Poems by Matthew Stevenson

I'ave sometimes stoln into those Hives that keep
The swarms of Wits at Night; & where few peep
But either Laden are, or thought to be,
With Ethicks, Politicks, or Poetry:
And silently observ'd a deem'd Wit, fish
To catch a jest out of his Coffee-dish.
But think 'tis either custom makes him sit,
Or Reputation, to be thought a Wit.
For in whole Evenings, I have heard no more
Of Wit, than what the Players said before.
But 'tis the Mode (one told me) now adayes,
Many that make, meet there to speak their plays.
Oft thus, I'ave wonder'd and as oft I swear,
Have wish'd, and wish'd, that Stevenson were there.

Thy Genius (Friend) like New Philosophy,
Does make so pleasant a Discovery,
That we may judge thy Language does afford
Wit, sense, and reason too, in every word.
Many can talk of Fancy and Design
In Poems; yet mistake, as those do Wine,
When Verjuice mix'd with Water they have tane
For Paris, Chablin, or Le vine Champaign.

Such may arrive to pen a Modish Ballad,
And think they're th' only Wits; but to my pallat,
Their Writing's flat, insipid, what d'ye call't?
When every line of Thine does tast of salt.
Their's, like long Graces before Meat, run on,
Whose Food grows cold, before the speech is done.
At once Thine gets and pleases Appetite,
As do the Morsels newly cut from spit.
The Reader here need take no pains to look
Which is the queintest Poem in the book.
(As I have known in some) when I protest,
They're all so well, that every one's the best.

Val. Oldis.

To my Friend V. O. on his reading to me several Queint Poems of Mr. Stevenson's.

Well (Val.) that thou hast play'd me such a prank,
As this, (for which the Divel con thee thank!)
To coop up Wit, as ripe, as Harvest, grown
From being Commun'cative as Thine own.
And engross Faculty, as some do Pelfe,
Or others Taylors, meerly to thy self.
Th' ast lost a Friend of me;—less after seven,
A Reconciling Bottle make us even.

Why 'mongst the numerous Brothers of the Bay,
That we have solac'd with, (as I may say)
As Sir Wit Knight, as his Friend Wit Esquire,
And th' under-Officers, that serve ith' Quire.
At Castle, Divel, Salutation,
Escap'd I thy Facetious Stevenson?
Who makes so much of nothing, as controuls
The axiom of the Philosophick Schools.

How many Quil Wrights now would sit and blot
Their Wealth in Paper, to contrive a plot.

And sowre Your Faces till they feel it come,
Eating their Nails, to th' hazard of the Thumb?
Yet when they 'ave done, a Man may hunt at least
Some thirteen Furlongs e're he start a jest.
But his unstrained Fancy's still the same,
Here every other word's an Epigram.
So free, so queint, so easie is his Muse,
That he that does not like it, let him chuse.

Henry Bold.

To my Ingenious Friend the Author.

Thy fancy's universal, and resorts
To meanest Cottages and mightiest Courts.
Thou hast read Men, and Books, and therefore thee
Who can but call the Worlds Epitome?
Thy brain th' Idea of all things affords,
Never lodg'd so much sense in so few words.
You'l be 'tis like, when from this World you pass,
The strife of Cities, as once Homer was.
I should proceed, but dare not be too long,
While this he reads, I but the Reader wrong.
This patch I need not to thy Muse design,
'Tis thine own pen commends thee, and not mine.

Edw. Baynard.

To my Ingenious Friend the Author.

By Friends 'tis meet that something should be writ,
Though but t'accompany a Friend to Wit.
Things that are rare nakedly laid to view
All do gaze at, but are ador'd by few.
The pomp of Princes in the vulgar Eye,
Would soon decay but for its Pageantry.
Attendants give a Lustre, and I come
Amongst my Friends, to fill a vacant Room.
But pray below, above, I fear the Air
Suits not the Climate of my Hemisphere.
Scoggin and Ben late in conjunction met,
Such strange effects have wrought upon thy Pate.
Makes me afraid near that hot seat to sit.
Lest I be Carbonado'd by thy Wit.
Thy Joques are smart, thy Quibbles quick, Tropes run
As free from thee, as Sun-beam from the Sun.
Thy Verse is smooth, yet piercing as the Wind,
It smiles, and frowns, is both unkind, and kind.
It nothing wants, but that which of late dayes,
Ungrateful men keep back, that is just praise.
I could say more, but Prologues should be short,
Too long a Preface, often spoils good sport.

E. Bostocke.

A PANEGYRICK UPON The Right Honourable EDWARD Lord Marquess of WORCESTER,

His Inimitable, Water-Commanding Engine.

My Lord,

The Soul of Archymedes lives in You,
And I believe a transmigration now;
But in its Passage it is so refin'd,
Your nobler Blood makes it a greater mind.
To shoot at Heaven, your force moves so sublime
You need not, with the Gyants, Mountains climb.
Your very Art, to quantity, and height
Is alike boundless, and to force, and weight
Next to Omnipotent, whilst in this sense
Heaven justly seems to suffer violence.
Pray we for Rain? we are supply'd by you
Earths mighty Jove, sure you can Thunder too.
You are that grand Vicegerent of the Sun
That ravish Seas up to the Horizon.

Stupendious Art! who can, but fall before you?
We should be worse than Persians, not t'adore you,
But that we do, before we gave our eyes,
But now our hearts in grateful sacrifice.
For outward Empire Rome has got the start,
But Worc'ster is sole Emperor of Art;
The horned Queen has sure made him her Creature,
And shown him all the secrets hid in nature
Whence he begat, of a Cœlestial strain,
This Engine, the Minerva of his brain.
Who, when he pleases with this little Nyle
Pow'rs in a deluge on the thirsty soil.
Rhodes huge Coloss, 'tis true, vast Waves bestrid,
And Xerxes Bridge on the proud Ocean rid;
But this small Whale shall spout out Waves such store
As Ships may ride, where Men might wade before.
This hand-broad cloud makes Heav'ns whole surface dark
With showrs would threaten Noah to his Ark,
And in an instant makes it all so dry,
Send but a Dove out, and she bids God b'ye.
Strange Art! to make a River of dry ground,
And that too, thirsty, that, but now was drown'd.
Compelling from his Hydragogous Brains
Invention, deeper than the Mines he drains;
A work, I must confess to be confin'd
Within the limits only of his Mind.
But, what that mind is, that is too Divine
To be decypher'd by this Earth of mine.
Talk not of Herc'les labours; He commands
More with his head, than Bryareus with his hands
With the expence of Purse, and Brain, both great
He buyes off from Mans brow the curse of sweat;
His study travels to procure us rest,
And gives a Sabbath to the weary Beast;

In what more could he Mortals gratifie,
Ease to the hand, and pastime to the eye?
What I here say nothing at all reflects
Upon its esse, but its bare effects;
I therefore, here retrive my rasher pen,
Could I describe it, I could make it then?
Impossible alike; that hand of his
That gave it form, must shew you what it is;
Our eyes can only lead us to the shell
Whose Soul of action is invisible.
This Character I may, and must give of it
Excess of Pleasure, with excess of profit
The gazing World seven Wonders had of late
But now (my Lord) we thank you we have eight
Nor is this Wonder (though the last) the least:
Who then can say that miracles are ceas'd?
Thus, for Your Engine then, let those that grutch
Your Lordships Lawrel, make another such.

Omne tulit puncium qui miscuit utile dulci.

A Complement of a Gentleman in his Ale to a Lady of Quality.

Are you a Nurse, Madam? I want one for a Puppy.

Who ever heard of such a vile mistake?
But, doubtless, for himself the Puppy spake.
Or rather bark'd: why didst not ask thy Mother?
She that one Puppy nurs'd, could nurse another.
She would have don't (indeed none had been fitter)
Especially for one of her own litter.
Couldst thou prophane those hills of Alpine snow
From whence Elixir and Nepenthe flow,
And prate of Puppies there where Princes may
Out-rival Jove in a more milky way?
Thou mightst have seen through th' eye befriending lawn,
Breasts, never made by Puppies to be drawn,
Whose each sweet Nipple is our Wonders Theam
A Strawberry center'd in a bowl of Cream.

But thou, thou didst not know her dost protest;
And all the reason was, she was not drest;
Not drest? more blind than Moles, couldst thou not tell
A Pearl's a Pearl, though in an Oyster shell?
Sure thou wouldst make a sad Astrologer,
That for her Night-gear can'st not see a Star.
I should have seen, though pass'd at distance by't,
A twinkling Gloworm in a darker night.
She's not beholden to the Cloaths she wears
For they are not her honour, but she theirs.
And let me tell you, you were ill advis'd;
For 'twas not she, but you that were disguis'd.

To Clarinda.

Away with fond Hyperbolies,
Subliming dust to deities,
I purpose but to say y'are fair,
As envy must confess you are;
If you were not? you should not hire
My praise, should knees plead your desire.
But you are so, which to deny,
Can be no less than Heresie
Doubtless the Queen of Beauty was
But like your self, some pretty Lass,
Till by her Cyprian Zealots she
Mounted the stile of Deity;
Had you liv'd then, I really do
Presume y' had been a Goddess too,
For in your features Men may see
The God of Love's Artillery.
Your Curling Tress is all the bow
The wanton Wars with here below,
His Fierlocks too, we espy
Presented in your sparkling eye.
Your fame's his Trumpet, and Men seek
His Banners in Your bashful Cheek.
Your Pearly rowes at every smile,
Like Cadmus Troops, stand Rank and File,
If there then be a Front so fair
We need not of the rest despair.

Nil non laudabile vidi.

Upon a Vintner that draws the Gentry better Wine upon Trust, than his daily Guests, the Dyers, for ready mony.

1

Report goes of late
That Mun, and his Mate
Although going to Town-Close Gallowes,
They cannot procure
A glass of the pure
At White-Horse in St. Martins a Palace.

2

And good reason for't
When there they resort,
The Boy in the Bar does stand Centry,
And seeing blew hands
And Necks without Bands
He swears they are none of the Gentry.

3

And what if they be not?
He might see, and see not.
Or, I his bold Coxcomb would crack:
He knows they are Jews
That ever more use,
To have mony i'th mouth of the sack.

4

Let a Hector but come
With a Boy at his Bum,

And bluster in all of a suddain,
And Thomas shall call
For the Pipe next the wall,
For the Mountebank and his Jack-pudding.

5

To Blades of the Blood,
The Wine that is good
Brave Tom will draw all if he can,
Like that desperate Dick
Will have none do the trick
With his Wife, but a Gentleman.

6

Let their Bands be of lawn
And the best shall be drawn,
The Gentry shall have't who e're wants
For Trade-men he cries
With the Woman, who buyes
Any Butter, or Cheese for Servants?

7

A Fig for long score
Tom draw the best for
Ready mony, or you may rue it,
For a Pudding good
The Gallants bring blood
But the Dyers are they bring the Suet.

8

If new fashion'd Cloaths
And all a mode Oaths

Do make you continue this course,
You'l draw by degrees
Your self to the lees
And then ride away with the Horse.

9

Since 'tis better far
To whiten the Bar,
That Ages to come may read it,
Then let us away
And Gallant like say
'Tis excellent wine on my credit.

10

Now Dyers I come
To excuse honest Tom,
Though 'tis true, some wrong he has done ye
Ye drink, and withall
For a Reckoning ye call,
And ye pay him in Copper-mony.

The Fair Prisoner.

Upon a Gentlewoman that sold the Hair off her Head to the Keepers, but obtained neither Liberty nor lively-hood.

Mony being gone (poor heart) she rob'd her head,
And in exchange gave nature's wig for bread.
Her destiny did to extreams repair:
Sharp was the hunger, sure, cut off Her Hair,
By this, had it continu'd on her Crown?
With pensive care it had been Silver grown.

But, what was silver, when (alas) it would
Not reach her Ransom, at the rate of Gold?
Such Gold, as Jason with the Flower of Greece
Never arriv'd at in the Colchian Fleece.
Which, only were in this to be compar'd,
Each had a Bull, and Dragon for their guard.
Their fate, though, differ'd, there a Prince of Greece,
But here the Bull and Dragon stole the Fleece.
In purer Gold his head did Sol n'ere wrap,
Nor Jove himself pour into Danae's lap.
And, to aggrandise so unvalued things,
Nature turns Goldsmith, forms it all in Rings
Of such, as on Her fore-head She did place,
A Man might read the Posies in her face.
For some, which she indeed did highest prize,
She borrow'd Diamonds from her sparkling eyes.
A smile enamels this; that, the Vermilian
Of a pure Maiden blush turns a Cornelian.
Others hung lower, and on purpose skip
Her Cheek, to steal a Ruby from her lip.
But Her confinement, see what sorrow brings!
Has turn'd them, now, all into mourning rings.
And those her Jaylors wear; who (Villains) strive
To bury all her Beauty, thus, alive.
Had she not been so Bounteous to give,
She might have dy'd Richer than they could live,

But, as it was with Mydas Golden meat
Who had, indeed, too costly Chear to eat,
Starving his Teeth, he fondly gratifies
The appetite of his insatiate eyes.
Till Hunger did constrain him to entreat
The Gods again, convert his Gold to meat:
Such was the case here, at a loss for Bread,
The Belly picks a quarrel with the Head;

Forthwith the Head does with the Belly joyn,
And curls his Massie Treasure into Coin.
Thus Hunger got the Mastery of Pride,
That Master is to all the World beside.
Whilst, not for Love, but loaves (poor wretch) at length
Like Sampson she discover'd all her strength.
But, as She strives them from her Head to sever
The lovely Locks look back, as loath to leave her.
But touch't, they turn again; who would not grant
That every hair was here a Sens'tive Plant?
Methinks those Curls that must a Prison be
T'anothers head, might let her feet go free.
But now (unhappy thing) in vain she knocks
That could not go, when she possest the locks.
The new shorn Sheep is turn'd out free as air
To fleece, and fold still, 'tis against the hair.
Sure Popery, in this Prison is begun,
They've shav'd her head, and keep her for a Nun.
It had been good yet, and but just, to say
There went the hair, there went the Wench away:
But cruel Stars! she to the Lees was drawn,
And nothing left, she left her self in pawn.

His Answer.

And why so sharp? in truth (my dear) I must,
Accuse your furie of unkind distrust.
You should observe the end, and only glance,
Not dwell on the emergent circumstance.
Shall I plounge through th' abisse of danger, when
I may avoyd it; And goe right agen.
VVhat you mis-construe as some light abuse,
Reason will read a requisite excuse.
VVhat should wee but invite the publicke scorne,
To boast our harvest ere wee reap our corne.
The wealthy'st wights petend the weakest store,
And what they hugge, conceale, I doe no more.
For knowledge will but make us table-talke,
VVhilst love delights in shadyest pathes to-walk.
Forbeare a while my love and then expect
Your patience crown'd with blest, with wisht effect,
Those that doe otherwise, the world but calls,
Them Posthumous to there owne nuptialls,
Noe, noe, my heart's but one, though for a space,
I seeme to putt on Ianus double face,
In which strange dresse I yet, would hope I show
I love thee more then all the world shall know.

