University of Virginia Library

To the young Authour upon his incomparable veine in Satyre and Love-sonnets.

To his friend Mr. J. H. upon his Poems.

A Genethliacon to the Infant Muse of his dearest Friend.

Dame Nature long projecting, how
Shee might a New-years-gift bestow
Of greatest worth; at length did chuse
To give the World an early Muse,
Shee felt Perfection in her womb
Struggling to get a larger room,
And could not chuse but give it breath
Though by procuring her own death,
She would not her full time out tarry,
Lest bringing forth she might miscarry;
Therefore she rather rips her womb,
Thence gives this rich Depositum.
Nor need we this Abortive fold
In a Lambskin, to keep't from cold:
We need not cry; 'Las spare it yet;
'Tis an untimely tender wit:
Let envy spatter what it can,
This Embryon will prove a man.
Thus thy luxuriant Laurel-sprout
As soon as 't hath its head put out,
Or'e tops old standers! Thus thy Bayes
Vie greennesse with thy tender dayes.

To the honoured Authour Mr. Hall on his Poems.

To his honour'd friend Mr. J. H.

Fruites that arise in hast, do soon,
Once nipt by piercing blasts, fall down;
Thy youth such sudden blooms did give
As may even Scythyan frosts survive,
And (manger Tempests) still be seen
Like youthfull Ivie clad in Green.

To his admired friend Mr. Jo. Hall

VVelcome (bright Sunne) into our Hemisphere
Now thou art risen we all disappear
As smallest sparks. Mount higher yet and make
All Arts and sciences thy Zodiake:
I should desire to be thy Mercury,
Could I (though but unseen) keep pace with thee.

To the no lesse knowing then ingenious, Mr. Hall on his ignorant Detractors.

Thou need'st no nose-lesse monuments display
Or Ear-cropp'd Images: leave that by-way
To those who are contented to be known
By their fore-fathers Virtues, not their own:
Those who scarce other worth acknowledge will
Then what each Taylor puts into his bill,
Such plumed Estrages, 'tis hard to say
Whether the feathers or the Head out-weigh:
Thou scorn'st these cheats, thy works purchase thee more
Then they can swappe there Heritages for,
A name (I mean) 'mongst those who do advance
Learning as much as they hugge Ignorance.
Thou was a Nestor in thine Infancy,
Should they live Nestor's years they'd Infants die.
When e're they learn, what thou could'st teach at Tenne,
The world in Charity shall call them Men.
Thy Dwarf and Gyant may fit emblems be
Of what proportion is 'twixt them and thee.
Could'st thou hedwarfe thy soul, thou might'st descend
Perhaps to please these Gallants, and so blend
Words with them now and then, and make a noise
'Bout some Gay-nothing, or themselves: such Toyes
Could'st thou like, they would Thee; till then expect
Poems from them as soon as not-neglect.
If they commend one verse which thou hast writ,
That Verse shall be'mongst thy Errata's set.

POEMS.

The first Book.

A Satyre.

[Pray let m' alone, what do you think can I]

