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Dia Poemata

Poetick Feet Standing Upon Holy Ground: Or, Verses on certain Texts of Scripture. With Epigrams, &c. By E. E. [i.e. Edmund Elys]
Elys, Edmund (ca. 1634-ca. 1707)
 
[epigraph]
 
[dedication]

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To my FRIEND, Mr. E. E. on his Divine Poems.
 
On the sacred Poems of my Ingenious Friend, Mr. E. E.
 
To his honest Cousin, E. E. on his Dia Poemata; or, his setting Feet on Holy ground.
 
To my Friend, the Author.
 
To his Honour'd Friend M. E. E. on his Incomparable Poems.
 
To Mr. E. E. on his DIA POEMATA.
 
To Mr. E. E. on his Book, &c.
 
To the Author.
 
To the Laurell worthy Mr. E. E. on his Excellent Poems.
 
To the Author.
 
To his most Deserving Friend, Mr. E. E. on his DIAPOEMATA.
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In Dia Poemata; Or, Poetick Feet standing upon Holy Ground.
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EPIGRAMS, &c. By E. E.
 
ENCOMIAST: To J. C.
 
On a dull Poet, but good Logitian.
 
On a Little Gentleman of Great Parts.
 
To a false-hearted Poet.
 
On a Gentlewoman of a Brown Complexion, but Handsome Features.
 
On a Gentleman who Died with Lord in his Mouth.
 
On the Death of Leander.
 
To one that gets his Living by writing Satyres.
 
Nec Fonte labra prolui Caballino.
 
------ Vino pellite Curas.
 
Of Vulgar Criticks.
 
To the Eye Adulterer.
 
On a Gentlewoman that would be married to none but a Rich man.
 
To the Author.
 
To the same.
 
To an Epigrammatist, that inveighs against Women.
 
On the perfect Conclusion of a fierce War.
 
To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, weeping for the Death of her Eldest Brother, my Bosom-Friend.
 
To the same.
 
On the Tempestuous season of Wind and Rain, 1654.
 
Strong Drink.
 
Charity.
 
[His Soul's so Dark all o're, He cannot see]
 
An unquiet bad Conscience.
 
Temptation.
 
Pride.
 
To a Lascivious Poet.
 
On Poetry.
 
Of Partiality.
 
The World's Fine Gentleman.
 
To Unlearned Criticks.
 
To an Hireling Poet.
 
To his Displeased Pater in Phœbo, Mr. F. M.
 
On a NEWES-MONGER.
 
To an Honourable Lady Rarely Accomplisht with Wit, and Beauty.
 
On the fifth of November.
 
To an Handsome Gentlewoman on this part of her Anagram: Each Beauty Shoots.
 
To the same.
 
Swearing and Cursing.
 
Melancholy.
 
To Mr. F. M.
 
To One marrying for Love, not Money.
 
Thanks To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, who gave him a Dish of Sweet Meats.
 
To his Honour'd Friend, W. W. Esq.
 
To Mrs. M. S. in her Child-bed Dresse.
 
To the same, newly Married, on her Anagram: SO! YOU'RE MATCHT.
 
Mars Togatus: Or, Fighting in the Schooles.
 
Hac Ignis: Sive Lues Venerea.
 
Another.
 
Lust.
 
To the Reader.
 
To Mr. E. F. The only Son of Sir E. F. Knight.
 
Plaine Verse.
 
To Mrs A. S. on the Death of her Two first Children.
 
Allusion.
 
To that Pretty Piece of Perfection Mrs L. C.
 
To Mrs. K. G. having been lately sick of the Small Pox.
 
A Love sick Gentleman to a Fair Lady scorning him.
 
To a Phantastick Vagabond, Professor of Satyricall Pet Poetrie.
 
Fame.
 
To his Book.

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35

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
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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.
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