York-shire Ale.

1

How now Old Tyke of York
Hast thou got neither Cork
Nor yet convenient Wedges?
Thy wylie wort alas
Makes us all manners pass
And mount it o're the hedges.

2

That men should sit and fuddle
In such a sink of puddle,
And to and fro so put her!
Just such Ambrosia sucks
A Company of Ducks
Out of a filthy gutter.

3

For my part I'le get bayt
And in my Belly lay't,
Having drunk this dirty floud
What e're my Palate feels
There cannot but be Eels,
Where there is so much mud.

4

Doubtless the men are mad
Where water may be had
To soop such nasty gore:
Some call't a remedy
Against the Stone, but I
Have laid a stone at Door.

Upon a Great Gamester that slights his Wife and keeps a Wench, and at Play lost his Brothers Cloak, who was bound for the Indies.

Two Ordinaries (Will.) will keep thee poor,
I mean thy Gaming house, and gamesom whore.
If Appetite, or avarice provoke,
They like the Wind, and Sun strive for the Cloak?
Who, but a Fool, having a Wife of's own,
Would leave a temperate for a Torrid zone?
One, banish't Southwark, by the Surgeons-Hall
For fear she should infect the Hospital.
Whose painted visor with black patches smutch't,
Would drop like Sodomes Apples if but tuch't.
I thought yet (Will.) thou couldst not have been drawn,
Thy Brothers, (a poor Travellers) Cloak to pawn,
But I confess Plymouth's a good light stuffe,
And he's gone to a Country hot enough.
But, what, does more our wonder yet enhance,
You threw't away, and yet 'twas lost by chance.

Nay, what was most, you stirr'd not from the place
But look't on't, and saw't lost before your face.
What Clock-work's this, makes heart and elbow shake?
Folly's the strst, and fury the last stake.

L. B. To his Mistris E. R. to whom he sent half a dozen pair of Gloves, which She sent back again, and after would have had them, and he would not send them.

I sent, and you sent back, you would not deign
Acceptance, I accepted them again.
I had perhaps added my self to boot,
But Ideots know not Hercles by his foot.
And now your errour you too late condole,
Slighting the parcel, you have lost the whole
An earnest of my Love, I sent you then;
In earnest I shall never send again.
Your reason herein you have much abus'd,
To beg the booty that you once refus'd.
So Children of a little piece complain,
Throw it away, and cry for it again.
Of any thing call'd mine, you ne're shall brag,
I'le put it first in the poor Women's bag.
In this you neither Wit, nor manners had,
Fool, to refuse, and to remand it, mad.
Thus is your rudeness, and repentance born,
Like Trophe's to the Triumph of my scorn.

To His Sweet-Heart Mistris Mary, A Papist.

What though from Rome in point of Faith I vary?
Ile never break Faith, nor differ with Mary.
Though I don't bend my knee to liveless paint,
Yet (Mol) Ile kneel to thee, my living Saint.
If in mine ear thy Lips distill but Hony,
Ile never stand upon a Ceremony;
Ile be thy Beads-man (Sweet) I vow, I will,
For thy Indulgence is my comfort still.
But if You frown? if You be Refractory,
Pray for me then, I am in Purgatory.
Yet if You smile, that, like a Heaven heard prayer,
Delivers sooner than the Porphyrie Chair.
If for Your favour I am at a loss,
I, though no Papist, will bow to the Cross.
However (Dearest) You dispose of me,
I am resolv'd to be Your Votary.

Upon the Fair Mistris Elizabeth White, Her Pocket pickt in Pye-Corner of twenty shillings, and a Key wrapt up in a piece of Holland.

Your Pocket pickt? sure 'twas some Thief of note
Durst dive into a Ladies Petticoat.

Strange Riddle! at one, and the same time You
Were robb'd in England, and in Holland too.
It follows then, You are dividual,
Or that in truth You were not robb'd at all.
But, Madam, let me help You at a need:
Though not in Truth, yet You were robb'd indeed.
And by a faithlesse, false and filchion Loon,
A Rotterdam Pye-Corner Picaroon.
When trusting to a Flemish Bottom, You
Lost both Your Venture, and Your Vessel too.
And gave the Pyrate cause enough to brag,
He got Your Holland, and gave You the bag,
Besides a prize worth vent'ring many Deaths,
Twenty WHITE Shillings and all El'zabeths:
But, sure Your Fortune had not been so hard,
Had You kept Watch, and let Your Key keep ward.

I pitty here the Pilferers ignorance,
How Rich had he been, had he stole one glance?
His heart had been a Noble sacrifice,
Burnt in those purer beams of Her bright eyes.
But he had then fore-stall'd the Hue and cry,
And caught himself close Pris'ner in Her eye.
Beyond all possibility of making
The least escape, She is, she is so taking.
The once toucht needle should have sooner stole,
From the embrace of the Magnetick pole.
For he'd been wholly taken up of Her,
And, of a Thief, turn'd an Idolater.

From York to my Forgetful Friends in Lombard-Street.

What? have ye eaten shame, and quaft up bowls
Of Lethe after it? Or have Your Souls
Fled their false Earth? if not? curs'd be the Cells,
In which so treacherous a mem'ry dwells.
Or do my feet in paths unwonted stray?
Such as they call, Terra incognita.
Yet, if ye lov'd me, ye'd procure, no doubt,
The Cynicks Lanthorn, and enquire me out.
Y'have no such store, pretend all, what You can;
'Tis worth Your while, to look an honest Man.
And Citizens have Lanthorns, sure, but Sirs,
The reason's plain, y' are no Philosophers.
When I mov'd South y' ador'd my Horses Hoofs,
And waited on my Beams like Heliotrophs.
But now are insects by my absence slain,
Till, like the Spring, I bring ye life again.
Where are those Charms of Verse, that once could make
Vast Rocks, and rooted Oaks their site forsake?
What timber'd Men are ye? those hearts of Yours
Are Niobean, marble-moulded sure.
Bruits I may say, whom neither natures Law,
The Cords of Love, nor Love of lines can draw.

But Ile repress my rage, since 'tis my fate,
To have to do with Men illiterate.
What can I think? indeed, what think I not?
But Your right hands their cunning has forgot:

Yet, lov'd ye but reciprocal delights,
Ye would have writ, though, but as Ephramites?
My papers, like a prey to Cacus Den,
All Post to London, none return again.
But, now I dare ye, let me answer get,
Or to my Love, or to my challenge yet.
If neither? know my mem'ry shall advance,
Above the Clouds of Your gross ignorance.
When ye shall in Devotion come, I trust,
Neglected Pilgrims, to my scornful dust.

EPITHAL.

Upon one Mr. Power a Parson, married to Mrs. Anne Flower.

Go tell the Turtle, these the Nuptials are
Of a more constant and a chaster pair:
A pair this Morning to the Temple gone,
To make their Bodies, as their Souls are, one.
What hinders then, but Lovers so unite,
May well be call'd Hymens Hermaphrodite?
A blest presage, Learned and lovely pair,
Venus and Merc'ry, in conjunction are.
Thrice happy two in one; You here behold,
A polisht Diamond set in purest Gold.
Juno, and all the smiling Graces came,
With Stars to grace the Hymeneal Flame.
And, after one three quarters of a Year,
Lucky Lucina promis'd to be there.
Well fare her gentle hand, whatever she,
That dealt about the joyful Rosemary.
Be her turn next to tast the unknown Sweets,
And chast embraces of the Nuptial sheets.
And for the Peerless pair, we joy them thus,
Heaven favour them as they have favour'd us.
Let the endearment this sweet Morn did bring,
Be as eternal as their Wedding Ring.
The Bridegroom of Her Sex has got the Flower,
And the Bride all she wishes in her Power.

EPITHAL.

At Mr. W. B. His Wedding.

1

All that happy is betide,
Both the Bridegroom and the Bride;
May their Dayes be all of bliss,
Each, as full of Joy as this.
And when the Cake and Posset come,
With summons to Elisium.
The God of Love convey them to their rest,
On Joves soft Pillow, Leda's downy breast.

2

Health, and Wealth, and what can be
Added to Felicity,
Wait upon the Noble pair,
Such our wish is, such our pray'r.
Be fruitful as the Womb of Day,
And live an everlasting May.
Untill at length Your mutual glowings move
An emulation in the Gods above.

3

If there be a Joy yet new,
Such as Lovers never knew,

All here present beg it may,
Crown this welcom, wisht for day.
And, may ye double all the sweets,
Were ever found in Nuptial sheets.
But hold! I fear we part Loves pair too long,
And make them sell their pleasure for a Song.

Upon Mrs. Bell forfeiting her Faith to Her first Love, and Marrying another.

Is Bell run backward then? 'tis wondrous strange:
Yet wonder not, for Bells are given to change.
I that have try'd her have too truly found,
That She has nothing in her but a sound.
She's metal to the back, she loves her scope,
A Bell scarce to be held with any Rope.
Her Faith is fickle, of Chamelion hue,
You'l ring her Neck off, e're You ring Her true.
All's thine my Boy, nor can I envy yet
Thy folly, and Her falshood so well met.
No, I have cause to be of better chear,
Since my blest Stars have made the Bell-free here.
I shall not venture on next Ringing match,
A Bell that is thus rung with a back-catch.
Thus of ye all I take my last adieu,
Bell, and the Dragon, and the Divel too.
This I have thought on, though for Your relief,
If the Bell crack the Rope will ease Your grief.
Sit, though I fear Your comforts cannot swell,
'Tis credit to have born away the Bell.

TRUTH.

I cannot love the man delights in evil,
But hate Hypocrisie, for that's the Divel.
And I confess I have no kindnesse for
An old false Treach'rous Sollicitor.
A Foot Post that for bub does alwayes run,
As if he had more businesse than the Sun.
I hate that zeal that does Æquivocate,
And him that does a lye precisely prate.
This mind I am, and shall be ever in,
Cursed Hypocrisie doubles all sin.
I hate all vice, but from Presbytery,
Lord if it be thy will? deliver me.

Upon two Cambridge Scholars at a baudy-House.

A Baudy House? and Men of Your Profession?
Believe it You art guilty of digression.
It may be You presum'd that we could not
Discern't, for the dark Lanthorn of Your Coat?
But have a care; it does You so behove,
Your Works of Darknesse do not fruitful prove.
'Tis like, before, You argu'd with Your sweets
Upon the Bed, but now y'are in the sheets.
Well, You the way (Sirs) of all Flesh are going,
We should be glad to hear of Your well doing.
Ride on, and overcome, yet let me say,
The common Road's not alwayes the High-way.
This Paradox I leave to Your construction,
The lower way's the High-way to destruction.
Bravely resolv'd though, for in every she
Each did embrace his University.
Pure Nursery, y'are Youths of quick discerning,
If Baudy-Houses be Schools of good Learning.
The strongest Argument's drawn from the Face,
Like Kentish heirs, the Junior there takes place.
Yet (Learned Sirs) You enter'd but their Gates,
And they became Your under Graduates.
They smartly their Opponents though, refute,
And commonly maintain a hot dispute.
I know y'are able, yet give them their due,
In somethings (Sirs) they are too deep for You.
You are but Fresh men in the French disasters,
You may be sure though to go out Whore-Masters.
If Learnedly You do but kiss, and clip,
You may in time suspect Your fellowship.

The next commencement, you'l out Doctors sure,
And 't may be requisite for Your own Cure.
I'm sorry You should travel in this fashion,
From Taverns to the Wine of Fornication.
And make Your selves the subject of this Satyr,
Are these the Daughters of Your Alma Mater?
In good time, when Your money they were earning,
They shew you then a trick (Sirs) for your Learning.
Each of them in a Syllogistick way,
Presenting a substantial Barbara,
How durst You then on such Polemicks fall,
Whose very terms themselves are natural?
Their eyes dispute, they turn but up their Hoods,
And show You both their Figures and there Moods.
But, to conclude the scene, rather obscene
This Riddle more, And tell me what I mean.
In Baudy-Houses (Sirs) You may perhaps
Escape applause, but very seldom Claps.

The Master to His Scholars, barring him out at Christmas.

In good time (Youths) why how now boyes, what ail ye?
What's here to do, Bellum Grammaticale.
I thought that arms should have given place to Arts,
But You can't say, and now ye play Your parts.
A Man that at Your Barrocadoes looks,
Would think that you are, now, close at your books.
Your manners (Boyes) has got a Letbean Cup:
If You bar out, your Master must break up?
And if I do? Ile be upon Your Jacks,
(Rebels) and hang ye on each others backs.

What have we here? a race of brutish Tartars?
Take Quarter, or, Ile fall upon Your Quarters.
Twigs, I shall bend ye, or, if longer crost,
Ile bend the twigs about ye to Your cost.
What saucy writings this on the School door,
Were not my eyes abus'd enough before?
Thus in a Castle, You your suit commence,
As if you durst not trust your innocence.
Your part is not to prate, but stand in awe,
No custom (Pigmies) but my will's your law.
And, if ye still plead with me at this bar,
You'l find me Judge, and Executioner.

An Answer to a Song call'd Fair Archybella to whose eyes, &c.

1

My Dearest) Archybella's eyes,
Though ne're so fair shall not dispise,
But own thy loyal sacrifice.

2

Nay, were she cruel, and a while,
Her frowns like Midnight day exile,
'Twere noon again shouldst thou but smile.

3

We like our Lodging and protest,
So you provide a faithful breast,
To vow our self Your constant guest.

4

Nor need You fear since You impart
Your Wounds so fresh, but we have Art,
And Balsom too, to ease Your smart.

5

Let not a thought that Death may give,
Molest thee, doubt not thou to live
If smiles or Tears may but reprieve.

6

Dread not (my Dear) so dire a doom,
Forbid it Heaven, the hour should come
That thou shouldst suffer Martyrdom.

Upon a Girle, would be his Wife, 'cause She had been his Wench.

Wed thee, fond Thing? I am not so accurs'd,
Believe it, I will loose my earnest first.
I hope, I better for my self shall choose,
Than e're to bring You to Your wedding Shooes.
Travel on those You have, till new You get,
I'm not so put to't for a Cloak-bag yet.
You have Your aim, both shape and colour miss'd:
For You are Dun, and I have now no list.
You talk of Loving Letters that I sent,
In which, troth, nothing less than Love was meant;

I only woo'd you to secure that name,
Of which You made a deed of gift to shame.
That I should court You, sure You could not think,
Whose Reputation's blacker than my ink?
For in Your shape I nothing see, unless
You'd have me Servant to Your ugliness?
No, know it I had rather woo the Pox,
Than e're be set with thee in Nuptial stocks;
And since all Stomacks (Girl) are not the same,
Be wary therefore in your after game.
Travel, but far, you may a Husband get,
The Hungry are content with broken meat.
The Liberty you gave me was too ample:
A maiden-head may not afford a sample.

