Dia Poemata :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rare must the Chymick Art of thy Muse be,
To distill Humour into Poesie.
The clear streams of thy Hypocrene o're-flow
Those wholsome Plants that in blest Eden grow.
Thy zealous Muse does Lustful Heats defie,
Warm'd by the Sun beams of Divinity.
To speak thy praise at large, Ile silent be,
For praise in thought befits thy Modestie.

W. Williams, Esq.

On the sacred Poems of my Ingenious Friend, Mr. E. E.

Let those who earthly Subjects dote upon,
Go scoure their dirty Brains in Helicon.
Our Poet's Head's his Fountain, Wit the Streams,
Pour'd through the Conduits of his holy Theams,
So, gliding through the Channel of each line,
Cleanseth the ground which was before divine.
'Tis in this Holy Place the Nine do meet,
And wash the ground that it may wash their feet.
Fancy and Phrase contend, each sublimate:
Wit, and Divinity concorporate.
Ile say no more; 'tis labour spent amiss,
To praise the Book, when I have said 'tis his.

R. S. Esq.

To his honest Cousin, E. E. on his Dia Poemata; or, his setting Feet on Holy ground.

Good Iourney (Ned) at this first step thou'rt gone
Beyond the longest line my Muse e're spun.
But were I loose from Natures's tie, I then
Would roave out in thy praise like other men.
Ran but our Blood thin, as my Ink does now,
How clear, how quick Encomiums should flow?
Yet since thy divine Muse has testify'd,
We're onely Cozens on the Fathers side:
Ile dare to praise thy Muse, although not thee,
And Hum the Base to thy sweet Poetrie,
Laud modestly thy Wit, though not thy Brains,
Though we're ally'd in Blood, yet not in Veins.

'Tis true (our Modern Counsels voted it)
Good Verse is Scandall, nothing's Sin but Wit:
Yet could thy teeming Muse long since despise
The Humble Epithets of Good and Wise;

Let moulded Fancies, & worm eaten Brains,
Whose crawling Genii breed nought else but Pains,
Beg the salt Froth of an Adulterate Phrase
To season them, and pickle up their Praise.
Let addle Wits, Muses with stinking breath,
Yawn after Perfumes, and kiss sweet in death.
Let Chap-falne Hags, gnawing o're some tough Ditty,
Like Homer's Spittle, spue, and so seem witty.
Whom Phœbus Sun-burns, when he should inspire,
Cold crackling Cinders of Poetick Fire;
Faint dwindling lights, snuffs of old Virgin-tapers,
Useless to th' Muses but for blotting-papers:
Dry saplesse Poets, whose wan Poems are
Just as their Subjects, onely painted faire.
Let such crampt Phant'sies hop on crutches, 'las
They'l 'scape no Criticks Nose without a passe.
Take off the Pattens of your Approbation,
Their feet are all bemir'd and out of fashion.
'Tis thy diviner Muse with heav'n spun Layes,
Commands a Reverence, and begs not Praise.
One whose high birth boasts nobler parentage,
Than the poor grov'lling Songsters of our Age.

Whose squeaking Ela's never dare outstretch
The short breath'd quavers of some green-sick wretch:
Who scrue a sniv'lling Reed up, till it speaks
O're those black Crotchets, on their Mistresse cheeks.
Thy sanctifi'd Minerva, that sweet Shee,
Jove's brain sublim'd to holy Poetry,
Puts on her Sunday's dresse, and humbly comes
Without black Patches of Encomiums.
Prophaner Beauties stand her foils, the Arts
Are but mute Heraulds of her nobler parts.
No wanton Current of lascivious Blood
Plaies through her veins, but sober, chast, and good.
Whose azure colour speaks thus much (though all
Should contradict, they'r pure celestial.)
Thy stedfast feet not damn'd to giddy wheelings,
Lost in Meanders of their own wilde reelings,
Have got sure footing on the Holy land,
Where they two Pillars of Gods glory stand.
Thy Zealous Muse too keeps the precept sound,
Puts off her shoos because 'tis holy ground.
Her Helicon's no gold, nor silver stream,
But milk and honey flowing from thy Theam:
How'l Cleavelands Maccabees brook this abuse?
An holy Grace prophan'd into a Muse?

To see Apollo thus Evangelize?
And in Bethesda Helicon Baptise?
Now thy Angelick Muse has mov'd the waters,
Thou'st shown the way to our poor leprous creatures;
Our cripled Girls may tumble in, and so
Return all sound, if not to run, to goe
How'l our Pot-Poets belch up wit who can
Pisse wine out water, and so play the man
To see new Miracles? That power's Divine
Which turn'd thy Helicon to sacred Wine.

Well Ned, march on, untill thy nimble feet
Out run thy Name, and sound a sad Retreat
To those fool hasty, hot spur wits, who can
Think for an Heav'n, ne're dream of Canaan. Farewell.
'Tis for such black Ægyptian wits as we,
Safe taking leave on this side the Red sea:
In Hippocrene, which once sprang earth, and found
For thee a Boat, our leaden wits lie drown'd.
Our slow Encomiasticks buz behind,
And spend their breath, all for a prosperous wind.
But since thou'rt safe in Canaan, thy praise
Is, thou'st worn out a wilderness of Bayes:
And wrought this happy Metamorphosis,
The Muses Garden now is Paradice.

There grows thy tree of life, and there let grow
That living Laurell shall surround thy Brow.
Onely, since thou hast won the Mount, O stoop
And lend a hand to help us Infants up.
Then shall we praise thee right, then onely we
Shall on thy shoulders see as far as thee.

Clem. Elis Art. Bac. C. R. T.

To my Friend, the Author.

Amongst your other Friends (Dear Sir) that bring
Unto your Sacred Muse their Offering,
Accept a Verse from him, who how to pay
Due praise in Verse, did ne're till now essay.
'Tis you make me a Poet, and I'm bound,
T'offer my First-fruits to your Holy ground.
For why? who reads your Book may dare thereon
Swear he hath washt his lips in Helicon.
An't may be prov'd, the argument runs thus,
Where Feet Poetick are, there's Pegasus.

R. Inglet è Col. Exon. A. B.

To his Honour'd Friend M. E. E. on his Incomparable Poems.

Now Helicon runs Holy-water, and
Parnassus is Mount Sion, on each hand
Muses with graces are enamell'd, see
Wit and Devotion wedded (Friend) by Thee.
Thy Blossoms are Ripe Fruits, which do invite
Our Eyes both unto Profit and Delight.
The Mint's thy own: sure then there can't appear
Adulterate Coyn, which doth thy Image bear.
Profit hence Momus, yet Carp at this Deed,
Your Envious Teeth bite that on which you Feed.
Allegiance sayes these Verses (Sir) are due:
Our Muses dutifully wait on you
Your Muse i'th'Throne as Queen of Wit we see:
Let ours, Attendants, Maids of Honour be.

