University of Virginia Library

Epigrams upon Various Subjects.

1. To His Serene Highnesse, Richard, Lord Protector, &c.

Augustus was most lovely in the Eyes,
Of Romes Grave Senate; who did Eternise
His Fame; and without Arguings agree,
To Honour him; with Pater Patriæ.
In a Pacifick, and auspicious Hour,
You made an Ingresse, to the Supream Power.
Your sweet Demeanour gives, publick Content:
Love, Candor, finde but few, Malevolent.
Your Father Julius was; Augustus be:
Your Countreys Father; Mecœna's to Me.

2. To the Right Honourable, the Lord Chief Justice Glyn.

One of your Predecessors, pleas'd to tell
Posterity, that the Law, is a WELL.
Men are the thirsty Buckets, which receive,
More, or lesse Water; as, Reason gives Leave.
There's an Eternal Spring; or else no doubt,
You had long since; drawn all the Water out.

3. To the Right Honourable Oliver. St. John, Lord Chief Justice of the Common Pleas.

Where ever Sol emits his innate Light,
On purpose to transport the drowzie Night;
The English valour will endure the Test:
Nor do her Lions fear, the Eagles Nest.
Had Britain many Nestors like to you:
She should be as Renown'd, for Wisdom too.

4. To the Right Honourable, the Lord Chief Baron Widdrington: And his Brother, Mr. University-Orator.

And did the Juncto of the Gods agree,
To make you Sol; your Brother, Mercury?
Nature doth seldome so exhaust her Store,
Of Ingenuity; as to make more
Then one wise, in an House: ye needs must be,
Chronicl'd, for an happy Prodigie.
You Grace the Law; your Brother's words dispence,
To his Admirers; Flowrs of Eloquence.
Learning about to die, these late sad Wars:
Ordained yee, Her Co-executors.

5. To Sir Edmund Prideaux, Attorney-General.

If Law, if Rhetorick, my Muse avow;
In you Enthron'd; I sing, what all Men know.
Of your great Vertue, most are Ignorant:
How Charitable unto those that want!
You have found out, the untrack'd path to Bliss:
To sue for Heaven, in Forma Pauperis.

6. To those Excellent Conveyancers, Sir Orlando Bridgman; and the worthy Mr. Geofry Palmer.

Wise Greece, & Rome, did both in this combine;
To make addresses, to the Delphian Shrine.
And with divine Apollo to advise;
Was the Preludium of an Enterprise.
Few English men, dare purchase an Estate;
Unless your Wisdom's unsophisticate
The Title vouch. Ye can stop Hymens way;
For Portions, Joyntures, both Sexes must pay,
Due Thanks. Wise Fathers, Ranters keep in awe;
Craving from ye (the Oracles of Law)
Help to entail their Lands: Whilst your selves be,
Tenants of Riches, of Renown, in Fee.

7. To Mr. Recorder, of the celebrious City of London.

Your Pupil London, did a great while Long;
To have a learned Head, and fluent Tongue.
Now she vaunts happy Fortune, for to you,
All sorts those two, rare Faculties allow:
Pallas, and Suada, Triumphant are seen:
May you for ever flourish; long be Green.

8. To the Learned Lawyer, and Eloquent Pleader, Henneage Finch, Esquire.

The divine Samian guess'd aright, in this;
That Souls affect, a Metempsycosis.
The Penetration of Dimensions be;
Not dissonant, from my Philosophie.
For two great Finches Souls, the Sages know;
(Pardon the Phrase,) concorporate in you.

9. To his Honoured Cousin Edward Peck, of the Inner Temple, Esquire.

Certain set Forms, fixt in the Memory;
Almost accomplish, for the Chancery.
It matters not, in what your Practice lies:
Your Law, your Love, are no Formalities.