The Sheep to his Shrew.

I have a Salamander to my Wife,
That cannot live, but in the fire of strife.
And I bear with her Babylonish Lungs,
Born to be the confusion of Tongues.
She chatters hard, but let the Cogs be doing:
There's mony coming when the Mill is going.
I must confess, I thought my self a while
Under the Catarracts, and falls of Nyle,
I was so very deaf, nor do I know,
Whether I perfectly yet, hear, or no.
But the Coin comes, and let her split her Throat,
I would not have her speechless for a groat.
Not I indeed, if for a strain I call
At Midnight, I can hear my Nightingal.

And mid-day too, O Sweet and happy choice!
My Philomel is nothing but a voice.
What my Vexation was before, I vow
Is not my trouble, but diversion now.
When I perceive the House too hot an harbour,
I out of Doors, and cool me in an Arbour.
I trace it swiftly up and down my Grounds,
And fancy, I am following my Hounds.
Or, if a chearly Sun does gild my Trees,
Methinks, I then am hiving of my Bees.
On then (my Dear) and let thy clappers be walking,
Hang such a Parrot, as is tyr'd with talking.
That Miller is a Coxcomb, sure I am,
That is offended at the noise of's dam.
But 'tis no noise to me, I sweetly dream,
By the soft murmurs of that purling stream.
I am all Complacence, what! if she lower?
The Meat's the sweeter, 'cause the sauce is sower.
Thus Fire and Water, Earth and Air agree,
And from her discord flowes my Harmony.
Some are for Crystal Rivers only, Pish!
No Water troubles me, that brings me Fish.
Man is a mass of various mould, I'm here
(As I am contradicted) in my Sphere.
In this the method, somewhat is controll'd,
For here the Woman's hot, and the Man cold.
And here's all the occasion is between us,
Least Bacchus in Cups should meet with Venus.

Upon a Pye lin'd with a couple of Geese, and Norfolk Lincks, after long expecting sent by the Carts.

Your pair of Passengers in a Sedand,
Of Pye-Crust, came at last, safe to my hand.
Your Geese excuse You (Tom) and for this reason,
Though they came scarce in time, they came in season.
But why, with Chains did You their bodies truss?
What? were they Wild-Geese, that You bound them thus
To th' good behaviour? or did you fear
They should out-run the water colour'd beer?
They were so linckt, methought at first surprize,
They lookt like Felons, bound for Thetford Size.
And to be sure, not knowing what might fall,
You sent them too some tune, Castle, and all.
They came but slow, and well they might be slack,
That snail-like, brought their house upon their back.
To apprehend them (Cook) I hope, if we
Out-rage the Walls, 'twill be no Burglary?
What murther did these Geese, that for their pains
They are condemn'd thus to be hang'd in Chains.
Is this the fruit of Your new Norwich Charter,
To hang, and draw, and send to us for quarter?
Their innocence had sure for mercy stroven,
But, 'tis (alas) no gaping 'gainst an Oven.
Much less a cholerick Cook, who well we know,
Will see them Pye-bak'd e're he let them go.
Your Letter has indicted them at large,
But, at the Dolphin, there we found the charge.

Thus, in a word (Tom) of Your well corn'd Geese,
We had the Coffin, and the Carcasses.
Whom we dissected, as you may conjecture,
And in requite send this Anatomy Lecture.

Upon one (Twine) Drawn, hang'd and quarter'd for Printing Treason.

Twine? 'tis a fatal Name, do what you can?
No more, but, Twine's enough to hang a Man.
So sad a name, that soon the Omen in't,
Was a legible about his Neck in Print.
And thank his Treacherous memory that he came
To't; surely he'd forgotten his own name:
It else had scar'd him from his black design,
He'd ne're been Traytor, had he thought of Twine.
So Men that rashly run on Rocks, and Shelves
Of Treason, truly they forget themselves.
Thy Treason (Twine) had Twine been in thy mind,
Had never thus thy Thread of Life untwin'd.
But Treason's sad effects thou heldst a loof,
Fond Printer till thou mad'st thy self a proof:
Truth's safe, what ever Printer does affect her,
Shall never have the Hangman his Corrector.
To put him out in Quarto; nor yet bring
His Bones a Dedication to his King.
Nor have his Head pearcht over Ludgate thus,
As Frontis-piece to his De Tristibus.
Nor can I think upon't without regret,
A Printers Corps should not have one wast sheet.
But buried be i'th air 'thout any Pall,
Save what he came into the World withall.

Had I been he? thus much I must confess,
I would have dy'd by what I liv'd, the Press,
Which could not but have carry'd favour in't.
For dying so, he had come out in Print.
Yet much at one; what had he been the better,
He had been Printed, but, in a dead letter.
(Printer) where e're thou art? the caution thine is:
Twine Printed Treason, and the Hangman Finis.

Upon Norwich Gallowes set in the Town-close and the first there Executed was one Clarke.

And, can ye put up an affront, so gross,
How? Mr. Haysets Mare in the Town-close?
Freemen look to't, if you these things allow,
Freedom, farewell; you must be ty'd up now?
Charters a Cobweb, if ye suffer (Sirs)
The Magistrates to bring in Forreigners.
You claim, and justly, all within that Hedge,
I hope you will not loose your priviledge.
How else should your Prerogative be known?
But, if you will not? Gallows claim thy own.
Yet, this is true, no stranger comes, but he
Would willingly give mony to be free.
For, they come not to work it does appear,
Nay, rather, they cease from their labours there.
No bread, they eat out of your mouths that's flat.
For, they'l be hang'd before they will do that.
Little did Hopkins think or Sternhold either,
Their hobling Rythms should be translated thither.
But what is yet more strange, a Clark began,
And could the Psalms have had a Meeter man?

He set the first Psalm there, and had, no doubt,
Sung through, but that the Hangman put him out.
Whose rudeness thus the Clark a labour saves,
And sets him other, call'd, the Ladder-slaves.
Poor Clark, the Hangman was about him then,
Say what he would, the Clark must say, Amen.
He soon (alas) sings himself out of breath,
That Clark is to the Minister of death.
Here (Citizens) ye see Your liberty,
Hanging, and horns a double destiny.
Y'are happy sure, Your Town-close does extend
Its limits, now (Sirs) even to the Worlds end.
It is but mounting upon this Belcony,
And ye may look to Cringleford, or Cowney.
Would ye survey your Stars? bring but a Rope,
Ye may have leave to use the Telescope.
This ye may do, but, ye must be so wise,
As not to pull your Caps over your eyes.
As for your loves hang 'em y'have got of late,
An able staple to the Town-close Gate.

Upon a Young Tradesman carrying News to a Knight, his Wife was brought to Bed of a Boy, bad him acquaint the Parish.

Mol's brought to Bed, that's well, and You importune
The Knight here to take notice of your fortune.
She is delivered and You could not choose,
Good honest man, but, travel, with the News.
VVhat self denyals this, with Pipe and Taber,
To sing Encomiums to anothers labour?

But by his talking of the Parish, I
Judge he would have it Filius Populi.
He lik'd not Your unseasonable prate,
Your Wife could best the thing communicate.
But in an instant, like some babling Woman,
You make Your Infant, and the Wife, too, common.
And by an ill coucht errand to the Knight,
You bring your little one, and Wife to light.
But Mol's deliver'd of a pretty Bird,
And you did well to bring the Father word.
Mean while this mighty wonder comes about,
Your Wife is brought to bed, and you cry out.

The Nameless Bride.

Perfidious Sheets ye lye; Harry's not Wed,
Only has got a Riddle in his Bed.
A thing whose memory was so far too blame,
As she forget her very Christen name.
And doubtless, but the Parson was accurs'd,
Had been so wise to catechize her first.
And not have said, when to the clause he came,
Who gives this Woman, but, who gave her name?
Sure the fond Priest had ended all the strife,
Had he but given the word out, name the Wife?
Her fate with other Brides was not the same,
They came to loose, but, she to get a name!
'Twas a solemnity, strange, and absur'd,
They could not here take one anothers word.
Poor Harry! when at first he took the pains,
To ask the question, he ask'd his own Banes.

For my part for the Bride, e'ne let her go,
She shall be nameless, since she would be so.

I. G. to Will a Footman, his Rival.

Will , hast thou run so long by the Coach-side,
Nothing will serve thee now, but, up and ride?
Believe it (Sir) if you take her in hand,
Your suit goes then most forward, when you stand.
Footmen (alas) are slippery as Eels,
For, at the last distast they take their heels.
If in her bed you ever set your foot,
Skip-skennel, I shall ride in Your Coach-boot.
When You and She in marriage bed do meet,
Each of you are provided of a sheet.
He lace your back, and tear, at my approach,
Your Breeches of the lining of the Coach.
Will, thou art more for Trot, than troth I see,
A Rival fitter for a Horse than me.
Lightfoot look to't, I shall be Servant still;
To Mol, when thou hast run thy Country (Will.)
Thou talkst of Land, alas (Will) thou hast none,
Devil a foot, but what thou runn'st upon.
But we will both be Grooms, and to this come,
Ile be her Bride, and thou her stable-groom.
Or if thou wilt? and this I hope, will do't man,
Ile be her head, and thou shalt be her Foot-man.

Phylis Funeral.

Come now my Lambs, your selves address,
Unto Your dying Shepheardess.
Your Appetites a while adjourn,
And pay Your duty to my Urn.
In Life my Flock I follow'd thee,
And thou in death must follow me.
Your orders twenty Lambs in black,
In white, twice twenty at their back.
Twelve sable Ewes, like Widows poor,
Shall, as my Mourners go before.

Six Weathers shall my Bearers be,
Array'd all in a Livery.
As dark as Night, and six again
As white as Wool bear up my Train.
With silver tips let every Horn,
Our sad and solemn state adorn.
With Phebes Crescent, let each front
Wear a fresh Cypress wreath upon't.
Let no rude Russet hither come,
Nor bloudy red, to soil my Tomb.
But pure Lamb Black, and purer White,
The Elegy of Phyllis, right.
The Black (my Lambs) doth signifie,
My loss of Life, Your loss of me.
The White does to the World, relate
My innocence, and Virgin State.
Now let me shew ye my intent,
In my last Will and Testament.

First I, this better part of mine
To the Elysian shades resign.
And, whence I had it, I bequeath
To the next air my borrow'd breath.
Fire shall again have what it lent,
And, Water to her Element.
Shall have recourse, I shall return
My ashes also to my Urn.
In the next place I do dispence,
Unto my Lambs my innocence.
Moreover I assign to them,
The grass green Meadow last nights dream.
Presented me, my Rams are they,
Shall have my Cornucopea.
Item, I leave my Virgin zone,
Unto the Bud as yet unblown.

My Purple veins resign to You,
Sweet Violets their azure hue.
My blushes to the Rose I give,
My white shall in the Lilly live.
My Golden Tresses shall repair
The Ruines of lost Maiden hair.
My Orbs of light after this life,
Shall wait on Phœbus and his Wife.
My lofty, my majestick front,
I leave to Ida's sublime mont.
The Cherry, or the Ruby rather,
The tincture from my Lips shall gather.
This breast opposing th' other puts,
Me so in mind of Cupids Buts.
I cannot, but to him demise
The place so fit for exercise.
Lastly (such as they wont receive)
Mine arms I to embraces leave,
And now ye know what my last will is,
Farewel my Flock, and farewel Phyllis.

Love-sick Lucilla to her unkind Shepheard

Then must I dye? and must I dye for Love?
For Love, that makes me like the Gods above?
If I must dye, what needs these flames? be like
You'l execute me as an Heretick.
But Momus teach me a new A. B. C.
If firm and faithful Love be Heresie.
If death must be the doom of Love, pray what
Shall be the sentence of Novercal hate?

If zealous Love merits a mortal curse,
Sure Hate, a cold devotion merits worse?
Yet how unjust is this, stories relate
Many that dy'd for Love, but none, for hate.
Is there no herb that may my griefs remove?
No Antidote against this poyson, love?
Pitty ye Gods, pity my Youth, and Beauty,
See how each Organ buckles to its Duty,
Cannot the Incence of our Prayers prevail?
What shall my sighs, my tears, my Groans, all fail?
Where is the Sisters thrift, that go about
To cut my Thread, e're it be half drawn out?
Let me but see the twylight of my age,
And then pursue the utmost of your rage.
Why was Lucina present at my birth,
Whilst the propitious Gods promis'd me mirth?
Why came glad Hymen with his taper light,
To mock me with the hopes of Nuptial night?
And why was Venus then ascendant? why
Did all the graces grace me, if I dye?
But, while I thus in vain urge my complaint,
I lose my breath, ah, me! I faint, I faint.

Deficiam parvi temporis adde moram.

To Charola the Coy.

1

You cannot Love? for shame
Come, blush your self into a penitent flame;
Does the choice Flower resist,
Because the fairest? no; enjoy't that list.

On the eye-taking fruit,
Plead not yet ripe? away, there needs no sute.
Why Woman are as truly ours,
To be enjoy'd as Fruit, or Flowers.
But 'tis our fault
That we exhalt
Them so, that they rebel against our Powers.

2

Come, come, yet I affect You,
If you can't love again, let me direct you.
'T may be, 'cause You are fair,
And levigable as the downy air.
You stand upon't, You will not yield,
But, Phœnix like, Your self will build,
Do so, and then
Repent again,
When Autumn has possest your once fair field.

3

But, ah, behold I woe,
That should command, I beg, and glad on't too:
My Charola admires,
Since she is ice, I so complain of Fires:
Had she a flaming Dart,
She then would warm her own cold heart.
Ah me! does not lame nature stint,
Her flame-begetting sparks to flint?
Pray do but feel
The stone cold steel,
And if you can, say there's no fire within't.

4

But, ah, my fond complaint
My obsequies attend a scornful Saint.
Watter by dropping oft,
Sinks something in a marble soft.
But, my moist eyes procure
No gentleness, but make much more obdure
Well, I have done my doe, for I
Find all things meet in misery.
And to survive
In vain I strive,
My Angel, I must dye,
'Tis nobler by consent than force to dye.

5

How? dye? did not
The Queen of Beauty on Adonis dote?
And Paris confident eyes
Survey the Features of three deities?
But, ah, far more Divine
Is my fair Saint than that Parisian trine.
Whom, while I court my hopes but rear
A fancy'd Castle in the air.
Not unlike those
That do suppose
Their wish effected in a falling Star.

Abstemia to Her importunate Lover.