T. Tomkins, A. B. è Coll. Bal.

To Mr. E. E. on his DIA POEMATA.

They're Heathen Poets, whom Phœbus does inspire,
But thou'rt Divine, and tun'st a Sacred Lyre.
David's Majestick Musick, which can Quell
Base Envious Spirits, and make our Minds to Swell
With Holy Raptures. Thy sweet Poetry
Keeps even Time to the Soule's Harmony.
Jordan's thy Helicon, thy Muse goes on
From Mount Parnassus unto Lebanon;
Thus Double Honour is most due to thee,
As Poet Laureat in Divinity.
Some do affect (for Rattles still please Boyes)
Quibbles, and Puns that make a Gingling Noise:
Others do Aim at Wit, but misse the White,
And rather Laughter move, than cause Delight.
No such thing here: Thou scorn'st this Vanity,
Thy Quick Wit's Balla'st with Solidity.
No more: 'tis Praise enough, The Book's thine own,
It self best speaks thy Commendation.

Will: Reade. Art. Bac.

To Mr. E. E. on his Book, &c.

Your Muse hath well Inspir'd you, since that she
Hath made you, Sir, Clove-Tong'd in Poetrie;
For your Poetick Heat makes from your Quill
Water of Life, and Helicon Distill:
Your Muse was sure some Mer-maid, that could Tie
Two things so different in one Phantasie.
Your Pia Mater here her Twin doth bring
To th'Reader as her First-Fruit-Offering:
Hee'l like it; in your Cloven Quil Hee'll see
Parnassus, shown in an Epitome.

G. H.

To the Author.

Thine Alpha-Bet did Non-plus Momus Rage,
He's quite struck dumb by this profounder page.
Thy Fancy is Divine indeed: by Wit
Each Leaf is Seal'd and Sign'd by Holy Writ.
For Helicon thou Bath'st in Sions Spring;
And not of Gods, but th' onely God dost Sing.
Loose are some Poems, though their Feet be ty'd:
Thine's Cannon-proof, and more severely Try'd.
My Muse but Homely Threads of praise can Spin,
Yet wither'd Bushes shew there's Wine within.

Robert Carrell.

To the Laurell worthy Mr. E. E. on his Excellent Poems.

Ingenious Friend, I doe presume to blow
A Trumpet here, before thy rarer Show;
But be a Gentleman Usher who can chuse,
To Wait on such a beauteous Lady Muse?
Since Love which to the Muses i doe beare
And Thee, makes me a Prologue now appeare;
Though Wit as precious every Scene doth hold,
As Shakespeare's Lease, or Johnson's Massy Gold,
Though thou with swelling Canvas sail beyond
Hercules Pillars, Fletcher and Beamont,
And though Thou art (what ever Fooles repute)
A Poet in all Numbers Absolute;
Yet will I not wrong Thee so much (my Friend)
As to bespeake the Reader to Commend,
Thy Ware is not of that same baser Sort
That sells not, 'lesse a good Word's spoken for't:
Let not thy Sack, but Foggy Ale goe pray
To Customers to come and help't away;
'Tis only for the Poore in Poetry
Basely to beg the Readers Charity;
Let Subtle have a Captaine Face who tells
That he can work (Lord knowes what) miracles;
Thy Muses Beauty needeth not to Catch
After a Spokesman, to make up the Match:
Therefore Ben; Apophthegme I'le only say,
In troth 'tis good, and if you lik't you May.

John Tomkins.

To the Author.

Dear Friend, I've view'd thy Book, wherein each Page
Shews me thy Fancy, antidates thy Age.
Thy Epigrams have such Poetick Heat,
As makes their Feet drop Wit instead of Sweat.
So that the Muses say they'l have no Son
But Thee, th' apparent Heire to Helicon:
And if they chance t'adopt a Ganimede,
Their Drink shall be thy Brains, their Cup thy Head.

Jo: Ford.

To his most Deserving Friend, Mr. E. E. on his DIAPOEMATA.

I'm bash'd to read thy Verse, as I begin
To Scan thy Worth, my Muse comes Trembling in:
When I turn over this foul leaf, I'de ne're
Look back again, but that Thy Name is here;
Thou art no Pedling-Poet, what's here Writ.
Is at whole Sale; Thy Book's a Shop of Wit?
Th' Poets Nutshell, a Volume in each Page,
W'admire thy Youth in thy ripe Muses Age.
I cease to praise thy Book, what e're we see,
In that of Worth, I'm sure there's more in Thee.
Thou art a Poet, and Divine, Who's thus
Doth ride to Heav'n on Winged Pegasus.

John Parker.

In Dia Poemata; Or, Poetick Feet standing upon Holy Ground.

Ad Encomiastas Authoris.

You might have sav'd your Labour, th' Author sure
Doubts not to stand on his own Legs secure.
Let those on Crutches go, whose Muses All
Bring forth but Cripples for an Hospitall,
Whose Fame by others must supported be;
Their Commendation's but a Charity.
He's Self sufficient, and as the Sun,
Whose scatter'd Beams through every Quarter run;
Maintaines it self in its own Lustre, by
That Font which doth within its Bosom Lie)
Scorns all Recruits from others, th'lesser Stars
Are but this Greater Planets Pensioners.
What Helicon, each Pen distilleth, can
Adde little to this boundlesse Ocean.
Here fix Poetick Rabble, whilst his Grace
The Muses High-Priest enters th' Holy Place.

G. Towerson, Art. Bac. è Col. Reg.

Κοσμος ακοσμος. All is Vanity and vexation of Spirit.

And is the world like its Black Monarch made,
That being graspt we find it nought but shade?
Hell fiends need walk no more; the World's their own,
Converted to an Apparition.
'Tis nothing else but Empty shape; and thus
It seems to be our Malus Genius.
'Tis o'th' Old Serpents nature, being Warme
With Love, its venome is impower'd to Harme.
Its Kisses still are Treacherous: and so
It often Huggs, not to Embrace, but Throw.

Sith then, whene'r we're happy here below,
Griefe but gives back, to fetch the harder blow:
Since Nothing tipt with Essence is th'World's All,
And the Earths Globe, but Fortunes Tennis Ball:
Fly up my Minde; thy Pearches are Heav'ns Pole,
Earth's Gotham Hedge confines not Winged Soules.

[How light is Man! by ev'ry wind]

Surely men of low degree are vanity, and men of high degree are a lie: to be laid in the balance they are altogether lighter then vanity, Ps. 629.