Pray let m' alone, what do you think can I
Be still, while Pamphlets thus like hailstons fly
About mine eares? when every other day
Such huge Gigantick volumes doth display,
As great Knockfergus self could hardly bear,
Though he can on his knee th'ale standard rear,
To see such Paper-tyrants reign, who presse
Whole harmlesse reams to death, which nere the lesse
Are dogd by worser fates, Tobacco can
Calcine them soon to dust, the dripping-pan
Pack them to th'dunghill, if they Groc'ry meet
They do the office of a winding sheet:
How better were it for you to remain
(Poore Quires) in ancient raggs, then thus sustain
Such antick forms of tortures, then to lie
In sweating Tubs, and thus unpittyed fry,
Y' are Common-drudges of the world, if 't chance
A Pedant mend his shoes, you must advance
To Francforth Mart, and there demurely stand
Cloath'd in old sustian raggs, and shake the hand
With every greasie Dutchman, who perhaps
Puts ye 'ith' selfesame pocket with his scraps;
Or if you into some blind Convent fly
Y' are inquisition'd straight for heresie,
Unlesse your dareing Frontispice can tell
News of a Relick, or brave Miracle;
Then are you entertaind, and deskt up by
Our Ladies Psalter and the Rosary;
There to remain, till that their wisdomes please
To let you loose among the Novices,
But if you light at Court, unlesse you can
Audaciously claw some yong Nobleman,
Admire the choycest Beauties of the Court,
Abuse the country Parson, and make sport,
Chalke out set forms of Complements, and tell
Which Fashions on which bodyes might do well,
No surer paints my Lady, then you shall
Into disgrace irrevocably fall,
But if you melt in oyly lines, and swell
With amorous deep expressions, and can tell
Quaint tales of Lust, and make Antiquity
A patron of black Patches, and deny
That perrucks are unlawfull, and besaint
Old Jesabel for shewing how to paint,
Then th'art my Golden book, then maist thou lie
Adornd with plush or some embrodery
Upon her Ladyships own Couch, where ne're
A book that tasts Religion dare appear:
Thus must ye wretched shreds comply and bend
To every humour, or your constant friend
The Stationer will never give you room,
Y' are younger brothers welcomest from home,
Yet to speak truely 'tis your just deserts
To run such various hazards and such thwarts,
Suppose ye that the world is peopled now
With Cocknies or old women, that allow
Canon to every fable; that can soon
Perswade themselves the Asse drunk up the Moon,
That Fairies pinch the peccant maids, that pies
Do ever love to pick at witches eyes,
That mounsieur Tom-thumb on a pins-point lay,
That Pictrees feed the Divel nine times a day,
Yet such authentick stories do appear
In no worse Garb then folio, and still bear
No meaner badge then Aristotles name,
Or else descent from reverend Plinie claime;
One in a humour gives great Homer th'lie,
And pleases to annihilate poore Troy;
Another scourges Virgil, cause 'tis said
His fiction is not in due order laid:
This will create a monster, this will raise
A ne're found mountain, this will poure out seas,
This great Camillus to a reckoning calls
For giving so much money to the Gauls,
This counts how much the state of Egypt made
Of frogs that in the slime of Nilus laid,
We'l not disgest these gudgeons, th'world is now
At age, if't do not towards dotage grow,
That starch't out beard that sits in th'Porph'ry chaire
And but for's crown's light headed, cannot erre,
Barthius has read all books, Jos. Scaliger
Proportiond lately the Diameter
Unto the circle Galileo's found,
Though not drunk, thinking that the earth ran round;
Tycho has tumbled down the orbs, and now
Fine tenuous aire doth in there places grow;
Maurolycus at length has cast it even
How many pulses journey 'tis to heaven,
A world of such knacks know we, think ye then
Sooner to peep out then be kikt from men;
Whether ye gallop in light rithmes, or chose
Gently to amble in a york-shire prose;
Whether ye bring some indigested news
From Spanish Surgeons, or Italian stews;
Whether ye fiercely raise some false Alarm,
And in a rage the Janizaries arm;
Whether ye reinforce old times, and con
What kind of stuff Adam's first suit was on;
Whether Ev's toes had cornes; or whether he
Did cut his beard spadwise or like a T:
Such brokage as is this will never do 't
We must have matter and good words to boot,
And yet how seldome meet they? most our rithmes
Rally in tunes but speak no sense like chimes:
Grave deep discourses full as ragged be
As are their Authours doublets, you'l not see
A word creep in, that cannot quickly show
A Genealogy to th'ark of Noah,
Or at the least pleads not prescription
From that great Cradle of Confusion:
What Pamphlet is there, where some Arabick
Scour's not the coast? from whence you may not pick
Some Chinese Character or Mystick spell,
Whereon the Criticks for an age may dwell,
Where there's some sentence to be understood
As hard to find as where old Athens stood:
Why do we live, why do our pulses beat?
To spend our bravest flames our noblest heat
On such poore triflles? to enlarge the day
By gloomy lamps, yet for no other prey
Then a Moatheaten Radix, or to know
The fashion of Deucalion's mothers shooe,
It will not quit the cost, that men should spend
Themselves, time, money to no other end;
That people should with such a deal of pains
Buy knowing nothing, and wisemens disdains:
But to prevent this, the more Politick sort
Of parents will to handycrafts resort,
If they observe their children do produce
Some flashings of a mounting genius,
Then must they with all diligence invade
Some rising calling or some gainfull trade,
But if it chance they have one leaden soul
Born for to number eggs he must to school,
Especiall' if some patron will engage
Th'advowson of a neighbouring vicarage;
Strange hedly Medly! who would make his swine
Turn Grey-hounds, or hunt foxes with his kine?
Who would employ his Sadle-nagg to come
And hold a trencher in the Dining-roome?
Who would engage Sr James that knows not what
His Cassock's made of, in affairs of state?
Or pluck a Richeleiu from the Helm to try
Conclusions to still Children when they cry?
Who would employ a Countrey-schoolmaster
To Construe to his boyes some new found star?
Poore leaden creatures yet shap'd out to rule,
Perpetuall Dictatours in a School,
Nor do you want your rods, though onely fed
With scraps of Tully and course barly bread;
Great threadbare Princes, which like Chess-kings brave
No longer then your Maisters give you leave,
Whose large dominions in some brew-house lies,
Asses commands o're you, you over boyes;
Who still possesse the Lodgings next the leads,
And cheat your Ladyes of their waiting maids,
Who if some lowly carriage do befriend
May grace the table at the lower end,
Upon condition that ye fairly rise
At the first entrance of th'Potato pies,
And while his Lordship for discourse doth call
You do not let one dram of Latin fall;
But tell how bravely your young Master swears
Which dogs best like his fancie, and what ears;
How much he undervalues learning, and
Takes pleasure in a Sparrow-hauk well mand;
How oft he bears his foot-boy, and will dare
To gallop when no serving man is near;
How he black berries from the bushes caught
When antidoted with a mornings-draught;
How rather then he'l construe Greek he'l chose
To english Ovids Arte into prose:
Such talk is for his Lordships palate, he
Takes much delight in such like trumpery,
But still remember ye forbear to presse
Unseasonably some morall sentences,
Take head by all means how rough Seneca
Sally into your talk, that man they say
Rails against drinking healths, and merits hate
As sure as Ornis mockt a Graduate;
What a grand ornament our Gentry would
Soon loose, if every rug-gown might be bold
To rail at such Heroick feats? pray who
Could honour's Mistris health, if this did grow
Once out of fashion? 'las fine Idols they
Ere since poore Cheapside Crosse in rubbidge lay,
Ere since the Play-houses did want their prease,
And Players lay asleep like Dormouses,
Have suffred too too much, be not so sowre
With tender beauties they had once some power,
Take that away what do you leave them? what?
To Marshall fancies in a youngsters hat.
And well so too, since feathers were cashier'd
The Ribbands have been to some office reard,
Tis hard to meet a Lanspresado, where
Some ells of favours do not straight appear
Plasterd and dawbed o're and garnished
As feathers on a Southern-hacneys head,
Which if but ty'd together might at least
Trace Alexanders Conquests o're the East,
Or stitch't into a web, supply anew
With annuary cloakes the wandring Jew,
So learnd an age we live in, all are now
Turn'd poets, since their heads with fancyes glow,
'Las Poets! yes! O bear me witnesse all
Short-winded ballads, or what ere may fall
Within the verge of three half quarters, say
Produce we not more poems in a day,
(By this account) then waves on waves do break
Or Countrey Justices false English speak;
Suppose dame Julia's Messet thinkes it meet
To droop or hold up one of 'ts hinder feet,
What swarms of sonnets rise? how every wit
Capers on such an accident, to fit
Words to her faireships grief? but if by fate
Some long presumptuous slit do boldly grate
Don Hugo's dublet ther's a stirre as though
Nile should his ancient limits overflow,
Or some curst Treason would blow up the state
As sure as Gamesters use to lie too late:
But if some fortune cogge them into Love,
In what a fifteenth sphear then do they move?
Not the least tittle of a word is set
That is not flanck't with a stout Epithet,
What rocks of Diamonds presently arise
In the soft Quagmires of two squinting eyes?
How teeth Discolour'd and half rotten bee
Transformed into Pearl or Ivory?
How every word's changd to a finest note?
And Jndian gummes are planted in her throat,
Speak in good earnest, are they not worse then boyes
Of foure year old, to dote on painted toyes?
Yet O how frequent! most our Sages shake
Off there old furres, and needs will Laurels take,
That it will be no wonder to rehearse
The crabdest of Geometry in verse,
Or from the dust of knotty Suarez see
A strange production of some poetry:
But stay too lavish muse, where run you, stay,
Take head your tongue bite not your eares away;
Besides y' have other businesse, and you might
More fitly far with teares then gall endight.