1

I never was in Love,
Nor will be for my part,
I never felt the Archer move,
Alas, he has no Dart
Or else, no eyes to hit my Heart.

2

And yet doth love I vow
In this my Bosom reign,
But I protest, 'tis not with You,
Pardon me (Sir) I tell You plain,
'Tis with Diana's Maiden train.

3

And, though I lend an ear,
When You present Your ditty,
Presume not, I affect your gear,
Or You that would seem witty,
Good faith, 'tis not in love, but pitty.

4

Hence then poor Flatterers
I am, and will be free
Like those Cœlestial Choristers,
I'le hug my Liberty,
'Tis that, and only that, please me.

P. T. Of the Old Exchange to the Right Honourable, the Countess of Dorset, promising him her Kinswoman in Marriage.

Madam,

The charms that from Your Lips distill'd,
My ravisht Ears with Heavenly Musick fill'd.
Had I led Love unto Your Neeces heart,
And pray'd Him there transfix his keenest Dart
His being Blind, would have left him exempt,
From penalty, and charg'd the whole attempt
On my accompt; whose boldness durst aspire,
Promotheus like, unto Celestial fire;
'Twere no less sacriledge than to bereave
Diana of a Nymph without her leave:
Or steal a Star from off its Region,
Whilst Phebe slept with her Endymion.
I had been Felon to Your Honour's Blood,
And stoln a Cygnet from that Royal Floud.
Had not Your Grace first given me my Book,
The Golden Scepter of a Gracious look.

Who, now, with humble Confidence resort,
To this fair stream having Your warrant for't;
Only, let me beseech Your Honour that
You'd ratifie it with a Second date.
Then being arm'd with new encouragement,
My next address is to the Lady bent,
My Fortunes Balance on whose only breath
Depends the sentence of my Life or Death.
If such a happiness attend my Life,
Ile treat Her as my Mistriss, though my Wife.
Ile study what may please her, and contend
With fate to make her happy to the end.
As for You (Gracious Madam) deign me still
The Candour of Your Ladyships good will.
So shall I be assur'd what I commence,
Shall ripen in such Sun-like influence.
Mean while no thought shall from my breast arise,
But what I dare present as sacrifice.
Thus I return my self to both, whilst she
Possess my Heart, Your Grace shall have my knee.

A Drunken Porter reeling into the Ring to wrastle with a Taylor.

See the pot Valour here (Porter) I fear,
That you have somewhat more than you can bear
Out of the Ring, unless you were more stout,
The Taylor is resolv'd to cut you out.
You stand so waving, and so tottering,
As if there were an Earthquake in the Ring;
And eye the Taylor as you would adore him,
Y'are so devout, you scarce can stand before him.
Do ye not hear him say, it shall go hard,
But, at the first touch, hee'l turn up your yard?
Nor will he use a quarter of his strength,
To measure all your Quarters out at length.
Observe his active, stout, and able limb;
Porter, I'me sure you'l never carry him.
Go wrastle with yond Tree, you dizzy crown,
More need to hold you up, than hurl you down,
Had you as many Legs as any Louse,
The eyes of Argus, hands of Bryareus.
All would not do it, for, like Polypheme,
You would be run down in this Drunken dream.
And in the turning of a hand be found,
As sure as Louse in bosom, on the ground.
Come your Athletick Art's not worth the trying,
Porter, a man may see where y' have been plying.
Brave sport, a Porter and his Fox turn'd loose,
T'encounter with a Taylor and his Goose.
Thus I perceive 'tis fatal to us all,
After a lusty cup to take a fall.

To my strange Rival engrossing both his own Mistris, and mine too.

The Scene Jack a Newbery.
Y'are but a Jack, by Jack a Newbery,
To overcharge Your self to injure me.
Be not so greedy; you two, and I none?
The time will come, you'l find enough of one.
Neither had been of our desires bereft,
Had You but t'ane your right, and I the left?
Take heed, you'l loose (like Æsops Puppy) Brother.
One Shoulder of Mutton coveting another.
Trust me, I must resent this injury,
To overdoe your self, to undoe me.
'Tis baseness, in the abstract, Greedy sinner,
Having thy belly full, to crave my Dinner.
But I perceive my talk is to no end,
For thou wilt burst thy self, to starve thy Friend.
This folly I have oft in Children known,
Either two pieces, or they will have none?
And here to thee, I may it well apply,
'Tis better fill thy belly than thy eye.
Traytor and Thief, thou rob'st me of my jewel,
But for the act I'de end it in a Duel.
And, faith I must too, come the worst event
That can, 'tis but six moneths imprisonment.
And, what is that to me? since I must be
Her Prisoner, when I am at liberty?
Say death ensue my challenge? shall I doubt
To dye for Her, I cannot live without?

Fail not this Afternoon, then to meet me,
Precise at four at Jack a Newbery.
Your Weapons, what you please; unless my fate
Oppose? I'le send You home by Cripplegate.

The Middle Sister.

Dame Nature seems to make your Sisters stand
As Hand-maids that attend on either hand.
To right, or left I turn not; Poets say,
The middle is the best, and safest way.
Fortune, and Nature are your Friends (my fair;)
For they have plac'd you here in Vertues chair.
Doubtlesse in you the middle Grace I see,
On this side Faith, on that sweet Charity.
Your Sisters stand like banks on either side,
Whilst you the Crystal stream betwixt them glide.
Or if you will? they walk on either side,
Like Bride-maids, you in middle like a Bride.
What shall I more say? here, the Traveller sees
A pleasant walk between two rows of Trees.
The smooth, and silent Flood in th' middle-flows,
But the shoars murmur at the Banks rough brows.

To my Rival presenting my Mistris Gold, upon her Journey.

How now (my Heart of Gold) what mean these Fleeces?
Hast broke thy heart, and given it her in pieces?
Wouldst thou be in the List of fame enroll'd,
To court thy Love, like Jove, in showres of Gold?
This is State-policy, they win the Towers
That shoot Gold Bullets at the Governours.
Thou hadst good reason too, to use this sort
Of Golden battery to so strong a Fort;
Believe me this was a well cover'd bait,
You hope she will in Loves Exchange repay't.
I hope so too, (Sir) it was sawcy sport,
Should you not get Her Portion mortgag'd for't.
May be You were afraid to lose it, and
Made an Insurance-Office of her hand.
Or did the charmful sparkles of her eye
Daunt Your faint heart into a delivery?
Go charge the Country then, for it was done,
I am Your Witness, between Sun and Sun.
You, that Your Gold thus to a Virgin yield,
Doubtless a bush had rob'd You in the Field.
How if some Thief should steal way her Heart,
And of Her Portion take thy Gold in part.
This were a double misery, for then You
Lose both Your Ship, and Your Rich Cargo too
May be You think You have good Anchor hold,
And, in her Pockets bottom trust Your Gold.

Maidens are mutable, be wise, beware
The Wind, and Waves no more unconstant are.
But you have ballanc'd her with Gold, lest she,
Or You, should suffer by her levity.
But You abus'd Your self, and Her, much more,
To give her mony, give it to a Whore.
This I must say for her, she does not carry
The needy Garb of one that's mercenary.
I wonder she would take't? But 'tis an old
Proverb, that none but mad folks refuse Gold.
But, all the World, (should you now be deserted)
Would say, A fool and's mony is soon parted.

In Commendation of York-shire Ale.

Woman be nimble, and let's see thy craft,
My early stomack craves a Mornings draft.
Bring me that Indian pot, whence I may sip
Nectar, and balm from Cleopatra's lip.
That Marrow of Malt, where the Nut brown Toast
Smiles in the Flowery Ale, whose mirthful coast
Makes me turn Marriner, and hither sail,
To Court the confines of this famous Ale,
This noble Ale, this most substantial liquor,
That chears the Blade, & makes the Genius quicker.
Ideots a ship-board sick accuse the Seas,
When their own foul stomacks are the Disease.
So fools pick quarrel with pure cleansing Ale,
Because it doth Sir reverence wring their tale.
But these are such as never understood
The Aliment of Ale, or their own good.
Would but good Fellows meet, wee'd daily club,
And act the Sisters at the Danaan tub?

But I have done, lest while I Idolize
The shrine of Ale, I but enhaunce the price;
Be therefore this sufficient to be said
Alive 'tis Ale, and Aquæ vitæ, dead.

Upon the Shooemakers offering a Pair of Shooes for an Answer.

Fool! didst thou think up to revenge to climb,
By a poor mercenary, Hackney ryme?
Or that thou couldst thy leather purse-string stretch
Unto the Latitude my Brains would reach?
Away (Poor Pilch) when my keen Satyrs come
Off with your Hat, and scrape your answer Mum—
Shouldst thou buy lines to answer me, thou sop,
I'de write, till 't cost thee all the Shooes ith' Shop.

ALE.

Is this that Ale to which the Dyers flew
So fast, to wad their Copper Noses blew,
Bidding Old Stingo, cut throat Beer adieu?
Then give us Ale.

Is this that jolly juyce those bowsing brats
Soak'd in, and on their Shoulders set their Fats,
With Rams-heads in, and Rain-bows on their hats?
Then give us Ale.

Is this that Ale that makes your Dyers be
So oft from home, pray tell me where were ye?
Should all be hang'd that from their colours flee?
Then give us Ale.

Is this that York-shire stuffe, does so confound,
And send away the Weavers shutle-crown'd,
That they can neither find, nor feel the ground?
Then give us Ale.

Is this the Temple where the Weavers lay,
To meet the merry Merchants day by day,
And double Ale their single stuffs away?
Then give us Ale.

Is this that so much talkt of Northern hum,
For which both simpletons and Sages come?
Is this that Lanta ta tanta so? but mum.—
Then give us Ale.

Is this that same that did so much besot
The toasted Comber, as he quite forgot
His own, and then call'd for the other pot?
Then give us Ale.

Yea, give us Ale, for now I find it true,
That Merchants, Weavers, Combers, Dyers too,
And all the World this Liquor turns true blew.
Then give us Ale.

As for the Poet his unfeigned wishes
Are, that the Ocean were such Ale as this is,
That ye, and all true Trouts might drink like fishes.
Then give us Ale.

As for Old Merjery, that Northern Minks,
For my part such Ale as she brews she drinks.

A Stripling to his Lady who lookt upon him as too young.

Madam, I love You, should I not do so,
I were an Anch'ret, and my breast were Snow;
Were marble, I should say, for if it should
Be Snow, or Ice, my flames would melt the mould.
Be't what it will? I love, and here commence
Affection, usher'd in with Reverence.
Deign, but Your Lilly-hand, no bold desire
Shall wing up my Ambition any higher:
Nay, if that be too much? let me descry
My rudenesse chastiz'd in Your scornful eye.
But You all eage these early Years of mine
May look on, but not love Women, nor Wine.
Not love? Away, who can but love a Face
So lovely, unlesse of Deucalions Race?
Yet, while I love, and in my breast enshrine her,
I don't to pitty, but contempt encline her.
True, I am Young, but fast as Nature can,
Though, now a Boy, I shall e're long write Man.
Small as I am, the winged God has found me,
And thought me old enough (at least) to wound me.
Yet let me love thus young, I can produce
Some presidents to warrant my excuse.
And Yours too, Sapho summ'd up all her Joy,
In the embrace of a Sicilian Boy;
The Queen of Greece lov'd Theseus, but a Lad,
And Cytharea her Adonis had.
Nay, love himself that God, is but a Child,
Shall I then be for want of Years exil'd?

Yea, I have heard Fair Damsels say, in truth,
Of all that love, give me the smooth chin'd Youth.
My tender Years, my innocence may prove,
And non-acquaintance with the wyles of Love.
You are, that wounded me, the first, and all:
Blame me not then to come at the first call.

To Celia.

Not love you! whom the world confess
The miracle of prettiness.
That were an humour to disguise
My reason, and betray my eyes.
No, no, without dissimulation,
Your Beauty is too strong temptation.
Had I not found you the rare she,
Y' had liv'd, unlov'd, unmov'd by me?

I cannot court a common face,
Enriched with one single grace.
A forehead handsom, smooth, and high;
A lovely Lip, or Chin, or eye.
But pardon (Celia) if I love
You in whom more than all these movd,
Deign then one gentle smile on me,
Who will Your constant Umbra be.
So long as either I have eyes,
Or You have wherewith to surprize.
Choose (Madam) of the two, which You think best,
The harder favour, or a softer breast.

Aut faciem mutes, aut nè sis dura, necesse est.

To Pulcheria.

But tell me, will not Gold move thee,
Art thou more hard than Danae?
What? will these Pearls, these Orient gemms,
These Rubies reacht from Diadems
Advance me no step to thy Love?
Ile try if trivial toyes may move.
May be this Lilly, or that Rose
Win her acceptance more than those?
Yes, much at one, alas, I should
But tempt an Indian with my Gold.
Her locks are the true Golden Fleece,
Medea shew her love in Greece.
And what from Rubies hope I? tush,
Her Lips will make the Ruby blush.
Which, if a smile shall chance to sever,
You there shall see such Pearls as never
Nature yet boasted, as if she
Had only this one Treasury.
And, as for Gems, what sparks can fly
So bright, as those shot from her eye?
Lillies, alas, avail not much,
Her body is all over such.
And what's a Rose, since her Cheeks bear
A June of Roses all the year.

Love, blind, or not Blind?

1

What makes You think that Love is blind,
Since he dwells in the eye?
I rather the contrary find
In all my scrutiny.
For I, in Love had never been,
Had not mine eyes the Object seen.

2

And all the World in this agree
Love is a flaming fire:
If then a fire, nay flame it be?
What need we more desire
To prove that Love may have his sight,
From that which renders all things light.

3

Tell me not that Obfusca was
Born blind, and Lov'd on trust.
Admit the fable, yet, alas,
It was not Love, but Lust.
For she must have it understood,
Though nothing else, her feeling's good.

4

But You will say where stood his eyes
That chose so course a Wench
As Bab, since Men meet such a prize
On every common Bench?
This will be his retort again,
What's one Man's meat's anothers bane.

5

Here's one a Horse Face courts, whose weight
He knows will come in Gold,
And, so he have the mony strait,
Let her be crooked, old,
Splay-foot, blind, beetle-brow'd, and lame,
For he has that, for which he came.

6

Turn but Your eye, and You shall see
Anothers Fingers itch
To be embracing such a she
Is neither Fair, nor Rich:
Ask but his reason, and 'tis this
My mind to me a Kingdom is.

7

Thus one loves Fat, another lean,
This his Meat salt, that fresh,
This a fat Capon, that a Hen,
This Man loves Fish, that Flesh,

Thus all, their humours have, and now,
Here's the good man that kiss'd his Cow.

8

Who bears the fault, now, but the Boy,
The wanton Boy forsooth?
He with Old Women use to toy,
And teach them tricks of Youth.
Thus from our selves we still remove
Our dotage to the God of Love.