How light is Man! by ev'ry wind
Of fortune here, or there Inclin'd!
Her blasts dispell his chiefest Trust:
And toss him to and fro, like Dust.
He's oft Puft up by th' Peoples Breath,
And, bubble-like, so vanisheth:
Oft whirled on the wings of Fame,
And swallow'd up by a Great Name.
Inferiours scorn'd are: Great men curst;
Or swoll'n with Pride untill they Burst.
Praise, Honor, Riches, Earthly Glory,
Like man, are Pilgrims, Transitory:
Till th'Night of Ignorance decline,
These Glow worms seem to him to shine.
So light's his Head! that Sov'raigne Part,
He'th nothing Heavy, but his Heart;
Which Drunk with Pleasure, still doth reele,
Or else is Broke on Fortunes Wheel.
Vain's all his Labour: vain his thought:
Himself's but once remov'd from nought.
Void of all Solidity,
He's lighter then vanity.
All is Vanity, but He's
Vanity of Vanities.

[On me, my Friends, ô pity take!]

Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my Friends, for the hand of God hath touched me. Job. 19. 21.

On me, my Friends, ô pity take!
My Bowels quake!
The hand of God hath touched me
Most terriblie:
Within, without from top, to Toe,
I'm closely girt about with woe.

A wounded Spirit I must bear,
O'rewhelm'd with Fear:
Gods Terrours (ah me!) have Confin'd
My troubled Mind
(Shrunk from the Hope of all relief)
Within the straits of restlesse Griefe.

My flesh is all beset with sores,
Its very Pores
Are Block'd up by this Siege of Death.
I can't vent breath,
But 'tis so loathsome, that you'd think,
'Twere a Dead Bodie's odious stink.

My Goods, my Health, my Friends, and All
Together fall:
I've onely Life enough to Cry
When shall I die?

Clothed with Clods of Dust, e're dead,
My Flesh in't self is Buried.

Mine eye is dim, can only see
My miserie:
My breath's left but to frame my Moans,
And waft out Groans.
To Pity now, my Friends, incline!
Your hearts if Stony, will break mine.

Lavatus Æthiops.

And he commanded the Chariot to stand still, and they went down both into the water, both Philip, and the Eunuch, and he baptized him. Acts 8. 38.

Most happy Eunuch! that hath
Cur'd his Sick soule in this Bath.
By Baptism, He's Wash'd within;
Wrapt about with's old Black Skin.
His soule, Penitently sad,
Seems to be in Mourning clad.
This water Him t' Heavens Port bears,
Mixt with Pænitentiall tears:
Aqua vitæ 't proves to Him
Dead in Toespasses, and Sin.
His soule's a Diamond that's set
In a Cabinet of Jeat:

In dark-Lanthorns thus ther's Light,
Thus a Star shines in Dark Night.
In's Jesus is his Delight;
He shall walk with him in white
Such Candid Æthiopes are seldome seen;
Fair People oft are Æthiopes within.

On Christmas day.

Unto you is born, in the City of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. Luke 2. 11.

This Day the LORD of Heaven and Earth
Subjects Himself to Humane Birth:
By this Transcendent Mysterie,
God, and Man are at Unity.
Strange! He, that is, was, is to come,
Thus wrapt up in a Mortall Wombe!
Would th' Sun of Righteousnesse thus shroud
His Glorious Lustre in a Cloud
Of humble Flesh, and Bloud? and can
Mans Maker be the Son of Man?
Hyperbole of wonder, How!
Times Ancestor come forth but Now!
Nay, Stranger Yet: we may dare say
Eternity was Born This Day.
Blest Angel! Who these Tidings bring,
Ambassadour from th' King of Kings.

Th' articulate aire, that wafts this news,
To th'Soul does th'Breath of life infuse,
This heav'nly sound the Shepheards ears
Judge the best Musick of the Sphears:
As Orpheus's courser art drew sense,
This ravisheth intelligence:
Souls rapt up by this harmony,
Unto the Throne of Grace do fly.
Faith comes by hearing: He that hears
This Angels voice, annoints his ears
With th' Oyle of Gladness: and by Faith
Shall Live, although he pass through death.
O Jesu! who wast Born Jesus to me,
Grant that, this day, I be New-born to thee.

[I'm slave to grief (not mine own man)]

I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan, very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was Wonderfull, passing the love of women. 2 Sam. 1. 26.

I'm slave to grief (not mine own man)
For thee, my brother Jonathan.
'Twixt us, who were in life all-one,
Death could cause no division:
I can't forsake thee dead, but I,
Sith thou art dead, must dayly die.
Tearing thee off, my souls best part,
Fate could not choose but break my heart.
Those arrows, which thou shot'st did prove,
The arrows of our mutual love.

Most pleasant hast thou been to me:
No Woman ever lov'd, like thee.
W'had more then Marriage-union;
Our souls had copulation.
Our heart-blood was so mixt, that we
Were 'kin by Consanguinity.
Thus't could not be thou shouldst be slain,
And I not feel the utmost pain.
Thy fate strikes at me: in thy knell,
Methinks I hear my Passing-bell.
I scarce survive! with sighs disturb'd my breath,
Seems to be seiz'd on by the pangs of Death.

[To light hearts only such light mirth belongs]

How shall we sing the Lords song in a strange land? Psal. 137 4.

To light hearts only such light mirth belongs:
Our fortune weeping will allow no songs.
These rivets yield us the fitt'st musick: we
Account their murmures our best harmony:
In them the Embleme of our fate appears:
Their murmures show our groans, their streams our tears.
How shall we sing in a strange land? our tongues
Benumm'd with sorrow, are unfit for songs.
He profanes sacred melody, that dares
To sing in anguish, and mix Sighs with Ayres.
Our unregarded Harps hung up you see,
Like Trophees, to adorn griefs victory.

Our Ears so glutted with continuall Moans,
Can't relish th' Sweetnesse of such pleasant Tones.
Then Mirth farewell! our mournfull Gestures shall
Still solemnize our Countryes Funerall.
Whilst she, a Captive, lives a wofull Death,
We wo'nt, by Songs, let any Joy draw breath:
Unlesse once more that Queen of Cities Raigne,
Wee'l ne're lift up our Drooping Heads againe.

[Rapt with Hot Zeale (Elias like) Blest Stephen]

And they ston'd Stephen, calling upon God, and saying, Lord Jesus receive my spirit. Acts 7. 59.

Rapt with Hot Zeale (Elias like) Blest Stephen
Went, in a Fiery Chariot, up to Heaven.

By this faire Gale of Holy Breath, He is
Arrived safely at the Port of Blisse.

His last words Summon Heav'n: and by them He
Gives Christ, His Spirit for a Legacy.

And thus he dy'd, so fill'd with th'Heavenly Dove,
That his Soule fled out on the wings of Love.

[Of the Ten Leapers, Lord, the world claim's Nine]

Where are the nine? Luke 17 17.

Of the Ten Leapers, Lord, the world claim's Nine:
The Tenth turnes back to thee; for Tithes are Thine.

[Oh Lord, shall we thy Glorious Body Eat?]

