,
A scent more sweet, then sally'd from the Trees.

Of Balme, in Eden; kindlier breath'd, on mine,
Then winds, which whistle Phænix Exequies:
Or Frankincense for Jove, that's gently sweat,
From all your Beauties, through a virtual heat.

5

Now, will I hear, by thine harmonious voice
Such moving accents, as might teach the Sphears,
A choicer Musick and whose powerful noice
Perforce, acts Raps, on Hearts and Charms all Ears:
Which, when't hath turn'd us stones, it then can do,
As Orpheus did, and make us Dancers, too.

6

Then will I fix mine Eyes, on thee (my dear)
And nayle them, to thy Beauties; let thine Eye,
Dart all the shafts of Cupid, I'le not fear,
But stand thy mark: 'twere happy so to Dye!
Whereon, could I but gaze, my death, to see
I'de be Enamored, of Mortality.

7

But say (Dear Heart!) can Love, be sated so
'Tis true, the sences, thus, are singly pleas'd,
But to feast him, alas! 'twill nothing do!
A greedy Lovers hunger ne're is eas'd:
Since then, for all sweets, Love, at once, doth call
Give me not these alone, but give me all.

SONG XXV.

[Away! Chloris give o're]

1

Away! Chloris give o're,
Insult on me, no more!
But let thine Eye,
Now, bid a Kingdome dye
And in their funeral flames, thy powers adore.
And when
Thou canst not find,
A nobler mind,
Then mine,
Love's deaths, to prove,
Let pitty move
Thee, to retire,
And quench desire
With mutual flames, to Crown my Love.

2

Alas! no Triumph lies,
In taking single prize,
Thine Honour's staind,
Though th'ast the Baggage gain'd,
And let'st an Army scape thy victories:
To thee,
The thing's the same
An Host t'have tane
As me
Thine only Slave,
When thou canst have
Artillery,
In either Eye
Enough, to make the World a Grave.

SONG XXVI.

[Tis since thine Eyes]

1

Tis since thine Eyes,
Did mine, surprize
(Time vainly lent
And idly spent)
A groce of houres and more;
And now grown kind,
Thou hop'st to find,

My giddy mind,
Enclin'd
As 'twas before!
'Tis true: thy Beauties, once did take,
And son their sake,
I could have Lov'd thee too,
But, e'ne Adiew!
Give me the new!
For such, as you,
I'me not ith' humour, now,

2

Had'st thou been wise,
And not so nice.
The rich Treasures
Of Lov's pleasures
Thou mightst have call'd thine Own;
But, now, th'ast lost,
What thou lov'd'st most,
And Fate, as just,
Hath crost
Thy poor design:
For hadst thou ta'ne me, in the Nick
For praise, or prick,
None, could have done, like me,
But falne from that,
As thou know'st what,
I would be at,
I've, nought to do with thee.

SONG XXVII.

[Know (dearest beauty) those your Eyes]

1

Know (dearest beauty) those your Eyes,
Whose beams, you so like lightning, dart,
Have found, a passage, to my heart,
Which flaming, at Loves Altar, lies,
And (if not quencht with pitty) dyes.

2

I Burne, yet you (hard Heart!) restraine
The Remedy, should coole my heat:
Oh do not, thus, my passion cheat!
Starve with a Frown, or heal my pain,
Or grant me, Love, or force, disdain!

3

Torment not, thus insultingly,
A martyr'd, and a kneeling Soul!
Whose fault, you may with love controul!
Through your preserving murthering Fye,
(Although it let me live) I dye.

4

Yet see, Lov's deeper Mystery!
For, though these beams do scorch my heart
I glory, in the pleasing smart,
And in the flames, of your bright Eye,
Dying, to Live, I'de living, Dye.

SONG XXVIII.

[Tush! Love or say thou wilt not]

1

Tush! Love or say thou wilt not
I'me content!
'Tis, but an hour, idley spent,
And e'ne that's all,
Whatever Chance befall:
Mine Eager Love,
Admits, no lingring stay,
Nor will I vainly
Talke the Time away:
Tell me thou canst not Love, and I'll be gone,
I've other Mistresses, to wait upon.

2

Give me the Buxom lass, whose
Warmer spright,
Likes, and Loves, at the first sight!
My mind requires
The Freedom, of desires,
Like busie Bees,
That Court, the youthful Field,
And ravish all
The sweets, the Virgins yeild,
So Giddy Love, (sooth'd in his Wanton play)
Takes, here, and there, a Touch, but then away.

SONG XXIX.

[I've seen thy Face, and now can swear]

1

I've seen thy Face, and now can swear,
Nature hath puzled Art,
For Tongue, nor Pen, can ne're declare,
How sweet, how Fair thou art:
Whose high Divinity,
And awful Majesty,
All Gazers, so enthral,
That the Wild fire
Of my desire,
Dares not aspire,
To flame, to Love, unless thou say'st, It shall.

2

How forcing are those Looks of thine!
How Charming are thine Eyes!
A thousand hearts kneel at thy shrine,
A ready sacrifice.
Each one painting with pain,
And longing, to be slain
By a smile from thy Brow:
No Sword or Shield,
Us'd in that Field,
Where all must yeild
Or Dye, for Love, whether they will or no.

SONG XXX.

[Fair sinner cloud thine Eyes!]

1

Fair sinner cloud thine Eyes!
And shade, those hills of Snow!
Such proud, and open Enemies,
A world, may over-throw:
Those Eyes of thine (though ne're so Fair)
But Engins are,
To work, the Gazers smart,
And in thy Breasts (that sacred Land)
My wandring Hand,
Could never find thy Heart.

2

Sweet Lips! forbear! no more!
I Court not for a Kiss;
Nay pry'thee (little Fool!) give o're!
I Love thee, not, for this:
No, though my busie hand, the while,
Ith' Fortunate I'sle
Of pleasure, franchiz'd be,
Pox on't! or let my fancy have,
The thing I crave,
Or tak't, who's will, for me.

SONG XXXI.

[Melina, dew'd the Roses of her Face]

1

Melina , dew'd the Roses of her Face,
With liquild Pearl, distlling from her Eye.
Which gave, such Orient lustre, to the place
As doth the milkie path, in starry Skie,
But when her Eye-lids, let their suns arise,
She made her sorrows, smile, then sigh't alas!
And often doubled, in her mournful Cryes,
Fidelio! Dear Fidelio! 'tis for thee Melina Dyes.

2

Who (now my joy is budled up in dust)
Shall chide the follies of the nicer dames
Would he but have them yeild, they must! they must!
Twas he, gave love and Beauty, all their flames:
His Hand, did whisper Love, his fluent Eyes,
Spake, such fine Amours and so void of lust,
That now He's gone, all ocher I despise
Fidelio! &c.

3

Now may I sigh and count the times are past,
Suming up, every pleasure, with a Tear,
Which could they have a date that would but last,
None, e're had been so happy, as we were.

But Envious death, untimely, did surprize,
That sweet, which if a goddess, had imbrac't
Sh'ad drown'd the world, with Tears, at's obsequies.
Fidelio Dear, &c.

4

Was there a dearth, in the Elysian shade,
Of those rare Souls, that Courteous are, and True?
Or were their Ways of Love, so Common made,
That, they, must snatch thee hence, to learn them new?
'Twas so: but (sure) his spirit sullen lyes,
Till I come thither, when (with triumph clad)
We'le Teach, the gods, Loves holier mysteries,
Till then, I sigh Fidelio, &c.

5

Break Heart! to let my Soul ascend!
And inquisition make, ith' Aire,
'Mongst all the spirits, there attend,
To cull out, that's most white and Fair,
What was our Glory, now, their Pride,
And that's mine own, mine only friend,
There is no heaven, without him! so she cry'd
Fidelio! dear Fidelio! sigh't her last & dy'd.

SONG XXXII.

[I came, and Lockt, and Lik'd, and Lov'd]

1

I came , and Lockt, and Lik'd, and Lov'd
And frolickt, in her Eye;
While, fair Florilla, well approv'd
The harmeless courtesie:
When, though my hopes were drown'd, Love blaz'd,
And set on fire, my heart,
While I still gaz'd
On that, which caus'd my smart,
Nor could my Tongue,
declare the wronge
Whereby, I sadly know,
No pains above,
The griefs, they prove,
Who fall in Love,
And dare not say, they do.

2

What Priviledge takes the nicer she?
To me, the thing's all one
Whether of softer Wax she be,
Or of the Parian stone:
The sport's the same: then tell me, why
Fancy, should be so rude,
For to deny.
What is, perhaps, as good.

From her that lends,
And freely spends
What, Nature, to her sent;
As from that Dame,
That counts it shame,
To play the game,
Which lost, she may repent.

SONG XXXIII, King Charles I. in Prison.

1.

Adieu (fair Love) Adieu!
And yet, farewell!
I never yet could tell,
How much, I honour You,
Nor You, ne're knew,
But yet Adieu!
A fairer Aime, invites me, now,
To rescue Majesty,
From Treachery,
Though well You know,
I'de ever do,
As much, for You,
Then, pry'thee let me go!
The sanguine sword a happy triumph brings
Avenging Ladies wrongs, but more a Kings

[2]

One Kiss! and then I'me gone!
Farewell Dear Heart!
Yet though I now depart,
When (once) the feild, is won,
The War being done,
And Charles at home:
When we may freely sit, and tell
The harmless injuries,
Of Cupid's Tyrannies
VVhat present Hell
The absent feel:
VVhen all is well,
And w'have no foes to quell,
But Cavaleers, secur'd, from low'd Alarmes,
I'le come and Quarter in thy peaceful Armes.

SONG XXXIV.

[When first, I drove a Trade of Love]

1

When first, I drove a Trade of Love,
(Learnt, before half my time, was out)
I thought, if, once I could remove
The sad Engagements thereabout,
The Hopes, Despaires and Jealousies,
(By some, nick-nam'd Love's Tyrannies)
I soon, might ease, my miseries.

2

Then strictly I besieg'd a Face,
(which I had summond long go)
And had design, to storme the place,
Or to surprize, the Female foe:
Prepar'd, Granado'd Oaths to do't,
Hayl shot, of Vowes and Prayers (to boot)
But, see how soon, the Fool came to't!

3

Without a parley to Compound,
Herself, and all, she did up yeild,
I raz'd the fortress, to the Ground,
And became, master of the Field:
Fell to the spoil: purchas'd the Best
Of all the Jewels there possest,
Restoring some, reserv'd the Rest.

4

When I had done, what I could do,
And once, Love's fiery Tryall o're,
I Tam'd my self, ith' conquest too,
Repented, what was done before:
Thus thought I, when I this did see.
If in Love's Triumphs, no more pleasure be,
I'le still Beseige take in, who's well, for me.

SONG XXXV.

[Low, as my fair Florilla's feet, I lye]

1

Low, as my fair Florilla's feet, I lye,
Rap't, in an Extasie,
Till I am doom'd, either to live or dye:
But oh! her curtain'd Eye, she does display
Whose every single Ray,
Makes me, a lasting everlasting day.

2

Quicken'd by that enlivening Beam, I move
As when Antæus strove,
From th'Earth she treads, more vigorus I prove:
Although her Look, such virtual heat, had thrown
As might excuse the Sun,
From's Clubb, to th'Act of Generation.

3

I Toucht & Kiss'd my dearest fair, then stood good:
Resolved all to Blood,
That Passion, might have made it's action,
But Over loving turn'd to sin, for I
seem'd, as design'd thereby,
Meerly for to Encrease and Multiply.

4

Till, from her Front, (Beaut'ys Majestique throne.)
Fell something, like a Frown,
VVhich bold desire, hath checkt and overthrown.

Hence I like one, inspir'd, from aboue)
VVill (spight of Cupid) prove,
Venus, the Quean, Florilla, Queen of Love.

SONG XXXVI.

[Oh! stifle not longer, mine Eager desire!]

1

Oh! stifle not longer, mine Eager desire!
VVhich in it's own flames Phænix like,
And closer, then cockles, when, we shal entwine would expire!
(My dearest) I'le breath out, my Soul, into thine.

2

Thy beauty, shall nourish, as well, as delight,
Our sences, to feast, and a longing invite;
VVhilest thou, in our dallyance perfumest the Aire,
VVith thy Breath, that's as sweet, as thy Beauties are fair.

3

Thy hand, at whose touch, I do melt, into blood,
Shall busily range, in an amorous mood,
Till, at length, being entranc'd by Lov's mystical charms.
Thou, boldly, resign'st thy self, into mine Armes

4

Where, having given over thy self, for a while,
That I may discover, thy forcunat Isle,

Whil'st in Admiration, my Passions, are hurld,
In Embrasing, of thee, I do Compass, the world.

5

Nor (sweetest) be pearl not, thy Diamond-eyes!
For the Treasure th'ast lost, in becoming my prize!
Since Helena, she, as Immortal shall be
In the Records of Fame, as dull Penelope.

6

Nor do thou Florilla, as Lucrece hath done
Lay hands, on thy self! cause thy Tarquin is gone!
For when with rich Wines, I have heighten'd my Vein
Full fraught, I'le return to my dearest again,
And Lucrece, ne're dy'd, for her being a Whore,
But, for thought, she should see her young Gallant no more.

SONG XXXVII.

[Away (you Fool!) will thou Love less]

1

Away (you Fool!) will thou Love less,
Now, thou know'st, I Love more?

And tax me, with unfaithfulness,
'Cause I was sure before!
Love, like all other goods, diffus'd, is best:
Nor can One claim, an interest,
But others may, as much (at least)
I Lov'd her, Love you, and will Love the rest.

2

The next, that hath my Fancy Wonne,
I'le serve as I serv'd you;
Why shouldst thou grudg anothers boon!
I'de give, the Devil his due.
What though thy Body, pleasure find!
Wilt thou, therefore, ingross my minde!
When Heaven (surely) ne're assign'd
Man, to one Woman, but to Woman kind.

3

Who marry, do live single; and who have
A Union made, of two
Do, of that Nature, make a slave,
That, never made, them so:
Variety (as some do hold)
The gods delight in, and (of old)
Women, that were, for Saints, inroll'd,
Coupled at will, and shall Man be contrould!

SONG XXXVIII.

[You! that can dye some thirteen times, a day]

1

You! that can dye some thirteen times, a day
At every paltry Ladies Frown!
Deny your selves, when she sayes Nay,
And be more hers, then Y'are your Own;
I will informe you, of a way,
More safe (although less common known)
Shal bring the work about, for half a Crown.

2

Wouldst have a colour'd Beauty, dy'd in grain
In-laid with Art's and Nature's store,
Fresh, as a Summers Evening Rain,
Soft, as the Down that Leda bore
Thy wish (unwoo'd) thou shalt obtain,
What matter, though she be a Whore!
Shee'l do, thy do, as well, what wouldst thou more!

3

Try this, and Trust me for a Trick of Love,
There comes no Woe, where Women Woe
Here, presently, Y'are Hand and Glove:
She's handsome that will handsome Do.
Will not this more, then Coyness move?
The nicest, is but Woman too
Perhaps unchast, or faith! I'de make her so.

4

Then, who would lacquey at a woman's will:
Dogging her close, (as she went prou'd!)
Kyb'd to her heeles, yet jealous, still
His services, are dis-allow'd!
Vexing his thoughts, her's to fullfil
With Heart, e'ne broke, Knees, ever bowd
To one, that cannot shine, but through a Cloud?

5

'Tis folly, to besiege, an intrencht Dame,
Wood-stockt with Honour, Conscience, Fear,
When thousands render up the same,
(On easier terms) thou seekst for there:
The thing's all one, but for the Name,
Then, which is best a Prize, bought Dear,
Or what, is freely purchas'd every where?

SONG XXXIX. [The First Part] VVhy such a Doe

1

VVhy such a Doe
To Winne thee!
What's in thee
Should tempt me, to woe,
Or quarrel for a Kiss!

I could have store,
Of Creatures,
Whose Features,
Are far thine before,
Would Covet, such a Bliss:
Then take it kindly,
With a full Consent,
And I'le use the friendly,
To thy best Content:
Hands off! give thy mind to't!
And, then, thou shalt see
If thou, but encline to't
How pleasant, twill be.

2

Throw of thy Gown!
Un-lace thee
Embrace me,
And, close, lay thee down,
And let me Doe, my Doe:
Put out the Light!
I'le dandle,
And handle,
Thy Mint, of Delight,
And will new mould thee, too.
Lull'd, then, in pleasure,
And thy wanton Bed,

I'le unfold, the Treasure,
Of thy Maiden-head:
Come to't, do not dally!
But let us agree!
Ne're stand shall I! shall I!
But, at it, let's be.

SONG XL. The Second Part. Nay pish! go to

1

Nay pish! go to
Ne're proffer,
This offer
Why what ift you'd do!
Don't you believe that!
Sweet, now forbear!
Nay pry'thee!
They'le see thee!
They can't chuse but hear,
Say! what would you be at!
Oh Sir, you mistake me!
I am, no such one,
As you seem, to make me,
Pray let me alone!

I promise you, truely,
Had I known before,
Y'had been so unruly,
I'de kept fast the Doore!

2

Y'ou're such a Man,
S'unluckie
Nay! look ye!
Do all, that I can,
I see, you'l have, your way:
Take off your Hands!
Nay hear me!
Forbear me!
The Dore open stands,
What will my Mother say!
Thou seest how I Love thee,
And why I am Wone,
No ne're yet could move me,
To what, thou hast Done:
Delayes, they are lothing;
Then quickly have done,
And pry'thee say nothing!
But let us be gone!

SONG XLI.

[VVhen Love & Beauty, doth combine]

1

VVhen Love & Beauty, doth combine
To prove a conquest, and conjoyn
Their Powers in One,
They seldome yield,
Or quit, the Field,
Untill, their forces do
Make Rebells stand,
To their Command,
And bend, to such, as you.

2

Thy comely Ayres, and hidden Grace,
Besides the Magick, of thy face,
With cunning, and
Inchanting Arts,
Can charm all Hearts
Into that Round of Love,
Which Circle is,
Of all the Blisse
Wherein true joyes, do move.

SONG XLII. By Sir, A. G. Mockt by the Author.

1.

Pox take you Mristress! I'le begon!
I have Friends to wayt upon;
Think you, I'le my self confine,
To your Humors! (Lady mine!)
No, your lowring, seems to say,
Tis a rayny Drinking day,
To the Tavern I'le a way.

Pox take this Drinking? what's to pay!
I have Lasses for me stay:
Think you I'le my self besot
To the Quar't, or Pottle-pot;
No, They only heighten one,
For this after Action.
To the Whore-house I'le begon:

2.

There have I, a mristress got
Cloysterd in a Pottle pot
Brisk and sparkling, as thine Eye,
When those riches glances flie,
Plump and bounding, soft and fair,

Buxom, blith, and debonaire,
And she's called Sack my Dear.

There a mistress won have I,
Cloyster'd, in no Nunnery;
Neat, and brisk, as Spanish Wine,
Or the Juyce in Carnadine.
Plump and Gallant, and hath store,
To suffice, me o're, and O're,
And she's Cælia cal'd, my Whore.

3.

Sack is my better mistress far,
Sack's mine only Beauty-stare;
Whose Divine and sprightful rayes,
Twinckle in each Nose and Face:
Should I all her Beauties show,
Thou thy self, wouldst Love-sick grow,
And she'd prove, thy mistress too.

She is my holy whole delight!
Whose Beauty stars, make day of night:
Whose lovely Aires, and comely Grace,
Ne're adorn'd Anothers Face,
Did they all thy features see,
Drinkers, would my Rivals be,
And be Top't, with none, but thee.

4.

She with no tart scorn, will blast me!
Yet upon the Bed, she'l cast me:
And ne're blush her self to red,
Nor fear, the loss of Mayden-head:
Yet she can, I dare to say,
Spirits, into me convey,
More, then, thou, canst take away.

