University of Virginia Library

To the Great in Worth and Merit as in Honour and Title, the Lady happily Marchioness of Winchester, humbly these.

A New-years Gift.

MADAM,

Could I but dive into the Oceans Breast,
Or climbe those Rocks, that with the clouds contest,
If I could sayl unto the Persian shore,
Or rob the wealthy Indies of their Oare.
Your private walks, and Arbours I would pave
With orient Pearl, and you should Diamonds have,
Such as might dimn the glory of the Sunne,
And make old Nature think her self undone;
With Persian Carpets I would deck your Rooms,
And gold should be, but offerings for your grooms.
But I the diving Dolphin cannot ride,
Nor yet the high eye-daz'ling rock bestride;
I cannot swim unto the Persian shoar,
Nor rob the spatious Indies of their Oar;
Yet, Madam, rather then I would appear,
With empty hand to welcome in this Year,
Or with the Countrie Maid, to shew my loves,
Bring Capons, Hens, or Orange stuck with cloves,
I have my Paper-office search't, and there
Finding some sheets, that never tainted were
With unclean hands, lines that ne'er saw the Sun,
Nor yet been breath'd upon since they were done.
Of them, I chose with curiosity
Such, as I thought, might take your Ear, or Eye.
Plain dealing, Madam, some a Jewel call,
If you esteem it so, your Honour shall
Finde it like swelling grapes, like fruitful Vine,
Under each leaf, hanging on every line,
Each Satyr wears it in his hayrie Ear,
And in each Epigram it will appear.
Your wonted favour grant then, and I live
Richer then those that thousands have to give.

To the Censorious Reader.

I do desire the snarle and do thy worst,
Who at thy mercie stands is most accurst:
I write to please my Friends and bouldly vow,
Neither thy venom'd Tongue, nor bended Brow
Shall force me to a Recantation.
I know thy trade, thy Occupation
Is to find fault, find them good Sir, and take them,
They are your own, 'tis you not I that make them.
Belch out thy poison then, and vent thy gall,
I have an Antidote within 'gainst all.
Besides here is a Charm, if you but look
Upon the Frontire peece of this poor Book;
A Ladies name, a name that vertue hath
Enough to make this Book become a Bath,
And give each line a healing power by which
Each critick may be cur'd of his salt itch.
This makes me here with confidence protest,
I fear not thee nor any such wilde beast.

To the Courteous Reader.

I kiss your hands, and would be glad to meet
Such Friends in every leaf, 'twixt every sheet.
I wish that every dish, and all the Sallets
That's set before you may delight your pallets.
Therefore I sent to Florence for my oyl,
My Olives grew on that Italian soyl.
The Oranges and Lemons Spanish speak,
And if the Vineger be dead or weak
Then blame the Time and people, that will carp
At any thing though wholsome, if but sharp.
Woodcocks here are, as good as ever flew;
Widgeons and gulls that certainly are new.
Heer's fowle of every sort save only one,
And that's foul faults of them I hope here's none.
Sit down then curteous Reader, and fall too,
For know the feast was only made for you.
Sit and be frollike, whilst I humbly wait
Expecting how you relish each conceit.
And if you rise well pleas'd my noble Friends,
I then am rich as having all in ends.

To his Book.

Go forth my little wanton, go and play,
But on my Blessing, see thou do'st not stray
Beyond those bounds to which I have confin'd thee
For if in Pauls Church yard I chance to find thee,
Nay if within the City walls thou come,
I wish thou may'st be instantly struck dumb,
Or if with Prentices thou do converse,
Pray Heavens their Masters Counters prove thy herse,
There with their dam'd account books lie for ever,
And may I hear, or see thee thenceforth never.
The old Exchange I doe forbid thee too,
Lest thou shouldst meet in hasty crowds, a crew
Either a Grain too light, or too too grave,
Compos'd of too much fool, or too much knave.
The Inns of Court are safe, none there will scare thee,
But from the Inns of Chancery I bar thee;
There Under-sheriffs, Sollicitors and such
Will make a Battery of every touch.
Benchers and Barristers pass by, for those
To wit are Neuters, neither friends nor foes.
If to the Royal Court a Courtier bear thee,
Avoid the knavish Pages, lest they swear thee,
And force the so the Author to bewray:
With Grooms and Chamber-maids forbear to play
Gentlemen-Ushers, and the quarter-wayters,
Though just unto their King, they may be traitors
To me, or thee; with Pentioner or Querrie
Be free and bold, they can be bold and merrie,
For they good Fellowes are, and can dispense
With wit that fights, but in its own defence.
The new great Lords avoid, and if thou can,
For every Lord is not a Noble man.
Shun Countesses, as much as thou art able,
She may b'a Countess that's not honorable.
For Senators, know they are sharp-edg'd tools
Not too be jested with; there are Court fools,
Who cog and ly, but still their Coxcombs have
A cursed sent, of the most dangerous knave.
A Clergie man that wears a little ruff,
And keeps his hand untainted with a cuff;
Who wears no Spanish leather Boot or Shooe,
Or any other fashion that is new,
Lest it from France, or Spain, or Rome should come,
To such a silenc't Brother be thou dumbe;
Say not, God save him, lest he say, he's able
To save himself, and damn the prophane rabble.
The only friends to whom I would commend thee,
Are only those to whom I humbly send thee:
Kisse their fair hands, and at their noble feet
Stand and do pennance, in a paper sheet.
From them alone thy absolution crave,
Since they alone have power to kill, or save.

To the jealous Reader.

Who findes an Epigram like cloaths in fitness,
Of him 'twas made, his Conscience is my witness.
And yet I wonder how it comes to pass
What for a Goose I made, should fit an Ass:
But take it Sir, and now I know your measure
I'le fit you better at my further leasure

To the Printer, if these papers should unhappily come to the Press.

If you should be accus'd have care to look
You do not play the fool and crave your Book,
For to your condemnation that may rise,
Rather stand mute my Friend be dumb and wise.
If you confess as they perhaps would have you,
Take it from me this Book will never save you.
If they condemn you 'cause you'l not confess,
You know they can but send you to the Press.
Then pray stand mute, the counsel's good I give,
Dy by the Press since by the Press you live.

To the Stationer if need be.

If you shall make Pauls Pillars Pennance do
In any sheet of mine, or set to view
The Title of this Book on any Post,
I wish your expectation may be lost;
For common things that men at stairs do cry
Are only fit for th'vulgar sort to buy.
As wife or daughter let this Book have keeping,
And men will hunt it out when you are sleeping.

To the punctual Poets.

If you examine by the rules of art
These Rimes of mine, together or apart,
And to the common touch-stone of your trade
Send them, i'le prevent you, for know they were made
Not for the Universities, nor yet
To sell at any stall for currant wit,
Fiddlers and Queresters are bound to sing
Allwaies in tune, and eke their fiddles string
With Trebles, Means, Counter-tenor Bases,
But know, you Criticks, mine another case is.
I write to please my true and noble freinds,
To please you in the cross part is my ends:
Besides Parnassus hill I hear is steep,
Your spring of Hellicon's for me to deep,
Nor doe I truly know, I truly vow,
Whether your Pegasus be horse or Cow.
You that doe write for monie or applause
Keep you the rules of art, observe her laws;
My papers shall not smell of oyl nor wax,
Your lamps and tapers force you set a tax
Upon your Stationers who many times
With dear repentance bind your dear bought rimes
Which serve a prentiship upon their stalls
For few there are that come unto their calls
Unless Tobaccoe men, sick men or such
As physick take because they surfet much:
But know you men of curiosity,
These sheets shall in some ladies closset ly;
Who them in their fair hands shall take somtimes,
With sweetest powders to perfume my rimes;
The Damask rose buds in these papers shall
In them be dry'd, and hung against the wall
And th'very worst that these leaves can abide,
About some gally Pots they may be ty'd,
And so preserve those sweets, that sweeter grow
By those sweet hands that did preserve them so.
Arm'd with this confidence my Muses flight
Shall not be checkt by any Critticks slight.

A Satyr. To the Times time-serving Poets.

I claim no place no office, or degree,
In your allyance, or fraternitie,
I'le stand alone, and either fall, or rise,
Not by your hands, but by the destinies,
Light headed Mercury, not grave Apollo
My patron is, his winged feet, I follow,
With him, I often cut the subtill ayr,
And from the Dogg-star, pluck a lock of hair,
Then to the man ith' Moon I nimbly leap,
And fleece his shaghair'd Cur, from thence I step,
Down to the fatall sisters, force them spin,
These hairs, to thrids, of which I weave a gin,
To catch wilde beasts, tame fooles, and great ones, too
This is a trifling work, you scorn to do,
Nor would it well become your gravities,
You fish with lines of silke, and painted flies,
Yow angle for great Ladies favorites,
Bow to their groomes, flatter their parazites,
Smooth up their Bauds, and to conclude comit,
Idolatrie with Calves, and make your wit,
Worse then a hackney Jade, that every host
With any paper packet, may send post,
Whilst I with nimble footed Mercury,
Through unfrequented woods, and groves, do flie,
And with a sharp hooft Satyr, pace by pace,
In Desert forrests hunt the wild goose chase,
And fear no beast though he a title beare.
As big as is his bulk, freedome dwells there,
And christian liberty, like Ships on seas,
Unbounded is, and stears which way it please,
There in security we, sport and play,
Scorning to feare, what Cittie Cryticks say,
Sometimes within the Court I do appeare,
But not like you to scratch an itching eare,
For know I croude those ulcerous organs full
Of sulphur, copprice, gaul, black Incke and wooll
And if to any States man I but whisper,
So sharpe my breath is, that I leave a blister.
Sometimes to th'old Exchange, travell I doe,
My Patron Courtiour is, and Merchant too,
There to the Aldermen, I packets tender;
From their god plentie, and when they would render
A brace of Teasters, for the news I bring,
I falcon like, am got upon the wing,
Spurring the sloe pac't winde, untill it throwes me
Upon some noble country freind that knows me;
To him I dare be free, to me he dares
Communicate the common feares, and cares,
With which the humble subjects are possest,
How by that Courtiour, they have been opprest
How by that Lawyer, wrested from their right
How by that Prelate tith'd unto a myte,
How by Projectors rifled and undone,
How by some strange Monopolie, some one
Ingrosses that, by which two thousand poore,
Have gott an honest living heretofore;
This when I hear I then turn Satyrist,
And still my hardest lines, I harder twist,
And to my Incke, ad gaull, then naked strip them,
And without feare, or pittie, boldly whip them,
I hate those sneaking Poets, that put one,
Faces as rough as Satyrs, yet are none,
Such as doe onely barke, and dare not bite,
When an Invective, I intend to write,
My pencile make as sharpe, as sworde, or knife,
And if I needs must rayl, i'le do't to the life,
Daring Authoritie I will outlooke,
And mercie want rather then crave my booke,
Blind are those fools that stumble at a straw,
Satyres ne'er ought to know nor fear a law,
With them I am resolv'd some hours to spend,
And to that sport, summon one only friend.

A Court-Prodigall.

On Calsors back, heaven knowes for what offence,
This day is hangd all his inheritance
That Cloake to No'hs Ark well you may compare:
For every living beast he had lies there
His hose and dublet like that mighty Flood
Hath dround each field and over-whelm'd each wood
A lease with divers Coppie-holds doth ride
In an Impropriation by his side
His Haberdasher joyning with the Pointer
Hath trust him up in his old mothers Joynter
To Sturbridge Fayr why run you then for shows
When heers a Monster much more strange then those.

An Old Unthrift.

Albertus swears and swearing so resolved
That if Court tables should be quite disolved
Himself with thousands more would sell their spits
And leave the poor to live by their poor wits
Albertus do; since forth thou dar'st not peep
Let that keep thee; that thou wert wont to keep
For thy revenews and thy penny rents
Are all forestall'd by Cittizens extents.
Then as I said good unthrift let it be
Thou once kept house now let the house keep thee.

To a great Lord that upbraided his Servant with Poverty.

Your Lordship did object upon a time
My poverty against me as a crime,
You blamed me that I borrowed had of those,
Who to your knowledge were my greatest foes;
It had been nobly done Sir to relieve me,
Rather then with my wants and Foes to grieve me
But in distress give me a foe that lends,
Before a thousand faithless fruitless friends.

To his reconciled Enemy

You were my enemy so went the cry
But your late actions hath given that the ly;
You are my freind profest nay you have sworne it
And but I know it reall I should scorne it;
Let all back-biters then henceforth be Mute,
Freinds by their workes are knowne as trees by fruit
He that shall speak me faire and loves me not,
Calls for the reckoning up, but payes no shot,
Give me the man that smoothly steals away,
Uses few words, but leaves me nought to pay.
Let those that envie this our frendship know,
That I much more to you then them do owe,
For you have paid my scores, so used me better
Then such as scorn'd me, 'cause I was a debter.
Thus by your actions I shall ever prize you,
Who calls you then my foe, I swear belies you.