Take, Eat, This is my Body. Mark 14. 22.

Oh Lord, shall we thy Glorious Body Eat?
Can Earth-worms relish such Celestial Meat?
O Blessed Lamb of God! shall we be Fed
On thee, whom our Dire Sins have Butchered?
And have we slain thee thus to Feed on thee?
And are we Pious Anthropophagi?
Stretch Faith! ô Mystick sable! where each guest
Is bid to Eat o'th' Master of the Feast:
Nay, where the Meat it self Invites, and where
Our Bodyes Eat, but soules digest the Fare.
Draw neer, my Soul, to this strange Truth, and fly
Out of thy self, by Holy Extasie,
Into the Bosome of the Light of Men,
Who here will make thee to be Born agen.
I come; but Faintly, Lord, as Sick folk doe:
Thou find'st us Meat, ô find us Stomacks too.

[Lord, on my Heart write thou thy Law, that I]

Open thou mine Eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of thy Law. Ps. 119. 18.

Lord, on my Heart write thou thy Law, that I
May read it o're with my Internall Eye.
Let the Light of thy Countenance appear
To make thy Law's mysterious Wonders Clear.
The Works o' Darkness, in my Earthly Mind,
Have made mine Eyes (like Moles, Earth's Prisners) blind.

Thou that mak'st th'Blind to see, Help I thee pray,
Not putting to, but wiping off the Clay.
Those Fogs, which youthfull heat exhales, doe rise
Like misty clouds 'twixt Heaven and mine Eyes.
Shine on me Sun of Righteousnesse: the night
Is now far spent: O Day spring, bring the Light.
To behold wondrous things my sight's too dull,
Unlesse through Him, whose Name is Wonderfull.

[My Lungs are worn with Groaning; often Moans]

I am weary with my groaning, all the night make I my bed to swim, I water my Couch with my tears. Psal. 6 6.

My Lungs are worn with Groaning; often Moans
Infect my Breath; my very words turn groans.
Drawn through (that Pipe, so blown with sighs) my Throat,
Their sound is tainted with a dolefull note.
My Panting heart breathes after some reliefe;
But still 'tis Heavy, through the weight of Griefe.
It weeps, so Stony, its own Misery,
Like (Sorrows Emblem) stupid NIOBE.
This Rock vields (Teary) water, smote by th' Rod
Of Moses Teacher, our, and Moses God.
In silent night, when clos'd eyes look for rest,
I hear the out-cryes of a troubled breast:
Then Clouds of Melancholy (by th'wind of Fears
Blown to and fro) drop into Showrs of Tears;

Which stream so fast, as 'twere to wash mine eye
Polluted by beholding Vanity.
I make my bed to swim with Tears) as tho
'Twere Charons Boat, tost on the Floud of woe.
My Body thus, and soule (at once) want-light;
The one Black Fate orewhelmes, the other Night.
Wretch that I am! nothing quite vanquisheth
These I wins of Darknesse, but the Day of Death.

[Ah! Shall my restlesse Mind for ever be]

I see another law in my members warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin, Rom. 7. 23.

Ah! Shall my restlesse Mind for ever be
Thus Captive made by too much liberty?
When, Lord, wilt thou me bind,
With th'Cords of thy Soul-keeping Love,
That my affections may not rove,
But justly be confin'd?

My Thoughts so Froathy are, as though they came
Out of the Bosome of the Cyprian Dame:
But yet I hate my Folly;
And when I laugh, as heretofore,
I doe but throw Mirth out at doore,
Within I'm Melancholy.

My Lust submits not to my Will's command,
Can my Soules Houshold thus divided stand?
That these Home-wars may cease,

Come to my Soule, and speedily
Confirm't in Christian Unity.
Come quickly, Prince of peace.

[Thy Youthfull Heat should still Aspire]

Remember now thy Creator in the dayes of thy youth. Eccle. 12. 1.

Thy Youthfull Heat should still Aspire
To the Bright Flame of Zeals pure Fire:
That will (no Atheist dares controll)
Prove Vitall Heat unto thy Soule.
Those Youthfull Veins, That Proudly Swell,
Do Boile, as 'twere with th' Fire of Hell.
He, whose First Yeares are spent in Evill,
Shewes that He is the Child o'th Devill.
Remember then, i'th' Dayes of Youth,
To find the WAY, and learn the TRUTH.
Wash thy New Soule, and keep it clean
With th' Well of Lifes continuall Stream;
Now Fortifie Thy Selfe within;
Maintain it 'gainst Approaching Sin:
Be Pious, and Live Strictly: so,
Shut up, thou wilt keep out thy Foe.
Whilst that thy Growth in Grace, and Years are even,
Degrees of Age are but the Steps to Heaven.

In Obitum VITÆ. On the Death of JESUS.

He gave up the Ghost. Luke 23 46.

Gave up the Ghost? how so! O where could He
Dislodge his Soule, who had Ubiquitie?
Could God be Mortall? and could He that made
The Worlds Great Lights, becom Himself a Shade?
O Mystick Truth! which can't on Earth be Shown:
He Knowes it best that thinks it can't be Known.
Thus Darknesse set it forth; by which the Skie
Seem'd th' Emblem of some lofty Mysterie:
Whilst that bold Death durst to assault the LIGHT
The Heavens wore Mourning, and the Day turn'd Night.

That we might Live, so did our Jesus Die;
'Sthough He Gave us His Life by Legacie:
But He's Reviv'd, and now has made us be
Partakers of His Immortalitie:
So shall we find, when th' whole World vanisheth,
Our selves Refreshed by the sleep of Death.

Mat. 27. 55.

Joh. 1. 5.

[I've washt my feet, ev'n in the Bloud]

I have washed my feet, how shall I defile them? Cant. 5. 3.

I've washt my feet, ev'n in the Bloud
O'th' Lamb of God;
How shall I them again defile?
Ile fly Sins Guile,
Which drawes to those foule Paths that lead
Down to the Chambers of the Dead.

No more Ile wallow in the Mire
Of Fond Desire:
Ile ever shun Uncleannesse: I
Th'Worlds Spies defie:
To shew them th'Clean way (as 'tis meet)
Gods Word's a Lamp unto my Feet.

Oh let me walk (through holy Aw)
Lord, in thy Law,
That

Ps. 119. 1.

undefiled still I may
Be in the Way:
Make me to goe (led by thy word)
I'th' Path

Ps. 119. 35.

of thy Commandments Lord.

[Thrice happy Babes! wean'd from the world so soon]

Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth, and slew all the children &c. Mat. 2. 16.

