University of Virginia Library

MADAGASCAR,

With other POEMS. BY Sr WILLIAM D'AVENANT.

To my worthy Friend Mr. William D'avenant; upon his Poem of Madagascar, which he writ to the most Illustrious Prince Rupert.

I am compell'd by your commands to write
I'th' Frontis-piece of this, and sure I might
With quaint conceits, here to the World set forth
The merit of the Poem, and your worth;
Had I well fancy'd reasons to begin;
And a choyce Mould, to cast good Verses in:
But wanting these, what power (alas) have I
To write of any thing? will men rely
On my opinion? which in Verse, or Prose,
Hath just that credit, which we give to those
That sagely whisper, secrets of the Court.
Having but Lees, for Essence, from Report.
And that's the knowledge which belongs to me;
For by what's said, I guess at Poetry.
As when I hear them read strong-lines I cry:
Th'are rare, but cannot tell you rightly why:
And now I finde this quality was it,
That made some Poet cite me for a wit:
Now God forgive him for that huge mistake!
If he did know; but with what paines I make
A Verse, hee'ld pittie then my wretched case;
For at the birth of each, I twist my Face,
As if I drew a Tooth; I blot, and write,
Then look as pale, as some that go to fight:
With the whole Kennel of the Alphabet,
I hunt sometimes an hour, one Rime to get:
What I approv'd of once, I streight deny,
Like an unconstant Prince, then give the lye
To my own invention, which is so poor,
As here I'de kiss your hands, and say no more;
Had I not seen a childe with Sizors cut,
A folded Paper unto which was put
More chance then skill, yet when you open it,
You'd think it had been done, by Art and Wit:
So I (perhaps) may light upon some straine,
Which may in this your good opinion gaine;
And howsoever, if it be a plot
You may be certain that in this, y'have got
A foyle to set your Jewel off, which comes
From Madagascar, scenting of rich gummes;
Before the which, my lay conceits will smell,
Like an abortive Chick, destroy'd i'th' shell:
Yet something I must say, may it prove fit;
I'le do the best I can and this is it.
What lofty fancy was't possest your braine,
And caus'd you soare into so high a straine!
Did all the Muses joyne, to make this piece
Excel what we have had, from Rome or Greece?
Or did your strive, to leave it as a Friend
To speak your praises, when there is an end
Of your Mortality? if you did so,
Envy will then, scarce find you out a Foe:
But let me tell you (Friend) the heightning came,
From the reflection of Prince Rupert's name;
Whose glorious Genius cast into your Soul,
Divine conceits, such as are fit t'inrole
In great Apollo's court, there to remain
For future ages to transcribe again:
For such a Poem, in so sweet a stile,
As yet was never landed on this Isle:
And could I speak your praises at each Pore,
Twere little for the work; it merits more.

To my Friend William D'avenant; upon his Poem of Madagascar.

What mighty Princes Poets are? those things
The great ones stick at, and our very Kings
Lay down, they venture on; and with great ease
Discover, conquer, what, and where they please.
Some Flegmatick Sea-Captaine, would have staid
For mony now, or Victuals; not have waid
Anchor without'em; Thou (Will.) do'st not stay
So much as for a Wind, but go'st away,
Land'st, View'st the Country; fight'st, putt'st all to rout
Before another cou'd be putting out!
And now the news in Town is, Dav'nant's come
From Madagascar, Fraught with Laurel home,
And welcome (Will) for the first time, but prithee
In thy next Voyage, bring the Gold too with thee.

On his other Poems.

Thou hast redeemed us (Will.) and future times,
Shall not account unto the Age's crimes
Dearth of pure Wit: since the great Lord of it
(Donne) parted hence, no man has ever writ
So near him, in's own way: I would commend
Particulars, but then, how should I end
Without a Volume? Ev'ry Line of thine
Would aske (to praise it right) Twenty of mine

To Will. D'avenant my Friend.

When I beheld, by warrant from thy Pen,
A Prince rigging our Fleets, arming our Men,
Conducting to remotest shores our force
(Without a Dido to retard his course)
And thence repelling in successful fight
Th' usurping Foe (whose strength was all his right)
By two brave Heroes, (whom we justly may
By Homer's Ajax or Achilles lay,)
I doubt the Author of the Tale of Troy,
With him, that makes his Fugitive enjoy
The Carthage Queen, and think thy Poem may
Impose upon Posterity, as they
Have done on us: What though Romances lie
Thus blended with more faithful Historie?
We, of th' adult'rate mixture not complaine,
But thence more Characters of Vertue gaine:
More pregnant Patterns of transcendent Worth,
Then barren and insipid Truth brings forth:
So oft the Bastard nobler fortune meets,
Then the dull Issue of the lawful sheets.

To my Friend, William D'avenant.

Madagascar. A POEM,

Written to PRINCE RUPERT.

ELIZIUM.

To the Duchess of Buckingham.

MADAM,

So sleeps the Anchoret on his cheap bed,
(Whose sleep wants only length to prove him dead)
As I last night, whom the swift wings of Thought,
Convey'd to see what our bold faith had taught;
Elizium, where restored formes nere fade
Where growth can need no seeds, nor light a shade;
The joyes which in our flesh, through fraile expence
Of strength, through age, were lost t'our injur'd sense,
We there do meet agen; and those we taste
Anew, which though devour'd, yet ever last:
The scatter'd treasure of the Spring, blown by
Autumn's rude winds from our discovery;
Lillies, and Roses; all that's faire and sweet,
There reconcil'd to their first roots we meet;
There, only those triumphant Lovers reign,
Whose passions knew on earth so little stain,
Like Angels they ne're felt what sexes meant;
Vertue was first their nature, then intent:
There, toyling Victors safely are possest,
With fervent youth, eternity, and rest;
But they were such, who when they got the field;
To teach the conquer'd, victorie, could yield
Themselves again; as if true glory were
To bring the foe to courage, not to feare.
There are no talking Greeks, who their blood lost,
Nor for the cause, but for a Theame to boast;
As if they strove enough for Fame, that sought
To have their Battels better told, than fought.
There I a Vestal's Shadow first did spy,
Who when alive with holy huswifry,
Trick'd up in Lawne, and flow'ry Wreathes (each hand
Cleane as her thoughts) did 'fore the Altar stand:
So busie still, strewing her Spice, and then
Removing Coales, vexing the Fire agen,
As if some queasie Goddess had profess'd,
To taste no smoak that day, but what she dress'd:
This holy coyle she living kept; but farre.
More busie now, with more delightful care
Than when she watch'd the consecrated Flame,
Sh'attends the Shade of gentle Buckingham;
Who their unenvy'd sins, with Chaplets crown'd:
And with wise scorn, smiles on the Prophets vvound;
He call'd it so, for though it touch'd his heart,
His Nation feels the rancour, and the smart.

