Amanda :: :: University of Virginia Library

Courage, (my friend,) boldly assay the stage,
Maugre the uncouth humours of the age,
Though wit th' unsavoury thing be out of date,
And judgement triumph in the fancies fate,
Poetry's heresie, and schisme pure,
(As is free-will or humane literature.)
Yet shall thy Mistresse thaw the Stoicks breast,
And prove Amanda to discretions test.
But doubtful whether Muse or Mistresse be,
The faire Amanda that is meant by thee;
Resolv'd that though thy Madam lovely be,
She paints t' inhance her endlesse tyrannie.
Hadst thou (without a rithme) said, Good and Faire,
Th' hadst matcht the highest loves that couchant are
In mortal breasts, thy zeal forgetting bound,
Has quite o'reshot loves landmarke, and gaines ground

On admiration, dull without desire,
As without warmth the elemental fire:
The famous Grecian beauty's stollen face,
And most choice borrow'd parts fell short of grace,
She had been more then the intended she,
Had she but filch't Amanda's Poetrie.
I'le not assesse thy merits, wise men soon

Will judge thee worthy, and for this thy boon
Each Amirado-Proselyte of thine
Pays his devotion to Amanda's shrine.
But if to please lesse knowing men seem safe,
Raile at Sucinus in a Paragraph:
Confute Arminius in English phrase,
So shall dull men yield suffrage to thy praise.

M. P. Midd. Temp. Gent.

To the most ingenious Authour upon his excellent Poems.

The Presse growes honest, and in spite of fate,
Now teems a Wit, that is legitimate:
No thundring Muse, although Joves daughter still,
Drawing smooth lines 'twixt th' hornes of Parnasse hill
And yet so strong, that with these nervs I know
Cupid will henceforth string's triumphant bowe.
Doubt not (sweet friend) the Infant-Archer will
Brag that his shafts are feather'd from thy quill.
Within thy book an harmlesse Venus moves,
Yet gen'rous, drawn as anciently by Doves;
Nor dost thou make her sonne obscenely speak,
A bowe though Cupids too much bent may break
Thou art not like those wits, whose numbers jump,
Not with Apollo's Lyre, but Flora's trump.
Thou drink'st to th' bottome of the Muses flood
Fam'd Helicon, and yet canst shun the mud.
Thy fancie's steadie, not like those that rove
Thorow Arabia, then to th' Indies move,
To fetch in jests, but when the totall's come,
Alas, Caligula brings cockles home.
Thy book's thine own, so rare a Muse 'twas fit
Should not be periwigg'd with dead mens wit.
Yet lives their genius in thee: true it is,
Arts have a kinde of metempsychosis.

R. MOYLE, Trin. Col. Soc.

Upon his ingenious friend's most ingenious Poeme, intituled Amanda.

I am mistaken, 'tis not he,
Though Doctour of loves Harmonie;
The Musick of all Plato's blisse,
But a Præludium was to this.
Sure 'tis some nobler genius, one
That teaches him perfection
In s Song, whilst he was penning it,
His lips drop't honey as he writ.
Nay tis more heav'nly, more divine,
Sweet Nectar flowes from ev'ry line,
Whil'st he did quaffe the gods Canarie.
An Angel was his Secretarie.

'Tis pure, although not sanctifi'd,
Clean gold, and current, though untri'd,
A piece as full of beauty, as
The Authors fairest object was.
Nor lesse inimitable then
That mirrour, which if ever seen,
Never exprest by th'best conceit,
For who can reach his fancies height.
It makes a question whether she
Or it, be th' greatest raritie.
Such as some think soar'd above,
And took from thence this grace for love;
No, no, it hover'd 'bout his minde,
Amanda there a Heav'n will finde.

A pretty pertly Cupid here,
A Cherubim residing there.
Love with all her glory waiting,
And thus innocently prating,
As if that were a wile to balk
The Justice to do nought but talk.
Reade him you must, admire him too,
Courting Amanda, he'l winne you.

C. IRETON, of Trin. Col. Cambr.

To his Honoured friend the Author upon his Amanda.

Whoe're shall ask what these rude lines do here,
Tell him Amanda may black patches weare,
Faire Amanda, whom if I name, my heart,
As if I'd sinn'd in naming, feels the smart
Of hers, not Cupids arrow, Reader please
To turn the leafe, thou'll catch the same disease,
We're all in love (Dear Sir) who e're you see,
Know it, he is or will your rival be;
The world's grown love-sick, and may seem to prove,
Your wit hath been injurious to your love.

There's none shall read Amanda, but ev'ry line,
(Heavens!) ten thousand worlds that she were mine!
She's sure too good to be enjoy'd (but I)
Oh that I might but see her once, and die!
Is't not some goddesse [that having long desir'd]
At length hath stoll'n from Heav'n to be admir'd?
To love her 'tis presumption, wish I cou'd
That I were better, she not quite so good:

Go boy, go sleep, Cupid unbend thy bowe,
Break all thy darts, thou'st lost thy trading, go,
Turn Physician, if again thou'dst be
A heart-wounder, study Loves remedie.

What meant you, Sir, to set the land on fire?
Some wish, some hope, some envie, some desire;
I pray the gods (let me not pray in vain)
Enjoy your love, and put us out of pain;
Amanda deserves the best, 'tis as true,
There's none deserves Amanda's love but you.

But let her still retain her name, that all
May her Amanda, you Amandus call.

THO. ADAMS. Trin. Coll. D.

To my deserving friend the Author upon his excellent Poeme Amanda.

I lov'd thee Dearly, it would soon be guest
That I thus boldly croud up to be prest
Amongst thy Giant friends, though he that will
Draw thee to th' life must needs have thine owne quill,
For who durst boast he could have limm'd so well,
As thou hast done thy truest parallell
Amanda thou that vertue thus hast drest,
Do'st tell the world it lived in thy breast;
If any yet objecting say no one,
Thou knew'st ingross't so much perfection,
Thy only subject then they'l plainly finde,
Could be no other then thy vertuous minde,
From which rich wardrobe thou canst eas'ly spare,
Enough to deck and furnish the most rare;
I've done, for none can reach thy Poems worth,
Amanda wants no foiles to set her forth.

J. A. Gent.

The Author to the READER.

Heav'n blesse thy sweet face, for in troth, I know,
Though 't's ne'er so ugly, sweet thou think'st it though,
'Tis a good cast o'th' eye, thou'st look't upon
Things which brought here make no comparison:
Women love gazing eyes, Amanda (Sir)
Is such a toy, then pray now pleasure her;
Perhaps she may seem beautiful, and then
I'm sure she'l please and pleasure you agen;
He that cracks Opticks, and doth lose his sight
In viewing Beautie, is no loser by t;
Oh what a sinner that poor mortal is,
That viewes and scannes his Maker's Artifice!
We draw from th' order this great world hath in't,
An Atheist-confuting Argument;
Then sure in womens worlds so little and faire,
More forcing Logick, better Topicks are;
Why is't w' admire th' Apostles i'th' cherrie stones,
Tráduskin shewes, but cause they're little ones?
Who knowes, whil'st he at female Beauties stares,
But he may see an Angel unawares;
Howe're 'tis not unlikely he may move,
If she be kinde, into a Heav'n of love;
Yet I'le not make a Stoick an Amorato,
No, I shall leave him still to reade his Cato,
Some fine grave head, there be, whose brains are adle,

[A carelesse Nurse 'twas crack't their sculls i'th' Cradle]
Whose dull old wrinkled brow, and rotten tooth,
Accept of nothing that is faire and smooth,
By whom my harmlesse lines will term'd be,
Nought lesse then speculative adulterie,
But age and eating crabs, must needs excuse
Their doting, peevish humours, to my Muse:

Some new-found changeling Saints, with looks precise,
Rolling the goggles of their bloodshed eyes,
Will call Amanda light and trull, and scorn her,
Yet reade her o're, and kisse her in a corner.

But how the things call'd wits will fling about,
To see my paultrie Mistresse new come out!
Oh these are angrie beasts, they'l kick and throw,
Ware hornes, my Dear, or up thy smock will go.
Troth rather then their flings we will endure,
We'l get some flie-staps for their gad-flies sure:
Yes, yes, wits wanton humours to prevent,
We'l shortly have an Act of Parliament.

You noble, Civil soules, whoe're you be
Whose modest, frolick ingenuitie
Cleanseth your hearts from self-conceit and gall,
If on Amanda you but smile, and call
Her faire, may you finde Mistresses as good
As I can fancie, real flesh and blood.

The Authour to the Ladies.

Great and faire Madams, you whose star-like eyes,
Sunne-burn the world, and do mock the skies:
You Constellations, who are never seen;
But w'are half blinded, had your Beautie been
Where Hero's blinking Conduct taper stood,
To guide Leander sculling through the flood,
Ne'er had he lost his way for want of light,
He'd swum by day, though he had swum by night:
Confest, you might have vail'd, but then your praise
Were lost, true Beautie scornes to mask its rayes:
Therefore Amanda comes with open face,
Daring to vie this feature, or that grace,
With the most heav'nly, sweetest, lovely, she
That deserves duel: Ladies, pardon me,
And pardon her, she only blushing stands
To mingle lilies with your lilie hands.

AMANDA.

Beautie.

1

Beauty is Nature's, and the Woman's glory,
The loudest Emphasis in the story
Of female worth and praise, the Alphabet
Where love doth spell it's first desire,
The field where red and white are met
To mingle wonder; 'tis the match,
The spark and tinder, which doth quickly catch
And light the fire
O'th' lamp of love,
Which flames within the eyes
Of those who towards Cupids Altar move
To offer up their hearts in sacrifice.

2

Beautie's an honest kinde of sorcerie
It hath a sweet bewitching facultie;

It is the sauce doth tempt loves appetite,
Which to intemperance it doth oft incite,
Till it provoke a lustful gluttonie
Beyond the satisfaction of the eye;
Love is but Beauties creature,
It hath its being from its Makers feature;
'Tis Beautie deifies
The goddesse Woman,
She whom we now so idolize;
Without it, would be ador'd by no man.

3

Beautie is Magick works by qualities
Are lesse occult, how it doth charme the eyes
Is visible, but ne're enough: for still
The more 'tis seen and view'd, more lovely 'twill
Appear, and tempt with stronger Argument
Then the first glances rais'd, i'th' cast
Of punie thoughts and fancies, till at last
It breeds a discontent
I'th' other senses, which all mutinie,
(Starv'd in the surfet of the eye)
To share in its delight,
And never lin
Till they are slain, or fairely win
The place where Beauties flags to love invite.

4

Both eyes were made for Beautie purposely,
The most delightful object we can see,
'Tis that gilds Cupid's wings, and makes the boy
Be entertain'd with extasies of joy;

'Tis the best kinde of Natures handicraft,
Her choicest piece of pencil-work, her draft
In colours to the life, suppose
The spotlesse lilie and the rose,
Should blend their damask and their snow,
The mixture which doth flow
From their embrace,
Is Beauty in its pride and state,
Which (ne're till then) I spi'd of late
In the rare features of Amanda's face.

LOVE.

1

Love is that harmony doth sympathize
Betwixt two soules tun'd Diapason-wise;
'Tis waking mans most pleasant dream, delight
And comfort, makes day passe as sleep doth night,
'Tis the best part of Heav'n man hath on earth,
And heav'n in heav'n 'twill be
Nothing but lovely, loving souls to see
Souls mingling loves, love getting love i'th' birth.

2

Love is the Gordian knot, which once unti'd
Or cut, gives way to th' Tyrant Victors pride,
'Tis honest Cupid's Atlas of the world;

Into a Chaos all things would be hurl'd,
Were't not for love, the peoples hate
Or love, make or undo
The best of Kings and Kingdomes too:
Love is the moving sinew of the State.

3

Where it is absent, nothing present is,
But envie, hatred, malice, jealousies,
Deceit and basenesse, whence are alwayes born
Horrour and anguish, grief, despight and scorn,
Mischief, revenge and wrath, which do torment,
Distract and teare the heart,
Gripe, and unhinge the man in ev'ry part,
Till all his bowels burst, and life be spent.

4

Love is our Empresse, all that beauteous be
Are maids of Honour to her Majestie,
Yet Love to Beauty often Presents brings,
Presented by the hands o'th' greatest King;
And 'tis no wonder Love this course doth take,
That th' Mistris thus should fee
Her maids, 'tis pretty ridling Usurie,
For Love bribes Love, for Love and Beauties sake.

5

Love is our Governesse, me thinks on high
I see her, greatest goddesse in the skie,
Sitting and holding all in chaines; I see
She labours hard, that all things joyn'd may be
To their most proper objects; but base spight,
Her black Antagonist,

By man and th' devils help, whom e're she list,
Forces to deeds of discord, sinne and night.

6

Love is mans health and food, a wealthie feast
Where Beautie oft hath made great Jove her guest,
Then my Dear, fairer then the fairest she,
Amanda shall be courted by Divinity,
If in her sacred love she prove devout,
With all the viand-joyes that be
In Love, she shall be fed eternally,
Angels themselves shall set the banquet out.

Against Platonick Court-Love.

1

No greater comfort to well-minded men,
Then 'tis to love and be belov'd agen:
And this sweet love hath goodnesse for its mother,
On which one love doth still beget another;
Though beautie nourish love, and make it grow,
Love feeds on other food,
Which is as pleasant, and as highly good;
From other richer sweeter springs doth flow.

2

Love several cells i'th' wombe, and Cradles hath,
To breed and rock, it's Cupids in; the path
Wherein, with close desire it doth pursue,
The started object may be divers too;

But who the same hare chase, their loves do hit,
And ever meet in this:
What e're their feigned speech and progresse is,
All i'th' same sent do hunt and follow it.

3

Loves of one rise, ne're differ in their end,
What ever Lovers in their love pretend,
Making blinde Cupid nothing else but eye,
'Tis counterfeit, false, cheating modestie,
Whil'st superficial beauty strikes the eyes
The Consort heart-strings move,
And play, within a tempting fit of love
To ev'ry sense; love it self multiplies.

4

'Tis of a spreading nature, not content
To be at stands, till all its strength be spent;
It is a pleasant itch, infects the blood,
Still gathers heat, whilst it receives its food;
It cannot rest i'th' eye, the senses do
Mingle joyes, what e're we see
And like, if sweet and edible it be,
Surely, we have some minde to eate it too.

5

'Tis true, I know sometimes we use to play,
With fruit that's pleasing to the eye, and say,
'Tis pittie troth to eat them, they're so faire,
So often keep them till they rotten are,
Yet the teeth water while they rotting lie;
But love provides for you

To eat your apple and have it too:
Cloy th'appetite, and after feast your eye.

6

Is Admiration love? 'tis nothing so,
'Tis but loves Herauld, which before doth go
To usher in that Regent Queen to th'heart,
Its Palace-royal; only acts the part
Of loves Scenographer, to pitch the tent
In that Elysian field,
Where it encamps; the Ensigne who doth wield
And flourish beauties flags of ornament.

7

Platonick love! 'tis monstrous heresie,
Would scare an Adamite, in's innocencie:
No Eunuch holds it, but where e're he likes
And loves the bait, at least in wish he strikes;
And curses him that blanch't him so; the Nun
When she can please her eye,
Though her vow curb her thoughts, yet happily
She wishes all that might be done, were done.

8

Platonick love. if love it call'd may be,
Is nothing else but lust in 'ts infancie;
Lust in the wombe of thought, which stayes not there,
(If thought miscarry not through startling fear,)
But comes abroad and lives, doth act and move
To reach its centre-end;
And in the birth, (both which the childe commend,)
Fancie is Midwife, Beauty Nurse to Love.

9

Love only plac't in Admiration!
Complacencie in Contemplation!
Love and no Cupid! It can never be,
To fancie beautie is thoughts venerie:
'Tis new-borne childish lust, which puling lies,
Like th' babe more innocent
I'th' Cradle then the standing stool, where pent
It gads, and at each pleasing object flies.

10

Love flowes like time, our motions cause and measure;
What's past is lost; the life of all our pleasure,
Is in our present instant joy; but yet
As thoughts of past injoyments do beget
New hopes, and those new hopes get new desire,
Which differs not, but is all one
With lustful love and fond devotion,
So last nights sparks kindle the morning fire.

11

Nor doth a glance only a glance beget,
One lookes gets love, the next doth nourish it,
And so the next, and next, and th' other doth,
Till it attain and rise to 'ts perfect growth:
I must confesse love may be starv'd, or fed
With dazie roots or so,
But let it take its course, 'twill surely grow
To flames, and though't must lose its maiden-head.

12

If beauty do but once inslave the eyes,
It straight takes captive all the faculties;

The Soul invites the senses to a feast,
Wishing the object would allow each guest
The dish it liketh most, it would employ
(If nothing hinder from without)
Contrive, and lay its utmostpowers out
T' enrich it selfe with loves most wealthie joy.

13

Affection is not fed to please one sense,
'Tis ne're maintained at so high expence
Of spirits, to so small and poor intents,
As t' have a thing to please with complements:
In such love-masques, what e're we speak or do,
Surely there is some promise made
[Which hopes and fancie easily perswade]
That we shall please our other senses too.

