University of Virginia Library

EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS

To his well beloved friend, Mr Robert Chamberlain, the Author, in praise of his following Poems.

The wisest of Philosophers conclude,
Best Contemplations spring from solitude:
And wanting outward objects, the minds eye
Sees cleerest into every mysterie.
Scipio's last life, in's Villa spake him man
More than his conquest of tho Affrican.
So are the seasons helpers unto Art;
And Time to industry applyes each part.
These thou hast made the subjects of thy Layes;
And they for praising them, returne thee praise.
So that to praise agen would shew to be
But repetition, and Tautologie.
And thine own works allow thee better note
Than any friends suspected partiall vote.

In praise of a Country life.

The winged fancies of the learned quill,
Tel of strange wonders, sweet Parnassus hil,
Castalia's Well, the Heliconian Spring,
Star-spangled valleyes where the Muses sing.
Admired things another Storie yeelds,
Of pleasant Tempe, and th' Elysian fields;
Yet these are nothing to the sweet that dwells
In low built cottages, and country cells.
What are the Scepters, Thrones, and Crowns of kings,
But gilded burdens, and most fickle things?
What are great offices but cumbring troubles
And what are honours but dissolving bubbles
What though the gates of greatnes be frequented
With chains of glittring gold? he that's contented
Lives in a thousand times a happier way,
Than he that's tended thus from day to day.
Matters of State, nor yet domestick jars,
Comets portending death, nor blazing stars
Trouble his thoughts; hee'l not post hast run
Through Lethe, Styx, and fiery Phlegiton
For gold or silver: he will not affright
His golden slumbers in the silent night
For all the precious wealth, or sumptuous pride
That lies by Tiber, Nile, or Ganges side.
Th'imbroidred meadows, & the crawling stream
Make soft and sweet his undisturbed dreams:
He revels not by day, nor in the nights,
Nor cares he much for Musicall delights;
And yet his humble roofe maintains a quire
Of singing Crickets round about the fire.
This harmlesse life he leads, and I dare say
Doth neither wish, nor feare his dying day.

On the VVorshipfull, and worthy of all honour, Mrs Anne Balle, Wife of Peter Balle Esquire.

If worth can mortals to advancement bring,
If birth, or beauty be a precious thing,
Meeknesse be great Honours Palace gate,
And the fore-runner of some happy fate,
Happy, then happy thou, that art the sweet
And little center where all these doe meet.

In Dominum Gulielmum Ball filium & hæredem Petri Balle Armigeri.

Apollos skill, the Grecian pen for wars,
And Virgils too, transcēd the glittring stars:
Praise makes men live, but thou a child unfit,
Transcends the limits of an old mans wit.
Both sea and land thou know'st, & for thy praise
Our times shall give thee thy deserved bayes.
Great Poets sing great things that children know not,
Which to the places of oblivion go not.
Thy learning sits not with thy tender mold,
Old men are children, thou a child, art old.
The heavenly stars upon thy birth did shine,
To make thee happy, now the praise is thine.
Take up thy bayes, I'le teach thee what's in me,
And may the Gods give prosp'rous fates to thee.

In praise of Learning.

Happy, thrice happy, ô ye sisters still,
That love and live on sweet Parnassus hill;
Blest be your times and tunes, that sit and sing
On flowrie banks by Aganippes Spring.
Blest be the shadie groves where those doe dwell
Which doe frequent that Heliconian Well,
Where learning lives, whereby when men expire,
They are made chanters in the heavenly quire.
That sacred learning, whose inspired notions
Makes Mortalls know heavens high alternat motions:
Trūpets their names unto the christal sky
Though in the grave their bones consuming lie.
Thrice happy those then, to whō learning's given,
Whose lives on earth doe sympathize with heavē.
Whose thoughts are still on high, longing to see
Heavens Tabernacles of Eternity;
Sleighting the world, and spurning at its praise,
Which like Meander runs ten thousand waies.
They (when pale death to dust their corps shall bring)
With quires of Angels shal in heavē sing.

On the Spring.

The lofty Mountains standing on a row,
Which but of late were periwigd with snow
D' off their old coats, and now are daily scene
To stand on tiptoes, all in swaggering greene.
Meadows and gardens are prankt up with buds,
And chirping birds now chant it in the woods.
The warbling Swallow, and the Larks do sing,
To welcome in the glorious verdant Spring.

On the Morning.

The morning golden horse rush forth amain,
Spending their breath, suckt frō the Eastern plain;
And posting still with speed through gentle aire,
Hurle their perfumes from out the glittring chair.
The Suns bright Steeds come running up again
To Taurus top, still glad to see the plain
Of Indolstan: and now begins t'approach
The winged Messenger of heaven, in's Coach
Of ruddy flames; night-wandring stars have done
Their stragling course, and now the day's begun.
Bright burning Luna drags her dazling taile
Into the dungeon of a darksome vaile.

On the Evening.

