Men-Miracles :: :: University of Virginia Library

Freind, since thy Armed Thoughts hit those
Whose Lungs are Blasphemy and Prose;
Such Darts the Hebrew Poet threw
When Hell had garrison'd a Jew:
Thine's the same Charme; but the Cure's harder, when
Men possesse Devills, then when Devills men.

Thy Work's Complection's full refin'd,
A quick cleare Braine, an honest Mind,
Not Wild, yet Strong; Powrfull, not Feirce;
Full, yet not Stuffd; a self weigh'd verse;
Thy Thoughts nor throng'd, nor routed, but display'd;
Each piece congeniall; yet both borne and made.

But Rimes are fatall, unlesse course,
Like Directories to doe worse:
Verse is but words in Tune, yet th' House
Wave Davids Psalmes, and choose Franck Rouse.
Thus we climbe downwards, and advance as much
As He that turn'd Donn's Poems into Dutch.

No Fustian's here, All's pure and fit,
Not each where mirth, yet alwaies wir,
Strong, Sweet, like our Triumviri
(Masters, Diggs, Cartwright) Extasy!
They would have sprung New Mines, sav'd th' Old, if staid,
As now they fill that Breach falne Angels made.

One great Man-Miracle you omit,
A Monster Presbyterian Wit!
Who swells, not rises, Bigge, not High,
When the poore sense lies gasping by;
Times once at best, mend not, and seldome stand,
Tis thus, when Women preach, and Slaves command.

J. B.

To the Author.

Prethee no stay! while you adjourne we loose
What you demurre upon, and what you choose:
Does not the shade (bright shade of Cartwright know.)
What fruite we misse 'cause be would have it grow?
That sigh'd for Genius once againe we see
Up from the dust, live and put forth in thee;
Well set and active, cast's a comely sight,
Dancing a round, as when in charge, or fight:
Skill'd where to loosen fancy where to binde,
Cleare in the Meeter, clearer in the mind.
Each peice is cleane and briske, no lime, or gall,
No dash in drawing, Sulphur none at all:
Finde me out here one wilde, one borrowed cluster,
Though some are taught to write, as others muster;
Quilt on ill Parisht ends, shred after shred;
All's fine and even here, cause home-spun thred.
The richnesse of the web is, no line wrought
And stretch'd, but humour all, and streame of thought,
Could we but leave thee to thy selfe, and peace,
How would thy numbers fill, these sheets increase?
But brutish pow'rs do rage all that is darke
Joynes 'gainst the ray of reason in the Arke,
Put on thy other fury, try to weare
Head-peice more Rough come forth in Steele and Speare,
That as th' ast taken Pen and Sword unsheath'd
When Mars with Hermes have thy Lawrell wreath'd,
Worke for Apelles then, or who else can
Give us to life the Scholler, Souldier, Man.

J. C.

To the Author.

If ever I beleiv'd Pythagoras,
My dearest freind) even now it was,
While the grosse Bodies of the Poets die,
Their Soule doe onely shift. And Poesie
Transmigrates, not by chance, or lucke; for so
Great Virgils soule into a goose might go,
But that is still the labour of Joves braine,
And he divinely doth conveigh that veine:
So Chaucers learned soule in Spencer sung,
(Edmund the quaintest of the Fairy throng.)
And when that doubled Spirit quitted place,
It fill'd up Ben: and there it gained grace.
But this improved thing hath hover'd much.
And oft hath stoopt, and onely given a touch:
Not rested untill now, Randall it brush'd,
And with the fulnesse of its weight it crush'd.
It did thy Cartwright kisse, and Masters court,
Whose soules were both transfused in the sport.
Now more accomplish'd by those terse recruits,
It wooes thee (freind) with innocent salutes.
No Semeleian hugge suspect: doe thou
Vent as thy Vessell fils, as thou dost now.
Burst forth in sparkles, either write, or speake,
And thou art safe, That thou be not broke, breake.

E. G.

To the Author on his Poems.

A Poets then exact in every part
That is borne one from Nature, nurst by Art.
Whose happy mixture both of skill and fate,
Makes the most suddaine thought Elaborate.
Whose easie straines a flowing sense does fit,
Unforc'd expression, and unravisht wit.
Words fill'd with equall subject, such as brings
To chosen Language high, and chosen things.
Harsh reason cleare as day, as smooth as sleepe,
Glide here like Rivers, even still though deepe.
Discord growes Musicke, greife it selfe delight.
Horror when he describes, leaves off t' affright.
Sullen Philosophy does learne to goe
In lightest dressings, and become them too.

And if a Muse like this may hope to finde
A wellcom'd entertainement in the minde,
This worke will please, but they whose height and Gage,
Of wit; are the small Poets of the Age.
Those wretched soules, whose Cold and Hunger writes,
That in their Inke-hornes weare their Appetites.
Whose labours still ride Post, and for their Toile,
Receive the Hackney hire, a groate a Mile.
This book's not sent to these, nor yet to such
That despise all that forces not a blush;
That with the Vouge, and Torrent of the time,
Take what in Prose is sin, for wit in Rime.
That only prize things that are vile and fierce,
A Carre-mans Dialogue put into a Verse.
As if our Genius by our faults were sent,
And still our veine did flow from punishment.

Our fetters were our onely wreath and Prayse,
Were greater from our thackles, then our Bayes.
As if twere valour, and requir'd a Name,
For to be Daring in an Epigramme,
And were a deed as Noble, and as High
For to defame, as stay an Enemy.
In Chast, and even Paths those Poems Tread.
A Recluse might them write, a Vestall reade,
There are no Philters here, no Magick dust,
To raise desire, and Pander out for lust.
But if Triumphant vice oth' looser Age
Commands to Lists, and forces forth just Rage.
The Virgin Muse can then a Satyr turne,
Her sprightly breast with nimble flames will burne:
But such as still are pure, that know to bring,
All of the Serpent forth, besides the sting
Reade here still most secure, reade with a minde
Free as his Extacy; as unconfin'd.
Can you but understand you'l finde it fraught
With what can fill your soule, and graspe your Thought.
Whilst what from these diviner fountaines flowes,
Makes your sport study, pleasure serious.

J. F.

To the Author.

In such an age as this, when Ignorance
Is sainted, and usurpes the chaire of sence.
What boldnes does impale thy brow dear freind,
That thou to arts and learning dar'st pretend?
Tis well thou wear'st a Sword! But when thy Wit
Is such, that foure yeares Warre but heightens it.
Thou need'st a stronger guard, that may outlooke
The sternest danger, and such is thy Booke.
Thus arm'd thou stand'st above the power of Fate.
And if bold Wickednesse should ruinate
The life and Nerves of purer arts, yet thou
Shouldest live, and a fresh lawrell crowne thy brow;
And the next age shall say, when Learning fell,
Thou onely wrot'st and wert Man-miracle,

W. C.

To the Author on his Poems.

Cleane Braine in cleaner numbers clos'd.
Sence neither Painted, nor Expos'd;
Wit nor unbent, nor yet ore-stretcht;
Borne in each Poem, never fetcht;
Things of a deepe uncommon marke,
Beyond course eyes, on this side darke;
Things writ to All too, as to th' Best,
At once a Dole of Wit, and Feast:
Words thy minds Tiffany imploy'd
To cloth thy matter not to Hide:
Which by their Genuine fitnesse tell,
T' expresse is not to sound and knell,
Poems as cold and cleane as snow,
Chast lines, and frigid onely so,
Yet sprung from youth, shap't out to win
(So th' Author Pens against his Chin,)
Bayes bred from Thunder and Alarmes,
Th' whole, as thy Satyr, borne in Armes,
Verse-Rules let downe like th' Hebrew Yoke,
And Wit-Lawes given in Noise and Smoake:
These are so thine, high freind, that I
Thy merits power cannot deny,
Vainely to adde my sprig of Bayes,
When the Book's writ in the Book's praise.

J. H.

To the Author.

Did thy Wine need my Bush, I'de freely spend
A leafe,—In praise of my ingenious Freind,
The Author. Where ther's none we must lend weight,
So Dwarfes from Wooden heeles do borrow height.
But thine are Poëms apter to defie
A Censure, then implore an Eulogie.
Unlesse, in those more circumcised Climes
That damne all Poetry but Psalmes and Chymes.
He that shall read and shall not like them well,
Write him thy three and twentieth Miracle.
In every sheet I veiw, methinks! see
Thy Cartwrights Ghost appeare; For such was he.
A Wit well managed; exactly broke
To every Pace, and of that t' every stroke.
Not thorough pac't; for so are some; Confin'd
To Feet, and Measures only of one kind:
And ta'ne from that, they are as farr to seeke,
As an Assembly man 'would be at Greeke:
But equally to every Sort ally'de,
And can from One into the Other slide.
Alike to th' Satyr, and to th' Pastorall.
And is as proper, where 't is not so Tall:
Go forth and Live, thou'lt stand an evidence
This Age had wit; pray God the next have Sence.

W. B.

The Author's Account of his Poem.

And First he vowes, 'tis not his glory,
T'impose on this or that mans story.
He disimbarkes at no false shores,
Nor layes his Infants at wrong dores.
But is assur'd if you proceed,
The Fathers wont renounce their breed.
Next for beleife he tells you that,
No Mandevile, nor Coriat
Is cited here, here no man knowes
The Stories by their Authors Toes:
Nor can descry which was found out,
By him with sockes, or him without.
There's none among them were such Jewes,
To vex and persecute Old Shooes:
And leave their Fame, but carelesse whether
In Brasse or Monumentall leather.
All serious writers, these (nay bolder)
Scarce any but was staid House holder:
And in most parts of Christian Ground.
Their words would passe for forty pound.
Yet let not trust too forward be,
Lest you beleive them more then He.
Where he devotes it, he aimes he saith,
At Recreation, more then faith.

The Argument of the Poem.

Prodigious Eares, first wonder tells.
The Next, who under Water dwells.
The Third, who Fast: The fourth indites
The Gyants strange Hermaphrodites.
Fifth treats of those whose two Armes lyes
In their Right side. Next, whose in Thighes.
Seaventh, Eyes excesse, but Feets defects.
Eighth, those whose Foot their face protects.
Ninth Camel-backs. Tenth, Face in Breast.
Leventh, Dog-face; Twelfth, with Three Beards prest.
Next, Folke with Tailes, Then Amazons.
Then He who Youth so often dons.
Then Fountaine Lad; Then Craves beleife
Who Feedes on Men, as we on Beefe.
To these Great Legge, And then the Dame,
Of Arepine, that is borne lame.
Twentieth, Two Tongues: Next, Pigmies aske it,
And then Will: Baker pinnes the Basket.

MEN-MIRACLES.

A POEM.

First Miracle.

Ye Mortalls (if beleife be in yee)
Come see confirm'd what's said by Pliny;
And first (for feare ye should mistake a)
Give eare unto Antoaius Daca.
With whom consents (to bring the Rime on)
A Trusty Author, Petrus Simon.
These two are back'd (in spight of Praters)
By ours and Hollands Navigators.
Now these avouch, that India beares,
Men of so vast prodigious Eares,
That sundry of them may be found,
Whose hearing-Organs sweepe the ground.

And each of these perhaps presumes,
By length of Eares to save his broomes.
Sure 'tis an uncouth sight to see some,
That sweepe their Hall without a Beesome.
Besides their Eares, as they relate,
Are of that breadth, from foote to pate,
That under each (and none descry)
Six men may (like six Eare-wiggs) lye.
'Tis pretty faire when Eares are found,
That conceale men, as ours doe sound.
Our Eares (alas) take but mens speeches,
But these take men, doublet and breeches.
The Round-head when his Eares he sees
Finds he is but an Asse to these.

Second Miracle.

But passe on Pilgrim, till thou viewst,
An Island called Honopeust.
The Mortalls there ('tis truth is sed)
Make one great Lake their Common bed:
Under whose waters they sleepe sound,
As we doe here above the ground.
They've a fine time on't, in all weather,
Mud is their downe-bed, and their Feather.

No Summer-bites these knaves abide:
Lesse Eeles and Carpes doe pinch their side.
A goodly sort of people these,
To whom the Fishes are the fleas.
A stranger wonder ne're was found,
To these to sleepe, is to be drown'd.

Third Miracle.

Art hungry Hermit? preethy tarry,
Here's the Camelion's ordinary.
See here a kinde of people haunt,
Who sundry parts of body want.
To this they doe sustaine their powers,
By th'sent of fruits, of hearbes, and Flowers.
Gregorius Garza found this too,
In divers people at Peru.
At feasts invite, (an Age scarce heard in)
These not to house, but unto Garden,
Their pallats have unheard of forces,
Our Nose-gayes are their second Courses.
No Cookes among these men are boasted,
Their Dinner growes, yes ready roasted.

Fourth Miracle.

Next Story Peter Simon ga't us,
Of John Alvarez Maldonatus.
Who passing once to New found Land,
Penny in pouch, and Sword in hand,
Did Gyants view, oft (at his leisure)
'Bout five Ells long, (yes London measure)
And one of them in humane view,
Did bravely combat, bravely slew
The Gyant (faith his Comrade Daniel)
Had face much like to Dog (call'd Spaniel.)
As he lay gasping on the hill,
His nose it was a beake (or bill)
And for his Sex, it was in sight,
Hæc Aquila, Hermaphrodite:
Now (Sirs) I grant the Pagan Poet,
Of huge Prometheus speakes, you know it,
For whose vast bulke he nothing staggers,
To say 'tis spread o're many Acres.
But know, we onely bring before yee,
A Christian writer's Gyant-story:
His ribs more wide then hoopes to ferkin,
(What Cloth must goe to make his Jerkin?)
Dogs looke, Birds beake in's face, you'l say,
Both Setting dogge, and Partridge lay.

If so, the Gyants was ill case,
Because his Nose did feare his Face.
Had that bill wings, there's none but spies,
His nose had flew away with's eyes.
And then the Dog-face left behind,
Had beene destroy'd whiles it was blind,
But John Alvarez, did not he
Kill sucking Gyants e're they see.
Nor that he slew must it be told,
A Gyant-whelpe e're nine dayes old:
'Twas-full growne Monster this, and vexes,
That Maldonatus slew both sexes.
It greives him most, in his owne life
To loose both th' Husband and the Wife.
For bulke he might be many dozens
Of Husbands, Wives, Sonnes, Daughters, Cozens.

Fifth Miracle.

As strange and Monstrous knaves as these,
Are those of whom Lycosthenes.
In each of them there is espied,
Two Armes, two hands in their right side.
Whose wives (without or wit or feare)
Doe bring forth Children twice a yeare,

Should I such a strange wonder see,
I should not thinke him man but tree.
And for his two right Armes, I vow,
Tis not a double Limbe, but bough.
Spread-Eagle fist when first he heaves,
His fingers-sprigs, his nailes seeme leaves.
Freind, I should say, I preethy hearke,
Lets feele, why sure thy skin is barke:
Thy veines convey thee Sap, not bloud.
Say dost thou not each Summer bud?
And (like Third Richard) cause not warme,
In winter hast no wither'd Arme?
Thy Children too are Garden-drafts,
They're not thy issue, but thy Grafts.

Sixth Miracle.

Like wonder doe those folke beget,
Whose Armes and hands in Thighes are set,
They thrash their backes, as 'twere with flaile.
With that they weare behind a Taile.
Their wives too out of all mistaking,
For all the world are of that making.
Unlesse they beare, they think't a crime,
Foure babes at once (well in good time)

Two of their Barnes the selfe same day,
They doe preserve, and two they slay.
For milke, their breasts so much doe beare,
It makes them Cheeses all the yeare.
Sure for these Monsters fist it growes
In thigh, that it may reach their Toes,
And (if occasion be) it may
Scratch itching Corne on Rainy day.
Or else perhaps so neare 'tis put,
Cause hand they have much like to foot.
But oh, their Taile I must allow,
As large as that of Bull or Cow;
And reason good, their wives not flit,
To yeild them as much milke as it.
These Centaure Females have strange trades,
They're both the Cowes and Dairy-Maides.
And in this monstrous Common-weale,
They doe not Children beare, but veale.
And in their Cheese (good people hearke it)
Sell halfe themselves each Monday Market.

But stay (Kings truce) I thinke on't now
These neither Women are, nor Cow.
I say nor Cow, nor Wheat, nor Mastlyn,
For Cow is sorty for her Castlyn.
But here the Teeming Monster ambles,
Not to the Nurse, but to the Shambles.

Seaventh Miracle.

Arabia (Author mine supposes)
Yeilds men with three Eyes, besides Noses.
Suppose Eyes dimme, as Mares in Flaunders.
Suppose their Noses have the Glaunders,
They'l be perplext, past all beleifes,
For Spectacles and Handchercheifes.
These men too, (yee may call them yeomen)
Have bigger breasts farre, then our women.
Then for their feet, they have no Toes,
(That saves two inches in their shooes)
They fight, and strive, from morne to Even,
(Yet sure they're not to foot-ball given.)

Eighth Miracle.

In AEthiopia, 'bout the West,
Are men with handsome feature blest.
Their fault is nearest ground, at Roote
They've but one Thigh, and but one Foot.
(Sure one of these to save his Mother
Can't set one leg before the other)
But then this foot's so broad, the Urchin,
By its shade is kept from scorching,

With Foot held up, on backe he lies,
The Sun (and all his workes) defies.
His Trade's a Jeweller, though rude,
His Gemmes Armenians buy for food.
To live two hundred yeares he's knowne,
(His Age hath two leggs, he but one)
His Wife with Child, from husband flies,
Nor knowes his bed for all his cries.
Themselves are wonders, but in sooth,
This is more wonder then they both.

Ninth Miracle.

In Ægypts Alpes, their hands, feet, face,
Proclaime the people humane race.
Their breasts are long, but then their backes
Are like to Camels, borne with packes.
Women (with Childe) upon our shore
Are Camels, too but 'tis before.

Tenth Miracle.

The vales of Tartary men live in,
Whose heads, are wondrous like a Griphin,

And what is strange as all the rest,
Eyes they have seated in their breast.
Not farre from these the Monster flings,
A paire of different colour'd wings,
And yet they fly for all wings use,
As heavy as a powder'd Goose,
Be Griphin Sire, but Eyes and Nose
In breast a Thornebacke-Damme disclose,
And then the wings shew in a word,
They part are fish, and part are bird.
But slow flight shewes theyre, without erring,
Nor Fish, nor Fowle, nor good Red Herring.

Eleventh Miracle.