What though she scorn, or sometimes frown,
On the Bed, I'le lay her down;
Where she blushes not, like one,
That's asham'd, of what sh'as done:
Yet I gain, I dare to swear,
In an hour, more spirit, from her,
Then Sack yeilds thee, in a year.

5.

Getting Kisses, here's, no coyle,
Here's no Handkercheifes, to spoyle!
Yet, I, better Nector sipp,
Then e're dwelt, upon thy Lip
And though still, and mute she be,
Quicker wit, she brings to me,
Then, e're I, could find in thee.

Though for a Kiss, we strive a while,
Pay tears, to purchase half a smile,

VVe scorn, when hence, such bliss, is got,
The Kissing cupp, or Smiling pot:
Though we talk not, as before,
Blame us not, to think the more
Fancying Kingdomes o're, and o're.

6.

If I go, ne're look, to see
Any more, a fool of me!
I'le no liberty up give,
Nor a maudlin Lover live;
Thou shalt, never, bring me to't,
No not all thy smiles shall do't,
Nor thy Maiden-head to boot.

VVhen I come, I'me sure to find,
A brave Gallant, to my minde,
VVhere I'le, my Liberty, give o're,
And be maudlin Drunk no more:
I shall soon, be, thither led,
Each smile, shall win me, to her Bed,
And all, for her Maiden-head.

7.

But if thou wilt take the pain,
To be good, but once again,
And if one smile, call me back,
Thou shalt be that Lady Sack:

Faith! but try, and thou shalt see,
VVhat a Loving Soul I'le be,
VVhen I'me Drunk, with none, but thee.

But, when all my pains, are spent,
If thou yeildst no fresh content,
And let'st Sack, me, re-invite,
She shall be my whole delight:
Faith! ne're try, for then you'l see,
VVhat a Ranter, I shall be
VVhen I'me drunk, with her, not thee.
Never try! for, then, you'l know,
VVhat brave feats, this Sack, can show,
VVhen I'me drunk, as driven Snow.

SONG XLIII.

[Come my sure drinking Blades!]

I.

Come my sure drinking Blades!
VVhose never known Trades,
Are excus'd, from the Curse of the women,
From Plot or design,
But for money or Wine,
VVhile priviledg'd draughts,
Are loose, as your thoughts,
And drink, makes you, only, Freemen,

Be brisk, as a lowse
Oth' Body or mouse,
When the Puss, does Catlin a Fiddle,
For, the Drawer, shall bring
Ague like, in the Spring,
A Cure, for a King,
Oh! tis Sack! that's the things
Tis an All in all,
That will come, at the call!
The Sick-man's health,
And the poor man's wealth
'Tis a kind of a Riddle-me-riddle:
Then Oh! my brave bully!
Why sit'st thou so dully,
And dreyn'st up thy gully
With spung'd Melancholly!
'Tis a Fiefor-shame, to thy breeding
To sit, like those
Make Children shoes,
And tamper thy chapps,
Like a Clark, in's Clapps,
Or on Brawn, an old Gossip, a feeding

Cho.

It is Wine,
That's divine,
Must refine,
Our dull Souls:

There's no mirth,
In the Earth,
Where's a Dearth,
Of the Bowls.

2.

Come! a Health to a Mis'!
A brimmer it is;
To the first Letter this,
Then sillable all together!
Oh! a Name, of an Ell.
That's beyond our spell,
Would do, rarely well,
To multiply Cups on either:
We'le Drink, not fight,
For a Ladies right,
He's no Draught's man, that will wrong one,
And, hence, maintain,
By the Drink w'have ta'ne,
There's no good Name,
But a Long one.
Thus our mistrisses live,
And fates servive,
While others are perisht, and rotten,
We Saint, each Lass,
Canoniz'd, in a Glass,
And their beauties, are never forgotten.

Cho.

It is Wine, &c.

3.

Well! how goes the Glass!
Let's see! has he done it!
So so; let it pass!
He's next who begun it!
Twas I, that swallowd the first, I
Let's not Drink to halves,
Like Waltham's Calves,
And home, agen, turn, a thirsty.
Ralph! prime him a bowle
Happy man! be his dole!
Here's soveraign Sack,
For the brains, and the back,
Tis good, for the gentle and simple,
'Tis not, for nought,
(As, the Wiser, have thought)
That the Devil's, so near the Temple:
Twas this (in a word)
Made, the Cobler, a Lord
Till, relaps'd, to bewitched water,
In an ill time (then)
Recobler'd agen,
VVas, never, his own man, after:
Our Soul, is a Salt,
(As Philosopher's call't,)
But given, to keep us, from stinking,

But Nature had (sure)
Other end, to procure
A Thirst, for to further, our Drinking!
Then, why does this Blade,
Drink, so like a Maid!
While he thinks, no body does mind him
Yet, daily he Views
The Danger, accrew',
By leaving the Liquour behind him:
This youth, suites me best,
Who, would, ne're, let it rest,
Ill Conscience like, were the Bowle his,
But sucks like a Man,
With a Throat, like a Crane,
And wracks down his Body, a whole Piece.
Say! what pleasure is't,
For to supply the Twist
Of a Quean? he's Fool, that will ask it.
The Plow-man, is sound,
While he's Tearing the Ground,
And busi'd, in Pinning the Basket.

Cho.

It is Wine
That's Divine
Must refine
Our dull Souls,
There's no Mirth,
In the Earth,
Where's a Dearth!
Of the Bowls.

SONG XLIV.

[Fortune is blinde]

1

Fortune is blinde,
And Beauty unkind,
The Devil take'um both!
One is a Witch,
And t'other's a Bitch,
In neither's, Faith, or Troth:
There's hazard, in Hap,
Deceit, in a Lap,
But no fraud in a Brimmer;
If Truth, in the bottom, lye,
Thence to redeem her,
We'le drain a whole Ocean dry.

2

Honour's, a Toy!
For Fooles, a Decoy!
Beset, with Care and Fear;
And that (I wusse)
Kills, many a Pusse,
Before her Clymacht year:
But Freedome, and Mirth,
Create, a new birth;
while, Sack's, the Aqua-vitæ
That vigour, and spirit gives:

Liquour Almighty!
Whereby, the poor mortal lives.

3

Let us be Blith
In spight, of death's sythe!
And with a heart and half
Drink to our Friends,
And think of no ends
But keep us sound, and fafe!
While healths, do go round,
No malady's found,
The maw sick, in the morning,
For want, of it's wonted straine,
Is as a warning,
To double it, o're againe.

4

Let us maintain
Our Traffique with Spain
And both the Indies, sleight
Give us their Wines!
Let them keep their mines!
We'le pardon Eighty eight!
There's more certain wealth
Secur'd, from stealth,
In one Pipe of Canary,
Then, in an Unfortunate Isle;
Let us be wary
We do not Our selves beguile!

SONG XLVI. At the Surrender of Oxon.

1

Thou Man of Men, who e're thou art,
That hast a Loyal, Royal Heart,
Despaire not! though thy Fortune frown!
Our Cause, is Gods, and not our Own;
'Twere sin, to harbour Jealous feares,
The World laments, for Cavaleers, Cavaleers.

2

Those Things (like Men) that swarm, ith' Town,
Like Motions, wander up, and down;
And were the Rogues, not full of blood,
You'd swear, they men were, made of wood:
The Fellow-feeling-wanton swears,
There are no Men, but Cavaleers, &c.

3

Ladies, be pearl, their Diamond Eyes,
And curse, Dame Shipton's Prophecyes
Fearing they never shall be sped,
To wrestle, for a Maiden-head:

But feelingly, with doleful tears,
They sigh, and mourn for Cavaleers, &c.

4

Our grave Divines, are silenc'd quite.
Ecclipsing thus, our Churches Light:
Religion's made a mock, and all
Good wayes, as Works, Apocryphal:
Our Gallants baffel'd, slaves made Peers,
While Oxford, weeps for Cavaleers, &c.

5

Townsmen complain, they are undone,
Their Fortunes faile, and all is gone,
Rope makers, only live in hopes,
To have good trading, for their Ropes,
And Glovers thrive, by Round-heads Ears,
When Charles returns, with's Cavaleers, Cavaleers.

SONG XLVII. At General Monkes* coming to London.*

1

Now Lambert's sunk,
And mighty Monke
Succeeds, the Tyrannous Cromwell,
And Arthur's Court.

'Cause, time is short
Do Rage, like Devils, from Hell:
Let's mark the Fate,
And course of State
Who rises, while t'other, is sinking,
And believe, when this is past,
'Twill be, our turn, at last;
By the good old cause of Drinking.

2

First Sa' fleum Noll,
He swallow'd all,
His smeller, shew'd he Lov'd it:
But Dick his Son,
As he were none,
Gave't off! and had reprov'd it:
But that his Foes,
Made Bridge, on's Nose,
And cry'd him down, for a Protector,
Proving him, to be a Fool
That would, undertake to Rule,
And not fight, and drink, like Hector.

3

The Græcian Lad.
He Drank like mad.
Minding no Work above it;
And (San's question)
Kill'd Ephestion,
Cause, he'd not approve it:

He got Command,
Where, God had Land,
And, like a right Maudlin Yonker,
When he Tippled all, and Wept,
He laid him down, and Slept,
Having no more Worlds to Conquer.

4

Rump Parliament,
Would needs invent
An Oath, of Abjuration,
But Obedience,
And Allegiance,
Now, are all in fashion:
Then here's a Bowle,
With Heart, and Soul,
To Charles, and let All, say Amen to't.
Though, they brought the Father down,
From a triple Kingdom Crown,
Wee'l Drink the Son, up agen to't.

SONG XLVIII.

[Now the State's brains, are addle]

1.

Now the State's brains, are addle,
With a new fiddle faddle,
And Politick Body Disorder'd,

And reeles too and fro,
(As Good fellows do)
In reason, that cannot be border'd:
VVhile, Drunk with their Wealth,
(Made Sweeter by Stealth)
They, Coop't in their Own,
Seek Kingdomes to come,
And fancy, beyond-sea-Vagaries;
VVe, sit Close at Home,
Content, with Lipp Room;
In the Infinite Space,
Of an Ocean Glasse,
Nere Sayle to, but Drink the Canaries:
And in our Opinion,
Have greater Dominion,
Then They, when their Conquests besot u'm;
VVe Discover ith' Cup,
That is, Well dry'd up,
A New New-found Land, in the bottom;
Then highten our Souls,
VVith aspiring Bowles,
For Crosses, & Cares w'have forgot u'm.

2.

Pox on Cupid, and's Whimseyes,
That makes a Man dimn's Eyes,
VVith Playnts to an Idle-fekt-Mistresse;
And, Spaniel-like, Whimper,
And Whine, till she Simper,

Or Laugh, at his Woe, and his Distresse:
Let Mongrels that are
Betwixt hope, and fear,
Their Fortunes bemoan,
VVith a Grievous-Groan,
While we, merry Lads, that have drank hard
In our Geers, well warm,
Nere Think, nor Catch harm;
Nor Sensible are,
Of Sorrows, or Care,
Nor of Tears, but those of the Tankard:
That Spare-Rib (call'd Woman)
Or proper, or common,
Shall, ne're, taxe us off from our freedom;
Wee'l Drink deep, and draw,
With a hungry Maw,
As Spunges were there, for to feed 'um;
And for a recruit,
Fresh Bottles shall do't
Or Bottles, I'me sure, we shall need 'um.

3.

Let's curse that dull Miser
That will Club, but his Siser,
And suck out his gill, with the Bulkers;
While Taverns, they bugger,
Trunk in Hugger mugger;
Our throats are like Open Sepulchers:
Each Man, with is lowle,

Like a Good dry soul,
And a Manag'd Quart,
To solace the Heart,
The Word Have at all, so we fall on,
And hugg, his Design,
Who, at close oth' Wine,
Entitles, by Stealth,
A Requiring Health,
Till, the pinte, turn Pimp to the Gallon.
Thus wash away Sorrow,
With thoughts of to Morrow,
Or any past thing that befell ye;
For, Sack is a sure,
And a Soveraign Cure,
Of any Disease, it will heal ye,
What would a Man more,
Out of Nature's store,
Then Women and Wine by the belly?

SONG XLIX.

[Now, w' are high flown]

1

Now, w' are high flown,
Let's laugh, and lye down,
And revel, in the pride of our blood,
For Melancholly,
'S an idle folly

That, never brought any to Good:
Since Mirth, enlivens our Souls,
And hightens, our Spirits, with Comforting bowles;
Which, when with Courage o're grown,
A Well manag'd-Woman, shall soon take them down.

2

Wee'l ransack Nature,
T'Enjoy the Creature,
And cull out the prime of her Store;
For Wine, and Women,
Shall make us the men,
In plenty, what need we be poor?
Then drink! and more drink! let's call,
Cause, that does afford us, our Meat, Cloth, and All:
'Tis that, must keep us Alive
While, Duck-like, all weathers, we Tipple, &—

3

I like that man well,
That strikes me handsel,
Ith' Morning, with a fresh fasting-Groat;
And when we enter 't,
Cryes, hang't! let's venture 't!
Then doubles it, to Mend our Draught,
And when our Hands are well in,
Until, the hard Mid-night repeats it agin;
Then sleep a while for recrute,
And let the dry Morning, afresh, call us to't.

4

Thus, free from Thinking,
Perpetual Drinking
Be Lethe's the Cares of the World;
Our Dose, a Gallon,
The Quart's, a small one;
Then, see, that it down stayres be hurl'd:
And with It, ply us all Day
And, make it Your Work, for to keep us in Play;
But if, unfill'd to the Brim,
The devil take drawer, or Dunstan take him.

SONG L. At the Request of Sr. John Kyrle.

1

Let half God Bacchus, now resigne,
His Demy-ships, usurped Place!
Pomona's Juyce, is more Divine,
More Soveraign, her Grace;
Queen Apple! She,
My Love shall be,
There's none, I admire, beside Her,
Dame Barley's sappe,

And Blood oth' Grape,
Must yield to puissant Cyder.

2

This, was the Nectar, warm'd the Gods,
While Adam Wight, in Eden, Delves:
Nor must the Mortal, know the ods,
Reserved for themselves,
Till Medling Eve,
Laught in her sleeve,
And was resolv'd, what e're betyde her,
To have a Tast,
Of the Fruit (at last)
That affords, Everlasting Cyder.

3

This done, the Old Boy, she did call
To Tast, and Eat; had He bin Wise,
To squeeze, and drink, Flesh could not Fall,
'T had, rather made it Rise:
The Trojan Youth,
Had ne're (in truth)
Got Venus Boon, had he deny'd Her,
That Thing, on I'de,
Which prest, and try'de,
Made Potable Gold, for a Cyder.

4

A Dragon watcht th'Hesperides,
King Pippin's Body to secure,
And daunt atchieving Hercules,

Who ne're was Friend to Brewer,
For with the Thought,
Of this he fought,
Had the Jawes of the Beast, bin Wider,
He would have dar'd,
To passe the Guard,
For a powerful Rummer of Cyder.

5

Sherbet, Coffee, and Chocolate,
Are Heathenish Drinks, compar'd to this,
That Water (too) Unchristen'd, late
Sirnam'd Mirabilis:
Let Spain and France,
Their Wines Advance,
Our Herefordshire, they say, that try'd her,
Doth now produce
A Nobler Juice,
The Muses, and the Mortals Cyder.

6

Those of this Isle,
Are blest the while,
Whom Nature befriends with her bounty
If this Song faile,
'Tis long of Ale,
Being Shire of Another County.

SONG LI. After Worcester* Fight.*

1

The Kings gone!
W' are All undone!
Ore' powr'd, by the Sword!
The Crown's lost!
Our Fortunes crost!
While Cromwel's their Good Lord!
Our Hopes, to see
A Hierarchy
Small Comforts, now afford,
When Bulkers Teach,
And Troopers preach
Of God, the Devil a Word.

2

Yet ne're pine!
Nor season Wine!
With Tears of Misery!
The Glasse Crown!
Let Fortune drown!
Or Hang, no whit care I!
The Thousandth Cup,
Shall, puff us up
To Fancy Monarchy:
Religion

'Sans King, is None,
But Drinking Loyalty.

SONG LII. On the Act against Titles of Honour.

1

Draw the Wine!
Fill the Bowle!
Ne're repine!
Or Condole!
At the Usage, the States, lay upon us!
Though they Trample us down,
Under foot, from a Crown,
If we, but hold up
For a plentiful Cup,
Wee'l forgive, all the mischief, th'ave done
Let our Honours,
And our Mannours,
Be confiscate, to their Powers;
If we Sack,
May not Lack,
The whole World shall be Ours:
And while their kindness, this fair Boon, affords,
Though we cannot spend, wee'l be as drunk as Lords.

2

Then about
Give the Glasse!
Suck it out!
Let it passe!
And who Tipples, as long, as He's able,
Though He's shrunk, from Sr. John,
To Poor Jack, all is One;
Let's Lady, take snuff,
If he drink, but Enough,
We'le install him Kt. of the Round Table:
Other Titles,
Are but Trifles,
Not deserving our Thinking,
Hence wee'l make,
Lawes, to take
Our Degrees, from Good Drinking:
Honour's a Pageant, we disclaim the Thing,
Who'd be a Knight, where Charles is not a King?

3

Drink away!
Have at all!
While we stay,
Let us call,
And, as Lilburn would have us, be freemen,
And who Tope out their Time,
Till the Midnight shall Chyme,
Their Mistresses, They

Shall be Ladies of the May,
And Themselves, of the Bottles, the Yeomen
The Commanders,
That were Ranters,
Shall Commence, now, to be Hector
And be still
As Gentile
As the Kingdom's Protector's
And bear, (dispight of States, or Herald Rules)
Ith' Pockets, Argent, in their Faces, Gules.

SONG LIII. When the Parliament would have Crown'd Cromwell.

1

The Parliament,
Had a shrew'd Intent,
To make their Lord a King,
But He (Good man)
Do, what they can,
Will yield, to no such thing:
He sought to God,
And sought abroad,
Our Freedoms, home to bring,
Nor dares He make

For Charles his sake,
Himself a Glorious King.

2

Then in a Word,
Let's praise our Lord;
Who, did so well, Project!
His Kingdome's not,
Of this World, but
Anothers hee'l Protect,
And, spight of Those,,
Who might oppose
The Wardship, of the Throne,
Till the King comes,
The three Kingdomes,
Hee'l keep still, as his Own.

3

What need he care
To be styl'd O. R.
When O. P. does as well?
The Things, the same,
But, for the Name,
Kingdom, or Common Weale:
It, onely, Mads,
Us bonny Ladds,
Who, while we Quaffe, and Sing,
What e're we think
We fear, to Drink
A Health, unto the King.

SONG LIV. On the Act for Marriages.

1

Last Parliament Sate,
And the Speaker did prate,
A Jury of Years, to no purpose;
For Acts, and for Law,
To keep us, in awe,
They baffled, the Rules of Lycurgus.
For, when seven Years,
They had Sate Sans Peers,
(Without Wit, or Fears)
And, we look't, when Geers, should go trimmer,
They gave us, at last,
Of their Office a Cast,
And what d'ye think was't?
A Put off with a Pittyfull Primmer.

2

And, once in a Mood,
When sitting was Good,
And their Wives, they had put them, upon it
They thought, of a Knack,
To silence, the Clack,
That Men, might not tell, when th'ad done it.

When, this pass'd, they had,
They sate still, like Mad,
Till the fiery fac'd Lad
In Zeal and Uprightnesse, had told 'um
If they left not the House,
Without any Excuse,
To a better use,
He'd make it too hot, for to hold 'um.

