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| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVIII. |
 | Songs and other poems (1668) |  |
On my Friend Mr. Alexander Brome
When
a Republick looses in the Field
A Captain, who, whilest living, was their shield
Or when, cut off by Age, within their walls
Some prudent Senator, some good Patriot falls;
The widdow'd State her mourning then puts on,
As all her Counsels, and Defence were gone,
And weeps, and mourns, as she foresaw she must
Be subject to the first Invaders Lust,
Despising all her off-spring that remain,
That Citizen dead, and that old Souldier slain:
But to advance their Names, no cost is spar'd,
Medals are cast, and Obelisques are rear'd;
The Marble Quarry is torn up, the Mine
Is search't, and rob'd to make their Triumphs shine
But the neglected Poet when he dies,
Or with obscure, or with no Obsequies
Is lay'd aside; and though by living Verse,
Strew'd on this Hero's and that Statesman's Hearse
His Pen graves Characters, by which they live
A longer life, than Brass or Marble give;
Yet has this generous Poet no returne,
None to weep ore his Urne, nay scarce an Urne.
O undiscerning World! the Souldier's brave
Either for what he wants, or thirsts to have,
His breast opposing against fire, and flame
Either for Riches, or a glorious name:
Reward, and honour make the Souldiers trade,
And if he either win, the man's well pay'd.
The Statesman, on the other side, takes pains,
To smooth that Warr to Peace, and works his brains,
Or to appease an Enemy, or make
Such Friends, as may at need make good the stake,
Nor is his reverend care, when all is done,
More for his Countrey's safety, than his own;
And that which makes his Cities freedom dear,
Is that himself, and his inhabit there.
Whereas the Poet by more generous wayes,
Distributes boughs of Oake, and shoots of Bayes.
According to due merit, nor does take,
Thought of Reward, but all for Vertues sake.
It were in vain to write on other score,
The Poet knows his lot is to be Poor:
For whatsoer's well Done, well Writ, well Said,
The Bard is ever the last man that's pay'd;
The wary World has wisely taken time,
Till the Greek Kalends do account for Rhythm.
A Captain, who, whilest living, was their shield
Or when, cut off by Age, within their walls
Some prudent Senator, some good Patriot falls;
The widdow'd State her mourning then puts on,
As all her Counsels, and Defence were gone,
And weeps, and mourns, as she foresaw she must
Be subject to the first Invaders Lust,
Despising all her off-spring that remain,
That Citizen dead, and that old Souldier slain:
But to advance their Names, no cost is spar'd,
Medals are cast, and Obelisques are rear'd;
The Marble Quarry is torn up, the Mine
Is search't, and rob'd to make their Triumphs shine
But the neglected Poet when he dies,
Or with obscure, or with no Obsequies
Is lay'd aside; and though by living Verse,
Strew'd on this Hero's and that Statesman's Hearse
His Pen graves Characters, by which they live
A longer life, than Brass or Marble give;
Yet has this generous Poet no returne,
None to weep ore his Urne, nay scarce an Urne.
O undiscerning World! the Souldier's brave
Either for what he wants, or thirsts to have,
His breast opposing against fire, and flame
Either for Riches, or a glorious name:
Reward, and honour make the Souldiers trade,
And if he either win, the man's well pay'd.
To smooth that Warr to Peace, and works his brains,
Or to appease an Enemy, or make
Such Friends, as may at need make good the stake,
Nor is his reverend care, when all is done,
More for his Countrey's safety, than his own;
And that which makes his Cities freedom dear,
Is that himself, and his inhabit there.
Whereas the Poet by more generous wayes,
Distributes boughs of Oake, and shoots of Bayes.
According to due merit, nor does take,
Thought of Reward, but all for Vertues sake.
It were in vain to write on other score,
The Poet knows his lot is to be Poor:
For whatsoer's well Done, well Writ, well Said,
The Bard is ever the last man that's pay'd;
The wary World has wisely taken time,
Till the Greek Kalends do account for Rhythm.