To the Lord D. L. upon his Marriage.

VVe that are Orpheus Sons, and can inherit
By that great title, nought but's num'rous spirit;
His broken Harpe, & when we're tir'd with moan
A few small Trees of Bay to hang it on.
We that successive can claime no more,
From such a poor unlucky Ancestor;
Must now (my Noble Lord) take thrifty care,
To know, what modern wealth the Muses share?
Or how it is dispos'd? and strait we finde
Great, pow'rful Love, hath bount'ously resign'd
Into your happy Armes, the Chief, and Best,
Of all that our ambitious hopes possest:
Your noble Bride; to whose eternal Eyes,
We daily offer'd wreathes in Sacrifice:
Whose warmth gave Laurel growth, whose ev'ry beame,
Was first our influence, and then our theame:
Whose brest (too narrow for her heart) was still
Her reasons Throne, and prison to her will:
And since, this is your willing faith, 'tis fit
What all the kinde, and wiser Starres commit
Unto your charge, be with such eager love,
And soft endearments us'd, as well may prove,
They meant, when first they taught you how to wooe,
She should be happy, and the Muses too.
Live still, the pleasure of each other sight;
To each, a new made wonder, and delight;
Though two, yet both so much one constant minde,
That t'will be art, and mistery to finde
(Your thoughts and wishes, being still the same)
From which of eithers loving heart they came.

A Journey into Worcestershire.

These who (if kinder Destinies shall please)
May all dye rich, though they love Wit and ease;
And I, whom some odd hum'rous Planets bid
To register the doughty acts they did,
Took horse; leaving ith'Town, ill Plays, sowre Wines
Fierce Serjeants and the plague; besides of mine
An Ethnick Taylor too, that was far worse
Than these, or what just Heaven did ever curse.
Scarce was the busie City left behind,
But from the South arose a busier Winde;
Which sent us so much raine, each man did wish,
His Hands and Legs were Finnes, his Horse a Fish,
Dull as a thick-skull'd-Justice, drunk with Sloth;
Or Alderman, (far gone in Capon broth)
We all appear'd, no man gave breath to thought;
But like a silent Traytor in a Vault,
Digg'd on our way; or as we Traytors were
T'our selves, and jealous of each others Eare:
And as i'th Worlds great Showre, some that did spie
(Hors'd on the Plaines) Rivers, and Seas drew nigh;
Spurr'd on apace; in fear all lost their time,
That could not reach a ground where they might climbe;
So we did never think us safe, until
We had attain'd the Top o'th first high Hill:
And now it clear'd so to my travail'd Eie,
Looks a round yellow Dane, when he doth spie
Neer his puissant Arme, a boule so full,
That it may fill his Bladder, and his skull,
As Phoebus at this moysture falne; who laught,
To see such plenty for his morning draught:
But like Chamelions Colours that decay
But seemingly to give new colours way;
So our false griefs, had not themselves outworn,
But step'd aside, to vary in returne.
Bear witness World! for now my tir'd Horse stood,
As I, a Vaulter were, and he were Wood:
As if some Student fierce, the day before
Had spur'd his full half Crown from him, or more.
Endimion cryes away! what make we here?
To draw a Map, or gather Juniper?
More cruel then Shrove-Prentices, when they
(Drunk in a Brothel House) are bid to pay;
Or than the Bawd at Sessions, to that vilde
Indicted Rout, which first her House until'de,
Is now the Captaine, who laughing swore; thus,
Each puny Poet rides his Pegasus.
But what's the cause my Lord spurs on amaine,
As if t'outride a Tartar, not the Raine;
Some such swift Tartar as might safely say,
To an inviting friend, that tempts his stay;
Farewell, thou seest the Sun declin'd long since,
And I'm to sup a Hundred miles from hence.
My Lord (methought) as he had thought this same,
Rod post, to eat that supper ere he came.
And now, my Mule moves too; but with such speed,
As Pris'ners to a Psalme, that cannot read:
Yet we reach'd Wickham, with the early night:
Which to describe to Eares, or draw to sight;
For scituation, or for forme, for height,
For strength, or magnitude, (would in good faith)
But stale the price o'th Map, small credit be
T'our Poem, less to our Geographie:
Or as your riding Academicks use,
To toyle, and vex, a long fed mutton-Muse,
With taking the circumference of mine Host,
Of his Wives sumitrie, were time worst lost;
Since nor Taurentius, nor Van-dike, have yet
Command to draw them for the King in great.
He that to night rul'd each delight'd breast,
Gave to the pallat of each Ear a Feast;
With joy of pledges made our sowre wind sweet,
And nymble as the leaping juyce of Crete;
Was brave Endimion, whose triumphs clear,
From cruel Tyranny, or too nice fear;
Having wit still ready, and no huge sinne
To cause a sadness that might keep it in,
Let fly at all; the shafts were keene; and when
They miss'd to pierce, he strongly drew agen.
But sleep, whom Constables obey, though they
Have twenty Bills to keep him off till day:
Sleep, whom th'high tun'd Cloth-worker, Weaver call,
Nor Cobler shril, with Catches or his Aule,
Knowes to resist, seal'd up our lips, and sight;
Making us blind, and silent as the Night.
Our other Sallies, and th'adventures we
Achiev'd, deserve new braine, new Historie.

To Endimion Porter.

I gave when last I was about to die;
The Poets of this Isle a Legacie;
Each so much wealth, as a long union brings
T' industrious States, or Victorie to Kings:
So much as hope's clos'd Eies, could wish to see,
Or tall Ambition reach; I gave them thee.
But as rich Men, who in their sickness mourne
That they must go, and never more returne,
To be glad Heirs unto themselves, to take
Again, what they unwillingly forsake;
As those bequeath, their treasure, when they dye,
Not out of love, but sad necessity;
So I (they thought) did cunningly resigne
Rather then give, what could no more be mine:
And they receiv'd thee not, from bounteous chance,
Or me, but as their own inheritance.
This, when I heard, I cancell'd my fond Will;
Tempted my faith to my Physitians skil;
To purchase health sung praises in his Ear
More than the living of the Dead would hear,
For though our gifts, buy care, nought justly payes
Physitians love, but faith, their art, but praise:
Which I observ'd; now walk, as I should see
A death of all things, save thy memory,
But if this yearly Vintage shall create
New wishes in my blood, to celebrate
Endimion thee thy Muse, and thy large heart,
Thy wisdom that hath taught the world an art
How (not enform'd by cunning) courtship may
Subdue the minde, and not the man betray,
If me (thy priest) our curled Youth assigne,
To wash our Fleet-street Altars with new Wine;
I will (since 'tis to thee a Sacrifice)
Take care, that plenty swell not into vice,
Lest by a fiery surfeit I be led;
Once more to grow devout in a strange bed,
Lest through kind weakness in decay of health,
Or vanity to shew my utmost wealth;
I should again bequeath thee when I die,
To haughty Poets as a Legacie.

