University of Virginia Library

WIT IN A WILDERNESSE Of Promiscuous POESIE:

THE CHARACTERS OF A Compleat Poet. WITH An Apology for POETRY.

He is a man from Prophanation free,
Unreverend railings, or obscœnity;
His Muse commits no treason against trust,
Doth not invite to vengeance, pride or lust;
He is Truth's Favourite, and nere exalts
His Mean Degree, by guilding great mens faults;
Who sitting in his own sublimed height,
Survays, and weighs the billow-beaten fate
Of towring Statists, who do vainly raise,
Their Arms on bladders blown with vulgar praise
Popular throats, who in one hour, will cry
Both Halelujah, and Crucifie:
Whose lungs (like Whirlwinds in tempestuous weathers)
Do bear down Churches, whilst they blow up Feathers.
This, and much more then this, we safely see
Through the clear Opticks of pure Poetry:
There we see one, whose head within few years
Did bear a Mytre, now wears Band ô Liers:
Would it not move a Poets spleen with jest,
To see a Crosier made a Musket Rest?
Yonders another (by swift alteration)
Struck dumb, that was the Tongue of a whole Nation:
The Scene is chang'd, and He whose high command
Held up his head, must now hold up his hand;
He that in Law did hold such learned strife,
Must shew by what tenure he holds his Life;
What Act so firm that strength cannot devoure?
For Laws are but the Favorites of Power:
What's he that will submit, his Sword and Tent
To the tame vigor of an Argument?
Or will resign his ravish'd power upon
The flegmatick results of Pro and Con?
These are the vile vicisitudes which we
Are not obnoxious to in Poetry:
Such storms fly over us, when have ye known
Pernassus under Sequestration?
Or Pegasus his winged shoulders stoop
To the Conductor of a County Troop?
What Sequestrator yet could ever call
The Muses unto Haberdashers Hall?
Go search the books where Prize accompts are writ,
You'l scarce find Item took ten tun of wit,
For what they have, so tenderly they handle,
It may be vented by one inch of candle:
A Poets poverty is a defence
'Gainst the most honorable insolence:
We have no Ships at Sea, doubt no distress
Our hopes are little, and our fears are less:
Whilst the poor Merchant (rob'd by Dutch or French)
Sinks in th' Exchange, to rise in the Kings Bench:
Shew me that Age a Poet can produce,
Who ever lost a thousand pound at Use?
Or who can say a Poet hath undone
An hundred families to raise one Son?
Whilst the grave Mizer, and his powder'd Sir
Study to be damn'd in Diameter:
Pray tell me (you that lye upon the lurch)
What brack in State, or Schism in the Church
Hath Poetry begot? what Kingdom lies
Drown'd in its tears for Poets villanies?
Wealth and ambition tempt not us, we pity
The careful Country, and the subtil City;
Where one mans bounds a hundred fields imbrace
To pick out three yards for his burying place:
Whilst we under the shadow of one tree
Extract more absolute content then he
Finds in the firtil substance; vve have more
Wealth at command, then rolls along the shore
Of golden Ganges; He is onely poore
That hath too much, if he do vvish for more:
And he is truly rich that in his dish,
And on his back hath all that he can vvish:
Somtimes vvee'r wounded vvith Loves dart, but then
Our Contemplation licks us vvhole agen:
Content is our Elixar, vvhat a stir
The Patient Reason-rackt Philosopher
Keeps for the Stone, attending all events
That fall from fast, and loose Experiments:
He sayes he vvill make Gold of Lead and Brass:
But (in the end) turns his ovvn Gold to Glass:
His Furnace then as bad as hell doth grovv;
And he (poore man) is damn'd in Balneo,
Whil'st he that sits upon the Muses hill,
Crovvn'd vvith content, turns all to vvhat he vvill;
Paine into pleasure, Misery to Myrth,
By sacred skill extracts Heaven out of earth,
All out of nothing, and (at length) can dye
With a difiance to all Tyranny:
Like Lucan in his Bathing Tub, that stood
Speaking of verses, vvhi'lst his eyes ran blood:
Nor are they Poets that can onely chyme
In numbers, and put gingles into Rhyme:
But he vvhose Catholique Conceptions can
Demonstrate to the Intellect of man
By active Metaphor and Alegory,
Remote designe, Antique and modern story,
Descriptions of Battalia's, Sea-fights,
The Characters of sorrows and delights;
Annual seasons, rivers, weeping fountains,
The firtil Valleys, and the mineral Mountains:
All forreign Countries, Cities, and Kings Courts,
Their trade, war, Law, Religion, food and sports;
All contrarieties, and what doth border
Upon the Banks of Beauty and disorder;
All passions and affections that do lye
Reveal'd, or hid in mans capacity:
Great Kings you are our Subjects, though more true
You are to us, then yours have been to you:
We can imbalm your Vertues with pure Spices,
And make a Pickle shall preserve State-vices
Five hundred years, the rage a Poet vents,
Can rase a thousand Marble Monuments:
The Factious people do but vainly strive
To kill that Fame vvhich we will keep alive.
What are the deeds of the most valiant men,
If Poets do not write them o're agen?
'Twas not Achilles Lance, nor Hectors Shield,
But Homers Poetry that won the Field;
Cæsar and Pompey, Worthies more then men,
Were made, not by their Acts, but Lucan's pen;
What are your best Orations, if they be
Not guilded by the Beams of Poetry?
It is a sweet Compendium of all Arts,
Divide the Bible in four equal parts,
And (by your disquisition) 'twill be known
(Without offence) that Poetry is one;
(Though not the first in order) th' other three
Treat of Law, History, and Prophecy:
Then blush for shame you that do bid defiance
To the bright Beams of so serene a Science;
For he that dares give it an ill report,
His understanding is a foot too short.

