Olor Iscanus :: :: University of Virginia Library

What Planet rul'd your birth? what wittie star?
That you so like in Souls as Bodies are!
So like in both, that you seem born to free
The starrie art from vulgar Calumnie.
My doubts are solv'd, from hence my faith begins,
Not only your faces, but your wits are Twins.

When this bright Gemini shall from earth ascend,
They will new light to dull-ey'd mankind lend,
Teach the Star-gazers, and delight their Eyes,
Being fixt a Constellation in the Skyes.

T. Powell Oxoniensis.

To my friend the Authour upon these his Poems.

I call'd it once my sloth: In such an age
So many Volumes deep, I not a page?
But I recant, and vow 'twas thriftie Care
That kept my Pen from spending on slight ware,
And breath'd it for a Prize, whose pow'rfull shine
Doth both reward the striver, and refine;
Such are thy Poems, friend: for since th'hast writ,
I cann't reply to any name, but wit;
And left amidst the throng that make us grone,
Mine prove a groundless Heresie alone,
Thus I dispute. Hath there not rev'rence bin
Pay'd to the Beard at doore, for Lord within?
Who notes the spindle-leg, or hollow eye
Of the thinne Usher, the faire Lady by?
Thus I sinne freely, neighbour to a hand
Which while I aime to strengthen, gives Command
For my protection, and thou art to me
At once my Subject and Securitie.

I. Rowlandson Oxoniensis.

Vpon the following Poems.

I write not here, as if thy last in store
Of learned friends, 'tis known that thou hast more;
Who, were they told of this, would find a way
To rise a guard of Poets without pay,
And bring as many hands to thy Edition,
As th'City should unto their May'rs Petition,
But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be
Thy Muster rather, than our Courtesie,
Thou wouldst not beg as Knights do, and appeare
Poet by Voice, and suffrage of the Shire,
That were enough to make my Muse advance
Amongst the Crutches, nay it might enhance
Our Charity, and we should think it fit
The State should build an Hospital for wit.

But here needs no reliefe: Thy richer Verse
Creates all Poets, that can but reherse,
And they, like Tenants better'd by their land,
Should pay thee Rent for what they understand,

Thou art not of that lamentable Nation,
Who make a blessed Alms of approbation,
Whose fardel-notes are Briefes in ev'ry thing,
But, that they are not licens'd By the King.
Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth
Arm'd (though I speak it) with thy proper worth,
And needest not this noise of friends, for wee
Write out of love, not thy necessitie;
And though this sullen age possessed be
With some strange Desamour, to Poetrie,
Yet I suspect (thy fancy so delights)
The Puritans will turn thy Proselytes,
And that thy flame when once abroad it shines,
Will bring thee as many friends, as thou hast lines.

Eugenius Philalethes Oxoniensis.

Olor Iscanius.

To the River Isca.

When Daphne's Lover here first wore the Bayes,
Eurotas secret streams heard all his Layes.
And holy Orpheus, Natures busie Child
By headlong Hebrus his deep Hymns Compil'd.
Soft Petrarch (thaw'd by Laura's flames) did weep
On Tybers banks, when she (prou'd fair!) cou'd sleep;
Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the T es
Doth murmure SIDNEYS Stella to her streams;
While Severn sworn with Joy and sorrow, wears
Castara's smiles mixt with fair Sabrin's tears.
Thus Poets (like the Nymphs, their pleasing themes)
Haunted the bubling Springs and gliding streams,
And happy banks! whence such fair flowres have sprung,
But happier those where they have sate and sung!
Poets (like Angels) where they once appear
Hallow the place, and each succeeding year
Adds rev'rence to't, such as at length doth give
This aged faith, That there their Genii live.
Hence th'Auncients say, That, from this sickly aire
They passe to Regions more refin'd and faire,
To Meadows strow'd with Lillies and the Rose,
And shades whose youthfull green no old age knowes,
Where all in white they walk, discourse, and Sing
Like Bees soft murmurs, or a Chiding Spring.

But Isca, whensoe'r those shades I see,
And thy lov'd Arbours must no more know me,
When I am layd to rest hard by thy streams,
And my Sun sets, where first it sprang in beams,

I'le leave behind me such a large, kind light,
As shall redeem thee from oblivious night,
And in these vowes which (living yet) I pay
Shed such a Previous and Enduring Ray,
As shall from age to age thy fair name lead
'Till Rivers leave to run, and men to read.
First, may all Bards born after me
(When I am ashes) sing of thee!
May thy green banks and streams (or none)
Be both their Hill and Helicon;
May Vocall Groves grow there, and all
The shades in them Propheticall,
Where (laid) men shall more faire truths see
Than fictions were of Thessalie.
May thy gentle Swains (like flowres)
Sweetly spend their Youthfull houres,
And thy beauteous Nymphs (like Doves)
Be kind and faithfull to their Loves;
Garlands, and Songs, and Roundelayes,
Mild, dewie nights, and Sun-shine dayes,
The Turtles voyce, Joy without fear,
Dwell on thy bosome all the year!
May the Evet and the Tode
Within thy Banks have no abode,
Nor the wilie, winding Snake
Her voyage through thy waters make.
In all thy Journey to the Main
No nitrous Clay, nor Brimstone-vein
Mixe with thy streams, but may they passe
Fresh as the aire, and cleer as Glasse,
And where the wandring Chrystal treads
Roses shall kisse, and Couple heads.
The factour-wind from far shall bring
The Odours of the Scatter'd Spring,
And loaden with the rich Arreare,
Spend it in Spicie whispers there.
No sullen heats, nor flames that are
Offensive, and Canicular,

Shine on thy Sands, nor pry to see
Thy Scalie, shading familie,
But Noones as mild as Hesper's rayes,
Or the first blushes of fair dayes.
What gifts more Heav'n or Earth can adde
With all those blessings be thou Clad!
Honour, Beautie,
Faith and Dutie,
Delight and Truth,
With Love, and Youth
Crown all about thee! And what ever Fate
Impose else-where, whether the graver state,
Or some toy else, may those lowd, anxious Cares
For dead and dying things (the Common Wares
And showes of time) he'r break thy Peace, nor make
Thy repos'd Armes to a new warre awake!
But Freedome, safety, Joy and blisse
United in one loving kisse
Surround thee quite, and stile thy borders
The Land redeem'd from all disorders!

The Charnel-house.

Blesse me! what damps are here? how stisse an aire?
Relder of mists, a second Fiats care,
Frontspeece o'th' grave and darkness, a Display
Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day;
Leane, bloudless shamble, where I can descrie
Fragments of men, Rags of Anatomie;
Corruptions ward-robe, the transplantive bed
Of mankind, and th'Exchequer of the dead.
How thou arrests my sense? how with the sight
My Winter'd bloud growes stiffe to all delight?
Torpedo to the Eye! whose least glance can
Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue head-long man;
Eloquent silence! able to Immure
An Atheists thoughts, and blast an Epicure.

Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dresse
Would make me wish a Saviour, and Confesse.

Where are you shoreless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope,
Ambitious dreams, Aymes of an Endless scope,
Whose stretch'd Excesse runs on a string too high
And on the rack of self-extension dye?
Chameleons of state, Aire-monging band,
Whose breath (like Gun-powder) blowes up a land,
Come see your dissolution, and weigh
What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day,
As th'Elements by Circulation passe
From one to th'other, and that which first was
Is so again, so 'tis with you; The grave
And Nature but Complott, what the one gave,
The other takes; Think then, that in this bed
There sleep the Reliques of as proud a head
As stern and subtill as your own, that hath
Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath
Hath levell'd Kings with slaves, and wisely then
Calme these high furies, and descend to men;
Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon, a tombe
Checkt him, who thought the world too straight a Room.

Have I obey'd the Powers of face,
A beauty able to undoe the Race
Of easie man? I look but here, and strait
I am Inform'd, the lovely Counterfeit
Was but a smoother Clay. That famish'd slave
Begger'd by wealth, who starves that he may save,
Brings hither but his sheet; Nay, th'Ostrich-man
That feeds on steele and bullet, he that can
Outswea his Lordship, and reply as tough
To a kind word, as if his tongue were Buffe,
Is Chap-faln here, wormes without wit, or fear
Defie him now, death hath disarm'd the Bear.
Thus could I run o'r all the pitteous score
Of erring men, and having done meet more,
Their shuffled Wills, abortive, vain Intents,
Phautastick humours, perillous Ascents,

False, empty honours, traiterous delights,
And whatsoe'r a blind Conceit Invites;
But these and more which the weak vermins swell,
Are Couch'd in this Accumulative Cell
Which I could scatter; But the grudging Sun
Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone,
Day leaves me in a double night, and I
Must bid farewell to my sad library.
Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee
I'le season all succeeding Jollitie,
Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit,
Excesse hath no Religion, nor Wit,
But should wild bloud swell to a lawless strain
On Check from thee shall Channel it again.

In Amicum fœneratorem.

Thanks mighty Silver! I rejoyce to see
How I have spoyl'd his thrift, by spending thee.
Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more,
His Decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.
As lesser lode-stones with the North consent
Naturally moving to their Element,
As bodyes swarm to th'Center, and that fire
Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire,
So this vast crying summe drawes in a lesse,
And hence this bag more Northward layd I guesse,
For 'tis of Pole-star force, and in this sphere
Though th'least of many rules the master-bear.
Prerogative of debts! how he doth dresse
His messages in Chink? not an Expresse
Without a fee for reading, and 'tis fit,
For gold's the best restorative of wit,
O how he gilds them o'r! with what delight
I read those lines, where Angels doe Indite.

But wilt have money Og? must I dispurse?
Will nothing serve thee but a Poets curse?
Wilt rob an Altar thu? and sweep at once
What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?
'Twill never swell thy Bag, nor ring one peale
In thy dark Chest. Talk not of Shreeves, or gaole,
I fear them not. I have no land to glutt
Thy durty appetite, and make thee strutt
Nimrod of acres; I'le no Speech prepare
To court the Hopefull Cormorant, thine heire.
Yet there's a Kingdome, at thy beck, if thou
But kick this drosse, Parnassus flowrie brow
I'le give thee with my Tempe, and to boot
That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.
A Bed of Roses I'le provide for thee,
And Chrystal Springs shall drop thee melodie;
The breathing shades wee'l haunt, where ev'ry leafe
Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deafe;
Those waggish Nymph too which none ever yet
Durst make love to, wee'l teach the Loving fit,
Wee'l suck the Corall of their lips, and feed
Upon their spicie breath, a meale at need,
Rove in their Amber-tresses, and unfold
That glist'ring grove, the Curled wood of gold,
Then peep for babies, a new Puppet-play,
And riddle what their pratling Eyes would say.
But here thou must remember to dispurse,
For without money all this is a Curse,
Thou must for more bags call, and so restore
This Iron-age to gold, as once before;
This thou must doe, and yet this is not all,
For thus the Poet would be still in thrall,
Thou must then (if live thus) my neast of honey,
Cancell old bonds, and beg to lend more money.