3

So in came, of late,
As the Devil would ha'te
For seldom (they say) comes a better
Such Hebrew Jews,
If you pick, and chuse,
Not, one, of the Law knows a Letter.
And, now th'ave begun,
Such an Act th'ave Done,
And a Pattern shewn,
To marry, or Hang, take you whether,
For next trick they shew's
Will be, for to Chuse,
A New-way, to Noose,
Since both, do by fate, go together.

4

When woe, comes to woe
To the Justice we go,
And those (who have hands) are to shake 'um,
And, he that can, speaks

A. B. C. D. takes,
But Justices, the Devil take 'um!
Girles, that are Sporting,
Must stay, till fourteen,
'Ere they be Courting,
Who, would have begun at Eleven,
And Men, till Sixteen
(Was e're such trick seen?)
Stomack, it sticks in,
When They'd have fal'n to't e're, twice seven.

5

Those Youths that are Kind,
And have now a Months mind,
I'de wish, e're the Close of September
To make all Cock sure,
And firm, to Endure,
That, Each, take his Love by the member.
VVho Wivings adjourn,
And now slip their Turn,
VVere better, to Burn:
The Word, it is hard, but a True One;
If I were, well-rid,
Of the Wife, that I did
In the Old way-wed,
I'de hang e're, I'de Venture the new one.

Cho.

Oh Parliament! Parliament! pittyfull Clowns
VVhat would You be at?

It puzzles the Rules
Of the Lawes, and the Schooles,
This Question to state
Whether they were more Knaves, then you are Fools.

SONG LV. A Round.

[Come smooth off your Liquor!]

1

Come smooth off your Liquor!
It makes th'Wit quicker,
And he, that his Water refuses,
Whilest we Laugh and Sing
And quaff healths, to the King,
Shall ne're have a Bout with the Muses.

2

The next to Queen Mary:
Fill it up! we'le not spare ye;
We came hither, to wash our Gully:
How now! what's a clock?
Give the Drawer a Knock
We loose time, while he fills it, so dully.

3

To the Duke swallow franker,
Since we have the Spanker
We'le every man Drink out, an od-peice.

He, that failes, of his whole one,
Were he graver, then Solon.
Shall have all the rest, in his Cod-peice.

SONG LVI. A Round.

[A pox on those Od-mates!]

1.

A pox on those Od-mates!
And half witted Clode-pates!
That ne're knew the price, of a Pottle!
Nor ever took part,
Of a tedious Quart,
But tamper their Chaps,
On the dow-back't Sops.
Of pittyful Aristotle!

Cho.

Blaze up to the King, say I,
Fill the Cup,
Tope it up,
Let it pass, 'tis the vote of the Commons,
To Sing, Drink and Fight,
In the world's despight.
That the Crown may be Charles his, or no mans.

2.

A fig for Jandunus!
Here's Sack that can tune us,

In our mirth, to a note above Ela.
While the Round-head Rogues,
Like Birds (call'd Hogs)
In damnable qualms,
Howle out Wisdomes psalms
To a Presbyterian Selah

Cho.

Blaze up, &c.

SONG LVII. A Round.

[Come do not flinch!]

1

Come do not flinch!
Quaff it about!
Let not a Wench,
Draw you out,
Of a Tavern:
Since we know what our Company are,
We'le be as Honest, and we'le Drink as fair,

2

Give us the Bowle!
Fuddle it all!
What Honest Soul,
Will not call
For a Whole one,

And send about a Mistresses health,
If, all refuse it, I'le begin't my self.

3

Here's to the best,
In Christendome!
Pox send the rest,
All and some,
To the Devil!
We'le ply the Pots, and the Wenches too
But 't must be, when, w'have nothing else, to do.

4

I will have Nan,
You shall have Besse,
Do what you can,
I'le no less,
Do unto Her,
He shall give Jane, and Tom shall give Mall,
A Blow oth' Navel, so have at it all.

SONG LVIII. A Round.

[Come Crown, with pitty, my hearty Pain!]

1

Come Crown, with pitty, my hearty Pain!
Inspire, with Courage my lusty Vein!

And when we shall entwine,
(Dearest Valentine!)
I'le spend all in thine,
Armes, again.

2

And when thou findest, my skill is such,
That for a little, I'le teach thee much,
My Hand shall rovingly,
Sooth thee, movingly
And we'le Lovingly
Take a Touch.

SONG LIX. A Round.

[Let's chase away, mad Malancholly!]

1.

Let's chase away, mad Malancholly!
Hange pinching!
(Spight of Wenching!)
Curse States!
Damn Fates!
Here's a jolly
Cup, to the Bully!
Tope thy Liquor, and see this health go round.

And He that swallows a Beer-bowle,
Leaves Thinking,
Minds his Drinking,
And shall,
Quaff all,
May that Dear-soul,
Ever be Chearful,
And his sorrows, as his soul, be drown'd!
Then here's to Mall, with the Scallop smock,
Let's fancy the time, she all up took,
And to Betty-fair,
That does it, to a Hair,
Were it a Mile to the bottom
I'de take every jot down,
And not a spoonfull to Jone,
I Love a hayry Bush well,
But Pox on things like a Bushell,
As for little Nan,
I'le Touch her, if I can,
Or silken sim'pring Sarah
I'me sure she carries good Ware-a,
And I'le Trade with her Anon.

SONG LX. A Round, at the Request of Sir W. S.

1

Of all things!
We call things,
For my part, I'de have but one
For fair things
As Rare things,
I do not care a Button:
Of all the feeling Gear,
That ever I came neer
Were it a brown, Red, or Yellow
For Prayses, or for Prick,
To the principle I'le stricke
That a Black thing has no fellow.

2

Girles ith' Dark
When they starke,
Are naked, as the Truth is;
And with care,
Trimme their Ware,
As flippant, as their youth, is,
And do the best they can
To fit themselves, for Man,
I'de have, at last, they should well know,

The cheifest Grace they Lack,
If their Tackle be not Black,
For a Black thing, &c.

3

If you'l feel,
One Gentle
She's Argent 'bout the Navel
When she bears
Right her Gears
Her Honour point is sable:
The Damo'sels that are Fair
But for an out-side are
Th'are rotten e're they are Mellow;
But Oh! The Black! The Black!
'Tis she will hold you tack
For a Black thing, &c.

4

The choice Grace,
Of a Face,
By a black Patch, out-set is:
The best Stone,
Fairest she'wn,
Within a foile of Jet is:
If e're it be my Doom,
To Cover and to Come,
At the nodding of the Pillow
Of all the pleasant Pack,
Commend me to the Black;
For a Black thing, &c.

SONG LXI. A Round.

[Mine own Dear, Hony, Bird, Chuck!]

1

Mine own Dear, Hony, Bird, Chuck!
Cone sit thou down by me!
And thou and I will Truck
For thy Commodity!
The weather is Cold and Chilly,
And heating will do thee no harme,
Then put a hot thing in thy Belly!
To keep thy body warm!

2

Our Land-Lady hath brought us,
The best the house affords;
Tis time to lay about us,
Then pry'thee make no words!
Know thou art young and tender
Although thy --- be rough,
The Fort if thou'lt to me Surrender,
I'le Man it well enough.

3

And by the', whispering palme's sweat,
And thine Eyes like Noon,
My panting breasts (as thy pulse) beat,
Thou'lt do it to some Tune!

Then Give thy mind to't (my Hony!)
Thou shalt have no cause to rue,
That ever thou hazard'st thy ---
To one othe' Jovial Crew.

SONG LXII. A Round.

[Your Loudon Wenches are so Stout]

1

Your Loudon Wenches are so Stout,
They care not what they Do,
They will not let you have a Bout,
Under a Crown, or two:
They Dawb their Chaps, and Curle their Locks
Their Breaths perfume they do,
They're Tayles are pepper'd with the Pocks
And that you are wellcome too.

2

But give me the Buxome Country Lass!
Hot-piping, from the Cow,
She'le take a Touch, upon the Grass,
Yea! Marry! and thank you too.
Her Colour's fresh as Rose in June,
Her Skin's as soft, as Silke,
She'le do her Business to some Tune
And freely spend her Milk.

SONG LXIII. A Mock.

[Lay that Sullen Garland by thee!]

1.

Lay that Sullen Garland by thee!
Keep it for th'Elizian, shade!
Take my Wreath of Lusty ivy
Not of that faint Mirtle made!
When I see thy Soul descending,
To that cool, and fertile plain,
Of sad Fooles that lack attending
Thou shalt have the Crown again,
Now drink Wine, and know the odds
'Twixt that Lethe, and the gods!

Cast that Ivy Garland from thee!
Leave it for some Wilder-Blade!
Venus wreath would best become thee,
Not for Blasing Bacchus made:
When my high flown Soul's ascended,
To Love's bright and warmer Sphear,
Where with Chaplets I'me attended,
Thou an Ivy Bush shalt wear:
Now be Sober! and you'l prove!
Mortals Tipple, gods do Love.

100

2.

Rouse thy dull, and drowsie Spirits!
See these Soul Reviving-streams!
Stupid Lovers Brain inherits
Nought, but vain, and empty Dreams:
Think not then thy dismall Trances
With our Raptures can contend;
The Lad that Laughs, and Sings & Dances,
May come sooner to his End:
Sadness may, some pitty move,
Mirth, and Courage Ravish Love.

B.
Wellcome merry Melancholly!
Fancying Beautie's quickning Beams!
Boon Companions Wits, are folly
Shrunk in over wetting streams:
Think not, then thy Ranting Humor,
May with Modesty contend,
Lesser Talkers often Doe more
When they come unto their End:
Rudness, Easie Girles may move,
Civil Carriage, Charms a Love.

3.

Fye then on that Cloudy Forehead!
Ope those Vein-like crossed Armes!
You may as well call back the bury'd
As raise Love, with such dull Charmes:

101

Sacrifice a Glass of Claret
To each Letter of her Name;
The gods have oft descended for it,
Mortals should much more, the same,
If She come not at that Flood
Sleep will come, and that's as Good.

B.
Cloudy Browes do presage Weeping;
And who would not hear our Cryes?
Who the Grave, hath had in Keeping,
Would to pitty Love arise:
Offer up a Yoke of Kisses,
To the Damo'sell you adore!
Jove for such a Bliss as this is,
Would come, now though ne're before:
If this way, she can't be had,
Drinking comes, and that's as Bad.

SONG LXIV. A Mock.

[Fear not (my Genius) to unfold]

1.

Fear not (my Genius) to unfold
My silent Thoughts by these;
Let Women, born, to be contrould,
Receive them, as they please,
Their long Usurped Monarchy,
Hath made me, hate, their Tyranny.

102

B.
Tremble (Ill Nature!) to betray,
In idle Words, thy thought,
That Women, who, our Passions, sway
Should be Contrould, as Naught:
Their long continued Hierarchy
Hath made me Love, their Soveraignty.

2.

Let them, and their Magnetique Charms,
As Harbingers before 'um,
Possess themselves of Cupits Arms,
As Baytes, for to Adore 'um.
I'le ne're commit Idolatry,
To Subjects, born, as well as I.

B.
Let some one, whose detracting Toung
Is Usher, to his Witt,
Their Beauties and his Judgement wronge,
Whil'st I, admireing sit.
It cannot be Idolatry,
To Worship, such Divinity.

3.

Their Diety, with them, must fade,
It cannot be deny'd,
Then since, the Pretty things, were made,
Out of Old Adams side:
Lets Love them still, but know't 'tis thus
We'le Do't, because Th'are part of Us.

103

And let this then, Suffice the Elves
To say, we Love them, as our selves.

B.
Their Diety can ne're Decay,
'Twere Sin to say, it should,
Then since th'are Forms not Cast in Clay
But of a finer Mould:
We'le Love them still, with all our Hearts,
Because, they are our Better parts:
And let this satisfie poor Men,
To purchase thus their Ribb agen.

SONG LXV. A Mock.

[Now, I confess, I am in Love]

1.

Now, I confess, I am in Love,
Although I thought, I never should:
But, 'tis with one, dropp'd from above,
Whom Nature made, of better Mould:
So Fair, so Good, so all Divine,
I'de quit the World, to make her Mine.

B.
I'le ne're, Confess yet dare be hangd,
(Although I hope 'twill ne're be so,)

104

If the best Girle, that ever Twang'd
Do make me Buckle, to her Bow:
Or Fair, or Foul, what e're she be,
Of all the World, she's not for me.

2.

Have you not seen, the Stars retreat,
When Sol salutes our Hemisphere,
So shrink those Beauties, called Great,
When, sweet Rosella, doth appear:
Were she, as other Women, are,
I should not Love her, nor Despair.

B.
Have you not seen Ecclipsed Sol,
When spangle Stars, supply the Day,
So shine those Beauties, thought but smal,
When Fair Florella's gone away
But all alike, I must refuse,
Nor e're will pick, if I may chuse.

3.

For I could, never, bear a mind,
Willing to stoop, to common faces;
Nor Confidence enough, could find,
To aime at one, so full of Graces:
Fortune, and Nature did Decree,
No Woman should be fit for me.

B.
For I was, ne're, so given to't,
With every Common Lass, to Trade,

105

Nor e're had th'Impudence, to Do't,
With any Modest graceful Maid.
Nor Fate nor Art could ever move,
My sullen Heart, to thoughts of Love.

SONG LXVI. A Mock.

[Be gon! Thou Fatal Feaver! from me, now be gone!]

1.

Be gon! Thou Fatal Feaver! from me, now be gone!
Let Love alone!
Let his Ætherial flames, possess my Breast!
The fires, of thy consuming heat, no ayd requires,
But swift Desires,
Transport my passions, to a Throne of Rest
Where I, who in the pride of health, could never feel,
Such warmth to move.
By Sickness tam'd,
A'm so Enflam'd,
I fee'le, noe joy, but Love.
And he, who trifled many tedious hours away
My Love to trye.
In little space,
Hath gain'd the Grace,
To have more power, then I.

106

B.
Away! you Grevious Things, call'd Mistresses away
Yeild Sack the Day!
Let her Diviner sparkes, in flame my Breast!
The hear, of whose Enlivening Virtue's so Compleat
That for the feat,
My fancy's carry'd, here to seat it's rest:
Where I, who in the height of Love, could never, find,
Such warmth to stirre.
By Sack in spird,
Am, now, so fir'd,
I joy in None, but Her:
And I, who have been Occupy'd, an hour, sometimes,
A Love, to Winne,
In lesser space,
Have gain'd the Grace,
To care not for't, a Pinne.

2.

Depart! Thou fatal Feaver from me, now Depart!
Think not my Heart
To thy dull flames, shall be a Sacrifice!
A Maid (Dread Cupid) now hath on the Altar laid,
By thee betraid,
A Rich Oblation, to restore thine Eyes:
But yet, my fore acknowledgment, shall testifie,
Thou hast no Craft,
To bend thy Bow,
Against a Foe,
That aim'd, to catch the shaft;

107

Nor did I fear, though at my Bosome, all at once,
Such Darts did move;
She that receives,
A thousand Sheaves,
She can no more, but Love.

B.
A F--- for all you Femal Creatures, now a F---
Ne're think my Heart,
In your Weak flames, shall burn a Sacrifice,
A Blade (god Bacchus!) here, hath at the Tavern had
Now by thee made,
A stronger Fire, to Blaze out his Eyes:
But yet, my late acknowledgment shall Justifie,
Thou hast no Craft,
My flames, to Drown,
When once, high flown,
With ne're so great a Draught:
Nor would I care, though for an Ocean, all at once,
My Guts had space,
He that Topes up,
The thousandth Cup!
He can no more but Blaze.

3.

No more Physitians, let me try your Brains! no more!
Pray give me o're!
I have a Cure, in Physick, never read;
Though you, as skillfull Doctors, all the world do know,
In Learning flow,
You may as well go practice on the Dead:

108

But, if my Gerard daigne, to view me, with
His Glorious Lookes
I make no doubt,
To Live without
Physitians, and their Books:
Tis he, who with his balmy Kisses, can restore
My latest breath,
What bliss is This!
To Gaine a Kiss,
And save, a Maid, from Death!

B.
No more; You Physickt Ladies! I'le your helps implore!
But give you o're!
I have a Cure, your Beauties, ne're did prove
Though you, have saving Virtues, Love sick Lovers know,
And tell you so,
Practice on those, that swear they'le dye for Love.
But if I view, Canaries sparkling Beauties,
In a Glass,
I Question not
The Going to pott,
'Spight of a Ladies Face:
'Tis she, who with her Sugard Kisses, can preserve
My failing Breath;
What bliss like this,
A Cup, to Kiss,
And save, a man from Death!

109

4.

To you (Divine ones of another world I bow,
And will allow,
Your sacred precepts, if you'l grant me this,
That He, whom I adore, ev'n next your Diety,
May go with me,
Without his presence, there can be no bliss:
Go teach your Tenents of Eternity, to those,
That aged be,
Do not perswade,
A Love sick Maid
There's any Heaven, but He:
But stay! methinks an Icy slumber doth possess
My weary'd Brain,
Pray bid him Dye,
If you think, I
Shall never Wake again.

B.
To you (Divines Beauties of the World!) I vow
I will allow,
Your sacred Titles, if you'l one thing prove!
That Sack whom I before you all, my Mistress make,
I may not Lacke,
Without her, there can be smal sport in Love
Go read your Lectures, of Sobriety, to those,
That Punyes be,
Do not perswade,
A Topeing Blade,
Such Drink's in Heaven, as She.

110

But stay! Methinks a giddy whimsey toxicates
my warmed Brain;
E'ne let me Dye,
If you think I,
Shall ne're Blaze up again.

Mock SONG LXVII. To Dr. Smith's* Ballad—Will Womens &c.*

1

Have Men there idle tricks begun?
Pox ont! what means their course?
Shall Poets prate, till Breath be gone,
Yet men still worse and worse?
Bob Wisdom's Psalms, are never the near,
To the Lad, that's proud of his Cod-peece Geare,
Which makes the Vitious, fret and swear,
And me, to Bann and Curse.

2

I once was minded, to be Dumb
And ne're to make a Word;
Although that Mankind, all and some,
Were hang'd who'd care a T---?

111

But now my Tongues at no Command,
I cannot hold it, with my Hand,
As easily, as Cocks can stand,
My Reasons R'yme afford.

3

And first, I'le violent hands lay on,
There Puffs, and perfum'd Ware;
Their pride, so with a pouder shown,
Does go against the Hair.
For though, their Clothes, are out at Elbow
Th'are Captains, straight, with their Blades of Bilboe,
With them six pence, and the devil in hell go!
'Twould make one stamp and stare.

4

Their down right thoughts, ne're mind their Books
Th'ave e'ne almost forgat 'um;
For since Old Nad, fell of oth' hooks,
Mens Fingers, ne're itcht less at 'um.
And if they can but the Scriptures abuse,
They Laugh (as if they could not chuse,)
At Moses, Hopkins, and Sternolds Muse,
'Twould make all Women hate 'um.

5

Their Faces, are rubb'd in such sort,
With pieces, of brass kettle;
As if they were Old Dogs oth' sport,
And Mettal bear, on Mettal:

112

They with their antick Mops, and Mowes,
Will Face down Truth, how e're the world goes,
Lilly has no such signs as those,
Will times, and things ne're settle?

6

With these, they are imbolden'd so,
And look so tow'rdly on 'um,
That Others wives (forsooth) they'le know,
When little thanks they con 'um:
And every night they feast their Cullies,
With bowle of sack ne're think it full is,
As easily, as Whores get Cullies,
Ne're think what has undone 'um.

7

Oftimes you'd think 'twere all their Own
They take so much, upon 'um;
When presently, they are struck Dumb
You'd wonder, what's come on 'um.
They are so sullen, and stout God mend 'um!
We Maides can never tel wher'e to send 'um
I would the Whores (with a Pox, would end 'um
Or Heaven keep us from 'um.