A Poem composed, and spoken by the Author to the late King at the Dedication of Mr. Tho. Bushel's Rock at Enston in Oxon, 1638. in the person of Caliope.

Loe I Caliope chief of the Nine
And first in order of that triple Trine;
The Muses Sisterhood; (for who is he
That knows not of our sacred Hierarchy)
Am now at length, through many a weary mile
Safely arriv'd upon the British Isle:
The causes of my coming, what they were
That drew me to this Western Hemisphere,
Are these, the Muses heard (for nothing's done
Which they discern not in a Vision)
Of a strange Rock discover'd under ground,
That with fresh streams and wonders doth abound,
Which Nature unto such perfection brought,
It looks like day from the old Chaos wrought;
And hath the Pomp and pleasures of the place
That a great King and Queen have daign'd to grace,
And with their presence (far transcending ours)
Oft' visit those pure Wells and hallowed Bowers:
When these glad tydings from our Servant Fame
Were whisper'd in our eare, I strait way came
In person mounted on the fiery wings
Of our owne Pegasus, to view these Springs,
To make a strict survay what waters flow,
What walks are in it, and what woods doe grow;
And (as I liked them) they (on my report)
Would hither come, and hasten their resort:
But 'tis known Maids may long, and I would fain,
(Ere my return) first see that Soveraigne,
That Royall Charlemaine whose actions are
Worthy the Muses and their Register;
Whose deeds a Patern, and whose life a Law,
Doth the whole Court to imitation draw
Of his rare virtues, (without flattery)
The height of my ambition is to be
Made happy in the object of his sight
And his deare Spouse the Consort of his light;
Kiss her faire hand, who is (as Fame doth say)
More bright then is our owne Urania:
But stay! what sudden lustre strikes my sence
With some quick, but Seraphick influence?
Who ever ask'd for Phœbus in the Skyes,
Or which was Iove amongst the Deities?
Foole that I am, 'tis easie to devine,
Where e're the Beames of Majesty doe shine:
Then I address my self great Sir to you,
To whom these Titles and these Rites are due:
By me the Muses humbly fall before
Your sacred feet, and prostrate them adore,
Uovving their antient dwellings to forsake,
That they your Princely favours may partake:
Ida, Parnassus, and the flowry Plain
Of Thessaly no longer shall detain
Their svvift approach, but all the Virgin Pack
In glory seated on the vvinged back
Of firtil Zephyrus, shall hither come,
And make these Springs their everlasting home;
Here vvill they sit, and Carol forth your Fame,
Your nursing Nature, and your noble Name:
Then in exalted numbers tell hovv great
You are, vvhen mounted in your Mercy Seat;
And that this pregnant Isle you do inherit,
Not more by right of Bloud, then right of Merit.
Could you disclaim the line of your extraction,
And (amongst millions) stand for Saul's election,
It would appear conspicuous to beholders,
That you excell in soul, as he in shoulders:
This Trinity of Crowns you wear, respect
Your will, your memory, and intellect;
(The number of perfection) for you are
The Muses Evening, and their Morning Star.

On Fickle, and his Mistris Lydia.

Fickle is vex'd at heart (he sayes) to see
His Lydia look on him so scurvily;
Thou art a most unconscionable man,
Would'st have the Wench look better then she can?

A double Acrostich and Anagram on the Noble Name of the much honored Sir Tho. Fisher Baronet.

Though the tall Cedar, and the loyal shrub
Fall at the fury of the Zealots tub
Hopes yet are pregnant, that the good old way
In Presents merit no Anathem
Oblations of this harmless nature are
Surely no motives for another war
Much honor'd Sir, then grant him pardon, who
Hath don, but what your favors move him to
All holy happiness that men have known
Ere since our Saviours Incarnation
Secure your soul and body, goods and name,
Renown your Family, and guard your Fame
May all, and more then I can say or write,
Contribute to your next New-years deligh

Sir Thomas Fisher Baronet (Anagram) Starri Beams shine forth.