To his friend ------.

I wonder, James, through the whole Historie
Of ages, such Entailes of pŏvertie
Are layd on Poets; Lawyers (they say) have found
A trick to cut them, would they were but bound
To practise on us, though for this thing wee
Should pay (if possible) their bribes and fee.
Search (as thou canst) the old and moderne store
Of Rome and ours, in all the wittie score
Thou shalt not find a rich one; Take each Clime
And run o'r all the pilgrimage of time
Thou'lt meet them poor, and ev'ry where descrie
A thredbare, goldless genealogie.
Nature (it seems) when she meant us for Earth
Spent so much of her treasure in the birth
As ever after niggards her, and Shee,
Thus stor'd within, beggers us outwardly.
Wofull profusion! at how dear a rate
Are wee made up? all hope of thrift and state
Lost for a verse: When I by thoughts look back
Into the wombe of time, and see the Rack
Stand useless there, untill we are produc'd
Unto the torture, and our soules infus'd
To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt
That as some tyrants use from their chain'd rout
Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport
They keep afflicted by some lingring art,
So wee are meerly thrown upon the stage
The mirth of fooles, and Legend of the age.
When I see in the ruines of a sute
Some nobler brest, and his tongue sadly mute
Feed on the Vocall silence of his Eye,
And knowing cannot reach the remedie,
When soules of baser stamp shine in their store,
And he of all the throng is only poore,

When French apes for forraign fashions pay,
And English legs are drest th'outlandish way,
So fine too, that they their own shadows wooe,
While he walks in the sad and Pilgrim-shooe,
I'm mad at Fate, and angry ev'n to sinne,
To see deserts and learning clad so thinne:
To think how th'earthly Usurer can brood
Upon his bags, and weigh the pretious food
With palsied hands, as if his soul did feare
The Scales could rob him of what he layd there;
Like Divels that on hid Treasures sit, or those
Whose jealous Eyes trust not beyond their nose
They guard the durt, and the bright Idol hold
Close, and Commit adultery with gold.
A Curse upon their drosse! how have we sued
For a few scatter'd Chips? how oft pursu'd
Petitions with a blush, in hope to squeeze
For their souls health, more than our wants a peece?
Their steel-rib'd Chests and Purse (rust eat them both!)
Have cost us with much paper many an oath,
And Protestations of such solemn sense,
As if our soules were sureties for the Pence.
Should we a full nights learned cares present,
They'l scarce return us one short houres Content,
'Las! they're but quibbles, things we Poets feign,
The short-liv'd Squibs and Crackers of the brain.

But wee'l be wiser, knowing 'tis not they
That must redeem the hardship of our way,
Whether a Higher Power, or that starre
Which neerest heav'n, is from the earth most far
Oppresse us thus, or angel'd from that Sphere
By our strict Guardians are kept luckless here,
It matters not, wee shall one day obtain
Our native and Celestiall scope again.

To his retired friend, an Invitation to Brecknock.

Since last wee met, thou and thy horse (my dear,)
Have not so much as drunk, or litter'd here,
I wonder, though thy self be thus deceast,
Thou hast the spite to Coffin up thy beast;
Or is the Palfrey sick, and his rough hide
With the penance of One Spur mortifide?
Or taught by thee (like Pythagoras's Oxe)
Is then his master grown more Orthodox?
What ever 'tis, a sober cause't must be
That thus long bars us of thy Companie.
The Town believes thee lost, and didst thou see
But half her suffrings, now distrest for thee,
Thou'ldst swear (like Rome) her foule, polluted walls
Were sackt by Brennus, and the salvage Gaules.
Abominable face of things! here's noise
Of bang'd Mortars, blew Aprons, and Boyes,
Pigs, Dogs, and Drums, with the hoarse hellish notes
Of politickly-deafe Usurers throats,
With new fine Worships, and the old cost teame
Of Justices vext with the Cough, and flegme.
Midst these the Crosse looks sad, and in the Shire-
-Hall furs of an old Saxon Fox appear,
With brotherly Ruffs and Beards, and a strange sight
Of high Monumentall Hats t'ane at the fight
Of Eighty eight; while ev'ry Burgesse foots
The mortall Pavement in eternall boots.

Hadst thou been batc'lour, I had soon divin'd
Thy Close retirements, and Monastick mind,
Perhaps some Nymph had been to visit, or
The beauteous Churle was to be waited for,
And like the Greek, e'r you the sport would misse
You stai'd, and stroak'd the Distaffe for a kisse.

But in this age, when thy coole, settled bloud
Is ty'd t'one flesh, and thou almost grown good,
I know not how to reach the strange device,
Except (Domitian like) thou murther'st flyes;
Or is't thy pietie? for who can tell
But thou may'st prove devout, and love a Cell,
And (like a Badger) with attentive looks
In the dark hole sit rooting up of books.
Quick Hermit! what a peacefull Change hadst thou
Without the noise of haire-cloth, Whip, or Vow?
But is there no redemption? must there be
No other penance but of liberty?
Why two months hence, if thou continue thus
Thy memory will scarce remain with us,
The Drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim
They have not seen thee here since Charles his raign,
Or if they mention thee, like some old man
That at each word inserts—Sir, as I can
Remember—So the Cyph'rers puzzle mee
With a dark, cloudie character of thee.
That (certs!) I fear thou wilt be lost, and wee
Must ask the Fathers e'r't be long for thee.

Come! leave this sullen state, and let not Wine
And precious Witt lye dead for want of thine,
Shall the dull Market-land-lord with his Rout
Of sneaking Tenants durtily swill out
This harmlesse liquor? shall they knock and beat
For Sack, only to talk of Rye, and Wheat?
O let not such prepost'rous tipling be
In our Metropolis, may I ne'r see
Such Tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a line
To weep the Rapes and Tragedy of wine!
Here lives that Chimick, quick fire which betrayes
Fresh Spirits to the bloud, and warms our layes,
I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a Cup
That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up,
And teach her yet more Charming words and skill
Than ever Cœlia, Chloris, Astrophil,

Or any of the Thredbare names Inspir'd
Poore riming lovers with a Mistris fir'd.
Come then! and while the slow I sicle hangs
At the stiffe thatch, and Winters frosty pangs
Benumme the year, blith (as of old) let us
'Midst noise and War, of Peace, and mirth discusse.
This portion thou wert born for: why should wee
Vex at the times ridiculous miserie?
An age that thus hath fool'd it selfe, and will
(Spite of thy teeth and mine) persist so still.
Let's sit then at this fire, and while wee steal
A Revell in the Town, let others seal,
Purchase or Cheat, and who can, let them pay,
Till those black deeds bring on the dark some day;
Innocent spenders wee! a better use
Shall wear out our short Lease, and leave th'obtuse
Rout to their husks; They and their bags at best
Have cares in earnest, wee care for a Jest.

Monsieur Gombauld.

I'ave read thy Souls fair night-peece, and have seen
Th'Amours and Courtship of the silent Queen,
Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move her
To Juggle first with Heav'n, then with a Lover,
With Latmos lowcer rescue, and (alas!)
To find her out a Hue and Crie in Brasse,
Thy Journall of deep Mysteries, and sad
Nocturnall Pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad
In fancies darker than thy Cave, Thy Glasse
Of sleepie draughts, and as thy soul did passe
In her calm voyage what discourse she heard
Of Spirits, what dark Groves and ill-shap'd guard
Ismena lead thee through, with thy proud flight
O'r Periardes, and deep, musing night

Neere fair Eurotas banks, what solemn green
The neighbour shades weare, and what forms are seen
In their large Bowers, with that sad path and seat
Which none but light-heeld Nymphs and Fairies heat;
Their solitary life, and how exempt
From Common frailtie, the severe contempt
They have of Man, their priviledge to live
A Tree, or Fountain, and in that Reprieve
What ages they consume, with the sad Vale
Of Diophania, and the mournfull talc,
Of th'bleeding vocall Myrtle; These and more
Thy richer thoughts we are upon the score
To thy rare fancy for, nor doest thou fall
From thy first Majesty, or ought at all
Betray Consumption, thy full vig'rous Bayes
Wear the same green, and scorn the lene decayes
Of stile, or matter; Just so have I known
Some Chrystal spring, that from the neighbour down
Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal
To their next Vale, and proudly there reveal
Her streams in lowder accents, adding still
More noise and waters to her Channell, till
At last swoln with Increase she glides along
The Lawnes and Meadows in a wanton throng
Of frothy billows, and in one great name
Swallows the tributary brooks drown'd fame.

Nor are they meere Inventions, for we
In th'same peece find scatter'd Philosophie
And hidden, disperst truths that folded lye
In the dark shades of deep Allegorie,
So neatly weav'd, like Arras, they descrie
Fables with Truth, Fancy with Historie.
So that thou hast in this thy curious mould
Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old,
Which shall these Contemplations render far
Lesse mutable, and lasting as their star,
And while there is a People, or a Sunne,
Endymions storie with the Moon shall runne.

An Elegie on the death of Mr. R. W. slain in the late unfortunate differences at Routon Heath, neer Chester, 1645.

I am Confirm'd, and so much wing is given
To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n.
A full years griefe I struggled with, and stood
Still on my sandy hopes uncertain good,
So loth was I to yeeld, to all those fears
I still oppos'd thee, and denyed my tears.
But thou art gone! and the untimely losse
Like that one day, hath made all others Crosse.
Have you seen on some Rivers flowrie brow
A well-built Elme or stately Cedar grow,
Whose Curled tops gilt with the Morning-ray
Becken'd the Sun, and whisperd to the day,
When unexpected from the angry North
A fatall sullen whirle-wind sallies forth,
And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground
The Shady twins, which rushing scatter round
Their sighing leafes whilst overborn with strength,
Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length;
So forc'd fell he; So Immaturely Death
Stifled his able heart and active breath.
The world scarce knew him yet, his early Soule
Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole
A sight, than gave one; as if subt'ly she
Would learn our stock, but hide his treasurie.
His years (should time lay both his Wings and glasse
Unto his charge) could not be summ'd (alas!)
To a full score; Though in so short a span
His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man
Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick,
Have quite outgone their own Arithmetick.
He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull
And mossie gray possess'd a solid skull,

No Crooked knowledge neither, nor did he
Wear the friends name for Ends and policie,
And then lay'd by; As those lost Youths of th'stage
Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age
And then retir'd, like Jewels in each part
He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart.