Upon a Fool that was angry at his evil Fortune.

Graccus at fortune rayls, and oft imparts
Unto his private friends some evil chance,
Still wondering that a man of his deserts
That fickle whore so slowly should advance:
Indeed since fortune favours fools so much,
All wonder may, that thy ill fortune's such.

Upon a Fellow that fear'd he should run mad for his Mistresse.

Ralph is love sick, and thinks he shall run mad,
And loose his wits, a thing Ralph never had.
Take comfort man, if that be all thou fearest,
A groat will pay the loss when wits at dearest.

Upon a Highway Thief.

Dick had two words that did maintain him ever,
The one was stand, the other was deliver.
But Dick's in Newgate, and I fear will never
Be blest again with that sweet word, deliver.

Of one that was burnt in the Hand.

That fellow there, as simply as he stands,
Hath all the law by rote at's fingers ends:
Nay answers one, he hath it in his hands,
For at last Sessions, had he not found friends,
He had been hang'd, if out he have not bit it,
The law's there to be read, as Deverax writ it.

Upon a Ladies Tailor turnd out of service, having been long her Favourite.

What Monsieur Nit my Ladies Taylor here,
That she maintain'd for trimming her old gear?
I heard why you were out of favour put,
A sour Nitships yard she found was lately cut:
Then blame her not, she had just cause of Ire,
A childe once burnt, you know will fear the fier.
Then she that hath so oftentimes been served,
Hath in her old age cause to be afeard.

Upon his unkinde Kinred.

In kinsman friend of old was comprehended,
Give me one friend and hang up all my kindred.

A Gardner and his Wife.

A gardners wife that long had barren been,
Her husband one night thus did make his mone,
Sure wife quoth he 'tis for some deadly sin,
That this our work 'mongst all the rest alone
Is fruitless, here's labor, but no increasing,
Husband quoth she, this ground doth want much dressing
With that the man a far fetcht sigh sent forth,
And swore it had more dressing then twas worth.

A peremptory Gold-smiths Wife.

A goldsmiths wife most boldly oft required
Of her good man a hundred pound in gold,
For what use to know humbly he desired,
For my pleasure quoth she, strait down twas tould,
Take it said he, my onely dearest Dear,
And thus she serves him twice or thrice a year.
Though he do oft thus for her pleasure pay,
Yet that he is a Wittall who can say?

A Courteous Chambermaid.

Doll often did protest, and deeply too,
Her sought for Maydenhead she would not loose,
At last her Ladies Son did Doll pursue,
And wood so well she could not him refuse,
How now quoth he, how can you salve your Vow,
Why that's not lost quoth she, that's given to you.

To one that entreated the Author to write some Verses to a Book that he had going to the Press.

I was intreated by a scambling Knight
Something in praise of his new book to write,
I that am ready at each Suiters whistle
As others did, provided an Epistle,
But 'cause I did not prayse his work enough,
He left it out, which I took much in snuff;
But let it pass it hath given me a schoolling,
I'l henceforth sooth up woodcocks in their fooling.

The Author upon his Epigrams.

My Epigrams by hundreds I send forth,
And give them too for nought thats just their worth
If in mouths of gift horses few men look,
Vouchsafe but so much justice to this book.
For rather then I'le sell paper and Inck,
I'le be a night man, though the office stinck.

To the truly Honourable and antiently Noble Benefactor the Lord Dunkelly, Vicecount Tunbridg,

Upon the Authors obligations to him, An Epigram.

I am your Lordships debtor, yet who looks
I fear will scarcely finde me in your books,
My name I doe suspect is clearly lost,
And I for want of payment out am crost:
Yet my ambition's still great Lord, to mount
High in your books, I mean of good account:
In other books where ere I find my name,
I wish their libraries were all in flame.
A tradesmans book is worse to me by far
Then the black book, where psalms of mercie are.
To read is not enough my life to save,
Iudgment or satisfaction they must have,
Their books condemn me, yours would me acquit,
Let me be blotted there, in yours fair writ,
Their great accounts my greatest sorrow is,
The greater your account the more my bliss.
Then know your honour cannot please me better
Then write me down at large your thankfull debtor.

To the most deservedly beloved and honoured the the Lady Viscountess Tunbridge.

Madam,

Where should I place your honour if not heer,
Since 'tis as all men know your proper sphear;
You doe not in your orb so sweetly move,
Wanting his presence you so dearly love:
Therefore my judgment humbly thought it meet,
To place you thus together in one sheet,
And may those powers that govern death and fate,
So ty, so binde, and so conglutinate,
The holy bonds that hold you now together,
That neither may lament the loss of either;
May death, and time, and fate want power to force
Either a separation or devorce,
Betwixt you, and let every new year bring,
To both your bloods, to both your loves, a spring;
May you grow old in nothing but in seeing,
Your Childrens Childrens Children still in being;
My orisons are done, and Madam now,
I humbly come to beg one boon of you.
Vouchsafe though hitherto you have not known me
To write me down your servant, and so own me.
That happiness convaid but to my hearing,
Ile strive to spin a web worthy your wearing.

An Epigram Humbly presented to his Majestie upon Release of a prisoner that was committed for making Libellous Verses.

Your royall Mother Sir, blest ever be,
This day that brings her to our memory,
To England, Scotland, and Ireland gave,
A judge to Censure, and a king to save:
It was a day of mercie, so said she,
God mercie shew'd in her delivery;
Oh let it be a day of mercie ever,
Pronounce great Sir, this day that word, deliver,
A prison is a womb, whence onely you,
Have power to bid bad men be born anew:
In imitation of our God then say,
Fiat, and I am born anew this day;
The acts of mercie Saints and Angells sing,
They will rejoyce with her first gave you being.
Oh pardon then my much repented, folly,
That I with them may keep this day still holy.

To his Noblest Friend Mr. Endimion Porter upon Verses writ by Ben. Johnson.

They that give wine to Poets, noble friend,
Verses receive, they need not verses send;
Onely your self that all men can out do,
Did send your Poet wine and verses too.
You gave him Oyle, for wine Sir is the same,
It makes the dying Fier freshly flame.
It is the Philosophers stone, with which
Their lives do catch conceits, which makes them rich:
It is the Antidote that doth preserve,
Their fancies, which without it drop and starve.
It is indeed the spirit, that infuses
Quick apprehensions in the dullest Muses.
The gift was rare, but there's a better thing,
You drew it from the bosome of a king;
For had you from the fountaine drawne a peece,
Pierced the Star, or squeez'd the golden fleece,
Or searcht the bowells of the Lyon, nay
Had you done more, sent a tall shipp a way,
To Spaine or Greece, and with your mony bought
The head of all the vintage, and that brought,
At your owne charge home to his Celler dore,
You had done much; but this is much much more:
You brought him sack even from a god like giver,
Such, and so blest, as it shall last for ever,
As if the Fates, being pleas'd, would now designe,
To the immortall Muses pretious wine;
So that your Poet to the last of dayes,
Is bound loud Sir, to singe your lasting prayse;
Thus have you built your self brave Sir, a tombe,
That neither time nor envie can consume.
And if you want an Epitaph, you must dye,
When as Parnassus burns, and Helicon is dry.

For Mistress Porter on a New years day.

Go hunt the whitest Ermine, and present,
His wealthy skinne as this dayes tribute sent,
To my Endimion's love, though she be far,
More gently smooth, more soft then Ermins are,
Goe climbe the rocks, and when thou there hast found,
A star contracted in a diamond,
Give it Endimion's love, whose equall eyes,
Out-look the starry jewells of the skyes:
Goe dive into the southern sea, and when
Thou'st found to trouble the nice sight of men
A swelling pearle, and such whose single worth,
Boasts all the wonders which the sea brings forth,
Give it Endimion's love, whose every tear,
Would more inrich the skillful Jeweller,
How I command, how slowly they obey
The churlish Tartar will not hunt to day,
Nor will the lazie sallow Indian strive,
To climbe the rocke, nor that dull Negro dive,
Thus Poets like to kings by trust deceived,
Give what is oftner heard of then received.

To his loved Friend Mr. Davenat, upon his Verses to the well-deserving both his, and all others praises the vertuous Mistress Porter.

I seldom praise least using so to doe,
My Muse at length might learn to flatter to,
But if I envie any, be it known,
Dear freind, 'tis you, 'tis you that have out-gone
My nimble thoughts, thoughts that for many dayes
Have been upon the wing to catch a praise,
Worthy her wearing, but I now despair,
For you have rob'd the earth the sea and ayr;
And in conceit made her a richer feast,
Then Cleopatra did her Roman Guest.
You hunted well and though you caught no game,
Yet by't you have gain'd from me this Epigrame;
Thus Poets with the Gods, lov'd friend, may boast
That they can feast each other without cost.

An Epigram, To his Friend Ben Johnson, upon his Libellous Verses against the Lords of the Green-Cloath concerning his Sack.

You swore dear Ben you'ld turn the green cloth blew,
If your dry Muse might not be bath'd in sack,
Nay drunk with choller you protested too,
Their white stains you would smoke till they were black.
This with those fearless Lords nothing prevailing,
The Scean you alterd and you smooth'd your pen,
You lest your bitter and your fruitless rayling,
And basely slatter'd e'en the worst of men;
Then give me leave henceforth good Ben to think,
You drunkest are when you the most want drink.

To Ben Johnson again, upon his verses dedicated to the Earl of Portland, Lord Treasurer.

Your verses are commended and tis true,
That they were very good, I mean to you;
For they return'd you Ben as I was tould,
A certain sum of forty pound in gold:
The verses then being rightly understood,
His Lordship not Ben Johnson made them good.

An Epitaph upon the chast and fair Lady Walsingam.

Within this humble herse of clay here lies
Reliques that heathen men would Idolize;
Such flesh and blood to dust and ashes turn'd,
As since the worlds first birth was never urn'd;
Vertue and beauty had meer strangers been,
Till God and nature lodg'd them in this Inne;
Where having met and kist they kept one room,
Till crewell death remov'd them to this Tombe:
Which sharpey'd vertue quickly did discover,
To narrow for her self and her chast lover:
And that they might no more the subjects be,
To death, or chance or times unconstancie,
She fled to heaven and there is now providing,
A place for both their everlasting biding;
Good Sexton then, untill these lovers meet,
As vertue did keepe beauties lodging sweet;
That Saints and Angells at the last may finde,
This dust as pure, as when 'twas first inshrin'd.

The first Coppie.

May it please your Lordship,

A diamond right and rich if breath'd upon,
Doth cleere it self so doth no other stone;
It hath a secret unseen unfelt fire,
No sooner clouded, but those clouds expire;
By which the Lapidary Sir descries,
The hidden wealth and worth that in it lies:
Far honoured Lord be smooth fac'd flattery hence,
Such is your now known vertues excellence;
Like a rich diamond, by your own power alone,
The breath of venom'd tongues i'th ayr is thrown:
Foule mouth'd detraction you have now struck dumb,
Envie is silent for the time to come:
Let me with pardon then great Sir, declare
How much in these your honours I have share;
Your now approved goodness to my glory,
Confirme what I foretold of your Worths story,
You have most honoured Lord, to my great fame,
Gain'd me from all good men a Prophets name;
And though my modest joyes were long since born
Yet they but learn'd to speak this very morn,
And with the croud that to your Altar brings,
Iewells or plate for this dayes offerings,
I humbly pray they may without offence,
Supply the place of Mirrh and frankinsence:
Upon the Altar of your favour throw,
Those Zealous wishes which from my heart flow
As the sun this morn set forth,
And increases in his growth;
As it by degrees doth mount,
In our lengthening dayes account:
Certain minutes every hower,
And each day augments his power;
Even so I humbly heaven desire,
Your spring honours may aspire;
Untill they overlook the tops,
Of all your wishes and your hopes:
When thus the height of bliss is won,
Then let them like Joshua's Sun,
Not for howers but for ever,
Stick and thence retire never;
And may no age an Ecclips see,
In you or your posteritie.
Thus he humbly prayes that stands,
With patience waiting your commands.

The Second Coppie.