The Lusitanian King of late
Found Nation out where Curre is pate,
Their middle part is man, their thighes
Are horse, their hoofe divided lyes.
Their Language Mumme, for Reader harke,
Truth is they doe not speake, but barke.
They skirmish oft, their Captives eate,
Else other creatures are their meate.
Were these in England we should thence,
Be puzled for their difference,

And them be forc'd at length to call
Not Tom and Dick, but Tosse and Ball.
No Trades or Arts they ere would prove;
Unlesse hunt Ducke, or fetch a glove.
Their logding (alls one) eight or ten Ell,
For their Bed-chamber is their Kennell.
But then their wives there's nought more puzzles,
Our womens mufflers are their Muzzles.
But out alas, what mighty stirre,
Would be for an Interpreter.
They must be pleasd, for if feud growes
Masters and Freinds they eate for Foes.
And stranger diet ne're was knowne,
When Master's to his dogge a bone.

Twelfth Miracle.

And now of Regions we sing,
Where Tamberlaine of old was King,
In upper parts, though men they be,
Yet still Three beards on Chin we see.
Our Barbers count it a strange Crime,
To use three Razors at one time.
Suppose we call'd to wash the face once,
Freind bring three balls, a gleeke of Basons,

As for this beard, clip him no more,
On, to my nether lippe afore,
Till thou lop of, (my nose hath aches)
The Tufts of my North East Mustaches.
'Tis well, produce thy Mirror, I'le not passe,
Till't be a Multiplying Glasse.
Say would not this make Barber sullen,
To see one like Three Kings of Cullen.
Such face in Glasse was never limmed,
Unlesse when Cerberus was Trimmed.

Thirteenth Miracle.

Thus much Lycosthenes doth tell us,
Lycosthenes, and other fellowes,
But they goe on as not afear'd,
To call those men, that seeme a Heard.

Fourteenth Miracle.

As those with Tales, and those with throats,
Are as well-bearded as our Goates.

Fifteenth Miracle.

And then to Amazons they call ye,
Confirmed by Sir Walter Raleigh.

Sixteenth Miracle.

And then to him, who try'd by's Peeres,
Prov'd he had liv'd foure hundred yeares.
Oft did his Lockes from hoare white passe
To blacke, his haire's Pythagoras)
One hundred he did Jove adore,
Then liv'd a Turke three hundred more,
So from the Sultan pension get,
(And like enough he keepes it yet.)

Seaventeenth Miracle.

To this an Indian old they adde,
Who liv'd and liv'd, as he were madde;
For now declining from a Mountaine,
He leapt (they say) into a Fountaine,
Then don'd his Clothes, and bout to bind him,
Found he had left his Age behind him,

He doft his Clothes, and leapt forsooth,
Both into Poole and into Youth.

Eighteenth Miracle.

And after these they tell agen,
Of those that use to feed on men,
And often buy at Butchers Portall,
Not legge of Beefe, but legge of Mortall.
But some of these we met before,
And therefore need relate no more.
Indeed some not, but since so much
Already's said, we need but touch.

Nineteenth Miracle.

Besides there lives upon a high land,
In Towne within Saint Thomas Island.
Who from that Towne, mine Author sayes,
Receive their names the Penecays.
From old to young, from bird to Egge,
They have a Bag-pipe in their legge.
A sluggish Tumour 'bout their bones,
That Bag pipe makes the people Drones.

Of this disease, when folke you view sicke,
Know 'tis a kinde of Dropsie-Musicke.

Twentieth Miracle.

And neere the same Celestian Line,
The Gossips live, calld Arupine.
Nature to them is much the same,
They for the most part are borne lame.
Both these may Nature justly call,
Her miracle and Hospitall.
Of them to speake, let no man urge on,
Lesse we could send them a Chirurgeon.

One and twentieth Miracle.

These kinde of wonders here had slept,
But in by chance another crept.
Just as I meant to say no more,
Came Bohem out of Diodore,
Who much protests he tels ye no lye,
From those in Island Jamboli.
There the inhabitants (quoth he)
Are bulke and manners much like we,

Shape same, but height it is encreas'd
'Bove ours foure Cubits at the least.
Their bone (to say he doth not swerve)
Is just as supple as our Nerve.
And hence like Trees, before, behind,
They bend and yeild to Aire and wind,
Quicke joints, and all about smooth skin,
No haire appeares above their Chin.
But greatest wonder that hath sprung,
Is that of this strange Nations Tongue.
Which parted is to all mens view,
And from the Root compleatly two.
By which they have not onely force,
To use a Numerous discourse;
But seeme at once ('tis wondrous pretty)
Like severall Birds, and sing their Ditty.
But that's not all, they will agen
Debate and argue with two men;
And at one instant they can fly,
To urge their owne sence, and Reply,
This part conferres with one, while t'other,
Is warme and earnest with another.

Two and Twentieth Miracle. Of Pigmies.

Mongst all the Wonders that there be,
Of Man, of Beast, and eke of Tree,
There's none where Authors are content,
To yeild their suffrage and consent,
Or doe more serious credit give,
Then that the Pigmies once did live,
Philostratus (to Cronie wi'us)
When he doth out of Apollonius,
All other wonders Fables call,
He still to th' Pigmies gives the wall,
But no old Author truer writ,
Then Aristotle Stagirite,
Upon this point in Booke he fals,
Inscrib'd of Getting Animals,
He Pigmies grants, (we learne from thence)
Which liv'd of old, in Caves and Dens,
And he to shew he doth not sooth us,
Addes, Ου γαρ εσ)τι τουτο μυθος.
Which being rendred, signifies,
That Pigmie stories are no lyes.
And now from him doth differ Plinie,
No more then Tith-pig from Pig-ginnie.

Onely thus much methinkes he vowes,
That Egges and Eg-shells were their House,
Tis in strange Timber sure they paddle,
To whom their houses may be addle.
These Egges they caught with sweat and paines,
All from their neighbour Foes the Cranes.
Besides old Isidore hath g'in't us,
And 'mongst the Modernes Hector Pintus.
Nay we could prove sure as liv'd Ninus,
That this is back'd by Augustinus.
Few in this point have abandon'd us,
Lesse Strabo learnd, and Aldrovandus.
With Scaliger, who time hath spent,
Learnd to appeare, cause diffident.
The occasion of its Fable some
Have judg'd may from this reason come.
Because that in those Regions where
The Stagirite sayes Pigmies were,
All writers freely doe agree,
That wondrous little Creatures be.
Hence might, say they, this errour grow,
And he might thinke the men were so.
This savours Strabo, and has gust
Why Aristotle heel distrust.
But those who doe this Reason print,
Doe Aristotle justice int,

For if the heat, the Sunne there flings,
Contract and straighten other things.
Say why that Sunne may not have then
Like influence and force on men?
Besides, cause wee'l no longer tarry,
Tis cleare, that Strabo did miscarry,
Since Authors chaine the Pigmies seates,
Not to the Eclipticke parching heates,
But doe allow these Dwarfes combine,
Under a sundry Temperate Line.
Pliny in Thrace some Pigmies puts,
And others up in Caria shuts.
From India one his Pigmies takes,
And others neare to Nilus Lakes,
And Aristotles Pigmie height,
Is stil'd from's Region Troglodite.
Now Homers Pigmie, head and mouth,
Is Æthiopian, North, or South.
And Mæla to affirme not feares,
That Pigmies some Arabia beares.
Againe, lest Strabo should confine us,
We to Pomponius adde Solinus,
And Jovius too, beyond Japan
Embassadour Muscovian.
Let Strabo rage like Captaine Tucca,
Some men have seene them in Molucca.

But sure methinkes it needs must like us,
Which storied is by Odoricus.
He vowes, he Pigmies did descry,
Which were about some three palmes high;
And these (say, can ye hold from laughters)
At five yeares old, got Sons and Daughters.
To see the Sonne you would admire,
Goe play at push pin with his Sire.
But this to say would vex them rather,
Sir, is this Infant here your Father?
Or else suppose this Question slipt,
Pray when was last your Grandsire whipt?
Is that your Grandame? who doth dresse it?
A wondrous hopefull Child, God blesse it.

If all Diseases scape he can,
Thy Fathers Father may write man.
Theophilus, Higginus, Sergius,
And others (if so be that heard you us)
Albertus too, sets Dwarfes before us,
And Gaza christned Theodorus.

But weepe, Will: Baker, weepe to see,
Albertus Magnus doth agree,
That Pigmies were, yet at one stroke,
VVere they Ten Thousand all are broke.
Will: he averres they had no reason,
Nor understanding more then Peason.

Out, Out, Albertus, I could purse thee,
A freind of mine is bound to curse thee.

But Bille, worse and worse, Cardanus,
(Unworthy man) doth more constraine us,
He writes, though Cloakes they wore with Capes,
The Pigmies Fathers were the Apes.
And that from him, their line's translated,
That rides when London Beares are bated.
Now Will, if truth these men protects,
It something odly sure reflects,
And Cherry-lickum's beast, that Varlet,
Must be some Dwarfe in Chaine and Scarlet.
But these are Libels all and Scandals,
Devis'd by some whose shooes are Sandals.
For trust me when Thou dost appeare,
We quickely guesse what men they were.
Thy talke, Albertus will defeat,
Were he farre Greater then the Great.

That Pigmies were, be that prov'd hence,
Will: Baker proves they spake good sence.
And now it will not be amisse,
To adde one author to all this:
One thing I'le instance Sirs, and no more,
What was of Pigmies thought by Homer:
When Pigmie now was Midwives tale,
And onely season'd Gossips ale.

When they would mention such devises,
Cause Cups did want some other Spices.
When Pigmies folke did them so injure,
Onely supply'd a Race of Ginger.
Up starts old Homer in a wroth,
And cry'd, Keepe breath to coole your Broth.
Your Meetings love I with my heart,
And eke your Ale, be't pint, be't quart.
But yet my toes they itch to kicke her,
That drinkes these people off in Liquor,
Come, Come, your cups shall never boast,
They drowne a Nation like a Toast:
A Toast I say, which till 'tis mouldy.
You doe reserve to feed your Poultry.
But Dudgen Dagger throat I sticke in's
That Pigmie throwes to fat his Chickens.
At this, that all may henceforth know them,
He puts their story in his Poem.
Their war with Cranes who them annoy,
As fam'd as is his war of Troy.
Now he that in their story seekes,
Finds Pigmies Trojans, Cranes the Greekes.
But still the Pigmies did defie them,
As if their King were Aged Priam.
Full sundry Duels, sundry Fights,
Were mannag'd by the Pigmie Knights;

And though at length they're kill'd and quiet,
I thinke their Foes got little by it.
For often wounded, often shine.
Was many an Agamemnon Crane.
Steele is his breast, Flint is his Eyes,
His Head is Tinder-box likewise.
That can refraine, when this he heares,
From Gales of sighes, and showrs of teares:
Here lies a Wing, and there a Claw,
There lies a beake (Warre hath no law.)
And would't not greive Lady or Dutchesse,
To see a Crane walke 'twixt two Crutches?
There's small remorse in Pigmie Dwarfe,
That makes a Fowle weare wing in Scarfe.
With Feathers lost, Crane oft did sit,
Like Goose or Capon pluckt for spit.
Her guts cleane drawne, and none within her,
As though the Bird were truss'd for dinner.
They did so mangle her, so batter,
As if the Carver had beene at her:
Sometimes depriv'd of Rumpe or Crupper,
You'd thinke the rest kept cold for supper.
When they were Captives in all ages
Th'imprison'd were in Coopes or Cages.
Where both the Mother and the Daughter,
Ought seldome eate but bread and water.

Nor would they let (deare Will my honey)
A Drum or Trumpet bring them money,
And then alacke, what should they doe,
They could not beg, they wanted shooe.
In fine, from thence they ne're did range,
Lesse on Parole to get Exchange.
In other Fights (ô Fights accursd)
The valiant Pigmies had the worst.
Lo here they fall, and there they fly,
Weapon on Ground, Finger in Eye.
O Cruell Crane, that is not slacke,
To Pigmie pecke, behind his backe.
And what is worse (though he exhort her)
Refuse to give Nine Inches Quarter.
Long lasted feud and mortall jarre,
Till onely Crane surviv'd in warre.
In which no Pigmie ere was spi'd,
That tooke up Armes on t'other side.
'Twas Crane surviv'd, and well she mought,
Pigmie at disadvantage fought.
For routed Crane puts spurre to wing,
And safe through empty aire doth fling,
And ere a Baker marke his Tallies,
See Crane returnes againe, and Rallies.
But Pigmie-wight, must stand to list.
Three inches stride would split his twist.

Well Sirs,
The Pigmies had not hence beene snatch'd,
Had Will the mighty then beene hatch'd,
Had he beene Genorall I wiss'e,
Boyl'd Crane had gone to pot ere this,
He would have made their Forces yeild,
Yes, and had Pillage too o'th' Feild.
Woe tide the Bagge, Baggage and Canon,
Few words my Muse, I doubt they ha-none:
But had they any cold or hot gun,
All's Wils, from Culverin to Pot-gun.
In Quest of whom nere straine your Artirs,
To find Molluccans, Indians, Tartars,
No foraigne wildernesse or faire den,
His Forrest is the Privy Garden.
Where oft before and after vittles,
He walkes, and then retires to skittles.
The Pinnes eye witnesses beleive)
Are stiffe as need to sticke on sleeve,
His Ninth, some Authors say is larger,
And vast as that which fastens kercher,
But trigge him close, for Will can win,
Now marke him, downe goes Corner Pin.
Which pressing Earth vast burden proves,
As Feathers falne from breast of Doves,

Now weighty Bowle whence cruell stroakes
Divided are, to his Nine Oakes,
Is Reverend Pea, which Burgers they
With Bacon eate, for it is Gray.
Then hand is large (if mortall heed it)
As Moles which blind hath none to leade it,
And Mole with fist we know doth tosse a
Hill like a ball, Pelion on Ossa.
Hand-arme succeeds almost as bigge,
As brawny pettie toe of Pigge.
Arme with as Trusty bone is borne,
As what supporteth Eare of Corne.
Nerves thicke as Ropes, descry'd aloofe,
When Spider slides from toppe of Roofe.
But arme as deemes the strict beholder,
Is wondrous neare unto his shoulder.
Shoulder in spight of I or you,
Provoke him not, the squire hath two.
Wherewith (in contestation case)
He shoveth Frogs from place to place.
And to support they have beene found,
A mighty beame (of straw) from ground,
And well they may, for they instead
Of Columnes are to Necke and head.
Which head hath braines, there's nothing truer:
Ogge, Yeoman of the Guard hath fewer,

Wit he hath more then Gyant that,
Though he scarce weare so bigge a hat.
For seeing Beast one did bereave her,
Of seaventeene haires, which made his Beaver.
He takes a Silke-wormes Airy Twist,
(Such Oberon ties about his wrist)
That girts his hat, so big lookes that-band,
As Antique Mid-wives Cipresse hat-band.
That beares in hat (full spruce and fine)
What makes him sweat, his Valentine.

But head must not in any case,
Divided be from Necke and Face.
Face comely shap'd, with Fore-head smooth,
Eye under brow, and in Month Tooth:
Nose rising with convenient Ridge,
And broad as Edge of Knife i'th' bridge.
Beard plac'd on Chin, which he may twist
(When men curle Haire on backe of Fist.)
To head proportion'd Necke, where note,
It is not Taurus, Necke and Throat.

His Bulke is wide as Ring say some
On finger worne, some say on Thumbe.
The first (I feare) doe hardly hit it:
Your Finger Ring will never fit it.
For leaping like through Needle Camel,
Hee's knowne to justle of the Enamel.

Nay when through Thumbe-ring Feates he shewes yee,
Most Authors writes he marres the Posy
Where he destroyes ('tis wondrous strange)
I like my choice too well to change.

His Fleshy Thigh men justly call,
As large as Capons (bone and all)
The London Major (though Authors some sticke)
Tis thought nere eate a Fairer Drum-sticke.

His Brawny Legs with hand he knockes,
As plumpe in Calves as any Cockes.
When strutting him in bootes you see,
No Game-Cocke gingles more then he.

Now but his Foot all parts are past,
For which you may consult his last.
If he (at will) doe stockings use,
The Mouse weares hide that makes his shooes.
But Shooes alas (oh dismall day)
Occasion were of such a Fray
As hath not beene in England found,
Since Guy threw Gyant on the ground.

It hapned once (and who can say
What things may happen on a day?)
That hungry Kitten when she came
Now fully weaned from her Damme,
And quite debarr'd of Tet, must hast,
To seize on Mouse, or else must fast.

For few Pusse-Parents can say my purse
Will keepe my Kitten at a Dry Nurse.
One Cat in ten (youl hardly seeke,
Can part with halfe a Crowne a weeke)
When groaning paunch, and stomacke itchings,
Had forc'd her search Binnes, Buttrys, Kitchins.
But all in vaine, about did goe,
And could not dine upon her Foe.
Fortune at last (as who should say
Pusse thou shalt eate with me to day)
Design'd to shew the Duke some sport,
And did direct the Cat to Court:
She went, and willing to dispatch
She gap't, and lickt the Centries Match,
But Fire and Brimstone spoil'd her Message,
She thought it was the Devils Sassage.
From him she hyed, for her desire
Was much gainst Brimstone-Sauce, and Fire,
From staire to staire she jumpd along
Till at the last she spied a Throng,
Where Page that nere deserv'd rebuke,
Paid due attendance to the Duke.
She cryed as soone as here she come,
(Though few men heard it) Fee, Fa, Fum.
Be happy Pusse, for in this house,
I smell the bloud of English Mouse.

About she roaves, about she went,
Her supper still was in her scent,
But searching hole, and scraping Cranny,
She sigh'd, for why she found not any.
Her colour went, and she look'd Paler,
And much she fear'd her nose did faile her.
At last young bloud and warmer weather,
Threw relish hot from upper leather.
All things conspire, and jointly meete,
Will: Baker now defend thy foete.
Pusse couched low, and downe she lay,
In humble homage to her prey.
But as Antæus striving found
Fresh life and vigour from the ground,
So Pusse her limbes thus low had thrust,
To rise more active from the Dust:
And now (as hunger gave her wings)
Uncivill Cat rash bulke she flings
On Foot and Toes: As falling steele
Doth sundry wayes make mortall feele,
And doth enrage and move our hate,
More from its edge then from its weight:
So Pusse stout Wills just anger drawes
Lesse by her weight then by her Clawes;
But midst amazement and midst feares,
Just indignation, and just Teares,

By Reede in hand, with silver tipp't,
Rude Pusse is most severely whipt.

And then while both seeme to be even,
Affront was tane, affront was given,
A Ring was call'd, enraged they
Resolve to fall, or end the Fray.
But all this while, as wealthy Swaines
Enjoy not, but enthrall their Gaines.
Who coyne confinde to Chests inure,
Not to possesse, but to secure.
And from that strange unmanly itch,
Are their Golds Gaolers, but not Rich.
Soe Pusse now graspt what she did catch,
Nor did she feast on prey, but hatch.
Still brooding, still to tast was nice,
Her Twinne Imaginary Mice.