Thrice happy Babes! wean'd from the world so soon,
They suck the brests of consolation.
They passe to Canaan through a crimson flood,
They die for Christ, baptiz'd in their own blood.
O wrathful Herod! were thy storms so stout,
To blow the Tapers of their lives quite out?
Could nothing, but yong (half-milk) blood asswage
The boistrous Wild-Fire of thy dismal rage?
Fond man! (whom wrath beside himself hath hurl'd)
Wouldst kill the Life, that's come to save the world.
Most cruel Fox! that would have suckt the blood
Of (sheep, and Shepheard too) the Lamb of God.
Lament not, Rachel; Moans bring no relief:
These brinish tears exasperate thy grief.
Grudge not thy Children th' happiness to die;
They cou'd doe nothing in this life, but crie.
Their bitter cup they but a potion found,
Which purg'd their souls of flesh, and made them sound.
I'th' body, pierced by that Rabble-rour,
There's made a breach to let the soul 'scape out.
And so they went to their long home, this day,
The soldiers shew'd them (mist themselves) the Way.

BACK-SLIDING: OR, A Spirituall Relapse.

A wounded spirit who can bear? Prov. 18. 14.

My Heart bleeds: Wounded spirit! oh!
'Twas Sin gave me this deadly blow.
Sin thus Reviv'd Die: for neither
Can be content to Live together:
We fight like two fierce Combatants, that meet
To get a Trophee, or a Winding-sheet.

But, must I Die indeed? and can
The Sinner thus Destroy the Man?
Self-Murtherer I am: O! I
Have Slaine my selfe, yet would not Die.
Ah! I am Dead in Trespasses and Sin:
The Worme already feeds on me within.

Heale my back-slidings, Lord: O draw
Me from the Roaring Lions Paw,
That tears my Soul: O Jesu, give
Me once more Will, and Pow'r to Live.
Cure but the wounded spirit that I bear,
Ile fight th' Good Fight; be more than Conqueror.

[Hold! hold! I will not do't: Shall I]

How can I do this great wickednesse and sin against God? Gen. 39 9.

Hold! hold! I will not do't: Shall I
Turn Traitour to Heav'ns Majesty?
Shall I do this? Sin 'gainst my God?
Such Folly will provoke his Rod.
Dread, my soul, this Impiety,
Startle into an Extasie:
So may'st thou seem Thy Self to Flee,
Which is thy Greatest Enemy.
O! shall I sin 'gainst God, whose Arm
Protects me from Eternall Harm?
How! sin 'gainst God, whose gracious Eyes
Dispel my Clouds of Miseries?
Without whose Countenance's Light,
My Mirth is Anguish, Day is Night.
I will not do't: but, Lord, do Thou
Now make me Able not to Do.

Homo Lapsus.

She tooke of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also to her husband with her, and he did eat. Gen. 3. 6.

The Universe at once th' Old Serpent Stung:
A World of Mischief in a womans Tongue.
She Tempts her Husband: and her Noisome Breath
Blasts Him, and His Posterity to Death.
And he did Eat (by th Counsell of a wife)
Not to Sustain, but to Destroy His Life.
But, ah! He Err'd not thus alone: He Fell
On Us so hard, He prest Us down to Hell:
Where we had stay'd, but that th' Jesus of Men
Went down Himselfe to fetch Us up agen.
His Mouth was made our Slaughter-House: and we,
Being in His Loins, had there our Destinie:
His Jawes Crush his own Happinesse; and Ours:
We Surfeit too at that which He Devours.
Oh! we are Sick to Death; can't Eased be
But by the Fruit, Born on a better Tree,
Which is our Living Food: yea, (strange! yet true)
'Tis both our Physick, and Physitian too.

[Thrice Curst be Wanton Pleasure, Hell's Fine Daughter]

I said of Laughter, It is mad, and of mirth, What doth it? Eccl. 2. 2.

Thrice Curst be Wanton Pleasure, Hell's Fine Daughter,
That Tickles us into such Fits of Laughter!
What i'st on Earth can make us be so Jolly?
Like Fooles in grain, Laugh we at our own Folly?
Solace, by Laughter, breaks forth to Excess,
Out-goes its selfe, and turnes to Heaviness.
Laughter's but the last Blaze of Mirth: Full-Blown
Our Joyes straight Fade: from greatest come to none.
I'le Laugh no more for Mirth: but, if thou see
Me Laugh, vain World, be sure I Laugh at Thee.

FINIS.

EPIGRAMS, &c. By E. E.

Carpere vel noli nostra, vel ede tua.

ENCOMIAST: To J. C.

No Verse, Grand Poet, can express
Thy Prayses, they are Numberless.
Thy worth's so Weighty, 'tis not meet
'T should stand upon Poetick Feet,
Which (hence they mount to such a Height)
Like Poets Heads, are alwayes Light.
But, sith I am thus thrown upon
Thy Muses Commendation;
Blots (my Pen's Issue) I shall place,
For some Black Patches, in Her Face.
So may thy Phœbus dart His Rayes
More Bright out of my Cloud of Prayse.
Thy Verse Runs in a Way so rare,
That it must needs be Singular:
Thy Muse so Chast thus seems alone
To Bath her selfe in Helicon.
That Off-spring, which from Her we see,
Was onely sure begot of Thee:
Mixture of Fancie she doth flye
As if 'twere Wits Adultery.
Thy Lines have such a glittering Strain,
'Sthough Tagus had washt o're thy Brain.

Thy Sense doth with huge Myst'ries swell,
As 'twere Apollo's Oracle.
Our Judgement should dig deep to find
The Hidden Treasure of thy Mind.
Thy Wit (like Persian Kings) we see,
Keeps close in shew of Majestie.
Thy Fancy to such Height is Flown,
No words can reach it but thine own:
To shew how much a Poet can do,
Thou mak'st new Matter, and Words too:
Thus in Arts most curious Schools,
The Best workmen make their own Tools:
Thus some Limners I could name,
Who make both Picture, and its Frame.
Each Verse of thine with Lustre streams,
As though 'twere one of Phœbus Beams.
Who e're dislikes thy Book, his sight
Of Judgement's dazled at its light.

On a dull Poet, but good Logitian.

If his Verse character'd may be,
'Tis Laurel graft on Porph'rys tree:
He dresses his Poore Poetry
I'th'rags of Old Philosophy:
As if indeed on Feet Poetick,
Hee'd seem a true Peripatetick.

On a Little Gentleman of Great Parts.

Μεγισον ση ελακιστη.

Does Nature act the Limner's part,
Shaping lesse things with rarest Art?
Or (like some Ladies) does she set
Her best Gems i'th' lesse Cabinet?
Great Volumes uselesse oft we see,
He's Natures quaint Epitome:
Or else he may deserve the name
Of her wittiest Epigram.
So small in Stature and in Age,
Yet learn'd he seems Minerva's Page:
No wonder then if she him dresse
In such abundant gaudinesse.
Short (like him) are my Verses Feet;
O were they also (like him sweet.

To a false-hearted Poet.