14

That love Camelion-like can live by aire
Of womens breath, without some better fare;
That man can love, and yet confine his blisse
To th' outside kickshaw pleasure of a kisse,
Nay, be surpriz'd with such thin joyes as these,
And like them too; yet wish no more,
Platonick love! Say Plato kept a whore,
And lost his smell-smock nose by th' French disease.

15

Well my Amanda, 'tis no glance o'th eye
I court thee for, that will not satisfie;
'Tis not the pretty babies there I praise,
As if to love were nothing but to gaze;
No, guesse the best; that love what e're it be

Chaste, lawful, clean, sincere,
And without smoke, if it be any where;
'Tis, 'tis Amanda betwixt thee and me.

A Mistris.

A Mistris is not what the fancie makes her,
But what her vertue and her beautie speaks her;
She is a jewel; which a rich esteem
Values below its worth, she doth not deem
Each servant mad in love, but reconciles
Their feares and hopes, she only smiles
When others laugh and giggle; her lips severe
And close, as if each kisse a promise were:
Fresh as the blossomes of the Apple-tree,
Sweet in the perfumes of Virginitie:
She puts a price on love; not proudly coy,
But modest in returnes; the life of joy
Which she conceives, i'th'thought o'th' nuptial bed,
Is not the losing of her Maiden-head,
Or some such ticklish point, but to unite
And knit her Bridegrooms soul in the delight
Of a close twine, and when their lips do greet,
She mingles flesh, that heart with heart may meet,
She's wary in her gift and choice, but yet
Like an enchanted Lady doth not set,
Making her Lover a green-armour-Knight

In a Romance-adventure, who must fight
With monstrous giants, and with conqu'ring hand
Win her from a fantastick-fairie-land;
No she's discreetly chaste, not fond of love,
Nor cruel in her frownes; her heart doth move,
Poys'd with her servants worth, and the advice
Of her good friends; she's neither cold as ice,
Nor yet inflam'd; she's neat and delicate,
Yet not lascivious in her dresse; her gate
Tempting, yet not affected, it hath more
Of nature then the dance; her cast o'th' eye
Is amorous, yet not a glance doth flie,
That hath a sparkle of lust; she's all divine,
And to be courted like a Cherubin:
Such is Amanda, who deserves to be
Mistris in Cupids Universitie.

In praise of Amanda's beautie.

The daring and most learned Grotius Writ;
(I must not venture, though to credit it,)
The book of Canticles was made in love:
Love to some tempting beauty, which did move,
Turne and command the wisest Solomons heart,
Forcing a King to play the Courtiers part:
The little foxes which so much displease,
In spoiling of his Vine, are little fleas,

Rude fleas which still leave freckles, where they stood
To suck the Nectar of a Ladies blood:

But who soe're that royal creature were,
Compar'd to all that's good beyond compare,
To whom that Prince the Song of Songs did sing,
Though to the daughter of th' Egyptian King,
Or some more lovely am'rous Concubine,
My faire Amanda who is more divine,
Can make me if my heart she breath upon,
Court her beyond the Critick's Solomon.

His love to Amanda.

There 's nought like love that pleaseth me,
Love, love, Amanda, love to thee:
My fancie hath no other theam,
Nor while I wake, nor while I dream;
Not gold, that's made a god by men;
Not gold, which makes men gods agen;
Gold which makes men most sordidly,
To Mules and Asses bend the knee;
Not Honour Glory, or Renown,
To have my name flie up and down:
No title of Worship pleaseth me,
'Tis every Beggars briberie;
I nothing will commit to Fame,
Only my dear Amanda's name;
I only care to live with thee,

To live without thee death 'twill be:
I envie not the Heirs delight,
The hound in's course, the hawke in's flight
Love playes a better game with me,
I alwayes hawke and hunt for thee;
I ne're frequent the bowling green,
In those mad antick postures seen,
Where in their bowles men court and pray,
And curse and swear their time away:
On what designe so e're I go,
Whatever bowle it be I throw,
Amanda's hand doth bias it,
She is the Mistris I would hit:
If with thy voice thou blesse my eare,
May I no other Musick hear;
I'le never drink one drop of wine,
May I but sip those lips of thine;
I'le never go abroad to feast:
Oh that I were thy constant guest!
How gladly would I make on you,
My breakfast and my Beaver too!
On thee i'd alwayes dine and sup,
Oh I could almost eate thee up!
All night on thee might I be fed,
I supperlesse would go to bed:
Thy sweetest flesh if I might taste,
'Fore such a feast who would not fast?
No greater pleasure can I seek,
Then 'tis to kisse thy blushing cheek:
No further joy will I demand,

Then 'tis to touch thy lilie hand;
My heart so lively ne're doth move,
As when I heare thee call me love;
No flowers pleasant are to me,
But roses which do smell of thee:
The primrose and the violet,
Which from thy brest their odours get;
No rich delights can please my eyes,
With all their colour'd rarities;
But those that represent my Faire,
Such as the matchlesse tulips are,
Where Beautie's flourish't flags invite,
I'th' purest streames of red and white.

Here, here, Amanda, take my heart,
There's my soul where e're thou art:
I'le be thy Monarch, thou to me
A Kingdom and a Queen shalt be:
I'le be the Elme, and thou the Vine
About me close shall twist and twine;
And whil'st my Dear like th' Ivie cleaves,
The Oak shall bend to kisse her leaves;
I'le be thy Landlord, and content,
My body be thy tenement;
I'le be thy Landlord, and consent
That thou with kisses pay me rent;
Then shall I kisse thee o're and o're,
And daily raise my rent the more:

'Tis thee, my Dear, I love alone,
No beautie drawes me but thine own;
I ne're shall see, I ne're shall finde

Another so much to my minde;
Should I pick, and chuse, and cull,
Amongst a whole Seraglio full:
There's nought like love that pleaseth me,
Love, love, Amanda, love to thee.

To Amanda doubting her mortality.

I cannot be an Atheist in my love;
And as the dull Cretenses did for Jove,
Build thee a Sepulchre, no, goddesse, no;
I nee're shall weeping to thy grave-stone go,
And beg thy lovely ghost, to represent
To one short glance thy beautie's monument;
Nor haunt the melancholy tombes, to try
If my strong fancie can possesse my eye,
With a blest shadow, like to thee my Faire,
Drawing thy portraicture and shape i'th' aire;
Then gaze and wonder till my soul desert
Its trembling dust, and where thou never wert,
Flie t' an imbrace; then look so long about,
To finde my fancies vanish't Consort out;
Till my unruly Atomes dispossesse
The Agent spirits of their Governesse;
And me to marble feare do petrifie,
Leaving my hand to write thy Elegie:

No, these are dreams fit for an Infidel,
Whose saucie reason doth 'gainst faith rebel;

I'm better taught, and with an Eagles eye,
Admit the rayes of thy Divinity;
Diana bathes her in the purer Springs
Of thy chaste blood; and when Amanda sings,
My greedy eares let chanting Angels in,
And each notes Eccho calls thee Cherubin:
Even at noon, thy blushing modestie
Calls up Aurora; Canst thou mortal be?
Then Venus and the graces too must die,
For they're confin'd, and live within thine eye.

A Sacrifice to Amanda.

1

I have an eye for her that's fair,
An eare for her that sings,
Yet don't I care
For golden haire,
I scorne the portion lech'ry brings,
To baudy beautie I'm a churle,
And hate though a melodious girle
Her that is nought but aire.

2

I have a heart for her that's kinde,
A lip for her that smiles;
But if her minde
Be like the winde,
I'd rather foot it twenty miles,

Then kisse a lasse whose moisture reeks,
Lest in her clammie glew-pie cheeks
I leave my beard behinde.

3

Is thy voice mellow, is it smart?
Art Venus for thy beautie?
If kinde and tart,
And chaste thou art,
Then am I bound to do thee dutie:
Though pretty Mal, or bonnie Kate,
Hast thou one haire adulterate,
I'm blinde, and deaf, and out of heart.

4

Amanda, thou art faire, well-bred,
Harmonious, sweetly kinde;
If thou wilt wed
My Virgin-bed,
And taste my love, thou 'rt to my minde;
Take hands, lips, heart and eyes,
All are too mean a sacrifice
To th' Altar of thy maiden-head.

To Amanda putting flowers in her bosome.

Tis not the pinck I gaze upon,
Nor th' pleasant Cowslip I look on;
No nor the lovely violet,
Shutting its purple Cabinet:

Nor the white lilie now and then,
For envie looking pale and wan.
Nor th' ruddie scarlet damask rose,
Like thy lips where Coral growes;
Nor th' yellow Caltha, whose fair leaves,
From thy bright beauty day receives;
That gilt Sunne-dial which doth catch
And hug the Sun-beames, Natures watch,
Which by its strange horoscopie,
To the working whispering Bee,
What time of day 'twas once did tell,
Now-like the pretty Pimpernel,
When shut, when open it shall lie,
Takes its direction from thine eye:
No nor the primrose, though it be
Modest, and simper too like thee:
Which gladly spoiled of its balme,
Ravish't this morning in its bed,
Bequeath's thy hand its maiden-head.

No, but the rarest of the bower,
Leap-up-come-kisse me, is the flower;
I look to see how that lookes proud
Made in thy bosome Cupids shroud,
Then whil'st you there those flowers strow,
My love doth in Procession go;
Cupid awakes, and is not dead,
His shroud's a garland on his head;
Thou'dst make a posie fit for me,
Oh that my hand might gather thee.

Or could those flowers leave me when they die,
Those sweeter flower-pots a legacie.

To Amanda over-hearing her Sing.

Heark to the changes of the trembling aire!
What Nightingals do play in consort there!
See in the clouds the Cherubs listen you,
Each Angel with an Otocousticon!
He ark how she shakes the palsie element,
Dwells on that note, as if 'twould ne'er be spent!
What a sweet fall was there! how she catch't in!
That parting aire, and ran it o're agen!
In emulation of that dying breath,
Linnets would straine and sing themselves to death;
Once more to hear that melting Eccho move,
Narcissus-like, who would not die in love!

Sing on sweet Chauntresse soul of melodie;
Closely attentive to thy harmonie:
The Heavens check't and stop't their rumbling spheres,
And all the world turn'd it self into eares;
But if in silence thy face once appear,
With all those jewels which are treasur'd there,
And shew that beautie which so farre out-vies
Thy voice; 'twill quickly change its eares for eyes.

To Amanda Reading.

What Book or subject, Fairest, can it be,
Which can instruct, delight or pleasure thee?
Poems! Kisse me but once and I'le out-vie
The Authors Master-piece of Poetrie;
And rather then not win and please thee in't,
All the nine Muses shall be drest in print;
I'le quaffe Pyrene off, and write a line
Shall charm Amanda's heart, and make her mine,
I'le drink a Helicon of sack to thee,
And fox thy sense wich Lovers stuponie.

Reade on my Fairest, I am reading too,
A better book, my Dear, I'm reading you;
A fine neat volume, and full fraught with wit,
The womans best Encomium e're was writ;
Off of my book I never cast my eye,
A Scholar I shall be most certainly;
Nay, who so er'e derives his learning hence,
Doctor of Civil Court-ship may commence;
For who (my pretty Fancie) reades but thee,
Reades o're a whole Vatican Librarie
Of womans worth, most women in compare
But Ballads, Pamphlets and Diurnals are:
The life and beauty of Art and Learning is
I'th' very Preface and the Frontispice;
If in my Study reade thee o're I might,

Oh I could con my lesson day and night;
I and my book in all things treat of thee,
Then prethy dedicate thy book to me;
Make me the binding to't, I only plead
I may be cover to the book I read.

On these my lines if e're thou chance to look,
Reade me, Amanda, when thou read'st my book;
If in the print there any errours be,
Accuse the carelesse Presse, and blame not me.

To Amanda leaving him alone.

What businesse calls thee hence, and calls not me?
My businesse ever is to wait on thee;
Therefore where e're you go
I must go too
What e're your businesse is,
Bee't that or this:
Yet still my businesse is to wait on you;
Nay prethy, my Dearest, why
So coy and shie?
Yes, yes, you'l come agen,
But prethy when?
Here must I moap alone;
Whil'st you some other love,
Or in your Cabinet above,
Some letters doat upon,
Which teach you how to say me nay;

But know, Amanda, if too long you stay,
My soul shall vanish into aire,
And haunt and dodge thee ev'ry where.
'Tis fit when thou tak'st Heav'n from me,
Thou take at least my soul with thee.

A melancholly Fit.

Sad newes was sent me that a friend was dead,
It dash't my braines, and my dull heavy head,
Drowsie with thoughts of death, could hardly be
Supported in its doleful agonie;
Nature was lost, grief stop't, my circling blood,
All things alike were ill, and nothing good;
Awak't I dream't, then round about I saw
Death sable Curtains of confusion draw;
All things were black where e're I cast my eye,
The wainscot walls mourn'd in dark Ebonie,
My giddy fancie into th' earth did sink,
I wept, and saw the clouds weep teares of ink;
Ruine and death me thoughts were penitent,
And did in sheets and vailes their sinnes lament:
Then ghosts and shades in mourning did I see,
All threw deaths-heads, and dead mens bones at me;
But when the pale Idæa of my friend
Past by, I wish't my life were at an end;
And courting-night to shut my sullen eyes,
In came Amanda, and did me surprise;

Taught me to live in death, kist me, and then
Out of a Chaos made me man agen.

An Enthusiasm to Amanda feasting.

Come fill a glasse with the best blood o'th' Vine,
Troth it looks well; 'tis a fresh vaulting wine:
A perfum'd Nectar, yet beyond compare,
Amanda's lips more brisk and lively are;
See, see, here's pretty Hebe brings from Jove
A golden Cup fill'd to the brims in love!
Amongst the tipling gods, me thinks I see
Blithe purple-fac't Augustus drink to thee:
Come, ye immortal Feasters, quaffe it round,
With heads in stead of hats flung to the ground;
Lay down your godheads in idolatrie,
Turne Priests to my Amanda's Deity;
Ne'er fear to stoop and change your selves to men,
Amanda can create you gods agen.

To Amanda pledging him.

How the wine smiles, and as she sips,
Tempts her most sweet, coy, modest lips!
The Claret friskes, and faine it woo'd
Help its pale colour in her blood,

And mingling spirits hopes to be
Within her veines immortallie;

I envie it perhaps for ever,
It may dwell within her liver;
Howe're 'twill be conveighed at least
Through the chaste cloysters of thy breast,
And entertain'd before it part,
In both the chambers of thy heart;
Oh might I too obtaine my Faire,
Such friendly entertainment there:
Most happy man then should I be,
As thy heart-blood is dear to thee.

To Amanda drinking to him.

A better Cordial Heaven cannot give,
Sprinkle a dead man with't, 'twill make him live;
And force the soul, hudling its atomes up
To a retreat only to kisse the Cup;
'Tis a soul-saving kindnesse, can recal
Love to a frolick in its Funeral:
My heart shall ne'er be sad more through despair,
I feel a world of Heavens created there;
I conceive swarmes of Cupids newly born,
To which Amanda's Midwife; I'le be sworn,
My flesh turnes all to Cupids; here, and there
How I engender Cupids ev'ry where!
Still I teem Cupid's; Cupids chaste and pure,

I shall be eaten up with Cupids sure;
On my chap't heart I feel them creep about,
Like Emmets at their crannies in and out;
More and more Cupids still are borne anew,
And all these Cupids are begot on you;
You are their Mother-nurse; Dear, prethy then
Drink to thy Dearest once agen.
Then I'le be all o're Cupids, my best blood
Shall be their drink, my heart their chiefest food;
Cupids shall eate me whil'st thou drink'st to me.
Eate whil'st I pledge thee too; who would not be
Meat for such pretty loving wormes my Faire,
Such loving wormes as these sweet Cupids are?
Whil'st me their feast these wormes, these Cupids have,
Amanda shall interre me, she's my grave.

To Amanda not drinking off her wine.

1

Pish, modest tipler, to't agen
My sweetest joy,
The wine's not coy
As women are;
My Dearest puling, prethie then,
Prethie, My Faire,
Once more bedew those lips of thine,
Mend thy draught, and mend the wine.

2

Since it hath tasted of thy lip,
(Too quickly cloy'd)
How overjoy'd,
It cheerfully
Invites thee to another sip!
Me thinks I see
(The wine perfum'd by thee, my Faire,)
Bacchus himself is dabling there.

3

Once more, dear soul, nay prethy trie;
Bathe that cherrie
In the sherry;
The jocant wine,
Which sweetly smiles and courts thy eye,
As more divine.
Though thou take none to drink to me,
Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee.

4

Nay, my Fair, off with't, off with't clean;
Well I perceive
Why this you leave,
My love reveales,
And makes me guess what 'tis you mean,
Because at meales
My lips are kept from kissing thee,
Thou need'st must kisse the glasse to me.

To Amanda upon her smile.