8

Their rude Demeanour, is a scare Crow,
For Women, for to fear 'um;
Their bitter Oaths do so far go,
That surely, I'le beware 'um:

113

And when with many a Jeggam-bobb
Th'ave got you, into the Pound of Lobb
They'le leave you, as Bobabill, left Cobb
The Devil will (once) not spare 'um.

9

Somtimes, th'are all ith' fire of Love,
And live, like Salamander,
And then I wish some queans, would prove
And each of these, a Pauder:
But (the plain truth, for to illustrate)
They are such Creatures Women must hate,
And if their Wills, you can't frustrate,
They'le bring your Souls, in Danger.

10

Two Mere maides (once) had got an Eele,
Whose body th'ad a plot on;
Dear love (quoth they) w'are true as steele
But Geers, they would not Cotten:
For thinking him sure, as Louse in Bosome,
He wriggles his Tayl and strait, out goes 'um
So quickly slipt away, to loose 'um
Him saw they ne're a jot on.

11

Or if some men to good be brough't
And purpose, what th'ave spoken;
'Tis ten to one, th'ave ne're a groat,
Then Silver, can't be broken:

114

Who else is Sped, is Matcht with a Stalion
He'le have her, soon at the Lock Itallian,
She's Fool and Asse, and Tatter-de-mallian;
That Wedds, for ne're a Token.

12

The holy Sisters, often pray,
And Scriptures, Eke unfold,
Yet men, as though 'twere out oth'way,
Ne're harke, to what is told:
You may speak, as well, to an Image of dough,
Not one, cares whether, you Teach, or no,
Their Hearts are as hard, as Iron too,
As tough, but not so cold.

13

When will (d'ye think) this Geer go trim
And e're, be brought to good?
Good faith! I think 'twill ne're begin:
What never? No! would it would!
They have so many conceits and whimseies
That one may scribble, untill he dimn's eyes,
Their souls are black as stocks, of Chimneyes
'Tis pitty by the Rood!

14

Troth! Queans would serve 'um well enough
When (once) to work they get 'um:
(One finding Tooles, and t'other Stuff)
And they their Task to set 'um:

115

Where (nak't, as Truth, they should work their fill,
And every Jack, should have his Gill,
And lay it on, take 't off who's will,
Good faith! Who would not let 'um?

15

And now w'have brought 'um in by Troopes,
To Girles oth' lewder sort,
We'le keep 'um close, as Cocks in Coops,
For the Trappanning sport
Nay now, we have 'um within their Carcase
We'le neither favour Earl or Marquess,
I've made this staff too short.

16

Now God a bless, our Noble Queen!
Who gives Examples many,
But men (as if they ne're had been)
Will not be rul'd by any:
Nay here's the thing mortality grieve would
That men should go to Hell, thick and three fold
To save them, I'de not set foot, o're threshold
They'le ne're be worth a penny.

116

Mock SONG LXVIII,

To --- I pry'thee don't Fly me, &c.

[Pox on thee! get from me]

1

Pox on thee! get from me,
This does not become thee,
I cannot abide,
One un-frenchefi'd,
A Curse on your Gaffers and Johns!
Your mopps, and your mowes!
With your half legg'd shell'd Shoes,
Your Gammers and Dames
With such rustical Names!
And a full mouthed Oath,
As a Cifre, to both,
You may keep for the Clownes, and their Sons;
For aspiring (at first) to have been all as one
The Devil's foot was Cleft for a destinction.

2

Abatements Degrading,
Are for men of Trading,
Who since have forgon
By Birth, what's their own
And their souls are disposed thereafter;

117

What pleasures in that
To be call'd God knows what,
Sir, Richard's of Fame,
Above any Nick-name,
That sounds halt or lame
And is like a May-game
To provoke all the hearers, to laughter,
He that bears a base mind, or Mechaniquely lives
Reverts, his own Armes, or a Batoun he gives,

3

I Love those Contrivements,
Of noble Atcheivements,
Where Argent, and Or
Prefer men before
The Vulgar, for Wisdom and breeding;
For why should a Fool,
The Wiser, or'e Rule
Who's Lord of the Soyle
But untill'd, the while,
As to Manners or Arts,
Though a Gyant in Parts
And is better worth hanging, then feeding
Clounisme is dross, and course flesh, but rust is,
'Tis common (though unclean) to be both Clark and Justice.

118

4

For why should we be,
Of the new Paritye,
'Cause there are a few,
Of the Levelling Crew,
Who would have us all equal & brothers
Such turbulent Spirits,
May they have their Demerits
Loose health, wealth & blood
With their Countries good
And be condemn'd fit,
To pay, for their Witt,
And hang out oth' reach of all others:
Pesantry's base, and who's born to't must wear it,
But Honour is the Merit of the Persons, that bear it.

5

Were I Prince, for my part,
Let others, go try for't,
I'de soberly Rule,
And smal ones befool,
Who squander their times, out in Drinking,
I'le not Intoxicate,
With Canaries, my Pate;
The Scout, I'le assure ye,
And every Mercury,
With each book of News,
I will so far use,
To Furnish Discourse after Thinking:

119

All the Name I desire, is a Person of honour
And he is but a Fool, that relies not upon her.

Mock SONG LXIX.

Full Forty times over, &c

[Just twenty times over, and twenty to that]

1

Just twenty times over, and twenty to that,
I musing, have wondred, what 'twas you'd be at,
Whilst you pine, and look pale, like your Liquor that's flat;
For he's a cold Drinker,
Who now becomes Thinker,
Since thus runs the play
If you sit up all night, you are Ready next Day.

2

There's a pipe, lately Broacht, which would not be shut,
With Legions of Bottles prepar'd, for the Gut.
If you give but your minde to't, you'l swallow a Butt:
Then stand not so dully,
But laver your Gully
With Beer Bowle in fist.
If you charge it but Well you may hit whom you list.

120

3

Some idle Companions, when with them, you sit.
Will talk and fly high, as if th'had all the Wit,
When (alas!) it appears, th'have the Divel a bit,
Their bisket Jests after
Th'are steept in their Laughter,
And pipes, being broke,
With Tobacco (once) out, they will vanish ith' Smoke.

4

Some stately proud High Boyes, do rant it, and call
As if they could Tipple, the Divel and all;
But stand to them stiffly, they'le, easily fall;
Then to't! never fear 'um,
Set Foot, and come near 'um
By Toping about,
Be their Heads ne're so empty, they cannot hold it out,

5

Some pu'nys, whose Cheeks, are with blushes, or'e laid:
To fuddle a Gallon, will not be affraid,
Put them to't, and but tell them, They Drink like a Maid.
Then cry but have at it!
Box on them that hate it!
If e're, they refuse.
To Water, as thou doest, or I, let them chuse.

121

Mock SONG LXX.

[Love is a Fable]

1.

Love is a Fable,
No man, is able,
To say 'tis this, or 'tis That;
And idle passion,
Of such a fashion,
'Tis like, I cannot tell what.

B.
Love is a True thing,
It is no new thing,
To call't by good name, or bad;
A busi'd Action,
Of such a faction,
'Tis like, to make a Man Mad.

2.

Fair in the Cradle,
Fowle in the Sadle,
Alwayes too cold, or too hot.
An arrant Lyer,
Fedd by desire,
It is, and yet, it is not.

B.
Fair in the Whittle,
Fowle in the Spittle,
Alwayes too moist, or too dry:

122

A very Tell-troth,
Papp't up with Hell Broth,
One knows not wherefore, nor why

3.

Love is a Fellow,
Clad all in Yellow,
The Canker-worme of minde:
A privy mischif,
And such a sly Theif,
No man, knows where, him to find.

B.
Love is a Dam'sell,
Clad to the Hams well,
That wears a worm, in the tayle
A meer pick-pocket
Yet, when we smoke it,
To find it out, we ne're faile.

4.

Love is a wonder
'Tis here, and 'tis yonder,
'Tis common, to all men we know;
A very cheater,
Evere one's better,
Then hange him, and so let him go:

B.
Love is no wonder,
Over or under,
'Tis common, as pissing a bed;

123

'Twill Cheat and Cozen
Folke by the Dozen
'Tis better to hang, then be fed.

SONG LXXI. A Mock.

[To Love thee, without flattery, were a Sin]

1.

To Love thee, without flattery, were a Sin,
Since thou art, all Inconstancy, within;
My heart, is only govern'd by mine Eyes,
The newest object, is the greatest prize:
Then Love me just, as I Love thee
Untill a fairer, I can see.

B.
To Love thee, and to Flatter, were a Sin,
Since thou hast, ever to me, constant been
My heart and eyes, are govern'd by thy will,
The principle is shee, I'le stick to't still:
Then Love me just, and Love no more,
But just, as I Lov'd thee before.

2.

My heart, is now at liberty, and can
Know all that's fair, as you know, all that's man

124

Then why should you, so fondly think it strange?
Since that, I know, thine Appetite to change:
Then Love me, just, as I Love thee,
Untill a fairer I can see.

B.
My heart, is only yours, and can find,
By knowing thee, all that is Woman kind!
Then why should you (or any) think it strang
That I should like my choice too wel to change
But Love me, just and Love no more,
Variety I do abhore.

3.

I hate this constant doteing, on a Face,
Content ne're dwelt a week in any place;
Then why should you, or I Love one another
Longer, then we, can be content together?
Then Love me, just as I Love thee
Vntill a fairer I can see.

B.
I like a reall fondness, every where,
Where true Love dwels, content, last all the year:
Then let us like, and Love and live together
Since, if a part, there's no content in either:
Do thou Love me, and thou shalt be,
The only fair and fairest she.

125

For Fruition,

In Answer to Sir, John Suckling.

Pox on those hearts that singly freeze with cold
I Love two minds, that one opinion hold:
Were I to bless the better sort of men.
I'de wish them Loving, to be Lov'd agen.
Love Cormorant-like, on every pray doth fall:
And's hunger starv'd, where there is none at all
'Tis the Grand confidence, & mighty hope,
Unsheath'd of fear, with winter tears dry'd up,
That Love, takes pleasure in; That can be none,
That only dwels, in Contemplation:
Like drowsie Dreams at midnight, when all day,
Our Bodies have been weary'd, some strange way.
Oh! how 'twould irke me! sure I madd should go
Did I but hear my mistress, twice say no!
No thought our Expectation screw's so high,
But single! Woman soon can satisfie.
And what low-spirit, w'ont aspire, to that,

126

Which may be purchas'd, at so cheap a rate?

She's honest, that does yeild although Poor Fooll.
She be as hot as Summer, warm as Wooll.
He that hath mist her, has to say, at last,
'Ene pray who's will, if I must ever fast,

Then (fairest Ladies) use what nature gave
Never denying, what we ever, Crave
Confirming us that that's not strange at all,
Our Fathers did, we do, and Children shall.

Another for Fruition,

In Answer to Sir, John Suckling.

Go on! Bold Boy! and put her to't be wise!
Not knowing how to keep lost paradise
The wicked plagues thou hast, wouldst ne're have cease?
But reign, at height! and would it not thee please
If, gently from night frights, for real joy,
Thou wert awakt? who sleeps, can ne're enjoy

127

Not to enjoy, is worse, then not to have:
And that ne're cloyd, for wch we stil do crave
Who holds himself less happy, by that mean
Might hope, with as much reason, to wax lean
By feeding to the full; they purchas'd, once,
Oh how we relish it! and kiss for th'nonce!

'Tis more then requisite, upon this score
The choicest thing that man does, is not more
The world is wide; of blessings it is one
To Multiply Come! Come! it must be done!
As sure as Drink! Each one's oblig'd unto't
“He that ne're Occupyes, wil ne're have fruit.

Women enjoy'd (for they are none before)
Are like a fine Romance, read o're and o're:
Fruitions sprightful, & the play's not known,
What 'tis or is not till that act, be done:
To save our longing, that a blessing is,
“Heaven unknown, is a Fools Paradice.

And as in prospects, where the scrutimous eye
Unrandom'd can it self ne're satisfie,
And will not be confin'd, so Liberty.
Quickens that pleasure, which restrain'd would dye
He that hath store to tell must needs be rich,
He's only poor, that know's not, which is which.

128

Answer to Sir, J. S.

1

Give me (dear Lad!) the pure white & red
When I court Meaden-bead,
Such even (unequall'd) Grace,
Of Aires and other, you know whats in face,
Enough to make one mad! let me but have
A Beauty, that will move,
'Tis all I crave;
Unhansome dulls the Edge of Love.

2

We know there are such things, as foul & fair
They no impostures are;
For though some youth (of late)
Lik't certain colour, at uncertain rate,
That does not warrant me, from chusing right,
If Black and Blew Ivy
With Red and White
That Fancy, is meer Fantasie.

3

What boots an Appetite, if there's no meat,
That we can Love or Eat;
But if I view a Dish,
Well garnisht, and set forth, tis as I'de wish
As with our Watches, where the insid's made
Perhaps as Steel or Brass,
Our Value's laid,
Upon the Gold or Silver Case.

129

THE Adventure

August, 26. 1645.

'Twas in that Month (as in old Writ I find)
Wherein the female, must be serv'd in kind,
And more precisely, if the time you seek,
It was about the very wast oth' week,
Inclining toward the Navel of the day.
'Ene betwixt Hawk & Buzzard (as they say)
In Holbourn hight whence Grays-Inn Gate not far is,
Whom should I meet with, but my Friend Jack Harris?
Th'unluckyest wag e're Mothers smock was wrapt in,

130

'Twas that same Jack, whose Christen name, is Captain.
With single eye, he quickly me espy'd,
For why? indeed I was oth' surer side.
Oh! School-fellow quoth he, well met! and by trips,
I'me sure, we seldome use to part, with dry Lips,
So back he comes again, a good luck on ye!
Thou wilt have drink, no matter who has Money.
Well! go thy waies! march on! I'le follow you,
On toward the Fair of St. Bartholomew!
But in the rode, near to the Wall of Hatton,
We happend upon Woman. Twas a fat one
And if Descriptions may not be distrustful,
She was full-ful ith' wast, or very wastful.
For persons of her calling, you may ask all,
If amongst twenty, you shall find one Rascall.
She ducks it home, I speak it to her laud, I
The Epithet, unto her House, was Baudy
Where though the Plying place, was then in Smith-field,
Was Wench enough as long as back could pith yeild
To hold us tack—indeed, of creature comfort

131

One might have had our's Belly, full, butmum for't!

Jack profferd once, but what? quoth he by G--- I,
Will make exchange, with thee, body for body,
And I dare swear 't, had been no robery,
'Twas such a Pockie piece of Mobery
But that which made my Worship, laugh ith' close,
She still was hitting Jack i'th Teeth, with's Nose,
And that is much, you'le say, whoe're shall see't,
To think his Nose and Teeth should ever-meet.
But in as dead a time, as e're was thought on
In comes Su. Cox, of yore, but now Su. Broughton
With Whores as fast as hops and thick as flyblows,
But could not hope for knocking here, but—dry blows.
As when our Tayles new suckt by Leech, are dry;
So are they now, as Kix, from Lechery
For were it upon pain of mickle worth,
I could not hint, much less have held it forth.

132

So, having pawnd our credit, there for eight pence,
We kiss, kind Mris. Lawes, and so go straight thence
Indeed it was that meer necessity,
That has none mov'd us to't, I press it t'ye,
Because we would not of the laws be guilty
The business was (like Norton's) base & filthy.

So now we bend our cause towr'd, Well of Clarken
Unlike to Aristotles, of you marken
Coming through Lane of Mutton street of Turnball
Where that Jone lives, whose plackets rent & torn all
Above the Rising of the Hill, there is one
The left hand, as you go a House of prison
Where Jack had been, upon a business,
I guess'd by his wry look, and that a true sign is.
So passing by John of Hierusalem,
Whom we cal St too what e're you cal him
To th'Red-bull-Widow we were one time wheeling;
Where some folk say, I've had a fellow-feling.
But let it pass away Jack Harris rambles,
Down by the place where lofty Turk shews Gambles.

133

Which we had seen too, but for dearth of six pence,
But they, who did, have never seen such tricks since.

Well! Jack drives on amain, a pox forsake him!
He made me sweat like grains, to overtake him
I call'd out friend! look here! by Wiccham's Crosyer,
Here lies a pretty Girle ith' lane of Hosyer,
Here at a Barbers House; I think it the man,
That kept Queen Madasina as his Leman.
I say (quoth Jack) come on! by Jove! I score her!
So never stops, nor staies, till at Pye Corner,
Where, in he turn's at house ye leped Castle.
For worse, full many a Gyant oft did wrastle
Here were the Beeves, the Muttons, and the pigs hot
A rare Encounter for man Chegan Quixot.
(He was a plaguy Mutton-man, vousavez,
But here's the Divel and all for the sowes Babyes.)
For at this time tis (true, as I do tell ye)
You may have pigs, and wenches by the belly.

134

Then strait appears, do but observe the hap, Sir,
One Jack call'd Name sake, there concern'd as Tapster,
As good a Lad, as ever handled spigget
Of powerful Sack and Ale (he's not for Swigget)
To whom our John (knowing no money stirr'd)
How doest thou chuck (quoth he) my honey bird?
Reply'd he (Capt. Dear) at all adventures
We'le wet our selves together. So Jack enters:
And trips up staires, as quick, as come penny,
Where we find, what's before good company!
Three female idle feaks, who long'd for pigs head.
(For near this place, there's many a hundr'd ligs dead)
Three strapping Queans, much like, for hanch and butteress,
Toboso's Dul, Mal, Tornes and Joan Gutterez.
One I accosted thus, wilt please you (Madam)
T'accept of Gloves, for Fairings (would you had 'um!)

135

But quoth the Man of Ale, what ist d'ye lack ho!
Some Canns (cryes Jack) an ounce oth' best Tobacco.
Which we suckt off, until our colours, rose high,
And knockt in peales, like to the Bells of Osney
Drink and more Drink still as for Gold, cry'd Midas,
Let's drink out Thursday, ne're take care for Fridays!

When up there comes two Demy Lads oth' catling,
Whom I rebuk't (quoth Jack) Hall! hold your pratling!
But oh! 'twas such a charming dose of Musick,
Would cure the Tarrantula were you sick,
Like to a Coffin, strung with guts of screech Owle,
And sung, as when somtimes y'have heard a Bich howle
Comparison, I know, no fitter one,
Then your hoars Whooping in a Reed of Bitteron,
And made more Mouths, in quarter of an hour,
Then ever God Almighty did four.

136

Their Trebles (too) were both High base, beside one
Oth' sticks, was like to that the Divel rides on.
But up they strike (and so does Jack) a plain Dance:
That Cratchet, ne're comes into's head, oth' Main-chance.
But he is rare for Friscols nay what's worse
He treads a measure, like a Millers Horse.

But in the Close of all, I beckoning,
Unto him, said how goes the Reckoning?
How shal this Nag be curry'd? tis a short one
And soon enough (quoth He) you Fidlers! sport on:
Play off your Canns (you Rogues) your Case I'le warrant,
If Fidle's good—inded, Jack, had a care on't.
For why! when Head was light as Cork or Feather,
And they had been, some thrice by th'Eares together
And were as drunk as ere, were Sowes of David!
(For while there's any Liquor moves they'l have it)

137

And busi'd were 'bove stairs, with bonny Bess
H'had left them Fidle (yea and money less.

Jack urg'd me to't, I made not any word,
Disliking Bardolph's Edge of penny, Cord,
And vile reproach: for had there tryal been
'Twould grieve one, suffer, for a Vyallin
And (Oxford Organist, like Meredeth)
Live merry life and dye a merry death.
But 'twould not fadge—Jack calling then his name sake
Did suffer what I could not do, for shame sake,
He did but proffer, in his Ear to Whisper,
To know how the Case stood, aut par, aut dispair,
But fancying (as it seems) Jacks way of payment,
Cryes Wellcome Gentlemen! ne're seizd on Royment.