Thou'rt double-Tongu'd, and double-Foot'd to boot;
Thy false Verse savours of a Cloven foot.

On a Gentlewoman of a Brown Complexion, but Handsome Features.

Whilst Lovely Her Black Features prove,
They seem like COALS 'oth'Fire of Love.

On a Gentleman who Died with Lord in his Mouth.

When he had breath'd out LORD! His Soul thought fit,
As loath to leav't, to leap forth after it.

On the Death of Leander.

The Saying prov'd too true, by his Distress,
That FIRE and Water, are both Mercilesse.
But, Cold Death did asswage his Hot Desire:
The Fatall Water serv'd to Quench His FIRE.

To one that gets his Living by writing Satyres.

Thou Feed'st on thine own Brains, 'tis said:
With thy wits Tooth thou Eat'st thy Bread.

Nec Fonte labra prolui Caballino.

My Mouldy Brains I ne're wash'd clean
In the fond streams of HIPPOCRENE:
To which some wisely have recourse
To be made Poets: Gra' mercy Horse.

------ Vino pellite Curas.

Horace , thou'rt out: Bacchus, thy Wits harsh Master,
But lops thy Cares to make them grow the faster.
Be Drunk at Evening, and thou'lt find o'th Morrow,
That too much Liquor pickles up thy Sorrow.

Of Vulgar Criticks.

Their Blindfold Censures out of Order Range;
Their words are WIND indeed, as often Change:
Sometimes they're Tempests too: but I Defie them;
I'le ne're be Puft up, or be Blasted by them.

To the Eye Adulterer.

Lend Eyes to Cupid: View thy Handsom Lasses:
Drink Streams of Pleasure in those Christall Glasses,
But yet consider that this Splendid show
Can only light thee to the Shades below.

On a Gentlewoman that would be married to none but a Rich man.

Thus her Example proves, that Ovid told,
That Cupids Arrow must be gilt with Gold.

To the Author.

Lasciva est nobis Pagina, vita proba.

VVriting's a Poets Life; then, sure, if thou
Do'st Write Lasciviously, thou Liv'st so too.

To the same.

Thou studiest Mischief when thou writest it:
Thy Bawdy Verse is but Adulterate Wit.

To an Epigrammatist, that inveighs against Women.

The Muses, Man, are Female; may'st thou know it,
A Foe to their Sex can't be a good Poet.

On the perfect Conclusion of a fierce War.

Those Thunder-bolts of Mars, which lately fell,
Were but a Volloy to bid War Farewell.

To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, weeping for the Death of her Eldest Brother, my Bosom-Friend.

Alas! sweet Lady! must you sup
So deeply of this Bitter Cup?
Your Brinish Tears increase the Smart
O'th'Wounds of my Afflicted Heart.
Your Griefe's Infectious, I believe:
I'm Griev'd afresh to see you Grieve.
Double Grief my Thought endures,
My Sighs, like Ecchos, answer Yours.
My Plaints are most; beside mine own,
I've yours too by Reflection:
I can't hear Moans for Him, but I
Must be ingag'd to Sympathy.
Lament not you; let me ingrosse
The Lamentation of this Losse.
You've now a Second-self, but I
Lost such a one when He did die:
Nay, more than such did's Title Merit,
You are One Flesh, we were One Spirit.
How sadly then may I complain?
Grief! Break my Heart, and Crack my Brain.

To the same.

Your wet Eyes are (as I may say)
Like Sun-shine in a Rainy day.

On the Tempestuous season of Wind and Rain, 1654.

For th' Growth of our Iniquitie,
I fear, our Fields will Barren be:
For Sin that hath ta'n Root so deep,
The Heavens sure thus Sigh, and Weep.

Strong Drink.

Drink's Strong indeed: with Stygian water Purl'd,
Like Alexander, it o'recomes the World.

Charity.

VVhere Charity takes Cold, the Country's Sick:
That's th' Vitall Heat o'th' Body Politick,

[His Soul's so Dark all o're, He cannot see]

------ Stupet hic vitio ------
------ Nescit quid perdat: & alto
Demersus summà rursus non bullit in undâ
Per. Sa. 3.

His Soul's so Dark all o're, He cannot see
The Ugly Face of His Iniquitie.
Faln so in love with Vice, He cannot Rise:
For, Sampson like, He'th lost both Strength & Eyes.
His Dread-Cool'd Heart's Benumm'd: He's void of Sense
His Burning Lust hath Scar'd His Conscience.

An unquiet bad Conscience.

The Worm of Conscience Feedeth on
Our naturall Corruption.
Whiles Hell, and Death lodge in our Breast,
Our Hearts may Sleep, but cannot Rest.

Temptation.

The Devil onely Tempts: but (wretched Elves)
We oft turn Devils, and so Tempt our selves.

Pride.

Pride's the Soul's Blister, scall'd by th' fire of Hel;
Ill Humours onely make the Mind to swell.
The World ne're saw one yet, did entertain
Pride, Thought's Impostume, but in a Sick-brain.

To a Lascivious Poet.

For shame, for shame, leave off: for, as we're told,
Cupid, and Phœbus have been Foes of old.

On Poetry.

The Muses Sauce, my Study's Strong-meat: These
Shall be my Play-mates, not my Mistresses.

Of Partiality.

Mens Judgements often Erre, that are too kinde:
They See not what they Say, for Love is Blinde.

The World's Fine Gentleman.

He makes a Dainty Leg, and Nod, thus He
Is every Inch well-bred, ev'n Cap-a-pe.

To Unlearned Criticks.

VVe don't estrange at your Grammatick War,
We know Rough Judgements must be prone to Jar.

To an Hireling Poet.

Wing'd Riches Hatch thy Muses Young; and thus
Thou mak'st an Hackney of thy Pegasus.

To his Displeased Pater in Phœbo, Mr. F. M.

You're not in earnest, sure: and thus
'Tis but Furor Poeticus.
Your Anger's Faign'd, though't seem so Great,
You're Incens'd by Poetick Heat.
Why man! I spoke but like a Poet:
I said 'twas bad; I wo'nt stand to it.
Come, let's be Friends: and doe not move
Phœbus again to Quarrell with Love.
How much I'm Griev'd, Good Sir, pray think:
My Muse for Mourning wears this Ink.

On a NEWES-MONGER.

Far, and neer all th'Newes He hears:
Asses alwayes have long Ears.

To an Honourable Lady Rarely Accomplisht with Wit, and Beauty.

