University of Virginia Library

TO THE MEMORY OF HIS DEARE BROTHER, Mr. Tho: Randolph.

[Blest Spirit, when I first did see]

Vpon Mr. Randolph's Poems. Collected and published after his death.

[What need thy Book crave any other fame]

What need thy Book crave any other fame,
It is enough that it bears Randolphs name.
VVho sees the title, and him understood
Must much condemne himself, or say tis good.
Go forth example to the Neophyte,
VVho hence should learn to catechise his wit,
And dresse his Phansy by this Glasse: whose Muse
Wel favour'd is: should here her face peruse,
It will not flatter, 'twill reflect the grace
She takes from th'owner of a beautious face:
But if a menstrous, and illiterate eye
Blast her, the various specks shall soon descry
The foul beholder, and proclaim her spoil
Not to result from thence, but his own foil,

[Immortall Ben is dead; and as that ball]

Immortall Ben is dead; and as that ball
On Ida toss'd, so is his Crown by all
The infantry of wit. Vain Priests! that chair
Is only fit for his trve Son and Heir.
Reach here the Laurell. Randolph, 'tis thy praise
Thy naked Scull shall well become the Bayes.
See, Daphne, coures thy Ghost: and spite of fate,
Thy Poems shall be Poet Laureat,

To his very worthy friend M. ROB. RANDOLPH of Chr, Ch. on the publishing of his Brothers Poems.

We thank you worthy Sir, that tis our hap
To praise even Randolph now without a clap,
And give our sufferage yet, though not our voice,
To shew the ods betwixt his fame and noyse:
VVhose onely modesty we could applaud,
That seldome durst presume to blush abroad;
And bear his vast report, and setting forth
His vertues, grow a suff'rer of his worth,
Was scarce his own acquaintance, and did use
To hear himself reported but as news,
So distant from himself, that one might dare
To say those two were nere familiar.
Whose polishid phancy hath so smoothly wrought,
That 'tis suspected, and might tempt our thought,
To guesse it spent in every birth, so writ:
Not as the gift Legacy of wit:
Whose unbid brain drops so much flowing worth,
That others are delivered, he brought forth;
That did not course in wit, and beat at least
Ten lines in fallow to put up one Iest;
VVhich still prevents our thought, we need not stay
To th'end, the Epigram is in the way.
The Town might here grow Poet, nay tis se'd
Some Mui'ors could hence as eas'ly rime as read;
VVhose losse we so much weep, we cannot hear
His very Comedyes without a tear:
And when we read his mirth, are fain to pray
Leave from our grief to call the work a Play:
VVhere fancy playes with judgement, and so fits
That'ts enough to make a guard of wits;
VVhere lines fulfill themselves, and are so right
That but a combats mention is a fight,
His phrase does bring to passe, and he has lent
Language enough, to give the things Event;
The Lines pronounce themselves, and we may say
The Actors were but Echoes to the Play:
Me thinks the book does Act, and we not doubt
To say it rather enters than comes out:
VVhich even you seem to envy, whose device,
Has made it viler even by its price.
And taught its value, which we count so great
That when we buy it cheapest we but cheat;
And when upon one page we blesse our look,
How ere wee bargain we have gain'd the book:
Fresh-men in this are forc't to have their right,
And tis no purchase though t'were sold in spight.
So do we owe you still, that let us know
He gave the world the Playes, and you the Show.

On his beloved friend the Author, and his ingenious Poems.

OVVEN FELTHAM. Gent. On the death of Mr. Randolph.

When Donne, and Beaumount dyed, an Epitaph
Some men (I well remember) thought unsafe;
And said they did presume to write, unlesse
They could their tears in their expression dresse.
But love makes me more bold, and tells me I,
In humble tearms to vent my piety
May safely dare; and reason thinks not fit,
For which I lov'd, I now should fear that wit,
Respect looks like a bargain, if confin'd
To rules precise; and is more just then kind,
If by a poiz'd and equall testament
It turnes good-will into a covenant
Must every present offered to a prince
Be just proportion'd to his eminence?
Or ought my Elegy unjust be thought
Because I cannot mourn thee as I ought?
Such laws as these, (if any be so bold)
Ought those unskilfull but proud souls to hold,
VVho think they could and did, at a due rate
Love thee, not me, whose love was passionate.
And hath decreed, how ere the censure go,
Thus much, although but thus, to let men know,
I do admire no Coment did presage
The mournfull period of thy wonder'd age,
Or that no Sybill did thy death fore-tell,
Since that by it alone more ill befel
The Laurell. God, then when the day was come
VVherein his Delphick-Oracle was dumb:
In meaner wits that proverb chance may hold
(That they who are soon ripe are seldom old)
But t'was a poore one, and for thee unfit,
VVhose infancy might teach their best years witt;
Whose talk was exemplary to their pains,
And whose discourse was tutor to their strains;
If thou wert serious, then the audience
Heard Plato's works in Tulli's eloquence:
I said, the mourners knew no thrifty size
In tears, but still cri'd out, oh lend more eyes.
If merry, then the juyce of Comedy
So sweetned every word, that we might see
Each stander by having enough to do
To temper mirth, untill some friend could wo
Thee take the pains to write, that so that pressure
Checking the souls quick motions, some small leasure
Might be obtain'd to make provision
Of breath, against the next Scen's action.
I could go through thy works, which will surviue
The funerall of time; and gladly strive
Beyond my power, to make that love appear
Which after death is best seen in a tear;
But praising one, I should dispraise the rest,
Since whatsoere thou didst, was still the best:
Since then I am perswaded that in thee
Wit at her acmie was, and we shall see
Posterity not daring to aspire
To equalize, but only to admire
Thee as their Arch type: with thought of thee
Henceforth I'le thus enrich my memory.
While others count from Earth-quakes, and great frost;
And say, i'th last dear year, t'would thus much cost:
My time distinctions this shall be among,
Since Wits-decay, or Randolphs death,—so long.

To the pious Memory of my deare Brother in-law, M. Thomas Randolph.

ON THE INESTIMABLE Content he injoyes in the Muses; to those of his Friends that dehort him from Poetry

In anguem, qui Lycoris in dormientem amplexus est.

---

9

Englished thus Παραφραστακς

A complaint against Cupid, that he never made him in Love.

A gratulatory to Mr. Ben Johnson, for adopting him to be his sonne.

I was not born to Helicon, nor dare
Presume to think my self a Muses heir.
I have no title to Parnassus hill.
Nor any Acre of it by the will
Of a dead Ancestour, nor could I be
Ought but a tenant unto Poetry.
But thy Adoption quits me of all feare,
And makes me challenge a childs portion there.
I am a kinne to Heroes being thine,
And part of my alliance is divine,
Orphæus, Musæus, Homer too, beside
Thy Brothers by the Roman Mothers side;
As Ovid, Virgil, and the Latine Lyre,
That is so like thee, Horace: the whole Quire
Of Poets are by thy Adoption, all
My Uncles: thou hast given me power to call
Phœbus himself my Grandsire; by this graunt
Each Sister of the nine is made my Aunt.
Go you that reckon from a large descent
Your lineall honours, and are well content
To glory in the age of your great name,
Though on a Heralds faith you build the same:
I do not envy you, nor think you blest
Though you may bear a Gorgon on your Crest
By direct line from Persons; I will boast
No farther then my Father, that's the most
I can or should be proud of; and I were
Unworthy his adoption, if that here
I should be dully modest, boast I must
Being son of his Adoption, not his lust.
And to say truth, that which is best in me
May call you Father, 'twas begot by thee.
Have I a spark of that cælestiall flame
Within me. I confesse I stole the same
Promotheus like from thee; and may I feed
His Vulture, when I dare deny the deed.
Many more Moons thau hast, that shine by night
All Bankrupts, wer't not for a borrow'd light;
Yet can forswear it, I the debt confesse,
And think my reputation ne're the lesse.
For Father let me be resolv'd by you;
It's a disparagement from rich Peru
To ravish gold; or theft, for wealthy Ore
To ransack Tagus, or Pactolus shore?
Or does he wrong Alcinous, that for want
Doth take from him a sprig or two, to plant
A lesser Orchard? sure it cannot be:
Nor is it theft to steale some flames from thee.
Graunt this, and I'le cry guilty, as I am,
And pay a filiall reverence to thy name.
For when my Muse upon obedient knees
Asks not her Fathers blessing, let her leese
The fame of this Adoption; 'tis a curse
I wish her 'cause I cannot think a worse.
And here, as Piety bids me, I intreat
Phœbus to lend thee some of his own heat,
To cure thy Palsie; else I will complain
He has no skill in hearbs; Poets in vain
Make him the god of Physick, 'twere his praise
To make thee as immortall as thy Bayes;
As his own Daphne, 'twere a shame to see
The god not love his Priest, more then his Tree.
But if heaven take thee, envying us thy Lyre,
'Tis to pen Anthems for an Angels quire.

In Lesbiam, & Histrionem.

I wonder what should Madam Lesbia mean
To keep young Histrio, and for what scene
So bravely she maintains him, that what sense
He please to blesse, 'tis done at her expence!
The play-boy spends secure; he shall have more,
As if both Indies did supply his store.
As if he did in bright Pactolus swim,
Or Tagus yellow waves did water him,
And yet has no revenews to defray
These charges, but the Madam, she must pay
'Tis prodigall disbursments: Madams are
To such as he, more then a treble share.
She payes (which is more then she needs to do)
For her own coming in, and for his too.
This is reward due to the sacred sin;
No charge too much done to the beardlesse chin
Although she stint her poor old Knight Sir John
To live upon his exhibition,
His hundred marks per annum, when her joy,
Her sanguine darling, her spruce active boy
May scatter Angels; rub out silks, and shine
In cloths of gold; cry loud the world is mine:
Keep his Race-nags, and in Hide-park be seen
Brisk as the best (as if the stage had been
Crown the Courts Rivall) can to Brackly go,
To Lincoln Race, and to New-market too;
At each of these his hundred pounds has vie'd
On Peggabrigs, or Shotten herrings side;
And loses without swearing. Let them curse
That neither have a Fortunatus purse,
Nor such a Madam; if this world do hold
(As very likely 'twill) Madams grown old
Will be the best Monopolies; Histrio may
At Maw, or Gleek, or at Primero play,
Still Madam goes to stake, Histrio knows
Her worth, and therefore dices too; and goes
As deep, the Caster, as the only Son
Of a dead Alderman, come to twenty one
A whole week since: you'd know the reason why
Lesbia does this, guesse you as well as I;
Then this I can no better reason tell,
'Tis 'cause he playes the womans part so well.
I see old Madams are not only toyle,
No tilth so fruitfull as a barren soile.
Ah poor day-labourers, how I pity you
That shrink, and sweat to live with much ado!
When had you wit to understand the right,
'Twere better wages to have work'd by night.
Yet some that resting here, do only think
That youth with age is an unequall link,
Conclude, that Histrias task as hard must be,
As was Mezentius bloody cruelty.
Who made the living to embrace the dead,
And so expire, but I am rather lead
His bargain of the two the best to call,
He at one game keeps her, she him at all.

