University of Virginia Library

To Ben. Ionson, on his VVorks.

May I subscribe a name? dares my bold quill
Write that or good or ill,
Whose frame is of that height, that, to mine eye,
Its head is in the sky?
Yes. Since the most censures, beleeves, and saith
By an implicit faith:
Lest their misfortune make them chance amisse,
I'le wast them right by this.
Of all I know thou onely art the man
That dares but what he can:
Yet by performance showes he can doe more
Than hath beene done before,
Or will be after (such assurance gives
Perfection where it lives.)
Words speak thy matter; matter fills thy words;
And choyce that grace affords
That both are best: and both most fitly plac't,
Are with new Venus grac't
From artfull method; all in this point meet,
With good to mingle sweet.
These are thy lower parts. What stands above
Who sees not yet must love,
When on the Base he reades Ben. Jonsons name,
And heares the rest from Fame.
This from my love of truth: which payes this due
To your just worth, not you.

ON THE AUTHOR, The Poet Laureat, Ben. Jonson.

Here is a Poet! whose unmudled straines
Show that he held all Helicon in's braines.
What here is writ, is sterling; every line
Was well-allowed of by the Muses nine.
When for the stage a Drama he did lay
Tragick or Comick, he still bore away
The sock and buskin; clearer notes than his
No Swan e're sung upon our Thamesis;
For Lyrick sweetnesse in an Ode, or Sonnet
To Ben the best of wits might vaile their Bonnet.
His Genius justly in an Entheat rage
Oft lasht the dull-sworn factors for the stage:
For Alchymie though't make a glorious glosse,
Compar'd with gold is bullion and base drosse.

On his elaborated Art-contrived Playes.

An Epigram.

Each like an Indian Ship or Hull appeares
That tooke a voyage for some certaine yeares
To plow the sea, and furrow up the main,
And brought rich Ingots from his loaden brain.
His Art the Sunne; his Labours were the lines,
His solide stuffe the treasure of his lines.

Upon Sejanus.

So brings the wealth-contracting jeweller
Pearles and deare stones, from richest shores and streames,
As thy accomplisht travaile doth confer
From skill-inriched soules, their wealthyer gems;
So doth his hand enchase in ammeld gold,
Cut, and adorn'd beyond their native merits,
His solid flames, as thine hath here inrold
In more than golden verse, those better'd spirits;
So hee entreasures Princes cabinets,
As thy wealth will their wished libraries;
So, on the throat of the rude sea, he sets
His ventrous foot, for his illustrous prise;
And through wilde desarts, arm'd with wilder beasts;
As thou adventur'st on the multitude,
Vpon the boggie, and engulfed brests
Of hyrelings, sworne to finde most right, most rude:
And hee, in stormes at sea, doth not endure,
Nor in vast desarts, amongst wolves, more danger;
Than we, that would with vertue live secure,
Sustaine for her in every vices anger.
Nor is this Allegorie unjustly rackt,
To this strange length: Onely, that jewels are,
In estimation meerely, so exact:
And thy worke, in it selfe, is deare and rare;
Wherein Minerva had beene vanquished,
Had shee, by it, her sacred loomes advanc't,
And through thy subject woven her graphick thred,
Contending therein, to be more entranc't;
For, though thy hand was scarce addrest to draw
The semi-circle of Sejanus life,
Thy Muse yet makes it the whole spheare, and law
To all State-lives: and bounds ambition's strife.
And as a little brooke creepes from his spring,
With shallow tremblings, through the lowest vales,
As if he fear'd his streame abroad to bring,
Lest prophane feet should wrong it, and rude gales;
But finding happie channels, and supplyes
Of other foords mixt with his modest course,
He growes a goodly river, and descryes
The strength, that man'd him, since he left his source;
Then takes he in delightsome meades, and groves,
And, with his two-edg'd waters, flourishes
Before great palaces, and all mens loves
Build by his shores, to greet his passages:
So thy chaste Muse, by vertuous selfe-mistrust,
Which is a true marke of the truest merit;
In virgin feare of mens illiterate lust,
Shut her soft wings, and durst not shew her spirit;
Till, nobly cherisht, now thou lett'st her flie,
Singing the sable Orgies of the Muses,
And in the highest pitch of Tragœdie,
Mak'st her command, all things thy ground produces.
Besides, thy Poëme hath this due respect,
That it lets passe nothing, without observing,
Worthy instruction; or that might correct
Rude manners, and renowne the well deserving:
Performing such a lively evidence
In thy narrations, that thy hearers still
Thou turn'st to thy spectators; and the sense
That thy spectators have of good or ill,
Thou inject'st joyntly to thy readers soules.
So deare is held, so deckt thy numerous taske,
As thou putt'st handles to the Thespian boules,
Or stuck'st rich plumes in the Palladian caske:
All thy worth, yet, thy selfe must patronise,
By quaffing more of the Castalian head;
In expiscation of whose mysteries,
Our nets must still be clogg'd, with heavie lead,
To make them sinke, and catch: For chearefull gold
Was never found in the Pierian streames,
But wants, and scornes, and shames for silver sold.
What? what shall we elect in these extreames?
Now by the shafts of the great Cyrrhan Poet,
That beare all light, that is, about the world;
I would all dull Poet-haters know it,
They shall be soule-bound, and in darknesse hurld,
A thousand yeares (as Satan was, their sire)
Ere any, worthy the poetique name,
(Might I, that warme but at the Muses fire,
Presume to guard it) should let deathlesse Fame
Light halfe a beame of all her hundred eyes,
At his dimme taper, in their memories.
Flie, flie, you are too neere; so, odorous flowers
Being held too neere the sensor of our sense,
Render not pure, nor so sincere their powers,
As being held a little distance thence.
O could the world but feele how sweet a touch
The Knowledge hath, which is in love with goodnesse,
(If Poesie were not ravished so much,
And her compos'd rage, held the simplest woodnesse,
Though of all heats, that temper humane braines,
Hers ever was most subtle, high, and holy,
First binding savage lives, in civill chaines:
Solely religious, and adored solely;
If men felt this) they would not think a love,
That gives it selfe, in her, did vanities give;
Who is (in earth, though low) in worth above,
Most able t' honour life, though least to live.
And so good Friend, safe passage to thy freight,
To thee a long peace, through a vertuous strife,
In which, let's both contend to Vertues height,
Not making Fame our object, but good life.