Great Sir,

I borrowed Neptun's Trident for an hower,
Gave it an Indian, charge him by that power
To dive into each wealthy Chanel, where,
The rich orientall Pearls engendred were:
He wing'd his feet with Fins seemed to strive
With nimble Zeal the Dolphin, to out-dive.
He went and came as swift as wish or thought,
And tould me Neptunes store house he had sought:
That he the high archt Rock had undermin'd,
And searcht the Mer-Mayds Cabinet to finde
A Pearl, which both in beauty and in wealth,
Might equal what was once drunke at a health;
When that ambitious Queen had at a feast,
The great Mark Anthonie for her cheif guest,
But all was empty and his labour lost,
Great Britans Merchants had them all ingrost:
And they within your Temple should appeare,
This day to wellcom in this new born year;
A Negro then I entertain'd that knew,
Where the unpolisht sun burnt Diamond grew,
I baith'd his feet in hot and quick desire,
And sent him to those Rocks that do aspire,
In their ambitious growth to check the Sun,
He mad's return as soon as thought upon:
Gave me the answer that I had before,
Great Brittains Merchants had ingrost the store;
A light heeld Fancie I did then bestride,
And in conceit upon a cloud did ride:
Whose long wing dar'd the winds unto a chace,
And beat the nimble Swallowes in their pace,
The Persian Looms the wealthy Indian shore,
For hangings, Carpets and for golden Oare
I did survey, and found it was most true,
All that was good had been brought thence for you
With that, my griefs great weight did quickly break
The cloud I rode on, and I did awake:
For all this while I was but in a dream,
Begot the day before by an extream
Desire to offer some such sacrifice,
The which for rarity might catch your eyes.
Sleep banisht thus, a bright ey'd waxen taper
Presented to my view Pen, Inck and paper,
My Muse came dropping in as she had gone
That morn to bath her self in Hellicon
She forc't me write these humble lines which may
Quoth she, out live the offerings made this day.
For Jewells, Hangings Plate, all fortunes treasure
Are but times slaves, and vanish at his pleasure.
Two things alone Immortalize great men,
And that is Children and a fruitfull pen;
The first heavens hath provided, and you may
Create the second, if you please, this day.
And from the first of this new years good dayes
A Poet make to singe your vertuous praise.

A great Lady presented the said Lord Treasurer with a silver skreene having these following verses ingraven about it, made by this Author at her request.

Your vertues, like this silver skreen,
Are known to enterpose between
The flameing Eyes of envious fools,
Till your clear fame their Fier cools;
Sit then securely, take your rest,
And with this Motto dare their Test,
Detractions sparks no more dare fly,
But like these Coals shall wast, and dye.

The same Lady presented his Majestie the Queens Picture, in a Square table, wrought with a needle so artificially, as the most Skilfull Painter could not

---

33

have better'd it, and at the 4 corners were the names of his Majesties fower kingdomes, with these verses made by the same Author.

She, whose ambitious Genius watching lies,
With ardent Zeal to catch your sacred Eyes,
Discovered hath the blessed object, where
Those stars doe move as in their proper sphere.
On that she humbly fixt her loyal heart,
Untill her soul had taught her hands the art,
By which that objects sweet Idea thus,
Was made to feast those eyes that govern us.
If then this zealous offering finde but grace,
Your sower Kingdoms next you shall give place
Unto the Prince, Princess, Duke, and the other
Expected fourth Modell, their third Brother.
And thus by Hierogliphicks she aspires
To teach her hands to speak her hearts desires.

Mrs. Sanderson her Majesties Laundress presented a Celler of empty glasses to her Majestie.

Madam,

These little glasses had been fil'd with Iuice,
Prest from the fruits that grow in Parradice,
The tree of Life I would have squeez'd and thence,
My humble Zeal had brought the quintessence,
Of that as yet untouched fruit, and here
Have tendered it, to welcome in this yeare,
But gratious Mistres, know that I have been,
At every gate, courting each Cherubin,
Tould them, to whom I humbly would present it,
They prai'd my pardon, vow'd they durst not ventur't
Your Majestie, before all creatures living,
A bottle should have had of their own giving,
But 'twas decreed, for Womans first offence,
No Aqua-vitæ should be brought from thence,
Accept then gratious Madam, what I give,
And if my humble prayers can make you live,
You shall Immortall be, or that denyed,
Since none are so, but those thats deified,
I shall importune heaven with my best breath,
You may transported be, and ne'er see death,
That all the world may know, as we believe
You are derived from heaven, not from Eve.

An Elogie. On the Lady Jane Paulet Marchioness of Winchester daughter to the right honorable the Lord Savage of Rock-savage.

I would invite this my humble verse
Some weeping eyes to wait upon this Herse,
But when I view who 'tis that lodges here
I know not then from whom to beg a tear;
To Ladies if I should this sute prefer,
So good this Ladie was all envyed her:
Such as had beauty whilst they stood alone,
If once compar'd with her they then had none;
Those spangle vertues that they gloried in,
To her Test brought, prov'd then but gilded sin;
She was the Lyllie of the Field, the rest
But Dasies, Primrose, Cowslips at the best;
This blazing star all others thus out shining,
Inferiour lights grow great, by her declining;
Since Ladies then are better'd by her death,
To beg their tears were but to wast my breath.
Should I to vertuous men my self adress,
And crave some sighs from them they would confess,
That if a thought of her but crost their way
Even in the Temple, they no more could pray.
The fire of love, their sparkes of Zeal put forth,
And they no text could studie, but her worth;
The thickskin'd Boar, that at high noon defies
The scorching Sun was melted by her eyes.
The stiff-neckt Puritane doth not allow
His god a knee, yet to this Saint would bowe.
Her granest Chaplins in the midst of grace
Stood often mute, till gazing on her face
They from her Cheeks, as from two well pend books,
Found graces store, and read them in her looks.
And thus all men Idolatrie commit,
Some with her feature, others with her wit.
All good men then how deer soe er'e they lov'd her
Are glad e'n for their souls sake, death remov'd her
Shall I rub natures sores, and once again,
From tender Parents eyes press drops of rain;
That were a Crime that would beget a storie,
To mourn for her they know is crown'd with glory,
But they religious are, and will repent
The sighs, and groans, and teares already spent;
For being married thus before they die,
To Ioyes Long liv'd, as is eternitie,
Part of her hapiness they shall destroy
That weep for her, unless they weep for Ioye.
Should I awake her Lord, and from his eyes
Requier teares, by way of sacrifice,
That were a Crueltie her gentle soul
Would sharply in his sleeps and dreams controule;
For if the Saints our actions doe discover,
To weep for her would show he did not love her;
For being Crown'd with bliss, 'twere most unjust
To wish her here again, to dwell with dust,
What Ioy, what honour can there be like this,
She that was once his wife an Angell is.
A piece of his own flesh with her is gone,
As in his right, to take possession,
Of these eternall Ioyes long since decreed
To godly Parents, and their righteous seed;
Nor was high heaven content to grace him so,
But knowing nature apt to over throw
Foundations, that by faith are weakly laid,
This goodly Fabrick must not be decay'd
By slow pac't time; nor did those powers please
To ruine it by surfeits or disease;
Sure common messengers were thought too mean,
This was a Temple pure, and chast, and clean,
And must not cancel'd be the Common way,
Or sink like houses built of Lyme and clay:
She was a Diamond, and a Diamond must
Be found to cut her er'e she fall to dust;
A Diamond of the self same Rock, or none,
The Flesh of her own Flesh, bone of her bone;
And this must cut and pollish either other,
The mother fit the Child, the Child the mother,
For Gods own wearing, O now tell me where
A husband can find room to place a tear,
Or Parents ground whereon to drop a grone,
Happie, unhappie Lady, is their none
Hath cause to mourn, or to lament thy death,
Yes blessed soul, more then doe yet draw breath;
Children unborne, and ages yet to come
Shal bring their offerings to thy honour'd Tombe,
Pilgrimes from furthest parts shall here arrive,
To kiss the earth thou trod'st on being alive;
Chast virgins, widows, wives shall every spring
Branches of Palme and Laurell hither bring;
And round about thy Sepulcher shall kneell,
And vent in sighs what their sad hearts do feel.
Infants shall to thy Infant every hower
Offer a garland, or at least a Flower,
And then the elder shall the Yonger tell,
That they must never hear a passing Bell;
But they must drop a tear in memorie
Of those two blessed souls, whose bones there lye.
And as each year that day shall bring about,
On which the Tyrant death those lights put out,
They must invent a curse, and that curse lay
So heavie, that it prove a dismall day,
A day on which no work shall be begun,
No fruit be planted, nor a seed be sow'n:
No traveller that conscience makes of sin
Shall dare a Journey on that day begin:
And if a Yew that day bring forth a Lamb,
Let it be Fatall to the sillie dam;
Let not a dove that day a dove disclose,
Nor hunts-man find a Fawn, fal'n from his does;
Let Midwives only on that day be blest
With what they seldom get, sweet sleep, sweet rest;
For on that day, that dismall day, the earth
Lost all her pride, by an untimely birth,
And this poor Isle was utterly undone,
And rob'd of such a mother, such a Son,
As doting nature with her palsie fist
Shall never frame again, nor fates untwist
Such gentle stuff, so soft so debonayr,
As was this Child, nor mother half so fair
As was the lovely mould in which twas cast.
For never was there womb so pure so chast,
Nor shall mankind so much as hope to see
The world inricht with fruit from such a tree;
A Child that saw the world, and fell a Crying,
As if to live with us were worse then dying;
A mother wisely apprehending too,
One Phenix to one world was onely due:
And thus as by consent they both retire;
And both to ashes burn in their own fire.
Is it a sea that overwhelms each eye?
Or is it some black cloud that masks the skie?
Or is the Sun eclipst, or hath the day
Clapt on her swiftest wings and fled away?
And left me thus, as if this subject might
Be best pursude in solitarie night?
Or whence proceeds those mists that thus involves me,
Alas there dropt a tear and that resolves me,
My heart surcharg'd with grief seeks ease, and tries
How sorrow may be vented by the eyes;
The blots of Inck that from my pen do fall,
Like hired mourners, at a Funerall,
No power have to move the Lookers on,
To speaking actions of compassion,
Let others then sad Epitaphs invent,
And paste them up about thy moniment;
Let such whose sorrows are not great as mine,
With golden verses beautifie thy Shrine;
Whilst my poor muse contents it self, that she
Vents sighes, not words unto thy memorie;
Nor canst thou want blest Soul an Elogie;
I see one writ in every Readers eye
Rest then in peace, the world to dust shall turne
When tears are wanting to keep moyst thy urne.

In Prætorem.

When I behold thee, proudly to advance,
Behinde thy sword, and Cap of Maintenance,
Bold Macchabeus, me thinks I peruse,
Leading into the field, a troop of Iews.
When on the seat of Justice, you sit plodding,
And Alderman, 'gainst Alderman, sits nodding,
I doe conceive, in Arras hangings wrought,
The wicked Elders Images, that sought
The chast Susanna to betray, but when,
The market bell, hath rous'd you, from your den,
Each Tripe wife, Baker, Hagler, and the rest,
Flying as lambs, before a Crewell beast,
I then Conceive a lyon, in Fox Furs,
Marching before a Crew of bloody Curs,
For such your Sarjeants are, but when I see,
You lead towards Pauls, with all your liverie,
Making an artificiall day, with lights,
As numberless as starrs, in frosty nights,
I cry good God, preserve thy blessed sonne,
For treason is on foot, and fast doth run,
Since Iudas like, you seem to be attended
By such, as our Redeemer apprehended,
Thus as you vary in your shapes I conster
You sometimes man, beast sometimes, sometimes Monster.

In Senatores.

When I behold your wealth, I do admire
Your fruitful wits, by which you do acquire
Such vast estates, but then your wisdome founding,
Wonder on wonder, works to my confounding,
To think that so much Treasure, should be gain'd
By you so deep belly'd, and so shallow brayn'd,
I ask a reason and am answered strait,
You get it not by witt, but by deceit,
This seeming truth my admiration cools,
And I conclude, fortune still favours—

A payre of Shrieves.

In scarlet gowns, and golden chains when I,
Dull sighted as I am, your worships spye,
Swimming down Ludgate hill in haste, to meet,
The Temple daring Rebells in the street,
Me thinks I see two Gallie Foists well man'd,
Sent from the turks, to Milford in the strand,
With strict Commission, to pluck out by th'Ears,
Those sea-burnt soldiers that once sackt Algiers,
For verily your sarjeants seems to me,
No other then mere infidels to be,
But when your beasts have brought you nearer hand
I further am from knowing you, and stand,
Like one amaz'd, I then begin to doubt,
The Devil, and his Crew, are all broke out;
For sure I see a Furnace in each Nose,
That like to Etna, burning Brimstone throws
Into the Air, their Cheeks to me appear
Like Beacons fired by the Peoples fear.
Their beetle Browes look like those Cherubins
Kept Adam out of Eden, for his sins.
My Boy, that's better sighted far then I,
Would face me down, he saw in every Eye
A Vintners Boy, burning or Sack, or Claret,
But, hang him Rascal, he prates like a Parrat;
I rather think, their eyes four Cyclops are,
Forging an Armour for the God of War;
And those grim Sarjeants Hellhounds, us'd to keep
The Furnace hot, whilst the toyl'd Cyclops sleep.
So know Right Worshipful, without desembling,
I never see you, but I fall a trembling;
And to confess the Truth, I daily pray,
That I may never meet you in my way.
Good brazen Serpent, vanish hence apace,
Since 'tis to me a Hell to see thy Face.