De Histrice, Ex Claudiano.

In Archimedis Sphæram, ex Claudiano.

Iove saw the Heavens fram'd in a little glasse,
And laughing, to the gods these words did passe:
Comes then the power of mortall ears so far?
In brittle Orbs my labours acted are.
The statutes of the Poles, the fates of things,
The laws of gods, this Syrasusian brings
Hither by art: Spirits inclos'd attend
Their severall sphears, and with set motions bend
The living work: Each yeer the faigned Sun,
Each month returns the counterfeited Moon,
And viewing now her world, bold Industry
Grows proud, to know the heavens her subjects be.
Believe Salmonius hath false thunders thrown,
For a poor hand is Natures rivall grown.

De magnete, ex Claudiano.

De Sene Veronensi: Ex Claudiano.

Happy man that all his dayes hath spent
VVithin his own grounds, and no farther went;
VVhom the same house that did him erst behold
A little Infant, sees him now grown old;
That with his staffe walks where he crawl'd before,
Counts th'age of one poor cottage and no more.
Fortune ne're him with various tumult prest,
Nor drank he unknown streams, a wandring guest.
He fear'd no Merchants storms, nor drums of war,
Nor ever knew the strifes of the hoarse Bar.
VVho though to th'next Town he a stranger be,
Yet heavens sweet prospect he enjoys more free.
From fruits, not Consuls, computation brings,
By Apples Autumns knows, by flowers the springs.
Thus he the day by his own orb doth prize;
In the same field his Sun doth set and rise.
That knew an oak a twig, and walking thither
Beholds a wood and he grown up together,
Neighbouring Veron he may for India take,
And think the red Sea is Benacus lake.
Yet is his strength untam'd, and firm his knees;
Him the third age a lusty Grandsire sees.
Go seek who's will the far Ibrean shore,
This man hath liv'd, though that hath travel'd more.

The second. Epod. of Horace translated.

Happy the man which farre from city care,
(Such as ancient Mortals were)
VVith his own oxen plows his fathers land,
Free from Usurers griping hand.
The souldiers trumpets never break his sleep,
Nor angry seas that raging keep
He shuns the wrangling Hall, nor foot doth set
On the proud thresholds of the Great:
His life is this (O life almost divine!)
To marry Elmes unto the Vine;
To prune unfruitfull branches, and for them
To graft a bough of happier stem.
Or else within the low couch'd vallies views
His well cloath'd flocks of bleating ews.
Sometimes his honey he in pots doth keep,
Sometimes he shears his fleecy sheep.
And when his fruits with Autumn ripened be,
Gathers his Apples from the tree.
And joyes to tast the Pears himself did plant,
And Grapes that naught of purple want.
Under an Oak sometimes he layes his head,
Making the tender grasse his bed.
Mean while the streams along their banks do float,
And birds do chaunt with warbling throat,
And gentle springs a gentle murmure keep,
To lull him to a quiet sleep.
When winter comes, and th'ayre doth chiller grow,
Threatning showers, and shivering snow,
Either with hounds he hunts the tusked swine
That foe unto the corn and vine;
Or layes his nets, or limes the unctious bush
To catch the black-bird, or the thrush.
Sometimes the Hare he courses, and one way
Makes both a pleasure and a prey.
But if with him a modest wife doth meet,
To guide his house and children sweet,
Such as the Sabine or Apulean wife,
Something brown, but chast of life;
Such as will make a good warm fire to burn,
Against her wearied Mate's return,
And shutting in her stalls her fruitfull Neat,
Will make the kines distended Teats
Fetching her husband of her self-brewd beer,
And other wholsome Countrey cheer.
Sup him with bread and cheese, Pudding or bye,
Such dainties as they do not any:
Give me but these, and I shall never care
VVhere all the Lucrine Oisters are,
These wholsome Country dainties shall to me
Sweet as Tench or Sturgeon be.
Had I but these, I well could be without
The Carp, the Sammon, or the Traut:
Nor should the Phænix selfe so much delight
My not ambitions appetite,
As should an Apple snatch'd from mine own trees
Or honey of my labouring Bees.
My Cattels udders should afford me food,
My sheep my cloath, my ground my wood,
Sometimes a lamb, snatch'd from the wolf shall be
A banquet for my friend and me.
Sometimes a Calf, ta'en from the lowing Cow,
Or tender Issue of the Sow.
Our gardens sallets yeeld, Mallows to keep
Loose bodies, Lettice for to sleep.
The cackliog Hen an egg for breakfast layes,
And Duck that in our water playes.
The Goose for us her tender plumes hath bred,
To lay us on a softer bed.
Our blankets are not dy'd with Orphans tears,
Our pillows are not stuff'd with cares.
To walk on our own ground a stomack gets,
The best of sauce to cure our meats.
In midst of such a feast 'tis joy to come
And seel the well-fed Lambs at home.
'Tis pleasure to behold th'inversed Plow,
The Languid necks of Oxen bow.
And view th'industrious servants that will sweat
Both at labour and at meat.
Lord grant me but enough; I aske no more,
Then will serve mine, and help the poore.

An Elegy upon the Lady Venetian Digby.

An Epitaph upon Mrs. J. T.

Reader, if thou hast a tear,
Thou canst not choose but pay it here,
Here lies modesty, meeknesse, zeale,
Goodnesse, Piety, and to tell
Her worth at once, one that had shown
All vertues that her sex could own,
Nor dare my praise too lavish be,
Lest her dust blush, for so would she.
Hast thou beheld in the spring's bowers
Tender buds break to bring forth flowers?
So to keep vertues stock, pale death
Took her to give her infant breath,
Thus her accounts were all made even,
She robb'd not earth, to add to heaven.

An Epithalamium.

An Epitaph upon his honoured friend Mr. War.

Here lies the knowing head, the honest heart,
Fair blood, and courteous hands, and every part
Of gentle Warre, all with one stone content,
Though each deserv'd a severall monument.
He was (believe me Reader) for 'tis rare
Vertuous though young, and learned though an heir.
Not with his Blood, or Natures gifts content,
He paid them both their tribute which they lent.
His Ancestors in him fixed their pride,
So with him all reviv'd, with him all dyed.
This made death lingring come, asham'd to be,
At once the ruine of a family.
Learn Reader here, though long thy line hath stood,
Time breeds consumptions in the noblest blood.
Learn (Reader) here to what our Glories come,
Here's no distinction 'twixe the House and Tomb,

Upon the losse of his little finger.

Arithmetique nine digits, and no more
Admits of, then I still have all my store,
For what mischance hath tane from my left hand,
It seems did only for a cypher stand,
But this I'le say for thee departed joynt,
Thou wert not given to steal, to pick, nor point
At any in disgrace, but thou didst go
Untimely to thy Deeth, only to show
The other members what they once must do.
Hand arm, leg, thigh, and all must follow tool
Oft didst thou scan my verse, where if I misse
Henceforth I will impute the cause to this.
A fingers losse (I speak it not in sport)
VVill make a verse a Foot too short,
Farewell dear finger, much I grieve to see
How soon mischanse hath made a hand of thee.

On the Passion of Christ

What rends the temples vail, where is day gone?
How can a generall darknesse cloud the Sun?
Astrologers their skill in vain do try,
Nature must needs be sick, when, God can dye.

Necessary Observations.

A Platonik Eligie.

An Apologie for his false Prediction that his Aunt Lane would be deliver'd of a Son.

An Epithalamium to Mr. F. H.

Franke when this Morne the harbinger of day
Blush't from her Eastern pillow where she lay
Clasp'd in her Pthons arms, red with those kisses
Which being injoy'd by night, by day she misses:
I walk'd the fields to see the teeming earth,
VVhose womb now swels to give the flowers a birth
VVhere while my thoughts with every object tane,
In several contemplations wrapt my brain.
A sudden lustre like the Sun did rise,
And with too great a light eclips'd mine eyes.
At last I spyed a Beauty, such another,
As I have sometimes heard call thee her brother.
But by the chariot, and her team of Doves,
I guesse her to be Venus, Queen of Loves,
VVith her a pretty boy I there did see,
But for his wings I had thought it had been thee.
At last when I beheld his quiver of darts,
I knew t'was Cupid Emperour of our hearts.
Thus I accosted them. Goddesse divine,
Great Queen of Paphos, and Cytherian shrine:
Whose Altars no man sees that can depart
Till in those flames he sacrifice his heart;
That conquer'st gods, and men, and heaven divine,
Yea, and hell too: Bear witnesse Proserpine.
And Cupid, thou that canst thy Trophies show
Over all these, and o're thy mother too;
Witnesse the night which when with Mars she lay,
Did all her sports to all the gods betray:
Tell me great Powers, what makes such glorious beams
Visit the lowly banks of Ninus streams?
Then Venus smil'd, and smiling bid me know
Cupid and she must both to Weston go.
I guesse the cause; for Hymen came behinde
In saffron robes, his Nuptiall knots to binde,
Then thus I pray'd: Great Venus by the Love
Of thy Adonis; as thou hop'st to move
Thy Mars to second kisses, and obtain
Beauties reward, the Golden fruit again:
Bow thy fair ears to my chast prayers, and take
Such Orisons as purest Love can make.
Thou, and thy boy I know are posting thither
To tye pure hearts in purest bonds together.
Cupid thou know'st the maid, I have seen thee lye
VVith all thy arrows lurking in her eye.
Venus thou know'st her love, for I have seen
The time thou would'st have fain her Rivall been.
O blesse then both! let their affections meet
VVith happy Omens in the Geniall sheet.
Both comely, beauteous both, both equal fair,
Thou canst not glory in a fitter pair.
I would not thus have prayed if I had seen
Fourscore and ten, wed to a young fifteen.
Death in such Nuptials seems with love to play,
And January seems to match with May.
Autumn to wed the Spring, Frost to desire
To kisse the Sun, Ice to embrace the fire,
Both these are young, both spritfull, both compleat,
Of equal moysture, and of equal heat:
And their desires are one; were all Loves such
VVho would love solitary sheets so much?
Virginity (whereof chast fools do boast;
A thing not known what, 'tis, till it be lost)
Let others praise, for me I cannot tell
VVhat vertue 'tis to lead Baboons in hell.
VVoman is one with man when she is brided;
The same in kinde, onely in sex divided.
Had all dy'd maids, we had been nothing then;
Adam had been the first, and last of men.
How none O Venus then thy power had seen?
How then in vain had Cupids arrows been?
My self whose cool thoughts feel no hot desires,
That setve not Venus flames but Vesta's fires:
Had I not vow'd the Cloysters, to confine
My self to no more wives then onely Nine,
Parnassus brood, those that hear Phœbus sing,
Bathing their naked limbs in Thespian spring,
I'de rather be an Owl of Birds, then one
That is the Phœnix if she live alone.
Two's the first of numbers, one naught can do,
One then is good, when one is made of two.
VVhich mystery is thine great Venus, thine,
Thy union can two souls in one combine.
Now by that power I charge thee blesse the sheets
VVith happy issue where this couple meets.
The maid's a Harvy, one that may compare
VVith fruit Hesperian, or the Dragones care.
Her Love a ward, not he that awed the seas:
Frighting the fearfull Hamadriades,
That Ocean terrour, he that durst out brave
Dread Neptunes Trident. Amphitrites wave,
This Ward a milder Pirat sure will prove,
And onely sails the Hellespont of Love.
As once Leander did: his theft is best
That nothing steals but what's within the brest.
Yet let that other Ward his thefts compare,
And ransack all his treasures, let him beare
The wealth of worlds, the bowels of the West,
And all the richest treasures of the Last.
The sands of Tagus, all Pactolus Ore,
With both the Indies; yet this one gets more
At once by Love, then he by force could get,
Or ravish from the Marchants, let him set
His Ores together; let him vainly boast
Of spices snatch'd from the Canary coast,
The Gums of Egypt, or the Tyrian fleece
Dyed in his Native purple, with what Greece,
Colchos, Arabia, or proud China yeelds,
With all the Metals in Guina fields.
When this has set all forth to boast his pride
In various pomp, this other brings his Bride,
And I'le be judg'd by all judicious eyes,
If she alone prove not the richer prize.
O let not death have power their Love to severe!
Let them both love, and live, and dye together,
O let their beds be chast, and banish thence
As well all Iealousies, as all offence!
For some men I have known, whose wives have been
As chast as Ice: such as were never seen
In wanton dalliance, such as untill death
Never smelt any, but their husbands breath.
Yet the Good-man still dream'd of horns, still fearing
His forehead would grow harder; still appearing
To his own fancy, Bull, or Stag, or more,
Or Ox at least, that was an Asse before.
If she would have new cloathes, he strait will fear
She loves a Taylor; if she sad appear
He guesses soon it is 'cause he's at home;
If jocand, sure she has some friend to come,
If she be sick, he thinks no grief she felt,
But wishes all Physitians had been guelt,
But ask her how she does, sets him a swearing,
Feeling her pulse, is love-tricks past the bearing.
Poor wretched wife, she cannot look a wry
But without doubt, 'tis flat adultery.
And jealous wives there be, that are afraid
To entertain a handsome Chamber-maid,
Far, far from them be all such thoughts I pray,
Let their Loves prove eternal, and no day
Adde date to their affections, (grant O Queen)
Their Love like Nuptial-bayes be alwayes green.
And also grant—but here she bid me stay,
For well she knew what I had else to say.
I ask'd no more, wish'd her hold on her race
To joyne their hands and send them night apace.
She smil'd to hear what I in sport did say,
So whip'd her doves and smiling rid away.

