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Men-Miracles

With other Poemes. By M. LL. St [i.e.Martin Lluelyn]

Lluelyn, Martin (1616-1682)

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To my Ingenious Freind Captaine LL.

To the Author on his Poems.

To the Author on his Poems.

A CVRSE TO VULCAN,

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

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,

[Yet for aule her hast]

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

Epithalium. To Mistris M. A.

Song against Ale.

Ralph's speciall Care,

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 the same.

To the same, being his Valentine.

On the Author of Love Melancholy. Second Edition.

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

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

To Mistris D. C.

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

Elegie. On the Death of Sir Henry Spelman.

Elegie On the Death of Sir Bevile Grenvile.

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

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

Elegie. On the death of Sir Horatio Vere.

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

Elegie. On the death of Master H. C.

Epitaph on the same.

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

Elegie. On the death of Master W. Cartwright.

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

Elegie: On the death of Mistris Chaworth.

Epitaph. On Mistris R.

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85

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.