Upon T. R. a very little man but excellently Learned.

Makes Nature maps? since that in thee
Sh' has drawn an University,
Or strives she in so small a peece
To summe the Arts and Sciences?
Once she writ onely Texthand, when
She scribled Giants and no men:
But now in her decrepit yeares
She dashes Dwarfs in Characters,
And makes one single farthing bear
The Creed, Commandments and Lords-prayer:
Would she turn Art and imitate
Monte-regio's flying gnat?
Would she the Golden Legend shut
Within the Cloyster of a nut?
Or else a musket bullet rear
Into a vast and mighty sphear?
Or pen an Eagle in the Caul
Of a slender Nightingall?
Or shew she Pigmies can create
Not too little but too great?
How comes it that she thus Converts
So small a totum and great parts?
Strives she now to turn awry
The quick scent of Philosophie?
How, so little matter can
So monstrous big a form contain,
What shall we call (it would be known)
This Gyant and this Dwarf in one?
His age is blab'd by silver haires,
His limbs still cry out want of years,
So small a body in a Cage
May choose a spatious Hermitage,
So great a Soul doth fret and fume
At th'narrow world for want of room,
Strange Conjunction! here is grown
A Molehill and the Alpes in one,
In th'self same action we may call
Nature both thrift and Prodigall.

A Sea Dialogue.

Palurus.
My Antinetta though thou be
More white, then fome wherewith a wave
Broke in his wrath besmears the sea;
Yet art thou harder then this cave.

Antinetta.
Though thou be fairer then the light,
Which doubting Pilots onely mind
That they may steere there course aright,
Yet art thou lighter then the wind:

Palurus.
And shall I not be chang'd? when thou
Hast fraught Medorus with thy heart,
And as a-long the sands we go
To gather shells, do's take his part?

Antinetta.
What shall not I congeal to see
Doris the Ballast of thine arms?
(Which have so oft encompass'd me)
Now pinion'd by her faithlesse charms;

Palurus.
What if I henceforth shall disdain
The golden tressed Doris love?
And Antinetta serve again,
And in that service constant prove?

Antinetta.
Though mighty Neptune cannot stand
Before Medorus, and thou be
Restlesse as whirle-pool's, false as sand;
Yet will I live and die with thee,

Palurus.
Nay live, and lest one single death
Should wrack thee, take this life of mine,

Antinetta.
Thou but exchanged with that breath,
Thy Antinetta's soul for thine.

Chorus.
How powerfull's love! which like a flame
That sever'd, reunites more close!
Or like a broken limb in frame
That ever after firmer grows.

Upon the Kings Great Porter.

Sir, or great Grandsire, whose Vast bulk may be
A burying place for all your Pedegree:
Thou moving Colosse, for whose goodly face
The Rhyne can hardly make a Looking-glasse;
What piles of victualls had thou need to chew,
Ten Woods or Marrets throats were not enew:
Dwarf was he whose wifes bracelet fit his thumb,
It would not on thy little finger come:
If Jove in getting Hercules spent three
Nights, he might spend fifteen in getting thee:
What name or title suits thy greatnesse, Thou,
Aldiboronifuscophonio?
When Gyants warr'd with Jove hadst thou been one,
Where others oaks, thou wouldst have mountains thrown;
Wer'st thou but sick what help could ere be wrought,
Unlesse Physicians posted down thy throat;
Were thou to die and Xerxes living, hee
Would not pare Athos for to cover thee;
Were thou t'embalme the Surgeons needs must scale
Thy body, as when Labourers dig a whale:
Great Sir, a people kneaded up in one,
Wee'l weigh thee by Ship-burdens not by'th' stone;
What tempests mightst thou raise, what whirle-winds, when
Thou breaths, thou great Leviathan of men:
Bend but thine eye, a Countreyman would swear
A Regiment of Spaniards quartered there:
Smooth but thy brow they'l say there were a plain
T'act York and Lancaster once o're again!
That pocket Pistoll of the Queens might be
Thy pocket Pistoll, sans Hyperbole;
Abstain from Garrisons, since thou may eat
The Turks or Mogulls titles at a bit:
Plant some new Land, which ne're will empty be
If she enjoy her Savages in thee:
Get from amongst us since we onely can
Appear like skulls marcht o're by Tamberlane.

A Burning-glasse.

