Claraphil and Clarinda :: :: University of Virginia Library

I will not Saint my fair Clarinda, SHE
More glorious is in her humanity;
Nor (in the heat of Fancy) pluck a Star
To rob the needy World, and place her there,
These are the subtle Raptures of the Times,
With which the wanton Poets make their Rhymes,

Rise high as doth their Bloud, 'till some proud She,
Pamper'd with such new-cook'd Divinity,
Surfets; believing (in a pride of Soul)
These fictions true, and Sins without controul;
Do Angels boast habitual purity?
No 'tis in them impeccability,
And therefore not praise-worthy, they've, nor will,
Nor power to think, much less to practice Ill:
With thee 'tis otherwise, for thou mayst sin
Beyond hope of Repentance, and therein
Appears the odds, for maugre Flesh and Bloud,
Devil, Temptation, Beauty, thou art Good.

To Clarinda (his Love) upon Refusal of a Kiss.

What not a Kiss? Clarinda, this is strange,
What is the slender motive of this Change?
Nay, Ile not strive with you, 'tis no content
To me to take a Kiss by Ravishment:
Didst ever think I joyn'd my Lips to thine,
But when I thought thy Bliss as large as mine?
How strangely Curtesies mis-construed be;
That's thought Offence, which I meant Charity;
Not long time since, if I did once neglect
This kinde of Kissing-duty, I was check'd,
And not enforced onely to restore it,
But (as a fault) to pay a Million for it:
And let me never be recorded where
The little God unfolds his Register,

But I did pay this amorous Duty down
As much for your Delight, as for my own:
And must your self-conceit make you so rude,
To pay my Merit with Ingratitude?
Forgetfull Vanity, can you deride
The Man whose Folly gave you cause of Pride?
Was it not I who (when ye did despair
To have the last fruits of an undone Heir)
Saluted ye with love? though since indeed,
Ye are well-furnish'd Suitors ride full speed:
Who yet cannot conceive Merit in you,
But trust my Judgement, love ye 'cause I do:
Before I brought ye choice, you had not any;
I was that One Fool that hath made your Many:
Had not I been, your Maiden-head would be
Fifteen years hence, of some Antiquity;
Perhaps lead Apes (Virginities perdition,
According to the Country superstition)
I did not onely love you, but did strive
To make you worthy of me, did contrive
To mend Heav'ns work, changing that Eye, that Lip,
Controuling Nature's courser Workmanship:
I did applaud you 'bove a Deity
And make you Sacred, with my Heresie:
But now I see Fate will not be withstood:
Nature, nor I, nor both, can make you Good:
I stole a Constellation for you Eye:
Pollish'd you Brow with Indian Ivory:
Feign'd from your Lips, Nectar to Flow and Ebb;
Made your hair softer than Arachne's Webb;

Fetch'd Pyramids of snow, to vail your Brest,
Brought the red Morning from the early East,
To deck your Cheek; your Lips (that wanted bloud)
Had liquid Coral from the furious floud,
To make them ruddy; I perfum'd your breath
More sweet than is the Phœnix at her Death.
I sent you Summer spices from Sabea,
Arabian Aromats, Balm from Judea;
Such Odors for your Breath, I did invent,
Till they became a gluttony of Scent:
Your Voice, so full of Concord, some might be
Brought to beleeve, 'twas Heaven's Hierarchie.
Nor onely gave these to your Outward Feature,
Within I made ye a more glorious Creature;
I did conceit you Innocent to be,
As Angels in their immortality;
Chast as the Virgin Infant, newly hurl'd
From the warm Womb, to weep in th' treach'rous World;
Or the first Man, ere Misery made suit
He should know Eve, the Serpent, and the Fruit:
I thought Thee as constant (without variation)
As rising Titan to his declination.
And the great cause of thy Ambition, is
Thy Vanity made thee Beleeve all this:
But (by the Magick of that Poesie
That brought them to thee) from thee they shall flie,
And never see thee more, thy Glass shall be
The onely Mirror of Deformity;
This recompence I will return thy Ill,
Thou shalt have leave to say, I love thee still,

That thou mai'st keep thy Loves, who (if they know
How thou quitt'st me) will quickly leave thee to,
Whil'st I with humbled Knees, in devout Prayer,
Purge out the sin that made me feign thee fair.

A Wish for a Widow, in the Character of a good Husband.

If a white Wish, wing'd with a Zeal, more bright
Than Prayers, proceeding from an Anchorite,
When he bedews with tears the sacred shrine,
May prove propitious, pray accept of mine:
If't be decreed, Himen shall once more light
His holy Tapers for your Bridal Night,
May he be such a Consort, as excels
The vast extent of largest Paralels;
May the renown'd Endowments of his Mind,
Be the epitome of all Mankind:
May the Effigies of his Beauties, be
Th' Exact Idea of a Deity;
Let him in such high seas of Learning swim,
That all the Sciences may study Him.
Next, I would him Valiant, and further
From Tyranny, than Mercy is from Murther,
And his own Actions such a Vollume be,
As shall exceed all Rules of Heraldry:
May he be one, whose most auspicious stars
Designs him to compose these Civil wars;
For you are Mistresse of such merit, that
None but one destin'd to erect a State,

Is worthy of you; But if he should prove
Short of all this, May he supply't with Love,
And Court you with such a divine respect
As (at last day) the Saints shall the Elect:
So loyall to your Bed, that he may deem
No Woman but your self was made for him,
So shall you nere be jealous, but expell
That plague which turns a Marriage to a Hell:
May you live free from Sorrows, nay, from Fears,
Growing no lesse in Graces, than in years:
But if a widow'd life you think more bliss,
May that prove full as happy to you as this.

An Epithalamium on the much honoured Pair T. S. Esquire, and Mrs. D. E.

So at the first the Soul and Body met,
When the Creator did in Councel set
To make a Little world command the Great.