To M. Feltham on his booke of Resolves.

In Natalem Augustissimi Principis Caroli.

The first birth Mary was unto a tombe,
And sad Lucina cheated thy blest wombe.
To heav'n thou wert fruitful, now to earth,
That canst give Saints as well as Kings a birth.

Upon his Picture.

When age hath made me what I am not now:
And every wrinkle tells me where the plow.
Of time hath furrowed; when an Ice shall flow
Through every vein, and all my head be snow:
When death displayes his coldnesse in my cheek,
And I, my self in my own Picture seek,
Not finding what I am, but what I was;
In doubt which to beleeve, this, or my glasse:
Yet though I alter, this remains the same
As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame,
And first complexion; here will still be seen
Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin.
Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye,
The ruddy Lip, and hair of youthfull dye.
Behold what frailty we in man may see.
Whose shadow is lesse given to change then he.

An Ode to M. Anthony Stafford to hasten him into the Country.

An Answer to Mr. Ben Johnson's Ode to perswade him not to leave the stage.

Thirsis. Lalage.

A Dialogue.

Th.
My Lalage when I behold
So great a cold.
And not a sparke of heat in thy desire,
I wonder what strange power of thine,
Kindles in mine
So bright a flame, and such a burning fire,

Lal.
Can Thirsis in Phylosophy
A truant be,
And not have learn'd the power of the Son;
How he to sublunary things
A fervour brings,
Yet in himself is subject unto none?

Thir.
But why within thy eyes appear
Never a tear.
That cause from mine perpetuall showres to fall?

Lal.
Fool 'tis the power of fire you know
To melt the snow.
Yet has no moysture in it self at all.

Thir.
How can I be, dear Virgin show;
Both fire and snow?
Do you that are the cause, the reason tell;
More then miracle to me
It seems to be,
That so much heat with so much cold should dwell.

Lal.
The reason I will render thee;
Why both should be.
Audacious Thirsis in thy love too bold,
'Cause thy saucinesse durst aspire
To such a fire,
Thy love is hot; but 'tis thy hope is cold.

Thir.
Let pitty move thy gentle brest
To one opprest;
This way, or that, give ease to my desire;
And either let loves fire be lost
In hopes cold frost,
Or hopes cold frost be warm'd in loves quick fire.

Lal.
O neither Boy; neither of these
Shall work thy ease.
I'le pay thy rashnesse with immortal pain,
As hope doth strive to freez thy flame,
Love melts the same:
As Love doth melt it, Hope doth freez't again.

Thir.
Come gentle swains lend me a groan
To ease my moan.

Chorus.
Ah cruel Love, how great a power is thine?
Under the Poles although we lye
Thou mak'st us fry:
And thou canst make us freez beneath the line.

A Dialogue betwixt a Nymph and a Shepherd.

Nym.
Why sigh you swain? this passion is not common,
I'st for your kids or Lamkins?

Sh.
for a woman.

Nym.
How fair is she that on so sage a brow
Prints lowring looks?

Shep.
Iust such a toy as thou.

Nymp.
Is she a maid?

Shep.
What man can answer that?

Nym.
Or widow?

Sh.
No.

Ny.
What then?

Sh.
I know not what,
Saint-like she looks, a Syren if she sing,
Her eyes are starres, her minde is every thing.

Nym.
If she be fickle, Shepherd leave to woo
Or fancy me.

Sh.
No thou art woman too;

Nym.
But I am constant.

Sh.
Then thou art not fair:

Nym.
Bright as the morning.

Sh.
Wavering as the Ayr.

Ny.
What grows upon this cheek?

Sh.
A pure Carnation.

Ny.
Come tast and kisse.

Sh.
O sweet ô sweet temptation.

Chor.
Ah Love, and canst thou never loose the field?
Where Cupid layes the sieg, the Town must yeeld.
He warmes the chiller blood with glowing fire,
And thaws the Icy frost of cold desire.

A Pastoral Ode.

[Coy Cæla dost thou see]

Coy Cæla dost thou see
Yon hollow mountain tottering o're the plain,
O're which a fatall Tree
With treacherous shade betrayes the sleepy swain?
Beneath it is a Cell,
As full of horror as my breast of care,
Ruine therein might dwell,
As a fit room for guilt and black despair.
Thence will I headlong throw
This wretched weight, this heap of misery;
And in the dust below,
Bury my Carcasse; and the thought of thee:
Which when I finisht have,
O hate me dead as thou hast done alive;
And come not neare my grave
Least I take heat from thee, and so revive.

A Song.

[Musick thou Queen of souls, get up and string]

Musick thou Queen of souls, get up and string
Thy pow'rful Lute, and some sad requiem sing,
Till Rocks require thy Eccho with a groan:
And the dull clifts repeat the duller tone:
Then on a sudden with a nimble hand
Run gently o're the Chordes, and so command
The Pine to dance, the Oak his Roots forgo,
The Holme and aged Elme to soot it too;
Mirtles shall caper, lofty Cedars run,
And call the Courtly Palme to make up one;
Then in the mid'st of all their Iolly train,
Strike a sad note; and fix'em Trees again.

The Song of Discord.

Let Linus and Amphions Lute,
With Orpheus Cittern now be mute.
The harshest voyce the sweetest note;
The Raven has the choycest throat.
A set of frogs a quire for me,
The Mandrake shall the chanter be,
VVhere neither voyce nor tunes agree;
This is discords Harmony.
Thus had Orpheus learn'd to play
The following trees had run away.

To one Over-hearing his private discourse.

I wonder not my Læda far can see
Since for her eyes she might an Eagle be,
And dare the Sun; but that she hears so well
As that she could my private whisperings tell,
I stand amaz'd; her ears are not so long,
That they could reach my words, hence then it sprung;
Love over-hearing fled to her bright ear,
Glad he had got a tale to whisper there.

Epigram: 47. ex decimo libro Martialis.

These are things that being possest
Will make a life that's truly blest:
Estate bequeath'd, not got with toyl;
A good hot fire, a grateful soil.
No strife, warm cloaths, a quiet soule,
A strength intire, a body whole,
Prudent simplicity 'equal friends,
A dyet that no Art commends
A night not drunk, and yet secure;
A bed not sad, yet chast and pure.
Long sleeps to make the nights but short,
A will to be but what thou art.
Naught rather choose; contented lye,
And neither fear, nor wish to dye.

To the vertuous and noble Lady, the Lady Cotton.

Tis not to force more tears from your sad eye,
That we write thus; that were a Piety
Turn'd guilt and sin; we onely beg to come
And pay due tribute to his sacred tombe.
The Muses hid divide his love with you,
And justly therefore may be mourners too.
In stead of Cypresse, they have brought fresh Bayes
To crown his Urin, and every dirge his praise.
But since with him the learned tongues are gone,
Necessity here makes us use our own.
Read in his praise your own, you cannot misse;
For he was but our Wonder, you were his.

An Elegie on the death of that Renowned & noble Knight, Sir Rowland Cotton of Bellaport in Shropshire.

Ausonii Epigram. 38

She which would not, I would choose:
She which would, I would refuse.
Venus could my minde but tame;
But not satisfie the same.
Inticements offer'd I despise,
And deny'd I slightly price.
I would neither glut my minde,
Nor yet too much torment finde.
Twice girt Diana doth not take me,
Nor Venus naked joyful make me.
The first no pleasure hath to joy me,
And the last enough to cloy me.
But a crafty wench I'de have
That can sell the act I crave:
And joyne at once in me these two,
I will, and yet I will not do.

On the Death of a Nightingale.

Go solitary wood, and henceforth be
Acquainted with no other Harmony,
Then the Pyes chattering, or the shreeking note
Of bodeing Owles, and fatall Ravens throat.
The sweetest chanters dead, that warbled forth
Layes that might tempests calm, and still the North,
And call down Angels from their glorious Sphear
To hear her Songs, and learn new Anthems there.
That soul is fled, and to Elision gone;
Thou art a poor desert left; go then and run,
Beg there to stand a grove, and if she please
To sing again beneath thy shadowy Trees;
The souls of happy lovers crown'd with blisses
Shall flock about thee, and keep time with kisses.

Vpon the report of the King of Swedens death.