9

Whom falsely fools call Progeny
Of Vulcan God of fire,
If it were so? then he must be
Prodromus to his Sire.
For out of doubt he Love did know,
E're he came into Cuckolds row.

10

Then, let not hallow'd Love bear blame,
For humane fantasie,
Love is a pure Celestial flame,
Heaven and Earth's Mercury
Diffus'd on Mortals; let us hence
Accuse the Organ, not the influence.

11

Can any yet be so unwise
To think Love-blind, that can
Create an Argus hundred eyes,
To guard a Curtesan?
Whom, if You please, you may espy
Enthron'd in every sparkling eye.

12

Pray, which of You can shoot so right
As he, whom You call Blind?
He sticks his Arrows in the white,
Sure then he eyes must find.
Should You a Dart at any throw,
'Twere like the blind man at the Crow.

13

Ye are surpriz'd with each fair Face,
With every dimpled chin,
This comely feature, that sweet Grace
Are Snares to trap ye in.
What think ye then? not Love I wiss,
But ye are Capti oculis.

A Gentleman to a Lady that told him he lookt asquint upon her.

A Squint? why not, am I of Eagles race,
To try mine eyes upon Apollo's Face?
Admit I were? yet, when I look on thee,
Thy brighter beams force this obliquity.
Eagles should do the same, durst they but try
Their radiance at the birth-right of their eye.
What is this squinting, but, my feeble sight
Turn'd out of th' way by thy too powerful light?
Nay, could mine eye right on to thine aspire?
'Twould, burning glass-like set my heart on fire.
But, say I could? since thou thus slightest me,
What reason have I to look right on thee.
Come, be not you so cross-grain'd, to despise
A Breast that showes Her crosses in Her eyes.
Who silently each other thus reprove,
T'have let in cruel and ingrateful love.

Or else that eye is looking still at this,
Like Rivals jealous of each others bliss.

Clouds the Sun's Creatures are, and what am I,
But the meer Exhalation of Your eye.
The flies are buzzing where light Candles are,
And smoak. You know ever pursues the Fair:
Dayes interchange embraces with the night,
And shadows kiss the lovely Lips of light,
Why then (Florinda) art thou so unkind,
To scoffe the Mole, thy Beauty made thus blind?
But, am I blind, dost say? even thence does slow
This solace, that the God of Love is so:
Am I squint-ey'd, then I may glory in't,
The Sun it self, lights centre, looks asquint.

108

ELEGY

Upon my Worthy Friend Mr. Isaack Lawton.

Damme up those floods, what means all this ado!
Isaac is dead, and, is not Abraham too?
Do we not know, the just, and the unjust,
Are, alike, Captives in the chains of dust?
But, see, his soul shakes off those earthy Fetters,
And now is free, while we are natures Debters.
Yet, shall this Clay again in glory rise,
Nor needs it to be water'd with your eyes.
E're long upon his flowery Grave ye'l see
The Violets of his humility;
Lillies and blushing Roses shall spring thence,
Emblems of modesty and innocence.

109

With many more his Vertues to proclaim,
Deriving all their Odours from his name.
Is Death, the best thing God can mortals give?
Heaven seems to hate us then to let us live.
For his Decease, let others Mourners be,
I rather envy his Felicity.
This, I could sorrow for, and who would not?
Not to be worthy of his happier lot.
Yet, could ye mourn? this might Your grief aswage,
He did not live to be the Slave of Age.
And scorn of Fortune, rackt with doubts, despair,
False hope, and fear, as most Men living are.
Some sullen Souls, at Deaths unwelcom doom,
Break like an Earthquake from the trembling womb.
And with unknown Convulsions, tear, and wrest,
As Devils took their leave of the possest.
But Lawton's parting was so still, his soul
Out of his body broke not, but, even stole.
The peaceful Psyche is to Heaven fled,
Leaving her sleeping consort in the bed.
No noise she made, nor of grief any shew,
Only one sigh, to bid her sweet, adieu.
Her easie steps he neither hear'd, nor felt,
Yet on his Lips some minutes space she dwelt.
As who should say, sleep on, and by this kiss
Ile come, and wake thee to Eternal bliss.

110

An Elegy upon Sir Henry Wright Baronet, who dyed Feb. 5. 1663.

Essex has lost her better Genius,
The Son of Englands Esculapius.
The King has lost a Subject of Renown,
None of the meanest Jewels of his Crown.
Sir Henry Wright, in whose deplored losse,
The Church too has th' addition of a Crosse.
Relations, Neighbors, Tenants, Servants, all
Are here concern'd, the loss is general.
His Death exacts of whosoe're it hears,
Tempests of sighs, and Hurricans of tears.
Faith, Justice, Love, and Loyalty are gone
With blest Astrea to the Horizon.
With whom our comforts like a Winters Sun,
Vanisht almost as soon as they begun;
Scarce did his early rayes arrive at noon,
He liv'd too fast, and therefore dy'd too soon.
Where others make an end, he did begin.
True, he has green without, but grave within.
And when at any time he silence broke
An Age, at least, beyond himself he spoke.
As if his reason, and his Richer sense
He ow'd to Nature, not Experience.
The vastnesse of his Heart, in this was shown,
That Hospital'ty made his House Her Throne.
He was of all belov'd to whom as due,
His King gave Honour, and his Country too.
Who all for him unanimous votes did give,
To be (as twice) their Representative.

111

Of whom their wisely grounded hope was more
Than Alexander gave a Kingdom for.
Nor were they here deceiv'd, he was so just
With interest, he answer'd all their trust.
He din'd but here, and went to Heaven to supper,
Rais'd from the lower house, now, to the upper.
Then let his Lady spare her precious flood,
Since a whole Kingdom shares her Widow-hood.
Whose flowing eyes must like another Nyle,
Drown the sad Face of this impoverisht Isle.

Upon a Gentleman drown'd, and lost in the River Wharfe in Yorkshire.

It signifies just nothing, when Heaven calls,
Let Worms, or Fishes, be our Cannibals.
My fancy yet, the nobler Fish prefers
Before the Worms, those crawling Sepulchers.
Nor care I much, since something must confound me,
A Feaver burn me, or a Dropsie drown me?
Flesh has its Period, and that stop being come,
What could he wish, but such a Crystal Tomb?
Whence he, in time may mount up to the Sun,
In some translucid Exhalation.
Whilst such, as in their Chambers make their ends,
Bugbears become, and scare-Crows to their Friends.
But he that liv'd, and I hope dy'd in Christ,
Could not be so much drown'd, as re-baptiz'd.
So Gods Elect (pardon our gloss upon't)
Had no less than an Ocean for their Font.

112

Why then bemoan ye him, who happy man,
Crost but this Jordan into Canaan.
That more than milky Paradice? They must swim
Oceans of Tears that mean to follow him.
Cease then vain search, and let those bones alone,
That rest with Moses in a Tomb unknown.
For know he had spite of his fatal fall,
Floated e're this, but that he had no gall:
Whom silent deeps conceal, least he once found,
Should in our Tears a second time be drown'd.

Upon a Lady at York dying in Child-Birth.

And, but Her fate was such, think ye that she
Could fall beneath these flags of Victory.
Not possible, but, ah! this Lilly-bed,
Was ashy Death mounted on his pale steed;
That Prince of terrors from the Sisters sent
To rifle and take down this silver Tent.
And, what was that to us, if Heaven thought meet,
That she should lay in, in Her Winding sheet?
Or that Her Son thus unaccustom'd wise,
Should Phœnix like from Her own ashes rise.
Or, that his Spring must needs her Autumn be,
And we have but a Pippin for a Tree?
All still to love, and providence impūte,
That labour is not lost that's crown'd with Fruit.
Nay, let us rather Heavens just praise proclaim,
That from a shadow such a substance came.

113

Not but her Years so fresh, so full of bloom,
Among the living might have still found room.
But that her soul which nought, but, Heaven contents,
Became too volatile for its Elements.
Which, ('cause their centres, yet, contrary are)
Subsided, and became this falling Star.
Left here as pledge, till Earth shall kiss the Skies,
And Dust in glory to its Consort rise.
Meanwhile thus White, thus all in brydal State,
To Her bright Spouse ascends Heaven's Candidate.
How then is Fate unkind? Death comes but right,
'Tis sickle-season when the Fields are white.
Yea, even her Bed did so all-white appear,
As if her innocence would still live there.
Thus Heaven, and Earth conspire a glorious day,
When Soul and Body go the milky way.

Epitaph upon Mr. Robert Dey Apothecary.

Norwich in sorrows weeds attend his Urn,
And, not for his, but, for your own sakes mourn.
Remember Citizens how ye us'd to fly
To sue out your reprives from Death, to Dye.
Whose Salutiferous Magazine of Arts,
Was Your sole Sanctuary 'gainst Death's Darts.
Their feeble nature in a trice might be,
Arm'd against all Diseases Cap a Pe.
But he is gone, and in a good Old Age,
Took his calm exit off a turbulent Stage.
His Death, as harmlesse as his Birth, from whence
His dayes deriv'd a double Innocence.

114

Whilst we (for so perhaps Heaven has thought good,)
Are left to write our stories in our blood.
Times sythe has wounded him, but he has got
Such semper vivum as he feels it not.
With Faith, Hope, Charity, and Contrition,
He made up his Cœlestial composition.
And with an Unctious name, he mixt a Roll
Of Gratia-Dei and embalm'd his Soul.
Whose thread of Life, cut by the Sisters knife,
For Aqua vitæ, he drinks Water of Life
Unto his praises much might added be,
But take this one for all, namely, that he,
Even Dey the true Apothecary was,
All that are left, are but Synonyma's.

Epitaph upon a Weaver.

Here lyes a Weaver, whom that Turk,
And Tyrant Death turn'd out of Work.

115

Poor fellow, he is gone, what though?
He's out of bonds, would I were so.
Alas he sold Chamelion ware,
By which he sav'd scarce ought but air.
Gone, quoth he! pray, how should he stay?
Such gain will drive us all away.
Well, 'twas a sad and suddain change,
And yet to me 'tis nothing strange.
For tradings dead, and Wares will give
No price at all, how could he live?

116

MAN.

What time Jehovah, Heaven & Earths Creator,
Had finisht this his foot-stool's vast Theatre.
He brings up Man, that all the World might see,
His all-wise Art in their Epitome.
His Body, his base part Earth represents,
His Heaven breath'd soul, Earth's soul, the Elements.
Th' Ingredients of the World are, water, air,
Earth, Fire, and even such Man's ingredients are.
Your leave, and thus the semblance I rehearse
Between the great and little universe.

His head's Orbicular, like the circular Skies,
Whose Lamps meet Rivals in his Orient eyes.
And as 'tis Heaven most like, 'tis Heaven most near,
Reason swayes her Majestick Scepter there.
That Divine guest that makes a man, thence all
The senses borrow their Original.
And, as their sole, and supream Court repair,
To manifest their virtues in that chair.
Nor may I here forget that comely front,
That even surprizes all that look upon't.

117

Those lovely Lineaments, those goodly graces,
Attend the sweets of well proportion'd faces.
What Wonders Nature in his Tongue commences,
The Instrument of his delicious senses.
Which we beyond expresse, oft times refresh
With Rapsodies from that small film of flesh.
How right here's Pan, and Phœbus whilst our ears
Are partial 'twixt our voyces and the Sphears.
Somtimes 'tis gentle, and again as loud,
As thunder roaring from the shattered Cloud.
His hair does with the piles of grass agree
Both, equal foot-steps of a Deity.
Both the effect of moisture, who so seeks
The Rose, and Lilly, they blow in his Cheeks.
Nay, what can You present, but he commands,
The lively trans-hope from his Protean hands?
His blood is like the streams, that to and fro,
Turning and winding are the centre through.
Should I here swell my story to present,
The Office of each Chord, each ligament.
The Nerves, then tendons, and the Arteries?
My Life would be too short to finish these.
Nay, there is nothing, but in it I see
A theme of wonder to Eternity.

And yet, this body we can't praise enough,
Compare it with the soul, 'tis sordid stuffe.
There's no such difference 'twixt the sorry case,
And Jewel, 'twixt the mask and the fair face.
Our bodies, doubtlesse, are a kin to all,
The very Beasts, and as those Beasts, they fall.
But by our souls, we are to Heaven ally'd,
Which, with our bodies shall be glorify'd.
Nature's appointed time of change revolves,
And Flesh into its Elements resolves.

118

His native heat does to the Fire repair,
Humours to water, breath to the next air.
The bones, and parts that are more solid, must
Lye Pris'ners, till they render dust to dust.
Mean while the soul her native station keeps
In Heaven, whilst nature in her causes sleeps.

HELL.

Par nulla figura Gehennæ.

Accursed Topheth! how shall I define
This dismal Dungeon, this sad Cell of thine?
So dusky, dark, so wholly void of light,
How shall I see to draw thy Picture right?
What colours shall I use? Colours said I,
Thou art all black, black as Proserpines eye.
Deep, and declive, beneath the dead Sea is
In a blind hole, this thy all black abyss.
Thy pitchy Palace, where the chearly Sun
Ne're comes, as out of his Commission.
Nor lends the Moon so much as one odd night,
To qualifie thy darknesse with her light.
Which we but sleep by? No, nor all the Year,
Does one small Star on thy dark front appear.
Thou blackest Moor ask but thy Danaan train,
Their Tub-task tells thee, thou art Labour in vain.
Go ask Ixion else, or him whose stone
Gathers no moss, they all conclude in one.
Thou the true Negro art, and Patentee
Of utter shades, there is no night but thee.

119

The darknesse the Ægyptians felt, was but
A Type of thine, and that too fairly cut.
Tartarious Tullian, how thy tract is trod
To Baalzebub, Knight of the black Rod?
Whose haggy hair curls into snaky torts
More terrible than Poets poor reports.
His gashly, yea, his grisly look is such,
My sense forsakes me if I think on't much.
His Horns, the fire-fork is wherewith he turns
Those broyling sceletons, he ever burns.
In flames that never shall be quencht, but hark!
I talk of flames, and yet I call Hell dark!
Flames, it is true, there are, but black, not bright,
Yea there is Fire, and yet no Fire-light.