Nor was it only in this he did excell,
His equall valour could as much, as well.
He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst
No injurie, nor (as some have) e'r pur'st
The sweat and tears of others, yet would be
More forward in a royall gallantrie
Than all those vast pretenders, which of late
Swell'd in the ruines of their King and State.
He weav'd not Self-ends, and the Publick good
Into one piece nor with the peoples bloud
Fill'd his own veins; In all the doubtfull way
Conscience and Honour rul'd him. O that day
When like the Fathers in the Fire and Cloud
I mist thy face! I might in ev'ry Crowd
See Armes like thine, and men advance, but none
So neer to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.
Have you observ'd how soon the nimble Eye
Brings th'Object to Conceit, and doth so vie
Performance with the Soul, that you would swear
The Act and apprehension both lodg'd there,
Just so mov'd he: like shott his active hand
Drew bloud, e'r well the foe could understand.
But here I lost him. Whether the last turn
Of thy few sands call'd on thy hastie urn,
Or some fierce rapid fate (hid from the Eye)
Hath hurl'd thee Pris'ner to some distant skye
I cannot tell, but that I doe believe
Thy Courage such as scorn'd a base Reprieve.
What ever 'twas, whether that day thy breath
Suffer'd a Civill or the Common death,
Which I doe most suspect, and that I have
Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave,

Though thy lov'd ashes misse me, and mine Eyes
Had no acquaintance with thy Exequies,
Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight
On the Cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight,
Yet what e'r pious hand (in stead of mine)
Hath done this office to that dust of thine,
And till thou rise again from thy low bed
Lent a Cheap pillow to thy quiet head,
Though but a private turffe, it can do more
To keep thy name and memory in store
Than all those Lordly fooles which lock their bones
In the dumb piles of Chested brasse, and stones.
Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not
These Marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot
Of posthume honours; There is not one sand
Sleeps o'r thy grave, but can outbid that hand
And pencill too, so that of force wee must
Confesse their heaps shew lesser than thy dust.

And (blessed soule!) though this my sorrow can
Adde nought to thy perfections, yet as man
Subject to Envy, and the common fate
It may redeem thee to a fairer date;
As some blind Dial, when the day is done,
Can tell us at mid-night, There was a Sun,
So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame,
May keep some weak remembrance of thy name,
And to the faith of better times Commend
Thy loyall upright life, and gallant End.

Nomen & arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi Conspicere,—

Upon a Cloke lent him by Mr. J. Ridsley.

Here, take again thy Sack-cloth! and thank heav'n
Thy Courtship hath not kill'd me; Is't not Even
Whether wee dye by peecemeale, or at once
Since both but ruine, why then for the nonce
Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o're
Me this forc'd Hurdle to inflame the score?
Had I neer London in this Rug been seen
Without doubt I had executed been
For some bold Irish spy, and crosse a sledge
Had layn mess'd up for their foure gates and bridge.
When first I bore it, my oppressed feet
Would needs perswade me, 'twas some Leaden sheet;
Such deep Impressions, and such dangerous holes
Were made, that I began to doubt my soals,
And ev'ry step (so neer necessity)
Devoutly wish'd some honest Cobler by,
Besides it was so short, the Jewish rag
Seem'd Circumcis'd, but had a Gentile shag.
Hadst thou been with me on that day, when wee
Left craggie Biston, and the fatall Dee,
When beaten with fresh storms, and late mishap
It shar'd the office of a Cloke, and Cap,
To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood
Like a thick Turband, or some Lawyers Hood,
While the stiffe, hollow pletes on ev'ry side
Like Conduit-pipes rain'd from the Bearded hide,
I know thou wouldst in spite of that day's fate
Let loose thy mirth at my new shape and state,
And with a shallow smile or two professe
Some Sarazin had lost the Clowted Dresse.
Didst ever see the good wife (as they say)
March in her short cloke on the Christning day,

With what soft motions she salutes the Church,
And leaves the Bedrid Mother in the lurch;
Just so Jogg'd I, while my dull horse did trudge
Like a Circuit-beast plagu'd with a goutie Judge.

But this was Civill. I have since known more
And worser pranks: One night (as heretofore
Th'hast known) for want of change (a thing which I
And Bias us'd before me) I did lye
Pure Adamite, and simply for that end
Resolv'd, and made this for my bosome-friend.
O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I
Might teach thee new Micro-cosmo graphie!
Thou wouldst have ta'ne me, as I naked stood,
For one of th'seven pillars before the floud,
Such Characters and Hierogliphicks were
In one night worn, that thou mightst justly swear
I'd slept in Cere-cloth, or at Bedlam where
The mad men lodge in straw, I'le not forbear
To tell thee all, his wild Impress and tricks
Like Speeds old Britans made me look, or Picts;
His villanous, biting, Wire-embraces
Had seal'd in me more strange formes and faces
Than Children see in dreams, or thou hast read
In Arras, Puppet-playes, and Ginger-bread,
With angled Schemes, and Crosses that bred fear
Of being handled by some Conjurer,
And neerer thou wouldst think (such strokes were drawn)
I'd been some rough statue of Fetter-lane,
Nay, I believe, had I that instant been
By Surgeons or Apothecaries seen,
They had Condemned my raz'd skin to be
Some walking Herball, or Anatomie.

But (thanks to th'day!) 'tis off. I'd now advise
Thee friend to put this peece to Merchandize;
The Pedlars of our age have business yet,
And gladly would against the Fayr-day fit
Themselves with such a Roofe, that can secure
Their Wares from Dogs and Cats rain'd in showre,

It shall performe; or if this will not doe
'Twill take the Ale-wives sure; 'Twill make them two
Fine Roomes of One, and spread upon a stick
Is a partition without Lime or Brick.
Horn'd obstinacie! how my heart doth fret
To think what Mouthes and Elbowes it would set
In a wet day? have you for two pence e're
Seen King Harryes Chappell at Westminster,
Where in their dustie gowns of Brasse and Stone
The Judges lye, and markt you how each one
In sturdie Marble-plets about the knee
Bears up to shew his legs and symmetrie?
Just so would this; that I Think't weav'd upon
Some stiffneckt Brownists exercising loome.
O that thou hadst it when this Jugling fate
Of Souldierie first seiz'd me! at what rate
Would I have bought it then, what was there but
I would have giv'n for the Compendious hatt?
I doe not doubt but (if the weight could please,)
'Twould guard me better than a Lapland-lease,
Or a German shirt with Inchanted lint
Stuff'd through, and th'devils beard and face weav'd in't.

But I have done. And think not, friend, that I
This freedome took to Jeere thy Courtesie,
I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse
So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse;
She did this, 'cause (perhaps) thy love paid thus
Might with my thanks out-live thy Cloke, and Us.

Upon Mr. Fletchers Playes, published, 1647.

I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive
Labell to wit, Verser remonstrative,
And in some Suburb-page (scandal to thine)
Like Lent before a Christmasse scatter mine,

This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate
Such remnants from thy peece Intreat their date;
Nor can I dub the Coppy, or afford
Titles to swell the reare of Verse with Lord,
Nor politickly big to Inch low fame
Stretch in the glories of a strangers name,
And Clip those Bayes I Court, weak striver I,
But a faint Echo unto Poetrie.
I have not Clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit
For Plush and Velvets sake Esquire of wit,
Yet Modestie these Crosses would improve,
And Rags neer thee, some Reverence may move.

I did believe (great Beaumont being dead,)
Thy Widow'd Muse slept on his flowrie bed;
But I am richly Cosen'd, and can see
Wit transmigrates, his Spirit stayd with thee,
Which doubly advantag'd by thy single pen
In life and death now treads the Stage agen;
And thus are wee freed from that dearth of wit
Which starv'd the Land since into Schismes split,
Wherein th'hast done so much, wee must needs guesse
Wits last Edition is now i'th' Presse,
For thou hast drain'd Invention, and he
That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.
But thou hast plotts; and will not the Kirk strain
At the Designe of such a Tragick brain?
Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see
Thy most abominable policie?
Will not the Eares assemble, and think't fit
Their Synod fast, and pray, against thy wit?
But they'le not tyre in such an idle Quest,
Thou doest but kill, and Circumvent in Jest,
And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow
'Tis but for Field's, or Swansteed's overthrow.
Yet shall these Conquests of thy Bayes outlive
Their Scotish zeale, and Compacts made to grieve
The Peace of Spirits, and when such deeds fayle
Of their foule Ends, a faire name is thy Bayle.

But (happy thou!) ne'r saw'st these stormes, our aire
Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming faire;
Thy gentle Soule meant for the shade, and ease
Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace;
So neasted in some Hospitable shore
The Hermit-angler, when the mid-Seas roare
Packs up his lines, and (ere the tempest raves,
Retyres, and leaves his station to the waves.
Thus thou diedst almost with our peace, and wee
This breathing time thy last fair Issue see,
Which I think such (if needless Ink not soyle
So Choice a Muse,) others are but thy foile;
This, or that age may write, but never see
A Wit that dares run Paralell with thee.
True, BEN must live! but bate him, and thou hast
Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.

Upon the Poems and Playes of the ever memorable Mr. William Cartwright.

I did but see thee! and how vain it is
To vex thee for it with Remonstrances,
Though things in fashion, let those Judge, who sit
Their twelve pence out, to clap their hands at wit,
I fear to Sinne thus neer thee; for (great Saint!)
'Tis known, true beauty hath no need of paint.

Yet, since a Labell fixt to thy fair Hearse
Is all the Mode, and tears put into Verse
Can teach Posterity our present griefe
And their own losse, but never give reliefe;
I'le tell them (and a truth which needs no passe,)
That wit in Cartwright at her Zenith was,
Arts, Fancy, Language, all Conven'd in thee,
With those grand Miracles which deifie

The old worlds Writings, kept yet from the fire,
Because they force these worst times to admire.
Thy matchless Genius, in all thou didst write,
Like the Sun, wrought with such stayd beat, and light,
That not a line (to the most Critick he)
Offends with flashes, or obscuritie.

When thou the wild of humours trackst, thy pen
So Imitates that Motley stock in men,
As if thou hadst in all their bosomes been,
And seen those Leopards that lurk within.
The am'rous Youth steals from thy Courtly page
His vow'd Addresse, the Souldier his brave rage;
And those soft beauteous Readers whose looks can
Make some men Poets, and make any man
A Lover, when thy Slave but seems to dye,
Turn all his Mourners, and melt at the Eye.
Thus, thou thy thoughts hast drest in such a strain
As doth not only speak, but rule and raign,
Nor are those bodyes they assum'd, dark Clouds,
Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrouds,
Which who lookes on, the Rayes so strongly beat
They'l brushe and warm him with a quickning heat,
So Souls shine at the Eyes, and Pearls display
Through the loose-Chrystal-streams a glaunce of day.
But what's all this unto a Royall Test?
Thou art the Man, whom great Charles so exprest!
Then let the Crowd refrain their needless humme,
When Thunder speaks, then Squibs and Winds are dumb.