Now in the joy of strength me thinks I finde
Armies of pleasures, troop and storme my mind!
How with a Giants armes I could embrace,
And closely clasp my sweet she Boniface!
Amanda gave a pleasant glance, and while
Her flowrie lips bloom'd in the modest smile,
Winter withdrew, I felt a forward spring,
As when great Birtha doth Elixir bring,
To drench the boughs, which by her Chymistrie,
Mantles i'th' blossomes of the Apple-tree,
Stil'd from the cloysters of the spungie earth;
Dead drunk I was, and all embalm'd in mirth;
Heaven past through my soul; th' Elysian fields,
Are but meer shadowes of the joy it yields:
My heart-strings move in tune, to its Almains
My panting breast keeps time; through all my veins,
Bubling in wantonness, now here, now there,
My fresh blood frisks in circles every where:
Thus in the Court the fawning Favourite,
When from the King his Master he can get
One pleasing look with vigour tuggs and hales,
Hope and Ambition hoist his full-cheek't sailes,
Top and top-gallant-wise, worth or no worth,
Into preferments Ocean lancheth forth.
Thus the blithe Merchant, when with even train,

His wealthie vessel glides through th' marble main
Hugs his good fortune, and begins to sport,
While Neptune kindly laughs him to the Port,
Propitious lights which at my birth did shine!
My starres speak dotage in this smile of thine.

On Amanda his friend, desiring him to fall to

1

A thousand thanks, good Sir, thanks for you cheer
And this good signe of welcome to your feast;
If you observe your guest,
How heartily he feeds
On these delicious viands here:
You'l finde his love no invitation needs,
Beleeve me, Sir, I do not spare.

2

I am all appetite, my hungry minde
Feeds almost to a surfeit on desire,
This dish 'tis I admire,
No cates so sweet as these;
Here, here, I feed, here I am pin'd;
And starv'd with meat, these juncates only please,
Hither my senses are confin'd.

3

Here's my rich banquet, hither the little lad

Cupid invites; in sugar here are store,
Of sweet meats candid o're,
From those faire lips I see
What choice of Conserves may be had,
The modest cherrie and the barberrie,
The best and sweetest marmalade.

4

Here I can taste the grape and mulberrie,
No blush of fruits (though served in they are
In pure white China ware)
Is like those cheeks of thine,
Where the freshest straw-berries be,
Most finely tipled in brisk Claret-wine,
Me thinks they seem to swim to me.

5

Beauty in stead of tempting sauce doth wooe,
Love feeds my heart, love feeds my eyes,
I for no rarities
Of quailes and phesants wish
(Sir, I am well-com'd well by you)
Amanda is my first and second dish:
Would she would make me well-come too.

To Amanda desirous to go to bed.

Sleepie, my Dear? yes, yes, I see
Morpheus is fall'n in love with thee,
Morpheus, my worst of rivals, tries

To draw the Curtains of thine eyes;
And fanns them with his wing asleep,
Makes drowsie love play at bopeep;
How prettily his feathers blow,
Those fleshie shuttings to and fro!
Oh how he makes me Tantalize
With those faire Apples of thine eyes!
Equivocates and cheats me still,
Opening and shutting at his will;
Now both now one, the doting god
Playes with thine eyes at even and odde;
My stamm'ring tongue doubts which it might
Bid thee good-morrow or good-night;
So thy eyes twinkle brighter farre,
Then the bright trembling, ev'ning starre;
So a waxe taper burnt within
The socket playes at out and in:

Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye,
Meaning there all night to lie;
Cupid and he play hoop-all hid,
Thy eye's their bed and cover-lid;

Fairest, let me thy night-clothes aire,
Come I'le unlace thy stomacher;
Make me thy maiden-chamber-man,
Or let me be thy warming-pan;
Oh that I may but lay my head
At thy beds feet i'th' trundle-bed;
Then i'th' morning e're I rose
I'd kisse thy pretty pettitoes.
Those smaller feet, with which i'th' day

My love so neatly trips away:

Since you I must not wait upon,
Most modest Lady, I'le be gone,
And though I cannot sleep with thee,
Oh may my dearest dream of me,
All the night long dream that we move
To the main centre of our love;
And if I chance to dream of thee,
Oh may I dream eternallie:
Dream that we freely act and play,
Those postures which we dream by day,
Spending our thoughts i th' best delight.
Chaste dreams allow of in the night.

To Amanda igoing to Prayer.

Stay, stay, Amanda, take a wish from me,
And blesse a cushion with thy softer knee;
Whither are all those Virgin-Angels gone,
Who strew their wings, for thee to kneel upon,
Those pretty pinion'd boyes, fat, plump and faire,
Who joy to be the Ecchoes of thy prayer.
Those golden Cupids fall'n in love with thee
Thy little Nuncioes to thy Deitie.

Prethy, Amanda, Dearest, prethy stay,
The Cushion, wench, where art? come bring't away
You use your Mistris kindly; here, my love,
Come kneel upon't, and kneel to none but Jove:

What o'th' bare boards! no sure it cannot be,
Look how they sink, and will not touch thy knee;
They dare not sinne so farre (my Dear) to presse
That flesh, and make it know their stubbornnesse,
Were there no bones within, thou should'st command
Under each tender knee thy lover's hand;
Nay, my Amanda, take my better part,
And at thy prayers kneel upon my heart.

On Amanda praying.

Amanda kneel'd, I straight a Canopie
Of Saints and Angels o're her head did see;
Amanda pray'd, and all the Spheres stood still,
The Heavens bow'd, and stoop't to know her will:
She pray'd with Zeal, and then the chanting quires
Of Cherubs, list'ning to her chaste desires,
Stop't their sweet Anthems; still Amanda pray'd;
Then on her bosome her pure hand she laid,
Call'd for her heart, and lifting up her eyes,
Turned her prayer into sacrifice;
Her heart was fix't, She more and more devout,
Did sob and groan as if she'd sigh it out;
At length she wept, but could not shed a tear
To wash her cheeks, or th' roses that grew there,
Fine, pretty lads came thick about her still,
Their Crystal bottles at her eyes to fill;

Some lodg'd upon her lips, all as they passe,
Hover, and make her eye their Looking-glasse;
Some set upon her cheeks, hard by the springs,
Her blush reflecting on their golden wings,
Some on her eye-lids sate, so greedy were,
They spoil'd the pearle, and snatch't at half a tear:

At last she ended all in giving praise,
Her head was sainted with a crown of rayes,
Then I no longer could Spectator be,
Amanda's glory had so dazled me;
But then I heard all Heaven cry Amen,
And pray, and sing her prayers o're agen.

To Amanda after her Prayers.

What watrie still with reliques of a tear?
Oh prethie let me kisse them dry, my Dear.
Religious fountains which still delug'd stand,
Where Infant-Angels wade it hand in hand!
What still bedew'd? sure yet remaining there
Some of those pretty tankard-bearers are,
Thy late Attendant at thy sacrifice,
Yes, yes, I see those babies in thine eyes,
Those yellow-winged Fairies in thy well
Till thou shalt pray agen intend to dwell,
Earnest expectants for a tear to fall,
They make within thine eyes a water-gall.

Amanda pray'd, I saw the Angels flie

To hear her lectures of Divinity,
And when my Fairest held up those hands of hers,
Thousands of sweet celestial Choristers
Danc't on each fingers end, delighting there
To fanne themselves in the perfumed aire
Of my Amanda's breath, swarm'd at her lip,
As Bees o're flowers, where they Nectar sip,
Then some did on her silver bosome rest,
Pruning their golden feathers in her breast,
And when my Dearest sang Te Deum out,
Th' Intelligences twirl'd the Orbes about,
But when she chanted her Magnificat,
The Angels then first learn't to imitate.

Yes, yes, thy prayer alwayes so pithie is;
So full of holy Zeale and emphasis,
So fraught with Hallelujahs it might be,
Heavens Laudamus, and mans Letanie,
Prethie, my Dearest, since with greatest Jove,
Thy prayers are so prevalent above:
I'm now thy subject, once thy Prince may be,
Pray for thy Prince, Amanda, pray for me.

To Amanda undressing her.

Thy hood's pull'd off, nay then I'm dead and gone,
Prethie, Amanda, put thy night-coif on.
I see a thousand am'rous Cupids there.

Which lie in Ambush, lurking in thy haire;
Look with what haste within those locks of thine,
They string their bowes to shoot these eyes of mine?
Look how that little blinde rogue there with his dart,
Stands aiming and layes level at my heart?
The symptomes of my wounds, Amanda, see,
Oh I bleed inwards, prethie pitty me.
I am all stuck with arrowes which are shot
So thick and fast, that there is ne'er a spot
About me free, each distinct atome smarts
By't selfe, pierc't with a thousand thousand darts;
And as a man with pangs surpriz'd by death
Struggles for life to keep his parting breath;
My nerves and sinews stretch, and all within
My body earne to graspe and reach thee in;
How could I knit and weave eternally,
And mingle limbs into a Gordian tie?]
Shoot on, sweet Archers, till I'm slain with love,
Then like the bedlam who in's talk doth prove
What made him mad, my happy blessed ghost
Of this nights vision shall for ever boast.

Kill me, my boyes, 'tis mercy to be kill'd
With love; who would not die in such a field
Of damask rose, slain by her lilie hand?
Dart me to death, you pretty b yes, that stand
Upon her breast, the shafts which thence you send,
Tell me, I am Amanda's bosome-friend.

To Amanda lying in bed.

In bed, my Dearest? thus my eye perceives
A primrose lodg'd betwixt its rugged leaves;
Lain down, Amanda? thus have I often seen
A lily cast upon a bed of green;
So the sweet Alablaster Babie lies
Cradled in fresher mosse; thy sparkling eyes
Dart forth such active beams, the god of sleep
Dare not come in his nightly court to keep,
He dares not lull thee, whil'st so bright they shine.
All Argus eyes watch in each eye of thine:
But when the humour takes you, that you please
To draw your eye-lids close, and take your ease;
He hovers o're the tester of your bed,
And gently on them will his poppies shed:

Then, my Amanda, (with his leaden crown
And scepter queen'd) let those faire vallins down,
Those fine white sattin vallins o're thy eye,
With their silk linings of a scarlet die.
Let that soft hand into the bed repaire,
Safe from the moisture of the dampish aire,
Yet let me taste it first; so keep thee warm,
Lie close, would I might lay thee in mine arme.
Good night, my Dear, ne'er say good night to me,
Till I all night, Amanda sleep with thee.

On Amanda fallen asleep.

Sleep is a kinde of death, why may not I
Write my Deares Epitaph, her Elegie?
Here lies Amanda fast asleep,
Whom Cupid guards, and Angels keep;
Here lies the rarest prize
Two pearles within her eyes,
So have I seen a gem
A Princely diadem
Shut in a Cabinet,
A whole treasury
In a small box of ivorie,
Inlaid with bars and grates of jet.
For such Amanda's eye-lids are
White and fringed with black hair.

Here lies Amanda dead asleep:
Hither lovers come and weep:
Here's a hand which doth out-goe
In whitenesse driven snow;
Upon that sweet bag cast your eye,
There on fine, fresh, green sattin see it lie,
With knots of scarlet ribbon by:
Thus interwoven have I seen
Virgius wax candles red and green,
Proud with a fine white twist between.

Hither lovers haste and see,
Her slender fingers circled be,
Like Rings enamel'd with the Galaxie;
Her locks as soft as sloven silke,
Through her Alpes do make their way,
And on her breasts which do out-vie
The icie rocks of frozen milk,
And th'lovely Swans soft downie thigh,
Her stately amorous curles
The saucie wantons play.
Whil'st two fierce Cupids on her niples sit,
To wound the hearts of stupid churles,
Who passe Amanda's tomb-stone by,
And with so much as half an eye,
Will not vouchsafe to look on it.

Here lies my Dear Amanda chaste and faire,
Don-Cupids charge and Angels care,
Here she lies, and yet not here,
For she's buried otherwhere.
She's pris'ner in my heart,
From whence she can no sooner part
Then dead men from the grave;
And yet she there doth move,
Not only in the ghost of love,
No, though a pris'ner, yet she's free,
Alas, too free for me,
She lives my bleeding heart t' enslave.

Here my sweetest sweet Amanda lies,

The best, the rarest of all rarities,
Shrouded she is from top to toe,
With lilies which all o're her grow,
In stead of bayes and rosemarie,
Roses in her cheeks there be,
Oh would I thy coffin were!
Amanda's living sepulchre!
Or would within that winding sheet
Our happy limbs might closely meet!
There would I chastly lie till th' day of doom,
And mingle dust till th' resurrection come;
But since as yet this cannot be,
For Heavens sake,
My Dearest, now awake,
For whil'st Amanda sleeps, she's dead to me.

To Amanda waking.

Awake at length! oh quickly, Fairest, rise,
And let the day break from thy brighter eyes,
Heark how the early cockrel crowes, my Dear,
'Tis not Aurora's, but thy chaunticlere;
Heark how the merry cherpers of the spring
To thee their goddesse do their mattens sing!
The purple violets startle from their beds,
Gently erecting their sweet pearly heads
On their fresh leaved boulsters, each would be
A Benefactresse to thy treasury,

And shake into thy snowie breast a tear,
To be congeal'd into a jewel there:
Look how that woodb ne at the window peeps,
And slilie underneath the casement creeps!
It's honey-suckle shewes, and tempting stands
To spend its morning Nectar in thy hands;
Look in the gardens of thy cheeks, and see
Aurora painting in thy rosarie:
The ripest mulberries do blush it thus,
Made guilty of the blood of Pyramus:
Nay had that modest fruit been stain'd with thine,
How like thy lips farre brighter would it shine!
Compar'd with which, who e're betimes hath seen
The ruddy, damask, Nabathean Queen,
With her red crimson morning wastcoat on,
Though in her glory she were look't upon
Newly with Sun-beams brush't, shall say at th' best;
'Tis a pale waterish rednesse in the East;
Nay, and that beauty which in her we see,
Is not her own, but borrow'd too from thee;
The Sunne himself reflects, he's but thy Moon,
Hide but thy face, and he is eclipst at noon.

Cast off that drowsie mantle of the night,
And rise, Amanda, or 'twill ne'er be light,
Thy beautie only can drive night away,
Rise, rise, my Fairest, or we lose a day.

A morning Salute to Amanda.

Now a good morning to my sweetest love,
Health from all mankind and the Saints above;
Ave, Amanda; spare that dew that lies
On thy faire hand to wash my love-sick eyes,
That at my prayers I may better see,
Virgin most sweet, to tell my beads to thee:
I am a Papist, zealous, strict, precise,
Amanda is the Saint I idolize.

To Amanda washing her hands.

How prettily those dabchick fingers play,
And sport with the cool Nymph, which doth obey
Their doubtful motions, opens every where,
Where e're they please to dive and ravish her!
Cupid with a gold bason and Ewre stands,
Shedding rose-water on thy lilie hands;
Officious Venus too her self stands by
With towels like thy maid to wipe them dry.
See from thy fingers pretty bubbles fall,
A faire Narcissus cloyster'd in them all!
No, no, that broken bubbles eccho there,
Told me Narcissus was not half so faire:

See in each bubble a bright smiling lasse,
Each bubble is Amanda's looking-glasse.

To Amanda after she had wash't.

Heark now these bubbles talk of thee, and break
Themselves in their last breath thy name to speak!
Heark how they sigh and wish they Crystal were,
They might be ever pendents in thy eare!
That water flung away! No, no, my Faire,
With it no Chymick Essence can compare;
'Tis clarifi'd and quick'ned with the balme,
The morning philter of thy dewie palme.
The sweetnesse of thy hands remaineth yet,
'Twill make me faire to wash my face with it:
Oh I must drink; Amanda, give it me,
'Tis Nectarilla, and doth taste of thee.

To Amanda walking in the Garden.

And now what Monarch would not Gard'ner be,
My faire Amanda's stately gate to see;
How her feet tempt! how soft and light she treads,
Fearing to wake the flowers from their beds!
Yet from their sweet green pillowes ev'ry where,

They start and gaze about to see my Faire;
Look at yon flower yonder, how it growes
Sensibly! how it opes its leaves and blowes,
Puts its best Easter clothes on, neat and gay!
Amanda's presence makes it holy-day:
Look how on tip-toe that faire lilie stands
To look on thee, and court thy whiter hands
To gather it! I saw in yonder croud
That Tulip-bed, of which Dame-Flora's proud,
A short dwarfe flower did enlarge its stalk,
And shoot an inch to see Amanda walk;
Nay, look, my Fairest, look how fast they grow!
Into a scaffold method spring! as though
Riding to Parl'ament were to be seen
In pomp and state some royal am'rous Queen:
The gravel'd walks, though ev'n as a die,
Lest some loose pebble should offensive lie,
Quilt themselves o're with downie mosse for thee,
The walls are hang'd with blossom'd tapestrie;
To hide her nakednesse when look't upon,
The maiden fig-tree puts Eves apron on;
The broad-leav'd Sycomore, and ev'ry tree
Shakes like the trembling Aspe, and bends to thee,
And each leaf proudly strives with fresher aire,
To fan the curled tresses of thy hair;
Nay, and the Bee too, with his wealthie thigh,
Mistakes his hive, and to thy lips doth flie;
Willing to treasure up his honey there,
Where honey-combs so sweet and plenty are:
Look how that pretty modest Columbine

Hangs down its head to view those feet of thine!
See the fond motion of the Strawberrie,
Creeping on th' earth to go along with thee!
The lovely violet makes after too,
Unwilling yet, my Dear, to part with you;
The knot-grasse and the dazies catch thy toes
To kisse my Faire ones feet before she goes;
All court and wish me lay Amanda down,
And give my Dear a new green flower'd gown.
Come let me kisse thee falling, kisse at rise,
Thou in the Garden, I in Paradise.