How well your Title, and your honor'd Name
Comply in this apposet Anagram;
For in an Age when Learnings Laureat Head
Is with Cimerian darkness overspread,
That men can scarce discover vvit or vvorth,
Most men confess your Starri Beams shine foorth.

In a Love-Bag which a Gentleman found, and concealed from a Lady, when they were playing at Questions and Commands.

I will confess, rack me no more, 'twas I
(Not out of gain, but curiosity)
That hid your Crewil Love-hood in a place
Obscure, because it did obscure your face;
Who would not (were he neer) some hazard run
To take away that Cloud which hides the Sun?
Or what is he, that would not (if he might)
Withdraw that Curtain which divides the light;
This is my Fact, and had a Judg been by
He would have been guilty as well as I.
I must confess when I was held in bands,
By curious Questions, and vvith kind Commands;
I pleaded guiltless, though 'twas understood
I did but wear two faces in one Hood:
Yet now I hope submission and confession
Will wave my Doom, and nullifie the Session;
The gentle Iudg will lay aside his fury,
And fright my sence no more with a grand Jury;
For I was much afraid (e're I did part)
That I should be burn'd in the hand or heart,
The fear is past, and (to end controversie)
Pray let my restitution meet your mercy:
Pardon the Crime, and cease to think upon
His fact, that doth return you two for one.

An Epithalamium on the Names and Nuptials of Mr. William Drayton, and the most devoutly vertuous Mrs. Grace Drayton.

Worth crown your Nuptials, may your Union prove
Great as the Sacred Bonds of Angels love:
Ioy kindle your bright zeals, may the flame rise
Resplendent as the Phoenix Sacrifice:
Love, health, wit, wealth, with all delights that can
Advance the honor of deserving man:
Lend lustre to your Loyalties, may you
Command all good your wish can prompt ye to.
If Poets may prove Prophets, I foretel
Exceeding pleasures, without parallel,
Are moving toward you; ye nere shall know
Division, nor no other Wedlock woe:
Many fair Babies may the Bride bring forth
Repleat with all things, which wise men call worth:
Dutiful, gracious, beautiful and bright,
As are the Stars in number, and in light:
Riches shall flow so fast upon your shore,
You may as well compt sands, as tell your store;
And you shall see your Childrens Children prove,
That they are Off-springs of a loyal love:
You never shall know jealousie, but be
Our purest Paterns of integrity:
These things may come to pass, for we all know
Nothing's impossible to him we owe
Our Faith, and our Alleageance; but however,
Let nothing dull the edg of your endeavour,
Nor at the chances of this world be vext,
What's wanting here, will be supply'd ith' next.

An Encomium to the much honored Rich. Cheyny of Hackney Esquire, his bountiful Patron, and to his incomparably vertuous Consort.

Health, wealth, worth, wit, with all that can be brought
In the circumference of humane thought
Exalt your soul and body; may the breath
Of Praise and Prayer guard your life and death:
Nothing appear to you, but what may be
A Badg of honor, or of amity;
What God can give, or wisest men intreat,
Fall upon you, till you are good and great:
May your dear Consort, and her issue grow
Brighter then Lillies on the Banks of Poe:
All Excellence that waits on humane breath,
From the disquiet Cradle to the death,
Remain with you two, in whose Spirits move
Concords Elixar, and the soul of Love:
May all that man can wish, or Angels do,
(In sacred consultations) fall on you:
Wit wait upon your wealth, what e're is fit
For man to ask, may you accomplish it;
May Providence defend ye from those jars
That sink great families in Civil wars:
Religion rule my Poesie, that all
Which I have said, may prove Prophetical.
These are the wishes, and the prayers of one,
Who makes your welfare his devotion.

A Poetical Parley, with a thredbare Cloak; Dedicated to his worthy friend, M. Hen. Stonestreet.