A Recorder.

You are the Cities Mouth, as they report,
That have to do in any City Court.
But I that ne'er by rumour could be lead,
Do rather take you for the Cities Head.
A goodly beast of venery proclaims you;
But let it be as the poor people names you,
The Cities Mouth, by which their mindes are vented
Then gentle Mouth, pray be not discontented,
If that I ask you in a civil way,
What good proportion of Oats and Hay
Do they allow you, for without offence,
Full well I know their thrifty providence;
Do you at Livery stand, or by the Bottle
Get you your Hay, your Oats by Peck or Pottle?
Fie no, I hear one answer me in scorn,
That you on Custards feed, and not on Corn.
Eat Custards still, yea Custards eat for ever,
And rotten Eggs let there be wanting never:
And to that end, good Sir, be tender hearted,
For if you still do doom Bawds to be carted
Eggs may grow dear, and so by Consequence,
Custards may loose in their circumference,
Therefore take care in time, you Head or Mouth,
Lest Custads fail, that please your rotten tooth.

A Sword-Bearer.

Thou Sword of Justice, sheath'd in Velvet good,
Whose Blade, as yet, ne'er tasted other blood
But what the Tyrant Tiburn monthly sheds,
Whose Hilt was never stain'd with broken heads,
I humbly would demand of you the Bearer,
Whether it be by th'Grandfather, or nearer
Allied unto that honoured dudgion Dagger
With which a Major of old did bravely swagger:
When b'ing half drunk (as I conceive) he drew it,
And winking into Jack Cades Bosom threw it;
Doubtless they are so neer of kin, as neither
May marry, nor with safety come together.
For should that dagger with that sword but trade,
Betwixt them they would get a bloody blade;
And such a one to speak the simple truth,
As might put dangerous valour in your Youth.
O wisdom! wisdom worthy lasting wonder!
Blest be those heads that kept these blades asunder,
Since by that means, to their eternal praise,
Shove tuesdayes are become sweet peaceful dayes:
Bold Prentices no more the Rebels play,
Nor in old armour fetch in youthful May.
Comedians act in peace, each Baud and Whore,
Sleeping securely needs not guard her door.
March then in Triumph, and that sword advance,
Well it becomes that Cap of Maintenance;
For all things perish do, if not maintain'd,
That Blade would rust, that Scabbard would be stain'd;
The Sun, & Moon, & Stars would waste each hour,
Were they not nourisht by a Heav'nly power.
[illeg.] their election too of that Sword-bearer
Their wisdom shines, there's nothing doth shine clearer;
For if men but uprightly speak, who can
Finde out in Europe a more upright man?
And to speak truth, uprightness best becomes
Such as o'th' Bench fill up fair Justice rooms.
Let others then with Lybels strive to blast you,
You men of wisdom, I shall strive to cast you
In good Bell Mettall, and with my rude rimes,
Set to a sweeter tune then Bow Church Chimes,
I'l ring your praise, which shall be heard as far as
Sir Thomas Greshams pipes on th'Changes Tarras,
Paul Pinders new gilt Organs in Pauls quyer,
Shall not dive deeper, no nor yet reach higher,
To catch a note, worthy your worships hearing,
Then I'l make praise worthy your wearing.
King Edwards Sword in old Westminster Abby
May seem to catch this Fool, or that young Baby.
The keeper too, that licenc'd is to cozen,
On Sabbath day poor people by the dozen,
May prosper for a time, but I suppose,
Neither his sneaking speech, or snuffling nose
That moves the multitude to mirth and laughter,
Shall e'er be heard, or minded much hereafter;
For in thy swords sweet praise, & thy uprightness,
Thy feets straight shape, thy heads garb, thy Eyes brightness,
I will such verses write shall turne the tide
From durty Westminster, to fair Cheapside;
And mony shall be given the next age
To see that Sword, and thy strange equipage.
No matter then how dear the place thou buyest,
It shall come treble home before thou dyest.

To the Citie Sarjeants.

Stand by you cursed Rascals, whilst I strive
Your Hellish Pedegree thus to derive,
And tell the world, not of your develish trade,
But of what Loathsome Mettal you were made.
Nature being sick, and in an Ague quaking,
Distempered in her Brains, each Member shaking,
She in a fury rose, and madly said,
Devils like men as yet she had not made;
But now she was resolv'd of Mettal base
To make so wicked, and so dam'd a Race,
As should degenerate from humane kinde,
They should be men in shape, devils in minde.
With that unto her Tub of Shreds she goes,
And first, the loathsome clouts of Bauds she throwes
Into a cankerd furnace, which had been
Ne'er lookt on, since Judas was put therein.
A Rag she findes all leaprous, the which
She long since pull'd from a foul stinking Breech,
And that into her Cauldron she doth croud,
A nasty Masty Bitch, new lin'd, still proud,
She made a spirit fetch and slay; that done,
The matrice of that ugly Bitch was thrown
Amongst the rest, to these she adds withall
A cruel Tygers Heart, a mad Dogs gall,
A Wolfe's ranck Gut, the Pizel af a Bull,
With these her fiery cauldron filling full.
She boyls them long, and then she them doth mix
With water, fetcht from the black River Styx.
This done a name she to this Monster gave,
Which was Varlet, that's to say base knave.
Walk on base knave, and know he's much to blame
That ever calls you by a better Name.

A City Hangman.

If formerly I undervalu'd thee,
'Twas want of knowledge in thy Pedegree,
For which I pardon ask, and now believe,
In Heraldry thou should'st ride with the Shrieve.
Nay to speak truth, and give thee thy full Grace,
Of him by right thou ought'st to take the place;
For well I know, that when the Hangman pleases
To keep his Chamber, let it be diseases,
Or melancholly, nay let businesse be
The moving cause, he then must work for thee,
And hang, or head, or press, or whip, or burn,
Let him write Knight, that shall not serve his turn,
He must supply thy place, thy office do;
As for his Sarjeants, they are but a Crew
Of upstart Rascals, and come in of late;
For when proud Haman was hang'd up in State,
Where was the Sheriff, where the Sarjeants then?
The History remembers no such men.
Nay Judas fares the worse, no doubt because
That he against both God, and Natures Laws,
Usurpt anothers place, and so became,
Proudly ambitious, of a Hangmans name,
Nay more, I'l bouldly say, mankind had been,
This day plunging, in Originall sin,
And we no Blessed Advocat, had known,
If those accursed Iews, had not found one,
To offer up for us, that Sacrifice,
Who is it then a hangman dare despise,
Who are thy enemies, who thy Detractors?
They'r none but whores, Bauds, and Malefactors.
Truly Right Worshipfull I grieve to think,
That I should now be writing with such Inck,
So thick with Gall, that from my sharp edg'd pen.
No praise will fall, for such deserving men;
For when I Commiks write, Hangman shall be,
The onely subject of my flatterie.
Mean time in my esteem great Sir beleive,
Thou better art then Sarjeant, nay then Shrieve.

To a Lady Majoress.

When I behold your head and limbs all shaking,
Much like a Custard newly come from baking,
Your Velvet hood on tipto rais'd upright
As if your Hinch boy challenge would to fight.
Your pretty mouth, like Oyster gaping wide,
As if it did expect ere long the tyde;
Your Chin like Aple, both so red and shrivel'd,
So scalded by a hot rhume hourly drivel'd.
From those your rotten stinking teeth and gums,
Not to be qualified by best perfumes,
Your eyes retired, as asham'd to see
Your Cheeks in such a painted livery;
And then to see your Mary-bone like nose,
Dropping down stinking stuff on costly cloaths.
Besides your bodie too hung up in chaines,
And Ropes of Pearl binding your bloodless veins
Your neck like rotten stake in rotten Hedge,
Your grafted locks like sun burnt hay, or sedge,
Your high exalted shoulders lin'd with quilts,
Propping your head as if it walkt on stilts;
Your deform'd carcass Cover'd over all,
With severall rayments like a Brokers Stall.
Whilst thus I see your honour sit in state,
Me thinks you seem a Pageant out of date:
But coming to salute you I conclude
You a Dungbarge that 'gainst Symon and Iude
Hath been trim'd up, and those your silken Raggs
Are meerly painted streamers, gilded flags,
Your upper Deck so stinks, I dare be bould
No drunken Skipper would indure your hold.
Sayle on old rotten Pinke, I would not be
Lord Maior to ly one night aboard in thee.

An Aldermans wife

Grave Madam I your stile will not forget,
For that your husband writes Kt Barronet
I do remember too, it was your pride
That forct the foole so to be dignified;
Nor ever shall my my memory let fall,
How you with Madam start up stood for th'wall:
It cost the good old Alderman at least
To get the wall for his old wall-ey'd beast,
Two thousand pounds, in mony and in ware,
In which your worships portion had no share,
Your mother was a tripe wife, that I know,
And good old woman sometimes did bestow
A tub of Souce to ease your housholds charge,
With good Sheeps trotters, Cowheels fat & large:
In which sad time all your great kindreds purses,
Went to make up a stock of Hobbie Horses,
Babies, Rattles, Incle, pinns, poynts and Laces,
With Shooeing horns, Boan Combs in moldy cases;
Out of which pedling stuff, your wits be praised,
A sum of forty thousand pounds you raised
Your daughters were so frequent with this ware,
That yet me thinks they Hobbie horses are:
Your sons have Rattles in their heads, and Prate
As each a Pedler had within his Pate;
And truly Madam you one points do stand,
As if your points lay still upon your hand;
The good old Alderman his head doth bear,
As if a shooing horn hung in each Eare.
But if the people wonder at his rise,
'Tis selling bad wares at a treble price;
Trading and cheating, which he cals endeavour,
Made him first great, and make him so persever:
Untill the Shrievedom came, and then he sold
Both Law and justice for shrieve damning gold.
And if he once be Mayor, and so a Lord,
Then he'll have Orphants furnish out his board,
Dres'd in their bloud like Carps, while their estates
Is melted down to make their silver plates.
The end that makes him cheat, rack and encroach,
Is but to have a gold-chain and a coach.
Ride on, good Madam, in your dignitie
With your young Alderkins, both he and she,
But yet take heed, lest that to pay your scores,
Your sons prove cockscombs and your daughters whoors.

To the great Mistress of my humble Muse the Lady Honora, happily as deservedly Marchioness of Winchester.

Madam.

Though I have plac't you heer amongst a heard
Of rough sharp Satyrs be not you afeard.
I dare be bould to say, your honors name
Hath power alone the wildest beast to tame;
And for that cause your servant being inclin'd
To fury and madness, but calling to minde
His noble Patrones, that very thought
Hath dispossest me. Madam I am brought
Into a millder strain and to the Court
I take my way, there if you'll see me sport,
And wantonize, I shall a gentler way
Pursue, and hunt those gentler beasts of prey.
And for your Guarde Madam, I'le humbly place
Such as are nearest in your love and grace,
Two faithfull servants, servants of your own,
Yet Courtiours too, and such as can make known
The names of all the beasts that I shall chase,
Tell me their pedegree, their kind, their Race
A worke I dare not doe, I must persist
Still in the way of Epigramatist.
The Maskers must be vayl'd as in a clouds
I must present them, let me be alow'd
Your wonted favours, and with confidence,
I shall goe boldly on without offence.
Arm'd with a resolution not to care,
So you be pleas'd, who the mad Criticks are.

To his best of friends, and so the best deserver of his best respects Sir Edward Bushell knight.

Brave Sir, had I a praise reserved in store
So high a one, as ne're was spoke before,
You have deserv'd it, only know I fear,
A beast, call'd flattery, more then Wolfe or Bear:
But this unto your glorie be it said,
The praises I let fall are seldome wai'd;
They pass for currant and are still received,
As Coyne by which men never are deceived:
Take it in brief, you are unto your freinds,
Faithful, reall, and constant without ends.
Finde me another Courtiour of that strain
And I 'gainst Courtiours ne'er will rail again.

To his honoured kinsman Sir. Gregory Fenner knight.

Is it my poverty begets your scorn,
If greatness dwell in blood, we both were borne
In one degree, though you have got the start
In fortune, hold it, know I speak my heart.
A strangers happiness doth never spite me,
Yet I'le be angry if a kinsman slight me:
I dare the world to tax me with a crime
Unless it be as now in wanton rime;
Then if your blood loud sir, I have not tainted,
Why are we strangers, let's be acquainted.
I hate my friends should know you do reject me,
For feare they should suspect you can detect me.
Then let us meet, and merry be together,
And give men cause to praise but censure neither

A complaint to one of his friends to whom the Author sent a coppie of verses which were printed without his consent or knowledge.