Foul Fiend! Thy Nose is like a Comet, or
The tail of some prodigious Meteor.
Well may it serve thee for a red hot pur,
Wherewith thou dost thy stifling Sulphur stir.
Thy sooty Eye-brows are as black as coals,
Smoakt with thine eyes that flame like Oven holes.
Mean while the corners where fresh Brimstom lies,
Portends a yellow Jaundise in thine eyes.
Or rather the black Jaundise is thy grief,
But thy Disease admits of no relief.
Thy mouth, like raging Ætna, vomits fire,
The furious flames of thy unslackt desire.
As much attractive, and as merc'less as
The seven times hotter heated furnace was.
Thine arms are fiery Fetters that embrace
Those Monuments of misery, whose sad case,
Thou dost not pitty, though thou seem'st a while,
To weep upon them, like the Crocodile.
Have You not heard of smoaking Sodom? such
His breath's, but Sodom smoaks not halfe so much,

120

His veyns are streams of Sulphur; his loud lungs
His bellows, and his hideous hands, his tongues.
His black, and Melancholly blood contains
Worse poyson than e're lurkt in Centaurs veyns.
And, by his cloven foot, 'tis plainly shown,
His Kingdom runs upon division.

These are his titles; The Unfathom'd Gulfe,
The Roaring Lyon, and the Raging Wolfe.
The Wilde-Boar of the Forrest, the Annoyer
Of Christian Liberty, the Destroyer.
The mortal Enemy of all Mankind,
By these and such like terms is he defin'd.
Father of falshood, Feces of the Cup
Of Condemnation, who can summe thee up.
Or set thee forth? No hand can e're effect it,
Unlesse that hand that captiv'd thee direct it.
Envy her Ensign on thy front displayes,
And like the balsilisk at distance slayes.
Thy nose, steep as the Alps, parts two deep Cells,
On this side hatred, that side malice dwells.
And, cause such Beauty some preservative ask
Shame and Confusion are thy constant mask.
But least my Charcoal fail to finish thee,
Thou art the form, of all deformity.

As for thy Vassals, thus begin their evils,
Their entrance strait transforms them into Devils.
Their entertainment will be such, as they
Shall flee to death, but death shall flee away.
The torturous worm that gnaws their Consciences,
Does like Prometheus vultur never cease.
Curses are all hymnes, their parched throats,
Can't Lachrymæ in lamentable notes.
Their Ditty's blasphemy, schrieching their strains,
Howling their tune, whose burthen grief sustains.

121

With sighs and sobs, gnashing their teeth, thus run,
Their doleful descant, and division.
Well knew our Saviour Judas sad estate,
When he pronounc'd his Birth infortunate.
Alass? these sufferings are unsufferable,
Yet must be born, although we be not able.
Sad is the strength, that is, but lent us to
Sustain the Atlas of a greater woe.
Of Fables fond and foolish Poets tell,
That Hercules went, and return'd from Hell.
Well might he go, but if he e're return'd,
To tell his rearival Ile be burn'd.
He that comes to this place, he must discusse,
His exit with a stouter Cerberus.
Alcides might, and Orpheus mirth must fail,
They cannot 'gainst the Gates of Hell prevail.
No hope of breaking out, the Dungeons deep,
And the vast trench environs it is sleep.
'Tis wall'd to Heaven, and has a dreadful mote,
Nine times surrounds it, that will bear no boat.
Sure such a Gulph 'twixt thee, and me doth flow,
Thou canst not hither, nor we thither go.
Despair, and dye; hope no revocative day,
Since thou art banisht into Scythia.
Ye that drink the Worlds Lethe, forget God,
See here his Scorpions, see his flaming rod.
Ye jeasted with edg'd tools, but though the heel
Of Justice lead is, know her hand is steel.
Heart piercing words, depart ye, from my sight,
Into the bosom of confused night.
Hurry him hence, headlong him down beneath,
To the black valley of eternal death.
Think not thy Curtains are commanded close,
To apt thy eyes to a secure repose.

122

No, Hells hard servic'd Centinels must keep
Continual Watch, and never, never sleep.
Nor be reliev'd: No Circean Lullabies
Shall be of power to charm their damned eyes.
Think now, prophanest liver, do but think
How thou of this so bitter Cup wilt drink;
What I have writ, read, and consider well,
And tell me then, but what thou thinkst of Hell.
Didst thou ly waking on a bed more soft
Than Down, pluckt from the Ravens quill, how oft
Wouldst thou wisht Morning? lingring for the light,
Though Bed-rid but a poor Cymerian night.
Think then how thou wilt tosse thy restless head,
Where everlasting burning is thy bed.
Think then, I say, of their accurs'd condition,
Whose misery admits no intermission.
This is that bitter drought, whose dire dregs be
The limits of these woes, Eternity.
One thing most strange, and what I much ad Mir'is.
A wise man thinks there no material Fire is.
But who believes it not's worse than the Devil,
And, I had almost said bad as Will Nevill.
Here I break off, should I proceed to tell
What such have lost, that were another Hell.

------ En ultima tanti
Meta furoris adest.

Innocents Day.

Scarce was the Heaven bless'd Mary's travel done,
But she again must travel with her Son.

123

The Virgin Mother was, that Star-light day,
Instead of brought to bed, brought on her way.
Twice too, was she deliver'd, sayes the Text,
Of her pain first, and of her peril next.

Angel-warn'd Joseph does his journey take,
For Ægypt, and the Babes of Bethlehem make
Another Red Sea of their Reeking blood,
And sigh their Saviour o're the Crimson flood.
Scarce had they found out yet the milky springs,
When the unpittying sword Deaths errand brings.
The tender Lambs fall, the Old Fox his prey:
They could not stand to't, no, nor run away.
With naked breast, the naked steel they met,
They had not learned to cry Quarter yet.
The Butchers break in with Deaths loud alarms,
And make a Shambles of the Mothers arms:
One blow dispatches both, when the Child dyes,
The Mother pours her Soul out at her eyes.
They both lye drown'd, though not in the same floud,
Rachel in Tears, and her sweet Babe in bloud.
The wounds of Death, the most of them endur'd,
E're time had those of Circumcision cur'd.
Thus Joseph like, the Babes of Joseph's stem,
Crawle from the Dungeon to the Diadem.
And since for Christ's sake, to the Crosse they come,
Their Massacre is made a Martyrdom.
The holy cause, 'tis like, they did not know,
And yet, they suffer'd with a witnesse though.
Nor need the Army of the Martyrs be
Asham'd to own this noble Infantry.
Who have with them, Christs Cross, and colours born,
And more than that, have led up the forlorn.

124

HEAVEN.

Heaven! Lord what's that? Is it that heap of Treasure,
The Worldling hugs so, or that sweet of pleasure
So idoliz'd, is it that glorious puffe
Of honour, wherewith men ne're swell enuffe.
Or is it Beauty, whose Cœlestial fire
Blows up that Ætna of the Worlds desire?
Lyes it else in revenge, that sweet, sweet ease
Of injuries no, no, 'tis none of these;
For wealth, alas, has Wings, and all the rest
Are vanity of vanity at best.
What is it then? Earths wide streacht Canopie,
The glittering surface of the ambient Sky?
Is it the Sun, that glorious globe of light,
Or his bright Consort, Empresse of the night?
No, none of these; we must ascend a sphear,
Two stories higher than our eyes, and there.
Even there this Heaven of Heaven is, but first I
E're I can tell You what it is must dye.
In vain for Heaven, I darkling grope about,
I cannot see't untill these eyes be out.
Eyes have not seen, nor yet hath humane ear,
Heard of the joyes, those joyes of joyes are there.
Nor hath it enter'd into th' heart of Man,
'Tis too angust, ah, 'tis too small a span
To entertain't, we must per force decline it,
Heaven were not Heaven, could flesh & blood define it?
Grant (O my God) that I not being able,
To shew ye Heaven, make not Heaven seem a fable.

125

But lo! the Sacred spirit here descends
Unto our understanding, and commends.
This inexpressive Paradise, and even
As it were by reflexion, showes us Heaven.
Which he a sumptuous City calls, built on,
And by Christ Jesus the true Corner stone.
This City, not with hands made, is four square,
East, West, North, South-gates equidistant are.
Length, height, and breadth do all conspire to be
The uniform of perfect Symetry.
Twelve Gates there are of most magnificent state,
Made of twelve Pearls, of every Pearl a Gate.
And, as twelve Gates of twelve vast Pearls so here,
Twelve Rich Foundations of twelve gems appear.
The Sardus, Saphyr, and the Sardonix,
The Topas, Jasper, and Jacynth are six.
The Beriu, Amethist, and Calcedenite,
Chrysoprasus emral'd, and Chysolite.
Make up the four times three, whose sparkling light,
Banish all possibility of night.
The stately streets all along as ye passe,
Are pav'd with Gold transparenter than glasse.
Through which the silver streams of Life, convey
Their Crystal Currents whilst in Rich array.
On either side this glittering Tagus, stand
The Trees of Life, whose Boughs bow to the hand.
There's neither Sun, nor Moon, in that bright sphear,
He that lent them their light, himself shines there.
There's none that watch, nor none that guard relieves,
What need there, since there's neither night nor theeves.
There's nothing grieves, no being al amort:
Darknesse and Death are Strangers in that Court.
Envy, back-biting, malice, and disgrace
Sorrow, and sicknesse, come not in that place.

126

Without are Dogs, nothing that is unclean,
Has any part in that all blissful Scene.
But meeknesse joy, and all extreams of Love,
Such are the Stars in that bright Orb that move,
It is a Kingdom of so vast Renown,
And Triumph, every Subject wears a Crown.
Where (blessed God) they feast their eyes on thee.
And look their bliss into Eternity.

How shall I hope sufficiently t'admire
Those living Powers in thy Cœlestial Quire?
Those Thousand Thousands that attend upon
The radiant Throne of thy all glorious Son.
Angels, Archangels, Cherubim, and Thrones,
Amazing Seraphim, and Dominions.
Which, in thy highest presence alwayes sit
Enjoying Happinesse next to infinit.
Any of which descending from his story,
Would Extacy, and kill us with his glory.
Here, close Your Lids my daring eyes, least ye
Where Angels hide their Faces be too free.
Lord how I reach, and roam t'uncurtain Heaven!
Whilst I am even of mine own self bereaven.
O take these Fetters, take these Clogs from me,
Take these scales from mine eyes that I may see.
Thy Tabernacle, thy Hierusalem,
Which thou, Heavens Monarch hast prepar'd for them
That love, and serve thee, ah me! when shall I
Come and appear before thy Majesty?
Where e're thou be, let me but see thy face,
Ile ask no other Heaven, no other place.
If thou descend into th' abyss below,
My soul shall wish no other Heaven to know.
Where thou art, Heaven is, 'tis not the resort
Of Courtiers, but the King that makes the Court.

127

I do not stand on this, or any place,
Only in mercy, let me see thy face.
Thus have I taken pains, to shew ye that
Which is, I must confess I know not what.

129

Upon one Mr. Lee, desiring some Friends of his to steal a Westphalia Ham, and giving them Sack to it.

A Strangers Quarter, such as daily we
Upon the City Gates are wont to see.
Hanging upon a Tavern Kitchin baulk,
Became an eye-soar, and a Coffee-talk.
One Mr. Lee, by chance, by the fire side,
Askt if this Male factor had been try'd.
Enquires his name and Country, and hears say,
Bacon by name, Country Westphalia:
Bacon said he? This Bacon is, by Og,
But once removed from Mine Here Van Hog.
Nearly related to my Lord Wilde Boar,
A Potentate whom Pearls are cast before.

130

And 'tis not fit one of extraction rare,
With Mahomet, should hang still in the air.
I therefore wisht, sayes he, some friends of mine,
Would bury him, and I'de find Bread and Wine.
Of whom I hope, I may this favour beg,
In that I joyn the Hogs-head to the Leg.
With that we had him to a spacious room,
Princes themselves would envy such a tomb.
In plenteous bowls, we pour'd out all our mones,
And there in decent manner laid his bones.
Knowing right well after the Funeral Feast,
Our bellies full, the bones would be at rest.
I blame the Wine, for I professe the Sack
Was on the Lee, the Bacon went to rack.
Yet there's lesse reason to condemn the Wine,
For who denies, but, it was fit for Swine?
Thus in a frolick of the highest peg,
Lee made us drink, and we made Lee a Leg.

Upon a City Captain in Eutopia, arresting a Book-seller for beating him.

Book beats down Buffe here, & the Trophies parts,
Why that's no wonder, Arms must yield to Arts.
His War-like Limbs upon the floor were spread,
Never, alas, was Buffe so buffetted.
'Twas a fine fight, had You but been to see't?
There Marslay couchant at Apollo's feet.
The Man of Iron did at first look grim,
But Book turn'd over a new leaf with him.

131

Could such a martial out-side let in fear?
To quit his station for a Stationer.
Doubtlesse, the City cannot choose but be
Sweetly helpt up, with such Auxil'ary.
She need not fear, he will defend her Wall,
As bravely, as the Gyants do Guild-Hall.
He wears a Guilded Gorget, what of it?
A Ladies Gorget would be far more fit.
A just comparison, for, as I take it,
An Amazon would put him in her placket.
A Booby, a Buffoon, a thing so tame,
He wears no terrour 'bout him, but his name.
And that too, now is so ridic'lous made,
As it makes none except himself afraid.
When Helmets by his prowess should be cleft,
Alas! his heart is with his Mistrisse left.
Set paces through the Street he measures out,
But, cannot, would he hang himself, look stout.
And he does wear, that all the World may see,
The sillyest Head-piece of the company.
And let a real Enemy appear,
I would not, for a groat, be in his Rear.
In brief, the Puppet is scarce fit to be
One of the Life-Guard to a Cherry-tree.
And therefore, lest there a Don Quixot want,
The Windmils take thee for their Combatant.
Yet, if thou shouldst the Wind would blow thee down,
And take advantage of thy copple-crown.

But, Sir, the Serjeants that you sent to me,
Were they the Serjeants of Your Company?
'Tis like they were, for they had learnt of You,
To come behind, to shew their valour too.
Herein (brave Heroe) you Your self enlarge,
Your Serjeants rally to a Counter-charge.

132

Plain Dealing.

Written by Mr. A. B.

1

Well, well, 'tis true,
I am now faln in Love,
And 'tis with You.
But since I plainly see,
Whilst you'r enthron'd by me above,
You all your Arts, and Powers improve
To tyrant over me,
And make my flames th' incentives of Your scorn,
Whilst You rejoyce, and feast Your eyes,
To see me thus forlorn.

2

But yet be wise,
And don't believe that I
Did think Your eyes
Brighter than Stars could be,
Or, that Your Face Angels out-vies
In their Cœlestial Liveries,
'Tis all but Poetry,
I could have said as much by any she,
You are not Beauteous of your self,
But are made so by me.

133

3

Though we like fools
Fathom the Earth, the Sky,
And drein the Schools
For names t'express you by.
Out-rant the lowd'st Hyperboles
To dub ye Saints, and Deities,
By Cupids Heraldry.
We know y'are flesh and blood as well as Men,
And when we please, can mortalize,
And make ye so again.