This gave advantage to her Foe,
And cost her many a sturdy blow.
Againe, sometimes she would withdraw,
And give her Yoke of Foes more law,
That at their motions she might rise,
And seize them by a fresh surprise.
Now all this while the Stripes fell thicke,
And vext the Cat unto the quicke.
Yet she forbore, and did but watch,
To checke the Tyrant with a scratch,

Whom seas'nably he kept in aw
By stretching out corrective paw.

But what amus'd her heart within her
Was he envy'd her, her dinner:
'Twas not so large, Dormouse in view
Might seeme a Beare to both these two.
So small they were, in any wise
She could descry nor head, nor Eyes.
Had she not been, sh'had left the fight,
More guided by her sent, then sight.
By that confirm'd, a fresh she flies,
And so renews her enterprize.

And now as Children dishes Court,
And wanton Tasts make meat their sport.
Till at the last these sports incite
Fresh Edge, and raise new appetite.
Soe Pusse by play more sharpe became,
Assuming hunger from her game.

Then on she fell, and by the Toes
Whole structure to the ground she Throwes.
But Gallant WILL did stroakes afford,
Till almost lost in chinke of Bord,
Where streightned by the place and feare
He wanted breath, to wield his speare.

But being both too fatall hearted,
They now by seconds both were parted.

When Will they take to give him Ayre,
And Seate him on broad-naile of Chaire;
And Pusse from him they severed farre.
Least they returne at unaware.

This Pauze (while Combatants were still)
Heard Votes for Pusse, and Uotes for Will.
For Factions part, as did the Ring,
And their divided suffræge bring.
But the discreet Indifferents, they
For the most part gave Will the day;
For though some urge (that though Will bleed)
His hand wav'd an assistant Reed.
And that the Pusse did Weapon scorne
But what was with her Cott ship borne.

They thus Reply, suppose one spide,
Who borne was with his Sword by's side,
Must Will fight with him (sword and all)
Because that sword is naturall?
Is he Wills match, say you that listend,
Because his Cutlers-shop was Christned?

But that which most the day did bend
Was from the Combats different end.
Wills heat from glory first did rise,
And a just sense of Iniuries.
Pusse, not to vanquish, but to Eat,
Lesse for her Honour, then her Meat.

Poore Trencher Duellist, if she fight,
No courage, 'tis but Appetite.

And this so swayd her, she was seene
To have re-entred lists agen.
And feircely to his Foot she goes
With fresh Defiance to his Toes.

But Will disabled now to rise,
By losse of bloud and freinds advise
Subscribed without more adoe,
To save his foot to part with Shooe.

“Wise Merchant thus on second thought,
“To save the Ship throwes ore the Fraught.
He parts with shooes, whence doth appeare,
Twas his discretion, not his feare.
For still he cryd with held up Knuckles,
You Rav'nous Queane returne my Buckles.

A CVRSE TO VULCAN,

Occasioned by a great Fire in Oxford, which began at the rosting of a Pigge 1643.

Pox take you, Vulcan, & may that curse spread
All the Pye-Corner curses on thy head:
What? not a Pigge the Parsons Venson drest,
But needs your Cuckoldship must be a Guest,
And make the same Dish without more adoe,
Rosted and smoakt be Pigge and Bacon too?
Shame on your foule West phalia teeth, for me,
Your next Pigge shall be souc't with a vengance t'ye.
Some Houshould cause sure made you visit us,
Tis for the Wives sake you love Swines flesh thus,

For her Tyth Vrchin Cupid without doubt,
Was Litterd Pigge, and his eyes Rosted out.

Time was, ere your so furious Rites did rise,
A penny-Faggot was a Sacrifice.
Some heard your Engine Browne, the Woodman say
Six Billets cloyd you on a Gawdy day.
But now those lofty Piles which lately stood,
The pride of Shot-over, and Bagley Wood,
Are By-Repast, and homely Diet growne;
Nought can allay your Fury, but a Towne.
Well give me but your Tosted fist a while,
And I shall shew you in this Ruind Pile,
(Like him that showes the Tombes, and's own Nose where
Those Graves and Dust are now, and whose they were.

You din'd Hell doe you good on't, at the Pigge,
Which sure was Rosted well, were't nere so bigge.
But not content to feed as you could catch,
On so course Meat as Hospitable Thatch,
You foam'd and chaf'd, tasted the Barnes, and Hay,
And swallowed all the Wood yards in the Way.
And then you and your warme Tempestuous Trayne,
Followd by sent into a close by-Lane.

New Inne Lane.

Where you had seiz'd the Mint, but that withall
Aurum Potabile was too Cordiall.
Where you had injur'd those by Rash designes

Sir W.P. his Quarter.

Whom virtue core then all thy Flame Refines.

But Fire's a Glutton, Vulcan, all the Rest
Did but provoke, the Shambles were your Feast.
Here while you Rove about and Wanton runne,
Flesh was your Fuell and Provision.
Here you fell on amaine, and fed as hard,
As you had been a Gyant o'the Guard.
Entrailes and Skinnes goe to't, and All you eate,
The Stalles and Beeves, the Trenchers, and the Meate.
Buildings on either hand submit their height,
While Flame consumes what did support their Weight.

And here an Honest Loyall Printer dwelt,

L.L. Pr. to the Univers:

Who all the Furie of the Tempest felt,
One that had never yet deserv'd these Fires,
By trying how well Treason looks in Quires.
Nor Printing Votes, where letters forward lye,
But must be read still with an Hebrew Eye.
Where Truths runne Counter, that which way they goe,
Rabbines and Sea Crabs which goe backward, know.
He to cast Ordnance was still afraid,
Bell-Mettle Letters he us'd none in's Trade.
Nor desperate Orders ever did he dresse,
Where Inke and Conscience are both ith' Presse.
That when the Worke is ore 'tis hard to state
If booke or Printer should be stitcht up straight.

But see the storme on to the Maire-Maid hies,
And swifter then she swimmes the lightning flies.

The Metropolitan, Italian roome
Royalte now was wondrous neare his doome.
And in the Cellar to a generall drench,
Had reconcil'd the Spaniard and the Prench.

PH. Vint.

But Franke his Neighbours was and the Poores case,
These helpe him with their Buckets, these their Pray'r.
The double-Janus Church that lookes foure wayes,
Shelterd almost as much as it survayes.
Else though the Maire-maid in the Ocean stand,
The storme had seis'd on both her Combe and Hand,
To trimme her haire henceforth she will not passe,
Ith' Pale of water, rather then the Glasse.

Next as the last dayes active vengeance flies,
When 'twill be one to ruine and surprise.
When none can aske if Fire be here or there,
Cause they shall finde it scatter'd every where.
So now the Quere alter'd, doubts flow hot,
Not where it was, but where the flame was not;
For from the Point which did the Onset lend,
Till the quicke flame was at her Journeys end,
All was on fire at once, no stoppe was seene,
No halt or stage, and then set out agen.
One direct equall line convey'd the Aire,
It blew by Art, destroy'd by Rule and Square,
The Mathematicke wind precisely hit,
As Archimedes hand had levell'd it

On in this line Vulcan, your hotnesse comes,

Mr H. his house.

Where the low Kitchin built the Upper Roomes,
Old Smith a thrifty Cooke this stone pile lent,
Twas once his House, but now his Monument.
Here you were nibling, and had fed apace,
But he threw scalding water in your Face.
And thou be'st wise, Vulcan, come here no more,
The Builder fetcht it out oth' Fire before.
But though the maine erection safe be found,
Th' Appurt'nances, Out-houses were burnt to th' ground.
And there three Hogs did perish in the fire,
While they conceiv'd 'twas but a warmer Mire.
That Devils enterd Hogs was once divine,
But Hell it selfe went here into the Swine.
And here it wav'd, but stay did not endure,

D. Cl. his house.

The Feaver durst not come so nigh the Cure.

At last alowd the thirsty Varlet laught,
Dranke downe three wealthy Brewers at a draught,
They could have playd you Barrels without faile,
Had you beene a Conscionable Land whale.
You injurd here, your fury climbing higher,

Sir G.B. his quart.

Those knowne and tryd in a more searching fire.
They suffred here, but their first sufferings came
From those that set the Kingdome in a flame.
They lost two Coaches here, but they have arts,
For those Incendiaries to find out Carts.

Thence you with your intoxicated Heele.
Ore Chimney-Tops to Bacons Cause-way reele.
Out, out you Salamander, turne not here,
On to your Woodmonger and warme your Beere.

The Life and Death of Jacke the Nimble, cheife saddle Nagge to Doctor S. C. of C.

The Trojan Horse as Homer notes,
Was fill'd with Men, instead of Oates.
And if for Provender he seekes,
They brought him halfe a pecke of Greekes.
An Army came, and he was for't all,
Grasse and Hay, the men were Mortall,
Yet sure it would amaze a stranger,
To see an Army in his manger.
But Nimble Jacke despis'd this Fable,
Nor was a Sinon Groome on's Stable.
Jacke was no Stratagem I tell yee,
To put his Riders in his Belly:
Nor Gin as knowes the Ostler William,
To ruine all the men of Ilium.

But leaves this Record of his fall,
He ne're was such a Canniball,
But gentle Sirs, if youl be quiet,
Weel tell you more then of his Diet.
His Comely crest, his goodly Ey,
And all his Physiognomie.
His eare erect, his cleanely Nose,
That ne're was troubled with a Pose.
Or the moist Glaunders, whose releife
Might make him weare a Handchercheife.
His Ivory Teeth now weepe, for harke,
I thinke they scarce outliv'd the marke.
His head was neate, which he held in
Like Maides that force a Double Chin.
So spruce so coy it still did sit,
Either with Snaffle or with Bit:
Breast firly broad, and Backe, I take it,
Could ne're be sadled, calld when naked.
Full Flanke, Round Belly, if you mind it
With Legs before, and eke behind it.
And so descend we to his Shankes,
Which ne're were knowne to either Bankes.
Not him, who when you heare it youl
Say, kept the Horses dancing Schoole.
He taught them Congee all, and bow,
And cringe, nay aske not, God knowes how.

But this though ne're so well h'had knowne ye,
Had carriage faire, sanz Ceremony.
Yet Jacke, though plaine, defies the Devill,
To say he ever was uncivill,
And did not greet both Cloake and Gowne,
As much as any horse in Towne.

But there's another Bankes I wisse,
Whom Jacke knew not no more then this.
Who though he after kept a Taverne,
Shod's horse with Gold yellow as Safferne.
From him Jacke alwayes kept aloofe,
Finer in Body then in Hoofe.
And held it ill to praunce in street,
With's Masters whole estate at's feet.
And casting shooe did never hoppe,
Instead oth' Smith toth'Goldsmiths' shop.

This for his Bulke for speed alas
A freer ne're made meale on Grasse.
And since the wise Horse Heraulds finde,
He was a Beast of Spanish kinde.
Begot in the Iberian coast,
Where winds get Nags to travel Post.

But, Reader, though we praise Jacke thus,
We grant he was no Pegasus,
Though prance he doth, though heeles he flings,
Yet we allow he had no wings.

For Sir, I tell you in a word,
Jacke was a Horse, and not a Bird.
Heel take it ill, if after ages
Shall thinke his stables were his cages.

And now 'twould puzzle wisest Carrier,
Or Beasts Hippocrates the Farrier.
To riddle what disease might call,
Deare Jacke to his disastrous fall.
Twas neither filthy Bots, nor Spavin,
Which other horses often have in
Their Flesh diseased, he did not founder,
His legs were smooth as any Flourder.
Not sicke of what men call the yellow,
Nor over-rode did melt his Tallow.
But come from Uxbridge died to see
So many men more Beasts then He.
Who would not yeild the King his right,
As who should say, nay then good night.

Song.

At the Holly-Bush Guard.

Cleare the Eyes of the watch,
Lazy sleepe we dispatch
From hence as farre as Ded-ford,
For the Flocke-Bed and Feather,
We expose to the Weather,
And hang all Sheetes in the Bed-cord.

Then sleepe, sleepe, and enjoy your Beds,
You quiet drowzy Heads,
May the furies of the Night,
Scarlet fleas you affright,
And pinch you blacke and yellow.
But the plumpe brawny Louse,
Scornes the shelter of the House,
Oh! He is the Souldiers fellow.

The Goblins and the Jigge
We regard not a figge,
Our phansies they cannot vary;
We nere pity Girles, that doe
Finde no Treasure in their Shooe,
But are nipt by the Tyrannous Fairy.

Then sleepe, sleepe, &c.

List! the Noise of the chaires,
Wakes the Wench to her Pray'rs,
Queene Mab comes worse then a Witch in:
Backe and Sides she entailes
To the Print of her Nailes,
Sheele teach her to snort in the Kitchen.

Then sleepe, sleepe, &c.

Some the Night-mare hath prest
With that Weight on their Breast,
No Returnes of their Breath can passe.
But to us the Tale is addle,
We can take off her Saddle,
And turne out the Night-mare to Grasse.

Then sleepe, sleepe, &c.

Now no more will we harke
To the Charmes of the Larke,
Or the tunes of the early Thrush,
All the Woods shall retire,
And submit to the Quire
Of the Birds in the Holly-Bush.

Then sleepe, sleepe, &c.

While the Country Lasse,
With her Dairy doth passe,
Our joyes no Tongue can utter:
For we Centinells stand,
And exact by command
The Excise of her Lips and Butter.

Then sleepe, sleepe, &c.

The Wake.

I, And whither shall we goe?
To the Wake I tro:
Tis the Village Lord-Majors show,
Oh! to meet I will not faile,
For my Pallat is in hast,
Till I sippe againe and tast,
Of the Nut Browne Lasse and Ales

Feele how my Temples ake
For the Lady of the Wake,

Her Lips are as soft as a Medlar;
With her Posies and her points,
And the Ribbons on her joints,
The Device of the Feilds and the Pedlar.

Enter Maurice Dancer.

With a Noise and a Din,
Comes the Maurice Dancer in.
With a fine Linnen Shirt, but a Buckram skin.
Oh! he treads out such a Peale
From his paire of legs of Veale,
The Quarters are Idols to him.
Nor doe those Knaves inviron,
'Their Toes with so much Iron,
Twill ruine a Smith to shooe him.
I, and then he flings about,
His Sweat and his clout,
The Wiser thinke it two Ells:
While the Yeomen finde it meet,
That he jungle at his feet,
The Fore-horses right Eare Jewels.

Enter the Country Fidler.

But before all be done,
With a Christopher strung,
Comes Musicke none, though Fidler one,
While the Owle and his Grandchild,
With a Face like a Manchild,
Amaz'd in their Nest,
Awake from their Rest,
And seeke out an Oake to laugh in.
Such a dismall chance,
Makes the Church-yard dance,
When the Screech Owles guts string a Coffin.
When a Fidlers coarse
Catches cold and growes hoarse.
Oh ye never heard a sadder,
When a Round-headed sinner,
Makes his will before Dinner,
To the Tune of the Nooze and the Ladder.

Enter the Taberer.

I, but all will not doe,
Without a Passe or two,
From him that pipes and tabers the Tattoo.

Hees a man that can tell 'em,
Such a Jagge from his Vellam;
With his Whistle and his Club,
And his brac't halfe Tub,
That I thinke there ne're came before ye,
Though the Mothes lodged in't,
Or in Manuscript or print,
Such a pitifull Parchment story.
He that hammers like a Tinker
Kettle Musicke is a stinker,
Our Taberer bids him hearke it,
Though he thrash till he sweates,
And out the Bottome beates
Of his two Dosser Drummes to the Market.

Enter the Bag-piper.

Bag-piper good lucke on you,
Th'art a man for my money,
Him the Beares love better then Honey.
How he tickles up his skill,
With his Bladder and his Quill,
How he swels till he blister,
While he gives his mouth a Glister.
Nor yet does his Physicke greive him;

His Chops they would not tarry,
For a try'd Apothecary,
But the Harper comes in to releive him.

Enter the Harper.

Whose Musicke tooke its fountaine,
From the Bogge or the mountaine,
For better was never afforded.
Strings hoppe and rebound,
Oh the very same Sound
May be strucke from a Truckle-bed coarded.

Epilogue. The Witney Prayer.

Now God a blesse King Charles, and send him to be merry.
And bring our Noble Queene a safe over the Ferry.
The Prince, marry save him, and the Duke his owne Brother.
God a blessing light upon him, he is eene such another.
I say the Dukes Worship, for and whose sweet sake
Was a cheifely intended we of Witney, and the Wake.

Master W. H. his Song to his Wife at Windsor.

Tis not the guilt of uncancell'd scores
Frights me from thee,
No Ale-wifes Doores
Doe Penance in chalke for me:
No Easterne character
Inscrib'd on the Post,
Of an Hebrew host,
Against me can appeare.
Nere had I the repute,
To be skill'd in the Roote,
Nor indeed was I ever willing,
To discover by what happe
The Fat Harlot of the Tappe
Writes at night and at noone,
For a Tester halfe a Moone,
And a great Round O for a Shilling.

Yet when the Youthfull vigorous Grape
Doth becken me,
That comely shape,
Doth create no Antipathy,
And yet no Rubies shine,

None Glistering lyes,
To dazle mine eyes,
My Flesh is no Chimicke mine:
No Jeweller so base
Shall keepe shop in my face.
Nor drinke I so much to disclose,
By fresh Pimples that rise,
Where the Reckoning lies,
That the Barre-Boy may point
Out the Quart and the Pinte,
And make up his Scores by my Nose.
But when no Indentures rise,
When none consent,
For seaven-yeares lies
To be bound to the Parliament:
When Venne shall be tame,
And see us despise,
The whites of his Eyes,
And the Verilyes of his Dame;
Oh then am I in case,
To come and see thy Face,
Weel have Fire and a Chimney smoaking;
Holy Ven by degrees
Shall begin to freeze,
For if Treason failes,

He may blow his Nailes,
Tis the second Trade that he broke in.

The Spy of the Buttery,

Or the Welsh Dove:
Walias,
Jacke Price the feirce
To the Cooke Dicke Peirce.
This newes was tell her,
From the Kings Cellar.

Dicke , I had wrote to thee before,
But filthy Fairefax (say no more)
Thou knowst 'twould be a dismall hearing.
To send a Letter out pickearing.
Your Better sort of Letters goe.
With Pistols at the Saddle Bow,
And though surpriz'd they much condole,
May be dismiss'd upon Parole.
But mine once snapt goes sure to Prison,
Nay faith perhaps they'd slit her Weezon.