Strange Chimistry! can dust and sand produce
So pure a body and Diaphanous;
Strange kind of Courtship! that the amorous Sun
T'imbrace a Min'rall twists his rayes in one,
Talk of the heav'ns mockt by a sphear, alas
The Sun it self's here in a piece of glasse:
Let Magnets drag base iron, this alone
Can to her icie bosome winne the Sun;
Witches may cheat us of his light a while,
But this can him even of himself beguile:
In Heaven he staggers to both Tropicks, here
He keeps fixt residence all times of th'year,
Here's a perpetuall Solstice, here he lies
Not on a bed of water but of ice;
How well by this himself abridge, he might
Redeem the Scythians from their lingring night?
Well by this glassie proxey might he roule
Beyond th'Ecliptick, and warm either pole;
Had but Prometheus bin so wise, h' had ne're
Scal'd heaven to light his torch, but lighted here;
Had Archimedes once but known this use
H'had burnt Marcellus from proud Syracuse;
Had Vesta's maids of honour this but seen,
Their Ladys fire had ne're extinguisht been;
Hells Engines might have finisht their designe
Of powder (but that heav'n did Countermine)
Had they but thought of this; th'Egyptians may
Well hatch their eggs without the midwife clay;
Why do not puling Lovers this devise
For a fit Emblem of their Mistres eyes?
They call them Diamonds, and say th'have been
Reduc'd by them to ashes all within;
But they'l assum't, and ever hence 'twill passe
A Mistris eye is but Loves Burning-glasse.

The Call.

Romira, stay,
And run not thus like a young Roe away,
No enemie
Pursues thee (foolish girle) tis onely I,
I'le keep off harms,
If thou'l be pleas'd to garrison mine arms;
What dost thou fear
I'le turn a Traitour? may these Roses here
To palenesse shred,
And Lilies stand disguised in new Red,
If that I lay
A snare, wherein thou wouldst not gladly stay;
See see the Sunne
Does slowly to his azure Lodging run,
Come sit but here
And presently hee'l quit our Hemisphere,
So still among
Lovers, time is too short or else too long;
Here will we spin
Legends for them that have Love Martyrs been,
Here on this plain
Wee'l talk Narcissus to a flour again;
Come here, and chose
On which of these proud plats thou would repose,
Here maist thou shame
The rusty Violets, with the Crimson flame
Of either cheek,
And Primroses white as thy fingers seek,
Nay, thou maist prove
That mans most Noble Passion is to Love.

An Eunuch.

Thou Newter Gender! whom a gown
Can make a woman, Breeches none:
Created one thing, made another,
Not a Sister, scarce a Brother:
Jack of both sides, that may beare
Or a distaff or a spear,
If thy fortunes thither call,
Be the Gran Signor's generall,
Or if thou fancie not that trade,
Turn th'Sultana's Chamber-maid;
A Medall where grim Mars turnd right
Proves a smiling Aphrodite;
How doth Nature quible either
He, or she, Boy, Girle, or neither;
Thou may serve great Jove in stead
Of Hebe both and Ganymed,
A face both stern and mild, cheekes bare
That still do onely promise haire,
Old Cybele the first in all
This humane predicamentall Scale,
Why would she choose her Priests to be
Such Individuums as ye?
Such Insecta's, added on
To Creatures by substraction,
In whom Nature claims no part,
Ye onely being words of Art.

The Lure.

The Morning-star.

Still Herald of the morn, whose ray
Being Page, and Usher to the day,
Doth mourn behind the Sun, before him play;
Who sets a golden Signall, e're
The bat retire, the lark appear,
The early Cocks cry comfort, Scrich Oules fear.
Who winkst while Lovers plight their troth,
Then falls asleep, while they are loth
To part without a more ingaging Oath:
Steal in a Message to the eyes
Of Julia, tell her that she lies
Too long, thy Lord the Sun will quickly rise.
Yet is it midnight still with me,
Nay worse, unlesse that kinder she
Smile Day, and in my Zenith seated be.
But if she will Obliquely runne,
I needs a Calenture must shunne,
And like an Ethiopian hate my Sunne.

Platonick love.

Come (Dearest Julia) thou and I
Will knit us in so strickt a tie,
As shall with greater pow'r engage
Then feeble charms of marriage;
We will be friends, our thoughts shall go,
Without impeachment, too and fro,
The same desires shall elevate
Our mingled souls, the self-same hate
Shall cause Aversion, we will beare
One Sympathising hope and fear,
And for to move more close, wee'l frame
Our triumphs and our teares the same;
Yet will we ne're so grossely dare
As our ignobler selves shall share,
Let men desire, like those above
Unmatter'd forms, wee'l onely love;
And teach the ruder world to shame
When heat encreaseth to a flame:
Love's like a landskap which doth stand
Smooth at a distance, rough at hand;
Or like a fire which from afarre
Doth gently warm, consumes when near.

To the Deformed X. R.

As Scriveners sometime delight to see
Their basest writing, Nature has in thee
Essai'd how much she can transgresse at once
Apelles draughts, Durers proportions;
And for to make a jest and try a wit
Has not (a woman) in thy forehead writ,
But scribl'd so, and gon so far about
Indagine would never smell the out,
But might exclaim, here onely riddles be
And Heteroclites in Physiognomie;
But as the Mystick Hebrew backward lies,
And Algebra's gest by absurdities,
So must we spell thee, for who would suppose
That globous piece of wanescot were a nose,
That crockt &c's were wrinkles, and
Five Napers bones glued to a wrest, an hand;
Egyptian Antiquaries might survay
Here Hieroglyphicks time hath worn away,
And wonder at an English face more od
And antick, then was ere a Memphian God,
Eras'd with more strange letters then might scare
A raw and unexperienc'd Conjurer,
And tawny Africk blush to see her fry
Of Monsters in one skin so kenneld lie:
Thou maist without a guard her deserts passe
When savages but look upon thy face.
Were but some Pict now living, he would soon
Deem thee a fragment of his Nation;
And wiser Ethiopians infer
From thee, that sable's not the onely fair;
Thou Privative of Beauty, whose one eye
Doth question Metaphysick veritie;
Whose many crosse aspects may prove anon
Foulnesse, more then a mere negation,
Blast one place still, and never dare t'escape
Abroad out of thy mother darknesse lap,
Least that thou make the world affraid, and be
Even hated by thy nurse deformity.