4

But since that fate
Has drawn me to the sin
That I did hate,
He not my labour loose;
But purpose, since my hand is in,
Thus to love on, as I begin,
Spite of those Arts you use,
And let You see the World is not so bare,
There's things enough to love, beside
Such toyes as Women are.

5

I'le love good Wine,
Ile love my Book, my Muse,
Nay all the nine.
Ile love my real Friend,
Ile love my Horse, or, could I chuse
One that would not my Love abuse.
To Her my Love should bend.

134

Ile love all those that laugh, and those that sing,
Ile love my Country, Prince and Laws,
And those that love the King.

As plain dealing, being the Ladies Answer.

1

Well, well, 'tis true,
I now am out of Love,
And 'tis with You:
For since I plainly see
Yon are so high, You cannot take
A look undress'd, but You must make
Your Sing-songs thus of me;
Ile henceforth squib your Wild-fire flames & scorn,
Redintegration, leaving you
Without all hope, forlorn.

2

Come (Sir) be wise,
And be assur'd that I
Have stor'd mine eyes
With such Artillery.
One smile would make me Stars out do,
And be Your better Angel too,
For all Your Poetry;
You must, I see, again to Cupids School,
You neither can me Beauteous make,
Nor yet make me a fool.

135

3

Your Ranting talk
Of fathoming the Sky,
As much needs chalk,
As ever Bedlams lye;
You Deities and Saints can dub,
Come (gentle Love) out of the Tub
And see thy Heraldry.
Flesh though we be, and Blood whom death controuls,
Yet to obtain that Flesh and Blood,
You'l pawn your very souls.

4

But is it then
Counted a sin to love;
Amongst you Men
What Art I can, Ile use,
And all my spight and scorn improve,
Lest You a second sure should move,
And so your labour loose;
You say the World is wide, tell them that care,
For I have more to do, than mind
Such toyes as Lovers are.

5

Go, love Your Wine,
Your Book, this Muse and that,
Nay all the nine
So You will not love me,
For me, I love my Dog, my Cat,
Nay, I could love I care not what,
So it may not be thee:

136

Love You Your Ranting, and Your laughing Crew,
I love my Country, and my King,
And those that laugh at you.

Upon a long, long'd for Friend contingently met in an Inn, who lay all night next Chamber to me, and I never knew it till next morning.

Next Room, and I not know it? 'tis a sign
The Poet had forgotten to Divine.
What Circe charm'd me? did the last Nights Cup
Of Lethe's Ice, lock my dull senses up.
With Morpheus Leaden Key? Endymions Cave
Was never so profound, as the warm Grave.
Rockt me in this dead sleep; No more then, say
With those of Old, Love will find out the way.
For Love is blind, as midnight, else for certain,
His eyes had pierc'd a porous Wainscoat Curtain.
Dead men can look through clay, and never stood
In need of Souls to call out murder'd blood.
And shall Revenge such correspondence keep
With Death, and (Love) none with Deaths Brother, sleep?
Officious steel to's proper pole does move:
How call ye Love the Load-stone then of Love?
The Marygold, and Heliotroph obey
Each motion of the Emperor of the day.
The crusty Oyster knows the Tides just hour,
And by instinct unlocks her Pearly Tower.

137

Jet will attract, and, if ye rub it, Amber;
What soul had I, reacht not to the next Chamber?
Could my dull Muse my senses recommend
To rest, should lose th' Idea of my Friend.
I have not ly'd, (I hope) when I exprest,
I alwayes did at his devotion rest.
Where were those active Atomes that convey
Intelligence? had they too lost their way?
Was I forsaken of my Genius?
No Mercury? No Mephestophilus?
Another, if but talkt of, far or near,
The news comes glowing hot up to his ear.
If good, or bad? he need no further seek,
For a Discovery than his own Cheek:
If thought on by his Mistriss, as much mis'd,
A flea leaps with the tidings to his wrist:
If he must kisse a fool, Or else drink Wine?
Follow his Nose, it leads him to the sign.
Swine ken the Wind, Beasts Rain, the silly Mouse
Foresees, and shuns the downfall of a house.
Plants, Fish, and Fowle, even all things know their season,
And bring their sense, thus, to upbraid my reason.

But more than Fortune had a hand in this,
To add the greater sweetnesse to our blisse.
Not willing that our joy should come to light,
Like greasie Candles in a gloomy night.
When I should say, well met, but I must leave ye,
My heart is light Sir, but, my eyes are heavy.
My kinder stars did well my joyes suspend,
Because the Morning is the Muses Friend.
It therefore, was of Industry forborn,
Till the sweet up-rise of the Rosie Morn;
That Titan might avow it with a beam,
Which, had we met o're night, had been a dream.

138

The Scotch Covenant Army first coming into England.

Now comes the Army, which did you but see,
You'd swear it were a Jail delivery.
They march'd like Gospellers indeed, none took
Two Coats, the best had but a Plymouth Cloak.
First, came the Famous Pedlar, with his pack
Of small Wares, namely, Oatmeal at his back.
In forraign Fields, he'l now no longer rome,
But comes for Christs sake to kill men at home.
With him the Horse which so behalter'd were,
A Man would judge them, going to a Fair.
The Trumpet Boote sell sounds oft and long,
But deil a Boot, or Sadle in the throng.
Their Boots were Wisps, they on their Legs did draw:
Who then can say, they were not worth a straw?
And as for sadles, some got Blew Caps, some
Got their old Leather breeks to ease the bumm.
If Scotland unto sadles Trees, should find them,
They'd brought away, more than they'd left behind them.
But hold, these were no Jury men, I trow,
Yet, they impannel'd were, on Horse-back though.
I wonder they ne're in the stirrop hung,
For either Foot was with a halter strung.
By which it doth evidently appear,
They came to do much Execution here.
Witnesse this Covenant of Ropes, they tye
Themselves to bear away accordingly.

139

Thus on their Gallowayes while the Army jogs,
You'd swear their muckle Horse were Mastiffe dogs.
On whose keen backs, they did their bums endorse,
As Men condemn'd to ride the Wooden Horse.
Horses did not complain for want of shoon,
And reason good, for they themselves had none.

The Foot marcht in such hast, that I suppose,
Many a Leg there was out-ran his hose.
Their Cloaths so tatter'd were, the English swore,
That they had been in fight the day before.
For their slasht Doubtlets were scollopt with Rags,
And a fit prey for Dunghil Rakers bags.
O had the Army stood a little still,
What work had there been for a paper will?
But, that in those so antiquated cuts,
The 'Squires of the body had their huts.
Of all the Shirts upon their backs was found
Scarce so much lint would dresse a single wound.
Hot Marches set their Throats on such a flame,
They made a drought of Hogs troughs as they came.
I might march on, but here's enough of these
Volumes must speak their bags and baggages.
In brief here every Ammunition Jack,
Carry'd at least an Army on his back.
And his own Muster-master was, these Fighters,
Though bosom Friends, would else soon turn back biters.
And truly here each individial Widgeon,
Might with the Devil say, my name is Legion.

140

King CHARLES the First.

Our Dread, & dearest Sov'raign Charles the First,
The best of Men was murder'd by the worst.
At His own Gate, by His own Subjects too,
What more could Barbarous Moors and Scythians do?
False Scots, betray'd, and sold him, Loons that would
Betray again our Saviour Christ, for Gold.
Thus fell our Laws, and Liberties Assertor,
The Churches Champion, and the Peoples Martyr.
To prove him Wise, Just, Learned only look
Into his most incomparable Book:
Which shall his Name to latest time present,
When Brass and Marble need a Monument.

The High and Mighty Monarch CHARLES the Second.

England awake! see how the Royal beams,
Like Easters Sun, dance on the wanton streams.
Great Cæsar comes, the Phosphor of our Morn,
After an Ages night of woe, and scorn.
Hail Sacred Phœnix, thou that dost return
From the spic'd ashes of thy Fathers Urn.
Ride on, and reckon every day of thine
Auspicious, as thy twice May's twenty nine.
He that has never been Unfortunate,
Savours not halfe the sweets of happier Fate.

141

That comfort only is secure, and high,
Whose base is deepest laid in misery.

To Boscobella.

Madam,

I love, and truly, should I not,
I must have both You, and my self forgot?
I talk not of the little winged Boy,
Nor his Fair flattering Mother that burnt Troy.
Nor cloath I my Discourse in Past'ral dresse,
Call my self Swain, nor You my Sheperdesse.
I rank You not with Heavens bright Tutelars,
Nor Rival You unto the Moon, or Stars.
Condemn not then my plainnesse, for I mean
No feigned story, but Love's faithful scene.
And send You therefore to augment its Fuel,
This present of Plain dealing, for a Jewel.

Upon George Satchell, presenting his Master Kid instead of Fawn.

How! give him Kid, for Fawn? (George) You might thus
Make him a Rabbet of a roasted Pusse.
This is Welch Venison indeed, ods lid,
Didst think to fawn upon him with a Kid?

142

This Venison thou didst at sight procure,
Thou were't not George on horse-back, for it sure.
But, had thy Masters sense been quick, and neat,
He could not choose, but have smelt out the cheat.
My Muse of this excuse for thee bethinks,
Some hold that Venison is best when 't stinks.
May be he Kid for Venison had took,
Hadst thou but had Rebeccha for thy Cook?
But this so stunk, it did detect thy Knavery,
Rebeccha never could have made it savoury.
I'm confident thy Master did disburse
Not the least blessing to thee, but a curse.
How didst thou catch it? prethee say, I heard,
As David did the Lyon, by the beard.
Thy Venison is such, thy Master scorns,
And for thy labour, sends thee back the horns.
This Rammish changling does with Ven'son matcht ill,
But who would look for Ven'son in a satchel.

Upon a Gentleman presenting His Mistris a young Cypress Cat.

Your meaning pray, that You present Her thus
A Kitling, do You take Her for a Pusse?
'Tis probable, You might suspect her, nay,
And thought Your Cat would sure, claw her away.
Why did You not, if Puss Your mind must break,
Provide her drink, that would make a Cat speak?
This serious object (Sir) may spoil her chat,
And make her melancholy, as Your Cat.
Your wishes yet, may so redresse your folly,
As all her clouds may turn, Love Melancholly.

143

It seems the Lady's of a loving mind,
And then, do what you can, Cat will to kind.
The present proper is, maugre the Fates,
The Cupboards Courtiers are the Maids and Cats.
You shew Your self a Polititian,
But how if she should now turn Cat in pan?
Or if some friend should chance with her prevail,
And like the Cat, she should play with her tail?
Then you in Your defence must guard the house,
And watch her, as a Cat should watch a mouse.
Yet, know it, if you keep too strict a watch,
You'l live like Dogs and Cats, to bite and scratch?
If this should happen (but I hope not though,)
Puss must resign her Cypress to your brow.
And could Your Cat her Lives to You assign,
Ile lay my Life You would bate eight, of nine.
But what a fool am I, to be controwling
A fancy that is run a Caterwowling?
I hope she will not from this Cat infer,
That You'l turn Cat, and only play with her.
Nor can I think you so unhandsom, that
You come to get a bit (Sir) for Your Cat.
Prevail say I, and prosp'rously go on,
And may Your Cat, make You a Wittington.
'Tis sometimes policy, in Mask-disguise,
To look upon a Lady with Cats eyes.
With which her cunning intrigues You may mark,
For, though Love's blind, a Cat can see ith' dark.
Ah pocky Cat! I had gone further yet,
But that my pen is into Cats-teeth split.

145

To Captain John Clarke, upon his Activity in suppressing the Phanaticks.

Bark on Phanaticks, do; ye may as soon,
With Syrian Wolves, prevail against the Moon,
As Clarkes unblemish'd Honour, which is such,
Ye may Malign, but never hope to t'uch.
Your Eyes without an Optick cannot clime
The Sphere his Fame moves in, 'tis too sublime:
For like the Sun it does in Glory sit,
Exhaling envious Vapors after it;
Which yet e're while upon their proper Bogs
Recoil again in roaky Mists and Fogs.
But swell and burst, and let your eager Galls
Banish Your Souls from their black Hospitals:
And may the Asps your poysonous Tongues forsake,
To persecute them in the Stygian Lake.
A Seed of Schismaticks, that would no doubt,
Like Vipers tear your Mothers Bowels out;
A Generation that like Demophon
Fry in the shade, and freez still in the Sun.

146

Let them but to their lurking holes retire,
The Sister sets the Brothers zeal on fire.
But bring them to the Church, and they shall sit
More frozen than an icy Anchoret,
Sure a new Sect of Glo-worms these must be
That glister only in obscurity:
For at high-noon they are involv'd in night,
And have under a Bushel only light.
Like Owls they Cloister in an Ivy-tod;
And with Dark-Lanthorns grope about for God.

These be the Locusts did our Land annoy
Double the tedious ten years Siege of Troy:
And yet in troubled Waters still delight,
They shew their Teeth, and would, but dare not bite.
But let them hug their venom, that alone,
Like Wine, shall eat the Vipers to the bone.
The utmost therefore of their malice dare:
Their Jacobs staffe can never reach your Star.
Their Hatred does but set your vertue forth,
There is no Envy where there is no Worth.
Dare but what brave is, and Action affords
A Language louder than the noise of Words.
On still (brave soul) and down with their Forlorn:
Their Envy's better booty than their Scorn.
Blind Fools, that to forestall too forward Fate,
Must Envy what the wisest æmulate.
Of good Men (Sir) You merit more than well,
That take away the Scabs from Israel.
The Crown and Church stile You, for what is done,
A Loyal Subject, and a loving Son.
These Gangrenes from the Churches Body must
Be lop'd off, and your oft try'd Steel they trust
Will not turn edge now, when there is such need,
The Lunaticks of London (Sir) should bleed.

147

Grave their Sedition in their flesh, And let
Your Sword a Copy to all Captains set;
Whilst You (brave Clark) bent to your Countries good
Subscribe her Vindication with your blood.
Cudgel and Carbonade them o're and o're:
And stopping one mouth make a thousand more.
Out with the Brains of Babel's Brats; And when
Like impudent worms, they dare but turn agen.
Give thy enraged hand leave to denounce
Their Execution and their Urn at once.
Beat 'em to dirt; let ev'ry Corps but have
His Skin for Coffin, and his Earth for Grave;
Then to thy self upon their Ruines raise
A Pyramid of everlasting praise.
For fair and high needs must that Fabrick be
Where Honour founded is on Loyalty.

CAPTAIN JOHN CLARKE.

Annagram. I CLEAR NO PHANATICK.

How? I clear no Phanatick? Here you see
An Annagram made up of Loyalty.
Fortune and Nature sure conspir'd that you
Should be the Scourge of the Phanatick Crew.
'Tis such an Annagram, all that look upon't
Swear your Commission was sign'd at the Font.
Hence (Noble Captain) all the World infer
Y'had no Phanatick to your Godfather.

148

Upon forty shillings refus'd for a Nightingal that dyed next day.