10. To a certain old Barrister.

Grave Monsieur Plowden, elected a time,
To tell my Father, Law's not writ in Rythme.
Ergo I must the two-topt Mount defie,
And give my Vale unto Poetry.
Were not thy skin good Buffe; my Muse should send
The Long-nail'd Furies; which thy soul should rend.
I have fierce Satyrs, that can assault Hell:
Dash out Medæas Brains, in spight of spell.
Reclaim an unback'd Impudence. Make Bleed,
A Rock: And stab the fell Medusa's Head.
And dares thy empty Skull, bandy at Me?
Lord Paramount of gross Stupidity!

11. To his most indulgent Grandmother, Mrs. Anne Talbot.

They who on Æsculapius Altars tend,
To my slack Memory, this Notion lend;
That Children who are sent abroad to Nurse;
Delight in them; and Love their Mothers worse.
If such Affection, in Cradles appears;
What Love may you expect, from mature years?
Your greatest Study, was my Life to save:
Your self was prompt, to Bail Me from the Grave;
When Tissical distempers, stopt my Breath;
And my clog'd Wind-pipe seem'd to whistle death.
I beleeve Nature, only gives Me Day;
That in some sort, I might strive you to Pay.

12. To his Honourable Father.

I must acknowledge my Life did commence,
From you; (Dear Father) Thanks to Providence.
Who ordain'd you Agent, for what was done:
I could not choose a Father; you, a Son.
Reflecting on the Will, we Actions call,
Vertues, or Vices: yours was General.
An Heir was wish'd; but you could not foresee,
My Sex; my VVit, or my Stupidity.
For Birth, my Muse shall grateful Hymns rehearse;
In praise of him who made the Universe.
My dutiful Devoirs to you are ty'd:
For my Well-being, 'cause you thus Provide.

13. To his Honourable Mother.

Mother-in-Lawes, Poets much Vilifie;
You, did I never; no, not secretly.
When own Mothers prove Sowre, Unnatural;
Mother-in-Laws; Sons, may them aptly call.
She that is not by Nature, yet may be
An Own Mother, by sweet Indulgency.
I shall endeavour Duty to improve;
According to the Merits, of your Love.
You shall not lose those Favours, you lend Me:
This is the Time, for my Retaining Fee.

14. To his Highly valued Uncle, Thomas Pecke of Spixworth, Esquire.

VVhen as it was my happy Chance to lie,
Sucking sweet Milk, from th'University:
My happy Fortune, prompted you to hold,
Fast my Affection by the Threads of Gold.
But now the Scene is chang'd. You'l not confer
Your Cash, but on the sprightful Traveller.
What though you cannot push me into France?
Though you cease Piping; still my Love shall Dance.

15. To the worthy Mr. Philips, late Usher of the Free-school of Norwich.

When Languishings gave leave, I went to School,
To you kinde Sir! your Favours made Me whole.
I cannot Chide your Passion, for a Blow:
Not whipping then, makes me obsequious now.

16. To his very loving School-master, Mr. Tho. Lovering.

My weak endeavours you were pleas'd to prise;
As hating, over Lads, to Tyrannize.
Indulgence made my School-boyes Life a Sport;
You did not Lash to Study; but Me Court.
This, this, perswades him, to remain your Friend;
Who may perhaps prove witty, in the End.

17. To his Endeared Tutor, Mr. Will. Naylour, Senior Fellow, of Gon. and Cai. Colledge in Cambridge.

To your Protection Sir! my Muse doth flie;
As conscious of her Imbecilitie.
It were Impiety, to question now;
The Residence of Candour, on your Brow.
Frequent Experiments made Manifest;
She as Queen Regent, triumphs in your Breast.
I that am Flint, to whatsoever Threat;
And can't be Anvil'd, to a base Regret:
From things displeasing to you, did refrain:
Nor were your Moral Lectures read in vain.
The Curb of Tutor, did not chafe my will:
This made Me Obey then; and Honour still.
On Pain of Death, I durst not too much Rove:
Lest I should seem a Rebel, against Love.

18. To the highly deserving Dr. Love, Master of Corpus Christi Colledge in Cambridge.

When first I read the Orphean History,
I conceiv'd it a gem of Poetry.
I must recant my error; That is True:
For very Fresh-men, Beadles, adore you.