Julia weeping.

To my honoured Noble friend Thomas Stanley Esquire, on his Poems.

To Mr. S. S.

As he obtaines such an enchanted skin
That Bullets cast aright could ne're get in,
Even so thou Monsieur temperd hast thy name
That to dispraise the most is yet no shame;
To curse is to befriend, who like a Jew
Art both a Vagabond and mony'd too;
Who feed'st on Hebrew rootes, and like a tare
Unbid, unwelcome thrivest every where;
Who mak'st all letters be thy Gutturall,
And brings the Conjugations to Kall;
Who though thou live by Grammer-rules, we see
Thou break'st all Canons of Moralitie;
And as far as that thread-bare Cloke of thine
Is out of Fashion, do'st from man decline;
And com'st as near a wit, as doth a Rat
Match in procerity Mount Ararat;
And art as fit to be a brewers Punck,
As Sumerburn is valiant when hee's drunk.

The Christall

A Rapture.

To Mr. Stanley after his return from France.

Bewitched Senses do you lie
And cast some shadow o're mine eye,
Or do I noble Stanley see,
What! may I trust you, is it he?
Confesse and yet be graduall,
Lest suddain joy so heavy fall
Upon my soul, and sink unto
A deeper Agony of woe:
Tis he, tis he, we are no more
A barb'rous Nation, he brought o're
As much Humanity, as may
Well Civilize America;
More Learning then might Athens raise
To Glory in her proudest dayes.
With reason might the boyling main
Be calm, and hoary Neptune chain
Those winds that might disturbers be
Whiles our Apollo was at sea;
And made her for all knowledge stand
In competition with the land:
Had but the curteous Delphins heard
One note of his, they would have dar'd
To quit the waters, to enjoy
In banishment such melody;
And had the Mimick Proteus known
H'had left his ugly herd, and grown
A curious Siren, to betray
This young Ulysses to some stay;
But juster fates denied, nor would
Another Land that Genius hold,
As could, beyond all wonder hurld,
Fathom the Intellectuall world:
But whither runne I, I intend
To welcome onely, not commend;
But that thy virtues render it
No private, but a Publick debt.

An Epicurean Ode

On M. W. the great eater.

Sir much good do't ye; were your table but
Pie-crust or cheese, you might your stomack shut
After your slice of beef, what dare you try
Your force on an Ell-square of pudding-pie?
Perhaps 't may be a tast, three such as you
Unbreakfasted might sterve Seraglio:
When Hanniball scal'd th'Alpes, hadst thou been there
Thy beef had drunk up all his Vineger:
Well mightst thou be of guard to Henry th'eight,
Since thou canst like a pigeon eat thy weight:
Full wise was nature that would not bestow
These Tusks of thine into a double row;
What womb could ere contain thee, thou canst shut
A pond or Aviary in a Gut.
Had not thy mother born thee toothlesse, thou
Hadst eaten Viper-like a passage through;
Had he that wish'd the Cranes long neck to eat,
Put in thy stomack too 't had been compleat.
Thou Noah's Ark, dead sea, thou Golgotha,
Monster, beyond all them of Africa!
Beasts prey on beasts, fisher to fishes fall,
Great birds feed on the lesser, thou on all:
Hath there been no mistake, why may 't not be
When Curtius leap't the Gulf, 'twas into thee.
Now wee'l believe that man of Chica could
Make pills of arrows, and the Boy that would
Chew onely stones, nor can we think it vain
That Boranetho eat up th'neighbouring plain.
Poore Erisicthon, that could onely feast
On one poore Girle in severall dishes drest,
Thou hast devour'd as many sheep, as may
Cloath all the pasture in Arcadia.
Yet O how temperate, that ne're goes on
So farre as to approach repletion!
Thou breathing Cauldron, whose digestive heat
Might boyl the whole provision of the Fleet!
Say grace as long as meales, and if thou please,
Break fast with Ilands and drink healths with seas.

The Antipathy.

A Pastorall

Tetricezza
Sooner the olive shall provoke
To amorous clasp's this sturdy oke,
And doves in league with eagles be,
Ere I will glance a smile on thee.

Amelius
Sooner, yond dustish mulberry
In her old white shall cloathed be,
And lizards with fierce asps combine,
Ere I will twist my soul with thine.

Tetricezza
Yet art thou in my judgement farre
Fairer then a rising starre,
And might deserve even Dian's love
But shalt not Tetricezza move.

Amelius
And thou art sweeter then the doun
Of damast-roses yet unblown,
And Phœbus might thy bridegroom be,
Yet shalt thou never conquer me,

Tetricezza
Why meet we then, when either's mind
Or com's compelled, or stay's behind?

Amelius
Just as two boughs together tyed
Let loose again do stand more wide.

Song.

[Distill not poyson in mine eares]

Home Travell.

VVhat need I travell, since I may
More choiser wonders here survay?
What need I Tire for purple seek
When I may find it in a cheek?
Or sack the Eastern shores, there lies
More precious Diamonds in her eyes?
What need I dig Peru for Oare
When every hair of her yields more?
Or toile for Gummes in India
Since she can breath more rich then they?
Or ransack Africk, there will be
On either hand more Ivory?
But look within, all Vertues that
Each nation would appropriate,
And with the glory of them rest,
Are in this map at large exprest;
That who would travell here might know
The little world in Folio.

