Skip directly to:Main content Main navigation

University of Virginia Library

Dia Poemata

Poetick Feet Standing Upon Holy Ground: Or, Verses on certain Texts of Scripture. With Epigrams, &c. By E. E. [i.e. Edmund Elys]

Elys, Edmund (ca. 1634-ca. 1707)

collapse section

To my FRIEND, Mr. E. E. on his Divine Poems.

On the sacred Poems of my Ingenious Friend, Mr. E. E.

To his honest Cousin, E. E. on his Dia Poemata; or, his setting Feet on Holy ground.

To my Friend, the Author.

To his Honour'd Friend M. E. E. on his Incomparable Poems.

To Mr. E. E. on his DIA POEMATA.

To Mr. E. E. on his Book, &c.

To the Laurell worthy Mr. E. E. on his Excellent Poems.

To his most Deserving Friend, Mr. E. E. on his DIAPOEMATA.

collapse section

In Dia Poemata; Or, Poetick Feet standing upon Holy Ground.

Ad Encomiastas Authoris.

Κοσμος ακοσμος. All is Vanity and vexation of Spirit.

[How light is Man! by ev'ry wind]

[On me, my Friends, ô pity take!]

Lavatus Æthiops.

On Christmas day.

[I'm slave to grief (not mine own man)]

[To light hearts only such light mirth belongs]

[Rapt with Hot Zeale (Elias like) Blest Stephen]

[Of the Ten Leapers, Lord, the world claim's Nine]

[Oh Lord, shall we thy Glorious Body Eat?]

[Lord, on my Heart write thou thy Law, that I]

[My Lungs are worn with Groaning; often Moans]

[Ah! Shall my restlesse Mind for ever be]

[Thy Youthfull Heat should still Aspire]

In Obitum VITÆ. On the Death of JESUS.

[I've washt my feet, ev'n in the Bloud]

[Thrice happy Babes! wean'd from the world so soon]

BACK-SLIDING: OR, A Spirituall Relapse.

[Hold! hold! I will not do't: Shall I]

[Thrice Curst be Wanton Pleasure, Hell's Fine Daughter]

collapse section

EPIGRAMS, &c. By E. E.

ENCOMIAST: To J. C.

On a dull Poet, but good Logitian.

On a Little Gentleman of Great Parts.

To a false-hearted Poet.

On a Gentlewoman of a Brown Complexion, but Handsome Features.

On a Gentleman who Died with Lord in his Mouth.

On the Death of Leander.

To one that gets his Living by writing Satyres.

Nec Fonte labra prolui Caballino.

------ Vino pellite Curas.

Of Vulgar Criticks.

To the Eye Adulterer.

On a Gentlewoman that would be married to none but a Rich man.

To an Epigrammatist, that inveighs against Women.

On the perfect Conclusion of a fierce War.

To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, weeping for the Death of her Eldest Brother, my Bosom-Friend.

On the Tempestuous season of Wind and Rain, 1654.

[His Soul's so Dark all o're, He cannot see]

An unquiet bad Conscience.

To a Lascivious Poet.

The World's Fine Gentleman.

To Unlearned Criticks.

To an Hireling Poet.

To his Displeased Pater in Phœbo, Mr. F. M.

On a NEWES-MONGER.

To an Honourable Lady Rarely Accomplisht with Wit, and Beauty.

On the fifth of November.

To an Handsome Gentlewoman on this part of her Anagram: Each Beauty Shoots.

Swearing and Cursing.

To One marrying for Love, not Money.

Thanks To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, who gave him a Dish of Sweet Meats.

To his Honour'd Friend, W. W. Esq.

To Mrs. M. S. in her Child-bed Dresse.

To the same, newly Married, on her Anagram: SO! YOU'RE MATCHT.

Mars Togatus: Or, Fighting in the Schooles.

Hac Ignis: Sive Lues Venerea.

To Mr. E. F. The only Son of Sir E. F. Knight.

To Mrs A. S. on the Death of her Two first Children.

To that Pretty Piece of Perfection Mrs L. C.

To Mrs. K. G. having been lately sick of the Small Pox.

A Love sick Gentleman to a Fair Lady scorning him.

To a Phantastick Vagabond, Professor of Satyricall Pet Poetrie.

collapse section

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

15

[Thrice happy Babes! wean'd from the world so soon]

Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth, and slew all the children &c. Mat. 2. 16.

Thrice happy Babes! wean'd from the world so soon,
They suck the brests of consolation.
They passe to Canaan through a crimson flood,
They die for Christ, baptiz'd in their own blood.
O wrathful Herod! were thy storms so stout,
To blow the Tapers of their lives quite out?
Could nothing, but yong (half-milk) blood asswage
The boistrous Wild-Fire of thy dismal rage?
Fond man! (whom wrath beside himself hath hurl'd)
Wouldst kill the Life, that's come to save the world.
Most cruel Fox! that would have suckt the blood
Of (sheep, and Shepheard too) the Lamb of God.
Lament not, Rachel; Moans bring no relief:
These brinish tears exasperate thy grief.
Grudge not thy Children th' happiness to die;
They cou'd doe nothing in this life, but crie.
Their bitter cup they but a potion found,
Which purg'd their souls of flesh, and made them sound.
I'th' body, pierced by that Rabble-rour,
There's made a breach to let the soul 'scape out.
And so they went to their long home, this day,
The soldiers shew'd them (mist themselves) the Way.