Nor do I here intend the Gold that's hurl'd
Like flaming brands thorough the peaceful world,
To make whole Kingdoms into Faction split,
Should be suppos'd the recompence of wit:
The Poet scorns that sordid seed of Earth,
The World's alluring, but unhappy birth.
All he desires, all that he would demand,
Is only that some amicable hand,
Wou'd but irriguate his fading bayes
With Due, and only with deserved Praise;
Yet even this so modest a request,
The Age denies. Alass! what interest,
Has vertue upon Earth, when Brome could dye,
And be lamented with no Elegie?
No friendly hand t'enforme the Passenger,
That gentle Brome, the Muses joy, lies here.
More had not needed to have been express't,
Himself has made provision for the rest.
Whilst Pindar's Bayes grows green amongst the dead,
Whilst Horace, or Anacreon are read,
My Brome shall live, and Travellers that come
From distant shores, transport his Verses home.
Nor needs he other, than his own great Name,
To recommend him to immortal Fame;
His merits lustre of it self will doo't,
Shine to the Pole's and put those sparklets out.
Like flaming brands thorough the peaceful world,
To make whole Kingdoms into Faction split,
Should be suppos'd the recompence of wit:
The Poet scorns that sordid seed of Earth,
The World's alluring, but unhappy birth.
All he desires, all that he would demand,
Is only that some amicable hand,
Wou'd but irriguate his fading bayes
With Due, and only with deserved Praise;
Yet even this so modest a request,
The Age denies. Alass! what interest,
Has vertue upon Earth, when Brome could dye,
And be lamented with no Elegie?
No friendly hand t'enforme the Passenger,
That gentle Brome, the Muses joy, lies here.
Himself has made provision for the rest.
Whilst Pindar's Bayes grows green amongst the dead,
Whilst Horace, or Anacreon are read,
My Brome shall live, and Travellers that come
From distant shores, transport his Verses home.
Nor needs he other, than his own great Name,
To recommend him to immortal Fame;
His merits lustre of it self will doo't,
Shine to the Pole's and put those sparklets out.
And yet we had our gratitude express't,
T'have given our Testimonies, at the least,
Of his great worth, and publish't our esteem,
That we all lov'd, and all lamented him:
But men were strook at his untimely Fate,
Which makes us pay our Fun'ral tears thus late.
And, as a tender Mother when she hears,
Her only Childe is lost, lets fall no tears,
But at the horrour of the first sad sound,
Falls, as if strook with Thunder in a swound,
Till by the help of unkind remedies,
To ease her soul, she opes her weeping eyes;
So wit orecome, and cast into a trance,
At this so unexpected a mischance,
Must through that night of grief, and horror break,
Before it could get article to speak;
And this deferr'd these honours to his Tomb,
They're little griefs that speak, deep sorrow's dumb
T'have given our Testimonies, at the least,
Of his great worth, and publish't our esteem,
That we all lov'd, and all lamented him:
But men were strook at his untimely Fate,
Which makes us pay our Fun'ral tears thus late.
And, as a tender Mother when she hears,
Her only Childe is lost, lets fall no tears,
But at the horrour of the first sad sound,
Falls, as if strook with Thunder in a swound,
Till by the help of unkind remedies,
To ease her soul, she opes her weeping eyes;
So wit orecome, and cast into a trance,
At this so unexpected a mischance,
Must through that night of grief, and horror break,
Before it could get article to speak;
And this deferr'd these honours to his Tomb,
They're little griefs that speak, deep sorrow's dumb
Charles Cotton
On the Death of Mr. Alexander Brome, who dyed the 30th. of June, 1666.
Pardon
(dear Saint!) If (though so late) I mourn,
And drop some Tears o're thy neglected Urne;
For my sad Muse too long hath waiting been
To see some solemn, but yet pompous Scene.
