University of Virginia Library

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, RIGHT worthy, and truely ennobled Hero, Iohn, Lord Loveliss, Baron of Hurley, N. W. S.P.O.

The Law-enactors, whilst time fear'd the rod,
Faign'd in their lawes, the presence of a god,
Whose awful nod, & wisedome grave shold be
As hand and signet unto their decree.
And such commanding aw that sacred name
Struck in the vulgar breasts, it teen'd a flame
Of Love and duty to their pious hefts.
Thus Rhadamanthus in his lawes invests
Him, whom prophaner times stil'd Heavens King.
Minos and others strike the selfe-same string.
The Moral's mine: for in this quirking season
When pride and envie steere the Helme of reason,
It is, has with Presse-taskers been in use
To presse the issue of their prose and Muse
Vnder the Ensignes of some worthy Peere,
Whose very name unsatyr can a jeere,
And lock detraction up in beds of clay
To sleepe their suns as Reare-mice doe the day.
Then doe they bravely march with honour arm'd,
Which, as the gods, the people, charmeth, charm'd,
On this knowne priveledge feete I these lines,
In which, though dimmer then your native, shines
Your worth, en-fired by my kneed quill,
Which claimes the scale not of desertes, but wil,
In your acceptance and the worlds surmise
Then Cynicks barke and Critekes beame your eyes.
My quill's no pensill to emblason forth
Your stainlesse honour and your matchlesse worth,
As dust-borne flyes which 'bout the candle play
Glide through its arch, en-circle, fan, survay,
Winke at the presence of dayes beamy blaze,
Pur on the glasse, or on hearb-pillowes laze,
Iust so my downy Muse in Distiques dare
Feete the perfection of a silklesse faire
Pumex each parr so trimly that her foe
Sweares her cheekes roses and her bosome snow,
Nay has strewd flowres of desertlesse prayse
T' adorne the Tombe of good Sr worthy Crayse,
Vnder this (ah mee) stone is laid (alas!)
A man,—a knight—the best that ever was
His prowesse war, his wisedome state did prove,
His kindnesse kindred, and the world his love.
But when shee should with her weake feathers soare
To court a star, or with her feeble oare
Strike such a sea of worth, ride honours ring.
Shee dares not touch, or snaffle, saile or wing,
Onely as he which limb'd those teares and sighs,
Which Iphigenias death, from hearts and eyes
Of kindred drew, but ore her father's brow
(Telling the world hee mournd without an how,)
Hee drew a vaile spake sorrow in excesse,
So with a—must my muse expresse
Your sacred worth, concluding it to bee
Too high for any Bard, if not, for mee,
Beside, the world of late has nicknam'd praise
Calls it an elbow-claw and scraping bayes,
Then pardon (Sir) this dearth, and iudge the why
Is your worth soar'd above Parnasse's eye
Let not your slights or nescio's (thogh most iust)
Condemne my muse to bee en-seild with dust,
Nor let presumption hoyste to your embrace
But rather let your honour bate its place
And stoope unto my measures, since the name
Of Patrone awes oft times the breath of fame
And by this honour shall you ere en-gage
The knee, hand, duty, ayre and thriving age

To the Reader.

Courteous Reader: For to such I write,
With native candor view this checkred white,
Be truly candid to a candidate,
Whom importunings force to ante-date
The travails of his quill, and like a grape
Ere ripened, presse it, yet if I escape
The censure of these times, this Critick age,
My Muse (like Parrats) in a wyer cage
Shall not doe penance; but I'le not promise it,
'Cause 't doth too much oth' lips of greatnesse sit.
And tis a fault for me to sympathize,
I bring no anticke maske in strange disguize,
No sharpe invective, nor no Comick mirth,
Which may to laughter give an easie birth.
Though tis in use with them that seeke to please
These humorous times (it being a disease
halfe Epidemicall, to keepe a phrase
Or phansie at staves end, nought merits prayse,
Vnlesse with quibbels every staffe does end,
Conceited jests, which unto lightnesse tend)
Though every page swels with ingenuous plots,
Yet cry our carpes, the Authors are but sots.
An Elbow-pillow or a motley coate,
With them are now the cheifest men of note,
But I, nor am, nor hope that name to gaine,
Of Panto mimick yet did nature daigne,
The Optick-glasse of Humours to descrye,
Each mans ranke humour onely by the eye,
I would have tun'd my Muse, that every page,
Might swell with humours suting to this age,
This leafe should talke of love, and that of state,
This, of alarums, that of wonders prate,
This of Knights Errante, of Enchantement that,
This to the itching eares of nouels chat,
But—since my starv'd Fortunes mist that, I have drawne
A picture shadowd ore with double lawne,
Lest some quick Lyncist with a pearcing eye,
Should the young foot-steps of a truth espye,
Yet something I confesse was borne of late,
(Which makes me age it with an ancient date,
But let no antick-hunter poste to Stow,
To trace out truth upon his even snow,
Annalls are dumbe of such and such a Lord,
Nor of our amorous paire speake halfe a word,
Monastick writs doe not Bellama lim
Nor Abbey-roules doe teeme a line of him,
This story has no syres (as 'tis the vse)
But weake invention, and a feeble Muse,
These are the parents, that abortive birth
Give to this Embrion of desired mirth,
Which in the authors name, does humbly crave
A charitable censure or a grave,
The purest-boulted floure that is, has bran.
Venus her Næue, Helen her staine, nor can,
I thinke these lines are censure-free, empalde,
By th'muses, and 'gainst envyes Iavelins mal'd,
Yet where the faultes but whisper, vse thy pen
With the quod non vis of the Heathen men.
And if the crimes doe in lowd Ecchoes speake
Thy spunge, but not with lashing Satyrs break
That sacred bond of friendship, for t' may bee
I may hereafter doe as much for thee,
Nor doe thou think to trample on my Muse,
Nor in thy lofty third-ayre braves accuse
My breast of faintnesse or the ballad-whine,
For know my heart is full as big as thine,
And as pure fire heates my octavo bulke
As the grand-felio, or the Reamish bulke
If but oppos'd with envye but vnlesse
I truly am what these few wordes expresse,