To the Queen, entertain'd at night by the Countess of Anglesey.

Faire as unshaded Light; or as the Day
In its first birth; when all the Year was May;
Sweet, as the Altars smoak, or as the new
Unfolded Bud, sweld by the early dew;
Smooth, as the face of waters first appear'd,
Ere Tides began to strive, or Winds were heard:
Kind as the willing Saints, and calmer farre,
Than in their sleeps forgiven Hermits are:
You that are more, then our discreter feare
Dares praise, with such full Art, what make you here?
Here, where the Summer is so little seen,
That leaves (her cheapest wealth) scarce reach at green
You come, as if the silver Planet were
Misled a while from her much injur'd Sphere,
And t'ease the travailes of her beames to night,
In this small Lanthorn would contract her light.

In remembrance of Master William Shakespire.

ODE 1.

To the Lady Bridget Kingsmill sent with Mellons after a report of my Death.

Madam, that Ghosts have walk'd; and kindly did
Convey Men heretofore to Money hid;
That they wear Chaines, which rattle 'till they make
More noyse, than injured Ale-wives at a Wake;
All this is free to faith, but Sozomine,
Nor th' Abbot Tretenheim, nor Rhodigine,
Nor the Jew Tripho, though they all defend
Such dreams, can urge one Ghost that verses pend:
Therefore, be pleas'd to think, when these are read;
I am no Ghost, nor have been three weeks dead.
Yet Poets that so nobly vaine have been,
To want so carelesly, till want prove sin;
Through avarice of late, to th' Arches sent,
To know the chief within my Testament:
And th' Aldermen by Charter, title lay
('Cause writ 'ith City's Verge) to my new play:
So if the Proclamations, kind, nice, care
Keep you not (Madam) from our black raw Aire,
Next Term, you'l find it own'd thus on each Wall
Writ by the Lord May'r, and acted at Guild-Hall.
But then I must be dead, which if you will
In curteous pitty feare, and suspect still;
These Mellons shall approach your pensive Eye,
Not as a Token but a Legacy.
Would they were such, as could have reach'd the sense,
To know what use they had of excellence,
Since destin'd to be yours; such as would be
(Now yours) justly ambitious of a Tree
To grow upon; scorne a dejected birth
Course German Tiles, low Stalkes, that lace the Earth.
Such as since gladly yours, got skill, and pow'r,
To choose the strongest Sun, and weakest Showre:
Such as in Groves Cecilian Lovers eat,
To cool those wishes, that their Ladies heat.
But if the Gard'ner make (like Adam) all
Our humane hopes, bold, and apocryphal:
And that my Mellons prove no better than
Those lovely Pompeon's, which in Berbican,
Fencers, and Vaulters Widows please to eat,
Not as a Sallad, but cheap-filling Meat;
Think then I'm dead indeed; and that they were
Early bequeath'd, but pay'd too late i'th Year;
So the just scornes, of your lov'd wit, no more
Can hazard me, but my Executor.

To the King on Newyeares day. 1630.

ODE 1.

To the Queen, presented with a Suit, in the behalf of F. S. directed from Orpheus Prince of Poets.

To the Lord B. in performance of a vow, that night to write to him.

My Lord, it hath been ask'd, why 'mongst those few
I singled out for Fame, I chose not you
With early speed the first? but I, that strive
My manners should preserve my Verse alive:
That read Men, and my self; would not permit
The boldness of my love, should tax my wit.
There are degrees, that to the Altar lead;
Where ev'ry rude, dull Sinner must not tread:
'Tis not to bring, a swift thankes-giving Tongue,
Or Prayers made as vehement as long,
Can priviledge a zealous Votarie,
To come, where the High Priest should only be:
Then why should I (where some more skilful hand
May offer Gummes, and Spice) strew Dust, and Sand?
And this (my chief of Lords) made me designe
Those noble flames, sprung from your nobler Wine,
To keep my spirits warme, till I could prove
My Numbers smooth, and mighty as my love:
Yet such my treach'rous fate, that I this night
(Fierce with untutor'd heat) did vow to write:
But happy those, who undertake no more
Than what their stock of rage hath rul'd before!
It is a Poet's sin, that doth excel
In love, or wine, not to resolve how well,
But strait how much to write, for then we think
The vast tumultuous Sea is but our Ink;
The World, our Forrest too, and that we may
Believe each Tree, that in it grows, a Bay.
My vow now kept, I'm loth (my Lord) to do
Wrong to your justice, and your mercy too;
The last if you vouchsafe, you will excuse
A strong Religion here, though not a Muse

To Endimion Porter.

Jeffereidos, on the Captivity of Jeffery.

Canto the First.

Canto the Second.

For the Lady Olivia Porter; A Present upon a New-years day.

Goe! hunt the whiter Ermine! and present
His wealthy skin, as this dayes Tribute sent
To my Endimion's Love; Though she be fare
More gently smooth, more soft than Ermines are!
Goe! climbe that Rock! and when thou there hast found
A Star, contracted in a Diamond,
Give it Endimion's Love, whose glorious Eyes,
Darken the starry Jewels of the Skies!
Goe! dive into the Southern Sea! and when
Th'ast found (to trouble the nice sight of Men)
A swelling Pearle; and such whose single worth,
Boast all the wonders which the Seas bring forth;
Give it Endimion's Love! whose ev'ry Teare,
Would more enrich the skilful Jeweller.
How I command? how slowly they obey?
The churlish Tartar, will not hunt to day:
Nor will that lazy, sallow-Indian strive
To climbe the Rock, nor that dull Negro dive.
Thus Poets like to Kings (by trust deceiv'd)
Give oftner what is heard of, than receiv'd.

To I. C. Robb'd by his Man Andrew.