Cloak! (If I may so call thee) though thou art
My old Acquaintance, prythee now let's part;
Thou wert my equal friend in thirty-one,
But now thou lookst like a meer Hanger-on:
And art so useless to me, I scarce know
Sometimes, whether I have thee on or no;
But this I needs must say, when thou goest fro me,
These ten years thou hast been no burthen to me:
Yet that's thy Accusation, for if I
Divorce thee from me, 'tis for Levity;
Thou hast abus'd my bed, that is, thou hast
Not kept me warm when thou wert overcast:
Transparent Garment, proof against no weather,
Men wonder by what art thou hang'st together;
Nor can the eyes of the best reason pry
Into thy new occult Geometry.
A fellow tother day but cast his Eye-on,
And swore I went mantled in Dandelion:
Another ask'd me, (who was somewhat bolder,)
If I did wear a Love-bag on my shoulder;
{I} fear a fire, as fair Maids the small pox,
And dare not look towards a Tinder-box;
Nor he that sells them up and down I know,
If he come neer it, 'tis but touch and go:
A red fac'd fellow frights me, though some fear,
That which makes his Nose red, made my Cloak bare;
They say my thick back and thin Cloak appear
Very like powder'd beef and vineger.
Another vow'd (whose tongue had no restriction)
It was no garment, but the Poets fiction.
Did ever man discover such a knack,
To walk in Querpo with a Cloak on's back?
A very zealous Brother did begin
To jeer, and say, Sir! your original sin
Is not wash'd out, (pray do not take it ill)
I see you wear your Fathers figleaf still.
A Schollar (in an elevated thought)
Protested 'twas the web Arachne wrought,
When she contended with Minerva, but
Another Rascal had his finger cut,
And beg'd a piece to wrap about it; thus
You see (kind Cobweb) how they laugh at us:
Good Cambrick Lawn depart, let me not be
For ever, thus fetter'd in Tiffany:
Although I never yet did merit praise,
I'de rather have my shoulders crown'd with Bayes,
Then hung with Cypress, if this fortune be
Alwayes dependent upon Poetry,
I would my kinder destiny would call
Me to be one oth' Clerks of Blackwel Hall;
For though their easie studies are more dull,
Yet what they want in wit, they have in wooll.
Once more farewel, these are no times for thee,
Thick Cloaks are only fit for knavery:
The only Cloaks that now are most in fashion,
Are Liberty, Religion, Reformation;
All these are fac'd with zeal, and button'd down
With Jewels drop'd from an Imperial Crown:
He that would cloak it in the new translation,
Must have his Taylor cut it Pulpit fashion.
Do not appear within the City, there
They mind not what men are, but what men weare:
The habit speaks the man, how canst thou thrive,
Where a good Cloak's a Representative?
The females will not wear thee, they put on
Such cloaks as do obscure the rising Sun.
How canst thou hope for entertainment, when
Women make cloaks even of Committee men?
Farewel poor Coverwit, upon this Brier
I'le hang thee up, if any do enquire,
Where his brains were, that let his cloak there swing,
Tell them his wits are gone a wooll-gathring.

A Defence for women, in an answer to a vulgar invective.

A disswasion to a very virtuous Lady, who resolved to be a Nun.

Recall this Resolution, or you'l prove
Sinful to God, to Nature, and to Love:
He that did form all creatures for increasing,
Made fruitful Amity the first great blessing.
Why were you made a woman? Why were we
(By different Sex) put in capacity
Of getting Children? you cross Gods decree,
You will live single, God bids multiply:
You wrong the Law of Nature, every thing
Contributes to the store-house of the Spring:
Beasts, Fish, Fowle, Grain, one ear of corn will yeeld
(With husbandry) enough to fill a field:
Were every thing fruitless (as you would be)
You'd eat the walls down of your Nunnery.
But your transgression unto Love is such,
As no man's pen can aggravate too much;
Were those blue veins, red lips, white hands black eys
Made only for a vestal sacrifice?
But you reply, tis to prevent those crimes,
And hot allurements which pollute the times:
Madam, are you so weak, or sin so stout,
That nothing but stone walls can keep it out?
“Vlisses when he fear'd to be imbrac'd
“By Syreus, bound himself to the ship mast;
Because he found his soul so much inclin'd
Unto temptation, did his body bind;
And is it so vvith you? must you needs run
This tempting race, unless y'have fetters on?
Are Maids so frail, can Virgins find no trick
For chastity, but to be buried quick?
And yet vvhen all this streight prevention's vvrought,
Not all your vvalls, nor bars, can keep out thought:
In my conceipt those hearts have firmest stations,
That can be chast in spite of all temptations:
Chast vvedlock vvas at first design'd, that vve
Might not abuse, but keep our chastity.
You may do so, and yet not live alone,
That vvoman's chast enough that knovvs but one;
Stop your resolve then e're it further runs,
For vertuous vvives are chaster then some Nuns.

Thrones, Annagram, Thornes.

The late Kings sad distresses, scoffs and scornes,
Have made it manifest that thrones are thornes.

On the late K. departure, 1642.

When ill advice hurried the K. from hence,
Vertue vvas held vvith vitious violence.

On his conclusion.

The ranting rout ruin'd the Royal head,
With a beer boul, a banquet, and a bed.

An Encomium, written in the commendation of red Noses; contriv'd at the request of a friend, and dedicated to all of that Livery.

A Panegirick, written at the invitation of a Gentleman, who was then going to the Press with a book, entituled, The Praise of Podex.