I proud it was no worse, as erst with Pordage)
Rejoyc't at heart to be excus'd oth' Mortgage,
But clear of that (as after calm comes Tempest!
Ensures Sir Henryes woe, where you have him drest

138

In a sweet prickle sweeter sure, was never heard
Lest when at Divil, Iteby—pawn'd Everard.
Or else, that morn, at sign of Oxford, Beaton
For two and ten pence (faith! that was an at one.)

Well! from the Castle, as before I told ye)
We went to th'sign, of (what the Divel would ye?)
'Twas (as I take it) to the sign oth' White Hart,
Or Sign that he was Drunk, for then he's right for't:
But thither 'twas we went, where God shall sa'me)
I thought the Drawers, or the Divil, would ha'me,
For honest Jack had call'd, for Drink and more Drink,
Then goes for money (which trick some but poor think)
But you may hope, as quick return, from Phlegeton,
As from Jack Harris, if once he be gone.
And is he gone? the Divel go with him! I swear,
I felt him going, whilest he stayed there

139

For Jack (although he seldome goes to Church)
Ne're comes to Tavern but he leaves ith' lurch.

VVith Quart of Sack into a Box the wedge me,
VVhere who (the Divel!) did they think should pledge me?
Th'old Souldier's safe enough, and e'en as well is,
As heart, could wish, ith' smoke with Peter Ellis,
Or else good man (though I) being now past hope,
He's bayling Richardson, or Boyling Sope.
Then fancy'd I Jack's way of pay, by whisper,
The marke was fair enouhg, but faith! I mist her.
The Mistriss liking no such trick in ten,
Would hear no more, then did Brickenden
His Fathers Lectures—matter sure not much is,
I'le e'ne adventure, to escape your clutches,
When going, fairly off, in mine opinion;
(Drunk as the driven-snow or Leek or Onyon)
A fellow, tall of hand and foul of Finger,
Hardy of Toe (indeed he was a Swinger)

140

Begins to fall to's work, aboard he claps me,
(Or rather under board) whate're behaps me,
I must Endure, flings me, from Post to Piller,
In troth I bore that time, like any Thiller.

Then did he quit me, in length, thirteen paces,
Takes up agen,) A pox'on such Embraces!
Hold thy dead doing hand (quoth I) set Iron side,
But harder he, then was that Iron-side
Who manag'd Corbett, while yet liv'd my Grand Sir
Had no remorse, was like the Country Answer
To what's Clock! Iron Steel and brass upon't.
H'had made a puny, of Gines Passamont
(My story, sure may pass, ith' rank, of woe
Yanguesian Carryers! ne're us'd Sancho so.

He Chucks me, too and fro, like Doit or farthing,
But could not get a penny, by the bargin.
Until there came to me, as best became her,
One of a great House, was Sir, name to Chamber
With Mony, thick and thick, without ambages)
It was the gross Remainder of her Wages.

141

Some seven whole Groats, and half reserv'd sans mockings)
Out of her vast revenews to buy-stockings.
Which she did drop, peice-meal, since with her 'twas hard
And gave, by fits and girds as some get Bastard,
Or Divel Hors colts: finding her hard-hearted,
We like a fooll and's mony, were soon parted
And with dry thanks, to my redeemrest Betty
I e'ne go home, and there's an end— that's pitty!

Marston, Ale-house;

April, 13th 1648.

I and two friends of mine; who ne're had been there
Did take a walk to Marston, after dinner.
And here's the truth (whatever praters say)
'Twas of all dayes, upon a Satursday.
And (if I do not much mistake the Chorus)
Pembroke his Exit had the day before us.

142

But w'had no Vollyet when we went hence
To send us packing with a Vengeance.
But fair and softly, out oth' East-port,
We march a long. But here's the best sport—
One of us three, whether he be sick,
I can't tell well, but he took Physick;
And in a word (for nothing swerve I)
It was a Mornings draught of Scurvy
(Or else Sage) Ale (for you may ha'both)
And now t'had broke the Jewish-Sabboth,
And Workt like mad, As for a Privy,
There was none, but where th'Ox in Livy.
Might do his business—It no scoff is,
He needed much a House of Office.
As for a Bush, be could not chuse one,
Or any Ditch, but Madge or Susan
Had seen him do his need (for heark it pray)
Those passages are full, each market day)

At length he spyes a Hedge, and we must line't.
He had no stool, but oft untrussed a point.
With that one cry'd slid I could spurn ye friend)
When think'st we shall come to our journey's end—

143

Hold! time enough says he-Indeed 'twas scarce one
(I think) oth' Clock, but we arriv'd, at Marston.
Where when we came (to tell the manner fully)
We went up toward the House, of the Ruff Cully:
Which, being near the Church, (as is my Custome)
I askt for th'Wat'ring-house, thinking there must some
Be sold ith' Town well knowing Thief to Gallows
Is not so proper; as near Church, an Ale-house
But faith! here's none! at last, a good luck on ye!
They shew us where we may have Ale for Money:
Then longer there to stay 'twas folly for,
So strait we trade to th'House of Oliver,
For so mine Host was nam'd, whose sign was little,
Of none at all, only Childrens Whittle.

144

And Pissing Clouts of all sorts, there were in place,
And eke the Mothers Wastcoat with a green-lace.
And the old Boyes Breeches too, which were not slovenly
For they were right true blue (by th'Mass 'twas Coventry)
The Divel had been here, for (I'le be sworn)
What e're the Cry and Wooll was, th'Hoggs were shorne.

But comeing near the Doore, the Child beseeches One,
Having bewray'd himself, to help is breeches on
When strait (a sight which one much stouter fears)
In comes mine Hostess with hair 'bout her Eares.
For (truth to stain) the cause, of this her frowsing,
Was at her Neighbours house sh'had been a Lowsing.
But in good time she came (as it did fall out)
And having farm'd his Linings clapt on Tayl-clout.

145

She prayes us draw near house, we tripping than,
Close after found oth' Board, a dripping-pan.
But heark ye, friends! 'tis well, if they a crust eat,
The dripping-pan, was no such sign of Roast-meat.
For I believe (tis worth your listenning.)
Spit ne're went there since Nanties Christning.
But now 'twas us'd (with Comb, halterd with pack-thread,)
To fetch the Nits out of young Alces blackhead.
Well having ta'ne away the spoons & platter,
We sat us down (to make short of the matter)
Where ten to one, but that a body shall
Meet, with the stories of the Prodigall.
I mean ith' hall but you may call't a kitchin
For it was all their Room! when comes the Witch in,
Ugly as Pluto's dam, whom strait we cal to's
To shew a Room—she lead us through the Malt-house
Thence to the Hay-born, but (I can't tell how then)
At length, we crowded are, into the Cow-pen.

146

Which being unthatcht, the busie Sun, would scarce let's
Stay long, but thence, to th'Garden, sown with harslets,
We drive away where, by chance, at a Barns end,
(Whither for many years God did no Corn send.)
We found a shady place, where, like to fine fooles.
One on the Grass sate down, and two, on Joynt-stooles.
And for a Table, where to set the Water;
She brings the Washing block—the legs came after.
Then like to Mother Gubbins mode in Chaucer
Sends out the Flagon coverd with a Saucer.
And was (indeed) well fill'd (to th'brink e'ne up)
Hostess (sayes one) go fetch a Drinking-cup,
Which spying aske, let's see! what pot d'ye carry.
What's in it! Medicines from the Apothecary.
One swore it was, the others said sure 'tis not,
But furr'd it was, like old wifes Earthen piss-pot

147

The Ale, which sets one, soon one's wits on side
Was brew'd (indeed) for th'Bumps at Whitsontide.
Or Fryday night, 'gainst Sunday, thinking then some,
Would come and sting their Noses, after En'som.
And was as muddy, to our senses outward,
As is a standing pool, whose cream is, Cowturd.

Well! here's to th'King? all knowing then it down must,
One for a Gully-soaker, cals a brown crust!
But oh! how brown it was good faith! I can't se't!
Hopkins-affliction bread to this, was Manchet.
And was as sower, to the tast, I swear,
As if all Israels Leven had been there,
When they were feeding, on their Eastere Vittle.
They ne're markt, what St. Paul sayes of a Little.
But this I'le say (which not the least disgrace is)
I'me sure it made us make ill favourd faces:

148

I pr'ythe shew me friend (if e're thou seest one)
That looks but half so sower as did H. Beeston

Now having done, and all things t'ane away,
We call mine Hostess, ask her what's to pay;
A Groat (quoth she) for which we give her six pence.
Then she beseeches us to come, some weeks thence,
And none should be more welcome: urges reason,
Sayes Beans and Harslets, then would be in season.
But if I come where I'de not wish with Pug Jipp
I'le give you leave, to Kiss my Tayl, with Dog-whipp
Hence, this shall bear part, in my Letanie,
From Marston Ale-House, Lord deliver me!

149

To W. M. Esq;

I being in a Course of Physick and newly recoverd of a Squinancy, February, 1659.

For Burr of Ear, and Burr in Throat,
'Tis better with me, then ith' Moat-
Ed-Chamber, when for fear of Squincy.
Toung was worm'd, and Woolsie Lincy,
Hooded Head like Hawke with Muzzle,
(A Sight, would put one, to the Puzzle)
Not unlike Ben. Johnsons Morose,
That was wrapt and wrapt before us.
Those thousand things (if I could speak'um
As Hampshire-hony, Album Græcum,
Black Wooll, with Drop of Aqua-vitæ,
Ears of Jew (a Dose would fright ye)
For the Uunla, the seeds of Cummin
With Roasted Egg and Dog's T--- some in.
All these are laid aside, but worse!
I've Medicines, now, for any Horse.
Potions and Vomits, with a Glyster,
Bolus and Mass of Pills, for Mister

150

Bold, diseas'd with Stone oth' Kidney,
Or Bladder (not like Kester Sidney
Who was wont, with knitting Needle
'Ere he piss'd, with Tool to meddle
To make passage, for his Urine.)
No! I am sound, as Roach: but curing,
Mongst other Griefs, (for nothing swerve I)
The Downright Dropsie, and the Scurvey,
For I am not, so full of Mocks,
Or Riches, to nick name the Pocks,
Or see the searchers, of the City,
To cry, when I am Dead—Tis pitty.
This man e'ne pin'd away with Grief,
He's e'ne Consum'd to nought—in breif,
Let him make One amongst this Weeks
Account—Consumption-Eighty six.

But heark you Friend, though I am still,
At Death's Door, will I fear none ill,
And therefore, send this, as a warning,
To tell you, I will come ith' morning,
And Drink your Health, however fare I,
Till then, and ever;

Your, Bold Harry.

151

A Journey from Oxon, 1656.

Hall,)

When I lately came from Oxford,
Unlike that Lad, that under knocks bord
When he does cry—White—I Love thee,
For, friend! I think you can't disprove me
I never yet, was known to flinch,
From any Moysture, (less from Wench)
But being now, with foot in stirrup,
To take my leave, oth' City Syrup.
(E'ne at the Sign of Babe and Eagle,
Hight Billy shawes) they did inveagle
Mine easie Swallow, to a full Can,
(Whereat some think, I shrewdly pul can)
Though waies (I wot) were ne're more dirty,
In all my years (and they are thirty)
I was resolved (hap what hap will)
Upon the fourteenth day of April,
To take my Journey, toward London,
So spirr'd my Mare, & straight she run'd on.
But what said slipper, to his Bitch,
Soft swift! for neither Spurr, nor switch,
Could ever make her mend her pace,
She was no kin, to those, oth' race.

152

But fair and softly (thou know'st) far goes,
For all our hasts and so my Mare does.
Step stately, e're she trespass Shotover,
I once thought I should ne're have got over
But being near arriv'd at Wheatly,
(Believe't or not, I care not greatly)
My Palfrey (Hall) that then I rod on,
Mov'd, as at heel, sh'ad had a todd on:
And while Indentures, here she's drawing,
Like one that humming stands, and hawing,
When she was e'ne gon past recover
As though she would assign me over.
To Mother Earth, just, in the nick on't,
(For London Hackneyes have the trick on't)
Behold a wight, with Jade e'ne tyr'd!
Like Duck, or worryed Cat! bemyr'd!
Whom after turmoyle, that would toyle man)
I found to be, a City Oyl-man;
Whom others some, do tearm a Salster,
Supposed son, of Oxford Maltster,
but by his Look, seem'd half a Scholler:
(And faith! he prov'd a pretty Droller!)
Who having his sad tale recounted,
Took horse, (I do not say he mounted)
For why? (I've seen a Tinkers Mastiff
With Budgett on; to travel as stiff)

153

As did this Tit, less high, then some Ass,
Nor yet that Tit, that's Christen'd Thomas.
But of that race, that is so Brittish,
And Gentle too, poor thing! not Skittish.
Whose Height, we reckon not by th'hand,
But by the inch, ('tis quickly scan'd.)
To curry's coat, would not much wrong one,
'Twould soon be done, he's not a long one.
Yet with this I'ade, whose Sirnam's spittle,
We came, by little, and by little.
(And that goes far, to th'Inn at Tetsworth,
Whence (Friend I'le tell thee (he that sets forth
With Palfrey, that is but indifferent,
(But his (I think) the worst, that ever went)
E're he shall elymbe the Hill of Stoken—
I cannot say to's praise be't spoken
But to my Greef (I'le tell thee no lye,
For if I should, 'twere but a folly)
'Twould anger one, that's more then stoick,
And make him swear (perhaps curse) so thik
Though it did half provoke, my laughter,
To see the Beast draw hind Legs after
(As we did once, at Marston, view,
When after Table, Legs they drew.)
But up we got with much a do,
When loe! his Jade had dropt a Shoe.

154

But Shoe! what's that! worse luck! his Boot heel
Was torn away, then thought I's foot he'le
Run (if he could) Stark mad, but 't wo'nt do
He wanted Heel, and Palfrey Shoe,
And now my sleve was full with Laughter,
He drives on Beast, himself drives after.
'T had joy'd thee (Hall) as Babe doth nipple,
T'have seen the Lame, halt, 'fore the Criple.
But all was well, when come to Stoken
Church, in the next verse, or I'me broken.
Whence going off, who doest think over
Took us, but one clep'd, Western Drover?
Not he, who furnisht out, ith' Leaguer,
Sir William Davenant's, Pert, and Meager.
I speak't not favour for, nor Malice,
He's Christen'd John, Sir named Wallice.
Not he, whom Gill did notch, like Tallies
Nor he, who when he was beside.
Ith' Straw of Bed, cry'd out, I'me wide.
Nor he that drew out T--- so Stayward,
Though like, as Dobbin, to blind Bayard.
And half his Country-men, a Jockie
And plaugy Rogue, at Whore so Pockie;
For why? Quoth he, in every Town,
Upon the Rode, for half a Crown.

155

I'me furnisht out, with trim Baggages,
(And who sets work, must pay the wages)
Nay! he would undertake for five pound,
From mount, to th'peer, the wives, to S-round
But now, w'are come to Town with Church
Where Vick is often left, ith' lurch,
For why! the Crew, of Country fellows,
Would hardly climbe that hill for Ale-house
Much less, for Even-song, or Mattens,
They ne're pleas'd High-shoe yet, ne Pattens
(For Sickness green, or for the Pthisick
They needed had, none other Physick)

Now (truth to sain, for lies I can't forge)
W'had mighty Ale, at sign oth' St. George,
Th'ast seen the Apes of Cherry lickum,
So drunk I made the Wights, at Wiccham.
Where like Alvarez, in Lluellen,
(I fear, I shall not bring it well in)
Penny in pouch I gave to Begar,
Whose Coat ne're Blazon'd was by Segar,
'Twas Verrey, of a thousand pieces.
Or like to Josephs, who e're sees his,
And for this slender Ragg of Monie,
His Motto was a goodluck on ye!
But did not after, throw old Shoon,
For why? I trow the man had none.

156

So on we ride, as mortal reckons,
Some seven miles more, to Town of Becons.
Field, where Horses up being put,
I went to rove, the rest to

Host of the Crown.

Rut.
But knowing Wife, was Coacht by Jasper,
I made return to th'Inn, ith' Vesper:
Where was the Drolling Dr Wilson,
(Whose jest with mirth and laughter fils one)
With Schollers three, and Towns-man Zouch
Who, while we drank, did sleep on Couch.
But Sucking well, and keeping coyle,
In Drover comes, and man of Oyl,
Their Brains, with Mutton broth, half-setled
(For Wiccham-Ale, them shrewdly netled.)
At whom we laugh till after mid-night,
When us to Kennel, Drawers did light.

But they, being drinkers, but for need,
And not for Custome, mark their speed!
They were as sick, as Dogs, next morning
As who would take it, for a warning.
With that I take mine Host to task,
March to the Cellar, broach a Cask
Where, Vessel large I bid them fill't,
Till Toung, and Liquor ran at tilt
Then does he, recommend his Tapster,
(Who was his Eldest Son, by hap Sir.)

157

Unto me for a man of Learning,
Indeed, 'twas beyond my Discerning,
But I was to believe't, the rather,
Because his Tutor, was his Father:
And they were so alike (God bless 'em!
For schollership (I speak to please 'em!)
Ut Canibus catuli—Lad! (to try ye.)
Go on (quoth I) with your Qui mihi.—
But he would ha't hæc ades, though
I cry'd, 'twas then, huc animo.
Then 'bout we drink (for I would ha't in)
Till not two words of (but all) Latin,
Was spoke ith' Room: mine Host could talk ne're
A word of English, like the Falkner.
Oth' Marquess, but next drawing deep
Put him to silence, and to sleep.

Well! Parents head, being laid full low,
I th'Cellars bottom, on I go
To th'son, and he goes on to the Tap,
Then begs, that I would verses cap.
But one great Bowle and murth'ring X
Did so his Pericranium Vex,
That down, he fell on Father, Captus
InÆbriatate, minus Aptus
(As I thought) for to bring't about
When sober, since if there, 'twould out.

158

Like Hawk he casts, and there lyes Yexing,
But not a sylable of X ing.
Where in this pickle (Precious Nose-gayes)
I lodg'd 'um, like the sign oth' Cross-Keyes.
And taking Horse, from thence I packt on,
Nor stopt, nor stayd till come to Acton.
From thence, I posted strait to London,
And thither got before the Sun down,
Where lighting, at the Bore so blew,
With Cod so yellow, soon I threw
My willing body, to the Devil—
Where Wine being good, and Drawer civil.
I fixt my self with Quart and Friend,
To Drink thy Health, and there's an End.

An Allusion to Doctor Lluellin's Shon Price.

Occasion'd by some Schollers beating the Souldiers, Nov. 6. 1646. Oxon.

Jack,

I had wrote before, but's best, as 'twas,
For Ugly Cromwell—Let that pass!

159

Thou know'st, one dar'd, as well, t'have went in Hell,
As for to pass, the Souldiers Centinell,
No Letter, now (I'le hold a styver)
Goes without Bristol or Calyver.
And though surpriz'd th'are us'd, like sole on heel,
May be exchang'd, for a Broom-man Colonell.
But mine once snapt (as 'tis hap hazard)
Is prizon'd—'slid they'le flit her Mazard!
And faith! thou know'st, 'twould come but odd in,
To tear the sheets of Joseph Goodin.

But now it comes (pry'thee be more sweet
And stay here Jack and wipe thy forefeet.)
Now if belief, where faith and love is,
I've fed on nothing, but Anchoves.
And sirrah Jack! I think no body puts
In's belly better, then at Body cuts:
Come friend, 'twould make your Pallat water,
To dine on these, with sallat after,
I would the King (but Pox why wish I one)
VVould give such Topers a Commission,
A Friend of yours, I'le hold a wager,
VVould not be long, from being Major.
But yet (methinks) my Guts be lank yte,
I long for such another Banquet.