Sir, whom I now love more, then did the good
Saint Martin, that all-naked-Flesh-and bloud,
Whose Cloake (at Plimouth spun) was Crab-tree wood.
His own was Tammy sure; which made it teare
So soon into a gift; and thou (I feare)
Wilt beg half mine, not to bestow, but wear:
For thy Saint-Andrew sought not out the way
To keep thee warme, but make thee watch, and pray;
That is, for his returne; about Doomes-day;
Worse left, than blushing Adam, who withdrew,
The nakedness he fear'd, more than he knew;
Not to a Mercers, but where Fig-leaves grew:
Which sew'd with strings of slender weeds, cloath men
Cheaper than Silks, that must be paid for, when
It pleases the chief Scribe 'oth' Chamberlen.
Though my sick Joynts, cannot accompany
Thy Hue-on-cry; though Midnight parlies be
Silenc'd long since, 'tween Constables, and me,
Without their helps; or Suburb-Justices,
(Upon whose justice now an Impost lies,
For with the price of Beef, their Warrants rise)
I'le find this Andrew strait. See, where the pale
Wretch stands: thy guiltless Robes (ne're hang'd for sale;)
He executes, on sundry Broakers Nayle.
Instead of him (chas'd thence by his wise feare)
Does the Mothers joy, a bold Youth appear;
Who swaggers up to Forty Markes a year!
Sometimes he troubles Law, at th'Inns of Court;
Now comes to buy him Weeds of shining sort;
And faine would have thy Cloak, but 'tis too short:
Too short (neat Sir) was all thy rifled store;
Which made those Brokers curse thy Stature more,
Than thou, Friend-Andrew, the sad day before.
But hark! who knocks; good truth my Muse is staid,
By an Apothecaries Bill unpaid;
Whose length, not strange-nam'd Drugs, makes her afraid.

To the Earl of Portland, Lord Treasurer; on the Marriage of his Son.

My Lord, this night is yours! each wandring Star
That was unbusi'd, and irregular;
Most gravely now, his bright Companion leads,
To fix o're your glad roofe, their shining Heads;
And it is said, th' exemplar King's your guest;
And that the rich Ey'd Darling of his Breast,
(To ripen all our joys) will there become
The Musick, Odor, Light of ev'ry Roome!
A mixture of two Noble bloods, in all
Faith, and domestick nature, union call,
No travail'd Eyes have seen, with humbler state
Of love perform'd, where Princes celebrate,
This when I heard; I know not what bold Starre
My Spirits urg'd, but it was easier farre
The torn, the injur'd Panther, to restraine
In's hot pursuit, or stroke him coole againe;
To tell the cause, why Winds do disagree,
Divide them when in stormes they mingled be;
Strait fix them single, where they breath'd before;
Or fanne them with a plume, from Sea to Shore;
Than bind my raging Temples, or resist
The pow'r that swell'd me, as Apollo's Priest.
Therefore my Robe, that on his Altar lay,
My Virge, my Wreath, I took; and thus did pray:
That you (my Lord) with lasting memory,
And strength of fervent youth, may live to see,
Your name in this blest nuptial store the Earth,
With such a masculine, and knowing birth;
As shall at factious Councels moderate,
And force injurious Armies to their fate.
Let time be fetter'd, that they never may
Increasing others, feel themselves decay.
To you (my Lord) who with wise industrie,
Seek Vertue out, then give it strength to be;
Where ere you shall recide let plenty bring
The pride, and expectations of the Spring;
The wealth that loads inticing Autumne grow
Within your reach; let hasty Rivers flow
Till on your shores, they skaly Tribute pay,
Then ebbe themselves in empty waves away;
Let each pale Flow'r, that springeth there, have pow'r
T' invite a Sun-beame, and command a Show'r;
The dew that falls about you taste of Wine,
Each abject Weed change root and be a Vine!
But I with this prophetick plenty grow
Already rich, and proud; cause then I know
The Poets of this Isle, in Vineyards may
Rejoyce, whilst others thirst in groves of Bay!
Sir, let me not your weary patience move;
And sinne, with two much courage of my love!
He that in strength of wishes, next shall trie,
T' increase your blessings with his Poetry
May shew a fiercer Wit, and cleaner Art;
But not a more sincere, and eager Heart.

The Queen returning to London, after a long absence.

How had you walk'd in Mists of Sea-coale-smoake
Such as your ever teeming Wives would choake,
(False Sons of thrift!) did not her beauties light,
Dispel your Clouds, and quicken your dull sight?
As when, th'illustrious Officer of Day,
(First worshipp'd in the East) 'gins to display
The glory of his beames; then Buds unfold
Their chary Leafes; each dew-drown'd Marigold
Insensibly doth stirre it self, and spread;
Each Violet lifts up the pensive Head;
So when the Rayes of her fair head appear,
To warm, and guild your clouded Hemispheare,
Those Flow'rs which in your narrow Gardens grow,
(Narrow as Turfs, which you a lark allow
In's wicker Cage) rejoyce upon their stalks;
Imbellishing your sommer-inch-broad-walks.
But she remov'd, what all your weary'd lives,
You plant in German pots, to please your Wives,
Shall fade; scarce in your Climate shall be seen
Enough of Spring to make your Tansies green.
Nor shall your blew-Ey'd Daughters more appear
(Though in the hopefull'st season of the Year)
In the dark street, where Tantlin's Temple stands,
With Time, and Marg'rom Posies in their hands.
We know (distrustful Bargainers!) you most
Love sacrifice, that puts you least to cost;
Give her your prayers then; that her looks may
After long Nights, restore you unto Day.
Though Ringing be some charge, and Wood grow dear,
In troth, it will become you once a year,
To offer Bells and Bonfires too, although
You couzen't out in Silks, next publick Show.

To I. W. upon the death of his Mistress.

