University of Virginia Library

The First Booke of Epigrammes.

To Sir Charles Shirley, Baronet.

This verse, (whose Author was so neare you bred)
Seemes to runne straight to you for Patronage,
As to a brave Bud, that hath promised
The fruit of Honour in maturer age:
Daigne then these leaves to sweeten with your Springs
Faire growth, and listen whilst a Black-bird sings.

2. To the Reader.

Reader, till Martial thou hast well survey'd,
Or Owens Wit with Ionsons Learning weigh'd,
Forbeare with thankelesse censure to accuse
My Writ of errour, or condemne my Muse.

3. To the same.

Though Epigrammes be but a curter kind
Of Satyres, striking on as sharpe a string,
To Dysticks or Tetrasticks doe not bind
My free-borne Muse, for youth would have his swing,

4. To his Booke.

Deare issue, some thy Name that view'd,
Did from rash premisses conclude,
That, through suffusion of thy gall,
Thy parts would prove Ictericall,
And that (wrapt up in sheets uncleane)
With scurrile Rymes and jests obsceane,
Thou wouldst prophane a good mans eare:
But (as thou art to Vertue deare)
Such lewd licentious tricks defie,
And cheat such Censures honestly.

5. On the Spheares.

What are those ever-turning heavenly Spheares,
But Wheeles, (that from our Cradles to our Urnes)
Winde up our threads of Life, that hourely weares?
And they that soonest dye, have happiest turnes.

6. On severall Countries.

In severall figures severall Regions are,
Cast and describ'd, some round, some angular:
So Irelands forme is Ovall, Britaine takes
The threatning semblance of a sharpned Axe,
(Where-with large France seemes hewne into a square)
And to an Oxes hyde we Spaine compare:
But Nature well, brave Italy doth show
Like a swift Legge, that farre with Fame doth goe.

7. On cracking of Nuts.

Much cracking hurts the Teeth, but to the Tongue
The bragging humour does a deeper wrong.

8. On Thomas Randall.

Who knew not this brave sparke of Phœbus? whose
Both Life and Learning might detraction pose,
Save onely that he dranke too greedily
O'th' Muses Spring, and left the Sisters dry,
Who (smiling therefore gave the Fates command
His Body to convert to pearly sand,
And strew it in their Fountaine, there to shine
Like his cleare thoughts, and make their draughts divine.

9. To a Glazier, shrewdly married.

Of Glasse and Lead, woman, and weighty care
Thou hast enough, (and some perhaps to spare)
Yet breake thou wilt, nor can thy brittle Trade
Long hold; now quarrels are so rashly made,

10. Of the Earth.

These that make Earth a living Monster, (whose
Breath moves the Ocean when it ebbes and flowes,
Whose warts are rugged Hills, whose wrinkles, vales,
Whose Ribbs are Rocks, and Bowells, Mineralls)
What will they have so vast a Creature eate,
Sith Sea too salt, and Aire's too windy meate?

11. A drunken brabler.

Who onely in his Cups will fight, is like
A Clocke that must be oyl'd well, ere it strike.

12. An Epitaph on his Father and Mother, buried neare together in Swarston Church.

Here lies a paire of peerelesse friends,
Whose goodnesse like a precious Chaine)
Adorn'd their soules in lives and ends;
Whom when detractions selfe would staine,
She drops her teares in stead of gall,
And helps to mourne their Funerall.

13. To Iame Shirley.

Iames, thou and I did spend some precious yeeres
At Katherine-Hall; since when we sometimes feele
In our Poetick braines (as plaine appeares)
A whirling tricke, then caught from Katherines wheele.

14. The Usurer.

He puts forth money as the Hangman sowes
His fatall Hempe-seed, that with curses growes:
So grows his damn'd wealth, in the Devils name,
That doth in Hell the Harvest-home proclaime:
For which deepe reason my poore Muse preserues
This suite, that Poets ne're prove Usurers.

15. An Epitaph on Mistris Anne Knyveton.

Here hidden lyes deare Treasure under ground,
Blest Innocence, with budding Vertue crown'd,
That, like a Taper on some Altar fir'd,
Shone fairely forth, and sweetly so expir'd,
Expecting here in darkesome shade of night,
A rising Sunne, that brings eternall light.

16. Another on the same.

Gentle Friends, with teares forbeare
To drowne a withered Flower here,
That, in Spring of Natures pride,
Dranke the Morning dew, and dy'd.
Death may teach you here to live,
And a friendly call doth give
To this humble house of mine,
Here's his Inne, and this the Signe.

17. To Thomas Pegge Gentleman.

Me thinkes I may to Sugar and to Wine
Our loves compare, which kind discourses mixt:
Since when, that heart that totally was mine,
Hath in your bosomes Paradise beene fixt.
What wonder then my Friendships force doth last
Firme to your goodnesse? you have pegg'd it fast.

18. To an Eunuch.

Thou still art wrestling, yet the fall dost get,
As Ships that want their Ballast, oven-set.

19. Against Drunkennesse.

Of all soule-sicknesses that Mortals have,
This falls the heaviest, quenching many a brave
Young sparke, yet kindling Lusts unhallowed fire.
Sweet friends, that to the two-topt Mount aspire
Of noble Art and Honour, to the ditch
Of base contempt tumble this loathed Witch,
That worse than Circe) with a cup doth sacke
The Fort of Reason, and sound sences cracke.
For who (not frantick) would diseases buy
At a lame rate, or thirst for poverty?

20. An Epitaph on Master Henry Hopkinson.

Lo, of old Natures true faith-fastned hearts
Lyes here a Picture, which with loveliest parts
Heavens hand did garnish, and exactly draw
With the quaint lines of Vertue, Art, and Law:
But lest too long it should to view be set,
Laid up his worke, and this the Cabinet.

21. To Ben. Ionson.

As Martials Muse by Cæsars ripening rayes
Was sometimes cherisht, so thy happier dayes
Ioy'd in the Sun-shine of thy Royall Iames,
Whose Crowne shed lustre on thine Epigrammes:
But I, remote from favours fostering heate,
O're snowy Hills my Muses passage beate,
Where weeping Rocks my harder Fates lament,
And shuddering Woods whisper my discontent
What wonder then my numbers, that have rowl'd
Like streames of Tygris, run so slow and cold?

22. To the same.

Let Ignorance with Envy chat,
In spight of both, thou Fame dost winne,
Whose messe of Learning seemes like that,
Which Ioseph gave to Benjamin.

23. To Oliver Cookerill.

Thou once didst wrong me, but I all forgive,
And wish thou maist in lesse vexation live,
Than when thou didst of bootlesse love complaine,
Whose heate in teares of dripping spent thy braine;
When, with a sunke cheeke and a sobbing heart,
In roaring Rime thou didst discharge thy smart,
And like a leaden Serring lay'st alone,
Ready to squirt out life at every grone.
Yet, when thou couldst not thy deare Doll obtaine,
Didst with reproach her Maiden same distaine:
This was not faire; but doe no more amisse,
And Cupid with both eyes will winke at this.

24. To Caspar the Foote-man.

Caspar went nimbly once, but now doth tread
Scarce thicke enough; he's lately marryed.

25. To Godfrey Froggat.

Cuz, thou and I (though no man knew the same)
By our meere likenesse should our Kindred claime:
Both Learning-lovers, faithfull-hearted, kind,
Of lowly stature, yet of lofty minde:
Onely quaint Fortune, that with thee doth stay
Playes the blind Jade with me, and wheeles away.

26. On humane bodies.

Our Bodies are like Shooes, which off we cast,
Physicke their Cobler is, and Death the Last.