To the best, and most accomplish'd Couple ------

Blessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads
As the mild heav'n on Roses sheds,
When at their Cheeks (like Pearls) they weare
The Clouds that court them in a teare,
And may they be fed from above
By him which first ordain'd your love!

Fresh as the houres may all your pleasures be,
And healthfull as Eternitie!
Sweet as the flowres first breath, and Close
As th'unseen spreadings of the Rose,
When he unfolds his Curtain'd head,
And makes his bosome the Suns bed.

Soft as your selves run your whole lifes, and cleare
As your own glasse, or what shines there;
Smooth as heav'ns face, and bright as he
When without Mask, or Tiffanie,
In all your time not one Jarre meet
But peace as silent as his feet.

Like the dayes Warmth may all your Comforts be,
Untoil'd for, and Serene as he,
Yet free and full as is that sheafe
Of Sun-beams gilding ev'ry leafe,
When now the tyrant-heat expires
And his Cool'd locks breath milder fires.

And as those parcell'd glories he doth shed
Are the faire Issues of his head,
Which ne'r so distant are soon known
By th'heat and lustre for his own,
So may each branch of yours wee see
Your Coppyes, and our Wonders be!

And when no more on Earth you must remain
Invited hence to heav'n again,
Then may your vertuous, virgin-flames
Shine in those Heires of your fair names,
And teach the world that mysterie
Your selves in your Posteritie!

So you to both worlds shall rich presents bring,
And gather'd up to heav'n, leave here a Spring.

An Elegie on the death of Mr. R. Hall, slain at Pontefract, 1648.

I knew it would be thus! and my Just fears
Of thy great spirit are Improv'd to tears.
Yet flow these not from any base distrust
Of a fair name, or that thy honour must
Confin'd to those cold reliques sadly sit
In the same Cell an obscure Anchorite.
Such low distempers Murther, they that must
Abuse thee so, weep not, but wound thy dust.

But I past such dimme Mourners can descrie
Thy fame above all Clouds of obloquie,
And like the Sun with his victorious rayes
Charge through that darkness to the last of dayes.
'Tis true, fair Manhood hath a female Eye,
And tears are beauteous in a Victorie,
Nor are wee so high-proofe, but griefe will find
Through all our guards a way to wound the mind;
But in thy fall what addes the brackish summe
More than a blott unto thy Martyrdome,
Which scorns such wretched suffrages, and stands
More by thy single worth, than our whole bands.
Yet could the puling tribute rescue ought
In this sad losse, or wert thou to be brought

Back here by tears, I would in any wise
Pay down the summe, or quite Consume my Eyes.
Thou fell'st our double ruine, and this rent
Forc'd in thy life shak'd both the Church and tent,
Learning in others steales them from the Van,
And basely wise Emasculates the man.
But lodged in thy brave soul the bookish seat
Serve'd only as the light unto thy heat;
Thus when some quitted action, to their shame,
And only got a discreet cowards name,
Thou with thy bloud mad'st purchase of renown,
And diedst the glory of the Sword and Gown
Thy bloud hath hallow'd Pomfret, and this blow
(Prophan'd before) hath Church'd the Castle now.

Nor is't a Common valour we deplore,
But such as with fifteen a hundred bore,
And lightning like (not coopt within a wall)
In stormes of fire and steele fell on them all.
Thou wert no Wool-sack souldier, nor of those
Whose Courage lies in winking at their foes,
That live at loop-holes, and consume their breath
On Match or Pipes, and sometimes peepe at death;
No, it were sinne to number these with thee,
But that (thus poiz'd) our losse wee better see.
The fair and open valour was thy shield,
And thy known station, the defying field.

Yet these in thee I would not Vertues call.
But that this age must know, that thou hadst all.
Those richer graces that adorn'd thy mind
Like stars of the first magnitude, so shin'd,
That if oppos'd unto these lesser lights
All we can say, is this, They were fair nights.
Thy Piety and Learning did unite,
And though with Sev'rall beames made up one light,
And such thy Judgement was, that I dare swear
Whole Counsels might as soon, and Synods erre.

But all these now are out! and as some Star
Hurl'd in Diurnall motions from far,

And seen to droop at night, is vainly sed
To fall, and find an Occidentall bed,
Though in that other world what wee Iudge west
Proves Elevation, and a new, fresh East.
So though our weaker sense denies us sight
And bodies cannot trace the Spirits flight,
Wee know those graces to be still in thee,
But wing'd above us to eternitie.
Since then (thus flown) thou art so much refin'd,
That we can only reach thee with the mind,
I will not in this dark and narrow glasse
Let thy scant shadow for Perfections passe,
But leave thee to be read more high, more queint,
In thy own bloud a Souldier and a Saint.

------Salve æternum mihi maxime Palla!
Æternumque vale!------

To my learned friend, Mr. T. Powell, upon His Translation of Malvezzi's Christian Politician.

Wee thank you, worthy Sir, that now we see
Malvezzi languag'd like our Infancie,
And can without suspition entertain
This forraign States-man to our brest or brain,
You have enlarg'd his praise, and from your store
By this Edition made his worth the more.
Thus by your learned hand (amidst the Coile)
Outlandish plants thrive in our thankless soile,
And wise men after death, by a strange fate,
Lye Leiguer here, and beg to serve our State.
Italy now, though Mistris of the Bayes,
Waits on this Wreath, proud of a forraign praise,

For, wise Malvezzi, thou didst lye before
Confin'd within the language of one shore,
And like those Stars which neer the Poles doe steer
Wer't but in one part of the Globe seen cleer,
Provence and Naples were the best and most
Thou couldst thine in, fixt to that single Coast,
Perhaps some Cardinal to be thought wise
And honest too, would ask, what was thy price?
Then thou must pack to Rome, where thou mightst lye
E'r thou shouldst have new cloathes eternally,
For though so neer the seav'n hills, ne'rthelesse
Thou cam'st to Antwerp for thy Roman dresse;
But now thou art come hither, thou mayst run
Through any Clime as well known as the Sun,
And in thy sev'rall dresses like the year
Challenge acquaintance with each peopled Sphere.

Come then rare Politicians of the time,
Brains of some standing, Elders in our Clime,
See here the method: A wise, solid state
Is quick in acting, friendly in debate,
Ioynt in advice, in resolutions just.
Mild in successe, true to the Common trust.
It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand
Allayes the heat and burnings of a land,
Religion guides it, and in all the Tract
Designes so twist, that heav'n confirms the act;
If from these lists you wander as you steere,
Look back, and Catechise your actions here,
These are the Marks to which true States-men tend,
And greatness here with goodness hath one End.

To my worthy friend Master T. Lewes.

Sees not my friend, what a deep snow
Candies our Countries wooddy brow?
The yeelding branch his load scarse bears
Opprest with snow, and frozen tears,
While the dumb rivers slowly float,
All bound up in an Icie Coat.

Let us meet then! and while this world
In wild Excentricks now is hurld,
Keep wee, like nature, the same Key,
And walk in our forefathers way;
Why any more cast wee an Eye
On what may come, not what is nigh?
Why vex our selves with feare, or hope
And cares beyond our Horoscope?
Who into future times would peere
Looks oft beyond his terme set here,
And cannot goe into those grounds
But through a Church-yard which them bounds;
Sorrows and sighes and searches spend
And draw our bottome to an end,
But discreet Joyes lengthen the lease
Without which life were a disease,
And who this age a Mourner goes,
Doth with his tears but feed his foes.

To the most Excellently accomplish'd, Mrs K. Philips.

Say wittie fair one, from what Sphere
Flow these rich numbers you shed here?
For sure such Incantations come
From thence, which strike your Readers dumbe.
A strain, whose measures gently meet
Like Virgin-lovers, or times feet,
Where language Smiles, and accents rise
As quick, and pleasing as your Eyes,
The Poem smooth, and in each line
Soft as your selfe, yet Masculine;
Where not Coorse trisles blot the page
With matter borrow'd from the age,
But thoughts as Innocent, and high
As Angels have, or Saints that dye.

These Raptures when I first did see
New miracles in Poetrie,
And by a hand, their good would misse
His Bayes and Fountaines but to kisse,
My weaker Genius (crosse to fashion)
Slept in a silent admiration,
A Rescue, by whose grate disguise
Pretenders oft have past for wise,
And yet as Pilgrims humbly touch
Those Shrines to which they bow so much,
And Clouds in Courtship flock, and run
To be the Mask unto the Sun,
So I concluded, It was true
I might at distance worship you
A Persian Votarie, and say
It was your light shew'd me the way.
So Lodestones guide the duller Steele,
And high perfections are the Wheele

Which moves the lesse, for gifts divine
Are strung upon a Vital line
Which touched by you, Excites in all
Affections Epidemicall.
And this made me (a truth most fit)
Adde my weak Eccho to your wit,
Which pardon, Lady, for Assayes
Obscure as these might blast your Bayes,
As Common hands soyle Flowres, and make
That dew they wear, weepe the mistake.
But I'le wash off the staine, and vow
No Lawrel growes, but for your Brow.

An Epitaph upon the Lady Elizabeth, Second Daughter to his late Majestie.

Youth, Beauty, Vertue, Innocence
Heav'ns royall, and select Expence,
With Virgin-tears, and sighs divine,
Sit here the Genii of this shrine,
Where now (thy fair soule wing'd away,)
They guard the Casket where she lay.

Thou hadst, e'r thou the light couldst see,
Sorrowes layd up, and stor'd for thee,
Thou suck'dst in woes, and the brests lent
Their Milk to thee, but to lament;
Thy portion here was griefe, thy years
Distilld no other rain, but tears,
Tears without noise, but (understood)
As lowd, and shrill as any bloud;
Thou seem'st a Rose bud born in Snow,
A flowre of purpose sprung to bow
To headless tempests, and the rage
Of an Incensed, stormie Age,

Others, e're their afflictions grow,
Are tim'd, and season'd for the blow,
But thine, as Rhumes the tend'rest part,
Fell on a young and harmless heart.
And yet as Balm-trees gently spend
Their tears for those, that doe them rend,
So mild and pious thou wert seen,
Though full of Suffrings, free from spleen,
Thou didst nor murmure, nor revile,
But drank'st thy wormwood with a smile.

As envious Eyes blast, and Infect
And cause misfortunes by aspect,
So thy sad stars dispens'd to thee
No Influxe, but Calamitie,
They view'd thee with Ecclypsed rayes,
And but the back-side of bright dayes.