As the great Sons of War, that are rais'd high
With long Success and frequent Victory,
Grow to such lazy pride; they take it ill
Men still should put them to the paines to kill;
And would, at each sterne becken of the Eye,
Have the sad Foe, vaile Plumes take leave, and dye:
So thou; as if thy Sorrows had o'recome
Halfe the wise world, and struck all reason dumbe;
Cry'st, she is dead! and frown'st, because I now
Take not my Wreath, (the Treasure of my Brow)
Then hurle my self, and it, a Sacrifice
In hallow'd flames, to her departed Eyes.
Cause early Men, their Curtaines draw, and say
Behold the Sun is risen, now 'tis day;
Knowing thy Sun is set, thou swar'st their sight,
Is led by bus'ness t'a mistake of Light,
Lovers believe, if yet th' Almighty cou'd,
Doubt part of his so swift creation good;
To ease him of another Fiat, they
Can with their Mistress beames, make him a day:
To rule the Night, each Glance (they think) will fit
Planets to largest Spheares, if we admit
Their silly Priests (the Poets) be but by,
That love to sooth such faith t'idolatry.
But how have I transgress'd, thus to declame
'Gainst sorrow I should envy more then blame?
For what is he, though reverendly old,
And than a Mountaine Muscovite more cold;
Though he wants Wit, or Nature to desire;
Though his hard heart be Ir'n, his heart strings Wire:
Or what is he, though blind, and knows no good
Of love, but by an itching faith in's blood.
That when thy Tongue her beauty open layes
To mental view, and her soft minde displayes,
Will think thy grief was over-pay'd, or yet
Bate the world one Sigh, of so just a debt?
But she is gone! Repine now, if you dare;
Like Heav'ns unlicenc'd Fools, all punish'd are
For Nature as for crimes; yet cannot choose
But mourn for ev'ry excellence we loose;
Though still commanded to a tame content;
To think no good was given us, but lent:
And a fond riddle in Philosophy,
Perswades us too; the virtuous never dye;
That all the ills, which we in absence find
Concern the Eye-sight onely, not the Mind:
But Lovers (whose wise Sences take delight
In warm contaction, and in real sight)
Are not with lean imagination fed,
Or satisfi'd, with thinking on the Dead.
'Tis fit we seek her then; but he that finds
Her out, must enter friendship with the Winds;
Enquire their dwelling, and uncertain walks;
Whither they blow, from their forsaken Stalks
Flowers that are gone, ere they are smelt? or how
Dispose o'th sweeter Blossoms of the Bough?
For she (the Treasuress of these) is fled,
Not having the dull leasure to be dead;
But t'hoord this Wealth; return, and this wealth bring
Still vary'd, and increas'd in ev'ry Spring.

To Endimion Porter.

It is (Lord of my Muse and Heart) since last
Thy sight inspir'd me, many ages past.
In darkness thick as ill-met Clouds can make,
In sleeps wherein the last Trump scarce could wake
The guilty dead, I lay and hidden more
Than Truth, which testy Disputants explore.
More hid than paths of Snakes, to their deep beds,
Or walkes of Mountaine-Springs from their first Heads:
And when my long forgotten Eies, and Mind,
Awak'd; I thought to see the Sun declin'd
Trough age, to'th' influence of a Star, and Men
So small, that they might live in Wombes agen,
But now, my strength's so giantly, that were
The great Hill-lifters once more toyling here;
Theyl'd choose me out, for active Back, for Bone,
To heave at Pælion first, and heave alone.
Now by the softness of thy noble care,
Reason and Light, my lov'd Companions are;
I may too, ere this Moon be lost, refine
My bloud, and bathe my Temples with thy wine
And then, know my Endimion (thou whose name
To'th World example is, Musick to Fame)
I'le trie if Art, and Nature, able be
From the whole strength, and stock of Poesie,
To pay thee my large debts, such as the poor
In open Blushes, hidden Hearts restore.

Epitaph on I. Walker.

Envy'd and lov'd, here lies the Prince of mirth!
Who laugh'd at the grave bus'ness of the Earth,
Look'd on ambitious States-men with such eyes,
As might discern them guilty, could not wise.
That did the noyse of War, and Battailes hear,
As mov'd to smiling pitty, not to fear:
Thought fighting Princes at their dying sad;
Believ'd, both Victors, and the Conquer'd mad:
Might have been rich, as oft as he would please,
But ways to wealth, are not the ways to ease.
The wit and courage of his talk, now rests,
In their impatient keeping that steale-Jeasts;
His Jeasts, who e're shall Father, and repeat
Shall mem'ry needs, but let's estate be great,
Danger so season'd them, each hath Salt left,
Will yet undo the poor for one small theft;
The rich, that will own them, what e're they pay,
Shall find, 'tis twice a week Star-Chamberday.

To Doctor Cademan, Physitian to the Queen.

For thy Victorious cares, thy ready heart;
Thy so small tyranny to so much Art;
For visits made to my disease
And me, (alas) not to my Fees:
For words so often comforting with scope
Of learned reason not perswasive hope:
For Med'cines so benigne, as seeme
Cordials for Eastern Queens that teeme.
For setting now my condemn'd body free,
From that no God, but Devil Mercurie:
For an assurance I ne'r shall
A forfeit be to' th'Admiral
Like those in Hospitals, who dare presume
To make French Cordage now of English Rhume;
Or slender Ropes, on which instead
Of Pearle, Revolted Teeth they thred;
For limiting my Cheekes, that else had been
Swoln like the signe, o'th Head 'oth Saracen;
For preservation from a long
Concealment of my Mother-Tongue;
Whilst speechless, sow'd in Hoods I should appear,
An Antarminian, silenc'd Minister;
Or some Turks poyson'd Mute so fret
So some at mouth, make signs and spet.
Whilst all I eat, goes down with lookes to sight
More forc'd, than Quailes t'each full-cramm'd Isralite
Whose angry swollowing denotes
They lay at Flux, and had sore throats.
For these deliverances, and all the good
My new return of Sences, strength, and blood,
Shall bring, for all I mine can boast,
Whilst my Endimion is not lost,
By th' feeble influence of my Starre; or turns
From me, to one whose Planet cleerer burnes,
May (thou safe Lord of Arts) each spring
Ripe plenty of Diseases bring
Unto the rich; they still t'our Surgeons be
Experiments, Patients alone to thee:
Health to the Poor; least pitty shou'd
(That gently stirs, and rules thy blood)
Tempt thee from wealth, to such as pay like me
A Verse; then think, they give Eternity.

To Endimion Porter, when my Comedy (call'd the Wits) was presented at Black-Fryers.

Hear, how for want of others grief, I mourn
My sad decay, and weep, at mine own Urne!
The Hour's (that ne're want Wings, when they should fly
To hasten Death, or lead on Destinie,)
Have now fulfill'd the time, when I must come
Chain'd to the Muses Barre, to take my doom:
When ev'ry Term, some tim'rous Poet stands,
Condemn'd by whispers, e're repriev'd by hands.
I that am told conspiracies are laid,
To have my Muse, her Arts, and life betray'd,
Hope for no easie Judge; though thou wert there,
T'appease, and make their judgments less severe.
In this black day, like men from Thunders rage,
Or drowning showres, I hasten from the stage;
And with my self, some Spirit, had within
Those distant wandring Winds, that yet have bin
Unknown to th' Compass, or the Pilots skill;
Or some loose Plummit sunk so low, until
I touch where roots of Rocks deep bury'd be;
There mourn beneath the leafeless Coral Tree.
But I am grown too tame! what need I fear,
Whilst not to passion, but thy reason clear?
Should I perceive, thy knowledge were subdu'd,
T' unkind consent with the harsh Multitude,
Then I had cause to weep; and at thy Gate
(Deny'd to enter) stand disconsolate,
Amaz'd and lost to mine own Eyes; there I
(Scarce griev'd for by my self) would winke and die,
Olivia then, may on thy pitty call
To bury me, and give me funeral.