Nor are your Flames less Innocent than they
Befor the Grand Impostor did betray
Their fatal Freedoms to the Worlds decay.

Therefore let all that Heaven can dispense
To royal Mankinde in the Soul and Sense,
Possess ye with Seraphick influence.

May all the promis'd Blessings on each Nation
From Genesis, to John's high Revelation,
Contribute to your Cordial Coronation.

May both your Brows be circled with such Beams
Of Glory, as appear'd in Jacob's Dreams,
Or the Dove darted upon Jordan's Streams.

May Lovers light their Torches at your Flame,
And may the power of Stanley's single Name
Prove the sublimest Epithet of Fame.

May your hearts fix above the force of Fate,
May neither Princes frown, nor Peoples hate,
Your fair Affections dis-unanimate.

May ye have all ye can desire, And when
Your wishes have out-vied the thoughts of Men,
Some Power direct you how to wish agen.

An Acrostich on two Pairs of Inseparable Friends married in one Day.

Jove Joyn these Pairs, and May each Blessed Brides
Obtain A Guard of Angels for A Guide:
Heaven, Nature, Vertue, Reason (in cōmuniō)
Nobilitate, Enrich, and Love Your Union:

Grace, Faith, and Knowledge, Bind ye; may ye be
Each Others Bliss; No Evil Injure ye:
Let nothing Re-divide; Eternal Rest,
Love, Dwell, and Last, in each Diviner Brest.

An Acrostical Eulogie, written on the worthy name of Mr. William Legassick, second sonne to Mr. Henry Legassick, of little Hempstead in the County of Devon.

With a heart free from Flatteries fair crimes,
Let me salute you in these rural Rhymes;
I must confess the favours you have done,
Exceed my best Congratulation.
Love (whose bright Laws you never disobay)
Guides you to do more then a Verse can pay:
Learning and those accommodations which
Amplifie Nature, and make Spirits rich,
Improve their fertile Faculties, and do
Shine forth the brighter, 'cause they dwel in you:
A great Apostle 'twas, that said, if I
Speak Angels language without Charity,
My words are but as tinkling Cimbals. You
I mitate him, have Love and Learning too:
CHRIST guard your Family, and may your Name
Keep up, till all the world flye in a flame.

Sic Vaticinatur: T. J.

A double Acrostick, composed on the Names of Mr. Francis Jordan of Ensham in the County of Oxon, and Th. Jordan the Author.

Faith, Hope, and Charity, Wealth, Worth, and Wit,
Wait on their Names for whom this Poem's wriT;
Religion, Reason, Temperance, and Truth,
The peace of Conscience, and the joys of YoutH,
Attend upon their Actions; may they know,
No change, that bears the name or badge of wO;
No ill approach their Natures, may the jem
Of mutual friendship ever dwell with theM;
Content be their beatitude, and may
Their loves encrease, and meet no RemorA;
Ioy crown their days, and may no sad distress,
At any time expel their happinesS;
Saints be their Guardians, let nothing be
Obnoxious to their lawful amitJ;
Jehovah joyn their spirits, may they grow,
Brighter then Lillies on the Banks of PO;
Omnipotence defend them from that Star,
Whose influence brings Famine, Plague, or WaR.
Rebellion and those bloudy crimes that stand,
Upon the red Accompt of this black LanD,
Depart from their designes as large a way,
As'tis from Europe to AmericA.
All happiness that ever hath been known,
From Adam's death to Christ's AscenscioN,
Nobilitate their souls; enrich their lives,
And grant them handsom Graves, or chaster Wives.

A Cross Acrostich, on two crosst Lovers.

Though cros'd in our Affection, still the flames,
Of Honour, shall secure our Noble Names
Nor shal Our Fare divorce our Faith, Or cause,
The least Mislike of Love's Diviner Laws.
Crosses somtimes Are Cures, Now let us prove,
That no strength Shall Abate the Power of Love:
Honor, Wit, Beauty, Riches, Wisemen call,
Frail Fortune's Badges, In true Love lies all.
Therfore to him we Yeild; our Vows shall be
Payd, Read, and written in Eternity:
That All may know, when men grant no Redress,
Much Love can sweeten the unhappinesS.

A New-years Gift in the ordinary Acrostich to his Friend Mr. John Curling.

Jf I were one of those that lately sold
Conscience and Country for a Gripe of Gold,
Or had I now a power to surprize
Unpittied England with a worse Excise
Happily I might lend ye from my store
Resplendent Jewels, or the Indian Oar,
Now I can send ye nought but empty Dishes,
Love, laided ore with Language & good wishes.
Iehovah grant that upon Sea and Land,
Nothing prove profitless you take in hand:
Go forth and prosper, May your Labours end
Erect more wealth then wit, or Time can spend
May all the Good you can attempt, prevail,
Fate finde you fraught, & fair Winds fill your Sail,

On the hononored Services of the most worthy Col. Rokeby, under the Command of Monsieur Gashion the French General against the Spanish Forces.

Anno 1646, & 1647

Sir, since in Ages past, Verses have been
The Balm to Valour, and preserved green,
The Acts of antique Heroes, such as made
The Reader ravish'd with the Royall Trade

Of righteous War, upon the Crest of those
Whom Fate and Dis-affection made their Foes,
I hope my maimed Muse (late troden down
By the red fury of Rhamnusa's frown)
May re-erect her drooping head, and be
A Tomb to Royal Rokeby's Memory,
Whose Acts do want a Homer to reherse,
Being fitter for a Volume, than a Verse:
Witness the wise Entrenchment that was made
Before Courtrey, Where the ingenious Spade
Furrow'd the fiery Field, and did engage
The slow-pac'd fury of Spain's subtlest Rage);
VVhich soon approach'd in a relieving Power,
Flesh'd with four Thousand Men, whose fatal hour
Rokeby commanded, whose Magnetique Sword
Drew bloud at any distance, and whose VVord
Gave life to all the Cavalry, in brief,
He forced their Retreat, and kill'd their Chief;
This is not all, nor must his faithfull Fame
Content it self with such a single Flame,
Mardyke looks big, a Fort that did impart
The Labyrinths of Mathematique Art,
VVhose well-man'd Bastions might Defiance give
To all the VVorld, and (unsupported) live
Upon their thrifty Store, 'till Rokeby's Men
Made a fierce On-set, and into their Den
Shot so much fire, that all within it, say,
The French Compounded with the Latter Day:
Next Dunkirk, (which so many years hath been
The Trap of Flanders) strait was taken in