I'le not beleeve't; if fate should be so crosse,
Nature would not be silent of her losse.
Can he be dead, and no portents appear?
No pale Eclipse of th'Sun to let us fear
What we should suffer, and before his light
Put out, the world eveloped in Night.
What thundring torrents the flulsh'd welkin tare?
What apparitions kill'd him in the ayr?
When Cæsar dy'd, there were convulsion fits;
And nature seem'd to run out of her wits.
At that sad object Tybers bosome swell'd,
And scarce from drowning all by Jove withheld;
And shall we give this mighty Conquerer
That in a great and a more holy warre,
Was pulling down the Empire which he reard,
A fall unmourn'd of Nature, and unfear'd;
A death (unlesse the league of heav'n withstood)
Lesse wept then with an universal flood?
If I had seen a Comet in the Ayr
With glorious eye, and bright disheve'd hair,
And on a sudden with his gilded train
Drop down; I should have said that Sweden's slain;
Shot like that star, or if the earth had shook
Like a weak floor, the falling roof had broke;
I should have said the mighty King is gone;
Fell'd as the tallest tree in Libanon.
A lasse if he were dead, we need no post,
Very instinct would tell us what we lost.
And a chill damp (as at the general doom)
Creep through each brest, & we should know for whom.
His German conquests are not yet compleat,
And when they are, there's more remayning yet,
The world is full of sin, not every Land
O're grown with schisme hath felt his purging hand.
The Pope is not confounded, and the Turk;
Nor was he sure design'd for a lesse work.
But if our sins have stop'd him in the source,
In mid'dst Career of his victorious course;
And heaven would trust the dulnesse of our sence
So far, not to prepare us with portents.
'Tis we that have the losse, and he hath caught
His heav'nly garland e're his work he wrought.
But I, before I'le undertake to grieve
So great a losse, will choose not to believe.

On Sir Robert Cotton the Antiquary.

Posterity hath many fates bemoan'd,
But Ages long since past for thee have groan'd,
Times Trophies thou didst rescue from the grave,
Who in thy death a second burial have.
Cotton, deaths conquest now compleat I see,
Who ne're had vanquisht all things but in thee.

An Elegie.

[Heav'n knows my love to thee, fed on desires]

Heav'n knows my love to thee, fed on desires
So hallowed, and unmixt with vulgar fires,
As are the purest beams shot from the Sun
At his full height, and the devotion
Of dying Martyrs could not burn more clear,
Nor innocence in her first robes appear
Whiter then our affections; they did show
Like frost forc'd out of flames, and fire from snow.
So pure, the Phœnix when she did refine
Her age to youth, borrowed no flames but mine.
But now my day's o'recast, for I have now
Drawn Anger like a tempest o're the brow
Of my faire Mistresse; those your glorious eyes
Whence I was wont to see my day-star rise,
Threat like revengefull Meteors; and I feel
My torment, and my guilt double my hell.
'Twas a mistake, and might have veniall been,
Done to another, but it was made sin,
And justly mortal too by troubling thee,
Slight wrongs are treasons done to Majesty.
O all ye blest Ghosts of deceased Loves,
That now live Sainted in th'Blisian groves
Mediate for mercy for me; at her shrine
Meet with full quire, and joyne your prayers with mine.
Conjure her by the merits of your kisses,
By your past sufferings and your present blisses,
Conjure her by your mutual hopes, and fears;
By all your intermixed sighes and tears,
To plead my pardon: go to her and tell
That you will walk the guardian sentinell,
My souls safe Genii, that she need not fear
A mutinous thought, or one close rebell there.
But what needs that, when she alone sits there
Sole Angel of that Orbe? in her own sphere
Alone she sits, and can secure it free
From all irregular motions; onely she
Can give the Balsom that must cure this sore;
And the sweet Antidote to sin no more.

Η Ευφυης και ποιησις και μενικου.

An Anicum Litigantem.

Would you commence a Poet Sir, and be
A graduate in the thredbare mystery?
The Oxes ford will no man thither bring.
Where the horse hoofe rais'd the Pegasian spring,
Nor will the bridge through which low Cham doth run,
direct you to the banks of Helicon.
If in that art you mean to take degrees,
Bedlam's the best of Universities.
There study it, and when you would no more
A Poet be, go drink some Hellebore.
Which drug when I had tasted, soon I left
The bare Parnassus, and the barren cleft;
And can no more one of their Nation be,
Because recover'd of my lunacy.
But you may then succeed me in my place
Of Poet, no pretence to make your grace
Denyed you, for you go to law, 'tis said;
And then 'tis ta'ne for granted you are mad.

In Croydonem & Corinnam.

---

82

Paraphras'd.

Ah wretch in thy Corinna's love unblest!
How strang a fancy doth torment thy breast?
When she desires to sport, thou sayest her nay;
When she denyes then thou desir'st to play.
Love burns you both (O 'tis a happy turn!)
But 'tis at several times love doth both burn.
When scorching heat hath Coridons heart possest,
Then raigns a frost in cold Corinna's brest;
And when a frost in Coridon doth raign,
Then is Corinna's brest on fire again,
And then with Coridon is it summer prime,
When with Corinna it is winter time?
Or why should then Corinna's summer be
When it is winter, Coridon with thee?
Can Ice from fire, or fire from Ice proceed?
Ah jest not Love in so severe a deed!
I bid thee not Coridons flame to blow
Clean out; nor clean to melt Corinna's snow.
burn both! freez both! let mutuall Fervour hold
His and her brest, or his and her's a cold.

To one admiring her self in a Looking-Glasse.

A Eglogue occasion'd by two Doctors disputing upon Prædestination.

Corydon.
Ho jolly Thyrsis whether in such hast?
I'st for a wager that you run so fast?
Or past past your hour below yon Hawthorn-tree
Doe's longing Gælatea look for thee?

Thyrsis.
No Corydon, I heard young Daphnis say
Alexis challeng'd Tityrus to day
Who best shall sing of Shepherds Art, and praise;
But heark I hear 'em listen to their layes.

Tityrus.
Alexis read, what means this mystique thing?
An Ewe I had two Lambs at once did bring;
Th'one black as jet, the other white as snow?
Say in just Providence how it could be so?

Alexis.
Will you Pan's goodnesse therefore partiall call,
That might as well have given thee none at all?

Tytirus.
Were they not both and by the selfe-same Ewe?
How could they ment then so different hue?
Poor Lamb alas; and couldst thou, yet unborn,
Sin to deserve the guilt of such a scorn!
Thou hadst not yet fowl'd a religious spring,
Nor fed on plots of hollowed grasse, to bring
Stains to thy fleece; nor browz'd upon a tree
Sacred to Pan, or Pales Deity.
The gods are ignorant, if they not foreknow;
And knowing, 'tis unjust to use thee so.

Alexis.
Tityr with me contend, or Corydon;
But let the gods, and their high wils alone:
For in our Flocks that freedom challenge wee;
This Kid is sacrific'd, and that goes free.

Tityrus.
Feed where you will my Lambs, what boots it us
To watch, and water, fold, and drive you thus.
This on the barren mountains flesh can glean,
That fed in flowry pastures will be lean.

Alexis.
Plow, sowe, and compasse, nothing boots at all,
Unlesse the dew upon the Tilth's do fall.
So labour silly Shepherds what we can
All's vain, unlesse a blessing drop from Pan.

Tityrus.
I'll thrive thy Ewes if thou these lyes maintain.

Alexis.
And may thy Goats miscarry sawcy swain.

Thyrsis.
Fie, Shepherds fie! while you these strifes begin,
Here creeps the Wolf, and there the Fox gets in.
To your vaine piping on so deep a Reed
The Lamkins listen, but forget to feed.
It gentle swains befits of Love to sing,
How Love left Heaven; and heavens immortall King.
His Coeternal Father. O admire,
Love is a Son as ancient as his Sire.
His Mother was a Virgin: how could come
A birth so great, and from so chast a womb?
His cradle was a manger; Shepherds see
True faith delights in poor simplicity.
He pres'd no grapes, nor prun'd the fruitfull vine,
But could of water make a brisker wine.
Nor did he plow the earth, and to his Barn
The harvest bring, nor thresh, and grinde the Corn.
Without all these Love could supply our need,
And with five Loavs, five thousand Hungers feed,
More wonders did he, for all which suppose
How he was crown'd, with Lilly or with Rose?
The winding Ivy, or the glorious Bay,
Or Mirtle, with the which Venus, they say,
Girts her proud Temples? Shepherds none of them
But wore (poor head) a thorny Diadem.
Feet to the Lame he gave, with which they run
To work their Surgeons last destruction.
The blinde from him had eyes; but us'd that light
Like Basilisques to kill him with their sight.
Lastly he was betrai'd (O sing of this)
How Love could be betrai'd! 'twas with a kisse.
And then his innocent hands, and guiltlesse feet
Were nail'd unto the crosse, striving to meet
In his spread arms his Spouse, so milde in show
He seem'd to court th'Imbraces of his foe.
Through his pierc'd side, through which a sphear was sent,
A torrent of all flowing Balsame went.
Run Amorillis run: one drop from thence
Cures thy sad soul, and drives all anguish hence.
Go sun-burnt Thestylis, go, and repair
thy beauty lost, and be again made fair,
Love-sick Amyntas get a Phyltrum here,
To make thee Lovely to thy truly dear.
But coy Licoris take the Pearl from thine,
And take the Blood-shot from Atexis eyne.
Weare this an Amulet against all Syrens smiles,
The stings of Snakes, and tears of Crocodiles,
Now Love is dead: Oh no, he never dies;
Three dayes he sleeps, and then again doth rise,
(Like fair Aurora from the Eastern Bay)
And with his beams drives all our clouds away:
This pipe unto our flocks, this sonnet get.
But ho, I see the Sun ready to set.
Good night to all, for the great night is come:
Flocks to your folds, and Shepherds high you home.
Tomorrow morning, when we all have slept,
Pan's Cornet's blowen, and the great Sheep-shears kept.

An Eglogue to M. Johnson.

Tityrus.
Vnder this Beech why sits thou heere so sad
Son Damon, that was erst Jovall lad?
These groves were wont to Eccho with the sound
Of thy shrill reed, while every Nymph danc'd round.
Rouse up thy soul, Parnassus mount stands high,
And must be clim'd with painfull industry,

Damon.
You Father on his forked top sit still,
And see us panting up so steep a hill:
But I have broke my reed, and deeply swore
Never with wax, never to joynt it more.

Tyt.
Fond boy 'twas rashly done; I meant to thee,
Of all the sons I have, by legacie
To have bequeath'd my pipe, thee, thee of all
I meant it should her second Master call.

Dam.
And do you think I durst presume to play
Where Tytirus had worn his lips away!
Live long thy self to tune it; 'tis from thee,
It has not from it self such Harmony.
But if we ever such disaster have
As to compose our Tityrus in his grave;
Yonder, upon yon aged Oak, that now
Old trophies bears, on every sacred bow
We'l hang it up a relick, we will do it,
And learned swains shall pay devotion to it,

Tyt.
Canst thou farewell unto the Muses bid?
Then Bees shall loath the Thyme, the new wean'd Kid
Browze on the buds no more; the reeming ews
Henceforth the tender fallows shall refuse.