In celebration of the yearly Preserver of the Games Costwald.

Hear me you Men of strife! you that have bin,
Long time maintain'd by the dull Peoples sin.
At Lyon's, Furnifold's, and Clement's Inne!
With huge, o're-comming Mutton, Target-Cheese,
Beefe, that the queasie stomack'd Guard would please,
And limber Groats, full half a Score for Fees.
Hear you Grown'd Lackeys that on both sides plead;
Whose hollow Teeth, are stuff'd with others Bread;
Whose Tongues will live (sure) when your selves are dead.
Hear you Alcaldos, whose sterne faces look,
Worse than our Pris'ner's that's deny'd his Book;
Than Pilat painted like Sir Edward Cook.
List all that toyle for pow'r to do Men wrong,
With pensive Eare, to my prophetick Song!
Whose Magick sayes, your Triumphs hold not long.
The time is come, you on your selves shall sit;
Whilst Children finde (if they endeavour it)
Your learning, Chronicle; Clinches your Wit.
Ere you a Year are dead, your Sones shall watch,
And roare all night with Ale in house of Thatch;
And speed, 'till Swords are worn in Belts of Match.
Whilst Dover (that his knowledge not imploy's
T' increase his Neighbours Quarrels, but their Joyes)
Shall in his age; get Money, Girles, and Boyes!
Money at Cotswald Games shall early fly;
Whilst the Precise, and envious shall stand by,
And see his Min'ral Fountain never dry.
His Girles, shall dowr-less wed with Heirs of birth;
His Boyes, plough London Widows up like earth;
Whilst Potswald Bards Cartol their Nuptial Mirth!
Dover (the Gentr'ys Darling) know this flame,
Is but a willing tribute to thy Fame,
Sung by a Poet, that conceals his name.

On the Death of the Lady Marquess of Winchester.

In care, lest some advent'rous Lover may
(T'increase his love) cast his own Stock away;
I (that finde, th' use of grief is to grow wise)
Forbid all traffique now, 'twixt Hearts and Eyes:
Our remnant-love, let us discreetly save,
Since not augment; for Love lies in the Grave.
Lest Men; whose patience is their senses sloth,
That onely live, t' expect the tedious growth
Of what the following Summer slowly yields;
Whose fair Elizium, is their furrow'd Fields,
Lest these, should so much prize mortalitie;
They ne're would reach the wit, or faith to die;
Know Summer comes no more; to the dark bed
Our Sun is gone; the hopeful Spring is dead.
And least kind Poets that delight to raise
(With their just truths, not extasie of praise)
Beauty to Fame; should rashly overthrow
The credit of their Songs; I let them know
Their Theame is lost, so lost, that I have griev'd,
They never more can praise, and be believ'd.

To Endimion Porter, upon his recovery from a long Sickness.

Just so the Sun doth rise, as if last Night
He cal'd to' accompt the Moon, for all the light
She ever ow'd; now looks so full of scorne,
And pride; as she had paid him all this Morne I
So clear a day, timely foretels; I now
Shall scape those Clouds, that hung upon my Brow,
Whilst I thy sickness mourn'd; and less did sleep,
Than faithful Widowes, that sincerely weep.
A true presage! My hopes no sooner tell
What they desir'd, but strait I find thee well.
Bless'd be the Stars; whose pow'rful influence
Our healths, by Minerals, and Herbs dispence!
And that's their chiefest use: who thinks that Fate
So many Stars did purposely create.
And them so large, meerly for show, and light;
Concludes, it took less care of day then Night.
Since thou art safe, those Numbers will be lost,
Which I laid up, to mourn thee as a Ghost:
Unless I spend them on some Tragick Tale,
Which Lovers shall believe, and then bewaile:
Next Term, prepare thee for the Theater!
And until then, reserve thy skilful Eare;
For I will sing imagin'd Tragedy,
'Till Fates repent their essence is so high
From passion ravs'd, 'cause they can ne're obtaine
To taste the griefs, which gentle Poets feigne.

Upon the Nuptials of Charles Lord Herbert, and the Lady M. Villers

Roses 'till ripe, and ready to be blown,
Their beauty hide, whilst it is yet their owne;
'Tis ours but in expectance, whilst th' are green;
And bashfully they blush when first 'tis seen,
As if to spread their beauty were a crime;
A fault in them, not in all-ripening-Time.
So stands (hidden with Vayles) in all her pride
Of early flourishing, the bashful Bride!
And 'till the Priest, with words devoutly said,
Shall ripen her a Wife, that's yet a Maid,
Her Vaile will never off: so modest still,
And so express'd by Nature, not by skill,
That sure she dress'd her looks when she did rise,
Not in her Glass, but in her Mother's Eyes.
The jolly Bridegroom stands, as he had t'ane
And led Love strongly fetter'd in a Chaine:
Forgetting when her Vailes are laid aside,
Himself is but a Captive to the Bride.
The Priest now joynes their hands, and he doth find
By misterie divine, in both one mind,
Mix'd, and dispers'd; his spirits strait begin
(As they were rap't) to vex, and talk within:
His Temples sweat, whilst he stood silent by,
Not as prepar'd to bless, but prophesie:
What needed more? since they must needs possess,
All he fore-told, though he should never bless:
And blessing unto such as most restores,
Or but repeats what was their Ancestors.

Prologue to a reviv'd Play of Mr. Fletchers, call'd, The Woman-hater.