By Rokeby's bold Assistance, whose fair Fate
Attempted nought too early, or too late:
Labassay (next to this) the French oblige
With the hot Complement of a close Siege:
Lans being then re-taken, there was slain
A Man whose worth out-weigh'd the Crown of Spain,
Royall Gashion, whose Name the Army wou'd
Rather than Tears, enbalm with Spanish bloud
Which shall not cease to run 'till all are made
The Subject of a Charnell-house and Spade;
Untill which time, my due Devotion sires,
That (He who now is Subject of my Muse)
The noble Rokeby, may (undaunted) stand
The fixed glory of his Native Land,
Till honor'd Age conclude his Life, and then
I wish his Worth may meet some better Pen.

The Anti-platonick by I. C. with an Answer by T. I.

For shame thou Everlasting Woer,
Still saying Grace, and nere fall to her:
Love that's in Contemplation plac'd,
Is Venus drawn but to the Waste,
Unless his heat confess his Gender,
And the Parley cause Surrender:
They are Salamanders of a cold Desire
That live un-scorch'd amidst the wildest Fire.

What though she be a Dame of Stone,
The Image of Pigmalion,
As hard, and un-relenting She
As the new-crusted Niobe;
Or (what doth more of Statue carry)
A Nun of the Platonick Quarrey:
Love melts the rigor, which the Rocks have bred,
A Flint will break upon a Feather-bed.

Then leave ye pretty Female Elves,
To candy and preserve your selves,
VVomen commence by Cupid's Dart,
As the King's Hunting dubbs a Hart:
No more ye Sectaries of the Game
No more of your Calcining Flame:
Lov's Votaries enthrall each others Soul,
Till both of them do live upon Parol.

Virtue's no more in VVomen kinde
Then the Green-sickness of the Minde,
Philosophy, they're new Delight:
A kinde of Charcoal Appetite:
There is no Sophistry prevails
VVhen Love a loving heart assails:
But the disputing Petty-coat will warp,
As skilfull Fencers use to check at Sharp:

The Souldier, that man of Iron,
VVhom Ribs of Horror all inviron,

VVho strong with Wyer instead of Veins,
In whose Embraces y'are in Chains,
Let a Magnetique Girl appear,
And he turns Cupid's Curaseer;
Love storms his Breast, and takes the Fortress in
For all the bristled Turn-pikes of his Chin.

Since Love's Artillery (their Cheeks)
The Breast-work which the firmest seeks;
Come, let us in affecton Riot,
They're sickly Pleasures, keep their Diet;
Give me a Lover bold and free,
Not impeach'd with formality;
Lik an Embassadour that beds a Queen,
VVith the nice Caution of a Sword between.

I. C.

The Answer.

[Leave thy salt lascivious Lover]

Leave thy salt lascivious Lover,
Is't no more but Come and Cover,
Love that is by Lust mislead,
Is Hellen drawn upon her head:
And the luxurious Garb is stranger
Than the Horse-tail tied to th' Manger:
That scorching Salamander kills his Sire,
VVho will confound his alimental Fire.

Although she be no Dame of Snow,
VVhich with every Smile will flow;

Or be transform'd (by brackish bloud)
From a Figure, to a Floud:
Her Love will last, when (after loathing)
Thy Marchpane Mistress melts to nothing:
Love is a Gem in the Celestial Crown,
A Diamond is never broke with Down.

Then cease to frisk it so like Elves,
And make French Monkeys of your selves;
VVhy should Cowardice prevail?
Valiant Men do nere turn tail:
Love is no Faction, the direct
And true Religion, is no Sect:
Luxurious Lovers do (like Rebells) frame
A War against their King in his own Name.

Virtue is a Virgins VVealth,
The Magazine of mental Health;
And (since Philosophy should be
The Hand-maid to Divinity)
Her sacred Sylogisms shall
Maintain, Lust is Apocriphal:
The party-colour'd Cod-piece then shall be
Struck dumb, with Farthing all Philosophy.

Your pincer-finger'd Souldier which
Doth deal in heat of bloud, and itch:
May, when the Dog-days do increase,
Court Venus in her Verdigrese;

Or finde some Tyndar-hearted Saint,
Where he may wallow in her Paint:
For such a piece of potent Pleasure can
(It's ten to one) charge both your Horse and Man.

Since Lust is nothing but the foul
And fierce Consumption of the Soul,
Let our embracing Spirits prove
The Joys of incorporeal Love;
Let Wantons in their wilde Desires
Call us Cupid's Crucifiers:
We will the Wonders of our Love reherse,
When Fire shall vitrifie the Universe.

A Blessing to my Creditors.

The Debtor to the Creditor did fall,
Crying, Be patient, and Ile pay you all;
With such humility come I to you,
Believing Men, and, with his Words, I sue,
That you'll have Patience, 'tis a Virtue which
Will not Impoverish, but make ye Rich
In Heaven's high esteem, And from that Store
Who ever hath his Wealth, cannot be poor:
You know the Scripture doth these words afford
Who gives the Poor lends Money to the Lord;
Then whatsoere is scor'd for their Expence,
Your Interest, shall be treble Recompence:
Is not this well now? Who would not give all
To have his Use exceed his Principal?