Dam.
I by those Ladies now do nothing set;
Let 'em for me some other servant get:
They shall no more be Mistresses of mine,
No, though my pipe had hope to equall thine,
Thine which the floods have stopt their course to heare
To which the spotted Linx hath lent an ear.
Which while the severall Echo's would repeat,
The Musick has been sweet, the Art so great
That Pan himself amaz'd at thy deep aires,
Sent thee of his own bowl to drown thy cares.
Of all the gods Pan doth the pipe respect,
The rest unlearned pleasures more affect.
Pan ern distinguish what thy Raptures be
From Bavius loose lascivious Minstralsie,
Or Marvius windy Bagpipe, Mævius, he
Whose wit is but a Tavern Tympany.
If ever I flock of my own do feed,
My fattest Lambs shall on his Altar bleed.

Tyt
Two Altars I will build him, and each year
Will sacrifice two well-fed Bullocks there;
Two that have horns, that while they butting stand
Strike from their feet a cloud of numerous sand.
But what can make thee leave the Muses, man,
That such a Patron hast as mighty Pan?
Whence is this fury? Did the partiall ear
Of the rude Vulgar, when they late did hear
Egon, and thee contend which best should play,
Him Victour deem, and give thy kid away?
Does Amarillis cause this high despair?
Or Galatea's coynesse breed thy care?

Dam.
Neither of these, the Vulgar I contemn:
Thy pipe, not always Tytirus wins with them:
And as for Love, insooth I do not know
Whether he wears a bow, and shafts or no.
Or did I, I a way could quickly find,
To win the beauteous Galatea's mind,
Or Amarillis: I to both could send
Apples that with Hesperian fruit contend:
And on occasion could have quickly guest
Where two fair Ring-doves built their amorous nest:

Tyt.
If none of these, my Damon then aread
What other cause can so much passion breed!

Dam.
Father, I will, in those indulgent ears
I dare unload the burden of my fears.
The Reapers that with whetted sickles stand,
Gathering the falling ears 'ith' other hand;
Though they endure the scorching summers heat,
Have yet some wages to allay their sweat:
The Lopper that doth fell the sttudry Oke
Labours, yet has good pay for every stroak.
The Plowman is rewarded: onely we
That sing are paid with our own melody;
Rich churles have learnt to praise us, and admire,
But have not learnt to think us worth the bite.
So toiling Ants perchance delight to hear,
The summer musick of the Grashopper.
But after rather let him starve with pain,
Then spare him from their store one single grain.
As when great Iunos beauteous bird displayes
Her starry tail, the boyes do run and gaze
At her proud train; so look they now adaies
On Poets: and do think if they but praise,
Or pardon what we sing, enough they do:
I, and tis well that they do so much too.
My rage is swell'd so high I cannot speak it,
Had I Pan's Pipe or thine I now should break it!

Tyt.
Let Moles delight in Earth; Swine dung-hils rake,
Crowes prey on Carrion; Frogs a pleasure take
In slimy Pools; and Niggards wealth admire;
But we whose souls are made of purer fire,
Have other aimes: whose songs for gain hath made,
Has of a liberall Science fram'd a Trade.
Hark how the Nightingale in yonder tree,
Hid in the boughs, warbles melodiously
Her various musique forth, while the whole Quire
Of other birds flock round, and all admire!
But who rewards her? will the ravenous Kite
Part with her prey to pay for her delight?
Or will the foolish, painted, prattling Iay
Now turn'd a hearer, to requite her play
Lend her a straw? or any of the rest
Fetch her a fether when she builds her nest?
Yet sings she ne're the lesse, till every den
Do catch at her last notes: And shall I then
His fortunes, Damon, 'bove my own commend,
Who can more cheese into the market send:
Clowns for posterite may cark and care,
That cannot out-live death but in an Heir:
By more then wealth we propogate our Names,
That trust not to successions, but our Fames.
Let hid-bound churles yoak the laboriug Ox,
Milk hundred goates, and share a thousand flocks;
Plant gainfull Orchards, and in silver shine;
Thou of all fruits should'st onely prune the Vine,
Whose fruit being tasted, might erect thy brain
To teach some ravishing, high, and lofty strain;
The double birth of Baccbus to express,
First in the Grape, the second in the Presse.
And therefore tell me boy, what is't can move
Thy minde once fixed on the Muses Love?

Dam.
When I contented liv'd by Cham's fair streams,
Without desire to see the prouder Thames,
I had no flock to care for, but could sit
Under a Willow covert, and repeat
Those deep and learned layes, on every part
Grounded on judgement, subtilty, and Art.
That the great Tutor to the greatest King,
The shepheard of Stagira, us'd to sing;
The Shepheord of Stagira, that unfolds
All natures Closet, shews what e're it holds
The matter, forme, sence, motion, place, and measure
Of every thing contain'd in her vast treasure.
How Elements do change; What is the cause
Of Generation; what the Rule and Laws
The Orbs do move by; Censures every starre,
Why this is fixt, and this irregular;
Knows all the Heavens, as if he had been there,
And help't each Angell turn about her sphear.
The thirsty pilgrim travelling by land,
When the fierce Dog-star doth the day command,
Halfe choak'd with dust, parch't with the soultry heate,
Tir'd with his journey, and o'recome with sweat,
Finding a gentle spring, at her cool brink
Doth not with more delight sit down and drink,
Then I record his songs: we see a cloud,
And fearing to be wet, do run and shroud
Vnder a bush, when he would sit and tell
The cause that made her misty womb to swell;
Why it sometimes in drops of rain doth flow,
Sometimes dissolves her selfe in flakes of snow:
Nor gaz'd he at a Comet, but would frame
A reason why it wore a beard of flame.
Ah Tytirus, I would with all my heart,
Even with the best of my carv'd mazers part,
To hear him, as he us'd, divinely shew,
What 'tis that paints the divers colour'd bow:
Whence thunders are discharg'd, whence the winds stray,
What foot through heaven hath worn the milky wayes
And yet I let this true delight alone,
Cal'd thence to keep the flock of Corydon.
Ah wo is me anothers flock to keep;
The care is mine, the master shears the sheep!
A flock it was that would not keep together;
A flock that had no fleece when it came hither,
Nor would it learn to listen to my layes,
For 'twas a flock made up of severall strayes:
And now I would return to Cham, I hear
A desolation frights the Muses there!
With rustick swains I mean to spend my time;
Teach me there father to preserve my rime.

Tyt.
To morrow morning I will counsell thee,
Meet me at Faunus Beech; for now you see
How larger shadows from the mountains fall,
And Corydon doth Damon, Damon call.
Damon, 'tis time my flock were in the fold,
More then high time, did you not erst behold
How Hesperus above yon clouds appear'd,
Hesperus leading forth his bounteous heard?

A Pastorall Courtship.

Phyllis.
Poor credulous and simple maid!
By what strange wiles art thou bearaid!
A treasure thou hast lost to day
For which thou canst no ransome pay.
How black art thou, transform'd with sin!
How strange a guilt gnaws me within?
Grief will convert this red to pale;
When every Wake, and Whitsund-ale
Shall talk my shame; break, break sad heart
There is no Medicine for my smart,
No herb nor balm can cure my sorrow,
Unlesse you meet again to morrow.

Upon a very deformed Gentlewoman, but of a voyce incomparable sweet.

I chanc'd sweet Lesbia's voyce to hear,
O that the pleasure of the eare
Contented had the appetite;
But I must satisfie the sight:
Where such a face I chanc'd to see
From which good Lord deliver me.
I'st not prophane if I should tell
I thought her one of those that fell
With Lucifers Apostate train
Yet did her Angels voyce retain?
A Cherubin her notes descri'd,
A Devill every where beside.
Ask the dark woods, and they'l confesse
None did such Harmony expresse
In all their bowers, from May to June
Yet ne're was face so out of tune.
Her Virginall teeth false time did keep,
Her wrinkled forehead went too deep.
Lower then Gammus sunk her eyes,
'Bove Ela though her nose did rise.
I'le trust Musitians now that rest
Best musick doth in discords dwell,
Her ayres entic'd the gentle quire
Of Birds to come, who all admire,
And would with pleasure longer stay,
But that her looks frights them away.
Which for a good Priapus goes,
And well may serve to scar the Crows.
Her voyce might tempt th'immortall race
But let her only shew her face.
And soon she might extinguish thus
The lusting of an Incubus.
So have I seen a Lute o'reworn,
Old and rotten, patcht, and torn,
So ravish with a sound, and bring
A close so sweet to every string,
As would strike wonder in our ears,
And work an envy in the Sphears.
Say monster strange, what maist thou be?
Whence shall I fetch thy Pedigree?
VVhat but a Panthar could beget,
A beast so foule, a breath so sweet?
Or thou of Syrens issue art,
If they be fish the upper part.
Or else blind Homer was not mad
Then, when he sung Vlisses had
So strange a gift from Acolus,
VVho odour-breathing Zephyrus
In severall bottles did inclose;
For certain thou art one of those
Thy looks where other women place
Their chiefest Pride, is thy disgrace.
The tongue, a part which us'd to be
VVorst in thy Sex, is best in thee.
VVere I but now to choose my dear
Not by my eye, but by my ear,
Here would I dote; how shall I woo
Thy voyce, and not thy body too?
Then all the brood I get of thee,
VVou'd Nightingales and Cygnets be:
Cygnets betimes their throats to try,
Born with more Musick then the dye.
Say Lesbia, say, what god will blesse
Our Loves with so much happinesse?
Some women are all tongue, but o
VVhy art nor thou my Lesbia so?
Thy looks do speak thee witch; one spell
To make thee but invisible,
Or dye! resign thy selfe to death,
And I will catch thy latest breath;
But that the nose will scarce I feare
Finde it so sweet as did the ear.
Or if thou wouldst not have me coy,
As was the self-enamour'd Boy,
Turn only voyce, an Echo prove,
Here, here, by heav'n, I'le fix my Love,
If not, you gods, to ease my mind,
Or make her dumb, or strike me blind;
For grief, and anger in me rise,
Whilst she hath tongue, or I have eyes.

The Milk-maids Epithælamium

An Eglogue on the noble Assemblies revived on Cotswold Hills, by M. Robert Dover.

Collen. Thenot.
The.
Yet view their outside, Collen, you would say
They have as much brawn in their necks as they.
Fair Tempa brags of lusty arms that swell
With able sinewes, and might hurl as well
The weighty sledg; their legs, and thighes of bone,
Great as Colossus, yet their strength is gone,
They look like yonder man of wood, that stands
To bound the limits of the Parish-lands.
Dost thou ken, Collen, what the cause might be
Of such a dull and generall Lethargy?