160

Our Food was sweet (beleive you that too)
But sower sance came with the Tattoo.
And yet the Rogues (if I may speak one thing)
Can't boast them Scot free, from our Reckoning,
Faith! I'de consent (if they would tarry)
That they should rent the Ordinary
We paid 'um well (yes ready down)
For every Pint, a good crackt Crown:
And (e're a Baker could have bolted)
The Pottle-pot, was 'bout their Jolt-head:
As for the Quart (e're we could end it)
One at the Captains head did send it.
Oth' Chamber-floor (howe're disgusted)
The Blood lay, thicker then the Dust did,

And now I think on't (Jack) my muse is
About to tell what more the news is.
The youth oth' guard (but smal friends) list ho!
Came not to suck the Milk of Bristo'
But oh! his scarf, his scarf! God bless us.
'Twas neither Red, nor Blew by J---
But such (although we car'd not for't all)
As oft hath frighted Bumpkin mortall.
View all the Colours, of Dame Iris,
View Pedlars Pack, what that same tyre is,

161

And if there be an odd piece, joyn't
See Shoe-strings, or see Cod-piece point;
I say, this Pedlar, nor that Rain-bow,
Did nere such Colour, dy'd in grain, show.

Twas Orange Tawny (Jack) yellow as saffern,
As who should say, no colour for a Taverne
And this must fright us sure we are all undone,
As Mortal fear'd, when Bul-Calf came from London,
Or else when Cromwel, riding Dun Mare's
Display'd his Tawny Colours, with ---

Well! somthing comes to Dore, with that, we cry all,
Curtis! Lay Kester down! unstring the Viall!
One bids the guard give fire, then blow their Matches,
Which we ne're thought to meet while we Sung Catches;
After some pause, (for this thou know'st would tire one)
He draws his Pistol out, his huge Cold-iron crimes,

You Rogues (said he) I will revenge these Grimes:
For I am sent from th'Guard by Good Man

162

Your Countenances shall look dully,
For want of Sack, to wash your Gully,
Your Carcases (without all Scoffin,)
Shall wish a Sack. But for their Coffin;
From your Anchores I'le you wean thus,
(Which fit you, for the Sports of Venus)
Your Oysters bought (I make no quarrel)
Somtimes ith' (Peck, somtimes ith' Barrel;
I'le send, to those well-minded Sisters,
That want provokers, more then Clysters.
Then't shal be said ('tis worth two shillings that
They are my Coolers, I their Billings-gat.

At this one night (brave Father Lasher,)
Our Major he, the Haber-dasher;
But to the Wise, one word's enough,
They swore Udz niggs, we swore Udz bluffe;
And, e're a zealous eye could twinckle,
Their Hands they shake, their Hams they crinckle;
In what a shitten-Case, I wisse now,
Was that same snivelling Coward Biscow,
VVhich faster ran, Spectator Poses,
Either their Heeles or else their Noses:
VVho scaped, to the Main Guard went
VVhich was of Grimes his Regiment.

163

Knockt to the Guard they come, and faith that was hard,
Not one of them, without a Broken Mazard,
And all away, in such post hast are gon,
As 'twere from Blincow, yes & Rowlandson.

On Oxford Visitors, setting up their Commissions on the Colledge Gates, &c. 1648.

I th' name of Father Abraham, what are ye,
Disturb our Peace 'tis time for to beware Ye ---
But oh the Devils! here they come, they come!
The Children, run and cry out there's the Mumme.
Look here again! thus fly they to, and fro,
That Sucklings, Goblings ne're did fright Men so.

164

Why what's the matter Friends? I hope that all's safe!
D'ye run away, b'instinct like Sir John Falstaffe,
And stare, and buffe, and puff, as if y' had been
Mauld, by th'unluckie Rogues in Kendall Green;
The Women, in such tirrits, and frights do goe,
Dame Quickly, near fear'd swagg'ring-Pistol so.

Why what should daunt 'em thus? with that, we turn us,
(For 'twas a thing, that might, in time, concern us)
When, half amaz'd, they cry out God save all!
The White thing yonder up against the wall—
Then—Lord have mercy on us! well! wee'l see,
What in the Name of God, these Devils be.
So, on we go; where appears (at first sight)
Ten Misbegotten-Slaves, in black and white,
Incarnate Devils, who (forsooth) are sent
From far, by the Infernal Parliament
To greet us here (but 'tis untowardly this)
Not (as St. Paul sayes) with a Holy Kisse.

165

But here, these curst Embassaders of Hell,
Must sit and Judge the Tribes of Israel;
And such a Jury, none could e'ere devise,
Since first the Devil held his Grand Assize.

Say what these Monsters are? who can describe,
The several Species, of this Round-head Tribe—
But how comes Cheynel in amongst the rest,
Oth' Holy Sect? tis true, the Man's possest;
He'l make mad work, and sniv'ling Wilkinson
Why who? (the Devil) should send him for one?

But why should Harris be excluded thus?
He looks, for all the VVorld, like Æacus,
Or bearded Moses in an Ale Wifes Hall,
Joyn'd to the stories, of the Prodigal:
But 'twas oppos'd by th'Lower houses sense,
VVho thought, his Years, might use some Conscience.

Thus our blest Reformation comes from Them,
As Christ did, once, into Hierusalem,
Riding on Asses-Colts: Conspirators
Of Hellish-Mischiefs! Oxford's Visitors!
Pox on such Visits! could we but dispense
VVith this, wee'd Court the Plague, or Pestilence.

166

All Souls look't to't, y' are Damn'd, and oh! God blesse us!
They'l dare, to lay their Violent hands on Jesus;
Christ Church (cause Militant they'l scourge with dread,
And Brazen Nose, though 'twere a Brazen-Head.
But oh! New Colledge, double Woe to You,
Their Zeal puts all down, yea the Sisters too,
And why? you Traytors hated, and the Oath,
To Covenant with Baal, and Ashtoroth
The Gods oth' Nations, and your better sense
Distinguish't Treason from Obedience.
Baliol shall fare the better being a Scot,
The Devil, look over Lincoln! Hood shal not!
Gods body! Corpus Christi do n't it please us,
Oriel shall down and Exceter by Jesus;
And let the Fellows know of Trinity,
VVe will reduce them to a Unity.

Curst Generation! wretched viperous Crew!
Mischief to All! oh! to your Mother too!
Ere such be our Reformers we'l be Damn'd?
So many Knaves, and shall not some be slamn'd?

167

Gown-Men are privildg'd in such Causes; thus
Saint Paul did fight, with Beasts, at Ephesus.
So will the Pauls at Oxford, e're they'le be
Enslav'd, to Presbyterian Tyranny.
This is their rest, they suffer can no more,
Then Royal Martyr Charls hath done before:
He that lives best, a tedious life prorogues,
Ere I'le comply, I'le see you hang'd you Rogues!

To my FRIEND, V. O. &c.

VVell (Val.) my Courage up doth bristle,
Like Pistols, to redeem, my whistle,
VVhich Thou, at House, of Sindery,
Didst filch; (for who could hinder ye)
VVhere I, (as many simple man)
Put Churle, upon a Gentleman,
Abating, vigorous Canarye,
VVith thine unballow'd vin de Pari,

168

Thy Champagne, Shabley, and Burgundy,
(Such Geer, as thou'lt Repent of, one day,)
Intoxicating Pericranion
VVith Whimsey vile (as 'tis with many one)
Till Thou, to shame (as I may say)
As Pan, on syringe, hold, did lay
Took'st up my Pipe, and went'st away.

Foul fall thy Glewy Fingers! may the Itch,
Or (what's as good) thy Dear Wine's namesake Pitch,
Spoyle thee, for making Pills, of Turpentine,
(Provided, there may be no hurt in mine.)

VVell! 'twill strain charity, if, ever, I
Forgive thee, for this piece, of Theevery,
VVhereby th'ast Robb'd me (and many Men)
Of Dulce Laborum Lenimen:
My Mirth, my Pleasure, and my Solace,
VVherewith, the Shepheard, erst, did woe Lasse:
For Cares, and Griefs (whatever ayle ye)
Mulcentur, Fistulâ pastorali:
It makes us sound, Tarrantula
It cures, nay there's scant a flaw
It heals not; Chorus sancti viti,
It helpeth straight: (or more's the pitty.)

169

And tell me who's so crank, as are,
The merry Girles, of Lancha-shire,
Who oft, in Hall—from whence our family
Descends (ycleped Bold, (or many lye)
Have handled, feet and danc'd as madly
As, after Piers, the youth, of bradly,

Oh! I have made such Girles dance after
My pype, as (friend) would move your laughter.
Thou know'st 'Twas a-la-mode de France,
(Un-us'd, to whistle Dogg a Dance)
Ne Scotney, nor the Lad, of Islewight,
Can be compared, to my Whistle-wright.
(Away wherewith, you handy went,
To breach, of a Commandement)
Had Orpheus, plaid, on this, (d'yee see)
He had Redeem'd, Euridice.
Whose Charming-strains, & sweet μιμητατα,
Have baffeld, quite, Mira Poemata:
For which my Reason (I'le be true t'yee) was
To wear, a pype; Neglect a Hudibras.
Well! hear fam'd Ancient Pistol, tel ye once
What falls on those, confront, the Helicons!
He sayes, that Gaping, ghastly wounds, and Blisters
(Look to it) shall untwine, the fatal-sisters,

170

Wherefore (good Val.) return, my Flajulate
Thou knowst that Clotho colum bajulat
Lachesis trabit, it ne're mock at)
The word, for Atropos, is, Occat.

Wa'st not enough, to lessen Salary.
With vin d' O bryan, vin sellery
Graves Wines, Burdeaux, Wines of Nautz
Vin d' Hermitage, vin d' Orleans,
Vin de Bov'ry, vin de Boon,
Vin d' Catore, vin Sheroon,
Vin pallet, vin de moy and vin dee,
Vin Court, vin Gree, d' Amant (pox in thee!)
But thou must put me to the purchase,
Of such a pipe, which used in Churches,
Hath brought to pulpit, Roger Karum,
(As Bumkin swears) who long before 'um
Knew not (Jack Falstaf wise) since ever born
Church inside more, then does a pepper corn
As pan, with syrinx, thou with syring, meddle
That's thy True pipe, not mine, and now, I've sed all.
Dear Val: thine own, but can't be merry,
Till, thou restore, my Hotteterre.

Post-script.

Direct to Him, who now in snuff is,
VVithin the Rolles, at House of Office.

171

On the Death of Oliver Cromwell, Septemb. 3. 1658.

Gone with a vengance! had he twenty lives,
He needs must go (they say) the Devil drives,
Nor went he hence away, like Lamb so mild
Or Falstaf, wise like any Chreesoom-Child.
In Arthur's Bosome, he's not hush, yet dy'de
Just as he did (at Turning of the Tyde.
But with it such a wind the sailes, did swel,
Charon, ne're made a quicker pass to Hell.
Now as there must be wonders to portend
Every notorious birth, or dismal end,
Just as when hot spurs Grannam's (cat of yore
Did Kitten, or when Pokins, lost a Bore)
So when this Prodigie of Nature fell,
Herself seem'd half unhang'd: Tempests foretell:
Direfull Events, Boreas was out of breath,
Till by his Soul inspir'd at his death.
Then ful of this same Blustring sir, he throws
Down sturdy Oakes & Elmes, to kiss his Toes:
Himself was Heart of Oke, so now they strive
To Sympath with him, dead, as when Alive:

172

Trees, now, as men, like Trees, reverted stood
you'd think, the devil had been gone to wood.
All things were Topsie-turvy: Thus he fell
The Wrath of Heaven, and the prey of hell.

On the Death of the Famous Apoth. Mr. Gideon De Laune. 1658.

Great Lord of Medicine! whose single skill
Out did Dispensatories, and whose will
Was Arts best Law: since death knew not more sure,
And ready wayes to kill, then he to Cure.
This salves were e'ne as Catholicks as our pain,
And all this Remedies were Soveraigne.
Natures Preservative! who seem'd t'outvy
The Hopes and Armes of his Posterity:
And if her debt had not his Justice try'd,
I'de lay my life upon't, he had not dy'd.
But is he dead—Dead! as I live rude death!
How durst thou be so bold, to filch his Breath

173

That gave so many life? how know'st but be
May hasten time to make an end of thee?
Thus shall his Fate, Philosophy controul
And leave the drooping world without a Soul.
Infection's rife, and raging since his Fall,
And each Disease, is Epidemical:
If Nature prove short liv'd, hence you may read
The sad (but certain) cause-Delaun is dead.

New Years Day. 1657.

To my Dear Friend W. M. Esq;

Though 'mongst the numerous throng I'me hither come
With one poor Item, 'tis my total sum
A poets stock (though no great matter 'tis)
Is all that one can wish, and such is this.

Health that's the joy of life, and soul of Mirth,
Bane to despaire, and comfort of our birth,
May't with your years, as clearly last & rise
As 'twas e're winds had blasted Paradise!

174

Wealth! the support of pleasures, and the Crown
Of worldly hope! the Glory and Renown
Of fortunes white Boyes: the fond Beggars Grutch;
Envy'd of only those deserve not much.
May this (and each) year, yeild to my Lov'd moyle,
As a Perpetual-triumph and a spoyle!

Now, as who not enjoy, or Covet more,
Are but their Riches Gaolers, & stil Poor,
May the same equal temper, the same fire,
(That never flagg'd too low, nor can mount higher)
Inflame your Breast; where to be ever sent
That which all seek (but find not) true content:
May all your Aimes atchive their purpos'd end,
And never find, what 'tis to want a friend,
Unless the kinder Heavens had me assign'd
As much of power to serve you, as of mind,
Then need you, wish no more for't should be known,
How far I prize your fortunes 'bove mine own.

175

'Mongst other gifts, I'le give you this gift too
I ne're found friend, so much a friend, as you.

To Mr. J. Gamble

on his Setting and Publishing the Lyrick Poems, of T.S. Esq;

(Jack)

In this Age when there is scarcely One
That Offers, at a Composition,
Save those sad Souls, within the verge go fal
Of Worcester-house, or Haberdashers Hall,
That thou shouldst set thyself to setting layes
Doth challenge, both our wonder, and our praise.

Nor ist in such a Mood, as't may be se'd,
That Gamble, had a Cratchet in his Head.
For (to be brief) it will be long enough,
'Ere any other, will enlarge the stuff
That Nature lent him to so blest a use,
As is the setting forth of stanley's muse.

176

And to some Tune th'st done it! not by rote
Here's nere a tittle, but is worth the note.
All is so humor'd, both the strong and weak,
Me thinks the very note, doth seem to speak
And Emphasee very phrase: so kindly done,
Stanley inspir'd the Words, and thou the Tone.

Here's such variety, so season'd too,
'Twill please the Women (that I'me sure 'twill do.)
Counter to th'Tenor, of Tom Sternhold's psalm
That's Mongrell'd, with Another, to the same

Thy Fancy, Trebles others and thy scene
Stil changing, shews, thy base was never mean
Oh! how 'twill go against the haire of those
Who drink, in Rime! and exercise in Prose,
Seeing thine idle hours, in their own way,
Have out done all their work, (and that's their play.)
The Song was Stanley's and hath gain'd the Bayes,
Thine is the Prick, and thine shall be the praise.

177

On the hopeful R. Baron of Grayes Inn Esq; 1647.

Baron of wit! 'twere sin to blazon forth
Under a meaner style, thy mighty worth:
'Twere but a trick of state, if we should bring
The Muses Lower-house to Vote thee King,
Thou highly doest deserve it, and the Bayes
Should crown thy brows to thine Eternal prayes.
Whilst usher'd by the graces thou are sent,
To sit as King, ith' Poets Parliament.

The famous Sidney's soul (I think) had gon
A Relict till the Resurrection,
And never been espous'd, now had not she
Round out her match, and wedded been to thee.

We have some things call'd Poets who although
They ne're were versed beyond the Christ-cross Row

178

And never swallow'd possum, think th'are able
To be partakers at the Muses-Table
Who ne're inspir'd were by the Nine Sisters
But took their Learning as folks do their Glysters
And should you come to tell them what you lack
Their wits (like ware ill-plac't in Pedlars pack)
They have, but know not where; perhaps their bundle
May yeild a ballad for the Widow Trundle
Or some such business wherein is shewn
A mournful Ditty, to the pleasant tune
Fortune my Foe: or else-pox what d'yee call it?
When th'ave no more conceit then has a Mallet.
But from their spungy Brains may squeese a sonnet,
When th'ave a fortnight chew'd their Cud upon it.

And shall such clumsi'd humors ever be
Renowned with the Name of Poetrie!
No, 'twere a sin beyond a pardon, you
Deserve the Poets Name, and Laureat too.

179

Thy Book swels high, thy Line's well wrought! not weak!
Thy words might teach Apollo how to speak
In better Phrase, which had he done like thee,
Daphne had ne're been turn'd into a Tree.
Thy twisted Plot so nice a hand hath spun
You'd think, it were not only made but done
And you would not believe me, should I tel
How soon this work was done when 'tis so well.
Go on (Dear friend) enlarge thy spreading Fame,
And let thy Pen mortallize thy Name.

To Mris. M. M. Deliver'd of a Daughter, after the Death of two Sons

March, 1. 1659.

The Eastern Sages, guided by their Star
Brought less Devotion (though they came from farr)

180

To greet their new born Man-child God, then I
To Gratulate your safe Delivery,

Hence as a guerdon for your single-worth
May you need no deliverer, but bring forth
And let your num'erous off-spring grow to be
The Hope and Pride of all Posterity!

Sure God consider'd it, and in this one
For two be took, made Restitution.
Thrice blessed be that Womb! whose plenteous Birth
Can furnish heaven, & yet people Earth.

An Epitaph Written on the Tomb of Mary, Wife of Tho. Ingram, of Temple Newsham, in the County of York Esq; dying in the Birth of two Children,

Oct. 2. 1656.

Reader,

With reverence approach this Tomb
Here lies, a Pattern for the Times to come

181

The Glorious envy of her Sex, where all
Graces and virtues were habitual.
A Wife as one would wish! be this her Pride!
She ne're displeas'd her husband till she dy'd.
To shew her Womb uncurst a double-birth
Gave fruit at once to heaven, & to earth,
But heaven was their centre, deeming meet
The swathing linnen for their Winding-sheet,
The Mother, loth to stay behind, but knew
Her infants parted, and departed too
Triumphs, and Halelujahs! heaven's possest
By Mary, with a Babe at either Breast!
They were too good for this World—
Here they lye.
Children and Heirs to all Eternity.

The Morning Visit on his Mistris.

It had been morn, but fairer Celia lay
With Curtaind-eyes, and so contrould the day

182

When to her sacred shrine, in lovely guise
I came to pay my Morning-sacrifice,

She lay like Danae when (blessed hap!)
Jove in a storme of Gold assailed her Lap:
But had he Celia seen, he had confest,
She had best welcome, for so great a Guest.
Whose single Entertainment was such chear,
As all the gods might come and banquet there.

Her Locks (or I might better say) her Rayes
Might from the Delphick Poets purchase prais
Rather then Phæbus beams, they do but light
The night of day, but these make day of night.
A purer red, her Damask Cheeks disclose,
Then when the Sun salutes the bashful Rose:
Or when the morn in crimson Robes arraid
Blushes to think, her night sports were betraid.
Her Lips (but here I want expression,)
For nothing, e're could make comparison
Were seal'd, as if they pleasure took in this,
That modestly they could each other Kiss.
On which such balmy drops of dew arise,
As ne're distill'd, from Trees in Paradise;
Whereat mine easie Genius, prompted me,
To tast the Fruit, of this Forbidden Tree.