And yet there shall not on your Conscience lie
The burthen of extorting Usury:
If Giving get such Gain, be not afraid,
For what ye lend, shall surely be repaid;
I, but you'll ask me when? why there's th' offence
Y'are guilty of, ye must have patience.
Ye tell me, when I say, I cannot pay,
You'll take an Order with me, VVhat, I pray?
You will imprison me, where I shall lie
As much indebted to your Charitie;
This is the way to have God's Curse to sink ye;
But is't the way to have your Money, think ye?
VVill it not make your very Souls to quake,
VVhen I shall ask ye Bread for the Lord's sake?
An hundred hungry Christians likewise lie,
And you must make me keep um Company:
Have Patience pray, if ye do chance to die
Before y'are paid, Ile write your Elegie,
And such a serious one, void of all Blushes,
That shall revive ye, when your Tomb's turn'd Ashes;
Ile make your Names to Men sweeter than Spices.
VVho else would curse ye for your young heirs vices.
But what's all this to Money? 'twill not pierce
Your greedy Mindes, you'll not be paid in Verse,
Nor yet in Prose, I see; you hold it sweeter,
To have your Debt in Money than in Meeter:
VVhy, ye shall ha't: Nay, do not thank me, prey,
Not yet I mean; you know there is a Day
Shall pay for all; and then kinde curteous Men,
In every Hundred Ile allow ye Ten:

Why now, your Looks plead pitty, ye shall see
The blessings I have kept in store for ye,
Blessings that shall prevail beyond your Purses,
And free ye from Tom Randolphs witty Curses,
May all your Wives turn honest, and your Mothers,
And waste your wealth no more on younger Brothers:
I wish a blessing upon all your Seed,
May all your Children learn to write and reade,
And cast Account well, which, in vulgar sence,
Is to dispose your Pounds, Shillings, and Pence.
May they to Riot never be inclin'd,
Or to the female Gender give their Minde,
But if it happen so, they needs must turn
Their Mindes to carefull Marriage, or else burn,
Let them in Heavens name wed, and never cease
To be laborious for the Worlds increase;
And (though you nere were any) I wish then
Their Children may be Sons of Gentlemen,
Have all their Carriage lie in the French Roade,
To wear their Cloaths Gentile, and Al le mode,
These and such other Blessings, sure will stay ye,
'Las these may come to pass yet ere I pay ye.

The Eccho's Oracle, an Eclogue betwixt Melancholicus and Aulicus.

Mel.
Report relates that in this Forrest lies
(Hid in mysterious Concavities)
A famous Eccho, she they say that is
Recorded in the Metamorphosis.

Aul.
'Tis said, she is Oraculous, and can
(By a most queint Reflexion) give a Man
Such Answer to his Question that affords
Another Sense extracted from his Words.

Mel.
Prethee let's try: what shall we ask?

Aul.
No matter
What, ask her any thing.

Mel.
Why then have at her;
Ile whisper first—Mysterious Mother, thou
That mock'st the bleating Lamb, and lowing Cow,
Or any sound that doth thy Cavern pass,
Hearken—

Aul.
Unto the braying of an Ass.

Mel.
Prethee be silent.

Aul.
Prethee speak in season;
Ask her who shall be King.

Mel.
No, no, that's Treason,
She dares not answer.

Aul.
Why? She need not fear,
For an whole Army cannot wound the Air.

Mel.
What Heir?

Aul.
Air of this Forrest.

Mel.
Yes they may
Cleave it with fire.

Aul.
She'll be as fierce as they,
Besides she is so able to retort,
Do what they can, she'll give the last Report.

Mel.
She's very old, Ile ask her if she know
Acts that were done a thousand years ago:

Tell me (Great Eccho) where (with such high fury)
Did Christ receive his Injury?

Eccho.
In Jury.

Mel.
A perfect Oracle; She that so well
(VVith direct Readiness) things past can tell,
Knows something yet to come, I am on fire,
'Till I hear more of this: Now do you try her.

Aul.
Come Eccho, say, what's a more monstrous Evil,
Then we have read in Mandevil?

Eccho.
Man-Devil.

Aul.
VVhat are those men that Faction so inspires
To be our Churches Edifiers?

Eccho.
Fiers.

Aul.
What did they think of our Comunion-table
VVhen they were so un-affable?

Eccho.
A Fable.

Mel.
Thou knew'st the Jews ith' days of great Herodias,
Will Scotchmen be Commodious?

Eccho.
Becom odious.
But if our Persons in their power fall,
VVill they prove Rational?

Ecch.
Prove rash on all.

Aul.
How can they be our Commonwealths deflourers?
They were our Peace-Endeavourers.

Eccho.
Devourers.

Mel.
Peace is pure sweetness, though we care not for her,
VVhat is their due that do abhor her?

Eccho.
Horror.

Aul.
Come come, I'le ask no more, for she affords,
Nothing but by advantage of our Words;

Let us depart, 'tis likely we can finde,
Little to do, that wanton with the VVinde:
No, prethee stay, I have two questions more
To ask, and I have done.

Aul.
Prethee give o're.

Mel.
A Lady loves me, Eccho, shall I chuse her,
To be my Mistress, or refuse her?

Eccho.
Use her.

Mel.
I call her Dear, and she stiles me her Hony,
VVhat can be greater Harmony?

Eccho.
Her mony.

Mel.
VVhil'st that is lasting, I will ne'r forsake her,
If thou wilt have me undertake her.

Eccho.
Take her.

Aul.
This is meer humour (and indeed) no more
Then what is daily practiz'd, for before
Some do propound, those thoughts that do disease um,
They angle for such Answers as may please um:
And do commit unto the Hearers trust,
The charge of pleasing, not of being just:
So a weak Prince, and Parasites accord,
He asks is't well? They answer, Well my Lord.

A Bill of Love.