How? forty shillings proffer'd, and so oft?
The Nightingal, believe me, sung aloft.
But, wouldst not take it (Frank?) had I been he,
I'de scarce have given a Noble more for thee.
What luck hadst thou? the Bird, alas, fond man,
Sung her own dirge, as does the dying Swan.
Fool! for a toy, since thou wouldst so much loose,
The dying Bird, leaves thee a living Goose,
Who, when thy sottish folly she espy'd,
Kickt up her heels for very grief and dy'd.
That thou, she wiser thought, shouldst live so long,
And part with forty shillings for a Song.
The Nightingal comes in a storm, they say
Thine rais'd a storm in thee when 't went away.
Of thy sweet Chorister thou wer't too choice,
But now thy Syren (Frank) has lost her voice.
And being dead, what is she worth? a rush?
This Bird in hand had been as well ith' bush.
Know this, and for it henceforth be my Debter,
A Bird in hand does well, but money better.
The evil Angels sure did overcome thee,
Or thou hadst never driven good Angels from thee.
Hadst thou but let their beams thy pocket gild,
Thou hadst been Crown'd, that now art chronicled.
They would have made thee sing, and drink all weathers,
But much good do ye (Frank) with your fine feathers.

149

Here lyes that Bird, can neither chirp nor sing,
But, where's the mony? that's upon the wing.
In earnest, this is but a sorry jest,
You, and your Bird are both dead in the nest.
Thus, ill advis'd, thou hast deny'd to day
Money for that, to morrow throwes away.
Thou hast, I tell thee true, as the case stands,
A dead commodity lyes on thy hands.
Whilst Avarice spur'd thy demands still higher,
Ile lay my life, thou hast lost money by her.
But ne're repent, nor be to passion stir'd,
For thou art rid of an unlucky Bird.
Thy Nightingal did to thy grief depart,
And left her thorn to prick thee to the heart.

To the foul and false.

Wish not to know this Woman, she is worse
Than all Ingredients made into a curse.
Were she but Ugly, Peevish, Proud, a Whore,
Perjur'd, and Painted, so she were no more.
I could forgive her, and connive at this,
Alleaging, still she but a woman is:
But she is worse, and may in time fore-stall
The Devil, and be the damning of us all.

150

To the Fair and Faithful.

Yet wish to know her, for, she sweeter is,
Than Indian spices for Elysian blisse.
Were she but Comely, Courteous, and Tall,
Constant, and Chast as Doves, if that were all,
I could not love her, though injoyn'd by fate?
Nature does this in others imitate:
But she's a vertue, may from vice recall
The World, and be the saving of us all.

Upon a Friend calling me out in a frosty Morning to take a walk to Holloway before day.

The winged Knight had scarce proclaim'd the day,
When Charles the Chantecleer cryes, Come away.
He call'd me in an interval, too soon
To see the Sun, and too late for the Moon;
Nevertheless his clamour does out-plead,
The soft and silent Rethorick of my bed.
I start, and grope my Cloaths out, and with feet,
Not guided by my eyes, but ears, we meet.
(Charles) said I, prethee stay till it be night.
For none but Thieves and Spirits walk by light.
But on we march, till our just fears prevail,
And make us take a subterfuge of Ale.

151

Thus rusht we on the Rocks to shun the shelves,
That is, for fear of Thieves, we rob'd our selves.
At last we lookt up to the dawning Sky,
And saw Heavens Polypheme had op'd his eye.
Then to the nipping Fields we march together,
Presuming that we might out-face the Weather.
The un-ever-clod pav'd way we went, where oft,
That which we fear'd too hard, we found too soft.
A way, so trodden was with Cow and Oxe,
It lookt as it had gotten the smal Pox.
Be't what it will, I can assure ye thus,
It was so tender 'twould not bear with us.
Through many a Holloway I'me sure we ran,
E're we could set an eye on the Green man.
Yet this indeed, I must in justice say,
Heaven seem'd t'have lent the Earth her milky way.
At every step we left the grass behind,
Candy'd with Sugar, more than twice refin'd.
The Fish were jayl'd up in the Crystal ponds,
And paths were strow'd with dust of Diamonds.
Not an impression where a Horse had gone,
But it was garnisht with a Bristol stone.
The Muses too inspir'd us so that time,
That we were over-head and ears in ry'me.
I should have more of this, our travel told,
But that 'tis now, troth, as it then was, cold.

152

Upon a Gentlewoman providing a second Husband whilst her first was alive.

Here's a new way to beat up Loves alarms;
Bespeak one Husband in anothers arms?
You are a nimble Whipster here I see,
You'l lose no time, but, faith you shall lose me.
You come a pace, but pray, upon what score?
Is this Your forecast, for a cast before?
If You cast forward, thus you'l throw most men,
And must be ridden with a Crupper then.
Your Husband's sick, and you fear all will be
Marry'd before your day of Jubilee.
Admit him too in your opinion dead,
What of all that? he is not buryed:
Nor yet in's Winding sheet, unlesse you'd have
As the Priest sayes, his bed to be his Grave,
If that be so? I know no reason, why,
Being his Wife, you should not with him lye.
Pray be content, I like not so the life,
To purchase the Reversion of a Wife.
So long as I thought good, for thee I tarryed,
But now (and may it kill thee) I am marryed.
To one whom above all thy Sex I love
With an affection nothing can remove.
Or any whit abate, untill I be,
As thou wouldst had thy Husband, dead for me.
Whose impudence in this too forward push,
Would shame a Wife, and make a Widdow blush.

153

The Vizor Mask.

Bough! what a Bug-bear? guard me gentle Love,
Women have got their secrets now above.
There's Treachery in your dark Lanthorn put,
Or questionlesse, you'd never keep it shut.
I cannot but lament Your black Disaster,
You look like Cows, bumbled for breaking Pasture.
Of many shifts I have ta'ne notice, but
Never did I see such a cover-slut.
All Ægypt in a dismal Darkness lyes
Only a little Goshen for your eyes.
Who, while your Gloworms through the loop-holes peep.
Make me I know you not, from a black Sheep.
Ladies, methinks you do your Dresse mis-place,
Black Hoods are for the Head, not for the Face.
And yet your Hooding thus, I cannot blame,
If 't be, as 'tis with Hawks, to keep you tame?
Thus you, from Forehead down the Cheeks and Lips,
Lest we should see your Spots, the whole Ecclipse.
But 'tis no matter, you have hit the mark,
Your Faces now, just as your deeds, are dark.
Your impious actions some concealment ask,
And you have got confusion for a Mask.
O Impudence, but that ye wanted grace,
Y'had not been now asham'd to shew your face.

154

What? have you been at Had'em with a Pox,
That You have put Your Nose in a black Box?
I'me sorry that the humour should so swerve,
But prethee say, will no lesse Plaister serve?
See then the fruit of your confounded Claps,
Y'have gotten now black Monday on your Chaps.
'Tis a dark night, and yet the Moon's at full,
Europa's cover'd here with a black Bull.
But, fate will have it so, I vow 'tis hard,
That such as you should be of the black-guard.
You have my pitty, but to tell You true,
This, this is it your Pride has brought You to.
What can I of Your Commendation write?
Nothing, unlesse Ile say the Crow is white.
Your harlotry has brought ye to this coat,
And blemisht Your Escutcheons with this blot,
Hereafter (Ladies) let me beg this boon,
If ye be Fair? put not on night, at noon.
This comfort though, to your dark shop belongs
The Mask that hides Your Faces, holds your tongues.

156

Upon a Mad Parson playing at Tables for Tobacco, and carried to the Compter.

A Parson playing, proves the Gospel true,
The Harvest great is, but, the lab'rours few.
The Candle now (while you're extinguisht quite)
Is all the burning, and the shining light.
Are you for Tables? Moses does produce
Tables that more befit a Levits use.
Which would you practice, and be cunning in,
You there might souls, and not Tobacco win.
Why would You play so open? when one blot
O'rethrows your Game, and falls upon Your Coat.
You were too forward, and therein too blame,
The cunning Serjeant plaid an after-game.
And still his opportunity did wait,
No point was open, but the Compter-Gate.
Your Landlord ran for't, and the Lime-twig now,
Wanting a Man to enter, enter'd you.
Who little thought so soon as you had risen,
You were to preach unto the spirits in prison.
Where now you wish (with all your heart no doubt)
You were (as you alas have oft been) out.

157

But, ah! poor Parson, thy ill fortune falls,
Like Balaams four leg'd Elder's, 'twixt the Walls.
But, art thou handled in this Piteous fashion?
Suffer I pray a word of Exhortation.
And is it so, thou thus art faln? 'Tis well,
The way to Heaven, is by the Gates of Hell.
But is it so, thou art indeed (poor soul)
In Peters sheet among all manner of foul.
And wholy destitute of Liberty,
Chain'd up as books are in a Library,
And so distracted, thou canst go about
No study, for the study to get out?
Then learn we hence this wholsom Lesson, we
That profess Orders, should live orderly.
Take my advice, 'tis Your attention worth,
Precept does well, but Practice that holds forth.
But time I see prevents me, I must run,
Beloved, one word more and I have done.
Here Ishmael could not forbear a scoffe;
Parson, I see what Colledge you are of.
Thus, briefly I have done with you at last,
I should proceed, but see the time is past.
I have, I fear, your patience too much vext,
And therefore, so much for this time and Text.

158

Upon a Leicester-shire Parson in his Pulpit inveighing against Citizens, particularly one Gentleman present in the Church, and Suitor to a Gentlemans Daughter of the Parish, warning the Maids Parents to take heed, for Citizens come in fine Cloaths, which, 'tis like they never paid for.

How now? what means this Bean-Belly Divine?
For want of Pearls he's casting Peas to Swine.
What Seminary pray pretend you to?
You should be Oxon by Your lowing so.
Has London dis-oblig'd you (Sir) 'tis pitty
Y'are not a Jonah to condemn the City.
And yet (small Prophet) trust you but for stuffe,
You'l bring Us to Repentance soon enuffe.
For I believe you then would whip to Town,
And be in our books, oftner than your own.
But tell us (Sir) where was your Text? And pray
How came this use of caution in your way?
Methinks Your Doctrine smells too much of leven,
To interdict Marriage design'd in Heaven;
You would be Christ's subvicar sure! I wonder,
Whom God is joyning, you dare put asunder.
First with the Parents worship you began,
Are we not all the Sons of sinful man,
Vessels of Earth, and vilenesse, Worms that must
Confesse our ashes, and extraction dust?
Sir, when you preach, it is the souls Estate:
If other wealth your Subject be, you prate?

159

Herein, indeed, you your great reading shew
To quote the Fathers, and the Mothers too.
And even the Children; my conjecture's this,
Your Text must needs be out of Genesis.
And (Sir) you did divide it thus I know,
The Ubi, Quis, the Quam and Quomodo.
Quam was the Maid, the Quis the Man would match her,
The Quomodo was all how he should catch her.
The Ubi was Cheap-side, you could Divine,
Had they been marry'd too, the very sign.
For the abuses and mis-applications,
They rather Cudgel askt than commendations.
Pray what had you to do with outward dresse,
You were to see us cloath'd with Righteousness.
The Citizen I'm sure was in sheeps cloathing,
And so were you, though a wolfe by your mouthing.
And so were you? I call those words agen,
Your Wits (Sir) were but a wool-gathering then.
His cloaths were paid for (Priest) e're he came down,
Would all your Sermons, were as sure your own.
Such an Elaborate piece as this is, calls
For a Grand auditory, such as St. Pauls.
And yet you may your self that labour save,
Instead of hums, you there would hisses have.
This I forgive, but have a care 'oth' next,
Parson, indeed you were beside your Text.
If into more such folly you be led,
You'l break your Brains. And I shall break your head.

------ Nè sævi magne sacerdos.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

Mathew Stevenson

To my Ingenious Friend, Mr. Matthew Stevenson on His Excellent Poems.

To my Friend V. O. on his reading to me several Queint Poems of Mr. Stevenson's.

To my Ingenious Friend the Author.

To my Ingenious Friend the Author.

A PANEGYRICK UPON The Right Honourable EDWARD Lord Marquess of WORCESTER,

His Inimitable, Water-Commanding Engine.

A Complement of a Gentleman in his Ale to a Lady of Quality.

Are you a Nurse, Madam? I want one for a Puppy.

To Clarinda.

Upon a Vintner that draws the Gentry better Wine upon Trust, than his daily Guests, the Dyers, for ready mony.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

The Fair Prisoner.

Upon a Gentlewoman that sold the Hair off her Head to the Keepers, but obtained neither Liberty nor lively-hood.

His Answer.

York-shire Ale.

1

2

3

4

Upon a Great Gamester that slights his Wife and keeps a Wench, and at Play lost his Brothers Cloak, who was bound for the Indies.

L. B. To his Mistris E. R. to whom he sent half a dozen pair of Gloves, which She sent back again, and after would have had them, and he would not send them.

To His Sweet-Heart Mistris Mary, A Papist.

Upon the Fair Mistris Elizabeth White, Her Pocket pickt in Pye-Corner of twenty shillings, and a Key wrapt up in a piece of Holland.

From York to my Forgetful Friends in Lombard-Street.

EPITHAL.

Upon one Mr. Power a Parson, married to Mrs. Anne Flower.

EPITHAL.

At Mr. W. B. His Wedding.

1

2

3

Upon Mrs. Bell forfeiting her Faith to Her first Love, and Marrying another.

TRUTH.

Upon two Cambridge Scholars at a baudy-House.

The Master to His Scholars, barring him out at Christmas.

An Answer to a Song call'd Fair Archybella to whose eyes, &c.

1

2

3

4

5

6

Upon a Girle, would be his Wife, 'cause She had been his Wench.

The Sheep to his Shrew.

Upon a Pye lin'd with a couple of Geese, and Norfolk Lincks, after long expecting sent by the Carts.

Upon one (Twine) Drawn, hang'd and quarter'd for Printing Treason.

Upon Norwich Gallowes set in the Town-close and the first there Executed was one Clarke.

Upon a Young Tradesman carrying News to a Knight, his Wife was brought to Bed of a Boy, bad him acquaint the Parish.

The Nameless Bride.

I. G. to Will a Footman, his Rival.

Phylis Funeral.

Love-sick Lucilla to her unkind Shepheard

To Charola the Coy.

1

2

3

4

5

Abstemia to Her importunate Lover.

1

2

3

4

P. T. Of the Old Exchange to the Right Honourable, the Countess of Dorset, promising him her Kinswoman in Marriage.

A Drunken Porter reeling into the Ring to wrastle with a Taylor.

To my strange Rival engrossing both his own Mistris, and mine too.

The Middle Sister.

To my Rival presenting my Mistris Gold, upon her Journey.

In Commendation of York-shire Ale.