27. An Epitaph on George Siddon of the Bull-head in Bosworth.

Death, the great Gamester, that at fairest throwes,
And surely strikes a Dye, to Tables goes
With sightlesse Fortune for our Siddons life:
But (better to prevent a future strife)
Out of her Trumpet Fame the Dice must cast,
And play for Chance: so to their sport they haste,
(As even Life and Death were at the stake)
Straight Fortune blots, and Death the man doth take,
Which the blind Goddesse, seconded by Fame,
Did here interre, and wonne the after-game.

28. To Thomas May of Sutton-Cheney, Gentleman.

Sweet Tom, that (like that Minion Earine,
Whose Beauty great Domitian held divine)
Dost in thy name the youth and pleasure beare,
Beauty and lovelinesse of all the yeare;
Yet in thy gall-lesse temper dost imply
More sweetnesse, than that Name doth signifie:
My true heart loves thee, (what can more be said?)
Were I but Iove, thou wert my Ganymed.

29. On Maltworme.

This sonne of Riot spent on Ale and Beere,
And Indian fume, two Thousand pounds a yeare:
Yet nought for all his Angels hath to shew,
Except a great Nose of a glorious hew,
Worth all his body; for that is but mould,
But his tryumphant Nose scornes beaten gold.

30. To Sampson Baker.

Sampson, whose strength not in thy Haire,
But in thy firmer Braine-pan lyes,
I friendly warne thee to beware
Of reason-blinding vanities.
By the implored helpe divine
Of wilde affects the Lyon slay,
Account strong Beere a Philistine,
And th'Indian Witch a Dalilah.

31. To Thomas Dixie, Gentleman.

Thy stature is (like mine) but low,
Yet as the Gyants once did throw
Huge Hills on Hills, so hast thou laid
Vast Law on Arts, and thereby made
A passage to Fames house on high,
Like that to Joves, the Galaxy.

32. To Amoret.

How manlesse is thy dotage, to adore
That gilded rottennesse, that poison'd core
Of swelling prides Aposteme! Must therefore
Thou be a sheepe, 'cause shee's a Goatish Whore?

33. To Sir Iohn Harpvr.

You once my lusty Lines did like,
(And I as well did like your Gold)
My measure-keeping Muse doth strike
On the same string; whose hopes are bold
That you will daigne an eare to it,
Sith Hermes (to adorne your minde)
Hath yeelded you his pleasant Wit,
And Phœbus hath his Harpe resign'd.

34. To the same.

You have a Genius pleas'd with Verse, (I heare)
That smoothly passeth through your cleansed eare,
As water of Pactôlus, where no stay,
Nor downe-fall interrupts his golden way:
For such your merits I your praise shall sing,
Whilst you still harpe on so divine a string.

35. To William Bottome.

Who would Penelope's day-worke unwind,
Thy Name (wrapt up in Huswifery) might finde.

36. A tricke for your Learning.

Two Schollers in Thames-streete were drinking hard,
And late; to whom a Constable repair'd,
And tax't them for't: Invited yet to drinke,
He turn'd up Glasses, till both nod and winke
At greatest faults he would; when sleepe at last
Did bridle up his brutish senses fast.
Meane while the waggish Mercuries conspire
T'abuse him and two Water-men they hire
To take him napping, and transport him thence
Th'way of all Fish: who ne're recover'd sense,
Nor from his dead sleepe found himselfe alive,
Till both his Charons at Gravesend arrive.
To all harsh Magistrates a warning faire,
That they of too much Wine and Wit beware.

37. To Tom Dizzy.

Thou hast some do w-bak'd Learning I confesse,
But leaven'd so with pride, and peevishnesse,
That all distaste it: Mixe thy humours then
With courteous sweetnesse, most adorning men,
And throw proud fancies downe; so maist thou rise
At Fortunes next rebound, and stand for wise.

38. To a Red-ey'd Conjurer.

Thine Eyes, like fire-balls, shew how hot thou art
In love with Hell, whose Lyon rules thy heart.

39. To Sir Andrew Knyveton, in his Travaile.

If wishes, fastned to the wings of Love,
May over-take you, and auspicious prove,
I wish you power (in a solid soule
And a sound body.) Fortune to controule;
I wish you ten-fold wisedome may obtaine
To his, that ten yeares wandered on the Maine;
I wish this Travaile may bring forth your fame,
I wish you best and happiest of your name,
I wish all graces on your heart distill'd,
And lastly wish these wishes all fulfill'd.

40. To the same at his Returne.

Welcome to us, as is the Morning lay
Of the rais'd Lurke, (glad Usher of the Day)
To wearied Watch-men: for our duller hearts
Scarce leapt from sorrow since you left our parts:
But when their livelyer palpitation told
Your neare approach, scarce could our heart-strings hold
Our gladnesse. This Vlyssean course of yours
Us of your worthier qualities assures,
Whose Knowledge is (no doubt) by travaile so
Improv'd, that still you will beyond us goe.

41. An Epitaph on Mistresse Gray, Grandmother to Sir Andrew Kniveton.

Lo here deare Reliques of the richest frame
Of Beauty, by whose fall the Paschall Lambe
(Her honour'd Crest) a golden Fleece hath lost,
Kept here by Death, till with a glorious Host,
Not Iason, but our blessed Iesus come,
Sayling on clouds, to fetch this Treasure home.

42. On Gentry.

I saw once (on a Hill in Wales)
Th'old Herald Time with dusty Scales
Weighing of Gentry, and close by
Stood the blind Goddesse secretly.
Those that were brainelesse, light, and vaine,
Did mount aloft; and those againe
That had their weight of worth, did fall
Low as this earthly Pedestall:
And still as Fortune pleas'd, she made
The Ballance move, and laugh'd, and play'd
Her wanton prankes (too seriously)
Ah ha, are these your tricks? thought I;
Then is the cause by Fortune found,
Why Gallants floate, and Wits are drown'd.

43. Gluttons and Lechers.

Gluttons are heavy hulkes, that scarce can steere;
But Lechers are light Friggots, here and there.

44. The Life of Man.

Mans life is but a cheating game
At Cards, and Fortune playes the same,
Packing a Queene up with a Knave,
Whilst all would winne, yet none doe save,
But loose themselves: for Death is it,
That lastly cuts, and makes his hit.

45. To Master Farnaby.

Sith by the labour of thy smoothing hand
We thinke we doe rough Persius understand,
The Criticke-vext Petronius, Iuvenal,
The full-mouth'd Maro, witty Martial,
The Tragedies of high-strain'd Seneca,
The noble Lucans brave Pharsalia,
With the wise Morals of the Stagyrite,
And Epigrammes which Grecian Muses write:
We ne're shall recompence thy paine; but Fame
Will cracke her Trumpet for't, and sound thy Name.

46. To old Sir Iohn Harpur of Swarston, deceased.

As did cold Hebrus with deepe grones
The Thracian Harper once lament,
So art thou with incessant mones
Bewayled by thy dolefull Trent,
While the astonisht Bridge doth show
(Like an Arch-mourner) heaviest woe.

47. On Martiall Boggard.

Boggard, the Souldier, chancing in the Streete
With a weake-witted Citizen to meete,
That would admire his bragges, began of Warres
To thunder dreadfully, and boast his skarres,
Filling his mouth with names of men at Armes,
With Musters, Marches, Stratagems, Alarmes,
With Sallies, Camisadoes, Batteries,
Slashing and slaughtering of his Enemies;
Which he so lively acts, as he had beene
At deadly blowes; when straight a Sergeant seene,
Makes him blow for't indeed, and's cloake let flye,
Who thus both Ensigne lost, and victory.

48. To Master Pestell of Packinton.

Lo here her labours doth my Muse commend
To you, her Phœbus, and her choicest friend;
Whose knowledge, brightned with a beame divine,
Doth through the frowning clouds of envy shine,
Making its splendour (like that desert flame)
A guide to blisse, a columne to your fame.