Col
Swain, with their sports their souls were ta'ne away,
Till then they all were active, every day
They exercis'd to weild their limbs, that now
Are numb'd to every thing, but flail and plow.
Early in May up got the jolly rout
Call'd by the Lark, and spread the fields about:
One for to breath himself, would coursing be
From this same Beech to yonder Mulberie.
A second leapt, his supple nerves to try,
A third was practising his Melody.
This a new Jig was footing, others were
Busied at wrestling, or to throw the Barre:
Ambitious who should beare the Bell away,
And kisse the Nut-brown Lady of the May.
This stirr'd 'em up, a jolly swain was me
Whom Peg and Susan after Victory
Crown'd with a garland they had made, beset
With Daisies, Pinks, and many a Violet,
Cowslip, and Gilliflower. Rewards though small,
Encourage vertue, but if none at all
Meet her, she languisheth, and dies, as now
Where worth's deny'd the honour of a bough.
And, Thenot, this the cause I read to be
Of such a dull and generall Lethargie.

Th.
Ill thrive the Lowt that did their mirth gain-say,
Wolves haunt his flocks, that took those sports away!

Col.
Some melancholy swains about have gone
To teach all zeale their own complexion:
Choler they will admit sometimes I see,
But Flegme, and Sanguine no Religions be.
These teach that Dauncing is a Jezabell,
And Barley-break the ready way to Hell.
The Morice-Idols, Whitsun-ales can be
But prophane Reliques of a Jubilee!
These in a zeale, t'expresse how much they do
The Organs hate, have silenc'd Bag-pipes too;
And harmlesse May-poles, all are rail'd upon
As if they were the towers of Babylon.
Some think not fit there should be any sport
I'th Countrey, 'tis a dish proper to the Court.
Mirth not becomes 'em, let the Tawcy swain
Eat Beefe, and Bacon, and goe sweat again.
Besides, what sport can in their pastimes be
When all is but ridiculous foppery?

The.
Collen, I once the famous Spain did see,
A nation glorious for their gravity;
Yet there a hundred Knights on warlike Steeds
Did skirmish out a fight arm'd but with reeds;
At which a thousand Ladies eyes did gaze,
Yet 'twas no better then our Prison-base.
What is the Barriers but a Courtly way
Of our more down-right sport, the Cudgel-play?
Foot-ball with us may be with them Baloome,
As they at Tilt, so we at Quintain runne.
And those old Pastimes relish best with me,
That have least Art, and most simplicity.

Collen.
They say at Court there is an Art
To dance a Ladies honour from her heart;
Such wiles poor Shepheards know not, all their sense
Is dull to any thing but Innocence.
The Country Lasse, although her dance be good,
Stirs not anothers Galliard in the Blood.
And yet their sports by some controul'd have been,
Who think there is no mirth but what is sin.
O might I but their harmlesse Gambols see
Restor'd unto an ancient liberty,
Where spotlesse dalliance traces o're the Plains,
And harmles Nymphs jet it with harmles swains;
To see an age again of Innocent Loves
Twine close as Vines, yet kisse as chast as Doves,
Me thinks I could the Thracian lyre have strung,
Or tun'd my whistle to the Mantum song.

Coll.
Then tune thy whistle boy, and string thy lyre
That age is come again, thy brave desire
Pan hath approv'd; dauncing shall be this yeer
Holy as the motion of a Sphear. blew

The. Col.
with sweeter breath Fame never
Her sacred Trump, if this good news be true!

Coll.
Knowest thou not Cotswold hills?

Th.
Through all the land
No finer wool runnes through the spinsters hand.
But silly Collen, ill thou dost divine,
Canst thou mistake a Bramble for a Pine?
Or think this Bush a Cedar? or suppose
Young Hamlet, where to sleep each shepheard goes,
In circuit, buildings, people, power and name
Equalls the Bow string'd by the silver Thame?
As well thou maist their sports with ours compare,
As the soft wool of Lambs, with the Goats hair.

Col.
Last evening Lad, I met a noble swain,
That spur'd his sprightfull Palfrey o're the plain,
His head with ribbands crown'd, and deckt as gay
As any Lasse upon her Bridall day:
I thought (what easie faiths we shepheards prove)
This, not the Bull, had been Europa's Love!
I ask't the cause, they told me this was he,
Whom this dayes triumph crown'd with victory;
Many brave steeds there were, some you should finde
So fleet as they had been sons of the winde:
Others with hoofs so swift, beat o're the race
As if some engine shot 'em to the place.
So many, and so well-wing'd steeds there were
As all the brood of Pegasus had been there.
Rider, and horse could not distinguish'd be,
Both seem'd conjoyn'd a Centaur's progeny,
A numerous troop they were, yet all so light
Earth never groan'd, nor felt 'em in their flight,

Thes.
No doubt but from the brave Heroick fire
In the more noble hearts, sparks of desire
May warm this colder boores, and emulous strife,
Give the old Mirth and Innocence a new life.
When thoughts of fame their quickned souls shall fill
At every glaunce that shews them Cotswold hill.

Coll.
There Shepherd, there, the solemn games be plaid,
Such as great Thesus, or Alcides made:
Such as Apollo wishes he had seen,
And Iove desires had his invention been!
The Nemean, and the Istmian pastimes still
Though dead in Greece, survive on Cotswold hill.

The.
Oh happy hill the gentle Graces now
Shall trip o're Thine and leave Citherons brow:
Parnasius clift shall sink below his spring,
And every Muse shall on thy frontlet sing.
The goddesses again in strife shall be,
And from mount Ida make appeale to thee;
Olympus pay thee homage, and in dread
The aged Alpes shall bow his snowy head;
Flora with all her store thy Temples Crown,
Whose height shall reach the stars: gods looking down
Shall blesse the Incense that thy flowers exhale,
And make thee both a mountain and a Vale.
How many Ladies on thy top shall meet,
And presse thy tresses with their od'rous feet?
Whose eyes when wandring men see from afar,
They'l think thee Heaven, and each of them a star.
But gentle Collen say what god or man
Fame we for this great work, Daphnis, or Pan?

Col.
Daphnis is dead, and Pan hath broke his Reed,
Tell all your flocks 'tis Joviall Dovers ded.
Behold the shepherds in their ribbands go,
And shortly all the Nymphs shall wear 'em to:
Amaz'd to see such glory met together,
Blesse Dovers pipe, whose Musick call'd 'em hither.
Sport you my Rams at sound of Dovers name;
Big-bellied Ews make hast to bring a Lamb
For Dovers fold: Go Maids and Lillies get
To make him up a glorious Coronet.
Swains keep his holy-day, and each man swear
To Saint him in the Shepheards-Calender.

The Song of Orpheus.

Haile sacred Deserts, whom kind nature made
Only to shelter with a loving shade,
The now neglected Musick, glad to see
Lions afford her hospitality.
And Tygers bid her welcome, with the rest
Of savage beasts accept her for a guest,
Since men refuse her, and scarce daign an eare
To her high notes, or if they please to heare,
'Tis all; amongst my Pupills, you may see
The birds that learn't their sweetest layes of me;
Those that chant Carols in this thanklesse age
To pleasure men, rewarded with a Cage.

A Maske for Lydia.

A parley with his empty Purse.

Purse who I not know you have a Poet been
When he shall look and find no gold herein?
What respect (think you) will there now be shown
To this foule nest, when all the birds are flown?
Unnaturall vacuum, can your emptinesse
Answer to some slight questions such as these?
How shall my debts be paid? or can my scores
Be cleer'd with Verses to my Creditors?
Hexamiter's no sterling, and I tear
What the brain coins goes scarce for currant there.
Can meeter cancell bonds? Is here a time
Ever to hope to wipe out chalk with rime?
Or if I were now hurrying to the jail
Are the nine Muses held sufficient bail?
Would they to any composition come,
If we should morgage our Elisium,
Tempe, Pernassus, and the golden streams
Of Tagus, and Pactolus, those rich dreams
Of active fancy? Can our Orpheus move
Those rocks, and stones with his best strains of love?
Should I (like Homer) sing in lofty tones
To them Achylles, and his Myrmidons!
Hector, and Ajax are but Sergeants names,
They relish Bay-salt 'bove the Epigrams
Of the most season'd brain, nor will they be
Content with Ode, or paid with Elegy.
Muse, burn thy Baies, and thy fond quill resigne,
One crosse of theirs is worth whole books of mine.
Of all the treasure which the Poets hold
There's none at all they weigh, except our gold;
And mine's return'd to th'indies, and hath swore
Never to visit this cold climate more.
Then crack your strings good Purse, for you need none;
Gape on, as they do to bepayd, gape on.

Upon love fondly refus'd for conscience sake.

Nature, Creations law, is judg'd by sense,
Not by the Tyrant conscience,
Then our commission gives us leave to do,
What youth and pleasure prompts us to:
For we must question, else heavens great decree,
And tax it with a treachery;
If things made sweet to tempt our appetite
Should with a guilt stain the delight.
Higher powers rule us, our selves can nothing do;
Who made us love, made'lawfull too.
It was not love, but love transform'd to vice
Ravish'd with envious Avarice,
Made women first impropriate; All were free,
Inclosures mens inventions be.
I'th golden age no action could be found
For trespasse on my neighbours ground:
Twas just with any Fair to mix our blood;
The best is most diffusive good.
She that confines her beams to one mans sight,
Is a dark-Lanthorn to a glorious light.
Say, does the Virgin-spring lesse chast appeare
Cause many thirsts are quenched there?
Or have you not with the same odours met,
When more have smelt your Violet?
The Phoenix is not angry at her nest,
Cause her perfumes make others blest:
Though Incense to th'eternall gods be meant,
Yet mortals Rivall in the sent.
Man is the Lord of Creatures, yet we see
That all his vassals loves are free.
The severe wedlocks fetters do not binde
The Pard's inflam'd, and amorous mind;
But that he may be like a Bridegroom led
Even to the Royall Lions bed.
The birds may for a yeer their loves confine,
But make new choise each Valentine.
If our affections then more servile be
Then are our slaves, wher's mans soveraignty?
Why then by pleasing more, should you lesse please,
And spare the sweets, being more sweet then these?
If the fresh Trunk have sap enough to give
That each insertive branch may live;
The Gardner grafts not only Apples there,
But adds the VVarden and the Peare,
The Peach, and Apricock together grow,
The Cherrie and the Damson too,
Till he hath made by skilfull husbandry
An intire Orchard of one tree
So lest our Paradise perfection want,
VVe may as well inoculate as plant.
What's Conscience but a Beldams midnight theam?
Or nodding Nurses idle dream?
So feign'd, as are the Goblins, Elves, and Fairies,
To watch their Orchards, and their Daries.
For who can tell when first her reign begun?
I'th' state of innocence was none:
And since large Conscience (as the proverb shewes)
In the same sense with bad one goes,
The lesse the better then, whence this will fall,
'Tis to be perfect to have none at all.
Suppose it be a vertue rich, and pure,
'Tis not for Spring, or Summer sure,
Nor yet for Autumn? Love must have his prime,
His warmer hearts, and harvest time.
Till we have flourish'd, grown, and reap'd our wishes;
What Conscience dares oppose our kisses?
But when times colder hand leads us near home,
Then let that winter vertue come:
Frost is all then prodigious, we may do
What youth and pleasure prompts us to.