And oh the Rogues how would they vapour,
To see the Carcasse of Cap-paper.
Yet now at last thou seest it comes,

But stay here, Dicke, and wipe your Thumbes.
And now if Freind gaine Freinds beleife,
I've tasted nought but powder'd Beefe,
And (Sirrah) that in my opinion,
Greene as the driven Leekes or Onion,
Come Dicke 'twould make your Pallat whine,
To spit Salt-Peter and pisse Brine.
I would the King were bound to dubbe
Each man, whose Gut's a Powdring Tubbe
A freind of yours if he were righted,
Would not be long from being Knighted:
But that's all one, I long to stickle,
For such another fortnights Pickle.
Our Beefe was salt, but harke it Cozen,
We kill'd fresh Round-heads by the dozen,
I thinke the Varlets dare not utter,
How deare they paid for our fresh Butter,
By my consent if they would tarry,
The Rogues should rent the Kingdomes Dary
Methinkes their pay was faire and good.
A Pale of Milke was two of Blood,
And ere their Butter 'gan to coddle
A Bullet churnd i'th Roundheads Noddle.

Then for their Cheese, when they Begunne it,
We op't their Veines to let out Runnet,
On Botly Causeway, on our Words,
Their Braines lay thicker then their Curds.

And now I thinke on't I can't chuse
But give the more account oth' Newes,
Fairefax in person Northward lay,
Thou knowst he drinkes that Climats Whey,
But oh! his Tent his Tent alacke!
'Twas nither Greene, nor White, nor Blacke,
But in such Colour it appeares
Which mortall sees, and Mortall feares,
Riddle the Raine-bow Colours round,
Or plucke a Pedlers packe to ground,
See Ribbons which may binde your Artirs,
See Pointes and if you can see Gartirs.
I say this Pedler, or that Clowd,
More dismall colour ne're allow'd
'Twas flaming Crimson, Dick, which did portend,
O Oxford, Oxford thou art at an end!
Like some fell Comet sure this must affright us,
Like that or'e the fam'd City sackt by Titus.
Or like a flame breath'd out by Furze or Bavins,
And flame thou knowst frights Horses worse then Spavins.
Into this dismall Tent this fierce Knight comes,
Mumme quoth the Trumpets, be unbrac't ye Drummes.

Then thrice o're head bright glistring blade he shakes,
Thrice were our eyes much dazled for their sakes.
After some Pauze and Pauze thou knowest was fitten,
He pluckt his Gantlet off, his Iron Mitten.
Oxford (quoth he) on thee I'le have no pity,
For I am sent from far by the Committee.
The Still-borne child shall rue the day,
For want of Butter, Milke and Whey.
Diseased Infants (Dire mishap!)
Shall wish their Coffins full of Pap.
Custards from thee 'tis I will thrust,
That shake like Agues bak't in Crust.
No more no more of fresh Cheese dreame,
Which like an Island floates in Creame.
I and my men will eate eft soones,
Th' Island with Knives, that Sea with Spoones.
Thy Cheese-cakes fram'd I make no doubt,
Sometimes with Plums, sometimes without,
I'le send to London's Lycorish Sisters,
They'l coole their bodies more then glisters.
When they are full this fame may be begun,
I am their Generall and their Islington.
At this, one Night it must be said,
Our Governour that Gallant Blade,
But to the wise thou knowest few words,
He drew us out, we drew our Swords.

Ith' twinkling of a zealous ey,
Downe fell their foot, their horse they fly.
We kil'd and tooke, like Mice in Cupboard,
Two hundred Varlets Dicke, and upward.
In what a case Dicke think'st thou than
Was Fairefax feirce the Dairy-man?
And which shooke most, guesse by his Screeches,
His Earth-quake Custards, or his Breeches.
To Marson bridge who scaped went,
There stood the Bloudy-Dairy Tent:
Slash't to the Bridge they come, but one supposes,
Without the Bridges of their Noses.
Now Dicke,
At other Ports lay Browne and others,
In time they'l curse they ere had Mothers.
Twas Browne I say, and thou mayest tell it,
Oh that's a heart of Oake like Billet.
We claw'd him from each Counterscarfe,
Sure his Accounts come short at's Wharfe:
From every Port we kill'd the Maggots,
There's one, there's two, so on like Faggots.
The East line common souldiers kept,
The North the Honest Townesmen swept.
The West was man'd by th' Loyall Schollers,
Whose Gownes you slave are blacke as Colliers.

They taw'd it faith, their Gunnes would hit,
As sure as they had studied it.
They ramm'd their Bullet, they would ha't in,
Bounce went the Noise, like Greeke and Latine.
And for their Colonell moreover,
It was the valiant Earle of Dover.
These Knaves talkt much oth' siege of Troy.
And at this siege they leapt for Joy.
They defied Fairefax and his Forces.
Said he was Sinon and brought Woodien Horses.
Now for the South Port Dicke, why there I say
The Noble Loyall, stout Lord Keeper lay,
His men made th' Rascalls cry they were mistaken,
To shew their hungry teeth at Friar-Bacon.
They conjurd 'em yfaith and laid 'em dead,
As each there Helmet were a Brasen head.
I thinke the Knaves will hardly be in heart,
Where Courage is, and they suspect Blacke Art.
'Tis strange by both the buckles of my Girdle,
The Deele tooke Roundheads 'cause they were oth' circle
Yet Pluto cryed they need not be so eager,
For why their Heads alone were in that Figure,
But to conclude Dicke all Ports played their parts,
As they had had some finger in those Arts.
And all the Rebels are runne hence so fast,
As twere from Bacon yes and Vandermast.

Postscript.

Because her Inglis was no very better,
Was cote another rite this Letter.
But Aule before, and behind, and beside that riteings,
Was her owne naturall inditeings.

I rest, a matter of foure times thy thrice
humble Servant, Shon Price.

[Yet for aule her hast]

Yet for aule her hast,
Here's a preamble at last:
Now let her beware in any wise,
From shuffle her Leters under Pies.
For marke you me now, tese ferses under,
Was put her in mind for send her som plunder.
Was long to give a Numbassader a Tester,
For bring her a Sattin Douslet from Lester.

Verses made in Bed to one studying in the same Chamber.

Get thee to bed, I say, that gowne and knackes
Present thee Priam shrunke to Astyanax,

Three guilded Caps a poreing sure I view
Some Munmouth'd youth that lies and stinkes perdue.
All thou read'st there is Watch-word sure, and then
Stead of a sword lies drawne a Valiant Pen.

So the well furt'd Sire that gives the Midnight knell,
And see thy Tinckling standish for a Bell.
Looke now thou yawn'st too: afore Jove I shall
Heare thee anon snore out, Good People all.
But to be serious, preethy to bed, goe rest,
Young man thou canst not famish at a Feast.
Phœbus thou know'st the God of Wit is sed
To study but the Day, and then to Bed.
I love thy brave attempt, but pray forsake,
The flow'r thus deckt with honey shrouds a snake.

Where am I freind? I dreamt I told thee right,
But thou hast allmost wakt me, James Good night.

Epithalium. To Mistris M. A.

Rise from your Virgin sheets, that be
Fy on them a meere Nunnery.
Who solitary Winters leads,
Turnes Bracelets to Religious Beads.
The Virgin that at Hymen stickes,
Should sell her Gemmes for th' Crucifix.

For she's a Nun the Sages tell,
That lies alone though in no Cell.
She midst her Liberties confin'd,
Her Bodie's cloister to her mind.
Be they immur'd whose lookes are wore
Pale as the Relickes they adore.
Where cheekes the Rose and Lilly paint,
A Bridegroome is the onely Saint.

Then as faire Roses to each other laid,
Unite their blushes, and are Garlands made,
So you, who when you are a sunder onely shun,
One Starre will shine a Constellation.

Song.

Cock-throwing.

Cocke a doodle-doe, tis the bravest game,
Take a Cocke from his Dame.
And bind him to a stake,
How he struts, how he throwes,
How he swaggers, how he crowes,
As if the Day newly brake.
How his Mistris cackles,
Thus to find him in shackles.

And tyed to a Packe-thread Garter?
Oh the Beares and the Bulls,
Are but Corpulent Gulls
To the Valiant Shrove-Tide Martyr.

Saylers Song.

Here is a Bowle in whose wide coasts,
Navies may swimme like winter Toasts,
Which to drinke off if he were minded,
Æolus would prove short winded.
Tis to the Queene, downe let it fall,
There goes Ocean, Ships and all.
Hoise Sailes againe, and still provide
New supplyes to maintaine the Tyde,
For when we the dry Bottome knocke,
Then we are split, ô there's the Rocke.
Here like a Whale my spatious gut
Sports, and then devoures a But;
Store me with one deliberate suppe,
No storme shall sooner tosse it up.
Tis wide and deepe, be sure you fill't:
Twill make an Ocean run a Tilt.
Drinke shallow first, then drowne your Oare:
No danger but to come a shore.
For when we, &c.

Song against Ale.

Come your Ale is a liquor,
Drawes thicker and thicker,
Tis the damme to that Heretique Beere.
Twas begot in a huddle,
By a Fogge and a Puddle,
Which the Beames of the Toast cannot cleere.
Tis a Magicall charme,
Turnes wit into Barme,
Tis a Spell 'gainst the Muses and Braines:
Doth Pegasus force,
To be a Brewers Horse,
And stuffes up his Manger with Graines.
Lays Hippocrene flat,
Asleepe in a Fat,
To be laught at by every Lay-man.
Each Muse that comes after,
Turnes Sutlers daughter,
And Apollo himselfe to a Dray-man.

Ralph's speciall Care,

His Bill of fare.
Or
A Caveat to the Foes that they beware 'em
In starving Omnium Animarum.
Which may be sung up and downe,
To the Tune of Troy Towne.

When Oxford Towne full fortnight seige,
Fairefax withstood that dreadfull Maggot,
Ralph Providore for stranger leige-
People, 'gainst Browne and Penny Faggot.
Brought this Browne Bill at legall Summons,
Before the Lords, God blesse the Commons.

Mouthes female some, and some were Male,
For both he caters and beseeches,
You would be pleas'd to take his tale
Of food for Aprons, and for Breeches.
Marke his Browne bill, &c.

Imprimis, 4 quarter of wheate. 2 of Mastlyn, 2 of Pease.

Foure Quarters Wheate, of Mastlyn twaine,
For broth in Lent as much of Pease,
Both Food and Physicke hence we gaine,
Twill both the Belly fill and ease,
By his Browne Bill, &c.

Item 6 flitches of Bacon, 4 Gammons, 1 Beefe and an halfe, 9 Salt Eeles.

Bacon with Sword and Dagger eke,
Full sundry Flitches and backe Gammons.
Beefe salted greene as any Leeke,
Besides Salt Eeles, would they were Sammons.
Oh Ralphs Browne Bill, &c.

Item 9 Pots of Butter.

Some pots of Butter, more of Ale,
For why, quoth Ralph, and then he laught,
Although our Sauce and Dairies faile,
The Brewer churnes our mornings draught.
Sing Ralphs Browne Bill, &c.

Item, 3 hundred weight of Cheeses:

Cheese Chedder some, all wondrous fat,
And left he should by Rattes be plunder'd,
He keepes in fee a leiger Cat,
As Constable of every hundred,
With his Browne Bill, &c.

Item 4 Bushels of Salt.

But lest his Inventory halt,
And all his Items are undone,
Peter is Sirname to his Salt,
Twill season Meate or season Gun.
Tis Ralphs Browne Bill, &c.

Item 9 Neates Tongues.

'Sfoot Ralph's a Linguist, and unlockes
His Mouth to Countries farre and wide.
Dry'd Dialects on Chimney stockes,
Shew Ralph is onely Neates-Tongue ty'd.
By Ralph's Browne Bill, &c.

Item Grocers ware good store.

Then Grocers Ware, as Sope and Plumbs,
Browne Candy to perfume your Whistle,
All goes through's Providence, or Thumbs,
Sure Ralph is Ralph o'th' Burning Pestle.
Knight Ralphs Browne Bill, &c.

Item 7 Strike of Oatmeale.

But Oatmeale ho! you'd little thinke it,
Boyle it, and boyl't againe o're Fuell,
You may or eate it Maides or drinke it,
Ralph hath a care of Water Grewell,
In his Browne Bill, &c.

Song.

You that fish for Dace and Roches,
Carpes or Tenches, Bonus noches,

Thou wast borne betweene two dishes,
When the Friday signe was Fishes.
Anglers yeares are made and spent,
All in Ember weekes and Lent.

Breake thy Rod about thy Noddle,
Through thy wormes and flies by the Pottle,
Keepe thy Corke to stoppe thy Bottle,
Make straight thy hooke, and be not afeard,
To shave his Beard,
That in case of starred stitches,
Hooke and Line may mend thy Breeches.

He that searches Pooles and Dukes,
Halters Jackes, and strangles Pikes,
Let him know, though he thinke he wise is,
Tis not a sport but an Assizes.
Fish so tooke, were the case disputed,
Are not tooke, but executed.

Breake thy Rod, &c.

You whose Pastes fox Rivers throat,
And make Isis pay her Groat,
That from May to parcht October,
Scarce a Minew can sleepe sober.

Be your Fish in Oven thrust,
And your owne Red-Paste the crust.

Breake thy Rod, &c.

Hookes and Lines of larger sizes,
Such as the Tyrant that troules devises,
Fishes nere, beleive his Fable,
What he cals a Line is a Cable.
That's a Knave of endlesse Rancor,
Who for a Hooke doth cast in an Anchor.

Breake thy Rod, &c.

But of all men he is the Cheater,
Who with small fish takes up the Greater,
He makes Carpes without all dudgen
Make a Jonas of a Gudgen.
Cruell man that slayes on Gravell
Fish that Great with Fish doth Travell.

Breake thy Rod, &c.

To my Lady Ch

Madam,

Tenants with Aches and sore eyes,
Or he that on his Death Bedlyes,
And now must dye, when it is knowne,
That you who were their Cure are gone,
Suffers not more in your Remove.

Not the Parson, who I'me sure is loath,
To shake hands with your Table-Cloath.
Whose slender soule could never looke,
For freind at Chichley but the Cooke:
And onely doth your Chimney love:

He whom your Meales could onely fix,
Who loves you just at Twelve and Six.
Who greives for th'Servants, not that they
Seeme to depart, but take away,
And leave not Empty house but board.

How will he preach when first he sees,
Nought to inspire him but his Cheese?

And that so hard and void of sappe,
It maimes more Rats then doth the Trappe,
When they assault his Thrifty Hoard.

Thus much I owe him for's delay,
O'th Blisse which in your Papers lay,
Should you then Madam hide your smiles,
As farre in Lands as now in Miles,
My zealous verse should trace you out, and then
Heel write while he hath either Hand or Pen.

who subscribes himselfe, &c.

Song.

Celia in love.

I felt my heart and found a flame,
That for releife and shelter came:
I entertain'd the treacherous guest,
And gave it welcome in my breast.
Poore Celia, whither wilt thou goe?
To coole in Streames, or freeze in Snow?
Or gentle Zephyros intreat,
To chill thy flames and fanne thy heat?

Perhaps a Tapers fading Beames
May dye in Aire, or quench in streames,
But Love is a Mysterious fire,
Nor can in Aire or Ice expire.
Nor will this Phænix be supprest,
But with the ruine of his Nest.

Song.

Celia Sowning.

There on a flowry pillow spread
Faire Celia her declining head,
When death disguis'd like gliding sleepe,
Did gently ore her Silence creepe.
Her Rose and Lillies drooping ly,
The Sun was set in Celias ey.
Her Lips were Twinnes of Corall growne,
Bloud hardned into Blushing stone.
Her Teeth their motions did depose,
And made their Ivory Kisses close.
Her fragrant Breath his sweetes supprest,
Retiring to perfume her Breast.
Her Pulses slept and did constraine
Their Daunces in her Azure veine.

But Gentle Love who this did spie,
Kept still his Ambush in her Ey,
And joyd at his faire Prison shooke
His silver shafts, then Celia woake:
But when the Nymph reviving spied,
The amorous Boy, Oh then she cried,
Ye Gods receive againe this Breath,
For Love is but a Lasting Death.

Song.

Calliope invited to sing.

Thyrsis. Calliope.
Thyrsis.
Sing divine Calliope,
Enrich our Quire
With thy sweet voice and mellow Lyre,
And Gods that listen to the sound,
While Orbes walke their harmonious Round,
Shall learne to tune their Spheares by thee.

Calliope.
Ah me, I cannot sing,
No chearefull note
Can cleare my sad untuned throat,
And then my Lute is so decayd,

Satyrs will start and be afraid,
At the wild discord of the string.

Thyrsis.
On yonder trembling bough,
Sad Philomel,
Her cheape and frequent tale did tell,
But ravisht with thy pleasant song,
Lisp'd all thy Musicke on her tongue,
And hath forgot her story now.

Calliope.
Poore Philomel I pitty thee.
O twice deceived,
Of honour and of Tune bereav'd.
The salvage Tereus did thee wrong,
But yet he left thee still thy song,
And now thou owest that losse to me.

Thyrsis.
Faire Nymph it is no paine
To change for gaine.

Chorus.
Then let our musicke mixe their loud
Harmonious aires, and make one cloud.
That joining Tunes with Tunes we may,
Each still enjoy their owne, and each each others lay.

Dialogue.

Thyrsis. Cloris.
Cloris.
I preethy Thyrsis tell me true,
What did I when I first lov'd you?

Thyrsis.
Then first thy breast became to be.
Great Cupids Throne.

Clo:
Pray who is he?

Thyrsis.
A Beauteous Boy, whose Ivory Bow,
And shafts in Lovers Bosoms grow,

Cloris.
O he's a wondrous cruell guest.
That makes a Quivor of a Breast.

Thyrsis.
Both Bow, and Shafts, and Boy doe dwell
In Lovers Breasts.

Clo:
I preethy tell.
How can a Boy be bred in me,
Who still professe Virginity?

Thyrsis.
In thee or I, or any one alive,
The amorous Boy may grow and thrive.

Cloris.
Fye Thyrsis, fye, no more Ile seeke,
Nor will I love thee now this weeke.

Thyrsis.
Deare Cloris why?

Clo.
Delude me so?
As if a Boy in thee could grow.
I am not I so soone beguild,
To thinke that men may be with child.

Tis not a sluggish Boy that seekes
To be matur'd by forty weekes.
His body is a subtle fire,
Inform'd and quickened by desire.
Love me this Instant, and this instant you
Get him, conceive him, and bring forth too.

Cloris.
When first my labour did begin,
Why didst not call the Neighbours in?

Thyrsis.
No forraigne aide we need to prove,
Our selves are Midwives to our Love.

Chorus.
Strange Riddle love, whose births perplex,
And make us change and shift our sexe.
Men may be Mothers to desire,
And Virgins pure may be his Sire.

Irish-love Song.

For Creeshes sake come pitty me.
O Hone, ish tis ty Love and be?
Phair ish ti promish and ti vow?
I trusht 'em neder noder now.
But all ish goe, and tou unkind,
Dosh print ti trote and fett in wind:
Fee Donnell fee, i time repent,
Now by ti hant, o Hone I'me spent.

Not tat I dye mine hart ish sore,
But being dear can love no more.

To my Lord B. of Ch. when I presented him a Play.