49. An Epitaph on Mistresse Anne Roberts of Naylston.

Stay, Passenger, and see thy journies end,
Take sorrow in thy way, and kindly spend
One pearly teare, t'inrich this Monument,
Which a sole Sonne to a deare Mother lent:
Whose life (her Countries losse) did still abound
With fruits of grace, to be with glory crown'd;
And (as these

White Characters in black Marble.

Letters, which her worth containe)
Was fairely white, without black vices staine:
But lifes best treasure wastfull time will spend;
Goe, passenger, thou seest thy journies end.

50. To Dabbler.

Thy Muses looser Robes with many a tricke
Are jagg'd, pink't, stucke with Flowers of Rhetorick,
That smell all Poesie; yet please they none.
How happens that? they're out of fashion.

61. Ingrossers.

How doe you shave the City 'gainst the haire!
And even would intercept the common Ayre,
Were't in your power! yet you leave us breath,
To fly in curses after you to death.
But sith you put us to such publicke losse,
Take all our faults too, and be knaves in grosse.

62. An Epitaph on Alexander Hill.

An Alexander, and a Hill
(Two lofty things) did envious Death
At once dismount, and thus doth kill
Our hearts too by his losse of breath,
Whose thoughts with Vertue did advise,
And honour'd truth, yet here he lyes.

63. To a Detractour.

Thou still art darting (like a Porcupine)
Thy quils against me, faulting every line
That my hand drawes, and with the frost-like power
Of thy benummed verse would nip the flower
Of thy sweet Poësie. I wish thee show
More favour to thy selfe, than thus to blow
Sparkes in thine eies. Art thou not (slave) afeard
To plucke a couchant Lyon by the beard,
That rouz'd will rend thee? thou but shoot'st in vaine
Thy bolts of folly, that rebound againe
From my unpierced Muse, whose lofty rime
Shall (Diall-like) stand in the face of time,
And looke it downe, when thou and thine shall lie
Damn'd up with Dust in blind Obscurity.
On Twitchup, the Vsurer.
At once his money and his judgements eye
This wretch puts forth, lest Hell should terrifie.

64. An Epitaph on William Holorenshaw, the Mathematician.

Loe, in small closure of this earthly bed
Rests he, that Heav'ns vast motions measured:
Who, having knowne both of the Land and Skie
More than fam'd Archimed or Ptolomy,
Would further presse, and like a Palmer went
With's Iacobs Staffe beyond the Firmament.

56. To Briskape the Gallant.

Though thou hast little judgment in thy head,
More than to dresse thee, drinke, and goe to bed,
Yet mayst thou take the wall, and th'way shalt lead,
Sith Logick wills that simple things precede.

57. On a French Knight, and Mistris Wolsley.

A wanton Knight, borne, wed, and curst in France,
Came to our English Court, and there by chance
Wooes, and re-weds a faire and vertuous Maid:
Which wrong of love being by time bewray'd,
He (lest his Weddings Destiny should turne
To Hanging) leaves his second choice to mourne:
Who Wife, nor Widow, Maid nor Whore doth prove.
What is she then? a Quintessence in love.

58. To the Slanderer, Stinks.

Could I but worke a Transformation strange
On thee, whose malice pricks and rankles so,
I would thy Carrion to a Thistle change,
Which Asses baite upon, and Rusticks mow.

59. To Sir Gilbert Knyveton.

Anagramme. Turne to be Kingly.

He that can rule his little Ile of Man,
(Girt with a waving Maine of misery,
And his affects to lawes of Reason can
Rightly submit, may claime a Monarchy;
And by such Empire may more honour gaine
Than he that serves his Gold, yet Masters Spaine.

60. To a Musitian, on his hurt finger.

Thy Lute, that late seem'd in a desperate case,
(Like a torne vagrant without Hat or Band)
May hope to have its Treble match the Base,
Sith thy hurt finger's on the mending hand.

61. An Epitaph on Captaine Knyveton.

Here lyes a Traveller, (that least would lye)
One that in Belgia, France, and Tuscany,
With other Regions of remoter site,
In a progressive warfare tooke delight;
But being now with Peace more highly blest,
Hath laid his Musket by, and here's his Rest.

62. The brevity of Mans life.

Who would regard this brunt of life? which is
In times long tract a short parenthesis,
Drawne with bent lines upon (this earthly stage)
Of creeping infancy and crooked age.

63. To Mistris Dorothy Harpur, (now the Lady Fitzherbert.)

ANAGRAMME. Pure Hart I hoord.

Let stupid worldlings stuffe their chests with gold;
Their glittering pelfe doth no proportion hold
With the Soules beauties, nor so safe doth lye
As thy rich worth, whose brest's a treasury.

64. To Mr. William Roberts watch-maker.

Kind friend, that, in this iron age unkind,
Dost worke thy Fortunes out of Brasse, and finde
That mettle softer than the hearts of friends:
Be rich in patience, till a faire amends
Fortune shall make, who downe-right cannot wound
One that a head-piece beares so strong and sound.

76. An Epitaph on the King of Sweden.

Here lies a sparkling Iem of honor, quencht
In deare effused blood, and sadly drencht
In a salt Ocean of inundant teares:
Yet lofty Fame (in clouds triumphing) beares
His name: that in more heavenly Poems like
Phœbus shall shine, and Austria Planet-strike.

76. To William Jernegan, Gent.

Anagramme. I value my Learning,

Well mayst thou value at the highest price
That plant, that makes thy braine a Paradise:
To whose rare excellent the Iems most bright
But cloudy are, and sollid gold too light.

77. To Captayne Roberts.

Captayne, that Conquered hast my heart
By force of Love, and truely art
To truth and innocence an ayde:
Nor art (as others) basely sway'd
By gifts or favours of the great,
In a bad cause to sweare and sweate:
While such as I (whose hearts do hold
Cleare truth, not troubled much with gold)
Of villaines wrongs might oft complaine,
Yet tune our wind-pipes still in vaine:
My strongest verse shall guard your name,
And Bulwarke it 'gainst bold defame,
Whilst you against the wracke of time,
Shall stand as Genius to my Rime.

78. To Trent.

Sweet River, on whose flowery Margin layd,
I with the slippery Fish have often playd
At fast and loose: when ere th'enamour'd ayre
Shall in soft sighes mine ecchoed accents beare,
Gently permit the smoother verse to slide
On thy sleeke bosome, and in tryumph ride
Vnto the Mayne: where when it sounds along,
Let Tritons dance, and Syrens learne my song.

79. To Swarston.

Swarston, when I behold thy pleasant sight,
Whose River runs a progresse of Delight,
Ioy'd with the beauties of fresh flowery plaines,
And bounteous fields, that crowne the Plow-mans paines:
I sigh (that see my native home estrang'd)
For Heaven, whose Lord and tenure's never chang'd.

80. On Pillard with his Periwig.

Pillard, thy Head seemes in a monstrous case,
That weares a French crowne with an English face.

81. To Grace-dieu.

Grace-dieu, that under Charnwood stand'st alone,
As a grand Relicke of Religion,
I reverence thine old (but fruitfull) worth,
That lately brought such noble Beaumonts forth,
Whose brave Heroick Muses might aspire,
To match the Anthems of the Heavenly Quire.
The mountaines crown'd with rockey fortresses,
And sheltering woods, secure thy happinesse,
That highly favour'd art (though lowly plac'd)
Of Heaven, and with free natures bounty grac'd,
Herein grow happier, and that blisse of thine,
Nor Pride ore-top, nor Envy undermine.