On Importunate Dunnes.

Good Master Randolph, Pardon me I pray
If I remember you forget your day.
I kindly dealt with you, and it would be
Unkind in you, not to be kind to me.
You know Sir, I must pay for what I have,
My Creditors will be paid, therefore I crave
Pay me as I pay them Sir, for one Brother
Is bound in Conscience to pay another.
Besides, my Landlord would not be content,
If I should dodge with him for's quarters rent.
My Wife lies in too, and I needs must pay
The Midwife, lest the fool be cast away.
And 'tis a second charge to me poor man
To make the new born Babe a Christian.
Besies the Churching a third charge will be
In butter'd Haberdine & frummely.
Thus hoping you will make a courteous end,
I rest (I would thou would'st) Your loving Friend.
A.B.M H.T.B.H.L.I.O.
I.F.M.G.P.VV. Nay I know
You have the same stile all, and as for me
Such as your stile is shall your payment be.
Just all alike, see, what a cursed spell
Charms Devils up, to make my Chamber hell.
This some starv'd Prentice brings, one that does look
With a face blurd more then her Masters book.
One that in any chink can peeping lye
More slender then the yard he measures by:
When my poor stomack barks for meat, I dare
Scarce humour it, they make me live by ayr,
As the Camelions do; and if none pay
Better then I have done, even so may they.
When I would go to Chappell, they betray
My zeal, and when I only meant to pray
Unto my God, faith all I have to do
Is to pray them, and glad they'l hear me too.
Nay should I preach, the Rascals are so vext,
They'd fee a Beadle to arrest my Text;
And sue it such a sute might granted be;
My Use and Doctrine to an Outlawry.
This stings, yet what my gall most works upon
Is that the hope of my revenge is gone.
For were I but to deal with such as those,
That knew the danger of my Verse or Prose
I'de steep my Muse in Vineger and Gall
Till the fierce scold grew sharp and hangd 'um all.
But those I am to deal with are so dull.
(Though got by Schollers) he that is most full
Of understanding can but hither come
Imprimis, Item, and the totall-sum.
I do not wish them Egypts plagues, but even
As bad as they; I'de add unto them seven.
I wish not Grashoppers, Frogs, and Lice come down,
But clouds of Moths in every shop i'th Tran.
Then honest Devill to their Ink convey
Some Aqua-fortis that may eat away
Their books. To adde more torments to their lives
Heaven I beseech thee send 'um handsome Wives.
Such as will pox their flesh till sores grow in't
That all their linnen may be spent in lint,
And give them Children with ingenuous faces,
Indued with all the Ornaments and Graces
Of Soule and Body, that it may be known
To others, and themselves they'r not their own.
And if this vex 'um not, I'le grieve the Town
With this curse, States put Trinity-Lecture down:
But my last Imprecation this shall be,
May they more debtors have, and like me.

Aulico-politico Academico.

A Character.

Thou Cozen to great Madams and allyed,
To all the Beauties that are Ladified,
Thou Eagle of the Realm whose eyes can see,
Th'invisible plots of forraign policie,
Thou great and unknown Learning of the Nation
Made not by study, but by inspiration!
The Court, the State, the Schools together be
By th'ears, and fight, and scratch, and all for thee.
When I behold thee cringe in some faire Hall,
And scrape proportions Mathematicall,
Varying thy mouth as 'twere by Magick-spell
To circle, ovall, square, and triangle,
And take a Virgin by the Ivory hand
Minting words to her, none can understand
But in a vision, and some verse repeat
So wellinchanted, none the sense can get,
Till they have conjur'd in lines strange and many,
To find what spirit it has, if it have any.
To see thy feet (though nature made them splay)
Screw in the toes to dance and force away
To some smooth measure, as might justly vaunt
Thou art turn'd Monsieur of an Elephant.
Thy mother sure going to see some sport,
Tilting, or Masque, conceav'd thee in the Court.
But when I view thee gravely nod, and spit
In a grave posture, shake the head, and fit
Plots to bring Spain to England, and confine
King Philips Indies unto Middletons Mine.
When I read o're thy Comments sagely writ
On the Currantoes, and with how much wit
Thy profound Aphorismes do expound to us
The Almanacks, and Gallobelgious;
When I conceive what news thou wilt bring o're
When thou return'st with thy Embassador,
VVhat flops the Switzers wears to hide his joynts,
How French, and how the Spanyard trusse their points,
How ropes of Onions at Saint Omers goe,
And whether Turks be Christians, yea or no.
Then I believe one in deep points so able,
VVas surely got under the Councell-table.
But when I heare thee of Celarent write
In Ferio, and Baralypton fight.
Methinks my then Prophetick soule durst tell
Thou must be born at Aristotles VVell.
But shall I tell thee friend how thy blest fate
By chance hath made thy name so fortunate
The State-man thinks thou hast too much oth' Court,
The Courtier thinks thy sager parts do sort
Best for the State; as for the Ladies they
Pos'd with the Medley of the language, say
Th'art a meer Scholler, and the Scholler swears
Thou art of any tribe rather then then theirs.
One thinks thee this, one that, a third thinks either,
Thou thinkst thy self th'art all, and I think neither.

On the losse of his finger.

How much more blest are trees then men?
Their boughes lopt off will grow agen;
But if the steel our limbs dissever,
The joynt once lost is lost for ever.
But fondly I dull fool complain,
Our members shall revive again.
And thou poor finger that art dust
Before the other members, must
Return as soon as hevens command,
And reunited be to'th hand
As those that are not ashes yet,
VVhy dost thou then so envious sit,
And malice Oaks that they to fate
Are tenants of a longer date?
Their leases do more years include
But once expir'd, are nere renew'd.
Therefore deare finger though thou be
Cut from those muscles govern'd thee,
And had thy motion at command,
Yet still as in a margent stand,
To point my thoughts to fix upon
The hope of Resurrection:
And since thou canst no finger be
Be a deaths head to humble me,
Till death doth threat her sting in vain.
And we in heaven shake hands again.

A paranicon to the truly noble Gentleman M. Endymion Porter.

Goe bashfull Muse, thy message is to one
That drinks and fils thy Helicon.
Who when his quill a sportive number seeks,
Plants Roses in the Ladies cheeks.
And with a sad note from their eyes can call
Pearl-showers to dew those buds withall,
Whose layes when I by chance am blest to heare
My soule climbs up into mine eare,
And bids your sisters challenge from the Moon
The Learned, as the fair Endymion.
Sing of his faith to the bright soule that's fled,
And left you all poor girls struck dead
With just despair of any future men
T'employ, or to reward a Pen.
A soul that staying would have wonders wrought,
High as himselfe, or his great thought,
And full of dayes, and honours, (with our prayer
In stead of Beads summ'd up with tears.)
Might of her own free flight to heaven have gone,
Offer what's heart, his hand, his sword had done,
But sing not thou a tale of discontent
To him whose joy is to lament.
We ought to pay true tears upon the hearse,
And lay some up in faithfull verse,
And so cast off our black; for more then thus
Troubles the saints for troubling us.
Say to him Cupid being once too kind
Wept out his eyes and so grew blind.
For dead Adonis, grief being paid her due
He turn'd Loves wanton god, and so do you.

To a painted Mistriss.

There are who know what once to day it was;
Your eyes, your Conscience, and your morning glasse,
How durst you venture that adulterate part
Be labour'd with your Fucus, and best Art
To the rude breath of every rash salute?
What did your profer whisper? expect suit?
You were too plyant with your eare, vno wisht
Pomatum and Vermilion might be kiss'd,
That lip, that cheek by man was never known,
Those favours you bestow are not your own.
Henceforth such kisses I'le defie, like thee,
Which druggists sell to you, and you to me.

Upon an Hermaphrodite.

To his Wel Timbred Mistris.

Sweet, heard you not fames latest breath rehearse
How I left hewing blocks to hack a Verse,
Now grown the Master-Log, while others be
But shavings ane the chips of Poetry.
And thus I Saw Deal-boerds of beauty forth,
To make my Love a Ware-house of her worth.
Her legs are heart of Oak, and columns stand
To bear the amorous bulk; then Muse command
That Beech be work'd for thighes unto those legs,
Turn'd round and carv'd, and joyned fast with pegs.
Contrive her belly round, a dining room,
When Love and Beauty will a feasting come,
Another story make from wast to chin
With breasts like Pots to nest young sparrows in,
Then place the Garret of her head above,
Thatcht with a yellow hair to keep in Love.
Thus have I finish'd Beauties master prize
Were but the Glasier neer to make her eyes.
Then Muse her out-work cease to raise
To work within, and wainscot her with praise.

On six maids bathing themselves in a River.

The Wedding Morne.

Arise, come forth, but never to return
To the same Center, 'tis thy virgin Urn,
Bury in it those thoughts you did possesse
Thee from thy Cradle, till this happinesse;
VVhich but to think upon will make thy cheek,
Fairer then is the Morn you so much seek
In beauty to outvy; and be the pride
Of all that ever had the name of bride.
Up Maids and let your nimble fingers be
True instruments of curiosity:
Set not a pin amisse, nor let a pleat
Be folded in her gown but what's in state.
And when her Ivory-temples you would deck
Forbear your Art, for Nature gives you check,
There in the circuit of her radient haire
See Cupid fetter'd in a golden snare.
Mark the triumphant throne wherein the Boy
Installed sits to give the Bridegroom joy.
But when she's drest, and that her listning ear
Is welcom'd by the Bridegrooms being neer,
Look how he stands, and how her stedfast eye
Is fix'd on him at's first discovery.
Both being met, mark how their souls do strive
To be in eithers joy contemplative.
VVhose kisses raise betwixt them such a fire
That should the Phoenix see, he to expire
VVould shun the spicy mountain, and so take
Himself between their lips a grave to make.

In praise of women in Generall.