To Amanda seeming to deny his request.

Pretty, coy, modest thing! how lovingly
She seems to grant me, what she doth deny!
Troth, little Cupid, 'tis a pretty Art
To look another way, and strike a heart;
But why, my boy dost teach the women it,
Who whilst they say they will not shoot, do hit?
Well-plaid good Angler, with thy sportive bait,
To catch it from me when I think I ha't.

But why Amanda, am I thus deni'd,
And after so long treatie cast aside?
Perhaps thou lov'st to hear me ask of thee,
To laugh at my poor Courtship beggerie:
Canst thou be so unkinde? must I forbear

To love Amanda? Strange! well though, my Faire,
We must return our Pledges, prethie then
Take all thy suretie kisses back agen.
First my indebted lips shall pay thee thine,
Then thou shalt kisse me till thou pay'st me mine:
Paying our debt, shall make's indebted more,
Wee'l kissing pay, and paying run o'th' score,
And run so long, so deep in debt, my Dear,
Till neither on's can pay his vast Arrear;
So in loves lawful action by my troth
The catch-heart Cupid shall arrest us both;
And if that little bum-Bayliffe in my suite
Arrest Amanda, and she prosecute
Her Creditor for debt agen; for thee
I'le take no bayle, none shall be giv'n for me,
But these my armes shall thy close prison be,
And thou shalt finde a prison too for me;
Bridewel or Gatehouse, Heaven to my heart,
Whil'st thou my Keeper and my Prison art:
Nor do I care, but pray there may not be
These hundred yeares a Goal-delivery.

But what's the meaning of this feign'd denial,
Was it to check my hopes, or make a trial
Of my undoubted love? Amanda, know,
The hastie current stop't doth overflow.

Thou art a richer jewel, 'tis not fit
So little asking should obtain thee yet;
Porters with whom such wealthie treasures are,
Ope not the door till they know who is there;

Let my Dear know I will not pillage her,
I only ask to be her treasurer.
I love to feel that hand that pats me so,
And seems to say me yes in saying no.

To Amanda desirous to drink.

Calling for beer! know not the gods they ought
To send thee Nectar for thy mornings draught
I'm sure the Heavens do allow it you,
Ambrosia-Caudles for your break-fast too;
How is't? surely this lazie Ganimed
Sleeps it, and is not yet got out of's bed:
What not yet come! Amanda, by that face
I'le turne this punie Butler out of's place.
And drain the skies till there no Nectar be,
But what the gods shall beg as almes from thee.

To Amanda inviting her to walk.

Come, 'tis a morning like thy self, my Faire,
Sweet as thy breath the spring perfumes the air
With the fresh fragrant odours of its balme,
Still'd from the last nights dew, a pleasing calm
Invites thee forth; there's no unruly blast,
No sauce winde to give the least distaste;

In the disordering of those curles, which move
As if each haire were with it self in love;
Thy fingers made those rings, and ev'ry haire,
Thinks it doth still embrace thy finger there:
Heark how the birds play Consorts o're and o're!
Heark to that modest begger at the door,
Whose lungs breath spices! gentle Zephyrus
Whispers, and through the key-hole calls to us;
The Sunne himself yonder expectant stayes,
And strewes the golden atomes of his raies,
To guild thy paths; though in post-haste he be,
Yet he stands still to look and gaze on thee.
The Heavens court thee, Princely Oberon
And Mab his Emp'resse both expect thee yon,
They wait to see thee, sport the time away,
And on green beds of dazies dance the hay;
In their small acorn posnets, as they meet
Quaffe off the dew, lest it should wet thy feet.
The black-birds whistle, and the Finches sing
To welcome thy approach, and not the Spring.

Come then, my Turtle, let us make our flight,
And browse it in the arbours of delight;
To the next me low-Tempe let us move;
Let's flie to Heaven on the wings of love,
And when kinde Cupid has conveigh'd us thither,
Wee'l chastely sit and mingle bills together.

To Amanda walking abroad.

Come, come, Amanda, hand in hand wee'l walk;
Heark how the birds of Love and Cupid talk.
As if they lately had been drinking wine,
Each chirps a dialogue to his Valentine:
Nay, to their downie breasted Ladies yet,
At yon clear Crystal spring they'r bibbing it,
As if all bowles too narrow-belli'd were,
And cups too shallow, with a heartie prayer.
Health after health, each to his plumie lasse
Carowseth in the brook, and scornes the glasse,
Nay, and as if they fear'd to drink it dry,
The hot cock-sparrow doth still, Fill it, cry;
See how to's Mistris with his tipling bill,
The Nightingal doth sweetly juggeit still!
That pretty Linnet seems to drink to me,
I'le pledge thy health, Amanda, kissing thee.
And whil'st those feather'd-lovers water sip,
I'le quaffe the Orleans-claret of thy lip,
And suck those bloody mulberries in,
Till like that fruit my lips seem'd stain'd with sinne;
Then sinne in 'ts blush shall make me more devout,
I'le kisse and sinne, and sinne a pardon out;
For thou'rt so chaste, that who once kisse thee may,
In that one kisse wipes all his sinne away;
Though blasphemie and murther it remit,

Pope Joans Indulgence doth come short of it,
'Tis Heaven it self, and on that lip to dwell
Is to be sainted; of no greater hell
Can lovers dream, no greater sin commit
Then to leave kissing, and to part with it.

To Amanda like to be taken in a showre.

Well done, kinde unexpected Æolus,
Thy boyes have bravely kept the raine from us,
Thank thee, as yet we have not wet a thread;
Me thoughts I saw over Amanda's head
Thy huff't-puff't blub-cheek't Caitiffes hover,
And stretch their lungs to blow th' last showre over;
Then the sweet plump-fac't rogues, when fair
And clear it was, as if they breathlesse were
To save Amanda, begg'd and kept a stir
To get my leave they might take breath from her
I gave my grant, they kist, each kisse did prove
They were no windes, but Angels fall'n in love.
How can my Dearest, then my dotage blame,
If I so oft call on Amanda's name;
The courtly Cherubims my rivals be,
And Heaven makes thee it's Penelope.

To Amanda fearing a second showre.

What means this woman-like unconstant weather,
These spungie clouds so strangely squeez'd together!
Should my Deares face be once so over-cast,
My eyes would deluge till the storme were past;
But when her pleasing Sunne-shine once appears,
Her rayes of beauty dry up all my teares:
See the clouds blown away, be then to me
Kinde as the stormes and tempests are to thee;
And like the Heavens cast those vailes away,
Unmuffle, sweetest, and thy beams display;
It has cleer'd up, yet still 'tis cloudie though,
The weather's faire, when my Faire makes it so
Fear not, Amanda, but unmask thy eyes,
Come prethy, I'le unpin those mummeries.
'Twill raine no more, I'le kisse thy cheeks.
'Tis May without an April showre there.

An Answer to Amanda's question.

Philosophers , who in old dayes did live,
Say it is Jove makes water through a sieve;
Perhaps their god is drunk heleakes so fast,

Or else some Doctor must his urine cast;
I'le tell thee Fairest, Heavens bank'rout King,
Grown poor through lust doth silver hailstones fling
Instead of gold, the shower aim'd at thee,
He faine would take thee as his Danäe.

I'le tell thee, my Amanda, whence it is,
It rain'd so much to day, the reason's this,
The Sunne espi'd thy beauty, look't upon't,
And Heaven sneez'd with looking too much on't.

To a Rivall.

Keep off presumption; horrid impudence,
Bold monstrous traitor to my love, get hence,
Strange daring faith! venture to step between
A jealous Monarch, and a chaster Queen,
Go tempt a Kingdom kept by the magick spell
Of a Prince politick; I'm loves Machavel;
This is my Florence, and thou tempt'st from me
Not an Italians wife, but Italy;
Ransack the great Turks Seraglio, try
T' out-pimp the lustful Sultans jealousie;
Hug the coy lawrel, and expect to see
Daphne throw off her bark and follow thee:
Make old Endymion Pander, and conferre
With Luna, till thou get new moones on her;
Surprize an Abbesse and her Nunnerie,
Reconcile love to its antipathie;

Go dive amongst the haddocks and the whales,
Make love to Mare-maids and their Conger-tailes;
Court some faire skillet-face, and swear she's neat,
For pricking skewers well and spitting meat;
Some greasie Cook-maid whose sweet dugs suck in,
Receive and mingle dripping with her chin,
Who nightly with her knife her smock put off,
Scrapes thence some pipkins full of kitchin-stuffe,
Or wooe some driv'ling Hag, whose pitfal skin
Makes lust mistake the wonted place of sinne.
On some thrum'd Baucis spend thy hopes and labour,
Where thou mayest bathe thy lips in slime and slabber
Cuckold the devil, get some Proserpine,
Some Succuba to be thy Concubine.
Engender with the night-mare, and beget
Dreams which may stang thy blood, and jellie it;
This once accomplish't, thou may'st freely ask
Amanda's love, but fore thou'st done thy task,
If thou dare once come near this sacred Court,
Wherein my Princesse love and beauty sport,
Ile stifle thy rebel heart in clotted gore
Of blood, with knives and daggers shroud thee o're,
And make thee bear i'th' face, throat, heart and back,
More signes then he in Swallows Almanack.

A game at Chesse with Amanda.

I and Amanda on a day,
Sat down a game at Chesse to play,
Passing my Bishops with their lawnes,
She was still for taking pawnes,
She play'd, I play'd, she chect me straight,
She wish't, I wish't it might be mate:
But then (said I) I must check you,
Or else you'l check and beat me too.

To his most Noble Friend Sir T. L. B. of Shingle hall.

SIR,

That th' only vertue is Nobility,
'Twas spoke in malice, and you'l prov't a lie.
The Author of that sentence, liv'd he now
Would know his wit a scandal, knew he you.
Nay, Sir, that Nobles are the better sort;
Alas! the very times upbraid him for't;
And yet some hope to see our Noblemen
Some such as you confute the times agen;
Though in their wisdomes now they dormant ly,
Hush't in their private mansions quietly;
Had they such Martial souls, such fighting hands,
Redemption of their rights, three [crowns]

[_]

The word is represented here by three crowns.

and lands
Were easie work, and they might bravely get
More honour then a bene latuit,
And th' Art of keeping heads on safe; But I
Intend no plots, although a liberty
Of tongue to speak in this and th' other sense,
Is safer farre then that of conscience;
Yet te'nt allow'd of; but howe're 'tis fit,
That Poets still should have their Quidlibet:
It is their charter, notwithstanding now.
I'le make no use on't; only thus to you.

Sir, in each cast of your commanding eye,

Such reverend imperious glances flie,
Such royal stately looks, so sweet a grace
Of presence, that when now there is no face
Of Monarch in the land, amongst so many
Kings of the times, if 'twill agree to any;
Better I cannot make the Court-salute,
Then with your stature and your greatnesse suit
(Setting all Steeples and all Fat-guts by)
If't please your Highnesse or your Majestie:
Such a well-timber'd man, of such a height,
And yet your years be hardly ten and eight!
What ever Nature's second thoughts might be,
Her first allowance was for Gemini.

Sir, there's such mixture in your countenance
Of Mars and Cupid, such a ridling glance,
We doubt what in your eyes those sparklings move;
Or warlike lightnings or the flames of love?
Sometimes I've seen you (like Prince Paris stand
Ready to kisse his Helens lilie-hand)
All smiles, and then again me thinks I see
Within your face a whole Artillerie:
Thus looks a bold advent'rous AmaZon,
A Lady with Knight-Errant's armour on:
Sure that Greek Cavalier look't something like
To you, who 'mongst the Spinsters tost a pike,
Which you may be, I doubt, and pause upon't,
A young Achilles or a Bradamant;
Would any see Venus and Mars embrace,
They meet, and mingle loves upon your face;
By which I mean there's to be seen in you,

Sir Thomas Leventhorp, and Madam too;
Minos was such a Gallant sure, had you been there,
Nisus had sooner lost his purple haire,
(Sylla as love-sick, and as mad to wed)
You'd had a Kingdome and a Maiden-head;
Of all the beauties which in women shine,
Your Nature's ward-robe, but yet masculine.

Sir, in all this, I must commend with you;
Your well-belov'd, the Princely Mountague.

To Mr. LILLY, Musick-Master in Cambridge.

Sir , I have seen your scip-jack fingers flie,
As if their motion taugh't Ubiquitie:
I've seen the trembling Cat'lin's smart and brisk
Start from the frets, dance, leap, and nimbly frisk
In palsie capers, pratling (a most sweet
Language of Notes) Curranto's as they meet:
I've heard each string speak in so short a space
As if all spoke at once; with stately grace
The surley tenour grumble at your touch,
And th' ticklish-maiden treble laugh as much,
Which (if your bowe-hand whip it wantonly,)
Most pertly chirps and jabbers merrily;
Like frolick Nightingals, whose narrow throats
Such Musick in and out, and gargle notes;

Each strain makes smooth, and curles the air agen,
Like currents suck't by narrow whirlepits in;
Sometimes they murmur like the shallow springs,
Whose hastie streams forc't into Crystal rings,
And check't by pebbles, pretty Musick make
In kisses and such language as they speak,
'Tis soft and easie, Heaven can't out-do't,
That under Fairie-ground is nothing to't:
Who e're that earthly mortal Cherub be,
Whose well-tun'd soul delights in melodie:
He ventures hard, if for an houre he dares
To your surprizing straines apply his eares,
We finde such Magick in your Harmony,
As if to hear you were to hear and die.

Were you a Batchelour, and bold to trie
Fortunes, what Lady's she, though ne're so high
And rich by birth, should see the tickling sport
Your finger makes, and would not have you for't;
Beyond those Saints who speak ex tempore,
Your well-spoke viol scornes tautologie;
And I in truth had rather hear you teach
O'th' Lyra, then the rarest tub-man preach:
In's holy speeches he may strike my eares
With more of Heav'n; you with more o'th' spheres,

I've heard your base mumble and mutter too,
Made angry with your cholerick hand, while you
With hastie jirks to vex and anger't more
Correct its stubbornnesse and lash it o're:
I've heard you pawse, and dwell upon an aire,
(Then make't i'th' end (as loft to part it were)

Languish and melt away so leasurely,)
As if 'twere pity that its Eccho die;
Then snatch up notes, as if your viol broke,
And in the breaking every splinter spoke:
I've seen your active hands vault to and fro,
This to give grace, that to command your bowe;
As if your fingers and your instrument
By conspiration made you eminent.

We have good Musick and Musicians here,
If not the best, as good as any where:
A brave old Irish Harper, and you know
English or French way few or none out-go
Our Lutanists; the Lusemores too I think
For Organists, the Sack-buts breath may stink,
And yet old Brownes be sweet, o'th' Violin
Saunders plays well, where Magge or Mel han't been.
Then on his Cornet brave thanksgiving Mun,
Playes on Rings Chappel after Sermon's done:
At those loud blasts, though he's out-gone by none,
Yet Cambridge glories in your self alone:
No more but thus, he that heares only you,
Heares Lillie play, and Doctor Coleman too.

You in the swiftnesse of your hand excel
All others, my Amanda sings as well,
No Musick like to hers; I wish in troth,
That we with her might play in Consort both;
Might I my self, and you my friend prefer,
You with her voice should play, and I with her.

A Passion.

1

Solicit not my chaster eyes,
With those faire breasts that fall and rise,
I'le not lie betwixt those dugs
Where Cupid nestles, sleeps and snugs;
There is no goddesse I adore,
To fight with those that call her whore:
Thou shalt not surfeit in thy pride,
By me so falsely deifi'd.
No, hang a Mistris, I le ha' none,
No such toy to dote upon.

2

Beauties faring, Loves conceit,
“Though her face be eighty-eight;
Called faithful, constant, faire,
Though Vaux i'th' dark plot treason there;
The Phenix too must build his nest,
I'th' blest Arabia of her breast;
Without her little dog though she
Or musk or civet dare not be.
Fie, fie, a Mistris I'le ha' none,
No such toy to doat upon.

3

I'le be no Merchant; nor saile nigh,
Those tempting India's of thy thigh;

Make an adventure, hit or misse,
And wrack my fancie for a kisse;
Fool to your laughing Ladyship,
To get a smile, or touch your lip;
Protest with oathes high and mighty,
That your spittle is aqua vitæ.
No, hang a Mistris, &c.

4

Amongst the gallants swear and rant,
And of your kindnesse boast and vant;
Then drink diseases down, and wave
All thoughts of sicknesse or the grave,
Pledge your health, and pledge it stoutly,
Pray o're my cups, and drink devoutly;
Increase the Feaver of my lust,
And never dream I am but dust.
Oh hang a Mistris, &c.

5

Then vault and do some tumblers knack
That speaks me man, and shewes my back;
Run in debt and pawne my goods,
To buy you fancies, gloves and hoods;
Then if the catch-pole chance to hale
And drag me to the loathsome goal;
There may your servant die and rot,
You never send, you see him not.
Shame on't, a Mistris, &c.