Where those great wits, which thy Companions were,
Might like themselves Mourning for thee appear,
In Elegies worthy themselves and thee.
A noble Task for them, too great for Me.
I thought e're this t'have seen whole Volumes writ,
In such a style as might become thy wit,
Acquainting the dull world, not what thou wert,
How much thou hadst Improv'd Poetick Art;
For that thy works (beyond Amendment) shew,
Ages to come, as well as he, will know
By them thy Lofty, yet familiar strain,
So highly learned, yet so humbly plain;
But how much thou wert by the Muses lov'd,
How much thy Death their wits and passions mov'd,
That unborn Poets might in times to come,
See how belov'd, and how bewail'd was Brome.
And drop some Tears o're thy neglected Urne;
For my sad Muse too long hath waiting been
To see some solemn, but yet pompous Scene.
Where those great wits, which thy Companions were,
Might like themselves Mourning for thee appear,
In Elegies worthy themselves and thee.
A noble Task for them, too great for Me.
I thought e're this t'have seen whole Volumes writ,
In such a style as might become thy wit,
Acquainting the dull world, not what thou wert,
How much thou hadst Improv'd Poetick Art;
For that thy works (beyond Amendment) shew,
Ages to come, as well as he, will know
By them thy Lofty, yet familiar strain,
So highly learned, yet so humbly plain;
But how much thou wert by the Muses lov'd,
How much thy Death their wits and passions mov'd,
That unborn Poets might in times to come,
See how belov'd, and how bewail'd was Brome.
But finding none of these that could to do
Those friendly Rites to thee so justly due
My Muse impatient grows by their delay,
And Can't but must thus her last duty pay.
Which as she can, not would, she must express
Adores thy Tomb, but can't adorn thy Hearse.
Those friendly Rites to thee so justly due
My Muse impatient grows by their delay,
And Can't but must thus her last duty pay.
Which as she can, not would, she must express
Adores thy Tomb, but can't adorn thy Hearse.
Rich. Newcourt.
On Mr. Alexander Brome's Poems
I.
How long had Poetry a captive beenTo such as basely made
Their Jaylor-ship a Trade,
That shew'd her with a cautious secrecy,
Through mysterious vails
Of dark Allegory,
And most prodigious tales?
(Which for the Layety to disbelieve was sin,)
Till thou Defender of the Faith cam'st in?
2.
The knots, that they so cunningly had ty'deWith superstitious Charms;
Like Alexander thou cam'st to divide
If not by Art, by Armes:
In vain oppos'd the Legions of the Dead,
The Roman Veterans,
Alas! they long had been misled,
Through politick Tradition;
Now, as their Gods, amaz'd they fled,
And left their ridling Fanes
At the true Prophets mission.
3.
Thus freed, to thee, (as if to oneWho had unty'de her Virgin Zone;)
She most affectionately come,
Shew'd thee her purest excellence
VVas not confin'd to words, but sence;
And that so naturally free,
As was the worlds first Infancy,
Though now, she and her Art had lost a name.
4.
Her Rules exactly thou dost imitateIn every thing thou dost express;
Whether thou piously dost celebrate
The Birth or Martyrdom of Kings,
Or shew'st in subtle turns of State,
The strange Vicissitude of things,
How is it done without affectedness?
Thou labour'st for no far-fetch't Metaphors,
Nor does thy judgment stray,
After Phantastick Meteors,
Made to misguide the way;
But by a certain calculation knows
Wits lowest Elbs and highest flows.
5.
Anacreon be thy Judge whose heats Divine,Thou dost not starve but feed,
And as inspir'd with his own wine
Aptly giv'st fuel when is need,
Horace, Apoll's truest Son
Shall vouch his Odes as sweetly run,
As if they had been made all, at Blandusium:
Thou never make'st his shortnesses obscure
Nor cool'st the rigor of his Ire,
That let'st his Satyrs fly with their own flame and fire:
For which thy name shall as Mecænas's indure.