He is a Paricide to his mothers name,
And with an impious hand murthers her fame,
That wrongs the praise of women, that dares write
Libels on Saints, or with foule ink requite
The milk they lent us; better Sex command
To your defence my more religious hand
At sword, or Pen; ours is the nobler birth,
For you of man were made, man but of earth,
The son of dust; and though your sin did breed
His fall, again you rais'd him in your seed:
Adam in's sleep a gainfull losse sustain'd
That for one rib a better self regain'd.
VVho had he not your blest creation seen,
An Anchorite in Paradise had been
Why in this work did the creation rest
But that eternall providence thought you best
Of all his six dayes labour: beasts should do
Homage to man, but man should wait on you.
You are of comlier sight, of daintier touch,
A tender flesh, a colour bright, and such
As Parians see in marble, skin more fair,
More glorious head, and far more glorious hair,
Eyes full of grace, and quicknesse, purer roses
Blush in your cheeks, a milder white composes
Your stately fronts, your breath more sweet then his
Breaths spice, and Nectar drops at every kisse.
Your skins are smooth, brisles on theirs do grow
Like quills of Porcupines, rough wool doth flow
O're all their faces, you approach more near
The form of angels, they like beasts appear:
If then in bodies where the souls do dwell
You better us, do then our souls excell?
No; we in souls equall perfection see
There can in them nor male nor female be.
Boast we of knowledg? You have more then we
You were the first ventur'd to pluck the tree,
And that more Rhetorick in your tongues doth lye
Let him dispute against that dares deny
Your least commands, and not perswaded be
With Sampsons strength, and Davids piety,
To be your willing Captives; vertue sure
Were blind as fortune, should shee choose the poore
Rough cottage man to live in, and despise
To dwell in you the stately edifice.
Thus you are prov'd the better sex, and we
Must all repent that in our Pedigre.
We chose the fathers name, where should we take
The mothers, a more honour'd blood, 'twould make
Our generation sure, and certain be,
And I'de believe some faith in Heraldry!
Thus perfect Creatures if detraction rise
Against your sex dispute but with your eyes,
Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be sent
So subtile and so strong an argument
Will teach the Stoick his affection too,
And call the Cinick from his Tub to woo.
Thus mustring up your beauteous troops, go on
The fairest is the valiant Amazon.

To M.I. S. on his gratefull Servant.

Amyntas.

Pilumnus Epilogizes.

All Loves are happy, none with us there be,
Now sicke of coynesse, or unconstancy.
The wealthy summes of kisses doe amount
To greater scores then curious art can count!
Each eye is fixt upon his Mistris face,
And every Arme is lockt in some embrace:
Each cheek is dimpled; every lip doth smile:
Such happinesse I wish this blessed Isle,
This little world of Lovers: and lest you
Should thinke this blisse no reall joyes nor true,
Would every Lady in this orbe might see
Their loves as happy, as we say they be!
And for your gentle youths, whose tender hearts
Are not shot-proofe gainst love and Cupids darts;
These are my Prayers (I would those prayers were charms)
That each had here his Mistresse in his armes.
True Lovers (for tis truth gives love delight)
To you our Author onely meanes to write.
If he have pleas'd) as yet he doubtfull stands)
For his applause clap lips instead of Hands.
He begs nor Bayes, nor Ivy; onely this,
Seale his wisht Plaudite with an amorous Kisse.
Exeunt Cantantes.

ARISTIPPVS, OR, THE IOVIALL PHILOSOPHER.

Presented in a private Shew,

The Præludium

Enter Prologue in a Circle.
Be not deceiv'd, I have no bended knees
No supple tongue nor speeches steep'd in Oyle,
No candied flattery, nor honied words,
I come an armed Prologue: arm'd with arts,
Who by my sacred charms and mystick skill,
By vertue of this all commanding VVand
Stolne from the sleepy Mercury, will raise
From black Abisse and sooty hell, that mirth
Which fits this long dead round. Thou long-dead Show,
Breake from thy Marble prison, sleep no more
In myrie darkenesse, henceforth I forbid thee
To bathe in Lethe's muddy waves, ascend
As bright as morning from her Tithons bed,
And red with kisses that have stain'd thy cheeke,
Grow fresh again: what? is my power contemned?
Dost thou not heare my call, whose power extends
To blast the bosome of our mother Earth?
To remove heavens whole frame from of her hinges,
As to reverse all Natures lawes? Ascend,
Or I will call a band of Furies foorth.
And all the torments wit of hell can frame
Shall force thee up.
Enter Show whipt by two Furies.
Show.
O spare your two officious whips a while,
Give some small respit to my panting limbs.
Let me have leave to speak, and truce to parlie,
Whose powerfull voyce hath forc't me to salute
This hated ayre! are not my paines sufficient,
But you must torture me with the sad remembrance
Of my deserts, the Causes of my exile?

Prolog.
This thy release I seeke, I come to file
Those heavy shackles from thy wearied limbs,
And give the leave to walke the Stage again,
As free as vertue: Burne thy withered Bayes,
And with fresh Laurell crowne thy sacred Temples,
Cast off thy maske of darkenesse; and appeare
As glorious as thy sister Comedy.
But first with teares wash off that guilty sinne,
Purge out those ill digested dregges of wit,
That use their inke to blot a spotlesse fame,
Let's have no one particular man traduc'd,
But like a noble Eagle seaze on vice,
As she flyes bold and open, spare the persons,
Let us have simple mirth, and innocent laughter;
Sweet smiling lips and such as hide no fangs,
No venemous biting teeth, or forked tongues.
Then shall thy freedome be restor'd again,
And full applause be wages of thy paine.

Show.
Then from the depth of truth I here protest,
I doe disclaime all petulant hate and malice,
I will not touch such men as I know vicious,
Much lesse the good: I will not dare to say,
That such a one pay'd for his fellowship,
And had no learning but in's purse; no Officer
Need feare the sting of my detraction,
I'le give all leave to fill their guts in quiet:
I make no dangerous Almanacks, no gulls,
No Posts with envious News and biting Packets,
You need not feare this Show, you that are bad,
It is no Parliament: you that nothing have
Like Schollars, but a Beard and Gowne, for me
May passe for good grand Sophies: all my skill
Shall beg but honest laughter and such smiles
As might become a Cato: I shall give
No cause to grieve that once more yet I live.

Prolog.
Goe then and you Beagles of hell avant,
Returne to your eternall plagues.

Exeunt Furies.
Prolog.
Here take these purer robes, and clad in these,
Be thou all glorious and instruct thy mirth
With thy sweet temper, whilst my selfe intreate
Thy friends that long lamented thy sad fates,
To sit and taste, and to accept thy Cates.

Exit Show.
Prolog.
Sir, see, and heare, and censure he that will,
I come to have my mirth approv'd, not Skill:
Your laughter all I begge, and where you see
No jest worth laughing at, faith laugh at me.

ARISTIPPUS

Enter two Schollars.
Slaves are they that heape up mountaines,
Still desiring more and more,
Still let's carouse in Bacchus fountaines,
Never dreaming to be poore.
Give us then a cup of liquor,
Fill it up unto the brim,
For then me thinks my wits grow quicker,
When my braines in liquor swimme.
1. Schol.
What ayles thou, thou musing man?
Diddle diddle dooe.

2. Schol.
Quench thy sorrowes in a Canne,
Diddle diddle dooe.

Aristippus:
But come you Lads that love Canary,
Let us have a mad segarie:
Hether, hether, hether, hether,
All good fellowes flocke together.

Arist.
I wish you all carefully,
Drinke Sacke but sparingly,
Spend your coyne thriftily,
Keepe your health warily,
Take heed of ebriety,
Wine is an enemy,
Good is sobriety,
Fly baths and venery.

1 Schol.
There is a drinke made of the Stygian Lake,
Or else of the waters the Furies doe make,
No name there is bad enough by which it to call,
But yet as I wist, it is ycleped Ale;
Men drinks it thick, and pisse it out thin,
Mickle filth by Saint Loy that it leaves within,
But I of complexion am wondrous sanguine,
And will love by th' Marrow a cup of Wine,
To live in delight was ever my wonne,
For I was Epicurus his own sonne,
That held opinion, that plainly delight
Was very felicity perfite:
A Bowle of Wine is wondrous {boone} cheere
To make one blythe, buxome, and deboneere,
'Twill give me such valour, and so much courage,
As cannot be found 'twixt Hull and Carthage.

2 Schol.
Fill me a Bowle of Sack with Roses crown'd.
Fil't to the brim, I'l have my temples bound
With flowry Chaplets, and this day permit
My Genius to be free, and frolike it;
Let me drinke deep, then fully warm'd with Wine
I'l chaunt Æneas praise, that every line
Shall prove immortall, till my moistned Quill
Melt into Verses, and Nectar like distill;
I'm sad, or dull, till Bowles brim-fil'd infuse
New life in me, new spirit in my Muse:
But once reviv'd with Sack, pleasing desires
In my child hood kindle such active fires,
That my gray haires seeme fled, my wrinkl'd face
Growne smooth as Hebes, youth, and beæuties grace,
To my shrunke veines, fresh blood and spirits bring,
Warme as the Summer, sprightfull as the Spring;
Then all the world is mine: Crœsus is poore,
Compar'd with me, he is rich that askes no more:
And I in Sack have all, which is to me
My home, my life, health, wealth, and liberty,
Then have I conquer'd all, I boldly dare
My Trophies with the Pelean youth compare,
Him I will equall, as his sword, my Pen
My conquer'd world of cares, his world of men,
Doe not Atrides, Nestors ten desire,
But ten such drinkers as that aged sire,
His streame of honied words flowed from the Wine,
And Sack his Counsell was, as he was thine.
Who euer purchast a rich Indian mine,
But Bacchus first, and next the Spanish Wine?
Then fill my bowle, that if I dye to morrow.
Killing cares to day, I have out-liv'd my sorrow.

Sim.
Aristippus is better in every letter,
Than Faber the Parisiensis.
Then Scotus, Sencinas, and Thomas Aquinas,
Or Gregory Gandavensis:
Than Cardan and Ramus, than old Paludanus,
Albertus and Gabriella,
Than Pico Mercatus, or Scaliger Natus,
Than Niphus or Zabarella,
Hortado, Trombetus, were fooles with Toletus,
Zanardus, and Will de Hales.
With Occham, Iavellus, and mad Algazellus,
Phyloponus, and Natalis;
The Conciliatur was but a meere prater,
And so was Apolinaris:
Iandunus, Plotinus, the Dunce Eugubinus:
With Mæsius, Savil, and Swarez,
Fonseca, Durandus, Becanus, Holandus,
Pererius, Avienture;
Old Trisme gift us, whose Volumes have mist us.
Ammonius, Bonaventure
Mirandula, Comes, with Proclus and Somes,
And Guido, the Carmelita:
The nominall Schooles, and the Colledge of fooles,
No longer is my delight a:
Hang {Beirewood} and Carter, in Crakenthorps Garter,
Let Keckerman too bemoane us,
Ile be no more beaten, for greasie Iacke Seaten,
Or conning of Sandersonus.
The censure of Cato's, shall never amate us,
Their frosty beards cannot nip us:
Your Ale is too muddy, good Sack is our study,
Our Tutor is Aristippus.

Aristip.
We care not for money, riches, or wealth,
Old Sack is our mony, old Sack is our health,
Then let's flocke hither
Like birds of a feather,
To drinke, to fling,
To laugh and sing,
Conferring our notes together,
Conferring our notes together.
Come let us laugh, let us drinke, let us sing,
The Winter with us is as good as the Spring,
We care not a feather
For wind, or for weather,
But night and day
We sport and play,
Conferring our notes together
Conferring our notes together.

THE PEDLER,

AS It was presented in a strange SHOW.