Rise, rise, yee sootie horse from duskie dale,
And draw your Mistresse in a sable vaile:
Who rides it out with her knot curled haire,
Like to an Æthiope in an Ebonie chaire:
Whose dark unseemly face is wrapt in shrowds,
With Styx dy'd curtains of congealed clouds.
Rise thou pale Queen of night, prepare thy carres,
And climb you glittring glorious mount of stars.

Deaths impartiality.

Carmen Hexametrum.

High minded Pyrrhus, brave Hector, stout Agamemnon,
Hannibal, and Scipio, whom all the world did attend on,
That worthy Captain, world conquering great Alexander,
That tender, constant, true hearted, lovely Leander,
That cunning Painter, that curious handed Apelles,
Mirmidons insatiate, that kept the Tent of Achilles,
Alphonsus Aragon, that great Mathematicall Artist,
That stately Queene of beauty, that Lady Mars kist,
Wit, wealth, and beauty, yea all these pomps that adorne us,
Must see black Phlegiton, rough Styx, and fatall Averaus.

On the sweetnesse of Contentation.

The world still gazeth on the glittering shew
Of Scepters, Crowns, and Diadems, but few
Consider truely the tempestuous cares,
And tumbling troubles of the State affaires.
Honour's the spur that pricks th'ambitious mind,
And makes it puffe and swel with th'empty wind
Of self conceit: But yet me thinks I see
A state more full of sweet security.
The russet Farmer, more contentment yeelds
Unto himselfe, whilst toiling in his fields,
Beholds upon the pleasant fertile banks,
Wise Natures flowrie wonders in their ranks.
And when the halfe part of the day is spent,
His wife her basket brings, they with content
Do both sit down by some sweet strugling Spring
And make a Feast, whilst 'bout his table sing
The chirping birds; he when the day is past,
Home to his children, and his wife makes haste:
The children joy to see their father there;
The father joyes to see his children deare:
Then they begin to him their pleasant prattle,
One shewes his pins, another brings his rattle.
With these contents the good man's over-joy'd,
When thus he sees his deare affections cloid,
Whil'st others toile for honour, and in vaine
Deny themselves those sweets they might obtain.
O then thou great Commander of the skyes,
That dings downe pride, and makes the poor man rise,
Let them that will dote on these gilded toyes,
Let me account it chiefest of my joyes
T' enjoy a meane estate, and nothing more,
If't be thy pleasure that I still be poore.
Give me this sweet content, that I may die
A patient servant to thy Majestie.

On the vanity of Man.

Like to the Swan on sweet Meanders brink,
Like flowers that flourish in the morne, and shrink
Down with their heads, when sable night appears;
Such is our frailty in this vale of teares.
The gilded gallant, and the tortur'd slave
Cut down by death, come tumbling to the grave.
Not Europes riches, nor an Ajax bold,
Nor men, nor Angels, nor our bags of gold,
Nor he that was the spacious worlds Cōmander,
Cæsar, Pompey, nor an Alexander,
Nor can greene youth, well, wit, or tender age,
The raging fury of thy Sword asswage.
O then thou Star Commander, dreadfull King,
Whose Fiat makes the trembling world to ring,
Teach us, ô teach us so to know our dayes,
Thereby to rectifie our crooked waies;
That when with Angels, and Archangels thou
Shalt come to judge the world, and make it bow,
We then may render up a good account,
And live with thee upon that starrie mount.

On the death of Mr. Charles Fitz-Geffrays, Minister of Gods Word.

O thou the saddest of the Sisters nine,
Adde to a sea of teares, one teare of thine.
Unhappy I, that am constrain'd to sing
His death, whose life did make the world to ring
With ecchoes of his praise. A true Divine
In's life & doctrine, which like Lamps did shine
Till they were spent and done, did never cease
To guide our steps unto eternall peace.
Thy habitation's now the starry mount,
Where thy great Maker makes of thee account.
Farewell thou splendor of the spacious West,
Above th' Ætheriall clouds for ever blest:
The losse of thee a watry mountaine reares,
With high spring-tide of our sad trickling teares.

On Sack.

O thou so much admir'd by ev'ry soule,
That lives 'twixt th' Artick & th' Antartick Pole;
Apollo's drink, drawn from the Thespian spring,
Whereof the silver Swans before they sing
Doe alwaies drink: though thy sweet simpring smiles
Some mortall creatures of their coine beguiles,
Yet from black Limbo's gate thou bring'st mans soule,
And makes his spirits knock the highest Pole.

On Tobacco.

Thou hell-bred lump of sin, infernall drink,
Pernicious, damn'd, foule-fascinating stink,
Time's great consumer, cursed child of hell,
Scum of perdition, sprung from Pluto's cell:
Thy barbarous nature likes no soile so well,
As where the Devill and his Pagans dwell.
Bewitched then are those that stand up for thee,
Till they have grace t'abandon and abhor thee.