Ingenuous Sir prepare your petty Codex,
For I am come with paper to your Podex,
I have perus'd your volum, and in it
I find no fragments of a costive wit;
Your Readers all are ravish'd, each one feels,
These liquid labours issue down the heels
Of apprehension, nay I dare be bold
To say, each line shews like a chain of gold
On Satten shoulders, bright as his (I think)
The letters of whose name do yeeld A STINK:
That popular Physitian Doctor B.
Who proudly told me he hates Poetry;
Should I but bring him such sweet lines as these,
Would lay by Galen and Hypocrates,
To read my rhimes, vvhose povverful Energy
Exceeds his Salt, Sulphur and Mercury:
For he that views them well, cannot forbear,
To think he hath a Clister pipe in's ear:
'Tis Podex that vve praise, the Theam hath been
Very much handled, but thus I begin;
Podex is Master of Arts, and is, I see
Of late, so vers'd in Lay Divinity,
That he hath subtilly wrought his sliding joynts,
From Hooks and Eyes, to Fundamental Points:
Babilons Baggage, and the Taylors stitches,
Have sown such strife, that Podex wears the breeches.
Podex in study of the Law ascends,
And will have most of it at's fingers ends
'Tis thought within this twelfmoneth, but the ills
He fears is, that the copious Chancery Bills
Will grow too small, by which he understands,
He shall not deal in-justice vvith both hands:
Much may be said of him, though some do vent,
Mischievous words in his disparagement:
They say he's company for Whores, and Gluttons,
And that the best on's kindred now make Buttons.
I know not what they mean, I'le keep below decks,
Least I (as one of late) do lose my Podex;
Tis thought that many men have been undone,
Only by Podex and his hangers on.
Some think he is a Coward 'cause they find,
When men are fighting, he still keeps behind;
They are deceiv'd, he best maintains the fray,
When as his face is turn'd another way.
Some carp at his descent, and say that he
Hath his Extraction from low Pedigree;
Because in latter times he hath been able,
To rise from Coblers stall to Councel table:
They envy at his Greatness, but 'tis well
Known to the Wise, Podex doth so excell,
That give him but some Grains to mend his weight,
And he may fully fill a Chair of State.
Many men mutter many things, some say,
It is not fit that he should live a day:
This man would have him crush'd, and that man crownd,
Another sayes Podex shall kiss the ground;
A fourth swears dam him, if he had a broad axe,
And time, and place, he would dismember Podex:
But Ladyes to your feathered fingers I
Commit soft Podex for security;
You love him for the worth that is about him,
And cannot go to pluck a Rose without him:
You like him at your Boards, and in your Beds,
He bears the Keys of all your Maiden-heads.
Though you were made the Mint of Mankind, yet
Tis lovely Podex hath the Stamp of it:
Then use him gently, do not overthrow him,
And, when you please, present him with this Poem.

On Filcher.

Filcher reports that he's a Lawyer grown,
And he sayes true, but 'tis a High-way one.

On Silence.

The liberal Lips are liable to wrong,
If you would hold your peace, pray hold your tongue.

On Chat's Wife.

Chat 's Wife in speaking many tongues is known,
If he had mine, he'd find enough of one.

An Apologie for Danceing, Dedicate to all the active Proficients, but more peculiarly unto Mr. R. L.