Upon Samuel Ward D. D. the Lady Margarets Professour in Cambridge.

Were't not piacular to weep for thee
The world might put on mourning, and yet be
Below just grief, stupendous Man who told
By vast endowments that she grew not old.
But thine own hands have rais'd a monument
Farre greater then thy self, which shall be spent
When error conquers truth, and time shall be
No more, but swallow'd by Eternitie;
But when shall sullen darknesse fly away,
And thine own ectype Brownrigge give it day.
Or when shall ravish'd Europe understand,
How much she lost by thee, and by it gaind;
How well thou guardedst truth, how swift to close
With whatsoever Champion durst oppose;
Bear witnesse Dort, when Error could produce
The strength of reason and Arminius.
How did he loose their knots, how break their snares,
How meet their minings, how pluck up their tares.
How did his calmer voice speake thunder? how
His soft affections holy fury growe?
That had but Hell and Tyrants any roome,
There wanted nothing of a Martyrdome;
But Providence said no, and did consent
That oyle of time should not be spilt, but spent,
Nay, as the greatest flame doth ever fly
From failing Lamps, should'st in most glory die;
And as the Phenix when she doth prepare
To be her own both murderer and heire,
Makes richest spice her tombe and cradle be,
To quit and reassume mortality,
Even so thou (Seraph) spent thy minutes all,
In preparation for thy funerall,
And rais'd so great a pile, death could aspire
No greater honour then to put to fire:
That thus the flame might lend us light below,
But the sweet breathing smoake still upward goe.

To the precious Memory of Master William Fenner.

How brittle's wretched man? no sooner death
Seales up his eyes, and stops his panting breath,
But th'hungry grave devours him, and he must
Returne againe unto his mother dust;
So fraile a thing he is, so doth he passe,
That nothing can Remaine but that he was.
But thou (Triumphant Soule) art elevate
By thy vast merits 'bove the common fate;
Those sacred pearles thy selfe dig'd from among
Thy fiery thoughts, and polish't with thy tongue,
By thee a second life, that times to come
May say that Rochford had a Chrysostome,
Whose Life told out in Minutes, seem'd to be
Nothing but one continued Homilie,
So even was thy Conscience, such a flame
Rais'd thy affections, that thou soone became
Too good for Earth; so waking was thy brest,
That Night could never grant a truce to Rest,
But now thou Rests for ever drunke with joyes
That never spend, yet ever new arise.
Yet let thy Name still breath new odors, and
'Mong those Angelik Spirits numbred stand,
While we below stand gazing up and see
Th'hast chang'd thy Room, but not thy Company.

On a Gentleman and his Wife, who dyed both within a very few dayes.

Thrice happy Paire, who had and have
Living one Bed, now dead one Grave:
Whose love being equall, neither could
A life unequall wish to hold,
But left a Question whether one
Did follow 'cause her Mate was gone,
Or th'other went before to stay
Till that his fellow came away,
So that one pious teare now must
Besprinkle either Parents dust,
And two great sorrowes joyntly Runne
And close into a larger one,
Or rather turne to joy, to see
The Buriall but the Wedding be.

Of Beauty.

The Epitome.

To Mr. Stanley.

Starres in their rising little show,
And send forth trembling flames; but thou
At first appearance dost display
A bright and unobscured day:
Such as shall feare no night, nor shall
Thy setting be Heliacall,
But grow up to a Sun and take
A Lawrell for thy Zodiac;
That all which henceforth shall arise,
May onely be thy Parely's.

On Doctor. Bambrigg, Mr. of Christs.

Were but this Marble vocall, there
Such an Elogium would appeare
As might, though truth did dictate, move
Distrust in either Faith or Love;
As ample knowledge as could rest
Inshrined in a mortals brest,
Which ne'rethelesse did open lie,
Uncovered by humility,
A heart which piety had chose,
To be her Altar, whence arose
Such smoaking Sacrifices, that
We here can onely wonder at;
A honey tongue that could dispence,
Torrents of sacred eloquence,
And yet how far inferiour stand
Unto a learned curious hand?
That 'tis no wonder if this stone
Because it cannot speake, doth groane;
For could mortality assent,
These ashes might prove eloquent.

Upon Mr. Robert Wiseman, Son to Sir Richard Wiseman, Essex.

But that we weigh our happinesse by thine
We could not (precious Soule) from teares decline,
Although the Muses Silver streame would be
Too poore by farre to drop an Elegie;
But thats below thee, since thy vertues are
The spices that Embalme thee, thou art farre
More Richly laid, and shalt more long remaine
Still mummifi'd within the hearts of men,
Then if to list thee in the Rolls of Fame
Each marble spoke thy shape, all brasse thy name.
Sleepe sacred ashes that did once containe
This Jewell, and shalt once, and e're, againe
Sleep undisturb'd; envy can only raise
Her selfe at living, hate graspe lower preyes;
We'le not defloure you, let us only prye
What Treasures in ye did involved lie,
So young, so learned and so wise, O here's
Example, Wisdom's not the Childe of yeares.
So rich and yet so pious! O tis well
Devotion is not coffin'd in a Cell,
Nor choak'd by wealth; wealth hated harmelesse proves,
And only knowes to mischiefe him that loves.
So faire and yet so chaste! Lust is not ever
Youths constant Sorcresse, but doth sometime sever
To looke on morall vertues; there'le appeare
The Courtier twisted with th'Philosopher:
Nor were they on spruce Apothegmes spent
Begot twixt Idlenesse and Discontent,
But acted to the life and unconstrain'd,
The Sisters sweetly walking hand in hand,
And so entirely twisted that alone
None could be view'd, all were together one;
As twinckling Spangles that together lie,
Joyne forces and make up one Galaxie;
As various Gums dissolving in one fire
Together in one fragrant fume expire.
Sleep then triumphant Soule, thy funeralls
For admiration and not mourning calls.