I sent you Sir, by way of thankfullness,
Verses, which since by stealth have past the press;
I hope by stealth, because a man unknown
Ventur'd to print them, calling them his own
To have him prest then is my humble suit,
Not for the theft, but 'cause he should stand mute:
Would he confess to save him I'l be willing,
And swear the verses were not worth a shilling.
But if his heart obdurate prove like flint,
I'l shortly prove him knave and foole in print.

A new made Lord.

Wonder good people I beseech you wonder;
At that strange Monster which you see go yonder,
Men call it Lord, but as I have been tould,
His honour's not above two howers old.
And yet it struts, and as you see it goes,
A thousand Country fooles would now suppose
It were a very Lord of gods own making,
But pardon heavens such their gross mistaking;
For God was never cal'd to his creation,
Fie no, it is a new found Occupation.
There are outlandish men of late come hither
Can make you two or three such toyes together.
And by one Lord soe made, get more by odds,
Then did the Panim Priests by their false Gods.
T'is wisely done since God is little set by,
To make such foolish toyes as men may get by.

A new made Countess.

Coachman I thank thee, had'st thou not rid bare
I had offended in a high degree,
In truth I should have took that Lady fair,
For one that lately loved Iniquitie;
I knew a whore, heaven bless thy Ladies Father,
So like her, as thy horses are each other.
So like in all things, as I needs must tell her,
No Girl was ever halfe so like her mother:
Nay still me thinks she runs so in my thoughts,
As I shall never see thy Ladies face,
But I shall think upon that thing of nought,
Both of the hower I met her, and the place.
But hoping thy Countess will such thoughts forgive
I'l more esteem a bare Coachman whilst I live.

A Lord that vsed to swear by his honour before his pattent was sealed.

By mine honour quoth an elective Lord,
Madam, of all your sex I love you best.
She answers, swear by something on record,
And then I shall believe what you protest:
For want of fees your Pattent's yet undrawn,
The Heraulds and the Ushers are unpaid,
Untill that's done your honour lies in pawn,
And must do till all charges be defrayd,
No credit seek till you that disingage,
For in th'mean while your honours under age.

To a great Lady of little worth, that used to say she could eat the Author, if he were worth the eating.

Madam , I wonder since your honour knows
I dare speak truths, and dare maintain them too
How you durst put your self upon my censure,
Though well I know you are a cunning Fencer,
As in Romes Theatre did e're apear,
But Lady Gipsie let me crave your ear.
I know where all your Bastards were at nurse,
I know your Bauds, your Panders, nay what's worse
I know how one abortive was conveid
By your chayr-woman, or your chamber maid,
Into old Ajax broth, whose stinking breath,
Had nature given it life, had given it death.
Why do you tempt me then with oft repeating,
That you could eat me, were I worth the eating,
Keep close your teeth good Madam, lest that I
Open my mouth, and tell your villanie.

Upon a proud painted upstart Lady.

What makes that painted puppet stand for th'wall?
If you would know the cause quoth one, you shall.
Her father was a Mason as men say,
Which makes her Ladyship still lean that way.
Beshrew my dim dull eyes, for now I see
In both her cheeks written her pedegree;
Her nose is like a Trowell, and her Chin
A Tray, such as they carry morter in.
Walk on good lyme and hair, I ever shall
As duty binds, give to thy wall the wall.

Upon her Chamber-maid.

Susan swears, if all hit right it may be,
She'll have as good a face as hath her Lady.
Faith Susan have it, else thou'rt much to blame,
For all men know, thou playsterest up the same.

Upon a Maide of honour that went into the country to take the ayr.

Madam you left the court the vertuous cry,
To take the ayr, or see some Country friend,
I heard it spoke, but know it was a lye,
To loose an heir Lady, was all your end.
The doctors cannot cure a Mayd that's ill,
O noe, old mother Mid-wife hath more skill.

Upon her chamber-maid.

Matilda mightily of late doth brave it,
Since shee was Madam Mopsas Chamber maid,
Five marks a year is all, and if she have it,
But many times her wages is unpaid.
No, 'tis a mark intayl'd her by her Grandum
That yields her now a hundred pounds per annum.

Upon a Lady that went to Tunbridge wells.

A lady fair whose outside spake civillity,
Went to the wells to cure her wombs sterillity,
And eke to free her from the stone and gravell;
But in a while this Lady fell in travell,
And was delivered of a goodly daughter;
This bred about the court much mirth and laughter,
Because shee barren was so long before.
Alas good people, pray admire nomore,
'Twas not the water, they that say so mock,
It was the pipe, rather the water cock;
Nor think it was a dunghill cock, for shame,
O noe, it was a lusty cock o'th game.
If then the stone, as doctors tell the story,
Be a disease that prove hereditory,
I trust her daughter will have so much wit,
Early to get a cock for her cock-pit;
And rather then be barren, play the whore,
As her great mother hath done heretofore.
What need we doubt it, since we allwayes finde,
Like daughter like mother, Cat will after kind.

A Footman turn'd Gentleman Usher.

Living not long, yet have I liv'd to see
A mimble youth, a light foot, a lackie,
To run so fast into his ladies grace,
That now next her i'th Coach he takes his place,
For having tri'd she found this youth a cunning,
Riding as stiff as he was strong in running.
But riding much his Laundress now complains,
He runs much faster then he did o'th rains.

Upon a coy countrey Lass

Mopsa I met and offer'd to have kist her,
Shee turn'd her cheek, and I stept by and mist her,
She spar'd her lips, because her breath was tainted,
And I her cheeks, because I found it painted.
Since at first sight we had no better greeting,
Your hand, coy Lass, shall serve at our next meeting.

Upon the same proud fool turn'd Courtiour.

Dametus sent this Mopsa to the Court,
Where at the first Ladies with her made sport;
But she soon learned tricks in such a measure,
As now the greatest Lords use her for pleasure.
I could have tould Dametus so before,
The Court would make her either fool or whore.

A quarrell between two Court Chamber-maids.

Tib on a time her fellow Francis crost,
And Francis swore Tibs Maidenhead was lost:
In truth quoth Tib, you do me mighty wrong
Who sells her maiden-head, but for a song,
Looseth it not, but Mistress Francis I
Sold it to th'worth, who sayes 'tis lost, they lye.

A Court Baud.

Would you not think that fair seeming feature
Were in good sooth a very living creature,
Would you not think it had eyes, teeth, and nose,
That those her own legs are on which she goes,
That her own hair, nay more, that her own face,
Alass I could direct you to the place,
Where all those toyes were bought and know from me,
That nothing is her own of all you see,
Those stars, that from her face cast such a light,
Are shut into a little box each night;
That propt up nose like a Percullis where,
The god of warr, keeps Citizens in fear:
By artificiall Surgeons is let down,
No ayr at night breaths through that stincking town,
Naught issues out, until the morning bell
The watch discharges, and brings carefull Nell
Her Chamber-maid to her relief, she straight
Drawes the Percullis opens every gate,
Lets loose the common Sewer of her brain
Which like a filthy Iakes, or sinke gainst rain,
Sends forth a fume able to taint the ayr,
Those orient teeth, and that her Flaxen hair,
One of her legs, a Merkin too it's said
Each night commited are unto her Maid.
So he that sees her, Ladyship in bed,
Sees a meer bundle of trash with a deaths head.
And least you should conceive all this but fraud,
Know it was Macarella the Court Baud.

To her Coadjutor.

As Midwives Coadiutors have, and whoors
Assisting Panders, to keepe safe their doors.
Sarjeants their Yeomen, Sheriffs have Undersheriffs,
Hangmen have fellow helpers, and as Theeves
Must Setters have, if they a good trade drive,
Even so a Baude if shee intend to thrive;
If shee be provident shee must provide
A carefull Deputy, to be a Guide
To wandering youth, grave Macarella knew
Well what shee did, when she made choice of you.
To old Canidia, you were Chambermaid,
Who drove as all men knew, a mighty trade,
She furnish't all the Senators with ware;
Of great Ambassadors she had a care;
And rather then shee would be destitute,
Her own fair Daughters shee would prostitute;
She was to strangers very charitable,
And would supply, so far as she was able
Distressed Matrons, and to a younger Brother
She was more open then her own dear mother:
Indeed the Court had ill been serv'd if shee
Had been as simple as most ladies bee,
Then Macarella as before is said,
Did well to chuse so grave a chamber maid
To be her fellow helper, I commend her,
For well I know such providence will render
A great increase, and the adventurer raise
To great renown, and get them no small praise.
Alass what could the maids of honour do,
Sit like so many Hawks within a mew,
Without your industries and secret helps,
Feed on sheeps eyes, and play with whining whelps
Unto the old exchange they could not fly,
Nor could their trunks and wardrobs get supply,
They could not impe one feather in their train
Not eat, nor live, but by your fruitfull brain;
And though you walk with Cruches, yet in truth,
You are two Staves to weak and simple youth.
Walk on good Madam Baud with that your Mate,
You are two needfull members in a state.

To an honorable Lady that sometimes grac't the author with the name of servant, and afterwards neglected him.

You were my Mistress, and a gratious one,
But how I lost you is to me unknowne,
Let me in ignorance so rest for ever,
For 'tis a sin that should be pardoned never;
A sin I mean in him or her that laid
That damned plot by which I was betray'd.
Ther's none so great but may before she dyes
Have cause to need a slave for Sacrifice,
If such a one your honour chance to want,
Trust not a Parasite or Sicophant.
Nature for their discharge hath this excuse,
She made them up for show, but not for use.

To the same honorable Lady suspecting her servants secrecie.

I hear you do mistrust my secrecie,
Your Midwife is not halfe so close as I,
I have a Rule by which I measure others,
He never takes my Faith that e're discovers.
To boast of favours were but to proclaim
My own ignominie, and bost loud shame.
When I am dead, he that shall dissect me
Shall nothing finde by which he may detect me.
Living I am in hope yet to regain you,
It were my own losse Madam then to stain you,
It were an honour that would make me proud
To have it thought, not said, I am alow'd
To have the favour of your common rooms,
Which never is deni'd to meanest Grooms.
We may have businesse, businesse we have had
Which none shall know, unlesse you make me mad.
If I in any thing fair Soul, do glory,
It is in this, No man can write my story;
For to my self, my self shall still be true,
And I my self must blast, by blasting you.
Sleep then in peace, the world may know my face,
But nothing know that tends to your Disgrace.

A just Complaint to his Just as Honourable Patrones against a Sorcerer, that by his Inchantments depraves her humblest Servant of her Grace.

Madam,

There is a seeming Saint that haunts your table,
Who by his Sorcery and Spells is able
To make the staidest man to Bedlam run,
His company, blest Lady, timely shun.
He is a great Magician, I'l maintain it,
Or else I had enjoy'd a peaceful brain yet;
My senses had been at mine own disposing:
But Madam, simple as I was, reposing
In him great trust and confidence, I went
The other day, when he came out of Kent,
Boldly unto his Chamber, when Heav'n knows
I little thought he had been one of those
That studied, as the people call it well,
That foul Black Art, taught by a Childe of Hell.
I held him for a good plain dealing man,
But out alas, simple Fool that I am,
He was too cunning for my shallow brain,
I know not how, or where he laid his train,
But suddainly your Servant was suppris'd,
And by his Spells and Charms so vassalis'd,
That as you may perceive by these my Rimes,
I am stark staring mad at certain times.
Nor shall it be amiss, your patience had,
To tell your Honour how I first fell mad.
One night, and 'tis most true, night's still the Baud
To Conjurors, and such as practise fraud,
This cunning man, this great Magician sent
To call me to a supper, whether I went
Fearless Heav'n knows, and when I came he had,
For he is curious too, a Table clad
With Linen white, as is the Mountain Snow,
So clean as I complain'd they foul'd it so;
For Fowl of every sort on this same cloth
He caus'd his Servants set, some swome in broth,
Some dabled in such sauces, as might make
The heavyest Fowler swim such Fowl to take,
And rather venture drowning in that Flood
Then lose the Fowl that was so fat and good.
There wanted not Anchovies and grand sallets,
In fine, things were prepar'd to please our pallets:
But then, before my Ears he would take up,
This subtill man calls for a swelling Cup
Of unctious wine, wine proud of its own wealth,
But prouder far when 'twas baptiz'd your health,
Here is quoth he, and then his Beaver cast
On ground, health to those Souls I came from last,
Health to the fairest, sweetest, chastest soul,
That ere was mentioned in such a Bowl,
The blest Honora Goddess of Sommerhill,
He drinks it off, and bids his servants fill
Untill the blushing grape was seen to swim,
Like a high tide, above the silver brim
Of that blest cup; for blest quoth he it is,
Whilst it contains so blest a health as this.
I sillie wretch pledg'd him without least fear
Of any poyson could be mingled there,
That done his silver head aloft he rayses,
As he were proud to speak Honoras praises;
And like a cunning Orator goes on
Mildly, till he had gain'd attention.
First he was sorry that I did not know you,
O that I had but wit his art to shew you!
And then he wishes by some happie waie
Your honour might know me, then he did play,
As skillfull Fishers do, with wanton trout,
Tickling me gently, and at last brake out,
Your daring Muse quoth he, that flyes at game,
Compar'd with her, not worthy is of name,
I would invite to Sommerhill, since there
Such quarry is, such ayr, so pure, so cleer,
As you may at one flight much glory gain;
And hence he rais'd up to a lofty strain,
Madam, of your unparralel'd deserts,
Swears that you are the Mistres of all hearts,
And gives a reason why you must be soe,
Then reckons all the graces that can flow
From God, or nature, and then he beats his breast,
Angrie he could not as he would digest,
What he conceiv'd into such lively phrases
As might ornate and beautifie your praises.
Then calls for wine, and still sweetens the same,
With blest, with faire, with chast Honoras name.
Thus first he rais'd my heavie leaden braines,
Next wilde fire throwes into my frozen veins,
And still as he perceiv'd my heart to sink
He rous'd it with your praises, clad with drink:
Thus he the cunning Gipsie Madam acted,
Till with your fair fames love I grew distracted.
On him then best of Ladies lay all crimes,
That can be found in these my frantick rimes.
I need not name him Madam guilt alone
In time will make himself make known;
For if you marke him like a polliticion,
The better to avaid sharp-ey'd suspition,
This man will be the first that will appear
To speak my praises in your honours ear.
Which if he doe, heaven pardon that offence,
Since I to merit plead my innocence.
My accusations done and now againe,
Me thinks a certain tickling in my brain
Makes me break loose, new spirits do possess me,
And to the Court again I must address me.
Sit best of Ladies, do not scorne to grace
My humble Muse in her wits wild goose chase.