82. On a curst wife.

VVhat painfull sorrows wretched man consume!
That burn'd with Feavers is, or drown'd with Rhume,
Rackt with Convulsions, wrung with Stranguries,
Fetter'd with Gouts, or goar'd with Plurisies.
If all such mischiefes throw not downe his life
To Hell-ward, damne him to a scolding wife.

83. On Poets.

These Darlings of free Nature want no vigour
Of braine, and therefore to grow rich are liker
Than weaker heads, and might be blest with Angels,
(For which the Souldier fights, and Lawyer wrangles)
Did not their lofty Fancies 'bove the Welkin
Still soare, whilst others are for Treasures delving.
But fie, my verse is foundr'd, all this time
I dream'd on riches, I but rav'd in rime.

84. Our Grandames infirmities.

Earth had her dropsie in th'all-drowning Flood,
And now expects her burning Feaver neare:
Her Plurisies effusions are of blood
By wars: her Agues, tremblings of her Spheare:
Which whether yet it proove vertiginous
With round rotations, aske Copernicus,

85. Of Warre.

War's like a curst wife, whence a man may cull
Some fruites of goodnesse, (though of mischiefe full:)
For those land-surfeits wanton peace doth breed,
Warre by incision cures, when Kingdomes bleed.

86. On Scheltco, the Astrologer.

Scheltco, that saw the heavenly Squadrons rang'd
In a strange fashion, and their postures chang'd,
Pretended by those starry lights to see
That the Worlds end in Eighty Eight should be:
And so too thought the Spaniards, (as appeares)
That tooke their leave of it with brinish teares.

87. To John Fretchvile Esquire.

A good mans Center is his Countries love,
Whither your weighty worth doth swiftly move
After your fathers, whom to honour, bright
Phœbus did friendly aime, and hit the

Sir Peter Fretchvile was honoured by the name of the White Knight.

white.

88. The New World.

Some in the Moone another World have found,
Whose brighter parts are Seas, the darker, Ground:
Which were it true, we should have Moone-calves tost
From those sharpe whirling Hornes to every Coast:
And a wild World it were, and full of tricks,
Where all Inhabitants were Lunaticks.

89. On Sir Philip Sidney.

Idols I hate, yet would to Sidneys wit
Offer Castalian healths, and kneele to it.

90. To Charnwood.

Charnwood, if all thy Stones were turn'd to Bread,
(As once the Fiend did such a motion make)
It would be more than Zerxes fed,
Or Tenariffe and Ætna both could bake;
And hungry Churles (that raile at Souldiers)
Would rend up Rock-bread, and turne Pioners.

91. On a Woman.

When Man lay dead-like, Woman tooke her life
From a crook't Embleme of her Nuptiall strife;
And hence (as bones would be at rest) her ease,
Shee loves so well, and is so hard to please.

92. On the same.

Woman was once a Ribbe, (as Truth hath said)
Else, sith her tongue runnes wide from every point,
I should have dream'd her substance had beene made
Of Adams whirle-bone, when it was out o'th' joynt.

93. On the motion of the Starres.

Artists affirme that from the burning Line
Some Starres of Aries North-ward now decline,
And the slow-pac'd Cynosure appeares
Nearer the fixt Pole, than in former yeares:
No marvell then blind Mortals walke astray,
When Heav'ns cleare eies have lost their wonted way.

94. On Gluttony and Lechery.

These fleshly Factors for the Devill deale,
The one in grosse, the other by retaile.

97. To the Honorable Esquire, IOHN MANNOVRS of HADDON.

Your Honour'd ancestour was stiled King
Of the high Peake, for royall House-keeping:
And well your selfe approves your noble straine
Of Kindred, by that bounty you maintaine:
Whose rarenesse in this iron age bewrayes
A golden Mind, and precious makes your praise.

98. To our Queene MARIE.

How are You compast with a Ruby-chayne
Of hearts, deare Queen! that with an endles raigne
Of joy unto You: whose sweet name to all
Sounds mirth, and seemes a heavenly Uirginall.

99. To Vicar Blunder.

Those iron Lungs of thine, and throat of brasse,
(To whose crackt bore loud Stentors wind-pipe was
But a small Reed) cannot with vengeance sacke
Our garnisht wals, or painted windows cracke.
Whereat thou weep'st, as if the fervent paine
Of zealous griefe did melt thy Leaden braine:
Yet (as a puddle soone congeales to Ice)
Thou straight art hardned to thy quaffing vice.
Thus deepe mouth'd Thumper, after fruitlesse paine
In hunting Counter, fals to's lappe againe.

100. On Iohn the Warrener, falne in love with Ioane the Net-worker.

T'Intrap poore creatures he accounts no sin,
But is himselfe now taken with a Gin.

101. To the Lord Uerulam.

Had I a tongue of all Frier Bacons brasse,
Which should (they say) have wal'd this Iland round,
I scarcely could how deepe thy knowledge was,
With all the strength of such an Organ sound
Fame cannot do't, her trumpet it would split:
Why then should words blow wind on such a wit?

105. To Nathaniel Carpenter, on his Geography.

So well I like the structure of thy Spheare,
(Whereon thou seem'st an obeliske to reare
To thy fames wonder, that my Muse preferres
Thy skill before th'Ephesian

Cherisiphous Architect of Dianaes Temple.

Carpenters.

106. To a Tell-tale.

Thy glowing eares, to hot contention bent,
Are not unlike red Herings, broyl'd in Lent.

107. To Baull, the Cryer.

In thy rude Parish (as thou dost professe)
Thou'rt like the Baptist in the wildernesse:
Yet ere for conscience off thy head should go,
Thou wouldst not cry Oyes, but roare out No.

108. To our King CHARLES.

Your royall Father our right Atlas was,
And you as high this happy Realme sustaine,
Whose wisedomes glory (as a gemmy glasse
For noblest Kings) out-shines the Arctick waine.
So, though bright Iupiter were set, the skies
Could lacke no lustre, when the Sunne did rise.

109. On deafe Joan, the Ale-wife.

She prates to others, yet can nothing heare,
Iust like a sounding Iugge, that wants an eare.

109. Copernicus his opinion.

Copernicus did thinke those Orbes above,
Stood as Spectators, while the earth did move:
Nor did he farre from ground of reason stray,
Sith earth takes paines, and Heav'n keeps holy-day.

111. To our Prince Charles.

Rich summe of all our hopes on Earth,
Great Heire of England, at your birth
Heaven put his cloudy tresses by,
And smil'd on us with open skie,
Whilst all the Planets seem'd to throw
Their golden radiance at your brow.
A cleare presage, that favours shall
From Heaven upon your Highnesse fall,
And thence on us reflecting, glance
On the glibbe Ocean into France.

112. To Sir Thomas Overbury, on his Wife.

Others by Children lengthen out their life,
Thou onely art eterniz'd by thy wife.

113. To Zounds the Swaggerer.

What dost thou meane to revell roare, and spend?
To drinke, and drabbe, and sweare so? wilt thou rend
Thy way to Hell? The Devill will spy day
At a small hole, and snatch his Chuck away.

114. To the same.

What Gulfe's within thee, that thou swallow'st so?
Is it to drowne all thirst before thou goe
To that Infernall hot-house? such a ground
Of reason's deeper than I list to sound.

115. A point of hard fortune.

A thiefe, that of a Ramme had gelt the Flock,
And ty'd him 'bout his necke, upon a Rocke
Laid his fat load, intending there to rest
His weary shoulders: but the captive beast
Straining and struggling for release, at last
Beyond the pointed stone his body cast,
Whose weight crusht out the fellons breath anon,
That was both strangely hang'd, and dy'd o'th' Stone.