To his Tutor, Master Pawson.

An Ode.

To an Old Wife talking to him.

Peace Beldam ugly, thou'lt not finde
M' ears bottles for enchanted wind,
That breath of thine can onely raise
New stormes and discompose the Seas,
It may (assisted by thy clatter)
A Pigmæan army scatter,
Or move without the smallest streame,
Loretto's Chappell once againe,
And blow St. Goodrick while he prayes
And knowes not what it is he saies,
And helpes false Latin with a hem
From Finckly to Jerusalem,
Or in th'Pacifique Sea supply
The winde that Nature doth deny.
What dost thou thinke I can retaine
All this and sprout it out againe?
As a surcharged Whale doth spew
Old Rivers to receive in new,
Thou art deceiv'd, even Æol's Cave
That can all other blasts receive,
Would be too small to let in thine:
How then the narrow eares of mine?
Defect of Organs may me cause
By chance to pillorize an Asse:
Yet should I shake his eares, they'd be
Though long, too streight to hearken thee.
Yet if thou hast a mind to heare
How high thy voices merits are,
Attend the Cham, and when h'as din'd
Skreek Princes leave that have a minde,
Or serve the States, thou'lt usefull come
And have the pay of every drum,
Or trudge to Utreckt, there outrun
Dame Skurmans score of tongues, with one.
But pray be still, O now I feare
There may be Torments for the eare,
O let me when I chance to die
In Vulcans Anvile buried lie,
Rather then heare thy tongue once knell,
That Tom a Lincolne and Bow-bell.

The Recantation.

Now sound I a retreat, now I'le no more
Run all those devious pathes I ran before,
I will no more range sullen groves, to lie
Entombed in a shade, nor basely flie
The deare society of light, to give
My thoughts their birth in darkenesse, I'le not live
Such deaths againe, such dampy mists no more
Shall dare to draw an ugly skreen before
My clearer fancy: I'le not deifie
A failing beauty, Idolize an eye.
Farewell, farewell poore joyes, let not my hearse
Beare witnesse I was ever mad in verse,
Or plaid the foole in wit; no, I'le not have
Such Theams encrease the mourning at my grave
Such thoughts I loath, and cannot now resent,
Who ever gloried in his excrement?
Now I will raze those Characters I wrote
So fairely from my selfe, now will I not
Suffer that Pyramid love rais'd within
My soule, to stand the witnesse of her sinne.
Nor will I ravish nature to dispose
A violated and profaned Rose,
Vpon a varnisht cheeke, nor Lillies feare
Into a landise, to be set where nere
White was discover'd; no,—stay I'le no more
Adde new guilt to the old repented for,
To name a sinn's to sinne; nor dare to breake
Jests of my vices on anothers backe,
But with some searching humours festred lie
A Renegado to all Poetry.
And must we now shake hands deare madnesse, now
After so long acquaintance? did I vow
To sacrifice unto thee what was brought,
As surplusage of a severer thought,
And breake my word? yes, from this very day
My fancy only shall on Marchpan play;
Now I'le turne Polititian, and see
How usefull Onions are in Drapery,
Feast dunces that miscall the Arts, and dance
With all the World a Galliard Ignorance.

THE SECOND BOOKE OF Divine Poems.

BY J. H.

A Dithyramb.

Still creeping, still degenerous soule
On Earth so wallowing still in mire?
Still to the Center dost thou roule,
When up to Heaven thou shouldst aspire?
Did not thy Jailour flesh deny
The freedome for to feed thine owne insatiate eye;
How might thou let it surfet here
On choicest glories, how it might
Thick flowing globes of splendor beare,
And triumph in its native light,
How t'would hereafter sleep disdaine!
The glorious Sun of righteousnesse uprise againe,
O who so stupid that would not
Resolve to Atoms, for to play
'Mong th'golden streamers he shall shut,
While he prolongs one endlesse day?
How small three evenings darkenesse be,
Compared once with measurelesse Eternity?
See how the joyous Clouds make way,
And put a ruddy brightnesse on,
How they their silken fleeces lay,
For him to mount to Heaven upon,
Where he may in full glory shine,
Whose presence made before a Heaven of Palestine.
That lovely brow that was before
Drown'd in a flood of Crimson sweat,
Is now with brightnesse guilded ore,
And all with burnisht flames beset;
Him, whom his drowsy Sonnes did leave
Sleeplesse, Aeriall Legions triumph to receive;
This innocent Columbine, he,
That was the marke of rage before,
O cannot now admired be,
But still admired, still needs more;
Who would not stand amaz'd to see,
Fraile flesh become the garment of Divinity?
Appeare no more proud Olivet
In tawney olives, from this time
Be all with purple vines beset;
The sprig of Jesse from thee did climbe
Up to the Skies, and spread those boughs,
Whereon lifes grapes, those Paradisean clusters growes.
Why stare you curious gazers so,
No Eye can reach his Journeys end,
Hee'l pierce the rouling Concave through,
And that expanded Fabrick rend,
Then hee's at home, he was before
A Pilgrime, while he footed this round nothing ore.
If then his nimble feet could make,
A pavement of the quivering streame,
And cause those powerfull Spirits quake,
That feare not any thing but him:
Now can and will he turne to joyes
Your feares, and or disarme or turne your enemies.
He is not lost though wafted hence,
He's with you (darlings of his love)
Hee's the supreame Intelligence
That all the little Orbs will move,
He is the head, it cannot be
Members can perish, where ther's such a head as he.
A head compos'd of Majesty,
Wer't not by mercy all possest,
From which such charming glances fly,
As striking vengeance can arrest,
From which such powerfull frowns arise,
As can strike palsies in the Earth, and headach in the Skies.
What did you thinke he could remaine
Disguis'd in such an inch of land?
That convex cannot him containe,
Though spun out by his owne right hand.
What did you thinke that though he lay,
Enterr'd a while, the Earth might swallow such a prey?
That very dying did restore
Banisht life to rotting men,
And fetcht back breath that fled before,
Into their nostrils once againe,
That very death gave life to all,
And t'all mankind recovery of their Fathers fall.
Suppose yee that the fatall tree,
That happiest worst of punshiments,
Did punish such a sinlesse he,
Or shame him that was excellence?
No no, the crime doth ever state
The punishment, and he sinne could not act, but hate.
Thought yee that streame did flow in vaine
That issued from his opend side?
Your soules were foule, yet every staine
By these pure drops were purified.
He was he freely prodigall
To spend all's blood for some, when some might have sav'd all.
Harke, harke, what melody, what choice
Of sweetest Aires, of charming sounds!
Heaven seemes all turn'd into a voice;
Heare what loud shreeking joy rebounds,
The very Windes now whistle joy
And make Hosannas of the former crucifie.