19. To the learned Doctor Brown.

Rare Oculist! whose Genius did devise,
To cut the Cataracts, from Vulgar Eyes.
The Sun-shine of your Learning, brought the day:
And chas'd the Fogs of Ignorance, away.
Your Universal Judgment, search'd about:
And put Gray-bearded Errors, to the rout.
Yet Modesty made you mistake. Most True,
A Phœnix exists. The world, Brown, doth owe.

20. To the Celebrated Doctor Scarborowe.

Psyche close vail'd, from Galen made escape;
Nor could he view her Entrails, in an Ape.
What dissect Beasts? you are far more precize:
Galen himself, you dare Anatomize.

21. To the Honourable John Lord Herbert.

May my Pen venture, to approach a Name;
Long since, Espous'd to an Immortal Fame?
Deflowr'd Astræa, in a Sable weed;
For your Grand-father, did not weep, but bleed;
Till she saw you, who are intent to awe;
Audacious Vice, and by your Life, vouch Law.

22. To the Honourable Lord Richardson.

Our Virgin-Queen, beheld with great content;
Our Sister Suffolk's, happy Government:
But till her Progress; she knew not the Cause;
To be the Gospels Marriage unto Lawes.
When to meet her the Justices did Ride;
Not one but had a Chaplain by his side.
To Love the Learned, Pious Clergy; is,
Vertue describ'd, without Periphrasis.
You are the Obadiah, who do feed
The Prophets of the Lord: Relieve their Need.
Whilst you continue, in this devout way:
My Muse shall sing; and let the Clergy Pray.

23. To those Eminent Members of Parliament, Sir Horatio Townshead; and Sir William Doyle.

Our Mother Norfolk trusting in your Care,
As to Heroick Spirits, and sincere;
Elected ye as Guardians to us all:
As Good Fathers, let not your Children fall.
Ye who a splendid County represent;
Must strive to Give, the wiser sort content.
A joynt consent, made ye our Supreme Parts:
Your vertues, attract to our Heads; our Hearts.

24. To the Noble Sir William Paston.

Your Recreation, is to feed your Eyes,
With the most select Things, the Globe comprize.
I know the Medium to let you see
A wonder; Englands choicest Rarity.
Advance to the reflecting Looking-glass:
There you may view, the Fam'd Mecœna's Face.

25. To his highly valued Cousin, Will. Bloys, Esq; Author of that celebrated Book, call'd Modern Policy.

I am a Servant to Morality;
And (thanks your Worth) Cousin to Policy.
I must be Vertues Page; lest I fall on
The Tortures, of your Colasterion.

26. To the grave and wise Gentleman, Mr. Tuthill.

To select you from others of your Name;
The Epithite of Lord, the Vulgar frame.
Let them call Lord, I shall style you a King:
Who to subjection all your passions bring.

27 To the Fair Lady, his Daughter.

Acquaintance with your Father, Me commands;
Humbly to Kiss your Ladiships snow-Hands.
I dare not approach nigh; accept my Muse:
As she's a Virgin, you cannot Refuse.
I shall not muster up Hyperboles;
To make you Rival, to the Deities.
Pallas, your Soul; Juno, your Fortune Grace:
Venus sits smiling, on your lovely Face.
You need no Poetry: these great Truths are;
That, Madam! you are Vertuous, Wise; Rich, Fair.

28. To that profound Grecian, Mr. Duport, President of Trinity Coll. in Cambridge.

The witty Limner, ancient Poets fed;
With that which admir'd Homer vomited.
Your curious Palat, hated that crude Meat;
Homer himself, you disjoynted; and Eat.
And lest his Children, should the Fact reveal;
You devour'd them too: the succeeding Meal.

29. To his worthy Friends Work, John Sherman, B. D. Author of that Pious Work, styl'd White Salt.

Rather then be ungrateful, I express
My high respect, in this so rude a Dress.
What though my Muse is Lame, my Love shan't Halt:
Nor shall she vend, a cornel of Bay-Salt.