To the truly honourable the Lord Paulet Marquess of Winchester.

My noble Lord.

Oft have I blest that night, that hour in which
You two one pair of sheets joy'd to enrich.
As then you marshal'd were great Lord, by those
Your Virgin Bride that nuptiall night had chose
Those Ceremonies to prepare, so now,
The selfe same Herauldries proud to allow
Your faire Bride, first with her chast limbs to bless
Those sheets, which witnes'd that great happiness.
Your chast wife now, most honoured Lord, as then
In your Bed, now I marshall with my pen.
Can your best wishes noble Lord aspire,
To greater happiness then to ly by her:
Had Phaeton seen her in his height of pride,
Blushing to see a man ly by her side,
Ambition had his blood to Ivory turn'd,
And by the sun his wings had ne'er been burn'd.
Noe he had shun'd those flames that melt the skies,
And sing'd his feathers in her brighter eyes.
If then high heaven can add to what you have,
Let it be done, so prayes your unknowne slave.

To the same noble Lord again.

Within a Savage Rock there once did grow
As fair a diamond as the world could show,
This rich rocks head, though many lords did crave it,
Set it in gold, and to your Lordship gave it.
And happily for some few years you wore it,
Till sullen nature forc't you to restore it;
For 'twas her master piece and she resolv'd
To keepe it by her till the world dissolv'd.
One only spark Heav'n caus'd her leave behinde,
That still that Iewell might be kept in minde.
You that had found, how nature ever locks
Her chiefe Treasure either in hills or rocks,
Knew well the waie your losses to recover,
For had you search't the spatious world all over,
To Summer hill att last you must repair,
To finde a Iewell full as rich and faire
As was that diamond, you restor'd to nature,
You once againe are rich in such a creature,
As all mankinde how rich so 'e're they be
In her may envie your felicity.
Live envi'd ever noble Lord, till Fate
The earths whole Fabricke shake, and ruinate.
So heartily and humbly prayes each one
To whome bold speaking fame hath made you known.

To the far fam'd Lady, and Mistres of untainted vertue, the truly and nobly noble Ladie Dorathy Sherly honoured by being Sister to the most deservedly honourable Earl of Essex.

Madam,

Noe matter though you know me not, I trust
To common Fame, she speaks you nobly just,
Shee doth proclaim your honour such a prize,
As men would see't, though to their loss of eyes.
You love the best Honora, that aproves
What wise men say, goodness still goodness loves:
You are her Sister, and your purest blood
Sprung from one fountain, that concludes you good,
Be constant to that googness, let nought awe you
Millions there are that love you, who ne'er saw you.
Amongst those many let me boldly say,
Madam, I honour you a noble way,
And love you as I love those unseen faces
That on the throne of glory take their places
And though you know me not, scorne not to sit
To read, then write me what you please but Parasit.
Let me but in your books fair Saint be found
And I with joy and honour then am crown'd.

A Satyr. Upon a miraculous Marriage, made between a Brave Young Viscount, and an unworthy Old Viscounts Widow.

Did thy strong potions then old rotten Punk,
So work on Hymen as to make him drunk?
Whence comes that drug, what Fiend, what Fate
Perfum'd his brain so to inebriate?
For doubtless had that God but sober been,
He ne'er had matcht such vertue to such sin.
Or did she pawn her soul to some old Witch,
To get a Lord to cure her hot salt Itch?
They must be Bawds and Sorcerers, that had
A hand in such a Crime, so foul, so bad;
For sure thy painted Face, thy sugred words
Could not betray him to thy tub of turds:
Nor was it out of hope to finde a Mine
Within that Dunghill, that foul sink of thine;
For but to mix Mans seed with that thy ordure
Were worse then Sodomy, much worse then murder
What can I call thy common hackney womb,
But an old beastly painted, new ston'd Tombe?
Barren as is a Grave, leprous within
As Judas soul, so foul, so full of sin.
So that in my opinion he destroyes
Nature it self, that digs for Girls or Boyes
Out of what mud O Lord, what charms what spell?
What strange Inchantments did she get from Hell?
That caus'd thee lay thy youth, thy blood at stakes
In Pledge against a Bog, a sink a Jakes?
Whose throat is like a Tunnel to a vault,
Nor are her rotten Lungs alone in fault;
For from her foul corrupted Brain their flowes
A deadly poison through her pocky Nose:
Such as the Night-mans Cart, or common Sewer
Yields none so loathsome, nothing so impure.
Each Bone she hath is like an Asses hoof,
So us'd to poyson, it is poison proof:
And if she have a Tooth that justly may
Be call'd her own, I dare be bold to say,
That Tooth shall cost her Lord each day a peece
In Storax, Civet, and in Ambergreece;
Besides the Ulcers in her rotten Gums,
Not to be qualifi'd with best perfumes:
Yet with this charge, though great it will appear,
That Mouth holds something, nothing can make cleer;
For if she finde that scoulding may prevail,
Her tongue soon turns as Monstrous as her Tail:
And if some difference be, this this the worse is,
Her Tail but monethly shall produce foul courses,
But that her mouth each minute shall afford
Base Excrements, that shall out stink a Turd.
I have digrest brave Lord, but more will come
So my promis'd Epithalamium,
My hearty wishes to your nuptial Bed,
And wish that to your Bride they might be read.
May all those sheets wherein you two shall lye
Prove Barren as are those in which men dye.
And may your Lordship want the power to turne
To quench her flames of Lust, but let them burne,
Till they consume the nest where they were bred;
Yet still a jealous eye cast towards her bed,
Lest her adulterous thoughts to action grow,
And make you harvest seed you did not sowe.
A grisly beast, such as all others scorn'd,
A thing with Goatish beard, a head well horn'd
Your lustful Bride found out, and him maintain'd
To do that drudgery a Groom disdain'd.
Be careful then, be vigilant and wise,
He that hath such a Wife needs many eyes.
An old, cunning, well experienc't whore
Will through the key hole of a double door
Let in Adultries. Still I do digresse,
An Epithalamium I do cease.
This Satyr should have been, but my Muse ranges,
And like your Lordships Bride is full of changes.
Yet do I not transgress 'gainst all the Laws
Of an Epithalamium, because
Your Lordship shall in time discover this,
My Muse unto the Bridegroom wishes bliss.
O may you Sir, and quickly too, invite
This Pen, your lewd Brides Epitaph to write.
Mean while so long as she on earth hath dwelling,
So long I wish you loose the use of smelling.
May your desires in their conceptions dye,
Such as shall tend to Love or Lechery,
That you may treasure up a stock so great,
As when you vent it, may allay the heat
Of seventeen yeers, in her that Heav'n shall please
To send you in the place of this disease.
Till when, let sleep and pleasing dreams betray
The sullen night unto the chearful day,
And early bring the Sun, to let you see
Her Morning ugly, foul deformity;
And then with sad relenting may you rise,
And from that monster thenceforth blesse your eyes,
May you be deaf unto her cunning Charms,
And when she throwes her self into your Arms,
May then the nimble sense of feeling leave you,
Lest with her false imbraces she deceive you.
And lastly, may you still distrust those things
She to your touching, smelling, seeing brings.
May all your senses disaffected be
Till from that hidious Monster you get free.

Upon a Coller and Garter imprisoned in a Brokers Box.

O men of might, what have you now to brag on,
Shall I believe your George e're kild a dragon?
When in six Months he cannot break the Lock
Of an usurious Brokers little Box.
When thus I find him lodg'd in Long-Lane quarter,
And by his side a Coller and a Garter,
As two most faithful Squiers waiting on,
For the blest day of sweet Redemption,
Shall I believe that he a Saint can be?
No, your vain boasting ne'er shall couzen me;
For if an Almanack I buy this year,
And finde it writ with a red Letter there,
I'll blot it out, and over-write the same
In blackest Ink, the silly Brokers name.
For if your George so great a name must have,
Then much more he that keeps your George his slave.

Another upon the same subject.

Into a Broakers shop once being call'd,
I found a Knight o'th' Garter there install'd:
But when the sad relation I had hear'd,
I then concluded 'twas a Knight interr'd.
The Brokers Bulk I thought the Altar stone,
Because his Robes and Order lay thereon,
The Shop a Temple I conceiv'd to be,
The Broker some poor Priest appear'd to me.
It griev'd me much, that so a Knight should ly
Without an Epitaph or Elogie,
I call'd for Pen, and without fear or wit
Unto his Memory these lines I writ.

Upon the same again.

You laugh at Catholikes, and them deride
Because they honour those are sanctified.
Why to Idolatry are you then drawn
By a poore thing that subject is to pawn.
If you will Idolize your George, advance
A fitting pension for his maintainance,
Let him not beg, let not his Knights descend
Soe loe, as ask a Broker what hee'l lend
Upon his Idoll, lest there come complaints
Against the Church, that should maintaine those saints;
For who so sees your George in pawn beleives,
Like Baals priests, his priests do play the thieves.
The Prellat of the Garter, they'l be bold
To say in private, eats up all the gold
That is in publique offered to your saint;
Besides the knights of Windsor make complaint,
And in derision and great scorne doe say,
Some of your knights are near as poor as they:
And that its fear'd that they will have the faces
Ere long to beg the Windsors poor knights places.
Which to prevent let each rich knight give a little
And for your wretched knights, build up a spittle.

A Sonnet upon the same subject.

To a Ladies Chambermaid.

You are your Ladies Cabinet and may
At midnight let in sharp Ey'd waking day,
And bring those blushing acts of ours to light,
That being seen shew blacker then the night.
A Chambermaide doth serve in these two places,
Sometimes a watch, Sometimes she a Iewell case is:
One while a Watch to see none gaze upon her,
And then a Case wherein she locks her honour.
O gentle Watch in thy most noble Case
Know you a Iewell keep, then be not base.

An Atheist, a Poet, and a Puritan.

Atheists, Poets, and Puritanes are at odds
About their none, their one, their many Gods.
The Atheist is at liberty, and he
Dreams not of Unity or Trinity.
The Poets speak of many Gods 'tis true,
But honour none at all, or very few.
The Puritan his onely God doth ty
As he were Jealous of the Trinity.
A Partner with his God he will not have,
See heer's a Foole, a Devill, and a Knave.
To reconcile these three and make them one,
Is but to hang them all and make them none.

A Papist, a Protestant, and a Puritan.

The Papists do believe more then they see,
And guided are by faith.
The Protestant stands out, and will not be
Removed from his own path.
The stiffneckt Puritans are so uncivil,
Rather then follow them, they'll run to the Devil.

A pestilent profest Puritan.

I do believe that this accursed sect
Is much more antient then men do suspect.
The Iewes, when Christ, was crucifi'd I finde,
In that dam'd act, were variously inclin'd.
Some pearc't his side, others his name deride,
Another Crew his garments did divide.
And these were Puritans, I'l lay my life,
Whose seed since then have ever been at strife
With Surplices, with Rochets, and with Coaps,
Hating to hear of figures or of Tropes.
Reall presence, and what's good by thems abated,
With brain sick Zeale more then the devill it's hated.
Go on mad beasts put on our saviours Coats
But his bright Eyes will know his sheep from goats.

An ignorant obstinate Brownest.