The Ermine.

The Ermine rather chose to die
A Martyr of its purity,
Then that one uncouth soile should staine
It's hitherto preserved skin,
And thus resolv'd she thinkes it good
To write her whitenesse in her blood.
But I had rather die, then e're
Continue from my foulenesse cleere;
Nay I suppose by that I live
That onely doth destruction give;
Mad-man I am, I turne mine Eye
On every side, but what doth lie
Within I can no better finde,
Then if I ever had been blind.
Is this the reason thou dost claime
Thy sole prerogative, to frame
Engines againe thy selfe? O fly
Thy selfe as greatest enemy,
And thinke thou sometimes life wilt get
By a secure contemning it.

The Lord commeth with ten thousand of his Saints to execute judgement upon all. Jude. 14. 15.

I heare and tremble! Lord, what shall I doe
T'avoid thy anger, whether shall I goe?
What, shall I scale the Mountaines? 'las they be
Farre lesse then Atoms if compar'd with thee.
What, shall I strive to get my selfe a Tombe,
Within the greedy Oceans swelling Wombe?
Shall I dive into Rockes? where shall I flie
The sure discovery of thy peircing Eye?
Alas I know not; though with many a teare
In Hell they mone thy absence, thou art there;
Thou art on Earth and well observest all
The actions acted on this massie Ball;
And when thou look'st on mine, what can I say?
I dare not stand, nor can I run away.
Thine eyes are pure and cannot looke upon
(And what else Lord am I?) Corruption.
Thou hatest sinnes, and if thou once begin
To cast me in the Scales, I all am sinne;
Thou still continu'st one, O Lord; I range
In various formes of crimes and love my change.
Lord thou that mad'st me, bid'st I should present
My Heart unto thee; O see how 'tis rent,
By various Monsters; see how fastly held,
How stubornely they doe deny to yeild.
How shall I stand, when that thou shalt be hurl'd
On Cloudes, in robes of fire to Judge the world,
Usher'd with golden Legions, in thine Eye
Carrying an all-enraged Majesty;
That shall the Earth into a Palsie stroke,
And make the Clouds sigh out themselves in smoake,
How can I stand? yes Lord I may although
Thou beest the Judge, thou art a party too;
Thou sufferest for these faults, for which thou shall
Arraigne me Lord, thou sufferest for them all,
They are not mine at all, these wounds of thine
That on thy glorious side so brightly shine,
Seal'd me a pardon, in those wounds th'are hid
And in that side of thine th'are buried.
Lord smile againe upon us; whith what grace
Doth mercy sit enthroniz'd on thy face!
How did that scarlet sweat become thee when
That sweat did wash away the filth of men?
How did those peevish thornes adorne thy brow?
Each thorne more richly then a Gem did glow?
Yet by those thornes (Lord how thy love abounds!)
Are we poore wormes made capable of Crownes.
Come so to Judgement Lord; th'Apostles shall
No more into their drowsy slumber fall,
But stand and hearken how the Judge shall say
Come come my Lambes to Ioy, come come away.

On an Houre-glasse.

My Life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse
By all those little Sands that thorough passe.
See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed and greatest quicknesse fall.
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their owne weight doe levell it agen.
But when th'have all got thorough, they give o're
Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more.
Just such is man whose houres still forward run,
Being almost finisht ere they are begun;
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be.
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly,
And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our Joyes, how short their day!
They creepe on towards us, but flie away.
How stinging are our sorrowes! where they gaine
But the least footing, there they will remaine.
How groundlesse are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
How reall are our feares! they blast us still,
Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
How senselesse are our wishes, yet how great!
With what toile we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see,
Like Children crying for some Mercurie.
This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed.
This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what
Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state.
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold,
And yet how many have been choak't with Gold?
This onely hunts fot honour, yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought
With many a sleeplesse night and racking thought?
This needs will travell, yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall.
Another boasts strong armes, 'las Giants have
By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave.
These ruffle in rich filke, though ne're so gay,
A well plum'd Peacock is more gay then they.
Poore man, what art! a Tennis ball of Errour,
A Ship of Glasse toss'd in a Sea of terrour,
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe,
Crauling in teares and mourning to the tombe,
How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall,
How art thou Nothing when th'art most of all!

An Ode.

[Descend O Lord]

Selfe.

Anteros.

A Hymne.

[Thou mighty Subject of my humble Song]

What profiteth a Man of all his labour which he taketh under the Sun? Ecclesiastes. 1. 3.

An Epitaph.

[When that my daies are spent, (nor do]

A Pastoroll Hymne.

An Ode.

[Lord send thine hand]