116. To George Slanders, on his Marriage.

Thy basenesse us'd thy Friend in hostile sort,
But hath not Wedlocke snar'd the Woodcock for't?

117. To Th. Ch. Esquire.

Your noble Genius holds (as doth appeare)
The very shadows of the Muses deare,
Who with proud maintenance have leaven'd those,
That scarce will give you thankes in humble Prose,
Nor in high Verse can doe't: So on a sinke
Shines lovely Phœbus, though his object stinke.

118. To Shakespeare.

Thy Muses sugred dainties seeme to us
Like the fam'd Apples of old Tantalus:
For we (admiring) see and heare thy straines,
But none J see or heare, those sweets attaines.

119. To the same.

Thou hast so us'd thy Pen, (or shooke thy Speare)
That Poets startle, nor thy wit come neare.

120. To Aston Cokaine, Esquire.

He that with Learning, Vertue doth combine,
May (though a Laick) passe for a divine
Piece of perfection, Such to all mens sight
Appeares your selfe: who, if you take delight
In these composures, your applausive show
Will stampe conceits, and make them currant goe.

121. The World.

The World's a Forrest, (maim'd with fatall strokes)
Where Wolves and Foxes are wilde youths desires,
Where dead men Ashes are, the living, Oakes;
And Cats and Women are but scratching Bryers.

122. On Blinkes, a pretender to Poetry.

He nine wayes lookes, and needs must learned be,
That all the Muses at one view can see.

123. To William Coke Esquire.

If Gallants would your wayes of goodnesse chuse,
Each Gentleman would gentle manners use.
And (to our honour) th'English Court would be
A High-gate, leading to faire curtesie.

124. An Epitaph on Mris. Hope Alford.

Keep off, prophaner feete; here sleeping lyes
A sacred Nimph, that vertue did adore,
And treasur'd all the blessings of the skies:
Whose well-fraught vessell, hasting to the shore,
Strucke deepe into these Sands: but with a tyde
Of glory shall be rais'd, and stellifi'd.

125. Peace and Warre.

Weapons in peace grow hungry, and will eate
Themselves with rust: but War allowes them meate.

126. An adumbration of Mans life.

As't pleas'd the Father of all lights, he made
Man as a Gnomon, and his life the shade:
Which, when it hath bin this and that way throwne
In any projects, with a breath is gone.

127. Dulman to Ignoramus.

Friend, thou this Terme the brabbling Boores hast gelt,
And grow'st so fat, thy belly rots thy Belt.

128. Ignoramus his reply.

What should I do but geld them? when so kind
The Rustickes are, to give me wealth for wind.

129. To Sir Iohn Fitzherbert of Narbury.

Some worthy cause doth make your Country hold
Your selfe so deare: It is sweet curtesie,
And goodnesse, that adornes you more than gold,
And wins more honour than a crowne can buy.
For though great vices titles rot, the fame
Of vertue keeps her sound, and spreads her name.

130. An Epitaph on Foxe the Tinker.

Here under resteth (deep-earth'd in his grave)
A Foxe old and wily, that smell'd of a Knave:
Yet every day mending, grew holier of late,
And took's hammer with him to knocke at Heav'n gate.

131. On Pride.

Why Pride to others doth her selfe prefer,
The reason's cleare, she's heire to Lucifer.

132. The Miller to the King.

Scorne not the Miller, King: for thou with wind
Thy Mill-like frame dost move, and viands grind
Into thy stomackes bag; and Death that takes.
Toule in a Coffin, no distinction makes.

133. On Captayne Milward, lying dead upon Trent banke.

Behold (like treasure in the Banke) a sonne
Of Mars, that had his fathers honor wonne
Out of the fire, yet in water dy'd,
And thus his thirst of glory satisfi'd.

134. On the same.

For thy deaths sake (noble friend)
Be no man before his end
Happy thought, though flattering fame
Fixe amongst the Starres his name:
He that leanes on wealth or strength,
Breakes his staffe and fals at length.

133. To Iohn Milward Esquire:

Though natures force for such a brothers fate
Your teares exact, yet cease to macerate
Your selfe: the water-Nymphs enough for all
Will weep, and keep a fluent funerall.

136. To Doctor Donne.

Thy Muses gallantry doth farre exceed
All ours; to whom thou art a Don indeed.

137. To the Lords of the privy Councell.

You, that the eyes of this faire Iland are,
How much concernes it you to have a care
That you from filmes of ignorance be free,
From pearles of pride, and rhumes of gluttony,
Nor in the flatterers Fennell take delight,
But hearbe of Grace, that makes a perfit sight!

138. The foure Elements.

Natures large Empire of Tetrarchy
Of Elements consists, that mutually
Make warre: what wise man then can hope for rest,
Whom foure unruly Naturals molest?

139. On a good Phisitian over-match't with an ill wife.

All Hearbs that painefull Dioscorides,
Or Theophrast, or twenty such as these
Have ere described, his vast Learning knowes,
Yet almost hath forgot where Hearts-ease growes.

140. On Nell Lusty.

Charons unwearied Boate to burning Hell
Carryed all commers; so does rampant Nell.

141. On Celestiall bodies.

Some make the Heaven a Quintessentiall frame,
And some the Starres but Elementall fire:
Who would the Probleme cleare, let him the same
Of Lucifer (the Morning Starre) enquire.

142. Death, a sure friend.

The Flesh and Spirit ever fighting are,
But Death soone parts them: Is't not then a friend,
That our dull terrene matter off doth pare,
And makes the flame-like forme to Heaven ascend?

143. A Cure for Impatience.

Who Patience wants, a Rod to him preferre,
And let him Angler turne, or Schoole-master.

144. On the same.

Who would be patient, waite he at the Poole
For Bull-heads, or on Block-heads in the Schoole.

145. To I. P. an old Fencer.

Jacke, thou hast often ventur'd for the Prize
Of Fortitude, and art reputed wise:
For, being beaten to the World, and well
Stricken in yeares, thy prudence may excell.

146. Time alters all things.

All suffer change; by turnes we rise and fall
Of Time, that serves his Processe upon all.

147. To Gilbert Knyveton, Gentleman.

You beare his Name that beare me much good-will,
And bound me with the golden tyes of Love
T'addresse my service to his Off-spring still:
Whose true devoire may it accepted prove,
So shall the wandring Starre of my desire
Be culminant, nor farther needs t'aspire:

148. On Sleepe.

Sleepe binds the Senses, but at liberty
It sets the Soule, and mocks the fantasie
With strange illusions, playing (Iugler-like)
At fast and loose, till Death in earnest strike.

149. To Hugh the Cryer.

Thou still dost bawle and brabble, none knowes why,
That all the Towne sounds of a Hugh and cry.

150. A good wits dyet.

That which upholds our tottering walls of flesh
Is food; and that which doth our wits refresh
Is wholesome Study: for like stronger Fare
Be solid Arts, but Sweet-meates Poems are.

151. To the prime Lady Fainebe.

When thou beholdest in thy Mimick Glasse
Thy forme, that most of Beauties doth surpasse
In Natures dainties, wisely then compare
Thy Feature to thy Mirrour bright and faire,
But fraile and brittle, shatter'd with one blow
Into a thousand splinters: thus bestow
Thy cogitations, and thy plumes of pride
Low as thy Grave will fall, and there abide.

152. To Sir Landlesse Ramkin.

What? art thou Knighted? why, thy meanes are small,
And thy flush Lady now will lavish all
Vpon her backe, save what she doth bestow
Vpon thy brow, to make thy Knight-hood show.

156. To the same.

Knighthood's come on thee (as a man should throw
Gold on a dunghill,) and thy Lady so
Sutes with thy greatnes, that her gowne will be
In stead of coat of armes, and honour thee.