My Muse, which fornerly was wont to prize
Ladies fair hands, white necks, red lips, black eyes;
Flyes with reformed wings and (as its meet)
Layes by the head to magnifie the Feet:
The subject of this half hours thought shall be
On dancing's regular Activity:
And it is fit this Quality should be
Exalted with the feet of Poetry:
For Schollars when their flameing souls advance
To write a Poem, all their spirits dance:
First I will tell you what the essential part
Of Danceing is, and then, Have at the Art:
It is an Act, if rightly understood,
Consisting of three parts, Time, Tune, and Mood;
Time limits, Tune doth regulate, the vigor
Of Mood, doth aptly form posture, and figure:
Thus are the parts distinguish'd, I shall next
Give you a Comment on this tempting Text
In orderly Gradations, not by leaps,
But soberly ascend to it by steps.
What can be more allicient then to see
Men move with mathematique majesty?
Whose glyding feet so press the buxom earth,
As if their Motion gave the Musique birth.
Where not alone the foot, but head, arm, thigh
Contribute to compleat the harmony;
It is a fit of order where our eyes,
Have glimpses of the Spheres Rotundities:
'Tis Musick to the sight, a swift and sweet
Concord of spirits; Language of the feet,
It moves the soul with such secret devotion,
That it compels the standers by to motion:
All creatures since the world (at first did start
From Chaos) are presented by this Art:
In motion or in station, look upon,
The active glory of the rising Sun;
Where time and tune do both (at once) confine
His flameing feet along th' Ecliptique line;
Exactly to a minute, some will say,
He danceth to, upon an Easter day.
The Moon doth more then he, for (like our Apes,
In Antiques) she appears in several shapes;
Whilst round about her, (by divine command)
In figure all the Constellations stand:
And he that will on Plinies volum call,
Shall finde much order in each Animal.
The whole Creation is a Dance, where men
Rise, walk, turn, side, so to their seats agen.
An Army is a Dance, where (though an Ocean,
Of mingled men) they measure all their motion;
Who (as the trumpets sound, or drums do beat)
Lead up, that is, March on, Fall back, Retreat:
But if it chance they by the Foe are foyld,
They'r all disfigured, and the dance is spoyld.
A Common-wealth's a Dance, (mark it) Her's one:
Leads up quick time, and doth as fast fall down:
This subtil fellow sides, and that is found,
(Or rather lost) to be still turning round:
But leaving these at each hand, in the middle
A man whose feet keep time to Fortune's Fiddle:
With a Coranto pace, the rest surprizes,
Sets best leg forward, makes a chase and rises:
I could enlarge upon it, but I must
In Dancing's use and the abuse be just;
In modest men, and virtuous women this
Cannot conduce to any thing amiss:
Besides, some Dances and some Dancers be
So grave, they move like a solemnity;
Rather then such as titilate the bloud,
With any Appetite that is not good:
The true intent of dancing to me seems,
Only an Artful perfecting the Limbes
In gracious postures, such as Nature would,
Her self have brought to pass if that she could.
This Art is necessary, if it were,
Only to make the Feet familiar
To walk the streets with hansomness, or come,
With civil motion to a strangers Room:
But (in a word) these active Recreations
Are antient, good, and practiz'd by all Nations:
Th' abuses are, where persons void of fame
And full of lust, use this to feed the flame:
What's this to th' Art? the Spider and the Bee
Extract, by one rule of Phylosophy:
And that which is an ornament in one,
May in another breed destruction:
I fear that Scripture phrase, where mischief's hid,
Hath done more hurt then ever dancing did:
All things may be corrupted, meat, drink, health;
The Seat of Justice, an whole Commonwealth:
If it be so, then I may boldly say,
That Danceing is as innocent as they.

An Epitaph in an Acrostick, on the Name of his worthy Friend Thomas Milward Gent. whose face (by general conception) was very like the late King.

To Mr. T. J. on his Poems.

Much like a Pris'ner, that hath long time lay
In darksome Cells, without a glimps of day,
Dazled at first approach into the light,
Can scarce distinguish wher't be day or night;
So my abused Muse too long confin'd
To silence, by my negligence grew blind:
Her opticks are so weak, she can't discry
(Without her Spectacles) true Poetry:
Yet (thanks to great Apollo) she retains
A love of those that write Poetick strains;
She loves the name of Poet, though she be
Unskilful in the Art of Poesie:
She loves the company of those that write
Well-polisht verses, though she can't indite:
Such as whose wits t'illustrate all their theams
Fetch Pearls from th' depth of Heliconian streams:
This makes me hope they'l thrive, because desire
Is th' only way to gain Poetick fire;
And if by your good favour she obtain
More strength, that grace shan't be receiv'd in vain;
For she hath vow'd if e're such glorious rayes
Inlighten her to eccho forth your praise.

To Mr. H. S. in answer of his ingenious Poem.

Not much unlike that Captive which we see
Fetter'd with favours, chain'd with charity:
Do I appear, your candid contribution
(Mysteriously) designs my deminution:
Your love doth over-lay me, I shall die,
(If you persist) not knowing how or why:
Your Poems make me lose my apprehension,
And soar above the sence of my ascention:
But why (dear Stonestreet) do you thus confine
In your own Cabinet the noble Nine?
What have the Virgins done, that they must be
Compress'd with such divine captivity?
You are more strict then Statesmen, they that sit
At Westminster will not sequester wit:
But I repent this rudeness, and think rather
You do secure them like a Foster-father:
From ignorant pretenders, or from those
That wrong the Laws of God and man in Proes:
That (nameless) number, which more evil do,
Then man can think, or hell can look into:
You have done well in't, may the Muses be
Fertil, as is your own fidelity:
Whil'st I justly declare (if you go on)
That London Bridg stands over Helicon.

On a Cavalier.

A Cavalier did in an high-way theft,
Lose one of's arms, but his right hand was left.

Slut (the Annagram) Lust.

Sloth needs must be a wrong to female Fame
Since Slut and Lust lodg in one Annagram:
But this you may conclude, if Sloth do hurt you
To be a busie body is a vertue.

An Acrostical Eulogy composed on the name of his much respected Cozen M. Francis Jordan of Ensham, in the County of Oxon.