6

At least I shall be curst in this,
Your love, your beauty common is,

Then I receive my Rivals glove,
Murther, or else renounce my love;
Or late at night must walk the street,
Where ten to one some rogues I meet,
Only to watch till one o'th' clock
I'th' cold to see you in your smock;
And nothing do
But look at you
And through the key-hole too.
Oh hang a Mistris, I'le ha' none
No such toy to doat upon.
All that faire and am'rous be,
Are Mistresses alike to me;
I'm in love with every one,
No, hang't, in love with none.
Amanda prethy pardon me,
In love with none, with none but thee.

To Amanda mistrusting her love.

If any Stranger but appear,
Thy jealous Lover straight begins to feare;
If any letters come to thee,
Suspicion swiftly doth come post to me;
In private if thou reade them o're,
I read 'tis love, and still suspect the more;
If after this thou chance to frown,
Despair brings night on, and my Sunne goes down;

From me in anger if thou part,
A fearful palsie shakes my trembling heart;
But should'st thou bid me once abstain,
My breath would go, and ne'er return again:
To rid me of these killing doubts,
Would I could see thee once make Babie-clouts.

To Amanda, on her picture drawn with a Lute in her hand

A sweet faire draught, yet not compleatly true,
No, it must paint agen to be like you;
Niggardly Art must be at greater cost,
Else your complexion is in colours lost;
A neat resemblance, yet who e're did do't,
Envi'd my eye, and drew a curtain to't;
A whimsie limner strange, what meant the toy,
Not like your selfe to make your picture coy!
Oh it was providence, thoughts of a wife,
Had kill'd me there, had you been drawn to th' life;
But Fairest; that's beyond our modern powers,
Apelles hand ought to be seen in yours,
And Art must to that work a pupil show,
Durst cut a line with skilful Angelo;
Yet in the cast o' th' eye would like't you'd be,
And then where e're I stand, you'd look on me;
It was my chance to see't by candle-light,
Had you been there I could have stay'd all night;

I kist those hands, no lesse nor more could do,
But yet my fancie kist the substance too.
Me thoughts my lips did some impressions make,
The awful Cat'line seem'd to tremble and shake:
Had you been there to play as I did wis,
I'd have kept time with an observant kisse;
A sweeter Lute for you would I prepare,
In tune you should have found my heart-strings were;
So mingling aires and lips till break of day,
We would a sweet chaste ravishing Consort play
Without a discord, only this I'd do,
I'd keep false time, false time in kissing you.

Oh Fairest, that thou were't but drawn on me,
Then blest should I thy happy picture be;
I stretch my armes out, and still wish the same,
Oh that you were but hanging on this frame;
Then for your beauties sake, straight should I be,
Hang'd in some princely Monarchs gallery;
Nor would I care could I but often see,
You come, and kindly look and smile on me.
Then would I draw y' agen upon my heart,
And be loves masterpiece of Love and Art.

A Dream.

As in the perfum'd garden yesterday,
Amongst the primrose fast asleep I lay,

My busie soul upon a ramble went,
By love and fancie on an errand sent.
In at Amanda's private chamber door
She made her flight, and view'd her o're and o're.
The more she look't, the more she lik't, and fain
She would have staid, and ne'er return'd again;
First on her cherrie lip she plaid, and then
On her faire cheek, so to her lip agen;
Where having suck't till she was fill'd with love,
She drop't into her downie breast; the next remove
Was to the chamber of her heart, to see
If she could take possession there for me;
When in she came, there pretty Cupid sat
In state, and laugh't at her, she glad of that
Kindly embrac't and kist the smiling boy,
And whil'st they kist, my Sweet-heart leap't for joy;
Then could my jocant soul no longer stay,
But straight to bring the newes came post away:
Her flight was swift, and with her lovingly
She brought along, [most willing companie]
Amanda's soul, so loth to part they were;
The best on't is, she left a Cupid there.

To Amanda on her dimples.

When e're I let my meditations flie,
And give them wings to take their libertie,
Like the neat Cyprian bird, the cleanly Dove,
Which no fowl sloven stenement doth love,
But a faire stately house and nere forsakes
The pleasant fabrick to which once it takes,
So my thoughts flie, (from whence they ne're will part)
So th' comely mansion of a candid heart;
Each winged thought to thee, Amanda, flies,
And under th' crystal windowes of thine eyes
Lights on thy damask cheeks, where they do play,
The wooing turtles winding every way,
Till by young Cupids craft they're taken in,
Love's dimpled pitfalls of thy cheeks and chin,
Three nests of new-flown smiles on roses near,
To which a thousand unflegg'd Angels are,
Chirping pin-feather'd, pirking Cherubs sit,
Sweet blushing Babes playing at cherrie-pit,
Some win and smile, some lose their cherries, then
Down to thy lips, and gather fresh agen,
Sweet kissing lips, which all the Winter shew
The ripest cherries, and their blossomes too,
When e're thou weep'st, each Grace doth snatch a tear,
And fill a dimple with't, then wash her there,
That pimping Cupids come, to cool their wings,

In these chaste vailes, each from thine eye-lid bring
A liquid crystal pearle, whose parts in love
Unto each other as a centre move,
So it remaines a gemme (though moist and wet)
Whose superficies is its Cabinet,
And loth to break it is, till hastily
An Infant having snatch't it from thine eye,
Flies to a pleasant dimple, and within't
Dissolve the Jewel, and so bath him in't,
Baths in a dimple, which of rosebuds smells,
Thine eyne and cheeks the Graces Bath and Wells.

On Amanda's black eye-browes.

Near to an eye that sparkles so,
'Tis strange so dark an hair should grow
Upon a skin so white and faire,
'Tis strange there is so black an hair,
At first 'cause it so near doth lie,
I guest 'twas Sunne-burnt with thine eye,
But then I thought if so it were,
'Twould melt the snow which lies as near,
And scorch and make those lilies die,
Upon the shuttings of thine eye,
And those fresh roses to which grow,
Upon thy sweeter cheeks below.
Then I conceiv'd that there might be,

In those black browes a mystery,
That Venus for Adonis sake,
Commanded nature there to make.
(A pretty strange conceited thing)
Two arches of a mourning ring.
Thence 'tis that those black haires do grow,
Thence are thy browes enamel'd so.

Good wishes to Amanda.

1

May my Amanda live,
And live in health,
May no desease, no crosse,
No sudden losse,
Nor want of wealth,
No angry push, no pain nor smart,
Afflict or grieve,
Her tender melting heart.

2

May th' Heavens and the earth
Conspire her mirth,
By Io I conjure thee Jove,
May all that's good
Club her delight,
May Cupid give her all the sweets of love,
And kindly in the coolest night
Most chastely warm her blood.

3

Ne'er may she wipe a teare,
From her bright eye,
Ne'er may she sigh or weare,
A mourning vale,
In black, look pale,
Till in her cheeks those fresher roses die,
And where they blush it so,
Nothing but gastly lilies grow.

4

Ne'er may she scowl or frown,
Or chafe or fret.
Ne'er may she meet a Clown,
That smells of sweat,
By him be kist
Ne'er may the bristles of a bumpkin's chin,
Or th' gripes o's callow fist,
Injure her softer sweeter skin.

5

Ne'er may my Dearest die,
A sudden death
Nor on her death-bed lie,
Gasping for breath,
Whilst all about
Her friends drop teares.
But like a brighter lamp i'th' end,
May she burn clear and spend,
Her store of oyle, and so go out.

6

Ne'er may her slender wrist,

Be over-prest,
Nor rudely wrung too hard;
May her faire hand,
Be luckie still;
At what e're game she playes, may she command
The surest winning card,
And never may she want her will.

7

Amongst great Madams whatsoe're,
My faire appear,
Ne'er may she want an eye,
T' admire and gaze,
Nor tongue to praise
Her rare well-featur'd physnomie,
Still may she called be
The sweetest and the fairest she.

8

And if the greatest Jove
Shall blesse me so,
So as to make her mine,
And she shall know
No other love,
All the night long upon her slumbring eyne,
May Cupids lodge in swarmes,
Ne'er may she startle from mine armes.

9

But if I can't be thought
Worthy that love,
For which so long I've sought,
For which I've strove,

So zealously,
When I am gone and lost, oh may she finde
A heart as kinde,
That knowes to love as well as I.

Amanda's Beautie preferr'd.

Of noted pearlesse beauties I shall tell,
Yet leave Amanda without parallel,
From thy bright eyes I have receiv'd a wound,
Deeper then Henry from his Rosamond,
I'le be thy Knight and Vaughans office do,
I'le bo thy Labyrinth and Keeper too

As thou art fairer then French Isabel,
So in thy breast farre greater comforts dwell;
Thy love can me to richer joyes prefer,
Then, e're she did her lovely Mortimer:
Had'st thou been living when that famous Lasse
Fitz-waters daughter so admired was,
Sweetest Matilda when to Dunmow gone,
Had ne'er been courted by the Princely John;
If my Amanda e're shall be a Nun,
Oh Heavens may she be a wedded one,
I'le answer all her Vowes of chastity,
I'le be her constant Monk and Monastry,
I'le be the careful Abbot, she shall be
My pretty Abbesse and my Nunnerie,

What though the Nunn'rie fall, we'l love, and then
Replenish with young Monks and Nunns agen;

Because thy beautie is of greater power,
Then that of Alice walking on the tower,
Storm'd by all features in their excellence,
Edward the black (that stout victorious Prince,)
With lesse disdain might have been check't by thee,
Then by the Lady of Count Sal'sburie,

If Owen Tudor prais'd his Madams hue,
'Cause in her cheeks the rose and lilie grew,
Thou'rt more praise-worthy then was Katherine,
There's fresher York and Lancaster in thine:

Had thy sweet features with thy beauty met
In William do-la-pool's faire Margaret,
The Peers surpriz'd had never giv'n consent,
For th' Duke of Suffolks five years banishment,
For the Exchange of Mauns, Anjou and Main,
T' have giv'n a Kingdom for thee had been gain:

What King would not his Crown and Scepter pawne,
To purchase lilies, and the whitest lawne,
From thy pure hands, jems from thy sparkling eyes,
Thy rubie lips, and such rich rarities?
Who would not leave a throne one night to lie
Upon the sweet bags of thy Rosarie?

Most princely Virgin, had'st thou lived, when
The goddesse Beautie was ador'd by men;
Edward would have preferr'd thee farre before,
The Goldsmiths Jewel, famous Missresse Shore,
Had he but seen thy face, and heard thy wit,

To thee that King his sugred lines had writ,
The great Controwler Love had made thee be,
Great Lady Governesse to's Majestie:
For who Amanda would not put off state,
And lose a Heav'n with thee t'inoculate?
Who would not forfeit all his libertie,
Lock't up and folded in thine armes to be?

Were I a Sultan or an Emperour,
Thus would I write to thee my Paramour.
“Oft go my robes and these gold chaines of mine,
“To twist my legs with those soft legs of thine;
“I'le be no longer Prince, may I but be,
“Squire o'th' body to so faire a she;
“I'le lose my honour and my royal throne,
“And think I have them all in thee alone;
“I who am worship't with a bended knee,
“Will be thy servant, and bend mine to thee;
“Off goes my Crown, I'le be no King of men,
“That Princely name I'le ne'er put on agen;
“Till thou into thine armes when I am hurld,
“Shalt make me King of thy sweet lesser world;
“No kingly pleasure like to loves delight,
“Thy kisse shall crown me, I'le be crown'd all night;
“And when the pleasant night is past away,
“Then shall succeed my Coronation day;
“Wee'l spend our time in love's sweet merriments,
“In stately tiltings, justs and tournaments;
“Like the stout Brandon in the Court of France.
“His loved Mary's honour to advance;
“Had he then took (thou brightest Queen of light

“Thy name his signal when he 'gan to fight,
“Without chastisements from his piercing steel,
“The Giant Almain had been forc't to kneel;

“Were Surrey travel'd now to Tuskanie,
“Off'ring to reach his gauntlet out for thee;
“If on the guilt tree in the List he set,
“Thy pretty lovely, pretty counterfeit,
“All Planet-struck with those two stars, thy eyne,
“(Outshining farre, his heav'nly Geraldine;)
“There would no staffe be shiver'd, none would dare,
“A beautie with Amanda's to compare:

“All those faire Ladies which we Beauties call,
“Are Mauritanians, and not faire at all,
“The proudest Madam, and the brightest she,
“Is but a Gypsie, if compar'd with thee,
“And all those Princely faire ones that live nigh,
“Are tawnie, tann'd and sun-burnt with thine eye;
“Off goes my robe, and these gold chains of mine,
“To twist my legs with those soft legs of thine.

Thou art so faire, that in a Sun-shine day,
When Phœbus beams are darted ev'ry way,
If thou walk out with thy encountring eyes,
Sweet Daphne fills me with strange jealousies,
Should thy chaste body turn t' a Lawrel tree,
Oh may my browes be e're impal'd with thee;
If I'm a Poet thou hast made me so;
Then if thy armes to Lawrel branches grow,
'Tis fit in justice, and in love thou twine,
Those leavie armes about this head of mine.

In the green pastures, if thou walk about,

Where crooked crystal streams flow in and out,
If Jove should change thee as his Inach is,
Streight would I wish my metempsycosis;
A female shape my loving soul should take,
So would I be a Milkmaid for thy sake;
My lips should milk thee, and thy milk should be
Suck possets, and sweet Syllibubs to me;
Into a Cow by Jove wert thou bettaid,
I'd stroke thy tetts, and be thy darie-maid;
The god must needs change me in changing you,
If thou wert Iò I'd be Argus too.

Within the wood, when thou walk'st here and there,
The chaste Calisto's storie makes me fear;
Up to the Sun if thou but lift thy eyes,
I'd read the peevish Clytie's jeaiousies;
Thinking thou may'st by Phœbus be preferr'd,
I think on her who was alive interr'd,
Interr'd alive should'st thou (my Dearest) be,
For Phæbus sake, as was Lencothoe;
Surely the mournful Sunne to solemnize
His fairest well-beloveds obsequies;
Would weep upon thy grave, (to sprinkle thee)
Showres of Nectar to eternity;
Stil'd from thy Corps then would arise from thence
Nothing but perfumes and sweet frankincense;
From thy dew'd grave still there would flow agen,
Odours and incense for the gods of men.

When e're I see the kindled fire flame,
I think how Jove unto Ægina came;
Though I am not so hot a flame as Jove,

His flame was fire, mine's the flame of love;
And if good lawes shall stand in force with us,
We will beget the world an Æacn:

I feare all shapes what e're appear to me,
Least in't some god be come to ravish thee;
It was a Bull that took Europa up,
Bright Theophane makes me dread the tup;
The shepheard mindes me of Mnemosyne.
The Eagle, Astria makes me think on thee,
Still I suspect when e're from thee I go,
Some rival counterfeit Amphitrio,
For Læda's sake I hate the lovely Swan,
I hate not only animals but man.
Nay when I drink a Cup of wine to thee,
I think how Bacchus took Erigone.

Should'st thou be crusted up like Niobe,
And turn'd to marble like the Parian she,
In Guido's Temple hugg'd by th' noble boy,)
Thou couldst not lover want, nor they love's joy;
For should'st thou die, and o're thy grave have set,
Thy heavenly featur'd carved counterfeit;
Hard by thy tomb I'd stand immoveably,
And on thy image ever fix my eye,
As if both eyes (too narrow flood gates kept
The moisture back, and I too slowly wept;
Like marble I'd sweat, each pore should drop a tear,
Tear after tear, till dry as dust I were;
Then should my body into ashes fall,
Black ashes, mourners for thy Funeral;
Sweet Cupid, Sexton to this dust of mine,

Should throw in dust to dust, my dust to thine;

Should'st thou not love me whil'st thou livest here,
But give thy heart to some one other where,
If thou t' Elysium 'fore thy servant went,
I'd make thy very Statue penitent,
So strange a mourner for thy death I'd be.
Thy tombe or ghost should fall in love with me,

Wert thou to passe over Cocytus ferrie
In that old Sculler, Grandsire Charons wherrie,
The wrizled gray-beard for his hapennie
Would lick his lips, and ask a kisse of thee;
On those black lakes should'st thou but drop a tear,
Styx and Cocytus would run crystal clear;
The Cells of darknesse shouldst thou go to view,
The scorched souls would 'gin their Barichu;
If with one kiss great Iove thou would'st but please,
Ixion's ransom'd and the Bellides;
Heaven would readmit poor Tantalus,
And grant reprieve to th' Pirate Sisyphus:
For one sweet smile from thy pure lip can quell
The wrath of furies, and redeem half hell;

Oh my Amanda thou'rt so rare a she,
There's none hath features to compare with thee,
Should the age present, and the ages past
Club for a beautie, they'l come short at last;
I'le name no Helen snatch't by old Priam's boy,
For whom a ten yeares siedge was laid at Troy,
With so great slaughter both of horse and men;
Those we count trulls would have been handsome then:

I'le name no Hero, for the stars have blest us,
With better beauties then that starre of Sestus;
Holland's Diana, and another Moon,
The faire Philippa, like the Sunne at noon.
A heavenly daughter of Northumberland's,
Young Capell's glory, and the Lady Sands,
That blithe smooth Madam; had I thee alone
Amanda, I'd enjoy these all in one;
Thou art a matchlesse peerlesse Paragon,
One that an Angel might well doat upon;

Had that comparison bin made by thee,
Which once was made by proud Cassiope,
Those water Fairies the Neriades.
Sending no horrid Monster from the seas,
To eate up beasts, and men; would proudly tell,
That thy sweet Beautie was their paralell;
Or to a rock suppose thou chained were,
To be devoured by a Monster there,
As was the heav'nly faire Andromeda,
The rock would moulder or else melt away:
With thy sweet self, as deeply fall'n in love;
Each Angel would thy Guardian Perseus prove:
With lesse presumption then Antigone,
Heaven's proud Juno can't compare with thee;
No, my Amanda, for I dare prefer,
Thee 'fore the stately Queen o'th' Thunderer,
Fore her and comely Venus both together,
Though Iove bring bolts, and Mars his gauntlet hither.