That wicked Oath of kings Supremacies,
Saith hee's a trap to catch poor simple flyes;
For how can knowing men be so mislead,
As to believe our saviour had a head
For many Provinces, believing thus,
We must make Iesus Christ most monsterous.
Then how, great Monsters, silly beasts are you?
Makes him your Churches head that mends your shoe,
A Cobler, or a Roague of meanest trade,
In your no Church the Churches head is made.
See then at Banbery, and in black Friers
Christ hath a head, but doubtless you are Lyers
The Catholiques with Puritans averr,
Ther's but one Church, one head, so then you err.
But you defie them both so do they you,
Goe on mad Beasts, Let the devill take his dew.

A Ladies Roses that ever lookt rusty.

Carnation Roses on her feet still wither,
And being put on fresh i'th' Morn, ere Noon
They blasted are, do but the cause consider,
And then I know you'l leave to wonder soon.
Lucinas Roses, it is too well known,
Do grow within a yard o'th' burning Zone.

Upon a Ladies Roses that were always fresh.

Florellas Roses on her fresh still grow,
And in the hottest dayes do flourish most,
Hearken to Me if you the cause would know,
Luna hangs ever dropping o're the coast.
Then know those Roses cannot wither soon,
That are so far from th'Sun, so neer the Moon.

The Fidlers that were committed for singing a Song called, The clean contrary way.

The Fidlers must be whipt the people say,
Because they sung the clean contrary way;
Which if they be, a Crown I dare to lay,
They then will sing the clean contrary way.
And he that did those merry Knaves betray,
Wise men will praise, the clean contrary way:
For whipping them no envy can allay,
Unlesse it be the clean contrary way.
Then if they went the Peoples tongues to stay,
Doubtless they went the clean contrary way.

A Lady walking with the Author in her Garden, pluckt a sprig of Bayes, and put it in his Hat to wear as her Favour.

You gave me Laurel Madam, which some call Bayes,
I gave you but your right, when I gave you praise,
Why then with injury do you requite me?
Which being true, doubtles you ought to right me.
Laurel belongs to Conquerours, but I
Your Captive am, and at your mercy lye.
Poets are crown'd with Bayes, and such alone
Whose Muses higher soar then Phaeton.
My humble rimes flow from an abject Herd,
And cannot Laurel merit for reward:
The honoured Browes that are with such wreaths crown'd
Dread neither lightning nor loud thunders sound.
Then lest your favours down to th'Earth should cast me,
Or your bright eyes lightning thus should blast me
I'll crown that Laurel with which you now crown me,
With a chast kisse, as your choice Deputie.

The Author intending to write upon the Duke of Buckingham, when he went to fetch the Queen, prepared a new Ballad for the Fidlers, as might hold them to sing between Dover and Callice.

A Song.

[Of Cupid nor Hymen we bring you no Song]

A Song in praise of Sack.

A Song.

[Will you hear a true relation]

A Song.

[Let Souldiers fight for prey or praise]

A Song.

[When I seek to enjoy the fruits of my pain]

A Sonnet.

[Love, be as froward as thou wilt]

Love, be as froward as thou wilt,
I ask no Mercy for my guilt;
Though I confess I have deny'd
Thy Laws of Cruelty and Pride.
Lay on thy Punishments, I fear
Thee least when most I bear.
Spend all thy shafts at me, and cry
To Mother for a new supply:
Thy Bowstrings break, let her repair
Them up again with her own Hair,
And give a fresh charge on me. I
Can neither beg relief nor fly.
Yet to the hazard of thy Crown,
If I should perish by thy frown,
Where I a perfect Rebell fall,
The world shall me a Martyr call.
And (I hope) in revenge of me
Abolish quite thy Laws and thee.

On Loves blindeness.

An Elogie on the Death of Love.

I never yet wrote Love-lines: Now a few
Upon the Death of Love, me thinks, are due
From every Pen. And most unskilfull I
That would be doing want Ability.
No Muse can I invoke unto my aid,
They are all dumb, or suddenly afraid
To touch this Subject. They'll not have it read
In Crimson Characters that Love is dead.
No Muse? What then? Turne over Historie,
Or search the Poets; Try if they can be
Assistant by example: Learn to move
In their high strains. Ovid wrote much of Love,
But not his Death. His Art of Love was light,
And in the Elogies that he did write
He could not frame perfection of that Ruth,
Which here is laid before us in a Truth.
Nor had Euripides in all his pack
A Theam so Tragick, or a Scean so black
As is the Death of Love. Stay. Speak no more,
Nor study for expressions to deplore
The losse of him. The sense of these two words
Love's dead enough of Argument affords
To melt dry eyes to Tears; and hearts of stones
To moulder into Sand by ceaseless grones.
While I was writing this (to Earths great wonder)
The Heavens thick showres did weep, and rore in thunder.

A Song.

[Give me a Preacher]

On the Duke of Buckinghams Death. An Elogie.

An exortation for the battering down of those vanities of the Gentiles which are comprehended in a May pole written by a Zealous brother from Blackfryers.

The mighty Zeal which thou hast new put on,
Neither by Prophet nor by Prophets son,
As yet prevented doth transport me so
Beyond my self, that though I ne'r could go
Farr in a verse, and all rimes have defy'd
Since Hopkins and good Thomas Sternhold dy'd
Except it were the little pains I tooke,
To please good people in some praier booke
That I've set forth or so; yet must I raise
My spirit for thee, who shall in thy praise
Gird up her loynes, and furiously run
All kind of feet, but Satans cloven one.
Such is thy Zeale, so well dost thou express it,
And wer't not like a charme I'de say, Christ bless it.
I needs must say 'tis a spirituall thing
To raile against the Bishop or the King.
Nor are they mean adventures we have bin in
About the wearing of the Churches linnen:
But these were private quarrells, this doth fall
Within the compass of the generall.
Whether it be a Pole painted and wrought
Farr otherwise then from the wood 'tis brought,
Whose head the Idolmakers hand doth crop,
Where a lewd bird towring upon the top
Looks like the calf at Horeb: at whose root
The unyoakt youth doth exercise his foot.
Or whether it reserves its boughs, befriended
By neighbouring bushes, and by them attended
How canst thou chuse, but seeing it complain,
That Baal's worship'd in the groves again.
Tell me how curst an egging, with a sting
Of lust do these unwieldy dances bring.
The simple wretches say they mean no harme,
They do not surely, but these actions warm
Our purer blouds the more; for Satan thus
Tempts us the more that are more righteous.
Oft hath a brother most sincerely gone
Stifled in prayer, and contemplation.
When lighting on the place where such repair
He views the Nymphs, and is clean out in's prayer.
Oft hath a sister grounded in our truth,
Seeing the jolly carriages of the youth.
Been tempted to the way that's broad and bad,
And wer't not for our private pleasure, had
Renounc'd her little ruff and goggle eye,
And quit her self of the Fraternity,
What is the mirth, what is the melody
That sets them in this Gentiles vanity?
When in our Synagogues we raile at sin,
And tell men of their faults which they are in,
With hand and voyce so following our theams
That we put out the Sides men in their dreams,
Soundes not the pulpit which we then belabour
Better and hollower then doth a tabor?
Yet such is unregenerate mans folly,
They love the wicked noise, and hate the holy.
Routs and wilde pleasure do invite temptation,
And this is dangerous for our damnation.
We must not move our selves, but if we are mov'd
Man is but man: and therefore those that lov'd
Still to seem good, would evermore dispence
With their own faults, so they gave no offence.
If the times sweet enticing, and the bloud
That now begin's to boyl, have thought it good
To challinge liberty and recreation,
Let it be done in holy contemplation.
Brothers and sisters in the fields may walk
Beginnings of the holy word to talk,
Of David and Uriah, lovely wife,
Of Tamar and her lustfull brothers strife;
Then underneath the hedge that wooes them next
They may sit down, and there act out the text.
Nor do we want how ere we live austere
In winter Sabaoth nights our lusty cheer;
And though the Pastors grace which oft doth hold
Half an hower long make the provision cold
We can be merry, thinking ne'r the worse
To mend the matter at the second course.
Chapters are read, and hymns are sweetly sung
Ioyntly commanded by the nose and tongue.
Then on the word we diversly dilate
Wrangling indeed for heat of Zeale, not hate:
Where at the length an unappeased doubt
Feircely comes in, and then the lights go out.
Darknes thus makes our peace, and we contain
Our fiery spirits till we set againe.
Till then no voice is heard, no tongue doth go,
Except a tender sister shreike or so:
Such should be our delights, grave and demure,
Not so abominable and inpure
As those thou seek'st to hinder, but I feare
Satan will be too strong, his kingdom's heer.
Few are the righteous, nor do I know
How we this Idoll e're shall overthrow,
And since our sincere Patron is deceas't
The number of the righteous is decreast.
But we do hope these tim'es will on, and breede
A faction mighty for us, for indeede
We labour all, and every sister joynes
To have regenerate babes spring from our loynes;
Besides what many carefully have done
Getting the unrighteous man a righteous sonne.
Then stoutly on, let not thy flock range lewdly
One their old vanities, thou Lamp of Beawdly.
One thing I pray thee, do not too much thirst
After Idolatries last fall, but first
Follow this {su}te more close, let it not goe
Till it be thine as thou would'st have't, for so
Thy successors upon the same entayle
Hereafter may take up the Whitson Ale.

Epithalamium. Upon the Celebration of the happy Nuptials of T. L. Esquire, and his Lady.

Among the Multiplicitie of Votes,
True hearts Oblations sprung from joyfull thoughts,
That are here offer'd at the sacred Shrine
Of your best Marriage, be accepted mine!
They are the wishes of a Heart, as true,
As any his of the more elegant Crew,
In choicest numbers and Poetick Dresse;
That oft to such Solemnities do presse:
And, plainly though set forth, they yet may prove
Effectually propitious to your Love;
Your now united Love, thrice happy Pair,
Whose equall Hearts concorporated are.
May the effects of that still springing Love,
Growe to a numerous Issue, to improve
Your Family with new Increase of Joy.
I wish you the first year a hopeful Boy
To Wisdom and to Valour: Next year after
I wish no lesse, a no lesse hopefull Daughter
To Beauty and to Vertue. And, that, so,
While your first fruits unto your comforts grow,
You may, till many years their course have run,
Yearly increase a Daughter, or a Son:
That they, like Olive branches, round may stand
Fair, to inherit both your Love and Land.
And for your selves mine Orisons shall be,
You may like Isaack and Rebeckah see
Long life and happy dayes, speaking his praise
Who hitherto hath blest you in your wayes.
And may the progresse of your whole Life be
As full of joy as this dayes Harmonie.
That individually, till life be done,
You may continue still two Hearts in one.
And when your days are numbred and made even,
You may but part on earth, to meet in Heaven.

To the Lord Chamberlain.

My Lord, so subject to the worser fame
Are ev'n the best that claim a Poets name,
(Especially poor they that serve the stage,
Though worthily, in this verse hating age.)
And that dread Curse so heavy yet doth lye
Which the wrong'd Fates, fall'n out wth Mercury
Pronounc'd for ever to attend upon
All such as only dream of Hellicon,
That durst I swear, cheated by self opinion,
I were Apollo's, or the Muses Minion,
Reason would yet assure me, 'tis decreed
Such as are Poets born, are born to need.
If the most worthy then, whose pay's but praise
Or a few sprigs, from the now withering Bayes,
Groan underneath their wants, what hope have I
(Scarce yet allow'd one of the Company)
Of better fortunes; that with their good parts
Ev'n want the ways, the bold, and thriving arts,
By which they grow remarkable, and are priz'd:
For sure I Could not live a thing despis'd
Durst I professe 'twere in my power to give
A Patron that should make him ever live;
Or tell great Lords that the main reason why
They hould a Poets praises flattery
Is their own guilt, that sence they left to do
Things worthy praise, ev'n praise is odious too.
Some few there are who by this boldness thrive
Which yet I dare not follow; others strive
In some high minded Ladies grace to stand,
Ever provided that her liberall hand
Pay for the virtues they bestow upon her,
And so long she's the miracle, and the honour
Of her whole sex, and has forsooth more worth
Then was in any Sparta ere brought forth:
But when the beautie fails a change is neer,
And she's not then, what once she did appear,
For the new giver, she dead, must inherit
What was by purchase got, and not by merit.
Let such write well that do this, and in grace,
I would not, for a pension or a place
Part so with mine own Candor, let me rather
Live poorly on those toyes I would not father,
Not known beyond a Player, or a man
That does pursue the Course that I have ran
Ere so growe famous: yet with any pain
Or honest industry, Could I obtain
A noble favourer, I might write, and do
Like others of more name, and get one too,
Or else my Genius is false, I know
That Iohnson much of what he has does owe
To you, and to your Familie, and is never
Slow to professe that, nor had Fletcher ever
Such reputation, and Credit won
But by his honour'd Patron Huntington.
Inimitable Spencer ne'r had been
So famous for his matchless fairie Queene,
Had he not found a Sidny to preferr
His plain way in his shepherds Callender.
Nay Virgill's self, or Martial does lie,
Could hardly frame a poor Gnats elegie
Before Mecænas cherisht him, but then
He straight Conceiv'd Æneas, and the men
That found out Italy. theirs are presidents
I cite with reverence my low intents
Look not so high, yet some worke I might frame
That should nor wrong my duty, nor your name
Were but your Honour pleas'd to cast an eye
Of favour on my trod downe povertie.
How ever I Confess my self to be
Ever most bound to your blest Charitie
To others that feed on it, and will pay
My praiers with theirs, that as you doe, you may
Live long belov'd, and honour'd: doutless then
So Clear a life will find a worthier pen,
For me I rest assur'd besides the Glory
'Twood make a Poet but to write your story.