Ladies take't as a secret in your Eare,
In stead of homage, and kind welcome here,
I heartily could wish, you all were gone;
For if you stay, good faith, we are undone.
Alass! you now expect, the usuall wayes
Of our address, which is your Sexes praise:
But we to night, unluckily must speake,
Such things will make your Lovers Heart-strings breake,
Bely your Virtues, and your beauties staine,
With words, contriv'd long since, in your disdaine.
'Tis strange you stirr not yet; not all this while
Lift up your Fannes to hide a scornfull smile:
Whisper, or jog your Lords to steale away;
So leave us t'act, unto our selves, our Play:
Then sure, there may be hope, you can subdue,
Your patience to endure, an Act, or two:
Nay more, when you are told our Poets rage
Pursues but one example, which that age
VVherein he liv'd produc'd; and we rely
Not on the truth, but the variety.
His Muse believ'd not, what she then did write;
Her VVings, were wont to make a nobler flight;
Soar'd high, and to the Stars, your Sex did raise;
For which, full Twenty years, he wore the Bayes.
'Twas he reduc'd Evadne from her scorne,
And taught the sad Aspacia how to mourne;
Gave Arethusa's love, a glad reliefe;
And made Panthea elegant in griefe.
If these great Trophies of his noble Muse,
Cannot one humor 'gainst your Sex excuse
VVhich we present to night; you'l finde a way
How to make good the Libell in our Play:
So you are cruell to your selves; whilst he
(Safe in the fame of his integritie)
VVill be a Prophet, not a Poet thought;
And this fine VVeb last long, though loosely wrought.

To Endimion Porter, passing to Court to him by Water.

ODE 1.

Elegie on B. Haselrick, slain in's youth, in a Duell.

To the QUEEN upon a New-years day.

You of the Guard make way! and you that keep
The Presence warme, and quiet whilst you sleep
Permit me pass! and then (if any where
Imploy'd) you Angels that are busi'st here,
And are the strongest Guard, although unseene,
Conduct me neere the Chamber of the Queen!
Where with such reverence as Hermits use
At richest Shrines, I may present my Muse:
Awake! salute, and satisfie thy sight,
Not with the fainting Sun's, but thine own Light!
Let this day break from thine own Silken spheare,
This Day, the birth, and Infant of the yeare!
Nor is there need of Purple, or of Lawne
To vest thee in, were but thy Curtaines drawne,
Men might securely say, that it is morne,
Thy Garments serve to hide, not to adorne!
Now she appeares, whilst ev'ry look, and smile,
Dispences warmth, and beauty through our Isle:
Whilst from their wealthiest Caskets, Princes pay
Her gifts, as the glad tribute of this Day!
This Day; which Time shall owe to her, not Fate;
Because her early Eyes did it create.
But O! poore Poets! Where are you? Why bring
You not your Goddess now an Offering?
Who makes your Numbers Swift, when they mov'd slow,
And when they ebb'd, her influence made them flow,
Alass! I know your wealth: the Laurell bough,
Wreath'd into Circles, to adorne the Brow,
Is all you have: But goe; these strew, and spread,
In Sacrifice, where ever she shall tread,
And ere this day grow old, know you shall see
Each Leafe become a Sprig, each Sprig a Tree.

Elegie,

On Francis Earle of Rutland.

To Endimion Porter.

Would thou wert dead! so strictly dead to me,
That, nor my sight, nor my vex'd memorie
Could reach thee more: so dead, that but to name
Thou wert, might give the sawcie lie to Fame;
That the bold Sonnes of Honour, and the milde
Race of Lovers (both thy disciples stil'd)
Might ask; who could the first example be
To all their good? yet none should mention thee:
Knocking at my Brest, when this hour is come;
I hope, I once shall find my heart at home.
Say thou art dead; yet whisper't but to me;
For should thy so well-spent mortalitie,
End to the world, and that sad end be knowne;
I might (perhaps) still live, but live alone:
The better world would follow thee, and all
That I should gaine, by that large Funerall.
Would be, the wanton vanity to boast,
What they enjoy, was from my plenty lost.

To the Countess of Carlile, on the death of the Earle her Husband.

Epilogue, to LOVE and HONOR, A Tragicomedy.

Troth Gentlemen, you must vouchsafe a while
T'excuse my Mirth; I cannot chuse but smile!
And 'tis to think, how like a subtle Spie,
Our Poet waits, to hear his destinie:
Just ith' pav'd-Entry as you passe; the place
VVhere first you mention your dislike, or grace.
Pray whisper softly, that he may not hear;
Or else, such words, as shall not blast his Ear.

Epilogue, to a Vacation Play at the Globe.

The Speaker enter'd with a Sword drawn.
For your own sakes (poor Souls!) you had not best
Believe, my fury was so much supprest
I'th'heat of the last Scene, as now you may
Boldly, and safely too, cry down our Play!
For if you dare but Murmure one false Note,
Here in the House, or going to take Bote;
By Heav'n I'le mowe you off with my long Sword;
Yeoman, and Squire, Knight, Lady, and her Lord!
VVith reason too; for since my whole part lies
I'th' Play to Kill the King's chief Enemies;
How can you scape? (be your own Judges) when
You lay sad plots, to begger the Kings Men.

To the QUEEN, upon a New-yeares day.

This day, old Time, doth turne his Annuall Glass,
And shakes it, that the Year may swiftly pass:
This day; on which the formost leading-sand
Falls from that Glass, shook by his hasty Hand:
That Sand's th'exemplar Seed, by which we know
How th'Hour's of the ensuing Year will grow.
Awake, great Queen! for as you hide, or cleere
Your Eyes, we shall discrust, or like the Yeare.
Queenes set their Dialls by your beauties light;
By your Eyes learne, to make their own move right;
Yet know, our expectation when you rise
Is not intirely furnish'd from your Eyes;
But wisely we provide, how to rejoyce,
In the fruition of your Breath, and Voice:
Your breath, which Nature the example meant,
From whence our early Blossomes take their scent;
Teaching our Infant-Flow'rs how to excell
(Ere strong upon their stalks) in fragrant smell:
Your voice, which can allure, and charme the best
Most gawdy-feather'd Chaunter of the East,
To dwell about your Pallace all the Spring,
And still can make him silent whilst you sing.
Rise then! for I have heard Apollo sweare,
By that first lustre, which did fill his Spheare;
He will not mount, but make eternall Night,
Unless reliev'd, and cherish'd by your Sight:
Your sight; which is his warmth, now he is old,
His Horses weary, and his Chariot cold.

To Edward Earl of Dorset, after his Sickness, and happy Recovery.

My Lord,

I find the Gentry so o're-joy'd i'th' Town,
As if all Prisons (safely) were rac'd down;
As if the Judges would no more resist
Wrongs with the Law, but each turne Duelist;
And not with Statutes, but with Rapiers fence,
At Mason's ward to succour Innocence.
As if some trusty Poet now had bin
Chosen with full voice City-Chamberlin;
Their Treasure kept, and might dispose of it
And th'Orphans Goods, as his free Muse thought fit;
As if grave Benchers had been seen to weare
Loud German Spurres, tall Feathers, and long Haire.
Such wilde inversions, both of Men, and Lawes,
Amaz'd my Faith, untill I knew, the cause
Was your return to health; which did destroy
All griefe in greater Minds, and swell their joy:
Which made me gladly vow to dedicate
Each Year, a solemn sacrifice to Fate;
Such as should please old Esculapius too,
More than dissected Cocks were wont to doe,
(If there be Prophecie in Wine) and then
You shall be known to Altars, as to Men

Written, when Collonel Goring was believ'd to be slain at the Siege of Breda.