157. To Doctor Butler, in his last sicknesse.

How angry seemes the Fates at thee,
(Rare man!) that thousands hast set free
From their arrests, and (sure) didst make
Those adamantine Sisters quake,
Lest through thine Arte their power should
Both be contemned and controul'd:
But Death into his vengefull jawes,
This Butlers selfe now rudely draws.

158. To the Lord Silly sense.

Your greatnes with your Dwarfe delights to passe
The time, and makes your Foole your looking-glasse.

159. To Captaine Iames, after his intended discovery of the North-west passages.

Captaine, that hast endur'd ten thousand knockes
'Gainst floating Iles of Ice, and setled Rockes,
Out-daring tempests with undaunted sense,
And dulling sharpest colds with patience,
Meeting more dangers than each tedious day
Had houres: too ill proud Fortune did repay
Thy hazards: yet (to th'honor of thy name)
The North-west passage prov'd thy way to Fame.

160. On the Searchers of the North-west passage.

Those that make proofe of what the Spaniards say,
Of that short Cut into the Southerne Maine,
Are like yong Gallants that with Cheaters play
At passage, and with losse repent in vaine.

161. Loves Remedy.

Withdraw the fewell from Loves piercing fire
By abstinence, or come not neere unto't
By dalliance; so mayst thou quench desire:
If not, let marriage for thee do't.

162. The Pulpets complaynt of a Diabolicall Lyer.

Strong was I built, else had I surely bin
Crusht to the ground by thy grand weight of sinne,
Whose pride hath father'd many a loathsome lie,
On the sweet Saints, Bernard and Hillary,
Grave Augustine, with others; and doth vent
More foolish Buls, than ere the Popedome sent
Jnto the world: nor ever Sermon makes,
But straight turnes vagrant, and the text forsakes.
Base sonne of Levi, that didst never know
Thy father, nor thy pedegree canst show
By th'Booke: if yet thou hast one graine of grace,
Rub off that brazen morphew from thy face,
Do as the begger on a Sunny day
Does by his Lice, throw baser lies away,
And either ballast that light skull of thine
With learnings weight, that makes a grave Divine,
Or at the Altars hornes (for oathes and lies)
Hang a worse Priest than ere did sacrifice.

163. The Lyer.

Twelve stones wore Aaron on his brest, but I
Looke but for one, the

The whetstone.

Embleme of a lye.

164. Naked Love.

Nature allowes her Birds and Beasts to weare
Light armour of warme Feathers, Wooll, and Haire,
And unto man gives providence, t'enfold
Himselfe in garment:, 'gainst invasive cold:
Why then should tender Love be left to go
Naked alone? because 'tis hottest so.

165. An Epitaph on George Agard, Gent.

Here lyes in a dead sleep (unheard and unseene)
Not high George a horse-backe, nor stout Georg a Greene,
But joviall George Agard, made round as a Bowle,
From Taverne to Ale-house the better to rowle.
Who 'mongst witty Clerkes many pounds having spent,
Whipt Petties for pennies, and thus was content
In Schoole to do pennance by paynes-taking great,
That so with his owne rod himselfe he might beat.
Thus casting the flesh downe, his Spirit did even
Mount up at rebound, to drinke Nectar in Heaven.

166. On Nuptiall love.

Adam (before his fall) did fall alone
In love with Eve, who of-spring yet had none;
So that the prime and liveliest touch of all
Loves Consorts, is th'affection conjugall.

167. On Church-bells.

Some Novellists, that Conscience most pretend
With Caps and Surplisses themselves offend;
Others dare raile at other matters else,
As at the Ring, but few against the Bells:
Which should they taxe, the Ropes would undertake
To answer for them, and all quiet make.

168. Evacuation of the foure humours.

Mans head is purg'd (as Galens sonnes declare)
Of Blood and Phlegme by th'Nose, and by the Haire
Of melancholicke drosse; but choler will
Have him by th'eares, and that way vents her ill.

169. On the Kings Iester.

How plumpe's the Libertine! how rich and trimme!
He jests with others, Fortune jests with him.

170. To cracking Iohn.

Fye, make not wise men mad by boasting so,
Sith every child thy sillinesse doth know,
Whose vaporous braine might in a Cherry-stone
Be lodged; cracke't, and where's the kernell Iohn?

171. To Humphrey Okeover, Esquire.

I sometimes heard a kind of Prophesie,
That your name should in faire Longevity
Equall the Tree of Iove: which may it bide
Like Royall Cedar, never putrifi'd,
Nor otherwise impair'd; so sound a fame
To you I wish, and your well-timber'd name.

172. To Robert Lincolne, Gentleman.

Deare Sir, your Fates looke, as our Proverb sayes,
The devill look't o're Lincolne, and would raise
Contempt against your worth; whose honour'd name
Stands Ensigne-like, defying base defame.

173. On Thomas Draper, Gentleman.

I need not wrappe this Draper in the cleane
Linnen of plausive Verse, and yet I meane
That the indearements of our love shall goe
In as faire dressings as my Muse can show.
For our affections have with many a graine
Of Salt beene season'd, and will still remaine
Sound and unshooke, while Thousands will their hands
To Friendship set, yet breake her strictest bands.

174. To T. R.

How shall I plague thee for thy villanies!
That meane thy beaten bulke to pulverize,
And in an Houre-glasse (while swift Time can flye)
Tosse, turne, and vexe thy powder pitteously.

175. To Sir Henry Merry deceased.

When I have number'd all the golden graines
By Tagus washt, or Jemmes in hidden veines
Of the deepe Earth, then may I here recite
Thy faire and rich endowments, worthy Knight:
Which since we want, we weepe, as if we would
Supply with Pearles what dearer was than Gold:
But (teares exhausted) sadly sigh alone,
And frowne at mirth, now noble Merry's gone.

176. On old Trudge the Termer.

Thy practice hath small reason to expect
Good termes, that doth faire honesty neglect.

177. Christmas in a Consumption.

Old Christmas seemes a weakling child againe,
(A Child of twelve dayes old) nor can containe
Himselfe from soft teares and excessive mone,
Now his kind Nurse, good House-keeping, is gone.
Cookes (that their fingers lick't) their hands may wring,
And Butlers o're their sounding Hogsheads sing
Sad notes: for now their Offices are throwne
Upon the backe of Pride, and all's her owne.

178. On the Ocean.

How strangely doth the humid Ocean moove
By some impulsion from the Spheares above!
And seemes indeed a lesse terrestriall skye,
Whose bubbles, starres; and foame's the Galaxie.

179. An Epitaph on Walter Merry, Gent.

Here buried lyes his kindreds top,
And flower of worth renown'd,
Whom ruder fates too soone did crop,
T'Embosome thus in ground:
Who, having drunke the heavenly dew
Of grace, blind Natures guide,
Straight (like the Heliotrope) withdrew,
Clos'd up his sweets, and dy'd.
Yee virgin Nymphs, with many a teare
Your Christall Viols fill,
And all those lyquid treasures here
Vpon this Grave distill,
That Roses here and Violets
From beauty sowne below
May spring, to decke your Coronets,
And sweeten all your woe.

180. On old Sharke.

Sharke bad me to his roast, but in the end
Forc'd me to pay both for myselfe and friend:
Thus (though a Coward) shew'd he mettle yet,
In beating of me with a silver spit.

181. To Bertholdus Swart, Inventor of the Gun.

Berthold, thou aptly wast sirnamed Swart,
From the blacke mischiefe, which thy darkesome Art
First brought to light: whereat the Furies frowne
To see their torturing Engines all put downe
By one of thine, whose thunder made to shake
Hels deepest ground-worke, and the Divels quake;
Yea, mightiest armies hath to spoilefull death
Sent with a powder, and depriv'd of breath
More then all Mars his brondirons ere did kill,
Yet gapes for prey, and roares from slaughter still.