These were the Comforts she had here,
As by an unseen hand 'tis cleer,
Which now she reads, and smiling wears
A Crown with him, who wipes off tears.

To Sir William D' avenant, upon his Gondibert.

Well, wee are rescued! and by thy rare Pen
Poets shall live, when Princes dye like men.
Th'hast cleer'd the prospect to our harmless Hill,
Of late years clouded with imputed Ill,
And the Soft, youthfull Couples there may move
As chast as Stars converse and smile above.
Th'hast taught their Language, and their love to flow
Calme as Rose-leafes, and coole as Virgin-snow,
Which doubly feasts us, being so refin'd
They both delight, and dignifie the mind,

Like to the watrie Musick of some Spring,
Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing.

And where bofore Heroick Poems were
Made up of Spirits, Prodigies, and fear,
And shew'd (through all the Melancholy flight,)
Like some dark Region overcast with night,
As if the Poet had been quite dismay'd,
While only Giants and Inchantments sway'd,
Thou like the Sun, whose Eye brooks no disguise
Hast Chas'd them hence, and with Discoveries
So rare and learned fill'd the place, that wee
Those fam'd Grandeza's find out-done by thee,
And under-foot see all those Vizards hurl'd,
Which bred the wonder of the former world.
'Twas dull to sit, as our fore-fathers did,
At Crums and Voyders, and because unbid
Refrain wise appetite. This made thy fire
Break through the ashes of thy aged Sire
To lend the world such a Convincing light
As shewes his fancy darker than his sight.
Nor was't alone the bars and length of dayes
(Though those gave strength and stature to his bayes,)
Encounter'd thee, but what's an old Complaint
And kills the fancy, a forlorn Restraint;
How couldst thou mur'd in solitarie stones
Dresse BIRTHA'S similes, though well thou might'st her grones?
And, strangely Eloquent, thy self divide
'Twixt Sad mi fortunes, and a Bloomie Bride?
Through all the tenour of thy ample Song
Spun from thy own rich store, and shar'd among
Those fa'r Adventurers, we plainly see
Th'Imputed gifts, Inherent are in thee.
Then live for ever (and by high defert)
In thy own mirrour, matchless Gondibert,
And in bright Birtha leave thy love Inshrin'd
Fresh as her Emrauld, and fair as her mind,
While all Confesse thee (as they ought to doe)
The Prince of Poets, and of Lovers too.

Tristium Lib. 5o. Eleg. 3a. To his fellow-Poets at Rome, upon the birth-day of Bacchus.

This is the day (blith god of Sack) which wee
If I mistake not, Consecrate to thee,
When the soft Rose wee marry to the Bayes,
And warm'd with thy own wine reherse thy praise,
'Mongst whom (while to thy Poet fate gave way)
I have been held no small part of the day,
But now, dull'd with the Cold Bears frozen seat,
Sarmatia holds me; and the warlike Gete.
My former life, unlike to this my last,
With Romes best wits of thy full Cup did tast,
Who since have seen the savage Pontick band,
And all the Choler of the Sea and Land:
Whether sad Chance, or heav'n hath this design'd,
And at my birth some fatall Planet shin'd,
Of right thou shouldst the Sisters knots undoe,
And free thy Votarie and Pact too.
Or are you God, (like us) in such a state
As cannot alter the decrees of fate?
I know with much adoe thou didst obtain
Thy Jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain
Was no whit lesse, so wandring thou didst run
To the Getes too, and Snow-weeping Strymon,
With Persia, Ganges, and what ever streams
The thirsty Moore drinks in the mid-day beames.
But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee
(To make all sure) doubled thy miserie,
My suffrings too are many: if it be
Held safe for me to boast adversitie,
Nor was't a Common blow, but from above
Like his, that died for Imitating Jove,
Which when thou heardst, a ruine so divine
And Mother-like, should make thee pitty mine.

And on this day, which Poets unto thee
Crown with full bowles, ask, What's become of me?

Help bucksome God then! so may thy lov'd Vine
Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with Wine
Load the kind Elm, and so thy Orgyes be
With priests lowd showtes, and Satyrs kept to thee
So may in death Lycurgus ne'r be blest,
Nor Pentheus wandring ghost find any rest!
And so for ever bright (thy Chiefe desires,)
May thy Wifes Crown outshine the lesser fires!
If but now, mindfull of my love to thee,
Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.
You Gods have Commerce with your selves, try then
If Cæsar will restore me Rome agen.

And you my trusty friends (the Jollie Crew
Of careless Poets!) when, without me, you
Perform this dayes glad Myst'ries, let it be
Your first Appeal unto his Deitie,
And let one of you (touch'd with my sad name)
Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same,
And (sighing) to the rest this thought Commend,
O! Where is Ovid now our banish'd friend?
This doe, if in your brests I e'r deserv'd
So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd,
Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow
Condemning others, did my selfe allow.
And may your happier wits grow lowd with fame
As you (my best of friends!) preserve my name.

De Ponto, Lib. 3o. To his friends (after his many sollicitations) refusing to petition Cæsar for his releasement.

You have Consum'd my language, and my pen
Incens'd with begging scorns to write agen.

You grant, you knew my sute: My Muse, and I
Had taught it you in frequent Elegie,
That I believe (yet seal'd) you have divin'd
Our Repetitions, and forestal'd my mind,
So that my thronging Elegies, and I
Have made you (more then Poets) prophesie.

But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream
VVhich made me Crosse the Proverb and the Stream,
And pardon, friends, that I so long have had
Such good thoughts of you, I am not so mad
As to continue them. You shall no more
Complain of troublesome Verse, or write o're
How I endanger you, and vex my trife
VVith the sad legends of a banish'd life.
I'le bear these plagues my selfe: for I have past
Through greater ones, and can as well at last
These pettie Crosses. 'Tis for some young beast
To kick his bands, or with his neck releast
From the sad Yoke. Know then, That as for me
VVhom Fate hath us'd to such calamitie,
I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare
The highest ills your malice can prepare.

'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now
Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowie brow
Of Cloudie Æmus, and if she decree
Her sportive pilgrims last bed here must be
I am content; nay more, she cannot doe
That Act which I would not consent unto.
I can delight in vain hopes, and desire
That state more then her Change and Smiles, then high'r
I hugge a strong despaire, and think it brave
To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave.
Have you not seen cur'd wounds enlarg'd, and he
That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th'free
VVaters, without th'Expence of armes or breath
Ham still the easiest, and the quickest death.
VVhy nurse I sorrows then? why these desires
Of Changing Scythia for the Sun and fires

Of some calm kinder aire? what did bewitch
My frantick hopes to flye so vain a pitch,
And thus out-run my self? Mad-man! could I
Suspect fate had for me a Courtesie?
These errours grieve: And now I must forget
Those pleas'd Idœa's I did frame and set
Unto my selfe, with many fancyed Springs
And Groves, whose only losse new sorrow brings.
And yet I would the worst of fate endure,
E're you should be repuls'd, or lesse secure,
But base, low soules!) you left me not for this,
But 'cause you durst not. Cæsar could not misse
Of such a trifle, for I know that he
Scorns the Cheap triumphs of my miserie.

Then since (degen'rate friends) not he, but you
Cancell my hopes, and make afflictions new,
You shall Confesse, and fame shall tell you, I
At Ister dare as well as Tyber dye.

De Ponto, lib. 4o. Eleg. 3a. To his Inconstant friend, translated for the use of all the Judases of this touch-stone-Age.

Shall I complain, or not? Or shall I mask
Thy hatefull name, and in this bitter task
Master my just Impatience, and write down
Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown?
Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see
And teach thy person to posteritie?
No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man,
'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can
Buy thee a Poem, nor move me to give
Thy name the honour in my Verse to live.

Whilst yet my Ship did with no stormes dispute
And temp'rate winds fed with a calme salute

My prosp'rous sailes, thou wert the only man
That with me then an equall fortune ran,
But now since angry heav'n with Clouds and night
Stifled those Sun-beams, thou hast ta'ne thy flight,
Thou know'st I want thee, and art meerly gone
To shun that rescue, I rely'd upon;
Nay, thou dissemblest too, and doest disclame
Not only my Acquaintance, but my name;
Yet know (though deate to this) that I am he
Whose years and love had the same Infancie
With thine, Thy deep familiar, that did share
Soules with thee, and partake thy Joyes or Care,
Whom the same Roofe lodg'd, and my Muse those nights
So solemnly endear'd to her delights;
But now, perfidious traitour, I am grown
The Abject of thy brest, not to be known
In that false Closet more; Nay, thou wilt not
So much as let me know, I am forgot.
If thou wilt say, thou didst not love me, then
Thou didst dissemble: or, if love agen,
Why now Inconstant? came the Crime from me
That wrought this Change? Sure, if no Justice be
Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide
Thy reasons then? for me, I did so guide
My selfe and actions, that I cannot see
What could offend thee, but my miserie.
'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow
Some rescue to my wants, at least I know
Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two
Reliev'd my famish'd Eye, and eas'd me so.
I know not what to think! and yet I hear,
Not pleas'd with this, th'art Witty, and dost Jeare;
Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back
I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.
Know'st not that Fortune on a Globe doth stand,
Whose upper slipprie part without command
Turns lowest still? the sportive leafes and wind
Are but dull Emblems of her fickle mind.

In the whole world there's nothing I can see
Will throughly parallel her wayes, but thee.
All that we hold, hangs on a slender twine
And our best states by sudden chance decline;
Who hath not heard of Crœsus proverb'd gold
Yet knowes his foe did him a pris'ner hold?
He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud Extent
By a poor art could famine scarse prevent;
And mighty Pompey e'r he made an end
Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend;
Nay, he that had so oft Romes Consull bin,
And forc'd Jugurtha, and the Cimbrians in,
Great Marius! with much want, and more disgrace
In a foul Marsh was glad to hide his face.
A divine hand swayes all mankind, and wee
Of one short houre have not the certaintie;
Hadst thou one day told me, the time should be
When the Getes bowes, and th'Euxine I should see,
I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought
Th'hadst need of all Anticina in a draught;
And yet 'tis come to passe! nor though I might
Some things foresee, could I procure a sight
Of my whole destinie, and free my state
From those eternall, higher tyes of fate.
Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high,
Think thou mayst be as poore and low as I.

Tristium Lib. 3o. Eleg. 3a. To his Wife at Rome, when he was sick.

Dearest! if you those fair Eyes (wondring) stick
On this strange Character, know, I am sick.
Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I
Breath hopeless of all Comforts, but to dye.