Upon leaving off mourning for his Mistres.

Hence faint resembler of my woes, adew,
I have thoughts sabler, blacker far then you:
Can griefs so real, so immence be shown
By that which has no being, a privation?
(For so we black define) how can I call
You Emblems of my sorrows, when that all
Those mournfull thoughts you do pretend t'express
(It seems) I banish, when I please t'undress.
My 'Griefs no sorowfull figure ere defines,
But those black thoughts that round my essence twines
None can depict the soul I weare within
But he who paints me in an Ethiops skin.
The night which mourns the absence of the sun
And to express her loss puts darkness on
Yet smiles in stars, and when she goes away
Postilions forth a lovely dauning gray.
I am all darkeness, I have not one spark
Of hope or comfort to be day my dark.
Besorrowed soul, sorrow which nought can ease,
Nought can becalme, nor nought but death appease
And when I'm dead insculp upon my grave,
Here lies my Anna's mourner, once her slave.

An Elegy on the death of a schoole-Master.

Must he dye thus? has an eternall sleep
Seiz'd on each Muse that it can't sing nor weep?
Had he no freinds? no merits? or no purse?
To purchase mourning? Or had he that curse
Which has the scraping Worldling still frequented
To live unlov'd and perish unlamented.
No; none of these; But in this Atlas fall
Learning for present found its funerall.
Nor was't for want of grief, but scope and vent,
Not sullenness, but strong deep astonishment.
Small griefs are but soon wept out great ones come
With bulk, and strike the straight lamenters dumb.
This was the scoolmaster, that did derive
From parts and piety's preogative.
The glory of that good, but painfull art
Who had high learning yet an humble heart.
The Drake of Grammer learning, whose great pain
Circled that globe, and made that voyage plain.
Time was, when th'artless pædagogue did stand,
With his vimineous scepter in his hand.
Raging like Bajazet or'e the 'tugging fry,
Who though unhorsd' were not of th'infantry;
Applying, like a glister, hic, hæc hoc,
Till the poor Lad's beat to a whipping block;
And hold so long to know a Verb and Nown
Till each had Propria maribus of's own:
As if not fit to learn As in præsenti
But legally, when they were one and twenty.
Those few that went to th'Universt'ys then
Went with deliberation, and were men.
Nor were our Academies in those dayes
Fill'd with Chuck-farthing Batchelours and boyes
But schollers with more beard and age went hence,
Then our new lapwing-Lectrers skip from thence.
By his industrious labour now we see
Boys coated borne to'th'Universitie
Who suck'd in Latin, and did scorn to seek
Their scourge and top in English but in Greek.
Hebrew the generall puzler of old heads
Which the gray Dunce with pricks and comments reads
And dubs himselfe a schollar by it, grew
As naturall t'him as if he'd been a Jew.
But above all he timely did inspire
His Childrens breasts with an ætherial fire.
And sanctifi'd their early learning so,
That they in grace, as they in wit did grow:
Yet nor his grace nor learning could defend him,
From that mortality that did attend him.
Nor can there now be any difference known
Between his learned bones and those with none.
For that grand Lev'ler death hudles t'one place
Rich, poor, wise, foolish, noble and the base.
This only is our comfort and defence,
He was not immaturely ravish'd hence.
But to our benefit, and to his own
Undying fame and honour, let alone,
Till he had finish'd what he was to do,
Then naturally split himselfe in Two.
And that's one cause he had so few moyst eys,
He made men learned and that made them wise.
And overrule their passions, since they see
Tears would but shew their own infirmity.
And 'tis but loving madness to deplore
The fate of him, that shall be seen no more.
But only I cropt in my tender years,
Without or tongue, or wit, but sighs and Tears;
And yet I come to offer what is mine,
An immolation to his honour'd shrine.
And retribute what he confer'd on me
Either to's person or his memorie.
Rest pious soul and let that happie grave
That is intrusted with thy Relicks, have
This just inscription, that it holds the dust
Of one that was Wise, learned, pious, just.

A Catch.

Sit close, sit close, my bonny boon Comrades
Sit close, and tast freely your tipple,
'Tis wealth to the poor, a salve to the sore,
And a crutch to the halting cripple;
'Tis this, 'tis this, 'tis this, that makes
The Cobler merrily sing,
It is the good drink makes the begger think
Himselfe as rich as a King:
Then trowl, then trowl a merry merry bowl,
Trowl it down, and fill it again, boyes;
He that grieves night and day drives no sorrow away,
To be sad it is but vain, boyes:

On a woman haveing two Husbands.

The law provides one husband for one wife,
But wanton women cannot brook this life,
They must have two, for having one they still
In spight of law are wedded to their will:

On an Elder Brother.

Where nature's wanting, fortune lends her hand,
The Elder brother still enjoys the land,
The youngest have most wit; hence 'tis that all
The elder brothers we Wise-acres call.

On a proud beggar.

O tho goes bare-foot, yet no cold he feels
The Cause is pride; he scornes good shoos at's heels:

A Courtship betwixt a man and a woman.

Man.
Why so fast away my dear,
Is't because that I am here?
Will you ever
Still persever
Thus to fly me
And deny me?
Shall it be my hard misfortune,
Or a punishment to folly
To like, to love, and to importune
Yet still languish
In the anguish
Of despair and melancholly?

Wom.
Fond man, forbear, enjoy thy quiet,
Know, I am not for thy diet,
You can tell, Sir
Very well Sir,
What's my minde
Then be kinde
To your selfe, and let me go,
For in vain you hope to see
My spotless honours overthrow;
Then be chast,
That thou may'st
Preserve us both from infamy:

Man
Why will you so cruell be
Both to thy self, and unto me,
Heavenly Creature,
In that feature
Will you treasure
So much pleasure,
And put it up from mans embraces,
Be less fair, or be more kinde,
Let those temptings of thy face
Suddenly
Fade and die,
Else let me be stricken blinde,

Wom.
Thus we shall be flattered, till
Your ends are compast to your will,
Then you leave us
And deceive us.
Once undone us
You will shun us;
You may range about, and alter
Each houre, you meet a new one; we
May not do so; since men thus falter,
Ere I love you
I will prove you,
Lest I loose my liberty:

Man
What can move your thoughts to be
Jealous of my constancy
Let me know it,
I will shew it
If unjust
Try, then trust?
Were my breast of crystall made,
There you might my heart espy,
That never yet true love betray'd
There you might
Read the white
Charrecters of loyalty:

Wom.
I! so you tell me, but I know
How farr an ounce of aire will go,
If I thought
There were ought
Truely meant,
And hearty in't,
I were cruell then indeed;
Women can be kind, as mothers,
But they must their bounty heed,
Cause given, we
Never can be
Our own again, nor any others:

Man
'Tis unjust, to doubt, where we
No ground for our suspition see:

Wom.
Shall I doubt,

Man
We'l kiss it out.
Next Ile rifle

Wom.
What Man A trifle,
Which though I purchace with delight,
I shall get no more, then you,
Since neither wins, nor looseth by't.

Wom.
I am won then.

Man
I ha' done then,
Yet we still have have more to do.

On women, of what stuff they are made.

All ye, that lovers be, and love the Amorous trade
Come learne of me, what women be, and whereof they be made:
Their heads are made of rush; their tongues be made of say,
Their love is of silk changeable, that lasteth not a day:
Their wit Mochado is, of durance is their hate,
The food they feed on most is carp, their gaming is Check-mate;
Of fustian their discourse, their zeal is made of freez,
And they, that one their Favours wayt, do get most when they leez:
Their glory comes from sattin, their vanity from feather;
Their beauty is, stand farther of, their conscience is but leather:
Their humour watry chamlet, but canvas fits them best,
Perpetuum is their folly, their earnest is but Jest:
Their love is life in Idleness, their doings are their Pleasure,
They lawless are, yet all they weare, they buy by standing measure.
Their foreparts are of rue, their hinder parts of docks,
Their heads of hardest brasse be made, their hearts be made of box;
Or if in plainer terms they will with all be dealt,
Of beaver are their snow white thighs, there TH. is made of felt.

The lash A song.

To his freind on the death of his Mistres, immediatly before the intended marriage.

Among the trayne of Mourners, whose swolne eys
Wallow in tears at those sad obsequies
Admit me as a Cypher in to come;
Who, though I'm nothing, yet can raise a summe.
And truely I can mourne as well as they
Who're clad in sable weeds, though mine are gray.
Should I not weep, I should not pay my due
Of tears to her, or sympathy to you.
For Death hath slain you both when she did die,
So who writes ones, must write boths Elegie.
Excuse me Sir. Passion will swet that's pent,
Thank not my Tears; I cannot but lament
To see a Lady ready for your bed,
To deaths embraces yield her Maiden-head.
And that Angellick corpse that should have been
A Cabinet to lodge your Jewells in,
Should now b' embalm'd with dust, and made a prey,
To glut'nous wormes, which will call that day
On Which her loines unto their lot did fall
Though your solemnities, their festivall.
She was to good for man, she was to high.
A mate for Angels to get Angels by.
In whom there was as much divinitie
And Excellence as could in woman be.
Whom you and all ador'd and did suppose
To be a Goddess in a Mortalls clothes
But Heav'n to undecieve thee, let you know
By her mortality, she was not so.

To his friend. Mr. B. archd: of N.

Let me enjoy you, for I faine wou'd know
If still you look like one of us or no:
Is not your former pleasing form off stript
Since when your Worship was arch-deaconship't?
Quakes not your head-piece with ingotten winde,
Or swells and burst your night-caps all behind?
Or are you to the Velvet day-caps come
As fits Episcopabilissimum?
Rise not your browes in billows, apt to drowne
Poor Tom beneath with an impetuous frowne.
Burn your disdainfull eys, or sweetly move
(As earst) and gently shine on those you love?
Is not your nose suspended or awrie,
And since t'was archt, exalts it self on high;
Blesse me! what daintie proper men of late
By wealths convulsion, or a pang of state
Have I seen chang'd (as once by Circe's cup.)
And to a beastlie figure quite run up.
Poor Cambridge Snakes that use to creep and lick
The bubling spume of my then Rhetorique,
And cling in amarous folds my verse to hear,
Verse that at once could please, and keep in fear;
Now fierie flying dragon doctors are
That warm'd with Prebends and fat steeples dare
Both hisse and sting: For me, t'is state enough
To hisse, or creep in their forgoten slough
Practice and contemplations, I agree
Should rise; let that a Banging B B be
Whiles this shines West: yet may no crime attaint
The first; but like the second, live a saint.
Alas! the churches tayle is lost in drinke,
While Pot and Pipe are made their pen, and ink,
And if the Jowle in pride be pickled too
What shall the sides, the bulk, the bodie do.
Curates leave ale: leave Prelates ease and pride,
Or learn'd and Lay the Clergie will deride.
God knowes those blemishes on foot and face
Do need the healthfull spirit of his grace.
And you my Learned friend, though past the rore
Of Scillia's doggs! take heed in vent'ring ore
Charibdis gulf, where Mermaid Honour sits
On seas of danger, strow'd with rocks and pits.
Lest I when clambring over hills and dales
By North and South, your palace out in Wales
Approaching as to Phœbus burnisht roof
(Like Phaeton) be bid to stand aloof.
And scarce recovering me at second sight
You swear, good faith, I had forgot you quite:
I promis'd you a Prebend, but in troth
I am so press'd with Lords and Ladies both
That I can do you now no further grace
Then the reversion of the ninetenth place.
Nine years I have expected, (and am loth
To name him yet) a mounting B B S oath.
But if I live to write his Epitaph
It shall so weep, that all that read, shall laugh.
You cannot so decieve. Then onward march
Till to your first, you raise a second arch.

On Mistres Angel wife to Master John Angel preacher of Leicester, deceasing at Bath.

Angell in name, and angell like in life
Save that she was a mortal, and a wife.
Those bonds discharg'd advanc'd this perfect wife
To Angell's single and immortall life.