My Lord,

Who single Leafes before, now heaps hath reard,
And from one Beast hath ventur'd at a Herd:
Hoping that Altar which indulg'd a Roome
To the foule Oxe, will toth' foule Hecatombe.
And that his Gyant need not acceptance feare,
Cause 'tis ill shapt, for so his Pigmies were.
For though the staine be greater now, and proud,
And the small vapour swell'd into a Cloud;
Yet still as was the droppe so is the shower,
And all th' ill sent oth' Garland was ith' Flower.
Since then small Parcels shew the greater, and
We guesse th' whole Monster by its face or hand.
Since by lesse papers, Sir, your judgement may
Collect what Prodigie will be the Play:
Let like his doubts your candour be allow'd,
And that cleare Beame melt or expell his cloud.
There are who poize our Lumpe with their least dramme,
And shut up comedy in Epigram.

There are in whose each line a volume growes,
And can thrust all our Garden in their Rose.
Sir, I could name you many wits so bigge,
They could present you Groves for this dry Twigge.
There you might walke in shades, and every Bough,
Would crowne the pious Dew which made it grow.
When here the Plant hath hardly bulke for fire,
And set here foure yeares since is scarce a Brier.
Yet let it still grow on, you let thornes stand,
Which growth enables but to offend your hand.
Nature lets Serpents live, although they bring
Nought but more poison, and enlarge their sting.
Your skilfull hand may file the Rude stone pure,
And from that poison may create a cure.

To Dr. F. Deane of Ch. Ch. now Vicechancellour of Oxford, upon the Same occasion.

Not that I begge degree, as understood,
To bring a Trifle and receive a Hood.
I nere expect a Harvest from one seed,
Or a faire Sheafe where I but plant a weede.

Yet sure I might begge titles onely lent
To obey in state, submit in Ornament.
The ambition's lawfull here, since 'tis your praise,
If all your flowers are Roses, all Trees Bayes.
Thus you may seat him high in his faign'd Queens view,
High as her selfe, and yet both kneele to you,
Be't then your honour onely to have found,
How to make Princes Subjects, and bow crown'd.

To my Lord C. An. 1640.

Our feares are shortned now, and while eyes,
Mourne a set Sun, we see another rise.
Your bright approach cleares all, and forbids they
Should dread a Night, who doe but change their day.
Know your great Father is supply'd in you,
The Casket's lost, yet we the Jewell view.
We misse not the Perfections, but their Place,
Tis the same Beauty in another Face,
You keepe the Seale still each your Act hath in't,
Something that savours Royall, like that Print.
Your just wills law, and your command-due Taxe,
And still you stampe Decrees, though not in wax.
We begge of you we may the danger beare,
Since the same Starre moves in another Spheare;

We hope our Teares may lessen with your will,
Since the pure Current runties in Christall still.
If not our Teares most willingly obey,
You may command each droppe into a Sea.

To my freind Mr J. F. at Leyden.

If my last Letter drown'd or shipwrackt be,
Or like its Master never saw the Sea,
What fate so ere it suffer'd, I have chose
To see if Verse hath better lucke, then Prose.
I send no Trafficke o're, no thrifty ware,
Which quits the danger by 'ts increase and share.
Fortune (I thanke her) saves me all that paine,
He cannot loose by Seas that cannot gaine.
When I trucke Turkey-silkes, or Indian gold,
Then threaten rockes, and may the Barke not hold:
But let that voyage still successefull be,
Which covets nought beyond the Seas but Thee.
And, gentle Pirates, let your valour know,
To take the Booties, but let Freindships goe.

But if when large and greater ruines call,
My Letters too must have their fate, their fall.
There still remaines one way to quit that care,
Come see my breast and thou shalt reade them there.

For spight of Angry winds, and Pirates Art,
I scorne to finde a Shipwracke in my heart.

To my Lady Ch.

Madam,

Arriv'd at Oxford we can sadly view,
How much they suffer who are snatch'd from you:
Yet thus depriv'd, we still reserve some sence,
Though we leave you, we bring your favours thence.
Your bounty still dispens,d, appear'd still new,
As if that bounty like your Beauty grew,
Each meale appear'd a Herd, and so well stor'd,
As we had seene whole pastures on your Board.
Nor were they single meales, for where you dine
The Table's Altar, and the Parlour shrine,
There th'Oxe as blesst as in the Temple dies,
And joyes when he is made your sacrifice.
And when fate chast Doves to your charger drives,
There falls more Innocent then were their lives.
Your feast now ended, Madam, all's not past,
You feed your Eyes as you have fed our Tast.
Clouds wrought so nicely we had sworne 'twould raine,
But that your Beauty drew all up againe.

There Heaven so faire, and Starres so true appeare,
Astronomers need seeke no other Spheare.
Your Needle casts that sky with so rich grace,
As if your Copy meant to excell the face.
And now we climbe two stories height to see
How large Art proves in her Epitome,
A Closet where no fucus comes, no Paint,
To daube a Fury, and create a Saint,
No bought Complexion there, no such sage Plot,
As where the good face lies i'th Gally Pot.
Bookes are the Objects there, and yet none ly
Like famous Palmerin, or stout Sir Guy.
No doubty Don Quixote, like those that fight,
With Warlike Wind mill, and then rise up Knight.
The Bookes are pious, and their owners are
Themselves professers, Beauties of the Chaire.
Now after these we saw, but there we breake,
They see not Wonders who can see and speake.

To the same.

Madam,

As those that tast halfe-sweetes and joyes begun
From those short Twylights thrust a full grown Sun;
As our Pretences to a store
Onely create an itch of more,
And we have lesse,
By that increase.
So when I heare some crosse designe
Durst interrupt your sacred line,
Which destin'd was to let us see,
Your papers rich as your Embrodery,
And that your Needle then
Had vanquisht beene by th' Pen.
We sigh to loose a blisse so nigh,
Halfe Joyes the Emblems are of misery.
Though then imperfects that designe,
And our Gold yet ly hid i'th Mine,
We dare not say we misse,
Be your Intents our Blisse:
Remembrances from you shall stand,
'Bove Volumes wrote by any other hand.

To the same.

Madam,

Tis an injustice Cambridge will not owne:
You needs must be admir'd, or but halfe known.
Your presence may command respect and price,
Else Jewels doe want lustre, or men Eyes.
The Shire was then turnd all into the Fennes,
Schollers to Tygers, Colledges to Dennes:
Else Antique Manuscripts had beene laid by,
And Reverend Monsters which in Parchment ly,
Nor each inquisitive braine-impar'd the growth,
Of gray decayes wrought by some Gransire moath:
You had beene all the object, who gaze int
Confesse they never read a fairer print.

Next since you slender Piles to Columnes raise,
And honour truth with the faire name of praise.
Let me assure you, Madam, all our might,
Is but a weake attempt to doe you right.
Tis but a faint Reflexion, nor may passe
But as your Beauty is showne lesse by th'Glasse.
They that arraigne a chast and virtuous name,
And sit upon the Life and Death of Fame.
Sessions of beauties will admire you ore,
And Juries of twelve Ladies praise you more.

Then for your Votes, should mine be like his state,
Who dreams of Miters and was Bishop straight.
In all that honour'd pompe still you should see
Lawne sleeves submit to your chast Tiffany.
But if some sullen starre confine this Trunke,
To Colledge Hermite, or a closter'd Munke,
Still shall my zeale retir'd presume to paint,
You as its wonder now, so then its Saint.

To the same.

Madam,

Recover'd by your pow'rfull prayers I send
Some short reflexions of the health you lends
A great Assemblies Vote wove in one cloud,
Had beene of weaker force, although more loud.
Your closet wishes shelter gifts divine,
Where ere you pray you make the place a Shrine.
Tis not a Congregation that can heale,
The Blessing's not toth' Number, but toth' zeale.
Your single sigh may for a miriad ly,
One Saint like you stands for a Hierarchy,
Your Prayer hath Balsame int', and can endure
Or to be calld a Sacrifice or cure.

Boast I a double Title then since you,
Deigne me your Servant, and your Patient too.

To the same, being his Valentine.

Madam,

I should not chide my paine, nor torments rue,
Had they allow'd my Pen addresse to you.
But my distemper now must weare this brand,
The wound which op'd my Arme, still shut my hand.
Lame Offerings still enrage, where they would please,
Th'are Adoration halfe, and halfe Disease.
Then fitter 'twas to let my Homage fall,
Then date that service from some Hospitall.
Now, though I not converse with Salves, nor feele
My old acquaintance with the Launce and steele:
Though each wound weare the face of safety in't,
And all my Linnen is no longer Lint.
Yet these are empty Triumphs, and all this
Speakes but the Proeme to a fairer blisse.
I weare your name, first worne in my firme mind,
Here chance had Eyes, and fortune was not blind.
Long safety waites me now, and a health sure,
Your name was still my glory, now my Cure.

To the same.

Madam,

Could there be found a man that brings
Feathers to hire, and hackney wings,
Could we procure a power that might
Transforme a Journey to a flight.
Then swift as Eagles would we fly,
Or Arrowes through the empty sky.
And our ambition would be than,
To place those feathers in your fan.

But since no Feathers we acquire,
Nor Wings but those of our desire,
We must still languish here, still stay
To love the Journey, hate the Way.
Like Seamen who at distance court,
With eager smiles the neighbour Port;
But if a Rocke or Shelfe awaite,
They loose the Land to shun the Fate.
Thus some a Martyrs wreath desire,
But leave the Crowne to scape the fire.
This is our case, we see our blisse,
But dare not print the Precipice.
For horse and man sticke fast and stay
Like feirce Saint Georges of the way,

Rooted like Statues there they stand,
Like Trophies of some Carver's hand.
Hang forth a Bush, and one may sweare
They are but the signe o'th' Traveller.
He spurres still, but his horse moves downe
No more then that stampt ith' Halfe-Crowne.

On the Author of Love Melancholy. Second Edition.

Love who till now was Loosenesse and hot flame,
Is here made Warmth, and joyes he is grown Tame.
The Wanton's sober here: this Artist brings,
The Boy as comely still, but clips his wings.
Looke on his Blushes, his cheekes modest fires,
There's the same Rose, onely 't hath lost the Briers,
He still his Ivory Bow, still keepes his Dart,
Shootes here too, but with Judgement and more Art:
He is not here call'd Lust or Amorous Staines,
As if the God ith' Shrine were Sinne ith' Veines.
Nor yet a perfect birth, he must not shine
Blind in his Mothers Armes, yet see in thine,
Thus th' Author judge 'twixt us and Cupid, He
Nor takes from Man, nor flatters Deity.

But like an Equall flame, doth light impart
To shew the Beauty, yet not hide the Wart,
For had hee made love good, and our desire
Without our Reason, and wills aw entire.
Then Virtue had beene Nature, and we bin
Good without praise, 'cause without Power to Sin.
Lucrece had lost the merit of her care,
Were she as easily chast, as she was faire.
Ice had beene rank'd with Virtue, and one Row
Had chronicled chast Virgins, and cold Snow.
Romanes that story Virgins free from sin
Had searcht their Gardens and put Lillies in.
Roses had then heard Modest, and one line
Made Vesta's blushes, and her Rubies joine.
And the dejected Goddesse weepe to see,
Her Chrystals pure, and innocent as she.

No such Position then, for here our love
May be or that oth' Sparrow, or chast Dove.
The flames here drawne nor good nor bad, but are
Apt or to shine a Comet, or a Starre.
They are themselves indifferent, and may
Rise to a Raging Blaze, or Temp'rate Ray.
The Picture doubtfull like the Face may prove
In thy Breast either Devill, or God of love.

No Galen here that may confine the soule
To th' Temper, and call'd Vice when the Bodies foule,

Potions might so make honest men, and aw
Our crimes like Scarres, and Plaisters stand for law.
Feavers and lust were one, and both would heale,
By Julips, and men take Pils not to steale.

The judgement's subtler here, and hath allow'd
The parcht Moone chast light wrapt in that black cloud
Here Scythians breasts of hot desires have sence,
Nor with their Furres still put on Innocence.
Yet he still grants these flames may sooner grow,
In Southerne Sulphure then in Northerne Snow,
And that Chast thoughts in Italy are rare,
And that each Turtle proves a Phœnix there.
He envies no mans virtue, as none's Sin,
Yet knowes that some an Easier Conquest win.
All may be chast for him, yet 'tis well knowne,
Our Jewell is some Climates Common stone.
Thus the wise Author makes his judgement sure,
Allowes all Rich, but those that will be Poore.

To my Lord B. of S. he being at Yorke.

My Lord,

VYhen you were last at London 'twas our feare,
Lest the same Rout which threatned Majesty.
Might strike at you: 'tis but the same Career
To aime at Crownes, and at the Miter fly.
For still the Scepter and the Crosier staffe
Together fall, 'cause they're together safe.

Yet while the sence of Tumults deepest grow,
And presse in us, no doubts in you arise;
There still dwelt calme and quiet in your Brow,
As our Distractions were your Exercise:
And taught us, all assaults, all Ills to beare,
Is not to fly from Danger, but from Feare.

That Courage waites you still, some meerely rode
From Tumults and the Peoples franticke Rage,
Counting their safety by their farre abode,
And so grew safer still at the next stage:
But 'tis not space that shelters you, the rest
Secure themselves by Miles, you by your Breast.

And now, my Lord, since you have London left,
Where Merchants wives dine cheape, and as cheape sup,
Where Fooles themselves have of their Plate bereft,
And sigh and drinke in the course Pewter cuppe.
Where's not a Silver Spoone left, not that given than
When the first Cockney was made Christian.

No not a Bodkin, Pincase, all they send
Or carry all, what ever they can happe-on,
Ev'n to the pretty Pick Tooth, whose each end
Oft purg'd the Relickes of continuall Capon.
Nothing must stay behind, nothing must tarry,
No not the Ring by which deare Joane tooke Harry.

But now no City-Villaine, though he were
Free of a Trade and Treason, dares intrude,
No sawcy Prentises assault you there,
Engag'd by their Indentures to be rude:
Whom for the two first yeares their Masters use,
Onely to cry downe Bishops, and cleanse Shooes.

There as in silent Orbes you may ride on,
And as in Charles his Waine move without jarres,
Your Coach will seeme your Constellation,
Not drawne about by Horses, but by starres.

Till seated neere the Northerne Pole, we thence
Judge your seate spheare you its Intelligence.

To my Lord B. of S. on New-yeares Day, 1643.

Though with the course and motion of the yeare,
Not onely Starres and Sun
Move where they first begun;
But Things and Actions doe
Keepe the same Circle too,
Return'd to the same point in the same Spheare.

Greifes and their Causes still are where they stood,
Tis the same Cloud and Night,
Shuts up our Joyes and light:
Warres as remote from Peace,
And Bondage from Release,
As when the Sun his last yeares Circuite rode.

Though Sword and Slaughter are not parted hence,
But we like yeares and times,
Meet in unequall chimes,
Now a Cloud and then a Sun,
Undoe and are undone,
Let loose and stopt by th'Orbes Intelligence.

Though Combates have so thicke and frequent stood,
That we at length may raise,
A Calendar of dayes,
And stile them foule or faire,
By their successe not Aire:
And signe our Festivalls by Rebels bloud.

Though the sad yeares are cloth'd in such a dresse,
That times to times give place,
And seasons shift their face,
Not by our Cold or Heate,
But Conquest or Defeate:
And losse makes Winter, Summer, Happinesse;

Nay though a greater Ruine yet awaite,
Such as the Active curse,

The new Disease.

Sent to make worst times worse,
Deaths keene and secret dart,
The Shame of Hearbs and art,
Which proves at once our Wonder and our Fate.

Though these conspire to sully our request,
And labour to destroy,
And kill your New yeares joy.
Yet still your wonted art
Will keepe our wish in heart,
Proportion'd not toth' times but to your breast.

Thus in the storme you Calme and Silence find,
Nor Sword not Sickenesse can approach your mind.

To Mistris D. C.

Since Crownes or Laurels ever be,
Ensignes of Wit or Majesty.
And onely custome makes this hold
To be of Bayes and that of Gold.
Else Linnen might have had the fate,
Since 'tis more soft, to shew more state.
For Persian Kings have no more blisse
Ith' Diadem, then Cydaris.
And the same awe it carries in't.
Though this speake Sempstresse that the Mint;
You wonder now where I would tend,
And where these Crownes and Scepters end.
Know I can nought but Glories breath,
Girt in this state your Curious Wreath.

But as the Wreath Kings Temples bound,
So was the Oxe for the Altar crown'd.
Though then in state your Present make me rise,
The Prince you crowne is still your Sacrifice.

To L: C: H: P.

Being at his Quarters on his Birth-day.

What Number in thy Teares this Day may weare,
Be't the fond Nurses or the Midwives care:
Thy Date enlarges, and thy Age succeeds,
Not by Account in Calenders, but deeds.
Thou that in Conquests didst thy Non-age bathe,
And like Alcides combate in thy Swathe:
Whose early yeares have in pitcht Feilds beene spent,
Who from the Cradle marcht into the Tent.
He that had seene thy Keinton-courage, when
Slaughter had prest the groaning feild with men.
He that had seene thy Arme be dew thy side,
And thee undaunted gaze ith Crimson Tide:
Thy Sword cut short, and still thou nothing feele,
As if thy Flesh had like thy Sword beene Steele.
Thy wrist surprizd afresh, and yet no bore,
As if the Bullets durst not hurt thee more.
When after these thy Heate could not endure
To be intreated to depart secure.

He that had seene all this, must needs confesse,
Death cannot fright thee coucht in any Dresse.

To trace thy valour, and compile all these,
I should dispatch my Muse beyond the Seas:

Thy home Adventure's great, nor lesse Designe
Was that which leaves thee fam'd beyond the Rhine.
Thus a mixt Fame waites thee, which thou may'st raise,
From Foraigne Trophies, or Domesticke Bayes:
Then cease to count thy Yeares by any Day,
For thou art young, but thy Renowne is Gray.

To C. T. S.

Twas once the businesse of my Search to see
Where I might find Valour with Poësie.
But wearied out, and having tyr'd my view,
I find that mixture onely met in you.

Old Homer raunts, as he to th' Campe being sent,
Tooke Pay in Agamemnon's Regiment.
He writes so feirce, that when his Poem's heard,
Me thinkes the Man had Priam by the Beard.
And that himselfe had beene of so much force,
T' have beene a Gallant Foale oth' Trojan Horse.
But he good Soule was borne so long behind,
He had not in that Warre Eyes to be blind.

Nor was our Virgil of the Valiant breed,
He talkes all Trumpets, but preferres his Reed,
True, Little Horace fought, but lik'd the sport
So well, he soone exchang'd the Campe for th' Court.

100

Tis thought had not the Wight got thence the faster,
He might have beene the Tribunes Quarter-Master.