Lucretius should have witness'd to, how he
Admir'd his Father Epicures's Philosophy.
Explaind by thy new Organum of Poetry:
But Jealous Heav'n did grutch
Th'ungrateful Earth should know too much;
294
Men might new Gods and other worlds have made.
6.
Alas! Why sillily do I pretend,Thus to describe the History
That's better annaliz'd by thee.
And shall outdare Eternity; to discommend
Thy Book, now (Cæsar like) thou'rt gone
Into a Constellation;
Like Cæsar's shall be ever read,
Till Earth and Seas gives up their Dead.
Thy name, like his shall worship'd be; (although
Thou hadst no Brutus here below.)
Absolute Prince, thou keept'st competitors in Aw,
In time of War, by Wit, in Peace, by Law.
R. Th. Jun.
296
[Epistles.]
LIV. To his Friend C. S. Esq.
Now I'm return'd, my thanks shall be so too,
First to your self, next to your half-self Su.
To Tom. that treated us so friendly, and
So like one that a Treat do's understand;
Next to his lovely Lady, who appear'd,
So like an Angel, and our Spirits chear'd;
I think she could my dying flames renew,
And create such as never were in you.
First to your self, next to your half-self Su.
To Tom. that treated us so friendly, and
So like one that a Treat do's understand;
Next to his lovely Lady, who appear'd,
So like an Angel, and our Spirits chear'd;
I think she could my dying flames renew,
And create such as never were in you.
If she can pardon what we did amiss,
Her mercy signal as her beauty is;
First your impertinent frequent Rhythming, which
Infected both our Chaplains with an Itch;
Who seeing Rhythmes so freely come from you,
Did confidently venture at it too.
But t'immitate's a servile thing; and all
Copies fall short of their Original.
There is a certain knack in what men do,
Which gives the relish, this they reach'd not to.
Her mercy signal as her beauty is;
First your impertinent frequent Rhythming, which
Infected both our Chaplains with an Itch;
Who seeing Rhythmes so freely come from you,
Did confidently venture at it too.
But t'immitate's a servile thing; and all
Copies fall short of their Original.
297
Which gives the relish, this they reach'd not to.
Verse by severe brows is conceiv'd a crime,
But never man yet durst excuse bald Rhythme.
It will require much time, and pains, and skill,
To finde whe'r Rhythme has done more good or ill;
Those that are for it, say that verses be
Pleasant to read, and helps to memory;
And while men hunt for Rythme, they'r put in mind
Of things, which in dull prose they could not finde.
But never man yet durst excuse bald Rhythme.
It will require much time, and pains, and skill,
To finde whe'r Rhythme has done more good or ill;
Those that are for it, say that verses be
Pleasant to read, and helps to memory;
And while men hunt for Rythme, they'r put in mind
Of things, which in dull prose they could not finde.
On t'other side, the Author who abuses,
In witty Rhythmes poor Poets and their muses,
Imputes it to you Poets as a crime,
That every other Verse is made for Rhythme:
And thinks if one half of all verses are
But tolerable sense, 'tis very fair:
So half of all the Paper, Pen and Ink,
Which Poets spoil, is to make Words cry Chink.
Go to her therefore straight and make your peace,
And henceforth let that sort of fooling cease;
Pray her forgive your folly, and with it,
That greater you made other men committ.
Tell her, tis your complexion sin, which you
Can no more leave, then she can to subdue
Or her eyes murthering, but yet you may
Divert the force of it some other way,
And by some lasting Poem make her fame,
As high and spreading, as she made my flame.
In witty Rhythmes poor Poets and their muses,
Imputes it to you Poets as a crime,
That every other Verse is made for Rhythme:
And thinks if one half of all verses are
But tolerable sense, 'tis very fair:
So half of all the Paper, Pen and Ink,
Which Poets spoil, is to make Words cry Chink.