Be't known to all men, by these Presents,
Franck Wild-love, late of Infidelity;
Ith' County of Inconstant, Gentleman:
Acknowledge (with the greatest zeal I can)

My self to ow and be indebted to
Maria Fair-chast Virgin, late of True,
Ith' County of Credulity, the Summ
Of my Affections, and to tender um
Upon her first Demand, to which, I binde
My Body, Heart, Life, Soul, in this most kinde
And amorous Obligation, such a Debt
No Heirs, nor yet Executors are set
To see discharg'd, but onely He that owes
Must pay, or the fair Creditor must lose;
Dated the one and twentieth year oth' Reign
Of Cupid, King of Hearts, (our Sovereign)
Witness the Cherubims, and Common-weal
Of Angels, here I fix my Hand and Seal.

Fr. Wildlove.

A Farewell to his worthy Friend, Mr John Curling upon his Voyage to the Indies.

If I were more enamor'd with thy sight
Than with thy safety, I should much invite
Thy stay in England, and dissuade thee from
Those motives which divert thy feet from home,
But since I see the sullen Wars increase,
And sad Destruction mortifie our Peace,
I do applaud thy Providence, and pray
That thy Negotiations Night and Day
May prove propitious, thou I hope, wilt finde,
Though amongst Heathen, Spirits more inclin'd

Unto Humanity, then some that here
Usurp the name of Christians, May the cleer
Beams of divine Protection ever dwell
In all the Good you can attempt, Farewell.

The Pursuit betwixt Claraphil and Clarinda.

Clarinda.

Ay me, flie me not,
Good faith, I do mean no harm;
I am out of breath,
Support me from death,
With thy all-curing Arm:
Alas, I faint,
My tyring Limbs do tremble,
Then prove
My Constant Love,
No true heart can dissemble.

Once more turn thy face,
Encourage my failing Feet,
That now are grown faint
With Brambles restraint?
For every Bush I meet
Doth throw me down;
And ere I can recover,
Thy flight
Out-goes my sight,
What Sorrow hath a Lover.

The Reply of Claraphil to another Air.

Claraphil.

Though I wish fair Venus guide all,
Those bright flames we sacrifice,
And confess no other Idol
Than the Altar of thine Eyes:
Though I know thy Glories can
Provoke a Proselyte from Pray'r,
And the Destiny of Man
Doth lie tangl'd in thy hair:
Though thy Mental Merit may
Mollifie immortal Ire,
Mitigate the Latter Day,
And reverse the Rage of Fire.

Look up to your Saphir VVindow,
VVhere the Destinies appear,
Thou on that shalt finde Clarinda
My red Ruine written there,
That no Virgin can be true,
If my favor she implore,
But will wander for a new,
And invite a Million more;
Though thy sacred Soul may be
Fix'd, yet thou in me wilt finde
Something (though unknown to me)
VVill make thee wilder than the Winde.

Chorus by Both, with a through Bass.

[Then let thy bended Knees the Gods implore]

Then let thy bended Knees the Gods implore
That thou mayst love me no more:
And we with Incense will their Altars warm,
Till they have losed the Charm,
Panchean Spices, and Arabian Gums,
Shall sweat, in whole Hecatombs,
Our Optick faculties shall nere be drie,
VVe thus will do till we die.

A Kiss, by Mr. T. S.

A Kiss begg'd, and she did joyn
Her Lips to mine,
Then (as afraid) snatch'd back her Treasure,
And mock'd my Pleasure;
Agen, my Chariessa, for in this
Thou onely gav'st Desire, and not a Kiss.

The Answer.

[A Kiss you had, the fair One gave]

A Kiss you had, the fair One gave
What you did crave,
But (wisely) limited her Treasure
For further Pleasure,
Extract no more of Honey from those Hives,
For fear you surfet on Preparatives.

The Senses.

Clarinda , in thy face,
Is all that ever was,
Pertaining unto Beauty, Youth, and Grace,
I prethee let me Gaze?

No Angel in a Sphere,
Doth sing so sweet and cleer,
His heavenly Hallelujah to Heavens ear;
I prethee let me Hear?

Thy breathing doth excel,
The Ayr where Roses dwel,
All pestilential peril 'twill expel;
I prethee let me Smell?

Upon thy Lip is plac'd,
Prevention for a Fast,
'Tis so Divine a Julip, I shall last,
For ever, if I Tast.

Although thy heart is steel,
Each Limb, from Head to Heel,
Is soft as Down, that fals from Arachne's Wheel;
I prethee let me Feel?

Give Ear unto my moan,
Let me no longer groan,

Surprize me with thy Senses one by one,
Or I shall lose my own.

Solitude.

Poor Swain, thou must repair,
Where neither Ear nor Eye,
Thy sad Laments can over-hear, or spye;
Into some silent Ayr.
That kindly entertains,
Thy sighes, and with no Eccho mocks thy pains:
Since thy Clarinda scornfully professes,
She cannot chuse but laugh at thy distresses.

Blest be thou Solitude,
That to thy Cypress Grove,
Invites the Melancholy soul of Love;
No murmur shall intrude,
No flattr'ing Winde invade,
To spoyl the happy quiet of thy shade:
Here will I sit, and Venus Son importune,
To torture her, that laughs at my misfortune.

Kinde Cupid bend thy Bow,
And with thy keenest shaft,
Transfix her brest, that glories in her craft;
Shoot home, that there may flow,
From her obdurate heart,
A Stream to drench the feathers of thy Dart:
That when (like me) her flame she cannot smother,
We both may love, and laugh, at one another.

Eliza and Alexis,

a Dialogue.

Eliz.

Worthy Shepherd, cast thy Eyes,
Here thy scorn'd Eliza lies,
And without thy Love she dies:
I prethee then draw near me.

Alex.
Oh! no, fly away, I never more will hear thee.