30. To the Egregious Poet, Sir Will. Davenant.

That Ben, whose Head, deserv'd the Roscian Bayes;
Was the first gave the Name of Works, to Playes.
You his Corrival, in this Waspish Age;
Are more then Atlas, to the fainting Stage.
Your Bonus Genius, you this way display:
And to delight us, is your Opera.

31. To his Adopted Uncle, James Howel Esquire.

VVhen first propitious Stars conceded Me,
The sweet enjoyment, of your Company;
I was Adopted: your Pity thought fit,
I at these years should be alli'd to wit.
Lest I should shame your choice, I will Improve:
And fall to study, in Dodona's Grove.

32. To the lover of Ingenuity, Tho. Stanly Esq;.

Nature in the unfathom'd Stagyrite,
Compos'd a Body, abject to the sight.
Fortune is more Close-fisted; for we finde,
Few Poets Rich; but only in the Minde.
Nature, Fortune, in you Cooperate:
Your Parts are Great; Plentiful, your Estate.
A Poet, Rich, a Mecœnas you be:
Can our Age Parallel in One, these Three?

33. To his Loving Friend, Mr. Payn Fisher.

How few are English Poets! but a Brain,
That can reach Ela, in the Latine strain;
Is no small wonder. Rare in both you be:
An Ambodexter in true Poetrie.

34. To Mr. John Ogilbie.

Your sparkling Genius I then did prise;
When you poor Æsop, pleas'd to Manumise.
I sacrifice these Lines, lest I alone,
Should prove the Cock; & slight a precious Stone.
Were Maro now alive, He must you prise:
And by you, Homer, shall regain his Eyes.

35. To his Loving Friend Edmund Wharton, M. A. and Fellow of Gon. and Cai. Coll. in Cambridge.

Over three Lustrums, Time hath almost flown;
Since your Acquaintance, I desir'd to own.
When Age adopted, you were at Expence,
Of Time, and Brains; to purchase Eloquence.
Nor would you let profound Philosophy,
Be exempt from a serious Scrutiny.
Run on the Race; be ever Fortunate:
I wish you egresse, at Honoris Gate.

36. Upon Home-Spun, One of the Ordinary sort of Preachers.

Buy a Gold Chain, you must entreat true weight:
And 'tis a Favour, not to meet Deceit.
If sheets of Vulgar Lead, you please to Buy:
Ask a Pound over, Plummers can't Deny.
Chrysologus will stand, but just his Hour:
Battus cries out, My Lungs will hold for four.

37. An Epigram, that should have been inserted, into a Book of the Authors, called Advice to Balaams Asse: under the Emblem of a Dog, barking at the Moon.

When Phœbe's Glory, the Curre did espy;
He flash'd out Lightning from a Threatning Eye.
And what's the Reason? what? you may guesse soon:
People kick him, while they admire the Moon.
Just so our Momus, snarls at Osborns Prayse:
'Cause his own Merits cannot reach the Bayes.

38. There was also intended for that Book, the Picture of an Asse, (in reference to the Title,) with this Epigram.

We burthen not the dumb Asse, which you see:
Our Pen must scourge, lavish Garrulitie.
No shame to teach a Prating Brute: Alasse,
It was an Angels Task; to stop an Asse.

39. Upon the Parliament, that voted down the Universities.

VVhen infant Vipers to the Light do come,
They kill their Dams; by knawing of their Womb.
A Generation, Bald-pate Time ne're Ey'd:
That durst concurre, in voting Matricide.
Such Vipers as could not their Stings refrain:
Had not a Pia Mater, to their Brain.

40. Upon Owen.

Let crouded Wheat, the humble Valleys line:
The steril Mountains Bowels, with Gold shine.
Let England boast Sagacity: Since Wales,
Can with her Golden Owen turn the Scales.

Verses made Ex tempore, and writ in a Ladies book; occasioned by a Friends recital, of that well-known Fancy of Doctor Corbets; Little Lute, when I am gone, &c. And referring to the Covers of a singing Book, Painted with Slips of Flowers, to several statues, which were there view'd; and bitter Cherries, tasted of by the Author. The Lady being absent, &c.