His Death lamented by Endimion, Arigo

The SCENE the Sea.
ENDIMION.
Ho! Pilot! change your Course! for know, we are
Not guided by the Sea-mans usuall Starre:
Storme-frighted-Foole! dull, wat'ry Officer?
Dost thou our Voyage by the Compass steere?
In all the Circle of thy Card, no Winde
Tame or unruly, thou wilt ever finde
Can bring us where the meanest on the Coast
Immortall is, and a renowned Ghost.

ARIGO.
Let the assembled Winds in their next Warre,
Blow out the light of thy old guiding Starre;
Whilst on uncertaine VVaves, thy Bark is tost,
Untill thy Card is rent, thy Rudder lost.
Nor Star, nor Card, though with choice VVinde you fill
Your Sailes (subdu'd by Navigators skill:)
Can teach the rule thy Helme, 'till 'twaft us o're
Pacifique Seas, to the Elisian Shore.

ENDIMION.
Who on that flow'ry Land, shall search his way,
No mortall Pilots Compass must obay;
Nor trust Columbus art, although he can
Boast longer toyles, than he, or Magilan:
Though in Sea-perills, he could talke them dumbe,
And prove them lazy Criples; bred at home,
By's travailes, he could make the Sun appeare,
A young, and unexperienc'd Travailer.

ARIGO.
If thou wilt steere our course, thou must rely
On some majestick, Epik-History;
(The Poet's Compass) such as the blind Priest
In fury writ, when like an Exorcist,
His Numbers charm'd the Grecian Hoast; whose Pen,
The Scepter was, which rul'd the Soules of Men,
Survey his mystick Card; learn to what Coast,
He did transport, each brave unbody'd Ghost,
New shifted from his flesh; that valiant Crew,
Which fierce Achilles, and bold Hector slew?

ENDIMION.
Enquire, where these are now? beneath what Shade,
In dear-bought rest, their weary Limbs are laid,
That trod on rugged wayes? for Honor still
Leaves the smooth Plaine, t'ascend the rough, steep Hill.
There seek, the Macedonian Youth; who knew
No work so full of ease, as to subdue:
Who scarce believ'd his Conquests worthy fame,
Since others thought, his fortune overcame.

ARIGO.
Neer him, th'Epir of Warriour doth lie;
Lookes, as he scorn'd his immortalitie,
Because of too much rest; seems still at strife
With Fate, for loss of troubles, not of life:
Griev'd that to dye, he made such certain hast,
Since being dead, the noble Danger's past.

ENDIMION.
Neer these go seek (with Mirtle over-grown)
The Carthaginian Victor's shady Throne;
Who there with sullen thoughts, much troubled lies;
And chides the over-careful Destinies?
That these Ambitious Neighbours thither sent
So long before his birth; thus to prevent
Dishonour at their deaths; O fond surmise,
Of one, who when but mortal was so wise!
As if betimes, they hastned to a Tombe,
Lest he b'ing borne, they had been overcome.

ARIGO.
Neer him the wondrous Roman doth appear,
Majestick, as if made Dictator there;
Where now the Philosophick Lord, would heale
The wound he gave him for the publick Weale:
Which he more strives to hide; as sham'd his Eye
Should find, that any wound could make him die.

ENDIMION.
If thou by the wise Poets Card or starre,
Canst bring us where these faded Heroes are;
Shift all thy Sayles, to husband ev'ry Winde;
'Till by a short swift passage we may find,
Where Sidney's ever-blooming-Throne is spread;
For now, since one renown'd as he is dead;
(Goring, the still lamented, and belov'd!)
He hath enlarg'd his Bow'r, and far remov'd
His less Heroick Neighbours, that gave place
To him; the last of that soon number'd Race.

ARIGO.
Whom he must needs delight to celebrate,
Bacause himself, in manners and in Fate,
Was his undoubted Type, Goring, whose name
Though early up, will stay the last with Fame:

ENDIMION.
Though Sidney was his Type fulfill'd above
What he foretaught, of Valor, Bounty, Love:
Who dy'd like him, even there, where he mistook
Betray'd by pitty then, to their defence,
Whose poverty was all their innocence:
And sure, if to their help a Third could come,
Beguild by Honour, to such Martyrdome;
Sufficient like these Two in braine, as blood;
The world in time would think, their cause is good.

ARIGO.
Thus he forsook his glories being young:
The Warriour is unlucky, who lives long;
And brings his courage in suspect; for he
That aimes at honour, i'th' supreme degree,
Permits his Valor to be over bold,
Which then ne're keeps him safe, 'till he be old.

ENDIMION.
His Bounty like his Valor, unconfin'd;
As if not born to Treasure, but assign'd
The rents of lucky War; each Day to be
Allow'd, the profits of a Victory!
Not of poor Farmes, but of the World the Lord!
Heir, to intestate Nations by his sword,

ARIGO.
In Valor thus, and Bounty, rais'd above
The vulgar height, so in designes of love;
For onely gentle love could him subdue;
A noble crime, which shew'd his Valor true:
It is the Souldier's test; for just so far
He yeilds to Love, he overcomes in War.

ENDIMION.
But why Arigo, do we strive to raise
The Story of our loss, with helpless praise?
Why to this Pilot mourne, whose Eares can reach
Nothing less loud, than Winds or Waters breach!
Or think that he can guide us to a Coast,
Where we may find, what all the World hath lost?

ARIGO.
About then! Helme. a Lee! Endimion! see;
Loose Wreaths (not of the Bay, but Cypress tree)
Our Poet wears, and on the Shore doth mourn,
Fearing, t' Elizium bound; we can't return,
Steer back! his Verse may make those Sorrows last
Which here, we 'mongst unhallow'd Sea-men waste.

To the Lord Cary of Lepington, upon his Translation of Malvezzi.

To Henry Jarmin.

To Tho. Carew.

To Doctor Duppa Dean of Christ-Church, and Tutor to the Prince. An acknowledgment for his Collection, in Honour of Ben. Johnson's Memory.

To his Excellency the Lord General Monck.

POEM upon His Sacred Majestie's most happy Return to His Dominions.

POEM to the Kings most Sacred Majesty.