183

Twixt Eve's, and this sort, here the difference lies,
By that, Flesh fell, but this doth make it rise.
Now, mine encourag'd hand, presumes to Touch,
Her downy Breasts, whose rising hills, are such,
That every Grace might court them for her Sphear,
And all the Muses joy, t'inhabit there.
In whose blest vallyes, Love and Beauty lye,
And there decree, the Murthers, of her Eye,
Where, now, my willing hand (in fond amaze,)
Would seem to dwell, & circle in this maze,
But curious Fancy, will not be confin'd;
How well Love finds the way, though he be blind!

From thence, I wander ore the neighbring Hill,
Whose bottom founts such odorous streams distill,
As Cupid, tyr'd, with chasing Lovers hearts
Comes there, to bath, himself, and cool his Darts:

184

And Venus, when her Doves unharness'd were,
Hath whipt 'em thither, for to Water there.

Here's the Elysian Fields! the happy Grove,
Where beauty banquets, with the god of love!
Whose shade, with violets strew'd, and Lillies spread,
Do seem a Chaplet, for her Maiden-Head:
Where, after feasting, Venus, with her Son,
Sports, on the banks, of this same Helicon;
And Love-knots tye, (what pretty sport th'ave found?)
With grass, that grows upon this holy ground.
Which, curling round Loves fingers (pretty Plot!)
He shews his Mother, what fine rings h'as got,
And kissing, did intreat her, to bestow,
One single thread to make a string for's bow:
And ask't, (as if the Lad could somthing do)
Whether, he might not have that quiver, too.
But Venus frown'd, & with the Flowers by.
She whipt the Boy, for's waggish Knavery,
And sharply told him, with Majestick Grace,
'Twas Sacriledge, to take, from such a Place,
And though to see or touch, she did approve,
Yet for such tricks she'd banish him that Grove:

185

So, took him by the hand, & thence they go
And wanton on the melting Field of Snow:
And when th'had kist each other, and were Friends,
Venus (to make the Little Rogue amends)
Tol'd him, that, for his Bow she would allow,
The half bent Circle, in my Celia's Brow;
And, when he was resolv'd, to slay tame Hearts,
The Glances, of her eyes, should serve, for Darts:
And for his string (if he must needs have two)
Her locks would yield him strings, and fetters too.

Who, being thus provided needs would try,
To wound her, with her own Artillery
For well he knew, she did defie, and scorn,
The Shafts, which were, within his Quiver, worn:
(For, being baffeld, by her, on a Day,
He, angry, threw his Bow, and all away:)
But, since he's better furnisht, dares defie,
His former Foes, and sue for Victory:

186

But wary Venus, did the Fight defer,
And caus'd her Son, to make a Truce, with Her:
Which, being enter'd, Love & She Combine
To Conquer All, and therefore do conjoyn,
Their single Forces, and their Power in One,
Wherefore—take heed! for All the world's undone.

To the Lady, M. W.

So does the Body, when the Soul has gon,
And pawn'd him, till the Resurrection,
Re-greet each other, as I salute You,
Who art my Life, my Light and Glory too.

But oh! what torments do those Lovers prove,
That find their Service, ill repai'd with love?
And must I be oth' Number? can there be,
A Loving Soul that more can Honour Thee?
Thou art my Fancy's Idol, and hast won
My Soul, unto a Superstition,
That never needs Repentance; I dare dye,
A ready Martyr, to thy Diety:

187

And was there ever Saint so Tyraniz'd
To fire that Altar, where She's idoliz'd?

But I'me a Yonger Brother, not born high,
I would be Nothing, so I were not I:
Ah! shall not well-stampt Love go currant, where
Unlucky Fortune, hath deny'd a share?
But when two Souls together Match we do,
Must there be made a Match of money too?
Let not our Friends controule our Loves, wee'l prove
Dead, to Obedience, so we live to love;
Though 'tis acknowledg'd that your worth alone,
Might make a Kingdom proud of such a one
None can dislike our Loves, for here's the odds
When Men make Others Lovers, Us the Gods.
Then be as Kind, as Beauteous and turn all
My former Plagues, into a Cordiall
And may thy Body, nere my Purchase be
If ere my Soul prevaricate from thee! mov'd,
Then (Dearest) speak my Life, with Pitty
Or bid me Dye, because I over-Lov'd.

188

Epitaph, D. Arth: Ingram, E. A. Eborac. P. M. S.

189

Englished, and Engraven, Thus.

Rest ye in peace, Great Souls! who purchas'd have
What You deserv'd in Life, now, by the Grave!
How great a Good's Mortality!
'Tis an uncertainty,

190

Whether more sad or happy thing it be,
For that he could, or that he ought to dye:
Sir Arthur Ingram Knight
By Title, Noble Blood, & fortune's height,
A Name of Weight:
But,
For the rare endowments of the mind,
And piety, which amongst few hath shin'd
As every other one he did out-do,
He, then himself, was also greater too.
Say, amongst thousands, one where shalt thou see
In High Things, Low
In Plenty Sober too
And Constant in Inconstancy?
This Best of men was He
Who Fortune Goods 'mongst virtues, first, did sacred make to be:
Through (and beyond) all, was his honesty.
The Churches Son and Father, so
A Pupil, and a Patron too.
With his supplies he did supply her want
When militant
So Catholiquely Beneficial,
Whether men would or no, so liberal,
As he'd make all men his, and himself all.

191

Of Love, to's choice Wise, not to be exprest
Whereof she bears (though here the marble rest)
A monument more lasting in her breast.
All things Immortal in this Heroe were
But meer Mortality:—
Why Weepest thou here?
That which thou seest within this vaulted Room
The Temple is of vertue not the Tomb.

Epitaph on R. Webb,

hang'd for Ravishing a Child of five years old May, 19. 1651.

Here lyes curst Webb! who living, spun though short,
So fair a thread, a Halter choakt him fort,
For Bardolph's like 'twas cut with vile reproaches
And Edge of Penny-Cord-so Bonas noches!

192

The Visit on Mris. S. L.

Fair Suaviana having made it day,
Before the Lazy Sun began to stirre
And caus'd the Delphick Preists mistaking lay
Their offrings at her Shrine & worship her;
Guided by th'influence of her Starry eyes,
I came to pay my morning sacrifice
A Yoke of Kisses, and a shower of Tears
Made up of sighs and prayers 'twixt hopes and fears.

Oh when she issu'd from her bed (Lov's Sphear)
Such sudden flashes lighten'd here and there
That as one Planet-struck Amaz'd I stood
To see such brightnes sally, through a cloud.
Then o're her world-like head, she gently threw,
A flaming petty Coat, which to the view,
Appear'd by the reflection of her Eyes,
As the Sun sets e're winds and storms arise

193

But (as smal Love would have it) on her Hips
It tenter'd was, as loth for so Eclips
So fair a prospect, underneath which place
Her scallop'd smock was prety. Faith! it was.
And now the height of mine Ambition is
The hem of such a Garment but to kiss,

As on a velvet Couch she seated was
To sheath her Legs within a silken Case
Her Thighs were laid a cross, as who should say
A good luck on ye! blest for all the day!
Which as she did untwine, you might have seen
The place where Love & Beauty frolick in;
The Port was to the view, half open set,
The folding dores were Coral, hing'd in jet.
Within a Court, with Crimson Velvet lyn'd
Which Love for his own Lodgings had assign'd;
There several Chambers were, and beside these,
There were no other Rooms, but Room to Ghuess.
Cætera desiderantur.

194

Translation,

Eleg. 4. Lib, 2. Ovid: Amorum.

There's no one certain beauty, can me move,
There are a hundred causes why I love.
If one behold me, with a modest Eye,
I'me fir'd: ensnar'd ev'n by that modesty well-bred,
Is she no Clown? I'me pleas'd with one
And gives me hope, she's Active in a Bed:
If like the Sabine dames, she Coy, doth fit,
I think she would, but she dissembles it.
If Learn'd; I'me pleas'd with Ingenuity;
If Rude, she's pleasing by simplicity:
There's one, who sayes Callimachus to me,
Writs ill, whom I please, she'l soon pleasing
Another, does me, and my Verses blame,
With her, I'de have a little of that same:
Doth she step stately, motion takes me and
Hard-hearted Girles, prove kinder, when well man'd.

195

This cause she sings, and can command her Voice,
To Kiss her, as she sings, should be my choice.
This o're the murmuring chords runs swiftly and
Who can refrain, to Love so queint a hand?
This, to a measure, can herself advance
And bend her tender Body in a Dance:
To say nought of my self, whom, all sakes move
Hippolytus would there Priapus prove.
Thou cause th'art tall, equall'st the Heroes dead,
And lyest a mighty Body in a bed,
This short one's sweet, All comes to Net, is Fish
Both long and short, are even as I'de wish.
Is she not bred; I ghess what if she were;
Is she well dress'd, she shews her good gifts there.
I'me taken with a fair maid, or a yellow,.
Nay lust, even in a Black thing has no fellow.
If Black locks dangle on her snowy Neck
Leda with such, was seen her self to Deck:
If yellow, such Aurora flow from thee:
My Love, fits me, for every History.

196

Youth me provokes, old Age provokes me too
For manners; that, this better to the view
Nay all the City Girles, one can approve
For all of these, I've an Ambitious Love.

To R. B. Esq;

having Read his Mirza.

Thy scene was Persia, but too like our own,
Only our Soffie has not got the Crown,
Me-thinks it so concernes us, as it were
A Romance there, but a true story here.

Had Johnson liv'd t'have seen this work h'ad sed
Th'adst been his bravest Boy! strok't thee oth' head
Given thee his blessing in a bowle of Wine
Made thee's Administrator, or Assign.
But father Ben. I think was too much Poet,
To have much wealth (one need not care who owe it)

197

Besides had Elder Sons, yet, where there's merit,
Or custom, Yonger brothers oft inherit.
What though of's Gold th'ast got the Devil a bit,
I'ne sure th'art heir apparent to his Wit
Which thou hast in that vigour, and high shine
As when he wrote his Strenuous Cateline.
Hence be't observ'd 'mongst our Chronologers,
Since Johnson inspir'd Baron—Years.
You are so much each other (no dispraise)
Robin and Ben are now synonoma's
Nor can time blast a Wit: thine's ripe as His
That Age, a Johnson crown'd, a Baron this.

Elegy at the Funerals of W. Moyle Esq;

May 28. 1660.

Sad, as forsaken Lovers! black as night
When yet un-chaos'd to be christend light!

198

Heavy as Laden consciences! and Pale,
As childish fears! Why mourn ye? What d'ye ayle?

You, that were wont for to out dare the Sun
In's Glory, now, as if your souls were gone
And left your bodies pawnd until they come;
Grief and disaster (only fill the Room.)
But Oh!—

I've met the Cause! Behold! and see
The subject (once) of your Idolatry!
Moyle that was (late) the glory and the prize
Of Arts and Natures misteries, here lyes
Cold as the hand of fate, as breathless grown
As winds were in the first confusion:
Here sigh and weep! whilst in a sacred boast
I tell what you and all the world have lost.

Moyle! the lov'd Moyle! whom 'tis as hard to praise
As 'twas to imitate his works and wayes.
He was (believe me Reader for 'tis rare?)
One in whom all choice Gifts implanted were.

199

Man Miracle! who when alive possest,
All ingrost virtue, in his Catholick Breast,
Where all the graces dwelt as 'twere their Sphere
And every muse, took up her Lodging there.
And sadly, now, to Celebrate his Herse,
Burthen their Eyes, with tears, their hands with verse.
His Countryes Joy! and Greif! None was more free
Hearted, or handed, to the Poor, then He;
If good works prove short-liv'd here you may read
The sad (but certain) cause, 'Tis he is dead.

No truth in Proverbs! April showers (they say)
Bring forth the fragrant flowers of following May.
April hath cropt our Prim-rose there it lies,
From hence transplanted, into Paradise.
Thus do we sow our seed, to rot i'th Earth
That it may quicken to a second Birth;
Thus is he laid in Ground, never to Dye,
But to spring up, to all Eternity.

200

New Years Day

to my Dear Friend, W. M. Esq;

Now Janus bids the world a good New-year
Faces about, then sets us as we were.
When (by your means) I'me clear'd of that great doubt,
And care I had to bring the year about.
Now custom summons me, with every man
(As springs pay Tribute to the Ocean)
To make Returnes, and offer at that shrine
Whence I derive, that all I dare call mine.
And (as in duty bound) should thither come
Not with a single gift, but Hecatombe.
See the Stenography of Dearth and Scant.
Some want no store, and I no store of want.
And can but this advantage gain thereby
To priviledge my down right Poetry.

Oh could rime pay my scores! or make amends,
I'de have such verses at my Fingers Ends:
As without byting, Knuckles should distill,
Had thus readily my Wit at will,
Till mounted on the spreading wings of Fame
You should triumphant ride, & your vast name

201

Be Eccho'd, till it had reacht either Pole,
And so become immortal as your Soul

Or were I rich! but this age will not yeild
More Argent, to me, then my Griffon's Field,
Or could he with his display'd Sable Wing,
As Pegasus did once, create a Spring,
Which like Pectolus with it's silver streams,
Should stil bring fresh supplies to mine extrems;
Had I this wish, my Chief should never view
A Moyle but Argent, and imbordur'd too.
But oh! this will not do! no stock can serve
To Pay, or Praise you, so as you Deserve.

A Frolick to W. M. Esq;

Returnd from France,

1

Oh for a Bowle, whose wide capacious fraught
Was never fathom'd by a Poets draught!
To welcome Moyles return, I'de drink it up
Of thanks, the day should be, of grace the cup.

202

2

I'de court the driery, Sea-gods now to send,
Their Ocean in a frolick while each friend
Of Moyles shall suck it to an Ebb and they
With tears of joy augment it's flow agen.

3

Moyle whom so oft we fancy'd it our bowles
Thy very name reviv'd our duller Souls,
And lent so kind a flavor to the wine,
It relish't good or bad, as th'health was thine.

4

Thou travelst not like those, who only know
To spit at wine, to beat a drawer, or so,
To ruffle Boot-hose-tops, or pleat a Cuff
Or set a Circumcised, Cod-piece off.

5

No, thou art better bred, thou went'st to view
Strang manners lik'st the best, & learnd'st them too.
Our glorious envy, though we cannot tell
How much thou improv'dst thy parts, we know how well

6

Hence at my noble Moyles, return from France
The winds did whistle, to the waves to dance

203

The sea-nymphs sung, and seem'd to wanton more,
Then when the courtly floods Leander bore

7

But had they known, as I, how fair a shrine
Thou cam'st t'adore (Hero's, being dull to) thine;
Th'ad snatcht thee from her while each rival she
Had in her calme embraces swallow'd thee.

8

Now happy pair! where every mutual kiss,
Informs what pain it is to want that bliss:
The graces guard her! while each muse shall be
Or drunk in fancy, or in Love with thee.

The Hang-mans Motto upon Burning the Covenant.

Behold the Covenant and Kingdom quit!
That, first set this on fire, now this sets it.

204

Rebellion, to the sin of Witchcraft, turn'd
The Covenant, doing thus, was, therefore Burn'd:
The Covenant (God bless us!) was an Oath
Like a god-dam'-me, to a Faith and Troth.

205

TO His Sacred Majesty Charles the II.

At His happy Return.

So comes the Sun after a half-years night,
To the Be-numb'd, and Frozen Muscovite,
As we (great Britain's Influence!) welcome you
Who are our Light, our Life, and Glory too.
Your Presence is so Soveraign, counter Fate,
It makes, alone, our Island Fortunate:

206

Whilst we (like Eastern Priests) the night being done,
Fall down, and Worship You, our Rising Sun.
But!—

As Devotes (of old) did use to stay
Below the Foot, nor durst approach to lay
Their Duties on the Sacred Shrine, so I
(Not qualifi'd for the Solemnity
Of Offering at Your Altar) stand at door,
And wish as much as they, who give you more.

May You live long and happy, to improve
In Strangers, Envy; in Your Subjects Love!
And marry'd may Your Computation run
Even, as Time, for every year a Son!
Until Your Royal Off-spring grow to be
The Hope, and Pride of all Posterity!

May every Joy, and every choice Content,
Be trebled on You! & what e're was meant,
My Soveraign's care & trouble, may it prove
Quiet and Calm, as are th'Effects of Love!

Last, having liv'd a Patern of such worth,
As never any Age did yet bring forth,
Ascend to Heaven; where th'Eternal Throne
Crowns You with Grace, shall Grace You with a Crown.

207

St. George's Day, Sacred to the Coronation of his Most Excellent Majesty Charles the II. By the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, &c.

Triumphs! and Halelujahs! let us Sing!
Hallowing the Day to our three Kingdom'd King!
Thus Upper-Jove (once) when secur'd, and free
From Heaven-assayling-Gigantomachie,
Conven'd the gods, at his commanding call,
Like Charles and's Peers, at George's Festival.
'Twixt Those, and These, there is but one Remove:
Lievetenants here, to the Supreme above.
St. George for England! Andrew! Dennis. They
Are, but as Vigils, to our Holy-Day.

208

A Roman Triumph is, Compar'd to This,
A Whitson Ale: A meer Parenthesis.

Scarce hath the lazy Sun his Circuit gone,
But! Revolution! Revolution!
Our King Proclam'd! Restor'd! and Crown'd! A Year
Like Plato's, sets us Even as we Were.
Blest be the Time! oh may it henceforth be,
Calendar'd Englands Year of Jubilie!
For ever Sacred, to the Crown of Charles,
And early Fame, oth' (Arch) Duke's Albemarles.
He that does claim, the Ends oth' Earth his Own.
May boast more Kingdomes, but not such a Crown.
A Crown which o're your fairer Temples, hurl'd
As Drake did once, encircles all the World.

Thanks to th'Eternal Powers! who preserv'd
For You, so Long, what You so soon deserv'd.
Shame on the Vile-Usurpers! what their Source
Of violence sway'd, your patience won perforce.

209

When, they were dy'd in grain with Royal-Blood,
And nothing was, but as they made it good.
When Hell had so enhanc'd Rebellion,
To Kill the Heir and take Possession.
(Oh 'tis Forgiven! may it be Forgot!
He came to's own, & they receiv'd him not.)
When we oth' Loyal, in despair were hurl'd,
As if your Kingdoms, were not of this World,
When doubts and horror, as at Day of Doom,
Had seiz'd us all, then! lo! Your Kingdomes Come!

See! where He's Crown'd! A King of Kings! like Saul!
As Proper too, it may be not so Tall.
As Glorious, as the Sun, on Easter Day,
Yorke, like the Morning-Star, does gild the Way
Glocester's translated to another Sphere,
To Celebrate a Coronation, There.
A sacred Treason to His Brother Prince!
Seizing His Birth-right, and Preheminence!
He took Possession first, receiv'd a Crown,
Not-like-to-fade, an Everlasting One.
As if the Grand Disposer, had assign'd,
Eternity to Heirs by Gavel-kinde.

210

But—He that Wisht Himself and Heir were gods,
The next Son King of France, (as no great odds)
Had he but known, the Wealths your Nations bear,
T'had been his Wish, t'have Liv'd a Subject Here

When the Great Lord of Light, with's fiery Horse,
Does, Gyant-like, rejoyce to run his Course.
The Beasaunts of the Skye are Sabled quite,
Suffering Eclipse, from such redundant Light.
But Charles his Starry Peers, about Him Shone
As if They meant, to rival with the Sun,
(Yet had an Eagle-Eye been Scrutinous,
Sol in's full-Glory, was less Glorious)
Oh may Those Planets, that so Stately move,
Ith' Lower Orb, be lately fixt above!
Th'Exalted Heads, oth' Higher minded Crew,
Had they their Lights agen, to take a View
Of this fair Prospect, where Divinity,
Is so well temper'd, with Humanity.