What heart (think'st thou) have I in this sad seat
Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete?
Nor aire nor water please: their very skie
Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my Eye,
I scarse dare breath it, and I know not how,
The Earth that bears me shewes unpleasant now.
Nor Diet here's, nor lodging for my Ease,
Nor any one that studies a disease;
No friend to comfort me, none to defray
With smooth discourse the Charges of the day.
All tir'd alone I lye, and (thus) what e're
Is absent, and at Rome I fancy here,
But when thou com'st, I blot the Avie Scrowle,
And give thee full possession of my soule,
Thee (absent) I embrace, thee only voice,
And night and day bely a Husbands Joyes;
Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make
That I am thought distracted for thy sake;
When my tir'd Spirits faile, and my sick heart
Drawes in that fire which actuates each part,
If any say, th'art come! I force my pain,
And hope to see thee, gives me life again.
Thus I for thee, whilst thou (perhaps) more blest
Careless of me doest breath all peace and rest,
Which yet I think not, for (Deare Soule!) too well
Know I thy griefe, since my first woes befell.
But if strict heav'n my stock of dayes hath spun
And with my life my errour wilbe gone,
How easie then (O Cæsar!) wer't for thee
To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?
That I might yeeld my native aire this breath,
And banish not my ashes after death;
Would thou hadst either spar'd me untill dead,
Or with my bloud redeem'd my absent head,
Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou
Wouldst have me live to dye an Exile now.
And must I then from Rome so far meet death,
And double by the place my losse of breath?

Nor in my last of houres on my own bed
(In the sad Conflict) rest my dying head?
Nor my soules Whispers (the last pledge of life,)
Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?
My last words none must treasure, none will rise
And (with a teare) seal up my vanquish'd Eyes,
Without these Rites I dye, distrest in all
The splendid sorrowes of a Funerall,
Unpittied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head
In a strange Land goes friendless to the dead.
When thou hear'st this, O how thy faithfull soule
Will sink, whilst griefe doth ev'ry part controule!
How often wilt thou look this way, and Crie,
O where is't yonder that my love doth lye!
Yet spare these tears, and mourn not now for me,
Long since (dear heart!) have I been dead to thee,
Think then I dyed, when Thee and Rome I lost
That death to me more griefe then this hath Cost;
Now, if thou canst (but thou canst not) best wife,
Rejoyce, my Cares are ended with my life,
At least, yeeld not to sorrowes, frequent use
Should make these miseries to thee no newes.
And here I wish my Soul died with my breath
And that no part of me were free from death,
For, if it be Immortall, and outlives
The body, as Pythagoras believes,
Betwixt these Sarmates ghosts, a Roman I
Shall wander, vext to all Eternitie.

But thou (for after death I shall be free,)
Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me,
A few Flowres give them, with some Balme, and lay
Them in some Suburb grave hard by the way,
And to Informe posterity, who's there,
This sad Inscription let my marble weare,
“Here lyes the soft-soul'd Lecturer of Love,
“Whose envy'd wit did his own ruine prove.
But thou, (who e'r thou beest, that passing by
Lendst to this sudden stone a hastie Eye,

If e'r thou knew'st of Love the sweet disease,
Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!
This for my tombe: but in my books they'l see
More strong and lasting Monuments of mee,
Which I believe (though fatall) will afford
An Endless name unto their ruin'd Lord.

And now thus gone, It rests for love of me
Thou shewst some sorrow to my memory;
Thy Funerall offrings to my ashes beare
With Wreathes of Cypresse bath'd in many a teare,
Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
Yet shall that Dust perceive thy pious pain.
But I have done, and my tyr'd sickly head
Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;
Take then this word (perhaps my last to tell)
Which though I want, I wish it thee, Fare-well.

Ausonii Cupido, Edyl. 6.

In those blest fields of Everlasting aire
(Where to a Myrtle-grove the soules repaire
Of deceas'd lovers,) the sad, thoughtfull ghosts
Of Injur'd Ladyes meet, where each accoasts
The other with a sigh, whose very breath
Would break a heart, and (kind Soules!) love in death.
A thick wood clouds their walks where day scarse peeps,
And on each hand Cypresse and Poppey sleepes,
The drowsie Rivers slumber, and Springs there
Elab not, but softly melt into a teare,
A sickly dull aire fans them, which can have
When most in force scarce breath to build a wave.
On either bank through the still shades appear
A Scene of pensive flowres, whose bosomes wear
Drops of a Lever's bloud, the Emblem'd truths
Of deep despair, and Love-slain Kings and Youths.
The Hyacinth, and self-enamour'd Boy
Narcissus flourish there, with Venus Joy

The spruce Adonis, and that Prince whose flowre
Hath sorrow languag'd on him to this houre;
All sad with love they hang their heads, and grieve
As if their passions in each leafe did live;
And here (alas!) these soft-soul'd Ladies stray,
And (oh! too late!) treason in love betray.

Her blasted birth sad Semele repeats,
And with her tears would quench the thund'rers heats,
Then shakes her bosome, as if fir'd again,
And fears another lightnings flaming train.
The lovely Pocris (here) bleeds, sighes, and swounds,
Then wakes, and kisses him that gave her wounds.
Sad Hero holds a torch forth, and doth light
Her lost Leander through the waves and night.
Her Boateman desp'rate Sapho still admires,
And nothing but the Sea can quench her fires.
Distracted Phœdra with a restless Eye
Her disdain'd Letters reads, then casts them by.
Rare, faithfull Thysbe (sequestred from these)
A silent, unseen sorrow doth best please,
For her Loves sake, and last good-night, poor she
Walks in the shadow of a Mulberrie.
Neer her young Canace with Dido sits
A lovely Couple, but of desp'rate wits,
Both dy'd alike, both pierc'd their tender brests,
This with her Fathers Sword, that with her Guests.
Within the thickest textures of the Grove
Diana in her Silver-beams doth rove,
Her Crown of stars the pitchieaire Invades,
And with a faint light gilds the silent shades,
Whilst her sad thoughts fixt on her sleepie lover
To Latmos-hill, and his retirements move her.
A thousand more through the wide, darksome wood
Feast on their cares, the Maudlin-Lovers food,
For griefe and absence doe but Edge desire,
And Death is fuell to a Lovers fire.

To see these Trophies of his wanton bow
Cupid comes in, and all in triumph now

(Rash, unadvised Boy!) disperseth round
The sleepie Mists, his Wings and quiver wound
With noise the quiet aire. This sudden stirre
Betrayes his godship, and as we from far
A clouded, sickly Moon observe, so they
Through the false Mists his Ecelyps'd torch betray.
A hot pursute thy make, and though with care,
And a slow wing he softly stems the aire,
Yet they (as subtill now as he) surround
His silenc'd course, and with the thick night bound
Surprize the Wag. As in a dream we strive
To voyce our thoughts, & vainly would revive
Our Entraunc'd tongues, but can not speech enlarge
'Till the Soule wakes and reassumes her Charge,
So joyous of their Prize, they flock about
And vainly Swell with an Imagin'd shout.

Far in these shades, and melancholy Coasts
A Myrtle growes, well known to all the ghosts.
Whose stretch'd top (like a great man rais'd by Fate)
Looks big, and scorns his neighbours low estate;
His leavy arms into a green Cloud twist.
And on each Branch doth sit a lazie mist.
A fatall tree, and luckless to one god,
Where for disdain in life (loves worst of Ods,)
The Queen of shades, fair Proserpine did rack
The sad Adonis, hither now they pack
This little God, where, first disarm'd, they bind
His skittish wings, then both his hands behind
His back they tye, and thus secur'd at last
The peevish wanton to the tree make fast.
Here at adventure without Judge or Jurie
He is condemn'd, while with united furie
They all assaile him; As a thiefe at Bar
Left to the Law and mercy of his Star,
Hath Bills heap'd on him, and is question'd there
By all the men that have been rob'd that year,
So now what ever Fate, or their own will
Scor'd up in life, Cupid must pay the bill.

Their Servants falshood, Jealousie, disdain,
And all the plagues that abus'd Maids can feign,
Are layd on him, and then to heighten spleen
Their own deaths crown the summe. Prest thus between
His faire accusers, 'tis at last decreed,
He by those weapons, that they died, should bleed.
One grasps an airie Sword, a second holds
Illusive fire, and in vain, wanton folds
Belyes a flame; Others lesse kind appear
To let him bloud, and from the purple tear
Create a Rose. But Sapho all this while
Harvests the aire, and from a thicken'd pile
Of Clouds like Leucas top, spreads underneath
A Sea of Mists, the peacefull billowes breath
Without all noise, yet so exactly move
They seem to Chide, but distant from above
Reach not the eare, and (thus prepar'd) at once
She doth o'rwhelm him with the airie Sconie.
Amidst these tumults, and as fierce as they
Venus steps in, and without thought, or stay
Invades her Son; her old disgrace is cast
Into the Bill, when Mars and Shee made fast
In their Embraces were expos'd to all
The Scene of gods stark naked in their fall.
Nor serves a verball penance, but with hast
From her fair brow (O happy flowres so plac'd!)
She tears a Rosie garland, and with this
Whips the untoward Boy, they gently kisse
His snowie skin, but she with angry hast
Doubles her strength, untill bedew'd at last
With a thin bloudie sweat, their Innate Red,
(As if griev'd with the Act) grew pale and dead.
This layd their spleen: And now (kind soules!) no more
They'l punish him, the torture that he bore,
Seems greater then his crime; with joynt Consent
Fate is made guilty, and he Innocent.
As in a dream with dangers we contest,
And fictious pains seem to afflict our rest,

So frighted only in these shades of night
Cupid (got loose) stole to the upper light,
Where ever since (for malice unto these)
The spitefull Ape doth either Sex displease.
But O that had these Ladyes been so wise
To keep his Arms, and give him but his Eyes!

Boet. Lib. 1. Metrum 1.

I whose first year flourish'd with youthfull verse,
In slow, sad numbers now my griefe reherse;
A broken stile my sickly lines afford,
And only tears give weight unto my words;
Yet neither fate nor force my Muse cou'd fright
The only faithfull Comfort of my flight;
Thus what was once my green years greatest glorie,
Is now my Comfort, grown decay'd and hoarie,
For killing Cares th'Effects of age spurr'd on
That griefe might find a fitting Mansion;
O'r my young head runs an untimely gray,
And my loose skin shrinks at my blouds decay.
Happy the man whose death in prosp'rous years
Strikes not, nor shuns him in his age and tears.
But O how deafe is she to hear the Crie
Of th'opprest Soule, or shut the weeping Eye!
While treacherous Fortune with slight honours fed
My first estate, she almost drown'd my head,
But now since (clouded thus) she hides those rayes,
Life adds unwelcom'd length unto my dayes;
Why then, my friends, Judg'd you my state so good?
He that may fall once, never firmly stood.

Metrum 2.

O in what haste with Clouds and Night
Ecclyps'd, and having lost her light,
The dull Soule whom distraction rends
Into outward Darkness tends!
How often (by these mists made blind,)
Have earthly cares opprest the mind!