Go to her therefore straight and make your peace,
And henceforth let that sort of fooling cease;
Pray her forgive your folly, and with it,
That greater you made other men committ.
Tell her, tis your complexion sin, which you
Can no more leave, then she can to subdue
Or her eyes murthering, but yet you may
Divert the force of it some other way,
And by some lasting Poem make her fame,
As high and spreading, as she made my flame.
Hard drinking there, and late I can't conceive
A sin, 'cause 'tis my own which I can't leave;
Yet if her pardon shee'ld extend so farr,
Then for her face and eyes I'll pardon her.
So wee'll be friends, and this agree upon,
For future I'll drink on, let her look on.
To the whole Church remember me, to all
VVhom we did feast, and did not feast withall.
For those that did not, had a minde to treat
Us likewise, but we drank too much to eat.
A sin, 'cause 'tis my own which I can't leave;
Yet if her pardon shee'ld extend so farr,
Then for her face and eyes I'll pardon her.
So wee'll be friends, and this agree upon,
For future I'll drink on, let her look on.
298
VVhom we did feast, and did not feast withall.
For those that did not, had a minde to treat
Us likewise, but we drank too much to eat.
First to his Lordship, tell him I desire,
My self as high as he is, and him higher:
Not for wealth, rule, and honour (though those be
Things, which might tempt some holyer men than we.
But for the Priviledges sake, for then
Men durst not ask us high and holy men,
To drink a quart unto them, and I should so
Scape all those ills I'm now obnoxious to.
My self as high as he is, and him higher:
Not for wealth, rule, and honour (though those be
Things, which might tempt some holyer men than we.
But for the Priviledges sake, for then
Men durst not ask us high and holy men,
To drink a quart unto them, and I should so
Scape all those ills I'm now obnoxious to.
Now as I am, if any friend meets me,
Hoop! my friend A. B. (sayes he,)
Nay faith now we are mett thus, wee'll not part,
Till we've enjoy'd our selves and crack'd one Quart:
I like a young VVhore, do at first deny,
And begg his pardon, but so scurvily,
I do but tempt him to tempt me again,
He swears I shall, and all denyal's vain
And 'cause the Gentleman should swear agen,
I yield and go, then that one quart growes ten.
Hoop! my friend A. B. (sayes he,)
Nay faith now we are mett thus, wee'll not part,
Till we've enjoy'd our selves and crack'd one Quart:
I like a young VVhore, do at first deny,
And begg his pardon, but so scurvily,
I do but tempt him to tempt me again,
He swears I shall, and all denyal's vain
And 'cause the Gentleman should swear agen,
I yield and go, then that one quart growes ten.
Thank the ingenious Chanter for his Treat,
And for himself who was both wine and meat;
His fate I pitty though, whose youth was spent
In an obscure retreat, and languishment,
When he was strong in body, and his minde
Fit to receive what then he could not finde,
Now in a glut, wealth and preferments come:
But age and sickness makes them troublesome.
And for himself who was both wine and meat;
His fate I pitty though, whose youth was spent
In an obscure retreat, and languishment,
When he was strong in body, and his minde
Fit to receive what then he could not finde,
Now in a glut, wealth and preferments come:
But age and sickness makes them troublesome.
Next your gentile Archdeacon thank from me,
For his obliging generositie.
And his school musick, which perhaps to those,
That understand it may seem precious:
But I good drinking Anthems more admire
Then all their unintelligible Quire
Words plainly sung by one or two good Fellows,
Please me more then G. Sol Re Ut an' th'Bellows.
For his obliging generositie.
299
That understand it may seem precious:
But I good drinking Anthems more admire
Then all their unintelligible Quire
Words plainly sung by one or two good Fellows,
Please me more then G. Sol Re Ut an' th'Bellows.
The next in order to be handled are,
Our learned Chaplains, that religious Pair.