Fair Venus and Minerva shew,
That They're at length made Friends by you:
Yo've given both Content: both prize
The APPLES of your Glis'tring Eyes,
Which t'each of them Assigned are;
For, still you looke both wise, and Faire.
Your wing'd Soule at each Glance doth Fly
Out of the Casement of your Eye;

Whose Splendid Beams, like Phœbus Rayes,
Create new Blossomes to my Bayes.
My Muses weak Eye, gazing on
This Daz'ling Sight, Drops Helicon:
But its Streams are at best too base,
To wash your Ladyships Sweet Face;
Which is set in such Symmetrie,
That, like the Soule, 't seems Harmony,
Which, sith it comes not to our Eares,
Is like the Musick of the Spheares.
Your Body is (all Symptomes show it)
So Fine that your Clear Soule shines through it:
'Tis Quaintly order'd, as we find,
By th' Lady Governnesse, your Mind.
Both your Parts thus, as'twere, All-one,
Are like a Constellation.
Your very Face (my Muse dares say)
Is Parallel to th' Milkie way.
Your Wit and Beauty thus take Equall Place;
Your self make up these Twins; A MUSE and GRACE.

On the fifth of November.

Thus rend the Bowels of the Earth! 'tis well;
Dig deeper yet, and so dig down to Hell:
Incarnate Fiends! seek out the way, by th' Light
Of your Dark Lanthorn, to Eternall Night.
Think you with Royal Limbs to fill the Aire,
Because your Master's Lord and Soveraign there?
Wretches! He cannot help you, but Grim Death
Shall, in the Aire, you struggle out of Breath.
Thus of Advancement, which you hop'd to see,
The Fruit you'l have, but from a Gallow Tree.
So may all Craft taught by th' Old Serpent faile,
And Serpent like, still bear a sting i'th' Taile,
To wound its Owners: so may Trayt'rous Elves,
Find Death i'th' Pit, which they have Digg'd themselves.
Kicking at us, the Ugly Beast at Rome
Hath spurn'd his Whelps, & given them the Doom:
Pushing He'th broke his Horns: thus oft tis known,
The Stone is burst 'gainst that at which tis thrown.
Now then that we are safe, and that our Land
Hath cast the Vipers, which stuck to her hand,
Into the Fire: Enflam'd with Love let's bring
Our Zeal-fir'd Hearts, as a Burnt offering,
To Great Jehovah, whose Foreseeing Eye
Hath struck these Bas'lisks with Mortality.
Let Quick-foot Verse Dance nimbly on the Rope,
Of Hanged Traytors; and let's wish the Pope
Swing'd in our Bell-ropes, or Consum'd i'th' Flame
Of this Night's Bone-fire; so shall His dire Name

Be Curst in his own Fashion; we handle
No other Curse but his, BELL BOOK and CANDLE.
And now let's fill the Skies with shouts, that even
Our Joyes Rebound (from whence they came) to Heaven.

To an Handsome Gentlewoman on this part of her Anagram: Each Beauty Shoots.

Each Beauty that your Features show,
Shoots at some Mark with Cupids Bow.

Your Beauties pierce through, and melt Hearts,
As though they were Love's Fiery Darts.

Each Beauty Shoots; your Beauteous Eyes
Shed Rayes, like Stars shot through the Skies.

To the same.

Your Fore-head's Semicircled so,
The young God takes it for His Bow.

Swearing and Cursing.

Fond Oaths, backt on with Curses, are the fell
Oaths of Allegiance to the Prince of Hell.
Such Boyst'rous Breath its owners Soul will shake,
And Blow the Fire of the Infernall Lake.

Melancholy.

'Tis Pia Mater in Discolour'd Weeds:
A Checker'd Plat form of Phantastick Deeds:
The Brain-Filme wrought into a Dismall Shroud:
The Sun o'th' Little World in a thick Cloud:
Swift Thought turn'd Fairy: Wild wit gone astray:
A Fancy, that i'th' Dark hath lost its way.

To Mr. F. M.

Your Strong-wing'd Fancy, mounting with such Grace,
Is Eagle-ey'd, looks Phœbus in the Face:
He is the Parent of your High born Strain;
His best Blood runs in your Poetick veyn.

To One marrying for Love, not Money.

Thou dost as all men ought to doe:
Heart-strings are best for Cupid's Bow.

Thanks To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, who gave him a Dish of Sweet Meats.

What Modest Favour's This forsooth?
T'avoyd my Thanks it stops my Mouth.
My Tongue's confin'd to Tast o'th' Meat:
I'm forc'd, as't were, my Words to EAT.

Your Eares thus 'scape my Thanks, but I
Present them here unto your Eye:
They come at last clad all in Black,
As Mourning that they come so slack.
So High my Gratefull Thoughts doe Swell,
I like the Dish so hugely well;
I Fancy you're a Goddesse, and dare say,
Your Sweet-Meat is Divine-Ambrosia.

To his Honour'd Friend, W. W. Esq.

Sith that I can't at full set forth
My great Love, and Thy greater Worth;
My Pen, its hard Taske hath forsook:
Ile say't By Heart, and not By Book.

To Mrs. M. S. in her Child-bed Dresse.

In Child-bed look so Fine! thus (all confesse)
Phœbus looks Fairest in His Morning Dresse,
Come newly out of Bed: my bold Muse sayes,
Your Sparkling Glances doe out vie His Rayes.
My Fancy, like the Larke i'th' Fowlers GLASSE,
Playes in the MIRROIR of your lovely Face:
With wonder Caught, she's at a Non plus Set;
And thinks her self with VENUS in the NET.

To the same, newly Married, on her Anagram: SO! YOU'RE MATCHT.

So! YOU'RE (well MATCHT: & I dare say,
Love Saw upon your Marriage-Day.
Fit Marriage is a Match, thus you
May see the Anagram is True,
You're Fitly Married sure (say I)
Fore-joyn'd by Consanguinity:
So you this Paradox make good:
Two may become One Flesh, and Bloud.

Mars Togatus: Or, Fighting in the Schooles.

Foole! What! dost strive with might, and main,
For a Broke Pate to a Crackt Brain?
Thy Brains leake out already, man;
And wouldst for Anger Break the Pan?
Thy Head swoll'n in this boyish Fight,
By Rising, shewes that it is Light.
Thy Black Eyes, by such Marks, as these,
Wear Mourning for thy wits Decease.
Such Apish Braules who'd not despise,
Whose Fume had not put out his Eyes.
Throughout the Schooles such Hissings are,
'Sthough all the Furies Snakes were there.

Grave Zabarells, and Aristotles
(Whose Thirsts nere reach beyond Beer-Bottles)
Come fiercely on (who'd not decline 'um?
With Argumentum Bacillinum.
Young Preachers too stare, stamp, and Hum,
As if they'd Kill both all, and some:
Who {ere} but saw their Fifty pushing,
Wou'd swear they learnt to Beat the Cushion.
Mad Poets too come Vap'ring here,
'Sthough Helicon were Bottle Beer.
Each all his Faculties combines
To shew his Arme as Strong's his Lines.
Had but Orestes seen these men,
He'd Startled into's wit agen:
Here seeing's Emblem, wretched Else,
Actæon-like Hee d fled Himselfe.
Goe, Sirs, you are Fooles Rampant: and
(To which ev'n Mad men set their Hand)
The WORME, that gnawes your Pates was Bred
By some Snake on Medusa's Head.