This Soule sometimes wont to survey
The spangled Zodiacks firie way
Saw th'early Sun in Roses drest
With the Coole Moons unstable Crest,
And whatsoever wanton Star
In various Courses neer or far
Pierc'd through the orbs, he cou'd full well
Track all her Journey, and would tell
Her Mansions, turnings, Rise and fall,
By Curious Calculation all.
Of sudden winds the hidden Cause,
And why the Calm Seas quiet face
With Impetuous waves is Curld,
What spirit wheeles th'harmonious world,
Or why a Star dropt in the West
Is seen to rise again by East,
Who gives the warm Spring temp'rate houres
Decking the Earth with spicie flowres,
Or how it Comes (for mans recruit)
That Autumne yeelds both Grape and fruit,
With many other Secrets, he
Could shew the Cause and Mysterie,

But now that light is almost out,
And the brave Soule lyes Chain'd about
With outward Cares, whose pensive weight
Sinks down her Eyes from their first height,
And clean Contrary to her birth
Poares on this vile and foolish Earth.

Metrum 4.

Whose calme soule in a settled state
Kicks under foot the frowns of Fate,
And in his fortunes bad or good
Keeps the same temper in his bloud,
Not him the flaming Clouds above,
Nor Ætna's fierie tempests move,
No fretting seas from shore to shore
Boyling with Indignation o're
Nor burning thunderbolt that can
A mountain shake, can stirre this man.
Dull Cowards then! why should we start
To see hese tyrants act their part?
Nor hope, no fear what may befall
And you disarm their malice all.
But whod faintly sea; or wish
And sets no law to what is his,
Hath lost the buckler, and (poor Elfe!)
Makes up a Chain to bind himselfe.

Metrum 5.

O thou great builder of this starrie frame,
Who fixt in thy eternall throne dost tame
The rapid Spheres, and lest they jarre
Hast giv'n a law to ev'ry starre:
Thou art the Caus that now the Moon
With full orb dulls the starres, and soon
Again growes dark, her light being done,
The neerer still she's to the Sun.
Thou in the early hours of night
Mak'st the coole Evening-star shine bright,
And at Sun-rising ('cause the least)
Look pale and sleepie in the East.

Thou, when the leafes in Winter stray,
Appointst the Sun a shorter way,
And in the pleasant Summer-light
With nimble houres doest wing the night.
Thy hand the various year quite through
Discreetly tempers, that what now
The North-wind tears from ev'ry tree
In Spring again restor'd we see.
Then what the winter-starrs between
The furrowes in meer seed have seen
The Dog-star since (grown up and born)
Hath burnt in stately, full-ear'd Corn.

Thus by Creations law controll'd
All things their proper stations hold
Observing (as thou didst intend)
Why they were made, and for what end.
Only humane actions thou
Hast no Care of, but to the flow
And Ebbe of Fortune leav'st them all,
Hence th'Innocent endures that thrall
Due to the wicked, whilst alone
They sit possessours of his throne,
The Just are kill'd, and Vertue lyes
Buried in obscurities,
And (which of all things is most sad)
The good man suffers by the bad.
No perjuries, nor damn'd pretence
Colour'd with holy, lying sense
Can them annoy, but when they mind
To try their force, which most men find.
They from the highest sway of things
Can pull down great, and pious Kings.

O then at length, thus loosely hurl'd
Look on this miserable world
Who e'r thou art, that from above
Doest in such order all things move!
And let not man (of divine art
Not the least, nor vilest part)

By Casuall evills thus bandied, be
The sport of fates obliquitie.
But with that faith thou guid'st the heaven,
Settle this Earth, and make them even.

Metrum 6.

When the Crabs fierce Constellation
Burns with the beams of the bright Sun,
Then he that will goe out to sowe,
Shall never reap where he did plough,
But in stead of Corn may rather
The old worlds diet, Accorns gather.
Who the Violet doth love
Must seek her in the flowrie grove,
But never when the Norths cold wind
The Russet fields with frost doth bind.
If in the Spring-time (to no end)
The tender Vine for Grapes we bend,
Wee shall find none, for only (still)
Autumne doth the Wine-presse fill.

Thus for all things (in the worlds prime)
The wise God seal'd their proper time,
Nor will permit those seasons he
Ordain'd by turns, should mingled be;
Then whose wild actions out of season
Crosse to nature, and her reason,
VVould by new wayes old orders rend,
Shall never find a happy End.

Metrum 7.

Curtain'd with Clouds in a dark night
The Stars cannot send forth their light.
And if a sudden Southern blast
The Sea in rolling waves doth cast,

That angrie Element doth boile,
And from the deep with stormy Coile
Spues up the Sands, which in short space
Scatter, and puddle his Curl'd face;
Then those Calme waters, which but now
Stood clear as heavens unclouded brow,
And like transparent glasse did lye
Open to ev'ry searchers Eye,
Look foulely stirr'd, and (though desir'd)
Resist the sight, because bemir'd,
So often from a high hills brow
Some Pilgrim-spring is seen to flow,
And in a straight line keep her Course
Till from a Rock with headlong force
Some broken peece blocks up her way
And forceth all her streams astray.

Then thou that with inlightned Rayes,
Wouldst see the truth, and in her wayes
Keep without Errour; neither fear
The future, nor too much give ear
To present Joyes; And give no scope
To griefe, nor much to flatt'ring hope.
For when these Rebels raign, the mind
Is both a Pris'ner, and stark blind.

Lib. 2. Metrum 1.

Fortune (when with rash hands she quite turmoiles
The state of things, and in tempestuous foiles
Comes whirling like Euripus,) beats quite down
With headlong force the highest Monarchs crown,
And in his place unto the throne doth fetch
The despis'd looks of some mechanick wretch.
So Jests at tears and miseries, is proud,
And laughs to hear her vassals grone aloud.
These are her sports, thus she her wheele doth drive
And plagues man with her blind prerogative;

Nor is't a favour of Inferiour strain,
If once kickt down, she lets him rise again.

Metrum 2.

If with an open, bounteous hand
(Wholly left at Mans Command)
Fortune should in one rich flow
As many heaps on him bestow
Of massie gold, as there be sands
Tost by the waves and winds rude bands,
Or bright stars in a Winter-night
Decking their silent Orbs with light,
Yet would his lust know no restraints,
Nor cease to weep in sad Complaints.
Though heaven should his vowes reguard,
And in a prodigall reward
Return him all he could implore,
Adding new honours to his store,
Yet all were nothing. Goods in sight
Are scorn'd, and lusting greedy flight
Layes out for more; What measure then
Can tame these wild desires of men?
Since all wee give both last and first
Doth but inflame, and feed their thirst;
For how can he be rich, who 'midst his store
Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poore.

Metrum 3.

When the Sun from his Rosie bed
The dawning light begins to shed,
The drowsie sky uncurtains round,
And the (but now bright stars all drown'd
In one great light, look dull and tame,
And homage his victorious flame,

Thus, when the warm Etesian wind
The Earth's seald bosome doth unbind,
Straight she her various store discloses,
And purples every Grove with Roses;
But if the Souths tempestuous breath
Breaks forth, those blushes pine to death.
Oft in a quiet sky the deep
With unmov'd waves seems fast asleep,
And oft again the blustring North
In angrie heaps provokes them forth.

If then this world, which holds all Nations,
Suffers it selfe such alterations,
That not this mighty, massie frame,
Nor any part of it can Claime
One certain course, why should man prate,
Or Censure the designs of Fate?
Why from fraile honours, and goods lent
Should he expect things permanent?
Since 'tis enacted by divine decree
That nothing mortall shall eternall be.

Metrum 4.

Who wisely would for his retreat
Build a secure and lasting seat,
Where stov'd in silence he may sleep
Beneath the Wind, above the Deep;
Let him th'high hils leave on one hand,
And on the other the false sand;
The first to winds lyes plain and even
From all the blustring points of heaven;
The other hollow and unsure,
No weight of building will endure.
Avoyding then the envied state
Of buildings bravely situate,
Remember thou thy selfe to lock
Within some low neglected Rock;

There when fierce heaven in thunder Chides,
And winds and waves rage on all sides,
Thou happy in the quiet fense
Of thy poor Cell with small Expence
Shall lead a life serene and faire,
And scorn the anger of the aire.

Metrum 5.

Happy that first white age! when wee
Lived by the Earths meere Charitie,
No soft luxurious Diet then
Had Effeminated men,
No other meat, nor wine had any
Then the Course Mast, or simple honey,
And by the Parents care layd up
Cheap Berries did the Children sup.
No pompous weare was in those dayes
Of gummie Silks, or Skarlet bayes,
Their beds were on some flowrie brink
And clear Spring-water was their drink.
The shadie Pine in the Suns heat
Was their Coole and known Retreat,
For then 'twas not cut down, but stood
The youth and glory of the wood.
The daring Sailer with his slaves
Then had not cut the swelling waves,
Nor for desire of forraign store
Seen any but his native shore.
No stirring Drum had scarr'd that age,
Nor the shrill Trumpets active rage,
No wounds by bitter hatred made
With warm bloud foil'd the shining blade;
For how could hostile madness arm
An age of love to publick harm?
When Common Justice none withstood,
Nor sought rewards for failling bloud.

O that at length our age would raise
Into the temper of those dayes!
But (worst then Ætna's fires!) debate
And Avarice inflame our state.
Alas! who was it that first found
Gold hid of purpose under ground,
That sought out Pearles, and div'd to find
Such pretious perils for mankind!

Metrum 6.

[1]

He that thirsts for glories prize,
Thinking that the top of all,
Let him view th'Expansed skies,
And the Earths Contracted ball,
'Twill shame him then, the name he wan
Fils not the short walk of one man.

2

O why vainly strive you then
To shake off the bands of Fate,
Though fame through the world of men
Should in all tongues your names relate,
And with proud titles swell that storie
The Darke grave scorns your brightest glorie.

3

There with Nobles beggers sway,
And Kings with Commons share one dust,
What newes of Brutus at this day,
Or Fabricius the Just?
Some rude Verse Cut in stone, or led
Keeps up the names, but they are dead.

4

So shall, you one day (past reprieve)
Lye (perhaps) without a name,
But if dead you think to live
By this aire of humane fame,
Know, when time stops that posthume breath,
You must endure a second death.

Metrum 7.