Though Tom be no deep Schollar, nor rank Wit,
Yet he's an admirable Hypocrit.
Our learned Chaplains, that religious Pair.
Though Tom be no deep Schollar, nor rank Wit,
Yet he's an admirable Hypocrit.
Frank has some wit and learning without doubt:
But does so negligently blunder't out
As if he said, I preach Divinity,
And if you will not minde it, what care I?
They two might make one good Divine; for one
Has head and heart, and t'other face and Tone.
And if one can convert the men oth' Town,
The tother will soon put the Women down.
But does so negligently blunder't out
As if he said, I preach Divinity,
And if you will not minde it, what care I?
They two might make one good Divine; for one
Has head and heart, and t'other face and Tone.
And if one can convert the men oth' Town,
The tother will soon put the Women down.
Now Charles farewel, lets both bid so to Rythme,
'T has taken up much of our precious time,
In hunting after syllables and words,
A trade which now nor wealth nor fame affords.
We might have better spent our time, if we
Had like the world employed it thrivingly.
If we much wealth and greatness had affected,
And stead of versifying had projected,
You might have been a Knight, and I a Squire,
Titles which now the World does much admire.
And o'r our betters rant and domineer,
If we could but have got so much a year:
When mens high Houses peep'd through tufts of Trees,
What venerarion is ascribed to these?
They call us Sirrah while we call them Sirs;
Parson and Poet at their heels like Currs;
Come, strike up Parson, Poet gee's a verse,
Then one must preach, and t'other must reherse;
While we with all our scribling are content,
With A. B. Yeoman, and with C. S. Gent.
You think they'r fools, and they think we are so,
But both perhaps are fools for ought we know,
Now since all men are fools, who would be none,
Let him think what he will, I think he's one.
'T has taken up much of our precious time,
In hunting after syllables and words,
A trade which now nor wealth nor fame affords.
We might have better spent our time, if we
Had like the world employed it thrivingly.
If we much wealth and greatness had affected,
And stead of versifying had projected,
You might have been a Knight, and I a Squire,
Titles which now the World does much admire.
And o'r our betters rant and domineer,
If we could but have got so much a year:
When mens high Houses peep'd through tufts of Trees,
What venerarion is ascribed to these?
They call us Sirrah while we call them Sirs;
Parson and Poet at their heels like Currs;
300
Then one must preach, and t'other must reherse;
While we with all our scribling are content,
With A. B. Yeoman, and with C. S. Gent.
You think they'r fools, and they think we are so,
But both perhaps are fools for ought we know,
Now since all men are fools, who would be none,
Let him think what he will, I think he's one.
LV. A Dialogue between Alexander, Calisthenes, and Statyra .
Alex.By Heav'n! I vow,
I ever did believe till now,
All sublunary pow'rs did to my Scepter bow,
And Majesty did triumph only in my brow,
But since I have this Captive view'd,
A new dominion does intrude,
And I conclude,
We Conquerours may by the Conquer'd be subdu'd.
Cal.
What means this transportation? Sir is all
The Gods and I have done for you too small
To satisfy your appetite withall?
Alex.
Oh! Love! I must resigne
This inconsiderable rule of mine,
To that unbounded sway of thine!
Cal.
Command this cowardly passion to leave you,
for it will but deceive you.
Why should you dye a Martyr in amorous fire?
'Tis too much below man
To doat on a Woman,
And dye,
Like a flye,
In the flames of desire.
301
'Tis not great courage or good parts,
(Though you, Calisthenes, of both have store)
Can shield our breasts against Love's Darts,
The more our courage is and witt, our Love's so much the more.
The Warrier must lay down his Armes,
The Monarch must vail his Crown,
Both being subject to Loves Armes,
Must to Loves pow'r bow down.
Cal.
Love is but a Wildfire got into the brain,
That Prince that has power and yet will refrain,
Is happy, and happy, and happy again.
Alex.