From fair pretending in unfaithful friends,
Innocent looks that hide injurious ends;
Religious Traytors, which two faces hold,
One of Divinity, t'other of Gold:
Armies of such as do with one accord
Ruine Religion, to advance Gods Word.
New Reformation, in an oath that stands
Diameter to all which God commands;
Conjealing Winters, and contagious Summers,
All such Divines as deal in Guns and Drummers,
Intemp'rate feasts, false women, and bad wine,
Neutrality in things that are divine;
Secret Consumptions, and such deeds as do
Wast wealth and wit, Good Lord deliver you.

A Comparison.

Quick-wit reports, that his wild Brother Randle
Hath lov'd a Whore, as a Moth loves a Candle.

On Lay-Elders.

Are Elders (now) so vertuous in their wayes?
They were not found so in Susanna's dayes.

An Elegy and Epitaph on the death of the right worshipful Sir NATH. BRENT Knight, Doctor of Law, and Judg of the Prerogative Court, who exchanged this present life in the year 1653.

Dry eyes depart, all that come hither shall
Not go, but flow unto our Funeral:
This Mare mortuum admits of none
But such a Fleet, whose sails with sighs are blown.
If any Merchant hath by war and weather,
Lost both his ship, and lading, bring him hither:
That Proselite which our Religion bears,
Must learn from us not to drop Beads, but tears:
We hate Disputers, they are of our Ranks,
Whose Maxims are to suffer and give thanks.
Our sorrows do not with that man accord,
Whose point of doctrine is upon his sword:
Therefore no States-man comes, unless he cou'd
Vent as much water, as he hath drawn bloud:
His Donatives are too severely dealt,
That wears the Key of heaven at his Belt;
And not for our Society, the loss
We have sustain'd, allows of no such dross:
We have inter'd a man, whose firtil name
Enrich'd his Title, and gave Spurs to Fame,
Whose noble well-weigh'd actions might impart
New rules unto the Mathematique Art.
One whose Religion never understood
How to gain heaven by the right of blood;
Who thought no man more desperate then he
That could not bless and love his enemy;
That to be courteous only to our friends,
Is but the subtil issue of self-ends:
He was a man, whose wide extended store
Gave thankful invitations to the poor;
Who nere thought that mans charity profound,
That dol'd a farthing from a thousand pound;
One whose essential vertues did out-vy
A zealot in his best formality;
His meanest acts (in every mans esteem)
Did shine more bright then other men could seem:
The perfect'st Hieroglyphick of all good,
That hath (of late) been mix'd with flesh and blood,
More real merit in his soul did lye,
Then any Metaphor can magnifie.
Good Readers let our eyes perswade your ears,
And what we want in tongues, take out in tears.

The Epitaph.

Reader, canst thou weep to see
The loss of Law and Piety?
Hadst thou rather meet thy death,
Then have learning out of breath?
Will thy eyes confess thy grief,
To view vertue, want relief?
Would'st thou let thy fountain run,
If thy Country were undone?
Can thy tears proclaim a tide,
To see Gospel crucified?
Will thy holy eyes wear mourning,
When thou seest the Church a burning?
If th'ast wep'd for any thing
Since bold Rebels kill'd the King
Of our Salvation, (Jesus Christ)
Weep now, or none will when thou diest;
For underneath this stone there lyes,
A subject for all mourning eyes.

An Epitaph on a good wife.

Here lies a soul that lov'd her Saviour Christ,
Her parents, partner, paterns, Prince, and Priest.

A Simile on a fine Whore.

An Whore is like a Squirril, that doth vail,
And cover all her body with her tail.

To his faithful ingenuous friend and old acquaintance, J. T. Gent.

Friend (in that firtil title, I dispence
To thee (at once) both love and reverence)
I do salute thee, what I now hold forth,
Is a pale prospect of thy pregnant worth,
Trick'd with a pensil of less worth then will,
And drawn by one who hath more love then skill:
The Sun hath twenty Summers strew'd the earth
With flowers, since our Acquaintance first took birth:
It vvas a season vvhen our Drums and Flutes
Did give precedency to Love and Lutes:
When men by Piety vvere so restrain'd,
They durst not think a K. could be Arraign'd:
Plays vvere in fashion too, they did not fear,
To have their plots brought to the Theater:
The big-look'd Hector-like Bravado's then
(That liv'd on Whores, and Country Gentlemen)
Were call'd the Blades, great Colonels did use
To vvear blevv Frocks, and cobble Porters shoes:
Ere Austin vvas put dovvn, and Burton Sainted,
(Thanks to my destiny) vve vvere acquainted;
Since then (I have observ'd) this annual Race
Hath put no vvrinkles on thy soul or face:
Thy look, thy language, and thy mind are svveet
Correlatives, and in one Consort meet;
Thy active spirit, and thy form complies,
To captivate mens hearts, and womens eyes:
Thy face speaks Rhetorick, and no persvvasion
Wins credit vvhere thy person makes invasion:
Thy Pen and Languages could not miscarry,
Wer't thou the greatest Princes Secretary:
Thy Poetry vvould make great Orpheus leese
His Lyre, and dance a part vvith his ovvn trees;
That thou art valiant, he doth better knovv,
Whom his ill destiny hath made thy foe:
I should inlarge my self in this Narration,
But that I find great volums out of fashion;
Besides, vvhen I conceive I have sum'd all,
I may omit some main material;
Yet hovvsoe're these rugged lines are pen'd,
No man is more your servant, then