Faithless Shepherdess, I flie,
'Cause I fear to cast an Eye
In thy Love doth Ruine lie,
I may no more mistake thee,

Eliz.
Ay me! I'm undone, My Shepherd will forsake me,

What though I have gone astray,
Wilt thou work my Lifes decay,
Prethee do not turn away,
But once more come and chear me,

Alex.
Oh! no, fly away, thou never shalt come near me.

Didst thou onely go astray,
When thou wrought'st my Love's decay,
And my Life thou wouldst betray,
What Answer canst thou make me?

El.
Ay me! I'm undone, my Shepherd will forsake me.

I will help to fold thy Sheep,
And my self in Garlands keep,

I will watch whilest thou dost sleep,
No Danger shall come near thee.

Alex.
Oh! no, fly away, I never more will hear thee.

Thou shalt nere come nigh my Sheep,
Least thy Magick work so deep,
That they devour me in my Sleep,
When none are near to wake me.

El.
Ay me! I'm undone, My Shepherd will forsake me.

Dost remember how by slight,
Thou mad'st me thy Quarrell fight?
In hope to have me kill'd out-right,
By Sheep-hooks in a Duell.

El.
Sweet Shepherd now forget, or thou wilt be too cruel.

This is onely thy pretence,
That I may be banish'd hence,
Prethee pardon one offence,
I never more will grieve thee.

Al.
Dear Danger get thee gone, I never will believe thee.

El.

I will rob the choisest Bowers,
To make Coronets of Flowers,
Merrily we'll spend the howers,
And thou shalt be my Shepherd.

A.
Sweet Syren get thee hence, thou'rt spotted as a Leopard.

If thou dost but touch a Bowre,
Guilt will all the place deflowre,

Thy very smelling doth devour,
And I shall ne'r be merry;

Eliz.
Deer Shepheard take my life, my soul is sick and weary.

The Adulteress.

Who would have thought Luxuria, when
Thy choise made me the best of Men,
Thou could'st contrive my life's decay,
And wound that heart which once did pay,
A price for thine? What Souls have they,
That do with tears betray?

Thou didst petition me with Prayers,
With blubber'd Eyes, and torn Hairs,
That both our Hearts might joyn in one:
Thou wert so full of melting mone,
For fear thy life should be o'rethrown,
I did destroy my own.

Yet she that then did so profess,
Faith, Truth, and Love, knows nothing less;
But all her Bloud with poyson flows,
For in the Bride-bed where the Rose,
And Violets did their sweets disclose,
Henbane, and Hemlock grows.

Such Woes are only known in Hell,
My Love had never paralel;
And how I hate, no tongue can tell.

That were the World from women free,
As 'twas at first, my soul should flee
Her salt societie.

I would embrace a Body first,
By Brothels twenty Winters Nurst;
And all the plagues compleatly, curs'd
Whose mortifying breath at ten
Miles distance might destroy strong men,
Ere we would meet agen.

Add to my Life ten thousand years,
With health, and treasure, free from fears;
I would not have them to be Hers:
Nay should afflicting Furies frame
A fire, and force me to my shame,
I'de wallow in the flame,

The Comparison.

Fond Love that blinded Boy,
So many keeps in Bands,
Is like the Cold, and Christiall Ice,
In wanton Childrens hands;
Which though it hurt their tender joynts,
It so delights their Eie,
Although they seem to let it fall,
They hold it fast and cry.

The Rebell.

Love? No; I am not such a Foe
To my Peace, Prethee cease,
Say no more,
Though her Eyes
Are the Skies
Where Love flies
And Inveagles
All the Eagles
That in her Airy soar,
I dare not flie, in her Skie,
'Tis too high;
Once her frown
Threw me down
So low,
That I swore, Never more
In a Sun-beam to soar,
Love and I, will each other never know.

He brings such Woes with him
Nought can exceed um;
Souls do in sorrow swim,
And Tears do feed um;
That every sense is dim
To Peace and Freedom.

Eye me, Try me,
Can you deny me?

Thus he beguiles the Wise,
But if you
To his Bow do bow
Your Soul becomes a Sacrifice;
Fires, Mires,
Brooks, and Briers,
Kinder are than he,
Then shake him off,
VVith scorn and scoff,
Sing, and drink Sack with me.

The Departure.

By all thy Glories willingly I go,
Yet could have wish'd thee Constant in thy Love;
But since thou needs must prove
Uncertain, as is thy Beauty,
Or as the Glass, that shews it thee,
My Hopes thus soon to overthrow,
Shews thee more fickle, but my flames by this
Are easier, quench'd than his,
VVhom flattering smiles betray,
'Tis tyrannous delay
Breeds all this harm,
And makes that Fire consume, that should but warm.

Till Time destroys the Blossoms of thy Youth,
Thou art our Idol, worship'd at that Rate,
But who can tell thy Fate?

Or say that when thy Beauties gone,
Thy Lovers Torch will still burn on?
I could have serv'd thee with such truth
Devoutest Pilgrims to their Saints do ow,
Departed long ago;
And at thy ebbing Tide
Have us'd thee as a Bride,
Who's onely true
'Cause you are fair, he loves himself, not you.

T. G.

The Ladies Answer.

By all the Perjuries thy Lips did wear,
Thy formal Favours never aim'd at Good,
But what might move the Bloud,
To wanton in its own self-love;
Which Virtue bids me to reprove,
Though to reform be to forswear,
Yet in the holy State of Love we may
Not swear our Souls away:
For at the Latter Day
We Damn if we betray
And they that prove
False in their Faith, un-crown the King of Love.

Ere Time have blemish'd this poor bloom of mine
Your wilde Idolatry will worship more
Then Laplanders adore:

You cannot with your words win me,
To think that where no Saint you see
You can adore an empty Shrine:
No, dear Dissembler, the best Love doth tend
To a self-serving End,
The greatest Power that is
We do obey for Bliss,
He that will be
False to himself, can nere be true to me.