On Amanda's dimples.

Once more I'm fall'n into an extasie!
How I could gaze, gaze till I've lost my eye
Gaze on those dimples in thy cheekes and chin,
Where the three Graces play at in and in:
Three sacred vaults within whose rosie wombes,
Sweet Venus all her pretty smiles entombes;
Babes which born laughing, laughing live and die
Then are interr'd within thy rosarie:
They haunt thy lovely cheeks, and here and there
Their smiling ghosts appearing disappear;
Each from his head hath hanging down to's feet,
A lilie leafe instead of's winding sheet;
Shrouded in damask rose from top to toe,
About thy dimples they passe to and fro,
Still to thy dimples little shades do come,
Thinking thy dimples their Elysium;
And I my selfe finde such an Eden there,
Such heav'nly features, Heav'n so ev'ry where,
That with a willing heart I could resigne,
My clay to th'dust and shut my dying eyne;
Might my soul be when from my Corps it flies,
Amanda's Saint, and she its Paradise.

To Amanda on her black browes.

Thou'rt faire and black, thy browes as black as jett,
But ne'er were black and white so lovely met,
The Moor's black Prince would court thee, there's in you

The English Beautie and the Negro's too:
I've read of Goshen which the light did cover,
When a thick darknesse was all Egypt over,
Here's a transcendent wonder, here is ev'n,
Cimmerian darknesse in the face of Heav'n:
Enamel'd black upon thy browes is set,
Which other Madams do but counterfeit;
And those black patches which our Ladies weare,
To set their lilie out, is in thy haire:
Nor do thy twinkling eyes like two, clear, bright
Faire starres appear, 'cause in thy browes 'tis night,
No but thy browes because so nigh they stand
With thy bright eyes, are Sun-burn't, black't and tan'd,
Thy browes do mourn, and fit it is if e're
Thy ey'n, Amanda, shed one single tear;
If e're thou weep'st but once, although thou never,
Weep more, 'tis fit thy eye-brows mourn for ever.

To his best friend Mr. T. H.

True SIR,

The Countrey Gentleman who never mist,
When he walk't out his Faulc'ner at his fist:
Who once besides his hounds was able,
To keep a pack of servants at his Table;
Now trudges through the streets in any fashion,
To a Committee, and returnes in passion,
Chewing his lips for cud; it is not hard,
To know'n by's silver-haire malignant beard,
And his delinquent boots, in which he goes,
Wetshod i'th' sweat of's dirtie mellow toes;

'Tis pity troth such good old Gentlemen,
Are forc't to wear their old boots o're agen.

Nay Sir, the Prelates beg, his Lordships grace,
Walks with a scurvie Sequestration face,
The good old honest Priest is grown so poor,
He sayes his grace at another mans door;
You may know'n by the reliqus of's old Querpo coat,
By's Canonical rags he's a Priest you must know't,
His girdle is greasie, he doth all to befat it,
Black puddings he hangs, and sauciges at it,
Though once he preach't well, and learnedly spoke,
Now he hath not so much as a pig in a poke.

True Sir, the Clergie suffers, none can teach,
The truth with freedome, or with courage preach,
Instead of some good worthy pious Knox,
W' have nothing now but a Iack in a box;
The people without life or soul lie dead,
As under th' aspect of Medusa's head;
The Gentrie groans, the Nobles muzled are,
The heavie taxes make the Bumpkins swear,
And Tradesmen break; the truth o'th' storie's this,
The times are bad, and all things are amisse;
It is an iron age, an age that swarmes
With vipers, yet had I within mine armes
My lovely sweet one, that same Fairest she,
Whose love accepts my bribing Poetrie;
Pretty Amanda's kissing Alchymie,
Can make this age a golden age to me.

To my Noblest and ever-Honoured friend, Sir Thomas Leventhorp, Baronet.

SIR,

Me thinks 'tis time to know the joyes of love,
'Toward great Hymens altar time to move;
And now no longer ward, 'tis fit you be
Guardian to some transcendent Deitie,
And make some wealthie beauty fortunate,
Not only in the share of your estate
And honours, but i'th' richer treasury
Of your faire person, and your sparkling eye,
Where a bright, radiant soul displayes
Its chaster twinkling flames, like the Sunnes rayes
In a clear Crystal font, when Zephyrus
That modest, luke-warme, Virgin-incubus
Makes the sweet Nimph hold out (the lovers blisse)
Cool trembling lips to take a passant kisse:

'Tis pity that so rare a soul should be
Confin'd to thought, and in the Nunnerie
Of its own lodge, lead a monastick life,
Barr'd of all Consort joyes, which a good wife
Diffuseth like an Amber-box, wherein
Unguents, balme, spice, and perfum'd oile have been
Closely imprison'd, which now first take th' aire,
Like myrrhe and spikenard, when they bruised are,

And vie their odours with the violet,
The roses and carnations which are set
In my Amanda's cheeks, whose early breath
I'th' morning is an Antidote to death;
Sweeter then Cynamon, like Frankincense,
Preservative against the pestilence
Of melancholy fits, the dull disease
Of nods, brown studies, and such plagues as these;

'Tis fit so rare a bodie be possest
By two faire souls; so faire a soul be blest
With two faire bodies too; may both your minde
And bodie pleasure in its likenesse finde;
May she you choose be such, whose shape and feature
Shall speak her goddess rather then a creature;
May she be Eccho to your worth, in which
I fully wish she may be rarely rich,
In whatsoe're doth Admiration move,
In all the dainties of her sexe and love,

As for a single life, 'tis nothing lesse
Then Hermitage amongst a wildernesse
Of women, who do vaile their rarities,
Or else are fruitlesse or forbidden trees;
Besides, he studies Nature best 'tis known,
Who hath a Physick-garden of his own;
Which is most state, anothers land to till
And plough in common, or be Lord at will
In a Free-hold? Nay, then consider, Sir,
In robbing Orchards what the troubles are;
Though now from climbing private walls you free
Yet think what 'tis that tempts to th'robberie;

Youth and faire lovely fruit, though ne'er so good
And clean, sometimes the chastest flesh and blood
Must needs be bobbing; now to Tantalize,
And alwayes live by feeding of the eyes,
Is a poor silly banquet, on the thin,
Small, saplesse species that are served in,
By colour'd atomes, which an Elephant
Is as soon cloid with as the smallest Ant.

I know you have a Martial warlike heart,
Your looks speak valour, which 'tis fit y' impart
To the next age, and though you'd rather make
Your sword eate men, then have a woman take
Your noble spirits pris'ners, yet to give
Birth to an heire, and that your name may live,
Do like your fathers, lest you guilty be
O'th' murther of your blood and familie.

Nothing like his love to Amanda.

Go ye great Ranters, into th' wilde embraces
Of your stew'd Madams; lick their varnisht faces,
Where slimie snailes have crept; brag of the fee,
Wherewith they bribe your spending lecherie;
Then swash it to the Taverne, and confesse
That lust maintaines your pride and drunkenness.

Go, you mad City-Huffs, who fright young heirs,
And fill those Lack-wits with strange jealous feares
Of your pretended valour make fair showes,

But dare as little as they to come to blowes;
Go with your Guardian Hectors who maintain
(Some petty booty, some small prize to gaine,)
A windfall Ladies honour, keep for pay
The old Troy-ruines of some Hecuba;
Jumble her bones within her shrivled skin,
And take the mud-walls of her carcase in;
Hug rotten Countesses which pockeaten are,
As if their Master-Coffin-wormes were there,
Who for a legacie would swear 'twere sweet
To spend o'th' stinking Corps i'th' winding sheet.

Go, cursed Misers, damned o're and o're,
For grinding the lean faces of the poor;
Morgage your carking soules and bodies to
A Usurer as mercilesse as you:
To fill your bags seek and scrape every where,
Dig to the centre, and die beggars there;
Go cheat and over-reach only to fill,
And take up paper with a tedious Will;
Create trouble to th' Executors to prize
Your wealthie goods, and pay out legacies,
Then your heir laughing, play at Hoop-all-hid
As once your rustie coffin'd money did:
Depart in hopes to be sav'd after all,
For the repairing an old Hospital,
Or some poor School-masters augmentation,
An exhibition to some Corporation
To set young Tradesmen up or so, then die
Rich in your gifts, and poor in charitie.

Go, ye State-leaches, in your blessings curst,

Sweetly suck blood and money till you burst,
Fleece a whole Kingdom, then like silly sheep,
Which butchers in some fat'ning pastures keep
Only for slaughter, amongst cut-throats fall,
Pil'd, poll'd and snip't, shier'd and cashier'd of all;
Empsons and Dudleyes, Speakers and men o'th' chair,
Spoil'd as the Sultans griping Basha's are.

Go, ye Court-spaniels, quest in honours sent,
Perfum'd and polish't with a complement,
Fawne and shake tailes to Ladies, keep them fed
With bribing viands of the banquet-bed,
With them their little dogs and Cupids play,
Till you be crack't and broken too as they,
Then your hope's lost, you slighted and forgot,
Down quickly to some Countrey goal, and rot;
But say, your Princes Favourite you be,
Grace't with the loose-hamm'd Courtiers knee;
Know there is Autumne in the midst o'th' spring
I'th' Court, and if the smiling face o'th' King
In which your honour lives, be overcast
With clouds, you only blossome to a blast.

Go, plodding Students, ramble through the Arts,
Learn all that science to the soul imparts,
Let notions huddle, swim and multiplie,
Till they do muster into heresie;
Receive those Centaur's and Chimera's in,
Which monster-like against true Reason sinne;
Go crack your braines with Elenches which are bred
By swarmes within a crazie brooding head;
Bring to the wrack your judgement, reason, sense,

To screw a truth from non-Intelligence;
Infect thy wits, with buzzing thoughts which flie
About like gnats, and sting out Reasons eye;
Reade errors till thou squint on truth; and make
Unity double and treble seem, so mistake,
And then at last be serv'd like th' Logick elfe,
Prov'd two egges three, supp'd on the third himself;
What a great businesse 'tis! what strength we spend,
What wit and time, all to no other end
Then to want parts and words, and wrangle still,
As if in chaines, we needs must prove free-will!
To hold predestination or decrees,
Or some such ridling, needlesse points as these!
What an act 'tis to write a book, then die,
And be confuted by posterity!

These are sad heavy thoughts of working brains,
Most fruitlesse projects, yet require paines;
The Huffes and Hector, do contrive and plot
To hug a Madam or a pottle-pot.

Both, which they love alike, although their drink
And wine be sweet, perhaps their Madams stink:
The Miser toyles, and all his carking care
Can seldom purchase from his heire a teare,
Nay, whil'st he labours, strives and gaspes for breath
The frolick wag laughs the old fool to death,
The Statesman hatches Cuckows egges, gets in
A stock, then bever-like dies for his skin:
The Courtier lives on hopes, his Princes frown
Till the next smile kills him, and casts him down,

Still his preferment is adulterate,
Subject alike to honour and to hate:
The Scholar keeps a stir t' immortalize
His name, tumbles and tosses Libraries,
Puts on his doting winter-rug at night,
Sits up till two, two or three lines to write.

Well, well, Amanda, be but rul'd by me,
We'l spend our time in no such foolerie,
May I but make thee Dearest to my minde,
We will leave children, and not books behinde.

To Amanda supposing and wishing she were with childe.

With what delight and joy, me thinks I see
Thy swelling wombe increase its treasurie!
What a sweet poison 'twas! if all maids past
Fifteen, could themselves poison so, how fast
They'd kick up heels, be venom'd in their beds;
And murther those Chimera's Maidenheads:
How stately my Amanda looks! she seems to me
Diana in her crescent Majestie.
What frozen creature is't, won't wish as soon
As Phebe's spi'd himself the man i'th' Moon?
What Virgin thy faire Lunar globe can see,
And not straight wish to be i'th' full like thee?

I wish, my Dearest, I could heare thee say,
The little boy kicks, willing to make his way

Into his fathers armes: Oh may he be
His own sweet mothers picture, not like me.
Ah could I heare it, [I have often smil'd
To think upon't] Amanda's great with childe!
She looks within a mon'th; would past all feare
I once might say, Welcome down stairs, my Deare;
Would thou were't church't, and the good wives were come
A gossipping! Now 'twil be guest by some
The maine thing that I wish implicitly
Is this, would I were brought to bed with thee.

MISCELLANEA Poetica

Dic quis Patrouus, quis nunc erit?—
Nos tamen hæc agimus, tenuique in pulvere sulcos
Ducimus.—

101

To his loving friend M T. G. upon covering his head in the Colledge-Butteries.

What is the matter Tom, thou'rt grown so old,
Hoarie and white o'th' sudden? fear'st thou cold
Salt brackish rheumes should falling on thy chest
Thy windpipe rot, thy spungie lungs infest?
Yes, taplash breeds catarrhs, and thereupon
The Butler needs must starch thy night-cap on;
Tom, thou wert fudl'd o're night, and 'twas for fear,
Thou should'st i'th' morning drink too much small beer
After so hot an Orgyan sacrifice,
'Twas wholesome moral Physick not to size.

O're night thou know'st it was thy fatal lot,
To mug, to quaffe, carouse and bownce the pot;
Next morne I hast'ned to the butterie-hatch,
How much Col-tiffe thou'dst drink I meant to watch;
But when I came, I view'd, look't every where,
The duce of any Tom or head was there.
First from the bottom of the Tables I spi'd,
And upwards ev'ry name I straightly ey'd:
Each name a round o'th' ladder seem'd to me
Then come to th' blank which put m' in minde of thee;

202

It emblem'd out a thief, who 'fore he dies
Lookes like thy head with's night-cap o're his eyes:

How! proud and coy! Prethy now what do'st aile,
That like the wenches thou must mask and vaile,
And hide thy face (like them in heat of blood,)
In such a daintie, fine, white sarc'net hood?
Way with that mufler, shew thy face, let's see't:
Prethee leave off doing penance in a sheet.
Thou look'st like some old scurvie Countrey-Hag,
That makes a biggen of an oat-meal bag,
Whose face is mask'd with chin-cloth fine and gay,
To ride on Dick or Brown o'th' market-day:
Thou'rt like a Corps old women have laid out,
Whose meagre visage is cover'd with a clout;
I think they'l shroud thee too with time and bayes;
For they complain how thou hast spent thy dayes;
Die, Tom, in these bad times? thou must despair
Of being interr'd with Common-prayer.

Rise prethee, feare not, thou shalt namelesse be,
Rascal, dost think, we can't new christen thee;
Nay in the old way too boy, and rather
Then not, I mean to be thy Godfather:
'Tis but small charges Sirrah; there needs no fee
Unto the Midwife or the Nurcerie;
Nor need I give my Godson some fine boon,
A Coral-Thistle with bells, or silver-spoon:
When thou art grown, canst go alone and prattle,
Please thy Nurse and Godfather with tittle tattle;
I'le give thee schooling; for thy books I'le pay,
Horne-books and Primmers, childe, to fling away;

203

Then thou shalt ask me blessing, pretty toy,
I'le stroke th' oth' head, God blesse thee, rise my boy;
Then chuck th'oth'chin, and with a Godfathers grace,
'Tis my good boy, here's for thee, learn apace:
Now if the black-coat come and cat'chize thee;
Answer him M. or N. Sir, T. or G,
If urgent still he ask thee, what's thy name?
Conjure and mum, crie, Oh Sir, Yes, that same.

But heark thee Tom, hast lost thy Sirname quite?
Wert thou degraded like a new dub'd Knight,
Cashier'd with good Sir Hal, Sir James, Sir John,
Who had their Honours dated fourtie one,
Whose pride by act of State was made a sinne,
Calling the last edition of titles in?
Stay th'next Platonick fourty one, and then
For some few yeares you shall be Knights agen.

Thou i'th' mean while (it is an honourable word
Amongst the Hunch-backs) shalt be call'd my Lord:
Or else some Carter, rather then have none,
Shall lash and name thee, Robbin, Hob or Rhoan;
Yes, yes, thoud'st make a Stallion rare,
To earne thy Master Clod some groat's a mare,
Then for thy motions Rhe, ho, hut will do,
The Aldermans Thiller thy name-sake too.
And then all day to have thy Tutor sing,
Lash thee and whistle, (then rogue) fresh grasse i'th' spring;
Yes and i'th' winter-time to have a maw,
To feed on hawme of pease and barley-straw;
Then draw up hill, and when the cart goes dead.