Fair Conqueress of the World and me!
My Laurel I resigne,
And am become a prisoner now to thee,
Being captivated by those eyes,
The gaudy wealth of Persia I despise,
Ambitious only now to bee,
Thy Captive as thou hast bin mine.
Stat.
Victorious Monarch! whose great name,
Tires out the restless tongue of fame,
Your unexampled actions to proclaim!
Who when you do but come and view,
All other Princes can subdue;
And make them yield their Empires up to you!
O let it ne'r be truly said;
Great Alexander did upbraid,
And triumph ore a wretched Captive maid!
That were a cruelty below
Your great and generous soul to show
And more then our frail Sex can undergo.
Alex.
Can love be cruel?
Stat.
What is Love?
302
'Tis something men fancy to come from above,
Which over-rules their Reason.
'Tis of the same nature which Fayries and Elves,
A Deity Mortals have fain'd to themselves:
And though Poets bring him from Heav'n, we know
His generation is from below
The Girdle—
Alex.
Oh! forbear, forbear!
I can no longer endure to hear
This blasphemy and treason!
Cal.
If it be so, 'tis as you make it,
What's done or said, is good or bad
As the beholders or the hearers take it.
Alex.
Come, my Satyra, never minde
What old and surly Souldiers say,
Love must be deaf as well blinde,
To all that stops him in his way,
You'r happy if you are but kinde
And lay aside the customary Nay,
Next to denyal nothing can torment more then delay.
Stat.
I have not art enough to know
What I should do;
If I deny,
I dye.
Being now wholly in your power,
'Tis an imprudence to deny,
When I nor can defend my self, nor fly.
And if my heart I cast
Upon your love, that's but a blast,
And your high flame's extinguish'd in an hour.
Alex.
No (my Satyra) nere suspect,
I'll ever slight, where once I did affect,
The Sun, your Persian God, may cease to move,
But Alexander can ne'r cease to love.
303
Spoke like your self, but oh! my merit
Is farr below so great a Spirit.
Alex.
I have you in my pow'r 'tis true,
And can command you whom I woe,
But oh! the Conquest of a heart
Transcends all Souldiers pow'r and Art.
'Tis for that, for that I sue.
Your face and body's nothing without you.
Shee kneels, Alex. takes her up and Exeunt.
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LVIII. On a Combat between a Roman Capon, and a French Cock .
Spectators, make a Ring, that you may see
The fatal Battle which is like to be
Fought by two powr'ful Combatants: One's nam'd
Gallus, for Courage generally fam'd;
Yet not so valiant as he'ld have men think,
But has (what makes men Valiant) store of Chinck.
The fatal Battle which is like to be
Fought by two powr'ful Combatants: One's nam'd
Gallus, for Courage generally fam'd;
Yet not so valiant as he'ld have men think,
But has (what makes men Valiant) store of Chinck.
T'other is Capo call'd who doth supply
His want of Courage by his Policy:
By plotting and contriving he subsists,
And does with Brains what t'other would with Fists;
Works under-hand, and goes to undermine,
Both in their several wayes in Battle joyn.
His want of Courage by his Policy:
By plotting and contriving he subsists,
And does with Brains what t'other would with Fists;
Works under-hand, and goes to undermine,
Both in their several wayes in Battle joyn.
Gallus doth strut, and clap his wings and crow,
While Capo laughs at that vain noise and show;
What the great Quarrel is, must not be known,
But is reserv'd till one be overthrown:
Both make great preparations for a Fight,
And he that Conquers, all believe has Right.
While Capo laughs at that vain noise and show;
What the great Quarrel is, must not be known,
But is reserv'd till one be overthrown:
Both make great preparations for a Fight,
And he that Conquers, all believe has Right.
Capo has been well cram'd, and liv'd in State,
And was become a mighty Potentate;
Two Keys to open and to shut he bears,
And on his head a Triple Crown he wears;
And had a mind to Rule the World, as though
All men were govern'd by meer pomp and show.