The Fugitive.

Fly, Fly,
Some way, where neither Ear nor Ey
Can ever see or hear thee;
But those Furies that
Daily triumph at
The Tyranny of Truth,
For I
By fainting Famin vow to die,
Ere such a Sea come near me,
In whose bosom lies
All Hell can devise
To ruine Age and Youth;
From thy Lust flows a Floud,
That destroyes
All my joyes
In the Bud,
Thou a Civil War dost move,
'Gainst the Royalty of Love,
Treason lodgeth in thy Bloud:

She that hath bid Adieu
And refus'd
VVhat she chus'd
For a New,
Let her Lover look to be
In the same Extremity,
Faith, she never can be true.

Then welcome Freedome, Farewell Fears,
I have for Crowns exchang'd my Cares,
My Soul shall soar above the Spheres,
And sing whilest he the burthen bears.

VVho would not pardon such a Thief,
That slily steals away his Grief,
Then he that quarrels for relief,
Resolves to be a Fool in Chief.

The Humorist.

A Medley conteining ten Ayres.

Renounce this Humor and attend
The fair advisings of a Friend;
Thou never wilt have sober Brains:
Whilest Love lies lurking in thy Veines
These folded Arms, and broken Lutes,
Are Symptomes of forsaken suites:
Thou sure hast seen some Lady, who
As thou wouldst have her, will not do.

Why then be Mute
And cease thy Suit.
Apply thy self to me,
I'le teach thee who
To win and woo
Yet keep thy Liberty.

Ay me!
Will never get her thee
Nor a sigh, nor a shrug, nor a tear,
If she be fair and free,
She must see that in thee,
Or thou never shalt come near
The thing that thy Minde
And Desires have dessign'd;
Some will lie down with Language and Ayrs,
Some in Wine
Will resign,
Or if prais'd,
VVill be rais'd,
With a Puritan fall to your Prayers.

But if a Lady Great
You would encounter,
Whose Fame and Family are seated high;
'Tis Honor doth the Feat,
With that ye Mount her,
For onely Eagles do at Eagles flie;
If you can reach her in the royal Road,
With Panegyrick and Seraphick Ode
Ye do it Alle mode;

But, if the waiting Creature must procure,
Tempt her with Treasure, and ye have her sure,
A vostre Serviteur.

If you meet
With one whose Wit
All Beauty else disdains,
That will suppose
A Fountain flows
Of Violets in her Veins,
Tell her, the Glory of her Face
May make Scithians sue for Grace,
And Treason turn to Truth,
The lustre of her Eyes excell
Those bright Spheres where Angels dwell
With ever-yielding Youth.

But when y'are wanting One
To be ranting on,
Pity 'tis you should be barr'd in,
For you may repair
Unto Lady-Fair,
Go your ways in Grays-Inn Garden,
There the Graces are,
And good Faces are
Which the grim God of War
Never plunder'd,
Have but care enough,
You'll finde Ware enouh,
And you may spare enough
For five hunder'd.

That will love half an hour,
If ye bring Treasure,
Or else they bar the Door
Against your Pleasure,
Yet much I fear, they have met with their Matches,
Since Musqueteers of late plunder'd their Patches.

Besides enacted now they see,
The downfall of Adultery;
And 'tis a Paradox they vow,
For to be fair and faithfull to:
They say the Sword destroys the Gown,
Their Love and Liberties go down,
Then they frown.

But bid defiance you that can,
Unto the Farthingall and Fan,
For no Commodity we see,
But hath its Dis-commodity;
Then ho!
Toth' Tavern let's go,
And drink down Disasters,
For Madamazella is meat for your Masters.

Be then Free-men,
And let the Women,
Sue for an Act of Grace:
Or not deal
With those will tell
Of Crime, or Person, Time and Place;

If I can but
Well allure thee to't
We'll endeavour such a brace of Lives
So fair and high
We'll skorn to lie
With Wenches or with Wives:
I mean but those
Whom the Fates dispose
In a very noble Nuptial flame;
All other Fires
Are wilde Desires,
And crucifie the Fame.

The Invitation.

Oh my dear Cloris,
Shew where the Store is,
Of all those Sweets which man prone to adore is,
Love makes me slavish,
Oh! let me lavish
Those Joyes that would make an Anchorite ravish,
Sweet, do not lose um,
For in thy bosom
Are all Delights
Of Lovers Nights,
Time will destroy them
Shall I enjoy them,
Let me enshrine
Thy soul with mine.

Ile build thee Bowers,
And tinsill Towers,
To let in twi-light, and keep out the Showers;
No Hag shall haunt thee,
Nor Danger daunt thee,
Such sacred Circles Ile set to inchant thee:
Here Health and Treasure
With pliant Pleasure,
Shall ever spread
Their flowry Bed;
Then leave beguiling,
And grant in smiling,
The thing that I
Must do or die.

A Song, sung by Mr. Bushel's Miners in Devonshire, written in 1645.

Ladies of Love and Leisure,
Where is your Greatness gone?
What sudden high displeasure
Hath forc'd ye from your own?
Whilest we live here obscurely
In Cottages unknown,
No Cares of fears
We ever think upon.

Our VVals are highest Mountains
For we live in a Coomb;

We drink of flowing Fountains,
Our dwelling is our Tomb,
Nor look to be exalted
Before the Day of Doom,
Where Scibes, for Bribes,
Shall nere deny us Room.

We hear a dreadfull Summons,
Up in the high Country,
Our gracious King and Commons
They say cannot agree;
This Harvest is for Cedars,
And no such Shrubs as we,
Yet still we will
Pray for a Unity.

The Day we spend in working,
And chanting harmless Songs,
No Malice here lies lurking,
Our thoughts are free from Wrongs;
And those that Civil Wars do love,
We wish they had no Tongues,
No Drums, no Guns,
Or what to War belongs.