Ovid as farre as Sages understand,
Was ne're so much as one of the Traine-Band.
Not so much Souldier as our City Men,
Whom Wives and Caudles bravely heighten, when
They muster Hornes, and what their Dames admire,
March to the Front, then Winke, and then give Fire.

Catullus, and Tibullus, and that other,
Whose Name for want of Rime to't, I must smother,
Put them together pray, if you can get 'em,
And if you thinke they meane to fight, eene let 'em.
But Lucan (Gallant Man) he stoutly stood,
Till his Soule floated through a Streame of bloud,
Till all his Veines rob'd of their Crimson juice,
Dry'd up, by th' Avarice of an open Sluce.
Yet his sad Fate trac't out no valiant Path,
His fall was sullied by his easie Bath.
Thus you exceed them all, for though you write,
Like them, 'tis onely like your selfe you fight.

101

A SATYR, OCCASIONED BY The Author's Survey of a Scandalous Pamphlet Intituled, The Kings Cabinet Opened.

When Lawes and Princes are despis'd, & cheape,
When High-pitcht Mischeifes all are in the heap;
Returns must still be had; Guilt must strive more
Though not to'Ennoble, yet to Enlarge her store.
Poore cheape Designes! the Rebell now must flie
To Packet Warre, to Paper-Treacherie.
The Basiliskes are turn'd to Closet-Spies,
And to their Pois'nous adde Enquiring eyes.
As Snakes and Serpents should they cast their sting,
Still the same Hate, though not same Poison fling,
And their Vaine teeth to the same point addresse,
With the like Rancor, though unlike Successe:
So those that into undiscerning veines,
Have throwne their Venome-deepe, and their dark stains,
By fraile Advantages, still find it good,
To keepe th' Infection high ith' Peoples Bloud.

“For Active Treason must be doing still:
“Lest she Unlearne her Art of doing ill.
Who now have waded through all Publicke aw,
Will breake through Secrets, and prophane their Law.

102

Know you that would their Act and Statute see,
Nature kept Court, and made it her Decree.

When Angels talke, all their conceipts are brought
From Minde to Minde, and they discourse by Thought;
A Close Idea moves and Silence flies
To post the Message, and dispatch Replies.
And though Ten Legions, in the Round are bent,
They onely heare, to whom the Talk was meant.
Now, though in Men a different Law controules,
And Soules are not Embassadours to Soules:
Nature gave Reason power to finde a way,
Which none but these could venture to betray.

“Two close safe Paths she did bequeath to men,
“In Presence, Whisper; and at Distance Penne.
Publicke Decrees and Thoughts were else the same,
Nor were it to Converse, but to Proclaime.
Conceipts were else Records, but by this care
Our Thoughts no Commons, but Inclosures are:
What bold Intruders then are who assaile,
To cut their Prince's Hedge, and breake His Pale?
That so Unmanly gaze, and dare be seene
Ev'n then, when He converses with His Queene?

Yet, as who breaks the Tall Bank's Rising Side,
And all the Shore doth levie with the Tyde,
Doth not confine the Waves to any Bound,
But the whole Streame may gaine upon the Ground;

103

So these, streight Prospect scorne, and Private Veiw,
“The Crime is small that doth engage a Few.
These Print their shame, they must compleat their Sin,
Not take some Waves, and shut the Sluce agen.
But, to the Rageing of their Sea, they doe
Let in the Madnesse of the People too.

But, 'cause the Crime must weare a Maske and Vaile,
And faine the Serpent would conceale his Taile.
No sooner comes the Libell to our veiw,
But see a stay'd, demure, grave preface too:
Which seemes to shew they would not thus intrude,
Nor presse so farre but for the Publicke good;
But as some London Beggers use to stand,
In Grecians Coates with Papers in their hand,
Who are (as them in diff'rent parts we meet)
English at Home, but solemne Greekes ith' street.
Of whom uncloath'd, and when the truth is heard,
Constantinople onely knowes the Beard.
So this sly Masker, lay its Tinsell by,
Is onely Painted Zeale, and Pageantry.

We need not let our Satyr here compute,
How it prophanes God in his Atribute.

See the Preface.

But for its Light it need no Bushell call,
A Semestresse Thimble would Ecclipse it all.

O! in what meekenesse it pretends to creepe!
How well the Tyger personates the Sheep!

104

It not Returnes ill Language to the King,
Though the next Lines the Psalmes against Him bring,
Then it to th' Businesse comes, and lets us know,
Who reads it either is it's Freind, or Foe.
If Freind, the Scandals all must true appeare:
If Foe (alacke the man is ne're the neere.)
Foe no light moves, no Miracles like those,
Heel say they're not the Kings too, if he please,
And tell us pray, why may'nt your last words stand,
You counterfeite His Seale, why not His Hand?
But to admit. We now deduce and bring,
What after notes clearely imply oth' King.

First, They His Consort from His Secrets wrest:

See the first Annotation.

They doe allow the King, but not the Breast.
The Sacred Knot must have a Tye and Force,
To joine their hands, but yet their Thoughts Divorce,
And, as the Ivy weds her Consort-Tree,
Though joynd and close their chast Embraces be,
Yet in those Twines and Circuits we can find,
No Trafficke, no commerce of mind with mind:
So must the sacred Lawes of Marriage peirce,
Here she may Sprout and Grow, but not Converse,
And like a Plant remov'd by Grafters toyle,
She finds, not Nuptials, but a change of Soyle.
England to th' Queene Transplanted thus must prove
No Foraigne Kingdome, but a Foraigne Grove.

105

But, lest this groundlesse seeme, they reasons vex,
And tell the World She's of the Weaker sex.
In what wilde Braines this madnesse first began!
They're wondrous angry, cause the Queene's no Man.
Fond Sirs forbeare, doe not the world perplex:
Reason and Judgement are not things of Sexe.
Soules and their Faculties were never heard,
To be confin'd to th' Doublet, and the Beard.
Consult one Age from this, and you shall find
A Queene the Glory of your Annals shin'd.
But who to farre and distant Objects flyes,
Must say the Sunne wants Lustre, or he Eyes.
Our Present injur'd Queene returnes that store,
And doth againe, what could be done before:
By the King's Judgement, shewes Her owne is Right,
And still she meets His Ray with her owne Light.

Thus the Wise King to Sheba's Queene was knowne,
Who knew Him Wise by Wisedome of her Owne.
But as all Publike knowledge barr'd must be,

See on in the first Annotation.

So Houshold-Acts must have their Mysterie:
No circumstance can passe, no servant made,
But must be wrapt in silence and close shade.
One place in Court a Riddle must afford,
Worthy a secret Sybils darke Record.

As the Kings acts must all their limits prove,

See the 2 An.

So their Restraint and Reins must checke his Love.

106

Esteemes of's Consort by their pitch must flie,
Nor must He Rate His Deere Queenes Health too high.
He must affect thus farre, and then no more;
His Tydes must be proportion'd to their shore;
His Tendernesse their Weights and Ballance weare,
By Graines and Scruples they confine His Care,
But (Savage) know, there can no Ransome be
Poys'd with the Health of such a Queene as Shee.

See the 3 An.

She that at once such weighty Acts can doe,
That can be Queene and yet negotiate too.
Send and be sent, and without more demurre,
Be both the Queene, and Her Embassadour.
That gives dispatch for Ships, and when she please,
Divides the Empire with the Queene ot'h Seas.
Who dares the Threats of any danger stand,
The stubborne Rocke, or the Devouring Sand.
And though the Sea swell like Her fate, and Grave,
Looke at her Consort, and despise the Wave.
The Captive Queene did (thus) the Tyrant tell,
I am no Captive so my King be well.

Q. Curtius lib. 3.

By these, her worth and Rate is faintly knowne,
Past stories blush when she erects Her owne.
Search old gray Annals, you may finde at length,
Some Queene in Vigour, and her mid-day strength;
Who in her injured Consorts cause, referres
To Copies glancing at these Acts of Hers.

107

But if Infirme and Sickly Queenes we scanne,
No story patterns Her, None ever can.
Shew us a Queene fraught with such wide Affaires,
Here private Weaknesse, there a Kingdom's cares,
Perplext and tortur'd from her Rest and ease,
By a Rebellion here, there a Disease:
Advice, and Medcines at one time we veiw,
A Counsell-bord, Bord of Physitians too:
Yet her Capacious Soule both these defeates,
While this Hand holds Instructions, that Receipts.

These are our fam'd Queenes Crimes, but yet one more
Must be the maine Ingredient of the Store.

Se the 3 An.

Which seemes to presse so deepe, there's nought so bright,
But this may sully all it's Lustre quite.
'Tis her Religion's Care: She Tryes Her Powr's
To keep that still, do not we so for Ours?
Why to one Pace so diff'rent shapes have bin?
What Virtue is in Vs, in Her is Sin.
Our Diff'rent Faiths did long together grow,
And neither suffer'd, neither losse did know:
And like astream, which 'twixt two fields doth flow,
Which as it Moistens, so Divides the mtoo:
So did the Kingdoms Law throw Dew and growth,
In weight and just proportion unto both,
And like a parting Current slide along,
To keep them wîde, that neither neither Wrong:

108

Our Faiths were then but Two, but since a sp'rit
So many Mushrome-Sects rais'd in a Night:
The Protestant (as she could Parties gaine
Who unconcern'd were in the Dregs and staine,)
Did recommend her Votaries, and bring
Her faiht to its Defender, our Just King.
Who with such Zeale hath kept her Rites entire,
As well from Languishing, as from strange Fire:
That still the Censer savours its true Sent,
Without Accession, yet no Perfume spent.
The happy Martyrs find their Faith hath stood
In Him, as when they bath'd it in their blood.
They joy to see, that He his God adores
Not at High-Places, nor at Threshing-floores.
But spight of Scandals payes his homage still
In the Just Beauty of the Sion-Hill.

The Other-Sects, though as in Common-Feilds
Which Swine, and Horses, Mules and Oxen yeilds,
Who though at Distance feed, Approaching clash,
And disproportion'd shapes together dash.
So they, though one Rebellion them sustaine,
Themselves Accuse, and are Accus'd againe.
Could they comply, then possibly might dwell
Some faint Agreement, though no Peace in Hell,
Now, these nice Tasts no Foraigne aids indure,
(Their Rebell Scots are English Rebels surer)

109

No, nor the Papists: much it with them sticks,
Lest these Mens Punniards should be Hereticks:
Their soules would be prophan'd, and cleane undun,
Should they be slaine by an Idolatrous Gun.
Goe lay your Vizar by, your Masking stuffe,
The Devill is tyr'd, and Hell hath laugh'd enough:
The world descries the Cheat; 'tis quickely knowne
They no Faith hate, who have Resolv'd on None.
These may not fight; that is, the King you'd have
Tamely forsake his Crowne, and be your Slave.
His Easier Subjects long agoe you gat,
All who approv'd your Baile, and swallow'd that.
Indeed, Discerning soules the snare forsooke,
And through the Wave did still descry the Hooke:
But yet so close designes were cast about,
Your Race was halfe runne e're the King set out.
Yet you complaine, and guilty feares doe gnaw,
Lest you should scanted be for Space and Law:
Conscious, though you your cause did forward meet,
Its Guilt and Sin hangs Plummets at its feet.

Are not the Jewes, Walloones, the Turks, and all
Whom from as Diff'rent Gods as Lands you call,
An Army strong to keepe the cause in heart,
But that the King must with His Subjects part?
Can no Accession so much safety send,
But you will dread Him still before you end?

110

Sometimes at Ebbes his God doth let Him stand,
That so the Rescue may declare His hand.

See on in the 4 Annotation.

But, what (you hope) may make the King's side pause
Is what He writes about the Penall Lawes,
Poore, shallow soules! I deeme it one from hence
To forfeit Loyalty, and forfeit Sence.

Shall such as wast their Bloud be quite debarr'd,
And kept without the Pale from all Reward?
Shall fame report, shall after Ages tell,
So Just a King regards not who doe well?

But you pretend, this was a State-Decree,
Nor without Pow'r which made may cancel'd be.
The King nev'r sayes it shall: but cannot doubt
That when His God hath brought His worke about,
And shifted Jarres and Tumults into Ease,
And set him 'midst his Councell in High Peace,
Their joint united suffrage will thinke fit
To give this Act, or something Great as it.

But see, His Pardon then to Ireland came,
(Wild Rebels) offers He not you the same?
He holds still out the same fresh chearefull Ray,
You shut your Windowes and exclude the Day.
Embrace the shine, or else expect the stroake.
The Flint the Sun ne're melts, at last is breake,
But now the Floud-Gates ope, and a free sluce,
Lets in all sencelesse Doctrines, and wild use.

111

And by Comparing what's said long agoe,
Finds Disproportion in the King's Acts now.
His past Resolves it up to Present brings,
His Vowes to Vowes, and Things to combat Things.
A Different face throughout, and a fresh Scene
Succeed: and all his Acts seeme shifted cleane.
Weake men! who are depriv'd by Guilt or chance,
Of all the lights of common Circumstance;
That have unlearn't that Actions shift their Face,
And date their worth from Persons, Time, and Place,
And sundry such, from whose Neglects appeare
Acts as Sinnes there, which are Try'd Virtues here,
For instance then: oft as the King reflects
His Oath's injoyne; His People he protects.
Which Oathes extent, and Circuit we may veiw
Spread ore th' Five Execrable Members too.
Yet (farre as't them concernes) that Chaine is broke
That Oath left Him, because they left His Yoake.
Now of this Pitch, and Size, doe still appeare,
All Aierie Scruples which are started there.

The King Declared, He thought you meant no ill.
Say, would you have the King Declare so still?

Allow but different Circumstance, and we
Finde, all your Scandalls will his Glories be.
Now, as the worst things have some things of stead,
And some Toades treasure Jewels in their Head.

112

So doth this Libels Wombe Girt, and containe
What though it compasse Round it cannot staine.
Lines of so cleare, yet so Majesticke straine;
A most Transparent, yet a close-wove Veine;
Which when we reach its Sense, we may descry,
We see more by its Light, then our owne Eye.

So Phœbus (when the Clowd and Night is done)
Lends us his Light to know he is the Sunne.
Yet this expressive clearenesse is but barke,
An Out-side Sunne which guards us from the darke.
Here, the Bright Language shuts in Brighter sense,
Rich Diamonds sleepe within a Chrystall Fence.
Gemmes of that rate, to Tully they'd appeare
Fit purchase for his Criticke Senates Eare.
And their whole Shine in a full Lustre tends
To God, His Conscience, Confort, and his Freinds.

THE CLOSE

No winding Characters, no secret Maze
Could so perplex, but they have found their wayes,
They thred the Labyrinth: and what to doe?
Whe'r tends the Guide? what purchase in this Clew?
Rash Alexander forc't King Gordius Knot,

Q, Curtius lib. 3 Elegie.

And so in hand found he a Rope had got.

113

Elegie. On the Death of Sir Henry Spelman.

Though Bookes, and Titles seldome freinds appeare,
Yet both embrace and twist their Graces here,
That while We guide our Greifes and Teares fall right.
Our Sorrow wailes the Scholar with the Knight.
One that had searcht the Kingdome's depth, and saw
All since it fledg'd, and while it yet lay Raw.
One that had trackt the State, and set all downe
That pass'd since the first Mitre, and the Crowne.
Saxon Decrees, and their first Laws he brings,
As he had sate in Councell with their Kings.
Not one who only skill'd in Forraigne Names,
Knowes Tybers windings, but is lost in Thames.
Whose Laboures rove,, who in a wilde pursuite
Knowes Romulus well, but stands amaz'd at Brute.
He knew he could not King and Country please,
Had he bin only learn'd beyond the Seas.
He forraigne Countries knew, but they were knowne
Not for themselves, but to advance his owne.
As Merchants trade ith' Indies, not live there,
Traffique abroad, but land their Prizes here.
He from whose Art our owne Church Rites arise,
Could Roman paint or Atticke Sacrifice:

114

And with like ease his Pensill had exprest
An Ancient Abbat, or Apollo's Preist,
But then he knew his Sweat imparted so
Had done Greece justice, but let England go,
And after all his paines had only drest
A Forraigne Subject in a Native's breast.
The care was wiser here, he would not come
Lavish abroad, and be in debt at home:
His Sweat was for his Country most, the cleare
Starre gave all Light, but most adorn'd its Spheare.
As Gemms at Distance seene some Clouds t'expell,
But cast all Day and Sunshine in their Shell.

But as He trac't the Church, and did unty
Each linke, to search her Geneolagie.
So He Defends her too, makes his care be
Her Preservation, as Nativity,
Knowing this might his Zeale in question call,
To finde her out, only to let her fall.
And better 'tis that offspring never rose.
Whose Beauty only doth looke faire, and close
But he repaires her falls, she owes more farre
To his wise Pen, then to the Rocke, or Quar.

Chuse then the Temple where thy dust shall fall,
Content with one, that hast preserved all.
We thanke thee that our Churches stand, that We
In one Roofe lodge not with our Deity.

115

That Parlars are not Temples, that we spare
A Place to sever our Discourse from Prayer.
That not th' Oxe Crown'd and Cook'd on one board lyes.
That 'tis not one to Carve and Sacrifice.
But had this fail'd, had this not seem'd so fine,
Had no Cathedrall Chamber bin our Shrine,
Then we had met ith' Woods, and some faire Hill
Kept Israëls Groves, and her high Places still.
Birds had beene there, and Beasts, the Preist had then
Preach't 'gainst the Sparrowes, and the Lustfull Men.
Wolfes and Oppressors mixt, the place had lent
Pasture for Lambs, and seates for th' Innocent.
No such confusion now, now no rash Arme
Dares seize the Chappel to enlarge the Farme.
Left his offence his Issues Plague beget,
As th' poyson'd Spring infects the Rivulet.

We not enquire thy Death, nor our time spend
To know if Gout or Palsie wrought thy end:
We see thy Workes, and thy Disease know lesse
By the Physitians Bils, then by the Presse.
Thus tir'd Arachne in her Labours lyes,
Weaves out her Life into her Loome, and dyes.

116

Elegie On the Death of Sir Bevile Grenvile.

To build upon the merit of thy Death,
And raise thy Fame from thy expiring Breath,
Were to steale Glories from thy Life and tell,
The World, that Grenvil only did dye well.
Bur all thy Dayes were faire, the same Sun rose,
The Lustre of thy Dawning, and thy Clos.
Thus to her Urne th' Arabian Wonder flyes,
She lives in Perfumes, and in Perfumes dyes.

E're stormes, and tumults (Names undreaded here)
Could in their Bloome and Infancy appeare,
He in the stocke and treasure of his minde
Had heapes of Courage, and just heate combin'd.
Where like the thrifty Ant he kept in store
Enough for Spring, but for a Winter more.
In Peace he did direct his thoughts on Warres,
And learn't in silence how to combat Jarres.
And though the Times look't Smooth, and would allow
No tracke of Frowne or Wrincle in their Brow:
Yet his quicke sight perceiv'd the Age would low'r,
And while the Day was faire, fore-saw the Show'r.