104

To be well-pun'd with whips i'th' flanck or head,
And then thy Mastet when thou'st spent thy force,
To clap thy buttocks with Gra-mercie-horse.

But prethy, Tom, tell what the reason is,
Thou'rt harness't in this metamorphosis?
They say that thou wert mad, horne-mad, and now
Thou wear'st a kinde of Bondgrace like a Cow.

Heaven blesse thee, my best chicken, I dare say
Thou wer't unkindly us'd, who will say nay?
For troth I know thy heart and temper well,
'Tis plain and easie for the world to spell;
Open and free, and lodg'd within a breast,
Wherein no swelling envious serpents neast;
It alwayes in a grateful posture lies
Thy loving friends most ready sacrifice;
And from thy bosome should he it command,
Thy bosome straight lies open to his hand:
I know thee well, I've read thee o're and o're;
Thou only want'st two or three faces more;
One for thy publike use, t' Hippocritize,
A Chappel-mask, a garb and Sunday-eyes.
But let that falshood passe, thou know st I know
The men o'th' world are riddles, so let them go,
My civil charity doth speak it sinne,
To rifle others closets or look in;
Yet if their hearts were hell, I'd never doubt
To venture in, to fetch the devil out;
For some have thought the worst they can of you,
Who dare I'm sure no worse then they dare do;
But I'le not preach in verse, lest some of those

105

Should envie me, who can't do't well in prose;
No, Tom, at present thou my theam shalt be,
And as men name a text, so I'le name thee;
As they do little or nought to th' purpose say,
So I'le but name thee just, and then away;
And rather then thou still shalt nothing be,
But Entelechia and hæcceitie;
I'le name thee Cambridge-Tom, and of thee vaunt,
As they of Munster-Jack, and John of Gaunt;
Thomas Thomasius thou shalt be,
Or Thompson of the Danish progenie;
Or Tom ap Thomas like that Welch device
And link of names, ap Owen, ap Hugh, ap Rice;
Or else with them I'le borrow from the Jewes,
Name thee as they the sonnes of Rabbi's use,
Rabbi-ben-Majim, who Majims loines came from,
So will I name thee Rabbi Tom-ben-Tom.

206

An ELEGIE on the death of Mr. Frear Fellow of Trin. Coll. in Cambridge, who died of a Consumption.

At length upon the wing, haste to possesse
Th' eternal mansions of true happinesse;
To Saints and Angels go, and Fellow be
Amongst those Doctors of Divinity;
Long were't admitted, and now fit it were
Thou take thy journey to continue there;
Pitty thy soul should be no otherwise
Employ'd, then to hold open dying eyes,
And yet how loath she fled, as if sh'had rather
Stay'd here to keep thy skin and bones together.
Some few dayes longer hadst thou drawn thy breath,
Thy frighted friends had taken thee for death;
For which thy meagre shape as well might passe,
As that which holds the spade and houre-glasse;
Thou look'st as if thou'dst past through Chir'rgions hall
A live Anatomie, the Belfree wall
Doth nothing ne'er so grim a shape present:
So thy kinde soule, till all its oile was spent,
Glimmer'd i'th' socket, as if when 't went out

207

Thy friends should be i'th' dark, and all about
The scritchowls of the sable-winged night,
Hither in errors clouds would make their flight;
Thus whil'st thou seems to be Jobs living story,
Thy death's head was our best Memento mori.

Alas poor thread-bare, worne out Skeleton,
With one short rag of flesh scarce cloath'd upon,
More bare then in the wombe, unto thy Urne
How truly naked did thy Corps return?
What stranger who had seen thy shriv'led skin,
Thy thin, pale, gastly face, would not have been
Conceited he had seen a ghost i'th' bed
New risen from the grave, not lately dead!
Those things in vaults, whose gently touched shrine
Falls into dust, look fresher farre then thine.
Which was so dry, as if thy carcase were
For many yeares embalm'd and buri'd there;
Who e're had argu'd that thou ne'er would'st die,
Would have disputed very probably:
At least he might have made this topick good.
Thou wert immortal, 'cause not flesh and blood.
But we who know thou spak'st so many tongues,
Will cease to wonder at thy wasted lungs;
And from thy losse of flesh, it was not fit,
We will conclude the wormes should feed on it.
'Twas pity such a piece to th' grave was hurl'd,
For th' curious volume of thy lesser world
An Enoch-like Translation fitter were,
Then Critick death for an Interpreter:
Thy learning was so rich, that I would dare

108

[Were it hereditary, I thy heire]
To spend with wealthie Cæsars, and out-vie
Europes most learned living library;
Clad all in sackcloth if I were to mourn
In dust and ashes [like a soul forlorn]
Could these externals make me more divine,
Or adde to Piety, I'd call for thine.

'Tis pitie nature did but lend thee us,
Give, and then take away her jewel thus;
Alas! when she perceiv'd how suddenly,
Dull counterfeits would all in fashion be,
And gems that are the right at nought be set,
She lock't thee up within her cabinet.
Sowe were losers all. But mark his end,
How like a traveller to's loving friend,
He just at' farewel takes a parting cup,
Biddeth us all adieu, and drinks it up;
Reader, 'twas to thy health, and though in beer
Yet prethy kindly pledge him in a tear.

109

An ELEGY on the death of Mr. Crane, Apothecary in Cambridge.

Ashes to ashes! who! our Æsculape!
Our Cambridge-Chiron! can't such skill escape?
Such Peons die! strange! dust to dust! who is't!
What noble Crane, that golden Alchymist?
Is't he! then proud Dame Vesta certainly
Will vaunt those atomes to eternitie.
Swell, boast, look big, and in her womb
'Teem him an everlasting, growing tomb;
Embalme him Reader in thy memorie,
Shroud him with silver-blossom'd rosemarie;
With pennie-royal, marigold-flowers,
And yellow saffron, embleme out what powers
Of Sol and Luna in his coffers lie,
Forc't in by his great Art and Industrie:
'Tis fit this great Preservative of formes
Should never want a med'cine 'gainst the wormes:
Tir'd with dull elements, he's gone from hence
T'extract and clothe his soul with quintessence;
There is no all-heal, but a funeral;
All things before are mix't with wormwood, gall,
And vineger; Now he is gone from us;
Tis benedictus without carduus;

210

No sulphur tinctures, tartar, no disease;
'Tis lignum vitæ, and no aloës.
His house and shop since death hath overcome,
Is furnished with Caput mortuum,
Let your Alembicks freely crystallize,
Fill gallipots with catarrhs from your eyes,
Or rather wipe them, let them not be mistie,
He's gone for Manna or for manus Christi.

On the immature death of his hopeful friend, Mr. Alexander Rookesby.

1

Most cruel death! be so precise?
Take no excuse!
Could not thy nature, nor
Thy well promising youth apologize!

2

This fit of sicknesse should have been,
The smallest stop,
Only a comma to thy health.
A short deliquium, then life agen.

3

What so unskilful in Orthographie?
Illiterate fate?
To put a period thus,
Where but a colon at the most should be!

211

4

Was't not unmannerly in death
Before his tale
Were told, or he had spoke
His better sentence out, to stop his breath!

5

O'th' dawning of his life I look,
As on a short
Brief preface, or a kinde salute
To th'gentle Reader, but w' have lost the book.

6

'Tis fit each Scholar o're his Herse,
Weep Elegies,
Nature was scanning him,
As though she meant to make a golden verse.

7

But death instead of long Hexameters,
Making Adonicks,
Served a warrant in
Which fate had writ in short-hand characters.

8

So left the learn'd Hippocrates,
(Giving a dash
Rude Ignoramus like)
To make a guesse and spell out the disease.

9

Himself read only his Contents,
The Chapter must
Be read at's grave, while down
His coffin ives drill watrie monuments.

112

10

Farewel, farewel, dear heart,
Is't thine, my friend?
I bid this longest farewel to,
Or rather is't my own with which I part?

11

Alas! good soul, thou'rt gone;
And were it not
That I should wish my death,
I'd wish 'twere time to follow on.

12

Nor would I any other knell
To drive away
Bad spirits from my grave,
Only the Eccho of thy passing bell.

113

An Epithalamium sacred to the Nuptials of the truly Religious Lady, the Lady A. H. and the Valiant and Worthy Sir W. W. Knight.

Joy , most victorious Madam; pardon me,
If I recal a past solemnity;
'Tis a review of joy, which is a dish
Not like some strange, out-landish fowle or fish,
Or some new-fangled sauce, some bo-peep meat,
Which th' Antipodes, and we by turnes do eat,
Some sullen cates which out of season flie,
To tempt the Ladies with their raritie;
But like your Conserves, with more choice delight
Feeds all the humours of the appetite,
Playes with a curious palate, and from thence
Leaps to the eye, then to another sense,
So doth enrich the soul, till it surmize,
The body an Elizian Paradise:

This wealthie joy, which at the marriage-tide
Sparkles i'th' Bridegrooms eyes, perfumes the Bride
With her own cheerful spirits, till they dart
Laughter into her spouses ticklish heart;
This balsame joy, great Lady, I present
In a reunction, to renew its sent,
And call its quickning vertues out, which lie

114

Not dead, but dormant in their treasurie;
I do but rub the herbe, and wake from thence
Such fragrant savours, as may feast the sense,
Tell you what flowers in your posie are,
Repeat some notes in short-hand character.

Then pardon, Madam though I come so late,
Joy's never out of season, still in date,
Where love is fresh, joy never can decay,
Though yeares be spent, 'tis still the wedding day.

Then, great triumphant Madam, once again,
Joy to your second Conquest, you have ta'ne
Two noble Warriours Captives in your breast,
Nature hath ransom'd one, the other's prest
To succeed pris'ner; oh blest captive he
That's pris'ner in so chaste a Nunnerie!
'Twas pity since your first was forc't to yield,
Your second stay'd so long, as if the field
Were voted by some pious bosome-law,
For so long time Sir Simons Golgotha;
Good wife! whose body for some years must be
Her first Deare's charnel house, his Calvarie.

But now that cloud of Funeral Obsequies
Hath spent it self in teares, and in your eyes
Mirth gins to startle and resume its seat;
Fresh blushes vault in triumph, smiles curveat:
All speak your Conquest of the Conquerour,
What a commanding Amazon you are;
Unto whose service Champions are drawn forth,
Upon the Altar of whose glorious worth,
Great Hymen bids me offer sacrifice,

115

And th' god of warre hath done devotion twice,
Stately Bellona courts your Ladiship,
And am'rous Mars fights duels at your lip:
You take your Spouse in pris'ner by your charmes,
Sir William takes you in by force of armes,
And then such volley shots of kisses flie,
Would tempt and ravish sworn Virginity.
Now may those chaster lips so closely meet,
At each salute as if your soules did greet;
And since Sir William here hath taken quarter,
'Tis for his honour to be Knight o'th' garter:

Nor will I leave him there; no from above
The Heavens greet you with new joyes of love;
Joyes which must alwayes needs be fresh to you,
Where Christ to both is Bride and Bridegroom too;
Within whose heart the lilie o'th' valley growes,
That cluster'd Camphire, that sweet Sharon-rose,
That bundle of myrrhe, he whom the Virgins love,
Whose scarlet lips drop honey as they move.

Oh may your Dear Beloved, kisse his Vine
With kisses of his mouth, more sweet then wine;
So shall you spread your fruitful branch, and see
Your children like the plants o'th' Olive-tree.
These are my hearty wishes, and you know
Although I am no great Divine,
Not only rich but poor mens coine will go,
So may these prayers of mine.

116

To Mr. John Mors, Merchant in Kings Lynne, on the death of Mrs. A. Mors his wife.

Mors tua Mors Christi.

Alas, good Gentleman, hath that sweetest love
That spouse of yours made out her last remove
Hath death that great Knight-Errant, who doth play
And dodge in's motions, here, there, every way,
Checkmated you in taking of your Queen,
Or is't a Sthale? No 'ts more, then be'nt o'reseen,
For now she's taken as your pawn, and when
Your time is come, 'twill be check-mate agen;
But i'th' mean while you're loser in a word,
It is but setting another Queen o'th' board;
Yet must you not begin the game anew,
Till th' loser pay what for the last was due;
Then troth Sir, for this six or seven yeares
You must be daily paying summes of teares,
And all your friends like faithful Clerks stand by
T'help tell, lest for a tear you tell an eye.

With you good Seathrifts common 'tis to mourn
And weep at th'inconsiderable losse of worne,
Old, decay'd barks, whose Stoage is nothing moe
Then Haberdeen, poor John, or Indigo;

117

For which such streames th' prodigal humour sheds,
That with your ships your eyes sink in your heads;
Then, Sir, at what expence ought you to be,
Your great misfortune will discover t'e;
The best of all your vessels buldg'd and lost,
To be recover'd by no charge or cost,
Your family-rudder broke, and all your store
Of spice and amber, your perfumes and ore,
Thrown to the deep; for she was more to you,
More then all these, your India, your Peru;

If womens souls be Planets in the aire,
And rule like potent Constellations there,
Surely the Merchants wives will there reside,
Darting kinde beams their husbands ships to guide;
Then in your voyage if a storme arise,
Lost in the clouds, look for her brighter eyes,
And if a conduct Cynosure you see,
Fall down, do homage and strike saile, 'tis she.

She who whil'st living was more then your Star,
Your heav'n on earth, a blessing greater farre:
She that did make all beasts, fowle fish and men,
As though she'd work th' Creation o're agen,
Who wrought the starres into a Canopie,
And in her Samplers taught Astrologie,
Where th' Heavens face she made so bright appear,
That Tycho might have read new Lectures there,
Birds feather'd with her silk you'd swear did flie,
Camels have past too through her needles eye;
Saw you how she hath wrought Eves naked thighs,
You'd think yourself with her in Paradise:

118

Sh' hath made the Muses, Venus and her elfe,
And faire Diana too look like her selfe;
Then the three Graces all so sweet and neat,
That would Dame Nature make a piece compleat,
To ravish and surprize the worlds eye,
Hence she must take the patern to work it by:
Then Io, Danäe, such pretty things,
You'd swear they're made for gods, and not for Kings.
In shadows she would vaile a physnomie,
Then work a candle and light, to see it by;
'Tis true most women good at night-work be,
But few or none so good, so neat as she.

Admired fancies! Oh they are so good.
That could she but have wrought in flesh and blood,
And made those beauties speak, and something do,
Surely she might have made my Mistris too;
Nay she hath wrought a face, so much to th'life,
I fear you'l court it for your second wife.

Troth, Sir, who e're she be shall tempt your blood,
See how she's like your first, so farre she's good;
You'l make your self and all your friends rejoyce,
To draw her picture in your second choice;
And as i'th' Indias when you walk about,
To finde some precious mineral out,
Some richer rocks of gold, you search and trie,
By signes and tokens where the veine doth lie:
Be as exact in choosing your new Bride,
Let your last wifes Idea be your guide;
Let her faire visage teach your rambling eye

119

To know the cloisters of a treasurie;
If any like her be, know she's divine,
And fall to work, for she's a wealthie mine,
A pearle fit to be worne on Merchants necks,
Like her the choicest Sampler of her sex,

Oh could you finde but such a Matron out,
So loving, chaste, prudent, discreet, devout;
So constant a Colleague, so faire as she,
Who is there that would not your Factor be?
What Coward is't would not make out for her,
Hoist sailes, and be a Merchant-venturer?
All Courtship stormes, tempests and tides defie,
Waving the flashes of her lightning eye;
And though she threatned shipwrack, think it sport
To split, and so swim naked to the Port.

Then, Sir, be charie in your second choice,
And let the pleasant musick of her voice
Speak your first Consort, let your second be
Your first wifes Monument, her Elegie;
Fairly recruit, be the most blest of men,
And in your second choose your first agen:
Solet your vertuous spouse survive in this,
That you are wedded to her Emphasis.

120

On the Anniversarie of the fifth of Novem. to the Fellowes of Trin. Coll.

'Twere no absurdity if I should wish;
You had dark lanthornes for a second dish,
Sculls and deaths heads will not be out of season,
To put you all in minde of Vaux his treason,
Yet least poor Scholars should have nought to pick
But bones, pray let your feast be Catholick
And superstitious too, so you'l afford
Some holy reliques, for Prince Arthurs board,
Let your mirth this day, and your joyes be mickle,
Had the powder gone off w'had been in a pickle,
And which invention were most damnable,
Pope or sal Peter had been disputable.
But the plot was found, so by accident
Wicked Pope Urban was Pope Innocent.

121

An ELEGY on the death of Dr. MEDCALFE, late Vice-Master of Trin. Col. in Cambr.

Most sacred Reliques, at whose Obsequies
Devotion bids us weep not teares but eyes;
'Tis but weak sorrow which commands we must
Sprinkle some water only to lay thy dust,
And huddle up th' Atomes at so poor expence,
As if we meant to sweep thy ashes hence;
We'l rather spend our springs, and when we're dry,
Weep for more teares, another Elegie,
Old Ennius shall preach no Funeral here,
Nor make's (without a sigh, a sob, or teare)
Expose thee with a Diogenes staffe,
Which serv'd the Cynick for an Epitaph;
No we'l command the Muses to thy Herse;
And make Apollo weep in golden verse.
Parnassus cloth'd in mourning weeds to grace
Thy Corps, shall stoop to give thee burying place:
And so it for a Golgotha we'l have,
And weep a Helicon into thy grave;
Nay, it is fit when such great Doctors die,
Parnassus should appear Mount-Calvarie.