Hac Ignis: Sive Lues Venerea.

Beware, Fond Lads, of a shrewd turne:
Loves Flames at last will surely Burn.

Another.

Damn'd Venus! whose Embrace is Pimp to Slaughter;
Thou burn'st mens Bodies here, their Soules hereafter.

Lust.

When Satan shoots such Fiery Darts, to Fly
Is th'onely way to get the Victory.
Lust, like a Baited Engine, ne're annoyes,
If Passed by; but being Touch'd, destroyes.

To the Reader.

I fear no Carping: Reader spare not:
What e're thy Judgment be, I care not.
Young Muses (like Young Men) I hold,
For want of Wit shou'd be more Bold.

To Mr. E. F. The only Son of Sir E. F. Knight.

So much of Vertues Light appeares
In (Ages Dawn) your tender Years:
We hope you'l ever shew your self to be
True Heir of your Illustrious Familie.

Plaine Verse.

My Verse is Plain: I'd have it so: why not?
My Pegasus shall Amble still, not Trot.

To Mrs A. S. on the Death of her Two first Children.

Your Fair Cheeks with Tears sprinkled shew
Like Roses Pearled o're with Dew.
But be not so Discomforted:
Your Babes Departed are not Dead.
To keep them from all casuall Harmes,
Their Saviour takes them in His Armes.
These Olive-Branches, by His care,
In Paradise Transplanted are.
So they become, by their Decease,
A Garland to the Prince of Peace.

Allusion.

T'is Janus wit: th' Two Splits of a learn'd Quill
Th' best Emblem of Two-Topt Parnassus Hill.

To that Pretty Piece of Perfection Mrs L. C.

Natures Fine Thing! Best Show that e're
Came on the World's Theatre!
My Young Muse takes you out to Hay,
And vowes she'll ha' you Queene of May.
But oh, she cannot Deck you more
Then Nature't selfe has done before:
Whatever of you she can say
Is but to give Light to the Day.
Had sweet Adonis but you seen,
How Hee'd have scorn'd the Cyprian Queen!
I'd almost thought the Fiction true,
That Gods Beget, when I saw you.
Your Eyes, your Cheeks, are all so Fine,
I'd think 'um, but they're Flesh Divine.
Yet this is but your Beauty's Spring.
What Plenty will the Harvest bring
When you are Ripe, in Years? sure then
Jove will begin to love agen.
For you Blind Cupid need not shoot:
Your Glances, Darts o'th' Eyes, will do't.
A Garland Hymen need not seek:
He may have't in your Rosy Cheeke:
When e're He shall joyn Male to you,
May no Division make you Two:
In Vertue, and true Amitie
Shine, as Bright's the GEMINI.
So may you be, before all other,
In Goodnesse Great; even like your Mother.

To Mrs. K. G. having been lately sick of the Small Pox.

'Twere Blasphemy 'gainst th' God of Love to say,
Ought can Deform you, till you're turn'd to Clay.
Spots by your Eyes are Brighten'd: each Pock hole
Shews (at a Distance) but like Venus Mole:
Th'Rose spreading o're your Cheeks my Fancy spies;
The lovely Lilly in your Sicknesse Dies.
Your Well-fare will Revive't: your Eys once ope,
Their Radiant Beams turn't to an Heliotrope.
You onely look, come newly out of Bed,
Like Faire Aurora, at Her Rising, Red.
Alwayes to Shine no Beauties are allow'd:
The Sun it self sometimes endures a Cloud.

I've spent my present Stock of Poets Wealth,
In Aganippe thus to Drink your Health.

A Love sick Gentleman to a Fair Lady scorning him.

G.
Alas! Love's Darts wound me to Death!
Not t'hear me speak's to stop my Breath!

L.
I'd give thee leave to shew thy Art,
But thy Sharp Wit would Pierce my Heart.

G.
No Subtle wit leads on my love:
I'm Innocent as Venus Dove.

L.
Why! hath fond Grief now made thee Stupid,
Are thy thoughts Blind, to be like Cupid?

G.
Yes; My sharp Wit so Blunt is grown,
By working on your Heart of Stone.

L.
Out of this Stone (cease thy Desire)
Thy Love strikes not one Sparke of Fire.

G.
Have mercy Goddess! Hold! O hold!
Without your Fire my Heart growes Cold.

L.
Fie, fie! art not asham'd to Faint?

G.
I Fall but to Adore my Saint.

L.
Farewell: I can't perswaded be:
Bid thy vain Love Depart with me.

G.
Ah! Life,

Ζωη, και Ψυχη:

and Soul she is to me:
Her absence is my Extasie.
Why should I keep my Fruitless Breath?
My panting Heart Beats me to Death.
Love's Warriours Die, or Overcome:
Sith She is Deaf, I will be Dumb.

To a Phantastick Vagabond, Professor of Satyricall Pet Poetrie.

VVild Colt of PEGASUS! what would'st thou doe?
Are th' Muses Priests Itinerary too?
Thou art no Poet, man, thy false High strain
Is but the Bubbling of a Froathy Brain.
No Masculine Strength lies in a Drunken Line:
A Tavern Flash is but a Spark o th' Wine.
A mounting Vapor, a Phantastick Fit.
The Off scouring, the Excrement of wit.
Thy best Jests are but Old: for all thy Brags,
Thou'rt but a Swaggerer in Scarlet Rags.
Thy Magpie Muse delights to Scold, not Sing:
Thy Crawling Fancy has a Vermines Sting.
Thy Aged Whimsies, like old Wizards, lowre;
And thy Stale Wit (even like Stale Beer) growes sowre:
Judicious men Disgust it; they disdaine
Th' Unsav'ry Outlets of thy Addle Brain:
Our haughty Muse scornes such poor Prey:
The Carrion Stinks: she flurts away.

Fame.

VVho would not shun the Peoples Breath? we find
'Tis but a Wind;
Which still has puff'd up th Owner, or else blown
The Dangerous Fires of Emulation.

To his Book.

Come on, my Book, no Page of thine
Shall Beat mens Brains with a strong line:
Thou'rt Plain (no Phrase-Crags in thee plac'd)
Apollo's Temples Pav'd, not Caus'd.
'Tis true; thou art no Gallant, Fine,
Clad with Silk Words, and full of Wine:
But yet, I doubt not, some confesse,
Thou'rt Comely, though in a Plain Dresse.
Our Eagle-Muse her Young ones Tries
By none, but true Phœbæan Eyes.
But if some Minor Critick Carps,
With Satyr Wit would Fight at Sharps;
His Heavy Censures Ile despise:
Prest by Lead-Wits my Palm shall Rise.

FINIS.