TO THE RIGHT vertuous and equally beautiful, Sra Inconstanza Bellarizza.

Fairest,

When by much gazing on those glittering beames,
Which (if unmaskt) from dayes bright Henchman streames,
The Rascians eyes doe gaine the curse of yeares,
The Load-stones swarfie hue their tapers cleares.
When Vnicornes have gluts or surfets taine
By browsing Lycoras, they to regaine
Their stomackes, and a cure, crash bitter grasse:
I leave the application, 'tis a glasse
Wherein the dimmest eye may plainly see
What's due to me from you, to you from me.
But—I'le onely tell the world, that for your sake
My willing Muse this taske did underrake
At howres of recreation, when a thought
Of your choyce worth this, and this phansie brought.
Some to the barre will call the truth hereof,
Some wonder why? some passe it by, some scoffe,
Because in this full harvest of your sex,
Amongst such thousands gleane your name t'annex
Vnto, and usher in these wanton verses,
Some will be apt to think my pen rehearses
Love passions 'twixt your selfe and some choyce he,
(The world I know will not suspect tis me)
And that I age it, lest quick eyes should see;
But in this thought I'me silent, thoughts are free.
Indeed your worth doth just proportion hold
With this high worth which of Bellama's told,
And well my knowledge can enforme my pen
To raise a spite in women, love in men.
And if the Fates befriend me, that my thread
Out-measures yours (your worth asleepe, not dead,
For such worth cannot dye) I then will say,
You equald her, and was—(but truth away)
If these, dull melancholy, griefe, or sleepe,
From any prone thereto, at distance keepe,
Let unto you their tribute thankes be payd,
For my invention by your worth was rayd,
My phansie rais'd, enliv'ned and enspir'd,
That my quick Muse my agill hand has tir'd,
Nay more, me thinkes I might unchidden call
You, subject, object of this Poem all,
And all in this acknowledgement may trim,
You pros'd this Poem, but 'twas vers'd by him,

THE AVTHOVRS APOLOGIE.

Some rigid Stoick will (I doubt not) shoote
A quipping censure at this wanton fruit,
And say, I better might have us'd my tallants,
Than t'humour Ladies, and perfumed gallants.
Know such, that pamphlets writ in meeter, measure
As much invention, judgement, wit, as pleasure,
All learning's not lockt up in si's and tum's.
Roses, Pinkes, Violets, as well as gums,
Some native fragour have to equall Civet,
Minerva does not all her treasures rivet
Into the scrues of Obs and Sols: but we
Are sea-borne birds, and as our pedigree
Came sayling ore from Normandie and Troy,
So we must have our prettie Ermine joy.
One part Italian, and of French the other,
Stout Belgia be her Syre, and Spaine her mother.
So our apparell is so strange and anticke,
That our great grand-syres sure would call us franticke
And should they see us on our knees for blessing,
They'd scue aside, as frighted at our dressing.
We packe so many Nations up, that we
We are Spaine in waste, and France below the knee.
Thus are our backes affected, and indeed
Our braines doe travaie with the selfe-same meed.
Wee're Chaldees, Hebrews, Latines, Greeks, and yet
But few pure Englishmen are lapt in Iet.
We scorne our mother language, and had rather
Say Pater noster twice, than once Our Father.
This makes our Pulpits Linsey-wolsey stut,
When buskind stages in stiffe satten strut.
Nay clownes can say, this Parson knowes enough,
But that his language does his knowledge blough:
Is it not time to polish then our Welch,
When Hindes and Peasants such invectives belch?
Then English bravely study, 'tis no shame
For grave Divines to win an English fame.
I've heard a worthy man approv'd for learning,
Say, that in Playes and Rithmes we may be earning
Both wit and knowledge, and that Sidney-prose
Out-musickes Tully, if it scape the nose.
Then purg'd from gall (ingenuous friends) peruse,
And though you chide the Author, spare the Muse.

The Authour to his Book.