182. The greatest Clerkes, not the wisest men.

What fancies float in some mens heads! as those
That in the

two Northerne asterismes.

Dragon and great Beare suppose
Some Stars to shine, whose power hales amayne
The marine waters towr'd the Arcticke wayne:
Which were to make that payre of Beasts to draw
More than all ere were yoak'd, or Nature saw.

183. On Tobacco taking.

Th'old Germans, that their Divinations made
From Asses heads upon hot embers laid,
Saw they but now what frequent fumes arise
From such dull heads, what could they prophetize
But speedy firing of this worldly frame,
That seemes to stinke for feare of such a flame.

184. Maides and Wives.

Maides are white papers, which no hand did bind:
But wives are blotted bookes, and interlin'd.

The prayse of Poverty.

If smallest thread the choycest cloath doth yeild,
If finest herbage make the daintiest field:
Then slender poverty, wrought with so small
And thin a fortune, must be best of all.

185. To William Lilly.

Grand Schoole-master, some livelier twigs of Bayes
Shall sticke thy Tombe, that merit'st ample prayse:
For though the Lawrell never Lilly beare,
Yet such a Lilly may the Lawrell weare.

186. On Excessive drinking.

Is aged Nature so exhaust and dry,
That men now drinke so much, so greedily?
Or is Hels torrid region neerer to
Vs than it sometimes was? It seemeth so:
For townes smell hot of it in every nooke,
And husbands like her horned monsters looke.

187. On Carnall mirth.

Mirth is but a Musicke-strayne,
Playd upon a fretted heart
Whose harsh strings so much complaine
Of the want of Wisedomes Art,
That rude Death in discontent
Strikes to ground the Instrument.

188. To a young and wealthy wanton.

I wonder not to see thee play, that art
One of blind Fortunes puppies, pretty heart.

189. The Ægyptian Isthmus.

Were Ægypts Isthmus cut, the Natives feare
The angry Red-sea to the ground would beare
Their Pyramids, and men like sheepe would dye
Of the Red water, stain'd with cruelty.

190. The Prodigall, on himselfe.

Ingenious Dædalus, whose Art out-went
All fancies of the Greekes, and did invent
Large net-like sayles, to catch all winds that blew,
Which made the Poets fable that he flew,
Did scarce deserve so high a fame as I,
That bravely make bright Gold and Silver flye.

191. To old Canker, a wicked Gardener.

Our Grandsire in a Garden fell, where thou
All vicious licence dost thy selfe allow:
Nor can sharpe warnings penetrate thy heart,
That in thy Trade of lewdnesse rooted art.

192. To John Ford, the Poet.

The Verse must needs be current (at a word)
That issues from a sweet and fluent Ford.

193. To his Brother Iohn Bancroft deceased.

You sold your Land, the lightlyer hence to goe
To forraine Coasts: (yet Fates would have it so)
Did ne're New-England reach, but went with them
That Iourney towards New Ierusalem.

194. The penitent Prodigall, to his loose-bodied Mistresses.

Hence tempting trifles, hence, I here defie
Your sighs and teares, your smiles and flattery.
Your vertues are but vizards, and your wits
But wandering flames, that lead men into pits.
Be Fooles your play-fellows; I'le trust no more
Women than waves, that flow to every shore,
Offering their forward boldnesse unto all,
Yet when they are at proudest, backward fall.

196. On Lust.

Lust is a Wildernesse, where wantons sow
Their wilder seeds, not caring how they grow.

197. To Iustice Much-ill.

You terme your selfe a Pillar of this Land,
As if our Realme on rotten propps did stand:
But who their Tenants to the quick will pare,
Not Pillars they, but Caterpillars are.

198. A Prince and a Parasite.

Like Cleopatra suckling of a Snake
Is that unhappy Prince, that much doth make
Of a base Parasite, that baskes in sinne,
And folds infection in a Lizards skinne.

199. Of Man.

Man is an Engine, mov'd with Reasons weight,
But Death, that stops his breath, unwinds him streight.

200. Of the Æthiopian Mountaine, Amara.

On this faire Mountaine, sphericall and high,
Stands (as fame goes) a precious Library,
Where Livies whole worke, Enochs Oracles,
Salomons Physicks, and some mysteries else
That did survive the Flood, entreasur'd lye,
Insulting o're Times wastefull tyranny.
O could I thither reach! then should I stand
High in the Muses grace, and all command.

201. Mans gradation.

We climbe the slippery staire of Infancy,
Of Childhood, Youth, of middle age; and then
Decline, grow old, decrepit, bed-rid lye,
Bending to infant-weaknesse once agen;
And to our Cophines (as to Cradles goe,
That at the staire-foot stand, and stint our woe.

202. To Envy.

Envy, thy part so basely acted is,
That even in contempt thy Snakes do hisse.

203. On Greene-wit Gosling.

Gosling did want his Courtly termes of late,
And did desire the wooing phrase to know:
But having tendered love, with scornfull hate
Hath beene repulst, and finds the way to woe.

204. Hope of preferment.

A sweete enchauntresse is the flattering hope
Of dignity, that gives the phansie scope
To wander to Elyzium, and doth keepe
The wit still waking, though the Conscience sleepe.

205. Loves Motion.

Kind Love, whose motion deepe affection showes,
From th'outward sense to th'inward Center goes.

206. To Plots, a pretender to the Mathematicks.

Thou sai'st, thou by thy figur'd Art dost know
How much broad cloath about the earth will go.
But would thy Charity a garment make
For it, in honor might'st thou equall Drake,
When Fame should say of two such men of note,
Drake made the earth a girdle, Plots a coate.

207. To Mr. Henry Meller, the first Major of Darby.

You seeme the prime bough of an ample tree,
Whereon if faire expected fruits we see:
Whilst others fames with ranke reproaches meete,
As Mel or Manna shall your name be sweete.

208. To Innocent Heartlesse, on his Imperious Wife.

Not without cause thou still dost weep and pule,
For still raines Winter where the wife doth rule.

209. On Hypocrites in friendship.

False friends are like to Cuckoes, that will haunt
Our pleasant walkes and scurvily will chaunt
I'th' Spring, and part of Summer: but of all
The flocke not one attends you at the fall.

210. To Sir Iohn Curzon.

Your Ancestours were men of generous parts,
Whose bounty (as in free-hold) held all hearts:
Yet were for solid wisedome short of you,
That long were tutour'd by a learned

Sir Thomas Crew his Father in law.

Crew.

211. To a lying Victualler.

False tales are like Trap-doores, which still to bolt
With Oaths against the truth, is to revolt
From him we vow'd to follow, love, and feare.
If therefore thou dost hold that Iewell deare,
For which our Lord a bloody price did pay,
Give not the Devill leave a claw to lay
Upon it, whiles thou wouldst the truth disprove,
And (like thy hang'd Signe) with each winde dost move
For he's above, that closest faults will bring
To light, and call mine Host to th'reckoning.

212. To Mistresse Mutable.

Love runnes within your veines, as it were mixt
With Quick-silver, but would be wisely fix't:
For though you may for beauty beare the Bell,
Yet ever to ring Changes sounds not well.

213. To a Giglot, with her greene sicknesse.

Thy sicknesse mocks thy pride, that's seldome seene
But in fooles yellow, and the Lovers greene.

214. To Iohn Gell, Esquire.

If Gell from Gellius come, your pedegree
May (like a Pike) be trayl'd from Italy:
Whose farre-fam'd valour the remotest parts
Of Earth hath wonne, as you a world of hearts.