At this the Prudent Augur did provide
Where to endure the storme, not where to hide.

117

And sought to shun the Danger now drawne nigh,
Not by Concealement but by Victory.
As valiant Seamen if the Vessell knocke
Rather sayle o're it, then avoid the Rocke.

And thus Resolv'd, he saw on either hand,
The Causes, and their bold Abettors stand.
The Kingdomes Law is the pretence of each,
Which these by Law preserve, these by its breach,
The Subjects Liberty each side mainetaines,
These say it consists in freedome, these in Chaines,
These love the decent Church, but these not passe
To dresse our Matron by the Geneva Glasse?
These still enshrine their God, but these adore
Him most at some Arauna's Threshing flore.
Each part defends their King a severall way,
By true Subjection these, by Treasons they.
But our Spectator soone unmask't the sin,
And saw all Serpent through that specious skin,
And midst their best Pretext did still despaire,
In any dresse to see their Moore looke faire.
And though the Number waigh'd ith' Popular Scale,
As light things floate still with the Tyde and Gale,
He with the solid mixt, and did conclude,
Justice makes Parties great, not Multitude,
And with this constant principle possest,
He did alone expose his single breast,

118

Against an Armies force, and bleeding lay,
The great Restorer o'th' Declining Day.

Thus slaine thy Valiant Ancestor did lye,
When his one barke a Navy durst defie,
When now encompass'd round, he Victor stood.
And bath'd his Pinnace in his conquering Blood.
Till all his Purple current dry'd and spent,
He fell, and left the Waves his Monument.
Where shall next famous Greenevils Ashes stand?
Thy Grandsire fills the Seas and Thou the Land.

Elegie. On C. W. H. slaine at Newarke.

Treasure of Armes and Arts, in whom were set
The Sword and Bookes, the Campe and Colledge met,
Yet both so wove, that in that mingled throng
They both comply, and neither neither wrong.
But pois'd, and temper'd, each reserv'd its seat;
Nor did the Learning quench, but guide the Heate,
The Valour was not of the furious straine,
The hand that strucke, did first consult the braine.
Hence grew Commerce betwixt Advice and Might,
The Scholler did direct, the Souldier fight.

119

And as our Perfumes mixt, do all conspire,
And twist their Curles above the hallowed fire,
Till in that Harmony of sweets combin'd,
We can nor Muske nor single Amber finde,
But Gummes meet Gummes, and their delights so crowd,
That they create one undistinguisht Cloud:
So to thy minde these rich ingredients prest,
And were the Mould and Fabrick of thy breast.
Learning and Courage mixt, and temper'd so,
The Streame could nor decay, nor overflow.
And in that equall Tide, thou didst not beare
From Courage, Rashnesse, nor from Learning, feare.
This just proportion'd flame more scorcht the Foes,
Then theirs that rages, but lesse burnes then glowes,
This Temper rais'd thee so, that we must call
Newarke the purchase of thy conquering Fall.
When Victors dye to rescue their Renowne,
Some leave a Tombe, but thou hast left a Towne.

120

Elegie. On the death of Sir John Smith Standard Bearer to His Majesty.

As Loadstones beckning steele on either hand,
Checke and compell its motion to a stand,
That while they both entice, and both dispute,
It knowes not where to fixe its first salute,
But waves, and renders homage unto both,
Would faine joine here, but to leave that is loath;
So we, amaz'd, by Rayes and lustre throwne,
From Predecessours deeds, and from thine owne,
Distract our Wonder, and must doubtfull be,
To seate it in thy Ancestours, or Thee.

First, let our Muse her wandring verse command,
To follow him that trac't the Holy-Land:
In such a faire pursuite we can engage
Our Poem, to attempt a Pilgrimage:
While we like weary Hermits coming there,
Shall find no Wonder 'bove thy Ancestour.
The Tragicke Mount, and the Divided shrine,
Once fam'd by their owne Glories, now by thine.
The Solemne Tombe, though its Remaines were gone,
May be a Monument from Carington,
To whose fam'd courage when their Rites decay,
Good Pilgrims Tributary wonder pay.

121

In his stout Arme the Conquering Standard stood,
Which tooke fresh Crimson from the Pagans bloud.
Cyprus subdu'd did now his Trafficke stand,
And was the Purchase of the Holy-land.
Then was Jerusalem entaild to th' Crowne,
As it had beene but some Adjacent Towne.
That from so quicke a victory, we may
Aske in what part of England Sion lay.
The Royall Banner dreadfull was become
By him abroad, as now by Thee at home;
And thou in these like Terrours didst beget,
That doe erect a nearer Mahomet,

“Two Pagan Nations tremble at your workes,
“The Turkish Saracens, and the English Turkes.
Next to that Hero, we must ranke his Fame,
That was to loose his Loyalty or Name:
That was compell'd, since here it could not stand,
To ship his virtue o're to another Land.
Who in his Names disguise did still appeare,
Till his disguise became his common weare.
Which so deriv'd to thee an equall claime,
Both to his constant Loyalty & Name.
Long could our Poem in thy story ly,
And turne the Chronicle to Elegy.
Till those that nicely in our mourning looke,
Find we weepe onely Speed, or th' Heralds Booke.

122

But these weake Annals of thy Fame afford,
Thou wrot'st the fairest Story with thy Sword.

Elegie. On the death of Sir Horatio Vere.

[_]

Second Edition.

Our eyes submit, Teares like thy Captives bow,
Thy force orecame before, thy Ruine now.
Thus great Trees expiring crush, and create
Fame from their fall, and triumphs from their fate.
The Courage was not Choler here, the flame
Not from Complexion, but from Virtue came.
Valour's not borne of Nature, but the Will,
They onely conquer, that with Judgement kill.
The fire subdues the Aire, yet its proud rayes
Still without Trophyes winne, still without Bayes.

The mind, not the tough flesh was his defence,
He lost the feare of Wounds, but not the Sence:
That were t'have been some Engine, and one stroake
Had prov'd him a burst Javelin, or sword broke.
His Scarres had then beene Crackes, and every blow
Had hurt a Weapon, Statues conquer so.
No such resistance here, the Veines were knowne,
Noble and cleare as Saphyrs, but not Stone.

123

Warres were not his Refuge; he did not eate
By th' Sword, and Wounds, and skirmish for his meate.
He could be stout in Peace, and the same Ray
Threw lightning in the Feild, in the Court Day,
Eagles are Eagles, though no Foe appeare,
And Perfumes though unchast sweet incense reare.

No Conquest made him swell, an equall brow
Sustain'd the Lawrell and the Cypresse bough.
The same calme view'd Retreats and Victories:
A compos'd sence heard Shouts and Elegies.
Weake spirits count their going backe a doome,
And if they but retire, are straight ore-come.
Those Diamonds cast a faint and drowzy light,
Which 'cause they are once sullied, are lesse bright.
The current stopt grew greater here, and he
Who did retire a Streame, return'd a sea.

No Avarice made the publicke shares more thin.
Spoiles were his Purchase onely, ne're his Sin.
No Rich foe made him march, no needy Pauze,
He fought not 'gainst the booty, but the cause,
And having now subdu'd the German pride,
He saw no foe could kill him, and so di'd.

124

Elegie. On the Death of Master R. B. Student of Ch. Ch.

Couldst thou boast onely yeares, and 'stead of Arts,
Didst count thy Age, and call Threescore good parts,
Yet we could mourne thee, as plaines sadly broke,
The Aged ruines of some Reverend Oake.
But Age requir'd least reverence in you,
And your white yeares had Antient virtues too.
Let not thy learned Ghost imagine we
Receive amends from thy large Legacy.
No more then if our Droppe should poise our streame,
And we loose Sun that we might take a Beame.
You give us Bookes, but not your braines quicke light,
You leave faire Objects, but you leave no sight:
O lend these Beauties eyes, and since that you
Authours bequeath, bequeath your Judgement too.

125

Elegie. On the death of Master H. C.

Were thy perfections lesse, then might thy stay
Have seen Threescore, & thou hadst gon hence gray.
Thy Ripenesse was too vigorous to be slow,
And being perfect soone, thou could'st not grow.
That flame can ne're shine fairer, ne're spread farre,
Which is at first most faire, at first a starre.
Those early Fruits provoke their fall, which bring
Ripenesse ith' Bud, and Autumne in the Spring.
The life was here exact then, though soone done,
The Patterne short indeed, but fairely spun.
As subtle Penciles draw in streights, and can
Contract their best proportions in a span.
And as ith' Globe small Points are Hills, and Land,
And slender lines for largest Rivers stand.

Nay though th' whole Frame but a large Ball appeare,
Yet Sages know that the whole world is there.
As Clouds of Incense 'bove the Altars come,
Yet all those Clouds lay treasur'd up ith' Gumme.
And massy Gold wrackt into Threads and Wire,
Gaines no more Weight then when it kept entire.
So was thy life, it might gaine breadth, and rise,
And purchase more Extent, but not more prise.

127

Good parts in Youth and Manhood are the same,
They're the same Picture in a smaller frame.
But as Beames scatter'd with lesse vigour passe,
Then when they twist their Blazes in a Glasse,
So virtue gain'd force from this Mirrour, they
Went in dimme Glaunces, but were sent forth Day,
Schooles tutor'd Manners, and he us'd Bookes so
That they might teach him live, as well know.
Twas not the Language onely he would see,
Thus Dawes are wise, and Parrats learn'd as He.
T'adore the Garbe of speech, had beene t'have staid,
To loose the Sun, while he admir'd the shade.
His aime was nobler farre, he knew there sprung
More worth in Roman virtue, then the Tongue.
Not like some Schollar who his Engine layes,
To let passe faire Example, and catch Phrase.
Warre-stories taught his Mind, not his Tongue force,
And softer lent him Mildnesse, not Discourse.
Not proud, though fate did him with Lands endow,
More then his Virgils Teeme, or Poems Plough.
Heire to more Herds of Goates, more flockes of sheepe,
Then Tityrus could, or young Alexis keepe.
No future Titles swell'd him, in his sight
The Worthy Man seem'd greater, then the Knight,
True honour he to merits chain'd, and found
Desert the Title gives, Kings but the sound.

126

And now his Dust growes pure, as was his mind;
For good men onely fall to be Refin'd.

Epitaph on the same.

Let not this Marble bound th' Inquisitive Ey,
Here sleepes his Dust, but not his memory.
Stones are but weake Preservers, his fall prest
More lasting Tombes in the Survivers Breast.
Our Generall Teares, greifes which no Joyes beguile,
These are his Marble, these his funerall Pile.

Epitaph on—borne tenne Weekes before his Time, died at three Quarters.

Greiv'd at the World and Crimes, this early Bloome
Look'd round, and sigh'd, and stole into his Tombe,
His fall was like his Birth, too quicke, this Rose
Made hast to spread, and the same Hast to close.
Here lyes his Dust, but his best Tombe's fled hence,
For Marble cannot last like Innocence.

128

Elegie. On the death of Master W. Cartwright.

They that have known thee well, & searcht thy parts,
Through all the chaine of Arts:
Thy Apprehension quicke as active light,
Cleare judgement, without Night:
Thy Phansy free, yet never wilde or madde,
With wings to fly, but none to Gadde:
Thy language still in Rich, yet comely dresse,
Not to expose thy mind, but to expresse.
They that have knowne thee thus, sigh, and confesse,
They wish they'd knowne thee still, or knowne thee lesse.
To these, the wealth and Beauties of thy mind,
Be other Virtues join'd.
Thy modest soule, strongly confirm'd and hard,
Ne're beckned from its Guard.
But bravely fixt, midst all the baites of Praise,
Deeming that Musicke Treacherous layes.
These put that Rate and Price upon thy Breath,
Great Charles enquires thy Health, the Clouds thy death:
For Nobler Trophies can no Ashes call,
Kings greet thy safety, Thunder speakes thy Fall.

129

AN ELEGIE ON THE MOST REVEREND FATHER in God Wiillam, Lord Arch-Bishop of Canterbury,

Attatched the 18. of December 1640. Beheaded the 10. of January, 1644.

Most Reverend Martyr,

Thou, since thy thicke Afflictions first begun,
Mak'st Dioclesian's dayes all Calme, and Sun,
And when thy Tragicke Annals are compil'd,
Old Persecutions shall be Piety stil'd,
The Stake and Faggot shall be Temp'rate names,
And Mercy weare the Character of Flames:
Men knew not then Thrift in the Martyrs breath,
Nor weav'd their lives into a foure-yeares Death,
Few ancient Tyrants do our stories Taxe,
That slew first by Delayes, then by the Axe,

130

But these (Tiberius like) alone do cry,
Tis to be Reconcil'd to let thee Dy.

Observe we then a while, into what Maze,
Compasse, and Circle they contrive Delaies,
What Turnes and wilde Perplexities they chuse,
Ere they can forge their slander, and Accuse:
The Sun hath now brought his warme Chariot backe,
And rode his Progresse round the Zodiacke,
When yet no Crime appeares, when none can tell,
Where thy guilt sleepes, not when 'twill breake the shell,
Why is His shame deferr'd? what is't that bring's
Your Justice backe, spoiles Vengeance of her Wings?
Hath mercy seiz'd you? will you rage no more?
Are Winds growne tame? have seas forgot to roare?
No, a wilde fiercenesse hath your minds possest,
Which time and sins must cherish and digest:
You durst not now let His cleare Blood be spilt,
You were not yet growne up to such a guilt,
You try if Age if seaventy yeares can Kill;
Then y'have your Ends, and you are Harmelesse still.
But when this fail'd, you do your Paths enlarge,
But would not yet whole Innocence discharge;
You'l not be Devill All, you faine would prove
Good at faire Distance, within some Remove,

“Virtue hath sweets which are good Mens due gaine,
“Which Vice would not Deserve, yet would Retaine.

131

This was the Cause, why once it was your Care,
That Stormes and Tempests in your sin might share,
You did engage the Waves, and strongly stood
To make the Water guilty of his Blood.
Boats are dispatcht in hast, and 'tis his doome,
Not to his charge, but to his shipwracke come;
Fond men, your cruell Project cannot doe,
Tempests and stormes must learne to kill from you,
When this came short; He must Walke Pilgrimage,
No Coach nor mule, that may susteine his Age;
Must trace the City (now a Desert rude)
And combate salvage Beasts the multitude.
But when his Guardian Innocence can fling
Awe round about, and save him by that Ring.
When the Just cause can fright the Beast away,
And make the Tyger tremble at her prey.
When neither Waves dare seize him nor the Rout,
The storme with Reason, nor the storme without:
Lost in these streights when Plots have Vanquisht bin,
And sin perplext hath no Releife, but sin.
Agents and Instruments now on you fall,
You must be Judges, People, Waves and All,

Yet 'cause the Rout will have't perform'd by you,
And long to see done what they dare not Doe.
You put the Crime to use, it swels your Heape,
Your sin's your Wealth, nor are you Guilty cheape,

132

You Husband All; there's no Appearance lost,
Nor comes he once to th' Barre but at their cost;
A constant Rate well Taxt, and Levied right,
And a Just value set upon each sight.
At last they finde the Dayes by their owne purse,
Lesse knowne from him then what they do disburse:
But when it now strikes high for him t' appeare,
And Chapmen see the Bargaine is growne deare;
They Muster hands, and their hot suits enlarge,
Not to persue the Man, but save the Charge.
Then lest you loose their Custome, (a just feare)
Selling your sinnes and others Blood too deare.
You grant their suits, the Manner, and the Time.
And he must Dye for what no Law calls crime.
Th' Afflicted Martyrs, when their paines began,
Their Trajan had, or Dioclesian.
Their Tortures weare some Colour and proceed,
Though from no guilt, yet 'cause they disagreed;
What League, what Freindship there? They could not joyne,
And fix the Arke and Dagon in one Shrine.
Faith, combats Faith, and how agree can they,
That still goe on, but still a severall way?
Zeale, Martyrs Zeale, and Heate 'gainst Heate conspires,
As Theban Brothers fight though in their fires.
Yet as two diff'rent Starres unite their Beames,
And Rivers mingle Waves, and mix their Streames,

133

And though they challenge each a severall Name,
Conspire because their moisture is the same.
So Parties knit, though they be diverse knowne,
The men are many, but the Christians, one.
Trajan, no Trajan was to his owne Heard,
And Tygers are not by the Tygers fear'd.
What strange excesse then? what's that menstrous Power,
When flames do flames, and streams do streams devoure?
Where the same faith, 'gainst the same faith doth knock,
And sheep are wolves to sheepe of the same flocke?
Where Protestant the Protestant defies,
Where both Assent, yet one for Dissent dyes?
Let those that doubt this, through his Actions Wade,
Where some must needes Convince, All may perswade.

Was he Apostate, who your Champion stood,
Bath'd in his Inke before, as now in Blood?
He that unwindes the subtile Jesuite,
That Feeles the Serpents Teeth, and is not bit?
Vnties the Snake, findes each Mysterious knot,
And turnes the Poyson into Antidot.
Doth Nicety with Nicety undoe?
And makes the Labyrinth the Labyrinth's clew?
That sleight by sleight subdues, and clearely proves,
Truth hath her Serpents too, as well as Doves?
Now, you that blast his Innocence, Survey,
And veiw the Triumphs of this Glorious day;

134

Could you (if that might be) if you should come
To seale God's cause with your owne Martyrdome,
Could all the Blood whose tydes move in your veines,
(Which then perhaps were Blood, but now is staines,)
Yeeld it that Force and strength, which it hath took
(Should we except his Bloud) from this his Booke,
Your Flame or Axe would lesse evince to Men,
Your blocke and stake would prop lesse then his Pen;

Is he Apostate, whom the Baitos of Rome
Cannot seduce, though all her Glories come?
Whom all her specious Honours cannot hold,
Who hates the snare although the Hooke be Gold?
Who Prostituted Titles can despise,
And from despised Titles, greater Rise?
Whom Names cannot Amuse, but seates withall
The Protestant above the Cardinall?
Who sure to his owne soule, doth scorne to finde
A Crimsoncap the Purchase of his minde?

“Who is not Great, may blame his Fate's Offence,
“Who would not be, is Great in's Conscience,
Next these His Sweat and Care how to advance
The Church but to Her Just Inheritance,
How to gaine backe her Owne, yet none Beguile,
And make her Wealth her purchase, nor her spoile:
Then, shape Gods worship to a joynt consent;
'Till when the seamelesse Coate must still be Rent:

135

Then, to repaire the shrines, as Breaches sprung,
Which we should heare, could we lend Pauls a Tongue.