Then shed your grief and labour to out-vie
The grave-stone sweating in its Agonie,
With crystal jems, which from your eyes distil,

122

In stead of dust the Sextons shovel fill,
Speak and weep volumes at his sepulchre,
As if in learned Medcalfs Coffin were
The ruines of a famous Librarie,
A Chronicle, a three-ages registrie;
And since w'have lost this jewel-house,
—This treasury,
'Tis fit each Scholar ware
—A watrie pearl in's eye.

124

An Elegie on the death of Dr. Cumber, late Deane of Carlisle, and sometimes Master of Trin. Coll. in Camb.

What gone to sleep? hush't Reader, let him lie,
And with an easie funeral-lullabie,
Weep o're his Cradle, which (poor Sextons fee)
At the next Earth-quake may be rock't for thee,
For w' are all sleepie, and fore-morning light
May from our friends receive our last good night;
Nay, 'ts odds if thou or I shall watch so long,
As this good father did to's even-song,
Who wanting but just one yeare of fourescore,
I'th' Colledge of the Trinitie once more,
Under the Worlds Tutor is gone to be
Admitted freshman to Eternity;
Would this Abrams bosome-pupil were,
Oh but they 're all Fellowes, all Masters there,
And with the glorious Founder of the place,
Still richly feasting, yet still saying grace.

Now, Royal soul, you shall enjoy your due,
Heaven's a mansion-lodge, more fit for you,
There the great King of Kings shall set you down,
And for your Dividend give y'a princely crown,
And that white precious stone of mysterie,
Which none except thy self can reade to thee.

Those five great Princes, seen by thy dying eye,

125

Were five of Heavens Kings of Herauldrie,
Sent thence to be thy Conducts on the way,
Thy souls safe convoy from its bed-rid clay;
And those sweet youths which thou 'fore death didst see,
Were Cherubims with crownes to wait on thee;
Farewel, brave Prelate, go and shine with them,
Sainted with a celestial diadem;
Go and be ravish't on Gods holy hill
With melting Ecchoes, which double and double still
Sweet Hallelujahs with ten thousand charmes
By Angels which lie couchant in thy armes.

Farewel, good soul, thou'st bravely done thy task,
Acted thy part, and left us in a mask.
Tire'd out with our first Scene of Tragedie
And mischief, thou'dst no more Spectator be,
To see Mountebank-worldly goblins play,
The devil jugling the juglers souls away;
No, thou could'st weare no visard, nor pretend,
And be a changeling for some worldly end;
But thy firme conscience which had search't and tri'd
For truth, sat up its standard, fought and di'd:
I must not call thee Martyr, go and be
Whatever thy Religion made of thee.
Blessing on thee, Reader, and God grant we may
'Wake as he did, and 'waking watch to pray.—

140

To the Fellows of Trin. Coll. at a Feast.

When ever you good Fellows please to feast,
We under-graduates, dogrels at the best,
Poor wits to help you laugh away the time,
Must think't our duty to hold forth in rithme;
Would you allow us coats in honest prose,
Like Sturbridge-puddings in their antick hose.
Instead of halting verse, we'd dance on egges,
Make faces and shew owles between our legges;
'Twould never vex us to afford you sport,
Were but our appetite contented for't;
Whimsies and kick-shaw fancies I confesse,
Are better then a feast of lazinesse;
Yet I had rather be an idle guest,
Then call the Muses up, and get them drest
All nine for three-pence, bonnie Cleio sweares
Te'nt worth the lacing of their stomachers.

If verses 'gin to grow so cheap with us,
Smithfield shall dock and rate my Pegasus,
I'le water Hackneys in Pyrene's streams,
Make Helicon as common as the Thames,
Parnassus to the Levellers I'le sell,
Morgage that Tempe and its sacred Well
To that new sinner Doctor Chamberlin,
To buck and runce his Lady dabchicks in,
Himself shall dipper be and Baptist too,
I'le make my bargain he naught else may do.

141

To a spurious Poet.

Betwixt the hawke and buzzard, bastard-kite,
How durst thou try to make an Eagles flight,
And with thy blear eyes in so high a place,
To look my great Apollo in the face?
Sirrah, 'twas mercy he was wrapt about
With clouds, else had thy eyes bin quite burnt out,
Then to thy fancie thou would'st seem to be
An English Homer, as stark blinde as he,
The Ballad-singers should thy dogrels sell,
Thou call d the Poet with the dog and bell;
Then rithme i'th' streets, and on a wad of hay
Kneel, and in verse the learned begger play
Amongst the scaldheads under White-hall wall,

If it be ne'er so little amongst you all,
For the Muses sake before you go yet
Pray remember the poor blinde cripple Poet;

Then roguish waggish boyes as they passe by,
Chuck farthings in the hollow of thine eye,
Or else spit charity in thy greasie hat,
Blow oisters in't, There, Poet, take thee that.

Then play the Higins for the regiment
Of lowsie tag-raggs till thy lungs be spent,
And on the Sabbath with thy wooden dish
Beg pottage for them, their best Sunday-wish;

142

And then astride thy raw-bon'd Pegasus,
Like a beggar on horse-back, rant it thus.

Mistrisse, I can make Psalmes for you,
One Cup of beer I pray
On this good holy-day
For I very dry am,
Hopkins and Sternhold too,
Were Poets both as I am.

Thou Salewit, were this sentence past on thee,
'Twere a just judgement for thy heresie;
Impostor! thou a Poet so we call
A Broker, one of Merchant-Taylors hall:
So Crispins boyes, who scarce can mend a shoe,
Will be no Coblers but Translators too:
Thus the dull scrapers, who for six pence play
At wakes and help-ales a whole night and day:
Those lewd squeakers, who have no other shake,
But of their palsie-heads, say you mistake
To call them Fidlers, as they needs must be
Musicians, the name of Poet's due to thee:
So old wives study Physick, who can make
A Poultis for a felon'd thumb to break
And ripen it, thou good at Poetrie!
Annise-seed-Robbin skill'd in Chymistrie:
So Pettifoggers and Atturneys Clerks,
Innes of Court-gallants, those Ram-alley sparks,
Who with a dash have learn't to write their names,
And say vous-aves to the City-dames,
Teach them what fee-simple and fee-tail implies,
Would be thought cunning Lawyers, and advise

143

In cases which they ken as knowingly,
As thou the mysteries of Poetrie;
So Academians call their Sophisters,
That steal positions good Philosophers;
Pin-makers are as good Goldsmiths, if they
That deal in varnish, whose rude fancie may
By licence wrong the creatures, in their noses,
Mouths and eyes, painting for Lions, roses;
Chimera's in red-oaker, naggs like hogs.
And hares which hunts-men cannot know from dogges;
If these rude land-skip-drawers, limners be,
Then as a Poet we shall honour thee.

But know thou didst that sacred name abuse,
When thou mad'st market of thy cotquean Muse,
Going about from door to door with her,
Not like the Poet but the Stationer;
Nay few o'th' Poems in thy book, 'tis known,
Except some non-sense dull ones are thy own;
Thou hast been simpling in a ditch, and got
I'th' fields some Lady-smocks or Melilot,
Blue-bottles or the like, and thou must needs
Like girles make posies of those stinking weeds,
Mingling some sweeter and more fragrant flowers
Of better wits to sent and set off yours;
And yet 'tis fear'd both are condemn'd to die,
For thou wert forc't to vent thy Poetrie;
As haggs for sizings on a Scholars head,
A Tuttie for a loaf of Colledge-bread.

Thou higler, who dost make a hackney Jade

144

Of Pegasus, and witt a rithming trade,
Thy book a kinde of Collect is a brief,
At first directed to the heads, and chief
O'th' parish whom it may concern, and then
To all other well-affected Gentlemen;
As many Patrons to't as Authors are,
Made like a reck'ning where each clubs his share;
Only thou pay'st the drawer, and would'st get
Credit for spending of anothers wit:

Huckster, forbear this cheating beggerie,
Or vent thy own, and better Poetrie.
Climbing too high upon Parnassus hill,
Thy squeamish fancie straight grew sick and ill,
There thou didst cast and spew, the Muses faine
Would have thee lick thy vomit up again.

145

On the Rout of the disloyal Partie of Scots at Dunbarre.

Is Jockie routed? Charon, rig thy boat
If worth thy labour, with fresh rushes strow t;
Waftage enough feare not, but yet prepare
A strong rough stretcher, if thy naul, thy fare
They dare deny thee, break their crags mon, do,
Else scarce wil't have one ha'penny for two.
If thou art wise get a blue bonnet on,
They'l pay thee better 'cause their Country-mon.

See here they come mon, what a Scottish drove
Crouds in full flocks unto th' Elysian grove!
Foure thousand at the least! Heark! what a shrill
Sad noise, the mazes of my eares doth fill!
And on their tender parchments beat from thence
Like drum-sticks an Alarum to my sense!
What strange confused Eccho s do I hear,
Howlings for losse of Bernes, of gudes and geer!
Oh prethy see, see how along they gang
With kettles at their gurdles! o're their shoulders hang
Course oat-meal bags, as though they'd beg a boon
Of Pluto, still to feed on Pattaloon;

Ah Charon, lanch into the deep, there make
Conditions e're they board thee, do not take
A mon into thy skiffe till thou art paid;

146

See what a totter'd Regiment, how dismaid,
Trembling with palsies they make towards thee!
Look, look, what a rude multitude they be!
What gibbrish is't they mutter? how they call,
Wish de'il take boat, the Ferrie-mon and all!
How they run hastily as if they knew
Some death, some second Cromwel did pursue!

Alas old gray-beard, now thy whirrie breaks,
Heark, what a crack it gives! See, see, it leaks,
Go hire a thousand Watermen to play
Next Oates, next Sculler, 'tis a safer way,
Get cock-boats, barges, lighters, has there bin
No Navie sunk of late to put them in?
But no great matter, let them stay on shore,
Drop into Styx, like Soland-geese swim o're.

Cowards! Mars such a bastard brood disdains,
Who whil'st their blood congealed in their veins,
Like Ague-shaken Myrmidons did fight,
Till suddenly they thaw'd into a flight;
And brooking not the lightning which did flie
From the steel'd courage of our souldiery,
Like to chill snow in a hot Sun-shine day,
These Northern Isickles did melt away:

But are they vanquish't, routed horse and mon?
Must treacherous Jockie visit Phlegeton?
Let wilde-fires then cut capers on the ropes,
Appear and vanish like their empty hopes;
Mount rockets to the second region, higher
Then their ambition soar'd, dart balls of fire;
Let powder-devils, squibs and crackers flie,

147

And dance us Scottish gigs, to testifie
How our triumphant hearts, our arteries
Leap in us, and how mirth smiles in our eyes.

Farewel, poor Scot, thou need'st no more to come
For coine, our States have sent a new-coin'd summe,
Troopers on horseback, pieces that weigh down
Put in the balance, more then half a crown;
Though Magazines of Nobles (doits to us)
Make the scales even as an over-plus.
These new-coin'd pieces which we send to you,
Augment their worth by name of Sterling too.

Ye noxious windes, into some caverns flie:
Vanish, Kirk-mill-dews, ignes fatui:
Farewel, ne'er more, ye fogs of errour, dare
Taint with your breath our wholesom English aire:
Think you to blast (with your Presbyterie)
This fine faire blossom of our libertie?
No, your Geneva black Kirk-liveries,
'Gin to grow thread-bare in the peoples eyes;
And if you ben't permitted to renew't,
'Twill but just last you for a mourning suit.

Go haste to Chaul and Cochin, there to try
If you can live on high-way charity;
Go feed on graines the Banianes cates,
As Catercousins with the Gusarates,
Like beasts if any wounded, haste you all
For salves unto Cambaia's hospital;
March, wicked Jockie, towards Bengalen,
With th' Indian Pagods Priests, (farre better men)
To Ganges blessed streams, there cast thee in,

148

With holy water purge thee of thy sinne;
Or turn a superstitious traveller,
Finde out the tombe-stone of Jack-Presbyter,
(Like Turkish Pilgrims, who to Mecha go,
See th'iron coffin, then will see no moe.)
Once having seen where th' holy relique lies,
In zealous humour pluck out both thy eyes.
Then if thou safe returnest, or if not,
Wee'l honour thee with name of Hogie Scot.

Men worse then Gours, whom malice can't defame,
Cripec and Canzier is too clean a name;
It is a sinne to let a Scot compound,
Nay, should you choak and thrust them under ground,
Know that you are no Authors of their death,
The Coward-Scots ran themselves out of breath;
Laugh, laugh to think on't, e're the fight begun,
What preparations Jockie made to run;
Laugh, laugh, to think in what a stormie night,
Death kill'd their foot and light-horse in the flight;
I know of old it hath a saying bin,
A Scottish mist wets th' English to the skin;
Whether that proverb's verifi'd or not,
I'm sure such English showers kill a Scot.

151

A Mock-sonnet.

Why so Faire? why so sweet?
My Fairest sweet one, why so coy?
Why so angry? why so fretting?
That pretty face, didst thou but see't,
How thy soft cheeks so smooth and faire,
Like to those full fat buttocks are,
Where Venus claps her plump-ars't boy,
How they rise
About thine eyes,
And betwixt thy nose out-jetting;
Would'st thou but wave thy modestie,
And look from top to toe,
Above, below,
What daintie things there be,
Thy milk-white, full-milch't breast,
Upon whose swelling hills doth rest,
Aminta's new wash t flock,
Where the Graces make caresses,
Like most am'rous shepherdesses,
Surely thou canst not think I mock.

152

Lovely Faire, why so chaste?
Why so peevish? so untoward?
At what my Deare hast took distaste?
Sweetest faire one, why so froward?
Would'st thou but view impartially,
The rolling gogles of thine eye,
Thy unthatch't browes so neatly set
With scales of scurf all o're,
Thy hairelesse eye-lids alwayes wet
And stiffe with gum good store
Didst thou but see
Upon thy nose how prettily
I'th' pimpled pockholes all about
Cupid's play bopeep in and out,
How thy snag-teeth stand orderly,
Like stakes which strut by th' water-side,
Stradling to beat off the tide,
Till green and worn to th'stumps they be;
Would'st thou but once, my Dearest-sweet,
Look thy self o're from head to feet,
Below, above,
Thou canst not chuse but think I love.

153

Beautie, beautie, what doest mean
Cupid sucks my heart-blood out,
And well thou know'st I cannot wean
The child, for thy sweet dugs do give him life
When I would starve the rogue; then turn about,
Busse me and say thou'lt be my wife,
For troth when e're I see,
Either what is below thy knee,
Or if mine eyes I cast,
On parts above thy waste;
Where e're my sense doth move,
I'm more and more in love.
Still from thine eyes there passes,
As from great burning-glasses,
Lightning in such frequent flashes,
That consume my heart to ashes;
Nay, when thou blow'st thy snottie nose,
The bellows of thy nostril blowes
The fire of love into a flame,
And th'oile of Arm-pits feeds the same,
Thy legges, breast, lips and eyes inslave me,
But if behinde thee once I come,
Ond view the mountains of thy bum,
Oh then
I'm mad to have thee.

154

On his bed standing in his study.

What are the Muses chambers made to be
A lodge forsleep? their gard'ns his nurcerie?
Must fancie's Hymen, must the god of light
Dance with the dull, dark Bridegroom of the night?
Did ere the sisters for a requiem go
To fields, where slumbring sleepie poppies grow?
Did ever bed-stead on Parnassus stand?
Usurping Morpheus, didst thou e're command,
And shake thy leaden scepter, in the Court
Where watchful active Muses use to sport?
Thought'st thou to be, though not at all divine,
A bed-fellow to any of the nine?
Which sister is't hath lost her maiden-head?
The strumpet now must needs be brought to bed;
Which Muse must waiting-Gentlewoman be,
Turne pisse-tail'd Chambermaid to tend on thee?
What, must the noble spritely Pegasus
Engender with the foggie night-mare thus:
Making a stable of my Chamber-room,
My bed the manger, and my self the Groom?
Know crazie god of sleep, a Poet can
Without a night-cap make a hymne to Pan;
Take not thy drowsie blankets, ('tis a sinne)
To tosse the Muses high-borne children in;
Poets are ne're so dull to sacrifice,

155

Watch-lights and tapers to nights Deities;
Is there 'tween Lethe and Pyrene's streams,
No diff'rence? are Enthusiasmes dreames?
Shall Phœbus sonnes i'th' bed drive light away,
And with Apollo's curtain blinde the day?
Here lies a bedrid-Poet, I'd rather have
A dormitorie without Epitaph,
Then on my monument it should be sed,
Euterpe's smother'd in a feather-bed:
Me for no hydromantick novice take,
Who cast my water for experience sake,
I'm no young Pæon, that thus at my hand
My Urine alwayes should so closely stand;
At twelve o'th' clock it truly may be sed,
To me you're come but newly from your bed.

Somnus the Muses Closet must not be,
A cabbin for thine Incubus and thee.
Yet I love sleep, good Morpheus do not frown,
I only wish my feather-bed were down.

THE END.