And was become a mighty Potentate;
Two Keys to open and to shut he bears,
And on his head a Triple Crown he wears;
And had a mind to Rule the World, as though
All men were govern'd by meer pomp and show.
Gallus repines at this; Must I (sayes he)
Wear but one Crown, while he droops under three?
His Keys may make a noise, and keep a stir
'Mong easie souls, but he has ne'r a Spur:
I'le spoil his Pageantry, and make him know,
That since he cannot Fight, he shall not Crow.
Wear but one Crown, while he droops under three?
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'Mong easie souls, but he has ne'r a Spur:
I'le spoil his Pageantry, and make him know,
That since he cannot Fight, he shall not Crow.
But now Germanus comes to interpose,
Thinking the Quarrel would prove dangerous;
And while those two do to Contention fall,
Their strife might prove the ruine of them all;
Both being so powerful, 'tis hardly known
Which side may prove most safe for him to own.
Thinking the Quarrel would prove dangerous;
And while those two do to Contention fall,
Their strife might prove the ruine of them all;
Both being so powerful, 'tis hardly known
Which side may prove most safe for him to own.
Mean time the Mahumetan Cook stands by,
With sharpned Cymiter, and watchful eye;
Let them fight on (sayes he) so both will be,
By their intestine VVar a feast for me:
This is my time to feed and thrive, when they
Contend so fiercely which shall be my prey.
With sharpned Cymiter, and watchful eye;
Let them fight on (sayes he) so both will be,
By their intestine VVar a feast for me:
This is my time to feed and thrive, when they
Contend so fiercely which shall be my prey.
This makes good Gelly, t'other's tender meat;
VVhen both drop in one dish, who would not eat?
Their Quarrel is for Humour and Opinion,
But my design is Riches and Dominion;
VVhile both to be Victorious do aspire,
I use their sparks to set the world on fire.
VVhen both drop in one dish, who would not eat?
Their Quarrel is for Humour and Opinion,
But my design is Riches and Dominion;
VVhile both to be Victorious do aspire,
I use their sparks to set the world on fire.
The CONCLUSION.
When Peace and Plenty make men proud, and theyAspire to Rule, whose part is to Obey:
VVhen each man has a Heresie of's own,
And most pretend Religion, but use none:
VVhen Laws are boldly broke, and Love that binds
Men more then Laws, is fled from peoples minds:
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And Mahumet gives Laws to Christendome.
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On a Parson and a Lawyer.
The Parson much spent, and had kept a months Lent
In hopes of the feast comming on:
But in stead of new wedding, the Lawyer by's treading
Had left him a butter'd Bun.
In hopes of the feast comming on:
But in stead of new wedding, the Lawyer by's treading
Had left him a butter'd Bun.
But the woman was kinde, and yielded to's mind,
She neither did struggle nor cry no,
She did not despair, for or Parson or Lawyer
Would get a Babe jure Divino.
She neither did struggle nor cry no,
She did not despair, for or Parson or Lawyer
Would get a Babe jure Divino.
Now the Law as we finde to the Gospel is joyn'd,
There must be a good propagation,
For the Boy that comes forth will be Doctor of both
And thats for the good of the Nation.
There must be a good propagation,
For the Boy that comes forth will be Doctor of both
And thats for the good of the Nation.
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Now the Tyths and the Fees will grow by degrees,
To belong to the self same Person;
And he that both gets, by his learning and wits,
May fuddle while he has his Arse on.
To belong to the self same Person;
And he that both gets, by his learning and wits,
May fuddle while he has his Arse on.
And thus to conclude Their lives that are rude,
I should pray for the Queen and the King,
With the family Royal, and all that are Loyall,
But I'll drink to all that can sing.
I should pray for the Queen and the King,
With the family Royal, and all that are Loyall,
But I'll drink to all that can sing.
THE END.
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