That the world in constant force
Varies her Concordant course;
That seeds jarring hot and cold
Doe the breed perpetuall hold;
That in his golden Coach the Sun
Brings the Rosie day still on;
That the Moon swayes all those lights
Which Hesper ushers to dark nights;
That alternate tydes be found
The Seas ambitious waves to bound,
Lest o'r the wide Earth without End
Their fluid Empire should extend;
All this frame of things that be,
Love which rules Heaven, Land, and Sea,
Chains, keeps, orders as we see.
This, if the raines he once cast by,
All things that now by turns comply,
Would fall to discord, and this frame
Which now by sociall faith they tame,
And comely orders in that fight
And jarre of things would perish quite.
This in a holy league of peace
Keeps King and People with Increase;
And in the sacred nuptiall bands
Tyes up chast hearts with willing hands,
And this keeps firm without all doubt
Friends by his bright Instinct found out.

O happy Nation then were you
If love which doth all things subdue,
That rules the spacious heav'n, and brings
Plenty and Peace upon his wings,
Might rule you too! and without guile
Settle once more this floting Ile!

Casimirus, Lib.4. Ode 28.

All-mighty Spirit! thou that by
Set turns and changes from thy high
And glorious throne, dost here below
Rule all, and all things dost foreknow;
Can those blind plots wee here discusse
Please thee, as thy wise Counsels us?
When thou thy blessings here dost strow,
And poure on Earth, we flock and flow
With Joyous strife, and eager care
Strugling which shall have the best share
In thy rich gifts, just as we see
Children about Nuts disagree.
Some that a Crown have got and foyl'd
Break it; Another sees it sooil'd
E're it is gotten: Thus the world
Is all to peece-meals cut, and hurl'd
By factious hands, It is a ball
Which Fate and force divide 'twixt all
The Sons of men. But ô good God!
While these for dust fight, and a Clod,
Grant that poore I may smile, and be
At rest, and perfect peace with thee.

Casimirus, Lib.2. Ode 8.

It would lesse vex distressed man
If Fortune in the same pace ran
To ruine him, as he did rise;
But highest states fall in a trice.
No great Successe held ever long:
A restless fate afflicts the throng
Of Kings and Commons, and lesse dayes
Serve to destroy them, then to raise.

Good luck smiles once an age, but bad
Makes Kingdomes in a minute sad,
And ev'ry houre of life wee drive,
Hath o're us a Prerogative.

Then leave (by wild Impatience driv'n,
And rash resents,) to rayle at heav'n,
Leave an unmanly, weak complaint
That Death and Fate have no restraint.
In the same houre that gave thee breath,
Thou hadst ordain'd thy houre of death,
But he lives most, who here will buy
With a few tears, Eternitie.

Casimirus, Lib.3. Ode 22.

Let not thy youth and false delights
Cheat thee of life; Those headdy flights
But wast thy time, which posts away
Like winds unseen, and swift as they.
Beauty is but meer paint, whose die
With times breath will dissolve and flye,
'Tis wax, 'tis water, 'tis a glasse
It melts, breaks, and away doth passe.
'Tis like a Rose which in the dawne
The aire with gentle breath doth fawne
And whisper too, but in the houres
Of night is sullied with smart showres.
Life spent, is wish'd for but in vain,
Nor can past years come back again.

Happy the Man! who in this vale
Redeems his time, shutting out all
Thoughts of the world, whose longing Eyes
Are ever Pilgrims in the skyes,
That views his bright home, and desires
To shine amongst those glorious fires.

Casimirus Lyric. Lib.3. Ode 23.

'Tis not rich furniture and gems
With Cedar-roofes, and ancient stems,
Nor yet a plenteous, lasting floud
Of gold, that makes man truly good.
Leave to Inquire in what faire fields
A River runs which much gold yeelds,
Vertue alone is the rich prize
Can purchase stars, and buy the skies.
Let others build with Adamant,
Or pillars of carv'd Marble plant,
Which rude and rough sometimes did dwell
Far under earth, and neer to hell.
But richer much (from death releast)
Shines in the fresh groves of the East
The Phœnix, or those fish that dwell
With silver'd scales in Hiddekel.
Let others with rare, various Pearls
Their garments dresse, and in forc'd Curls
Bind up their locks, look big and high,
And shine in robes of Scarlet-die.
But in my thoughts more glorious far
Those native stars, and speckles are
Which birds wear, or the spots which wee
In Leopards dispersed see.
The harmless sheep with her warm fleece
Cloathes man, but who his dark heart sees
Shall find a Wolfe or Fox within
That kills the Castor for his skin.
Vertue alone, and nought else can
A diffrence make 'twixt beast and man,
And on her wings above the Spheres
To the true light his spirit bears.

Casimirus, Lib.4. Ode 15.

Nothing on Earth, nothing at all
Can be exempted from the thrall
Of peevish weariness! The Sun
Which our fore-fathers Judg'd to run
Clear and unspotted, in our dayes
Is tax'd with sullen, Ecclips'd rayes.
What ever in the glorious skie
Man sees, his rash, audacious Eye
Dares Censure it, and in meer spite
At distance will condemn the light.
The wholsome mornings, whose beams cleer
Those hills our fathers walkt on here
Wee fancy not nor the Moons light
Which through their windows shin'd at night,
VVee change the Aire each year, and scorn
Those seates, in which we first were borne.
Some nice, affected wand'rers love
Belgia's mild winters, others remove
For want of health and honestie
To Summer it in Italie;
But to no end: The disease still
Sticks to his Lord, and kindly will
To Venice in a Barge repaire,
Or Coach it to Vienna's aire,
And then (to late with home Content,)
They leave this wilfull banishment.

But he, whose Constancie makes sure
His mind and mansion, lives secure
From such vain tasks, can dine and sup
VVhere his old parents bred him up.
Content (no doubt!) most times doth dwell
In Countrey-shades, or to some Cell
Confines it selfe, and can alone
Make simple straw, a Royall Throne.

Casimirus, Lib.4. Ode 13.

If weeping Eyes could wash away
Those Evills they mourn for night and day,
Then gladly I to cure my fears
With my best Jewells would buy tears.
But as dew feeds the growing Corn,
So Crosses that are grown forlorn
Increase with griefe, teares make teares way,
And cares kept up, keep cares in pay.
That wretch whom Fortune finds to feare,
And melting still into a teare,
She strikes more boldly, but a face
Silent and drie doth her amaze.
Then leave thy teares, and tedious tale
Of what thou doest misfortunes call,
What thou by weeping think'st to ease,
Doth by that Passion but Increase;
Hard things to Soft will never yield,
'Tis the drie Eye that wins the field;
A noble patience quells the spite
Of Fortune, and disarms her quite.

The Praise of a Religious life by Mathias Casimirus.

In Answer to that Ode of Horace, Beatus Ille qui procul negotiis, &c.

Flaccus not so: That worldly He
Whom in the Countreys shade we see
Ploughing his own fields, seldome can
Be justly stil'd, The Blessed man.

That title only fits a Saint,
Whose free thoughts far above restraint

And weighty Cares, can gladly part
With house and lands, and leave the smart
Litigious troubles, and lowd strife
Of this world for a better life.
He fears no Cold, nor heat to blast
His Corn, for his Accounts are cast,
He sues no man, nor stands in Awe
Of the devouring Courts of Law;
But all his time he spends in tears
For the Sins of his youthfull years,
Or having tasted those rich Joyes
Of a Conscience without noyse
Sits in some fair shade, and doth give
To his wild thoughts rules how to live.

He in the Evening, when on high
The Stars shine in the silent skye
Beholds th'eternall flames with mirth,
And globes of light more large then Earth,
Then weeps for Joy, and through his tears
Looks on the fire-enamel'd Spheres,
Where with his Saviour he would be
Lifted above mortalitie.
Mean while the golden stars doe set,
And the slow-Pilgrim leave all wet
With his own tears, which flow so fast
They make his sleeps light, and loon past.
By this, the Sun o're night deceast
Breaks in fresh Blushes from the East,
When mindfull of his former falls
With strong Cries to his God he calls,
And with such deep-drawn sighes doth move
That he turns anger into love.

In the Calme Spring, when the Earth bears,
And feeds on Aprils breath, and tears,
His Eyes accustom'd to the skyes
Find here fresh objects, and like spyes
Or busie Bees search the soft flowres
Contemplate the green fields, and Bowres,

Where he in Veyles, and shades doth see
The back Parts of the Deitye
Then sadly sighing sayes,“O how
“These flowres With hasty, stretch'd heads grow
“And strive for heav'n, but rooted here
“Lament the distance with a teare!
“The Honey-suckles Clad in white,
“The Rose in Red point to the light,
“And the Lillies hollow and bleak
“Look, as if they would something speak,
“They sigh at night to each soft gale,
“And at the day-spring weep it all.
“Shall I then only (wretched I!)
“Opprest with Earth, on Earth still lye?
Thus speaks he to the neighbour trees
And many sad Soliloquies
To Springs, and Fountaines doth impart,
Seeking God with a longing heart.

But if to ease his busie breast
He thinks of home, and taking rest
A Rurall Cott, and Common fare
Are all his Cordials against Care.
There at the doore of his low Cell
Under some shade, or neer some Well
Where the Coole Poplar growes, his Plate
Of Common Earth, without more state
Expect their Lord. Salt in a shell,
Green Cheese, thin beere, Draughts that will tell
No Tales, a hospitable Cup,
With some fresh berries doe make up
His healthfull feast, nor doth he wish
For the fatt Carp, or a rare dish
Of Lucrine Oysters; The swift Quist
Or Pigeon sometimes (if he list)
With the slow Goose that loves the stream,
Fresh, various Sallads, and the Bean
By Curious Pallats never sought,
And to Close with, some Cheap unbought

Dish for digestion, are the most
And Choicest dainties he can boast.

Thus feasted, to the flowrie Groves,
Or pleasant Rivers he removes,
Where neer some fair Oke hung with Mast
He shuns the Souths Infectious blast.
On shadie banks sometimes he lyes,
Sometimes the open Current tryes,
Where with his line and feather'd flye
He sports, and takes the Scaly frie.
Mean-while each hollow wood and hill
Doth ring with lowings long and shrill,
And shadie Lakes with Rivers deep,
Eccho the bleating of the Sheep.
The Black-bird with the pleasant Thrush
And Nightingale in ev'ry Bush
Choice Musick give, and Shepherds play
Unto their flocks some loving Lay;
The thirsty Reapers in thick throngs
Return home from the field with Songs,
And the Carts loden with ripe Corn
Come groning to the well-stor'd Barn.

Nor passe wee by as the least good,
A peacefull, loving neighbourhood,
Whose {boast wit}, and Chast discourse
Make none (by hearing it) the worse,
But Innocent and merry may
Help (without Sin) to spend the day.
Could now the Tyrant Userer
Who plots to be a Purchaser
Of his poor neighbours seat, but taste
These true delights, ô with what haste
And hatred of his wayes would he
Renounce his Jewish Crueltie,
And those Curs'd summes which poor men borrow
On Use to day, remit to morrow!