On a crooked Scold.

Scorta (a Quean, no Fish-wife could out-scold her,
Who wore cross natures Pack upon her shoulder)
Fell out with Clinch, and gave him vvorser vvords
Then Billinsgate (in Mackrell time) affords;
At vvhich he cryes (seeing it vain to prate)
Ye cursed crooked Whore, I'le kick you strait.

On Rant.

Rant is (they say) indicted for a vvit,
To which he pleads not Guilty, and is quit.

A Mock Epithalamium, composed for the Nuptials of an illiterate Brewer and his Bride.

These Nuptial flowers the fair Maids are strewing,
I am inform'd has been long time a brevving;
Make hast to Church, good Fortune be your guide,
Till you out-gallop all that Rhime to Ride.
The love that lurks within your amorous holes,
Is not false fire, but Gods precious coles,
Which will, if no ill inundation hinders,
Shine bright, till all the world consume in cynders;
May both your hands and hearts joyn all in one,
Happy conjunction, like the Bolt and Tun:
May the Bride draw your favour with more force
Of fierce affection, then your Draymans horse:
(For Cupids coursers triumph on the ground,
When two well yoked Lovers are shod round)
Prove faithful to each other, let no stranger
(With fair pretence) lye at Loves rack and manger:
May the Brides bosome be the Bridegrooms charm,
Until her belly do rebound like Barm,
That when your liquid limbs together curl,
You may dissolve, and intermix like Purl;
So may the pregnant Port of pleasure prove
The firtil furnace of inflaming Love;
And you shall yearly reap the fruitful crops
Of children multiply'd as thick as hops;
Which issuing from Loves bed of fragrant spice,
May well be call'd the grains of Paradise:
May these wars die, and they that first begot 'um,
That every tub may stand upon's own bottom:
May your trade thrive, may no Excize man thvvart
Your private guile, or set a Spoke i' your Cart:
If you or she have done amiss, I pray
Let this conjunction prove a cleansing day:
For they vvho to a married bondage stoop,
Must be confined in the holy hoop.
May your fair bedfellow live above strife,
And overflourish the Inkeepers wife:
Although her husband can outface your Copper,
She shall both in the Church and State o're top her:
Because there is (now Idols are put down)
Small distance 'twixt the Copper and the Crown.

An Epithalamium, on the noble Nuptials of Mr. Will. Christmas Merchant, and Mrs. Elizabeth Christmas.

Stay! take my benediction e're you go,
Tis Orthodox, Poets are Prophets to:
Nor do I doubt but my Cromatick Ayrs
Have as large Pinions as the Parsons prayers:
May that felicity whose sweetness swells
In Solomons transcendent Canticles.
Attend these Nuptials, may your union be
The great Elixir of all sympathy:
May Doves be your Disciples, and from you
Not only learn to love, but to be true:
The active Sparrow which with amorous tread,
Makes of one Creature wife and feather bed;
Will watch your windows, & in neighb'ring willows
Declare the doctrine of your panting pillows:
You shall teach all things Love, Ovid was wont
To shew the Art, you know the nature on't.
But stay, methinks the Bride begins to be
Disturb'd at loss of her Virginity;
She views the Bed, and Bridegroom as they were
The Scaffold, and the Executioner.
Madam depress those fears, what greater joy
Then lose a Maiden-head to win a Boy?
A prety boy, as sweet and like the mother,
As one of her bright eyes compar'd with tother:
May health, wealth, wisdom, piety, and truth,
Support ye in your age, and crown your youth:
May you live free from jealousies and fears
Of forraign fury, or Domestick cares:
May the Catastrophe of both your years
Be the sad object of all good mens tears;
And may your date of death be on the stone
One thousand, seven hundred, thirty one.

A Fable.

They say that in a neighb'ring Aviary
The birds fell out, the Ægle did miscarry;
That was their K. but strait the factious flock
Did chuse a new, and crown'd a Turkey Cock.

The Moral.

This makes the Proverb true unto a letter,
When one is gone, there seldom comes a better.