215. On Wood of Kent, that prodigious Gormund.

Some wondeer how the Stone Sarcophagus
Consumes dead bodies with so quicke a power,
But I astonied am my selfe, that thus
A walking Wood should such a masse devoure
Of meates wherewith a Garrison might dine;
His heart's of Oake sure, and his stomacke Pine.

216. Money, a fruitfull commodity.

As with coyn'd Metalls we our Trades maintaine,
So th'Indians Trafficke with their fruits for gaine:
Yet doe our dealings no lesse fruite inferre
Than theirs; How comes that? aske the Vsurer.

217. The English, too like the French.

A Writer, skill'd in Constellations, notes
That England is ore-rul'd by Mercury:
Which I beleeve, for Delos-like it floats
In the wav'd humours of inconstancy.

218. An Acrostick to Mistris Elizabeth Corbet.

Expresse your worth I cannot, loveliest friend,
Let those attempt it, whose rare wits ascend
In righter lines above the vulgar spheare;
So (as your forme is) may your fame be cleare,
And all the wandering Starres in beauties skie
Be but as clouds beneath your Galaxy.
Egregious Nymph! whose excellence refines
These drossie fancies, and these weaker lines
Helps to corroborate; if wishes could
Crowne merits, yours were precious stones and gold.
O! could I on a loftier Muses wings
Raise high my straines above terrestriall things,
Bearing the golden treasure of your name
(Endear'd to Vertue) to the starry frame,
Then should you Phœbe see (in honours show)
To plucke her hornes in, and her Orbe forgoe.

219. To Tumbrell Gullygut.

Some Indian Ethnicks use to sacrifice
Their teeth, as things which they most highly prize
And thinke their gods delight in: wert thou one
Of those, long since thy fanges had all beene gone,
And grinders too; but Hundreds (gladly blest
By such a losse) had wisht thy bones good rest.

220. On Pot-valiant Champions.

Malta is fam'd for many warlike Wights;
But Malt hath more of such, our Ale-house Knights.

221. On Ioane Easie.

Ioane turn'd a Trader in the Stewes, when sent
To lead a pure life in a Nunnery:
And herein Ioane as Ionas did, that bent
His course to Tarsus, balking Ninivy.

222. The Roman Eagle.

The Roman Eagle, once with terrour spred,
Whose two heads East and West were brandished,
Is now dismembred, having left but one
Faint head, and almost all the feathers gone.
No marvell then the crest-fall'n bird doth quake,
When Warre but stroaks her, whom such aydes forsake.

223. To Nath. Bate, Gentleman.

Kind Sir, you once did find me (to your cost)
Where a loath'd life usurping Richard lost:
So may I loose mine owne, when once I prove
To you ingrate, or bate you ought in love.
For sith the Patron mends the Poets Art,
Well may you claime the tribute of my heart,
Who wish your Muses industry repaid
With high respect, and mine her waiting-maid.

224. On Pickwell the Miller.

Pickwell must needs be a sweet youth (they say)
Who lives by floures and fine meales every day.

225. To John Whiteall, Gentleman.

Let no man thinke the first worlds innocence
Quite lost, nor seeke prime goodnesse farther hence
Than your calme brest, embeam'd with Vertues light,
Whose Fame is like your Name, entirely white.

226. To Canary Birds.

The old Ægyptians would not drinke
The Grapes strong juyce, which they did thinke
(In sober sadnesse) to be sprong
From Gyants blood, as cause of wrong,
Rage, lust, and other mischiefes more:
But were it of Medusa's gore,
And should contort your bodies to
The formes of Snakes; yet would ye show
Your selves such loving wormes to it,
That (by instinct of winding wit)
Ye would cling to the Goblet fast,
And drinke untill your sloughes ye cast.

227. To Master Thomas Lightwood.

Names should give light to things, and so doth thine
To thee, yet to obscurenesse doth encline,
And falsehood too: for waighty dost thou prove,
That solid art in Learning, sound in Love.

228. To Mammons bond-slaves.

Neare Sicily lyes Sea-girt Strombolo,
That seemes to strive with Ætna, which should throw
Most flames, and loudest roare: which when sometime
Our Merchant Gresham did with Saylers climbe,
These words they heard, (while feare their flesh benumbes)
Dispatch, dispatch, the rich Antonio comes:
When one so named, (as they after found)
Whose Chests with coyne and curses did abound,
Yet gap'd for Gold still, at Palermo dy'd.
Was not this Mammons voyce, that did provide
To entertaine that Guest? what thinke ye, friends?
If so, then worldlings, hasten to such ends
Through Bills and Bonds, that at your wisht repaire
You with your golden god may richly share,
Where your intreasur'd hearts may nere be cold
For feare of want, but swimme in molten gold.

229. A tryall of right.

Women and Metalls by their sounds we know,
(If not by touch-stones) whether right or no.

230. To the same.

Thou rayl'st at Rome, and dost her friends oppose;
Yet bear'st her Badge in chiefe, a Roman Nose.

232. Of carnall pleasure.

The strongest shaft, which to the metall'd head
The Devill drawes, each loving heart to slay,
Is that fond pleasure, which in lazy bed
Slips from the string of Lust, and hastes away.

233. To Francis Quarles.

My Muse did purpose with a pious strife
To have trac'd out my sinlesse Saviours life:
But thou hadst lanch'd into the Maine (I heare)
Before my Barke was rigg'd; which shall forbeare
To interrupt so prais'd an enterprize,
('Bout which with Quarles no quarrells shall arise)
Ply then thy steereage, while deficient gales
My wishes still supply, and swell thy sailes.

234. To the Honourable Matron, the Lady Grace Cavendish.

Faire Vertues which in single hearts take place,
Are in a double sense the gifts of Grace.

235. An Epitaph on Mistris Anne Port.

Here lyes a creature to be most admir'd,
So good, and yet a woman: who aspir'd
To summe all vertues up before her yeares,
And scale by such ascents the heavenly Spheares
VVhereon she sits, comparing with the Sunne
The Diadem of glory she hath wonne,
And joying to out-shine him, makes the frame
Of Heaven resound her mirth, as Earth her fame,
VVhilst we halfe wrack't with losses of this sort,
Like Sea-men sigh, that want their wished Port.

236. To the Lady Maunsfield, now the Countesse of New-Castle.

ANAGRAMME. All Fame liveth in Deeds.

While those which nought save fruitlesse titles have,
Bury their greatnesse in Oblivions grave,
Your reall worth unto your Name shall give
A royall fame, that in your deeds shall live.

237. To his Muse.

No enemy hath done me so much wrong
As thou, that hast betray'd me with a song
To ship-wracke of my fortunes: yet such sport
Thou dost afford me, that I hugge thee for't;
And those that most doe envy thee, delight
To see thee hovering in thine Eagle-flight,
And (proudly pearched on a Meteors backe)
With Ioves maine Thunder vying crack for crack,
While (Swallow-like) Detraction flyes below,
And chatters. For such feates I love thee so,
That were the choyce propos'd, I should refuse
Rich India's bosome, to embrace my Muse.

238. To the Flower of Youngsters, Rose Verney.

By some fore-knowledge wert thou named Rose,
Whose fame-blowne Beauty such a tincture showes
Of vernall brav'ry, as may well compare
With Venus Flower, that in sweet and faire
Dainties excells, yet is not without pricks;
No more art thou: Blush Rose, I smell thy tricks.

239. To Sir Charles Shirley, Baronet.

Could I but coyne you in my minde, you should
Be of the right stampe, as were all your old
Fore-fathers, men of merit and renowne,
Whose meanest puts our moderne Nobles downe.
Their Houses seem'd as Hospitalls for poore,
And Charity still waited at their doore,
As Fame will upon you, whilst you aspire
To equall their desert, and my desire.