We wound the Earths hard bowels,
Where hidden Treasure grows,
With Twibell, Sledge, and Trowells,
Pick-ax, and Iron Crows,
We search for sinfull Silver,
Which all Dissention sows,

Their Health and Wealth
Men do so ill dispose.

We eat the Bread of Labor,
And what Endeavour brings,
Sorrow is no next-Neighbour.
Our Eyes they are no Springs;
Unless we shed a tear or two,
When as we pity Kings,
The Fates of States
To us are Hebrew things.

A Ramble by Mr. A. B.

Stay, shut the Gate,
Tother Quart, Faith it is not so late
As your thinking,
Those Stars which we see
In the Hemisphere, be
But the Studs in our Cheeks by good Drinking,
The Sun's gone to tipple all night in the Sea, Boyes,
To morrow he'l blush, that he's paler than we, Boys,
Drink Wine, give him Water, 'tis Sack makes us The Boyes.

Fill up the Glass,
To the next merry Lad let it pass,
Come away with't,
Then set foot to foot,
And but give your Minde to't,
'Tis heretical Six,, that doth slay VVit,

Then hang up good faces, let's drink till our Noses
Gives freedom to speak what our Fansie disposes,
Beneath whose protection now Under the Rose is.

Drink off your Bowls,
'Twill enrich both your Heads and your Souls,
With Canary,
A Carbuncled face
Saves a tedious Race;
For the Indies about us we carry;
No Helicon like to the Juice of Wine is,
For Phebus had never had Wit, or divine is,
Had his face not been Bow-dyed as thine is and mine is.

This must go round,
Off w' your Hats till the Pavement be crown'd,
With our Beavers,
A Red-coated Face
Frights a Serjeant and his Mace,
And the Constable trembles to shivers;
In State march our Faces like some of the Quorum,
When the Whores do fall down, & the Vulgars adore um
And our Noses like Link-boyes run shining before um.

The Answer.

[Hold, Quaff no more]

Hold, Quaff no more,
But restore
If ye can) what y'have lost by your Drinking,

Three Kingdoms and Crowns
With their Cities and Towns,
Whilest a King and his Progenie's sinking;
The Studs in your Cheeks have obscured his Star Boys,
Your Drink and Miscarriages in the late War, Boys,
Hath brouht his Prerogative so to the Bar-Boys.

Throw down the Glass,
He's an Ass
That extracts all his worth from Canary,
That Valour will shrink
Which is onely good in Drink.
'Twas the Cup made the Camp to miscarry;
You thought (in the World) there was no Power could tame ye,
Ye tippl'd and whor'd till the Foe overcame ye,
Cuds Nigs and Nere-stir-Sir, hath vanquish'd God Damme.

Fly from the Coast,
Or you are lost,
And the Water will run where the Drink went;
From hence ye must slink,
If you swear and have no Chink,
'Tis the Curse of a royall Delinquent,
You love to see Beer-bowls turn'd over the thumb well,
You like three fair Gamesters, four Dice, & a Drum wel,
But y'had as live see the Devil as F. or C.

Drink not the Round,
You'll be drown'd
In the source of your Sack and your Sonnets,

Try once more your Fate,
For the Kirk against the State,
And go bartar your Beavers for Bonnets,
You see how you are charm'd by your female Enchanters,
And therefore Pack hence to Virginia for Planters,
For an Act and two Red-Coats can rout all the Ranters.

The Prisoners.

In a Dungeon deep we lie,
Cramp'd with Cold Captivity,
VVhere the Bed-less bottom owns
Nothing to relieve our Bones,
Yet such is the sacred scope of the Soul
That we never shrink
At the stink,
VVhen cold water we drink,
'Cause Conscience crowns the Bowl.

Fetter'd in this filth we lie,
For we know not what, nor why,
But we ghess (if understood)
'Twill appear for being Good;
That Law doth strangely on Conscience entrench.
VVhere known true men are
Planted (far
From the Judge) at the Bar,
And Felony fills the Bench.

By the Pride of impious Powers,
This unhappy Case is ours:

VVe are lost in Wealth and Fame,
Fort a fault that knows no Name,
If it be Reason that sign as our Restraint,
'Tis then to be Good
(Understood)
A Disease of the Bloud,
The Devil is turn'd a Saint.

On Clarinda her Answering I and No.

What Crosses are in Love; when ere I come
VVhere fair Clarinda sanctifies the Rome,
(VVith my re-iterated Love-suit) she
VVith I and No, so tempts and tortures me,
That I have lost my Patience; If I cry,
Fair Lady shall I leave you? She says, I;
Agen, she answers me, VVhen I would know,
If I shall wait on her ith' Evening, No;
With these two Words (unpleasingly mis-plac'd)
She gives my fair Affection such Distaste,
I know not what to ask; then do I thunder
Against the God of Love, and (raging) wonder
That such a form where all Perfestion grows,
Should so afflict me with her I's and No's.

An Elegie on a Good Man.

You that did love with filial fear
The Soul that shines in yonder Sphere,
VVhose shadow is informed here,
Put on your Sack-cloth and appear.

Here lies the Map of Martyrdom,
Let all therefore avoid the Room,
But those that can, when as they come,
VVith Tears, and Ashes, build a Tomb.

For here the Cause of all your Cares,
Lies floating in the Churches tears,
VVho did expire, as it appears,
Not for His Faults but Others Fears.

You that are Valiant, Great, and Wise,
Attend his sacred Obsequies,
For on this holy Herse there lies,
A Theme for Tears in unborn Eyes.

Although he was not understood,
Yet from his Spirit, and his Bloud,
Did flow a fair and fertile Floud,
Of all that men call Great and Good.

Religion was his daily Guest,
VVithin the Treasure of his Brest,
VVas more than Language ere Exprest,
Angels can onely tell the rest.

FINIS.