Speake, speake! great Monument! while thou yet art such,
And Reare him 'bove their Scandalls and their Touch;
Had he surviv'd, thou might'st in Time Declare,
Vast things may comely be, and Greatest Faire.
And though thy Limbs spreud high, and Bulk exceed,
Thou'dst prov'd that Gyants are no monstrous breed:
Then 'bove Extent thy Lustre would prevaile,
And 'gainst Dimension Feature turne the Scale;
But now, like Pyrrah's halfe adopted Birth,
Where th'issue part was Woman, Part was Earth,
Where Female some, and some to stone was Bent,
And the one halfe was t'others Monument,
Thou must imperfect lye, and learne to Groane,
Now for his Ruine, straight way for thine owne:
But this and Thousand such Abortives are,
By Bloody Rebels Ravish't from his care,
But yet though some miscarried in the Wombe,
And Deeds Still-borne have hastned to their Tombe,
God (that Rewards him now) forbad his store,
Should all ly hid, and he but give ith' Ore,
Many are Stamp't, and shap't, and do still shine,
Approv'd at Mint, a firme, and Perfect Coyne.
Witnesse that Mart of Bookes that yonder stands,
Bestow'd by him, though by anothers Hands:

136

Those Attick Manuscripts, so rare a Peice,
They tell the Turke, he hath not Conquer'd Greece,

Next these, a second Beauteous Heape is throwne,
Of Easterne Authors, which were all his owne.
Who in so Various Languages appeare,
Babel, could scarce be their Interpreter.

To These, we may that Faire-built Colledge bring,
Which proves that Learning's no such Rustick thing;
Whose structure well contriv'd doth not relate
To Antick finenesse, but strong lasting state:
Beauty well mixt with strength, that it complyes
Most with the Gazer's use, much with his Eyes,
On Marble Columnes thus the Arts have stood,
As wise Seth's Pillars sav'd 'em in the Flood.
But did he leave here Walls, and only Owne
A glorious Heape, and make us rich in Stone?
Then had our Chanc'lour seem'd to faile, and here
Much honour due to the Artificer:
But this Our Prudent Patron long fore-saw,
When he Refi'nd rude Statutes into Law;
Our Arts and Manners to his Building falls,
And he erects the Men, as well as Walls:

“Thus Solons Lawes his Athens did Renowne,
“And turn'd that throng of Buildings to a Towne.
Yet neither Law nor Statute, can be knowne
So strickt, as to Himselfe, he made his owne,

137

Which in his Actions Inventory lies,
Which Hell or Prinne can never scandalize:
Where every Act his rigid eye surveyes,
And Night is Barre, and Judge to all his Dayes;
Where all his secret Thoughts he doth comprize,
And every Dreame is summon'd to an Assize;
Where he Arraignes each Circumstance of care,
Which never parts dismiss'd without a Prayer,
See! how he sifts and searches every part,
And ransackes all the closets of his heart;
He puts the houres upon the Racke and Wheele,
And all his minutes must confesse or feele:
If they reveale one Act which forth did come.
When Humane frailty crept into the Loome,
If one Thread staine, or sully, breake or faint,
So that the man does interrupt the Saint,
He hunts it to its Death, nor quits his feares,
Till't be Embalm'd in Prayers, or drown'd in Teares.

The Sunne in all his journeys ne're did see
One more devout, nor one more strict then He.

Since his Religion then's Unmixt and Fine,
And Workes doe warrant faith, as o're the Mine:
What can his crime be now? Now you must lay
The Kingdome's Lawes subverted in his way:
See! no such crime doth o're his Conscience grow,
(Without which Witnesse ne're can make it so)

138

A cleare Transparent White, bedecks his mind,
Where nought but Innocence can shelter find,
Witnesse that Breath which did your staine and blot
Wipe freely out, (though Heaven I feare will not)
Witnesse that Calme and Quiet in His Brest,
Prologue and Preface to His Place of Rest;
When with the World He could undaunted part,
And see in Death nor meagre Lookes, nor Dart:
When to the Fatall Blocke His Gray Age goes
With the same Ease, as when he tooke Repose.
“He like old Enoch to His Blisse is gone,
“'Tis not His Death, but His Translation.

139

Elegie: On the death of Mistris Chaworth.

When thy Disease seem'd vanquisht and blown o're,
Fresh Tempests seiz'd thee in the sight of shore;
And while our Treasure neare the Haven stood,
It was surprized by a Sea of bloud.
The Vessell thus, though freed from th' boistrous gale,
May sinke ith' streame, which gave it pow'r to saile.
Now in thy Shipwracke w' are depriv'd of all,
But thy faire story and thy lingring fall.
Then having suffer'd more then we could feare,
Like men growne Poore, count we how Rich we were.

Thy Shape was such, it Natures care did aske,
When she resolv'd to put her Art to taske;
With Rule, and Line in hand, she did beget
Thy frame, the curious wonder of her sweat.
When she, if one rude Atome durst creepe in,
Unravell'd all, and weav'd thee o're agen:
Till every Limbe she nicely did digest,
Proportion'd in it selfe, then to the rest.
That parts with parts compar'd, they might confesse,
The strict peice knew no want, nor no excesse.
Twas not a frame compos'd to shift, and lurke,
Ith' Crowd and Huddle of her common worke,

140

A thing allow'd upon her carelesse score,
Something to passe for Woman, and no more.
Nor yet a fading Peice of seven-yeares Red,
And then the Rose must be retir'd and dead.
Such empty wares are Natures sport, and scoffe,
To catch our eyes, and to be soone sold off.
Natures Sale-Beauties, which she oft sets forth,
More for her Trade and Custome, then their worth.
But this so subtly wrought, that it might suite
Lesse with the Makers Gaine then her Repute.
A standing peice to fame, where every part,
Was cast by Precept and severest Art.
Not that a Lippe, or an Eyes sparkes abound,
But one just feature might embrace it round.

In all his Statues Phidias carv'd some grace,
But in Minerva's every part was face.
But outward Lustre leaves us yet ith' darke,
We passe by Sappe, while we adore the Barke.
For having knowne thy soule, w' have judged since,
The Court was Rich, but meaner then the Prince.
Witnesse thy Judgements cleare discerning sight,
Not did thy Sexe draw Curtaines 'twixt the Light,
But all, as through deepe Masculine search did passe,
And to be Woman, did not dimme the Glasse.

Eagles with Eagles thus to th' Sun doe fly,
Yet none knowes Male from Female, by their Ey.

141

Next, thy chast love to be exprest alone
By thy deare husband, and by him in's Groane.
A losse so wail'd he onely may comprize,
Who drew the Vaile before the mourners eyes.

But beyond all, that which doth cheifely prove
Thy Glory here, and is thy Crowne above,
Was thy devoutest zeale, which did prepare,
Perfumed Clouds to waft thee to thy Pray'r.
That constant heate did so alone controule,
It busied all the motions of thy soule;
No thought could travaile Undisclaim'd, and ev'n,
Unlesse dispatcht Embassadour to heaven.
Eyes fixt above, but yet no glave might part,
But for its guide and convoy tooke the Heart.
Exalted hands still waving, and possess't,
To take downe blessings, or lift up Requests;
And knees so frequent with the Pavement meet,
Thou hadst almost unlearnt the use of feet.
And like the pious Man with zeale oft try'd,
Thy tender skin had kneel'd it selfe to hide.

Now, as Heaven's streights were to thy selfe un-barr'd,
So couldst thou steere our voyage by thy Card.
And midst all Tempests, knowing where to land,
Couldst teach us how to shun the Rockes and Sand.
Hence thy discerning Husband still doth say,
He wants his Pilot, though he knowes his way.

142

When thou dost limme her then, Apelles, paint
Best Woman, Wife, and the Devoutest Saint.

Epitaph. On Mistris R.

Hurt by her Husband's Sword, but not his Will,
Undone by that which did defend her still.
Unhappy fate this envious way had found
To take the Steele from him, from chance the Wound,
Death had designes on both; Her hence she beares
In streames of bloud, and him in Streames of Teares.
And those designes succeed in this sad troth,
Though one survive, yet she hath slaine 'em both.

143

Divine Poems.

Caroll, Sung to His Majesty on Christmas Day, 1644.

Harke! harke! the Spheares inticeing notes,
The Orbes are strung againe.
Intelligences tune the skie;
And make their Journey Harmonie.
The Cherubims exalt their throats,
And all their Musicke straine:
The Angels cluster,
Their Voices muster:
And in their Severall Orders crowd,
Amaz'd to see
The Deitie
Disguis'd and mask'd in a fraile shrowd.

The Sea into a droppe is throwne,
And channell'd in a Span.
Eternity is par'd away.
Confin'd and thrust into a Day.
To Infinite a Shore is knowne,
It limits hath in Man,
He that first brings
Time to his Sithe and Wings:

144

Subscribes to both, and hath made hast
To shift him cleane,
And change the Scene,
To know Begun, to Come, and Past.

No fond Imaginary Birth,
No sly Phantasticke show,
No Aery shape, no empty Beames,
Like Marcion's franticke Dreames.
A serious Issue visits earth,
Where Veines and sinewes grow,
True flesh is bred,
Nerves, bones, oth' same thread:
A Reall Peice, that we may see,
Since all Parts come,
From the same loome,
Salvation is not Pageantry.

See! him a Giddy Rout hath found,
And by his Cradle past,
The Oxe and Asse his family.
His Traine, and his Retinue be:
And this descri'd, they now have bound
Him to his Manger fast:
They fixe and chaine
Him to his Inne againe.

145

His Altars sinke, his Temples ly,
They trimme and presse
In the same Dresse,
His Worship and Nativity.

Assist, assist his Rescue then,
'Gainst Sacrilegious men,
And may those dayes which have in Clouds beene spent,
Cleare up, and boast both his and your ascent.

Caroll, Sung to His Majesty on Christmas day, 1645.

Great Copie of this Solemne Day,
Which you transcribe afresh,
And make afflictions your array,
As God made his of flesh.
God humbled best by afflicted Kings is showne,
Because their height is nearest to his owne.
Though in his Traine the Oxe appeare,
And to his Court intrude,
It was no breach of Reverence there,
“What's Nature is not Rude.
This Act the Oxe with Innocence befell.
“They cannot sinne, who know not to doe well.

But some into your Pallace gat,
And rear'd a threatning head,

146

Some, whom your Pastures have made fat,
And your owne Cribbe hath fed.
The wanton Beasts which to this temper rise,
Are ripe and fit to fall a Sacrifice.

The Beasts which to his cradle came,
There at his manger stood,
Not to build triumphs on his shame,
But to receive their food.
But here the Herd now surfeited doth stand,
And being full, learnes to despise the hand.

But as the Treasure in the Mine,
Is treasure still though trodde,
So in this Cloud our Sun you shine,
“And God in flesh was God.
For God and Kings are still beyond us plac't,
And highest still though ne're so low debas't.

Caroll, Sung to His Majesty on New-yeares day, being the Circumcision. 1643.

Moses chaire had long obtain'd,
And his Rites were now growne old,
Yet those Lawes that Reverence gain'd,
Onely did Poore Mortals hold:
But Judea now may see
A circumcised Deitie.

147

The tender God at eight dayes space,
Was ripened to endure our strife,
And did the Bloudy Preist embrace,
Invaded by his cruell Knife,
No wonder then your Throne disquiet stood,
“The King of Kings began his Reign in bloud.

But as liquid fountaines straine,
Their slippery Juice through narrow streights,
Yet if they larger Channels gaine,
The Streame encreases with the Gates.
So was this danger to a greater losse,
The Dew Drops here, were Deluge on the Crosse.

Though he ith' Crimson Bath did stand
A gentle Calme his mind possest,
No Tragicke Circumciser, hand
Disturb'd the Silence of his Breast.
So may your Quiet with your Yeares encrease,
“The Bleeding Prince was still the Prince of Peace:

Then as Yeares doe Yeares succeed,
And Dayes to other Dayes give place,
So may blessings blessings breed;
And as they passe new Joyes embrace;
Flourish your Yeares and Crowne, till chang'd you see
Your Crowne for Glory, Yeares for Eternity.

148

Caroll, Sung to His Majesty on Twelfeday, being the Epiphany. 1644.

First Magus.

What bright and unaccustomed shine;
Hath seiz'd our wonder and our eyes,
No Sage can shew, no Art divine,
This Starres acquaintance with the Skies.
“The Earth is blest with great and rich Events,
“When Heaven proclaimes, & Stars are Instruments.

Second Magus.

The throng of lesser Lights submit,
And with the Night their Reigne is done,
But this doth in his Chariot sit,
And uncontroul'd doth face the Sun,
“And fit it is God by that Starre be knowne,
“Which knowes no Light nor Lustre 'bove its owne.

Third Magus.

See! see! the Starre with's beamy eye,
Doth winke and becken us away,
And while his Active glories fly,
He bids us travaile by his Ray.
“Then follow we, and journey by his side,
“They cannot erre whom Heaven & Stars do guide,

149

First Magus.

The blaze is fixt, and all his streames
Of moving Lustre setled be,
He waves his Tributary beames,
Ore one more bright, more Starre then He.
“Thus Phosphorus doth early dawne forerun,
“And payes his Shine, his homage to the Sun.

Second Magus.

Behold a greater King then we,
From whose Devotion comes
A sweeter Cloud then rais'd can be,
From all our Spice and Gummes.
We yeild (Great Sir) you have out-stript our care
“The fragrant East hath no Perfume like Prayer.

Caroll, Sung to His Majesty on Twelfe-day, being the Epiphany, 1645.

From Arabia's fragrant wombe,
Where the Phænix built her Tombe,
When imbalm'd in Spice she lies,
And is both Preist and Sacrifice:
The learned Magi journey one to see,
More Phænix, and more wonder farre then she.
With greedy Eyes the Starre is view'd,
Not for effects or altitude,

150

When for such Aimes our sight's allowd,
We see a Starre, but graspe a Cloud.
“Astronomy, and her Adorers blest,
“When one Starre guides to him that made the rest.

Through Woods and Dennes their way they tooke,
“Zeale can danger quite ore-looke.
And to like progresse are you bound,
Cause you'ld not part with what they found.
Onely this difference from your Journey springs,
You meet with many Herods, but no Kings.

For as both Flowers and Thornes may tend,
And guide to the same journeys end.
So your returne stands as it stood,
Most firme and sure, though't be through bloud.
“The wise Kings whom the Tyrant forc't to stray,
“Came home at last, although another way.

After his Recovery from a feavour.

Not the parcht Æthiop, nor they
Under th'Eclipticke the warme Suns high way,
Felt flames like mine;
Till thou in health as in a Clowd,
Didst all those blazes shrowd,
And so forbid the shine.

151

Lord had the Feavers burning fire
Chac't out my soule, and made my life expire,
I might have gone,
Laden with unrepented sins,
Where the fire still begins,
And shall be never done.

There no cold Iulip can releive
Soules whom æternall Feavers allwayes greive,
No dolefull Song
Perswades the finger to the Poole,
To dippe, and lend one droppe to coole
The Feaver in their Tongue.

But thou threw'st heat into my veines,
Not to consume the Blood, but purge the Staines,
I feele no losse;
Lord, be this still thy way of cure,
To keepe the Mettle sure,
And onely burne the Drosse.

God's Love and Power.

Song

I felt my heart and found a Chillnesse coole.
It's Azure channells in my frozen side.
The Spring was now became a standing Poole,
Depriv'd of motion and its Active Tyde.

152

O stay! O stay!
Thus I shall ever freeze, if banish from thy Ray.
A lasting warmth thy secret Beames beget
Thou art a Sun which can nor Rise nor Set.

Then thaw this Ice, and make my frost retreat,
But let with temperate Rays thy Lustre Shine;
Thy Judgements Lightning, but thy Love is heate,
This will consume my heart, but this Refine.
Inspire, Inspire,
And melt my frozen soule with thy more equall fire,
So shall a Pensive deluge drowne my feares,
My Ice turne water, and that water Teares.

After thy Love if I continue hard,
If Vices knit and more confirm'd are growne,
If guilt rebell, and stand upon his Guard,
And what was Ice before freeze into Stone.
Reprove, Reprove,
And let thy Pow'r assist thee to revenge thy Love,
For thou hast still thy threats and thunder left;
“The Rocke that can't be melted, may be cleft.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

To my Ingenious Freind Captaine LL.

To the Author.

To the Author.

To the Author on his Poems.

To the Author.

To the Author on his Poems.

To the Author.

The Author's Account of his Poem.

The Argument of the Poem.

MEN-MIRACLES.

A POEM.

First Miracle.

Second Miracle.

Third Miracle.

Fourth Miracle.

Fifth Miracle.

Sixth Miracle.

Seaventh Miracle.

Eighth Miracle.

Ninth Miracle.

Tenth Miracle.

Eleventh Miracle.

Twelfth Miracle.

Thirteenth Miracle.

Fourteenth Miracle.

Fifteenth Miracle.

Sixteenth Miracle.

Seaventeenth Miracle.

Eighteenth Miracle.

Nineteenth Miracle.

Twentieth Miracle.

One and twentieth Miracle.

Two and Twentieth Miracle. Of Pigmies.

A CVRSE TO VULCAN,

Occasioned by a great Fire in Oxford, which began at the rosting of a Pigge 1643.

The Life and Death of Jacke the Nimble, cheife saddle Nagge to Doctor S. C. of C.

Song.

At the Holly-Bush Guard.

The Wake.

Enter Maurice Dancer.

Enter the Country Fidler.

Enter the Taberer.

Enter the Bag-piper.

Enter the Harper.

Epilogue. The Witney Prayer.

Master W. H. his Song to his Wife at Windsor.

The Spy of the Buttery,

Or the Welsh Dove: Walias, Jacke Price the feirce To the Cooke Dicke Peirce. This newes was tell her, From the Kings Cellar.

Postscript.

[Yet for aule her hast]

Verses made in Bed to one studying in the same Chamber.

Epithalium. To Mistris M. A.

Song.

Cock-throwing.

Saylers Song.

Song against Ale.

Ralph's speciall Care,

His Bill of fare. Or A Caveat to the Foes that they beware 'em In starving Omnium Animarum. Which may be sung up and downe, To the Tune of Troy Towne.

Song.

To my Lady Ch

Song.

Celia in love.

Song.

Celia Sowning.

Song.

Calliope invited to sing.

Dialogue.

Irish-love Song.

To my Lord B. of Ch. when I presented him a Play.

To Dr. F. Deane of Ch. Ch. now Vicechancellour of Oxford, upon the Same occasion.

To my Lord C. An. 1640.

To my freind Mr J. F. at Leyden.

To my Lady Ch.

To the same.

To the same.

To the same.

To the same, being his Valentine.

To the same.

On the Author of Love Melancholy. Second Edition.

Or the Welsh Dove:
Walias,
Jacke Price the feirce
To the Cooke Dicke Peirce.
This newes was tell her,
From the Kings Cellar.

His Bill of fare.
Or
A Caveat to the Foes that they beware 'em
In starving Omnium Animarum.
Which may be sung up and downe,
To the Tune of Troy Towne.