211

Graces, and Vertue, thron'd alike in You:
'Twould e'ne Convince them, Their Conceits were True.
Had they kenn'd Likeness, th'ad ne're grudg'd You room,
On Earth, as His Vice-Gerent till He Come.
Their King, and Our's are Name-sakes: for-'Tis true,
Y'have been our Saviour, and Redeemer too.
Safty was, erst, ill-sorted with Committee,
And Liberty, with Keepers, (more's the Pitty!)
You are Annointed too, and so was Christ,
And to the King, must be annex'd the Priest,
And Prophet too, for till You came, the Elves
Did serve God worser then they serv'd themselves.
He that refus'd the Hoast, because it came,
As Christ did once, into Hierusalem)
Upon an Asse, had he seen What ours do,
He had Receiv'd it and been Thankfull too.
The Devil's a Saint! Both Prester-John and Joan
Handle the Word, without a Mitten on.
Works are Apocripha'd, as little worth,
Every She-Hinter, would be holding forth,

212

The Surplice, Table, Rails, are raild upon
As the Appurtenance of Babylon.
But You Undiffering Sect, and Protestant,
The Church will cease, from being Militant.

Here Lord encrease our Faith! for he that tells
Your Worth, and Gests, must needs write Miracles
At fatal Worcester, when Your Arms were grown
Weary'd and faint with Execution,
By Multitudes oppress'd, which still pursue,
(though utter Ruine could not injure You.)
Just as the Soul is from the Body flown,
Unseen, You scape their Inquisition;
Like Bird from Snare: But—like You there was None
'Twas like Your self: Without Comparison.
Wonders are not yet ceas'd: here's Divine Care!
Kings have their Angels truly-Tutelar.
But! hast! my Muse, unto the Muses King,
And low, present Him, with this Offering!
Know! and advance Your Friends! Your Foes keep down!
And may no Argyle-hand come near your Crown!

213

And when the Princes of the World shal dare,
In an ambitious-strife, to Cull the Bare
Accomplisht Lady, of such eminent Worth,
As Romance never feign'd, nor Age brought forth,
To serve You as a Queen oh! may She prove
One, that shal still atchieve Your Princely love!
Let the continuing pleasures of the Bed
Be iterations of a Maidenhead!
And as in years, so in Affection grow,
That when Shee's Old, You may not Think her so!
Peace be forever here! no Disputes rise,
But which awes Most, Your Armies, or her Eyes.
May from Your Royal Loyns an Issue come,
To Govern all the Tribes of Christendome!
And let that Race supply this Scepter's sway
While Stars shall rule the Night, or Sun the Day:
May al Your Sons be like You in th'Extream!
And ('tis presum'd) None ere shall be like Them.
Else we despair when Fate shall lead You home,
Of One, like You, lest Jove himself should come.

214

Go late to Heaven! (though too soon I fear
They'l spoile us Here, to be enriched There)
Where (Course being finisht) take (as St. Paul hath)
A Crown of Glory!—You have kept the Faith.
This Day's Commemoration still remain!
But—May I never see the Like again.

Anniversary, To the Kings Most Excellent Majesty CHARLES the II.

On His Birth and-Restauration-Day, May 29. Having Resolv'd to Marry with the Infanta of Portugall, May 8th, 1661.

Connubio jungam Stabili, Propriamque dicabo.

Let us fall down! and Worship Charles His Ray!
A Sun that Summer's all our Year to May!

215

Had Phœbus ever shone so fair as This,
Daphne had scrap'd her Metamorphosis.
The Priest oth' East, by th'influence of your Worth,
Mistaking Shrines, shall now Adore the North.
The Guiding-Star, oth' Man-child God, did gain
Less Seekers there, than does our Charles His Wain.
Sol in Aspect with Luna! Loe! a Queen
Coming from far! fam'd Beauties Magazin!
The Wealth oth' World! the Glory of the Earth!
Fair as the Star that Blaz'd at Charles His Birth!
A Queen of Beauty, Love, and Innocence!
Sweet as the Smoak perfum'd with Frankincence!
A Feature made up of such Harmony,
As Nature had her nicest Symmetry
Reserv'd till Now. Her more then Glorious Eye,
Shines like a Diamond set in Ebonye.
Whereat, the God of Love, does Light His Darts
When He resolves the spoyle of sullen Hearts.

216

Her World-like Head, tress'd with such lovely Brown,
That every single Hayre deserves a Crown.
Whose All, and Every Part, do so excell,
Plutarch could ne're have found Her Paralel.
For sure as Heavens have design'd Her Queen,
'Twas onely Charles could Match with Katherine
Thus like the Southern Queen Shee's drawing on
To Commune with our Wiser Solomon
Wee'l 'bate the Spice and Camells (Gifts too small
Bringing Her single Self, She gives, Us All.

When two such Planets in Conjunction are
At every Birth, how Great will be the Starr!
Twice did Our Edward win the Peoples Love
By Meen, & Person—Oh how Charles would move!
'Twixt their two Fates the only difference is
That gain'd it for a Time, for ever, This.
As erst to Cæsar, Nations now agree
To yield to One that's more August than He.

217

How timely did the Græcian fall a sleep!
Had He now Liv'd, there were no cause to Weep.
He little thought the Sea had ever hid
A World, where You should out-do what He did.
How timely did the Swedish Charls retreat!
And quit the Earth in dread of Charles the Great!
'Tis one Excuse for Atheists, that they view
A Deity, and think there's None, but You.

When two such Planets in Conjunction are,
At Every Birth, how Great will be the Star!
Blest be this Moneth for ever! Natures Pride!
Worth all the Seasons of the Year beside!
A month that such a flower has brought forth,
As decks the South, and perfumes all the North!
What York and Lancaster could ne're have done,
Till they were well Contracted into One.
This month scarce ownes a day that hath not shown
More Triumph in it, then in Annalls known.
For un-beholden to his Ushers Shower,
He (of himself) affords Another Flower,

218

So rare, that, amongst Natures Glories seen
'Twill be unquestion'd, which is King and Queen.
May from this precious Plant an Off-spring rise
To make all Christendom a Paradise!
That every Son may be AUGUST, we pray
And every Daughter Lady of the May!

—Tecum Sociales impleat annos
Quæ nisi Te, nullo Conjuge, Digna fuit:

Ovid.

On the Thunder, Happening after the Solemnity of the Coronation of CHARLES the II.

On Saint GEORGE'S Day, 1661.

Exhilarant ipsos gaudia nostra Deos.

Mart.

Heavens! we thank you, that you Thundred
As We did here, you Cannonado'd too.

219

A brave Report! as if you would out-vie
Volleys, discharg'd by Charles His Cavalrie.
'Twas still in Clouds and Tempests your voice came!
For lesse than That could not have spoke His Name.
Thus Mighty Jove, Co partner in our Joy,
Out-sounded, what we cri'd, Vive le Roy!
A sacred kind of Rival-ship! for here,
We gladly Feign, what they are doing there
'Tis a bold Challenge (but I'le make it good)
Whether our Flames were lesser than their Flood?
As if St. George's Bon-fires would have done

More, than They could, by Inundation.
Avaunt Phylosophy, we plainly prove,
The World must burn, but—'Tis with Charls his love.
Well! let us think upon't! who ere did view
The Sun in's Glory, but 'twas cloudy too?
Great Lights Eclipse the less: nor were you made
To shine so clear, as not t'admit a shade.
You are Our Light, Our Comfort, and Our Hope;
Every good Subject is, your Heliotrope.

220

Two Suns, at once, within our Horizon!
Whilst we dispute, which was the fairer one!
A pretty Emulation! Both did strive
Who should receive most beams, who most should Give:
'Til th'upper-Lamp shrunk in his useless ray,
And left, the Conquering Charles, to rule the Day.
'Twas his Discretion, for had Both shone Bright,
Heat had surpass'd the comfort of the Light;
Then did he weep for joy,—A lovely weather!
It Rain'd as Heaven and Earth would come together:
And yet—these April-tears, would have us know,
They griev'd above, at Male Contents below.

To see, that Heaven, should design a Court
For Us, like Theirs, and some—not Thank

221

RITES on the Famous and Renowned, Sir CHARLES LUCAS, and Sir CHARLES LISLE:

Murther'd at Colchester, Aug. 28. 1648. Their Funeral Solemniz'd, June 7. 1661.

Are Lisle and Lucas Dead, and not Day done?
Nor a perpetual darkness mask the Sun?
Is Nature still alive? No Signes fore-run,
To presage general-Confusion?
Methinks their Fall should have unhing'd the Sphears
And the whole World bin made a Grave with Theirs!

Heavens! was Jove asleep? or's Thunder spent?
To put up this Uncivil Complement,
Without Revenge?—Rebels will hardn'd be,
(Great God!) e're long, to make a Shot at Thee.

222

Ye Powers look to't! Attempts ne're swell'd so high,
To threat a Surer Gigantomachy:
This only may prevent their rage, for fear,
Lest Charls and George should lead an Army There.
They'r in Commission still, but here's the odds,
Princes imploy'd them then, but now, the Gods.

But Death was sudden to call either hence,
E're he could summon him—His Excellence.
Fate might have spar'd Them longer, till Th'ad done
That Service throughly they so well begun.
England hath dearly mist them, Wee had seen
Charles in his Throne e're this, & never been
Acquainted, with an Armye's Government,
Or what is meant, by Power of Parliament.
Black Tom had slept long since, with Essex-Calfe,
Lucas his other Blow had lay'd him safe.
Or Loyal Lisle (after his Noble wont)
Had fought, the other time in's Shirt, t'have Done't.

223

Religion might have flourisht, learning flown,
When Now We have so Much (God help's) W'have None.

But Heaven for-stall'd Them; Saw, a Work so Great,
Inferiour Mortals never could Compleat,
So took't upon Themselves, to let us know,
The Gods above, must have a hand below,
As if Great Charles could not be plac't in's Spheare,
Unlesse the Finger of Heaven Thron'd Him there.
Only th'Eternal-Council did Decree
These Famous Souldiers, should oth' party be
And when the Gods had muster'd all their Force,
George should Command the Foot, and Charls the Horse

But oh! the World must still lament the Falls
And Deaths of these Renowned Generals.
Valours! so aw'd by Circumspection,
Jove might have bin secur'd ith' Garrison,
(As sure as Gloucester) Mars look't down & swore
Had he bin there himself he could no more;

224

For having (past belief) maintain'd the town,
To save their Lives, they sacrific'd their own.
Whose blessed Souls to th'skies ascended are,
To raise for th'King, Auxiliaries There,
To Garrison a Heavenly Colchester,
Where Jove, made mighty Lucas Governour,
That Royal Charles, and all his Loyal Peers,
Might Rule for ever, 'mongst his Cavaliers.
This only was Olympick Lisle his Care
To see that none oth' Rebells should come There.

Here lies their Prince's hopes, the Rebels rods,
Who living fought like Men, and dy'd like Gods.

A POEM, to the King's and Queen's most Excellent Majesties at Hampton-Court.

1

In Rapture carry'd up above,
I found the Gods were All in Love:

225

And a Question started,—Whether
Heaven, and Earth should come Together?
So Strongly were the Dieties
Affected with Our Paradice.

2

But in CHARLES and CATHARINE,
Such Divinity was seen,
As their Pattern make the Odds
Little, betwixt Men, and Gods:
So They Vow'd, We should have Here,
A Heaven, on Earth, as They have There.

3

Juno need Jealous be no more,
(Though Cause be Greater than before)
That Her Brother-Husband Jove,
Should Descend, to Filch a Love,
Since, if He chance to quit His Spheare,
He would not leave a God-head There.

4

For when His Leivetenants know,
The Blessings, that are Here below,
And have once but understood,
That Woman can be Great and Good,
They'l Un-people soon the Place,
And plant Their Heaven in Her Face.

226

5

The half-ashamed God of Day,
Saw Her, and did Court Her Ray,
Wishing, that Her Glorious Eye,
Might excuse Him from the Skye;
Only He grudg'd His Sister Moon
A Share, ith' Light, of such a Noon.

6

Beautie's Great Queen, would have come Down,
In quest, of What surpass'd Her Own,
And with Her brought the God of Fight,
As Gallant, to maintain Their right:
But subscrib'd, to Our Blest Pair,
As Queen of Beauty, God of War.

7

The Dieties of Wisedome (too)
Had set their Station up, Below:
Mercy, and Justice fled from Earth,
Had made amends for Our late Dearth;
But wary Jove bespake Them thus,
There's God King CHARLES will out-do Us.

8

The Power of Love (as Mortals know)
Was Commission'd Down Below,
To Complement, that Soveraign Choyce,
To speak which, Wonder wants a Voyce:

227

Who, Proud of stay, does Heaven refuse,
'Cause Here, was such a one, to Chuse.

9

His Mother, seeing the pretty Elfe,
Designing thus t'Advance Himself,
Rebuk'd Him, not, (as erst) for fear
Of's Random-shooting Here and There;
But Charg'd Him to take up His Rest,
In CATHARINE's & CHARLES his brest.

10

Thus hath Our King and Queen of Love,
Endear'd Themselves to Those Above,
Who'd quit Their Immortality,
If to Come hither, were, to Dye:
Wherefore to make Their Loves all Even,
They shall Dye late, and Goe to Heaven.

228

On Hampton Court.

Who knows not Englands Wealth (but who is He?)
Let him O Hampton Court repair to thee.
When he hath scan'd, the whole worlds, vast Abodes,
Hee'l say, that Kings dwell there, but here, the Gods.

On Bold-Hall in Lancashire,

the Antient Seat of our Family, now too like to become Extinct.

That Hall from Bold, did take it's Name,
And Bold, his Name again, from Hall,
Hath told us, long, from whence we Came;
But, Lord knows, whither 'tis, we shall—

229

To Sir W. L. Of the Parliament at Oxon, Kal. Jan.

Thou man of Worth! as free as Ayre to Friends,
Advancing Publique not your Private Ends.
Your Countryes Wealth whose loud desert doth call,
To bring for New-years gifts, our hearts & All;
For now the duller sence hath understood;
Though God makes years new, yet you make them good.

I therefore to your crowded Altar bring,
My little Self, and all an Offering:
But All this All is nothing, yet although,
In power I ebb, in will I'le over-flow.
When if so mean a Present may suffice,
You have the offerers heart, your sacrifice.
And so you have my New years gift: but you
Must give me leave, to give one prayer too.
Live blest ith' lower house, till mighty Jove,
Shall make you Peere ith' upper house above.

230

Satyr, on the Adulterate Coyn Inscribed, The Common-Wealth, &c.

That Common-wealth which was our Common-woe
Did Stamp for Currant, That, which must not Goe
Yet it was well to Pass, till Heaven thought meet
To shew both This & That were Counterfeit.
Our Crosses were their Coyn! Their God our Hell!
Till Saviour Charles became Emanuel.
But now—the Devil take their God! Avaunt
Thou molten Image of the Covenant!
Thou lewd Impostor! State's, and Traffique's Sin
A Brazen Bulk, fac'd with a Silver Skin!
Badge of Their Saints-Pretences, without doubt!
A Wolfe within, and Innocence without!
Like to Their Masqu'd Designs! Rebellion
Film'd with the Tinsell of Religion!

231

Metall on Metall, here, we may disclose;
Like Sear-cloth stript from Cromwell's Copper Nose.

Thou Bastard Relique of the Trayterous crew!
A mere Invent, to give the Devil's Due!
Or (as a Learned Modern Author saith)
In their own Coyn, to pay the Publique Faith!
Heavens! I thank you! that, in mine extrem
I never lov'd their Money more than Them!

Curs'd be those Wights! whose Godliness was Gain,
Spoyling Gods Image in Their Soveraign!
They made our Angels evil! and 'tis known,
Their Cross and Harpe were Scandal to the CROWN.
Had, 'mongst the Jews, Their Thirty Pence been us'd
When Judas truckt for's Lord, 't had been refus'd
Worse than that Coyn which our Boyes, Fibbs do call!
A Scotish Twenty-pence is worth them All!

To their eternal shame, be't brought toth' Mint!
Cast into Medals: & their Names stampt in't!

232

That Charon (when they come for Waftage Ore,
May doubt his Fare, and make them wait on shore:
For, if Repentance ransome any thence,
Know!—Charles his Coyn must pay their Peter-Pence.

Prima peregrinos obscæna Pecunia mores Intulit.

Juv.

To the Lady, F. C.

Fair Beauteous-Eys! why do you longer give
My hopes that life, to tell me that I live;
Since if (Dear Fair! You with a smiling eye,
Do throw a Dart, thousands would gladly dye.
So wisht a Death, and in the pleasing fire,
Of those blest flames, give up their Souls t'Expire.

But when a frown shall cloud those shining Eyes,
Which yet consume their Martyr'd Sacrifice,
And check a lively-hope with dead despair,
Making a careful life, a lively Care.

233

When this effect your mystick Beauties prove,
To make Love Conquer, and yet conquer love.

Eyes! tell me not I live, since you bequeath
At best, a dying-life, or living death.
Sweet lips forbear! no more a treacherous kiss
Shall never tempt my credulous heat to wish.
Those sugred baits, betraying Souls to smart,
With flattering smiles, to slay a lovers heart.
Though this you thought, too mild a death would prove,
To kill a Servant, with a Dart of Love.
And found a nearer way to Antedate,
My latter day, with a disdainful Fate;
Causing those lips which made me for to know,
You lov'd me once, now to procure my woe.
And to be once depos'd from love, is more
A death to lovers, then was life before;
Lips say not then I live, since that your breath,
Can speak my doom, or kisses melt to Death.

234

On the Death of Mary Princess Dowager of Aurange.

Hayle Graceful Mary! summon'd up, to be
A Member Saint ith' heavenly Hierarchy!
For, since your Virgin Name-sake's, peer'd with You,
Our Ave-Maryes, must be doubl'd too.

What Zeal of Glory did your highness move,
To rob low-countries, to enrich th'Above?
Or was it in a Complement you fell?
To leave, Henrietta 'thou a Paralel?
Was't not enough that Gloucesters shining Star
Shrunk the Pair-Royal to a Royal Pair?
And, as Embassador, to fit, your State,
Prepar'd the wayes, knowing the Path was Strait
But must (Oh Times!) more Royal Blood be Spilt
To make attonement for the Subjects Guilt?

235

Thus the Lamb suffers, while the Fox still thrives,
Heaven's Kingdome's near! 'tis time t'amend our lives
Curst be that Bane of Greatness! a Disease,
That scandals Galen and Hippocrates!
So loathsome (too) the Soul would hardly, own
The Body, at the Resurrection!

Here let our souls, flow from our eyes in Tears!
Like those whose hopes, are stifled, by their fears!
Another Branch, lopt from the Royal Tree!
And shall the Shrubs, remain secure, & free?

Oh! if our Earthly gods, like men, must lye,
How like the Beasts that perish, shall Vassals dye?
'Tis, for the Nation sins, a Punishment
On Princes falls, they'd live, if wee'd Repent.
All things immortal in this Lady are,
But meer mortality, and that lyes here;
Whose goodness needs no gloss to set it off,
Say but—'twas Charles his Daughter, that's enough.

Oh! may her son, like her, live to Inherit,
The Mothers Virtue, and the Fathers Spirit!

236

When heaven, will bless, it's blessing, with that good
Which cannot be express'd, (less understood)
The Ages Joy, and Grief! Envy, and Pride!
You could not think her Mortal, 'till she dy'd.
The wonder of her sex! lesse great than good!
Honouring her Name, Enobled by her Blood!
But—
Cease to Mourn!
A Princess never dyes,
But only as the sun does set to rise.
In brief, be this inscrib'd upon her Tombe,
Here lyes the Miracle of Christendome.

O he! Jam satis est! O he Libelle!

Mar.

------ Dirus Exclamat Charon
Quo pergis Audax?—

Sen.

Expect the second Part.

FINIS.