To His worthy friend, Ben. Ionson. Vpon his Sejanus.

In that, this Booke doth deigne Sejanus name,
Him unto more, than Cæsars love, it brings:
For, where he could not with ambition's wings,
One quill doth heave him to the height of Fame.
Yee great-ones though (whose ends may be the same)
Know, that, how ever we doe flatter Kings,
Their favours (like themselves) are fading things,
With no lesse envie had, than lost with shame.
Nor make your selves lesse honest than you are,
To make our Author wiser than he is:
Ne of such crimes accuse him, which I dare
By all his Muses sweare, be none of his.
The men are not, some faults may be these times:
He acts those men, and they did act these crimes.

TO MY FRIEND, Mr. Ben. Jonson. Vpon his Alchymist.

A master, read in flatteries great skill,
Could not passe truth, though he would force his will,
By praising this too much, to get more praise
In his Art, than you out of yours doe raise.
Nor can full truth be utterd of your worth,
Unlesse you your owne praises doe set forth:
None else can write so skilfully, to shew
Your praise: Ages shall pay, yet still must owe.
All I dare say, is, you have written well;
In what exceeding height, I dare not tell.

To my deare friend, M. Ben. Ionson. Vpon his Fox.

If it might stand with Iustice, to allow
The swift conversion of all follies; now,
Such is my Mercy, that I could admit
All sorts should equally approve the wit
Of this thy even worke: whose growing fame
Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name.
And did not manners, and my love command
Me to forbeare to make those understand,
Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doome
Long since, firmely resolv'd, shall never come
To know more than they doe; I would have showne
To all the world, the art, which thou alone
Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place,
And other rites, deliver'd, with the grace
Of Comick stile, which only, is farre more,
Than any English stage hath knowne before.
But, since our subtile gallants think it good
To like of nought, that may be understood,
Lest they should be disprov'd; or have, at best,
Stomacks so raw, that nothing can digest
But what's obscene, or barkes: Let us desire
They may continue, simply, to admire
Fine clothes, and strange words; and may live, in age,
To see themselves ill brought upon the stage,
And like it. Whilst thy bold, and knowing Muse
Contemns all praise, but such as thou wouldst chuse.

UPON THE SILENT WOMAN.

Heare you bad Writers, and though you not see,
I will informe you where you happie bee:
Provide the most malicious thoughts you can,
And bend them all against some private man,
To bring him, not his vices, on the stage;
Your envie shall be clad in some poore rage,
And your expressing of him shall be such,
That he himselfe shall think he hath no touch.
Where he that strongly writes, although he meane
To scourge but vices in a labour'd Scene,
Yet private faults shall be so well exprest
As men doe act 'hem, that each private brest,
That findes these errors in it selfe, shall say,
He meant mee, not my vices, in the Play.

To my friend M. Ben. Ionson. Vpon his Catiline.

If thou had'st itch'd after the wilde applause
Of common people, and had'st made thy lawes
In writing, such, as catch'd at present voice,
I should commend the thing, but not thy choise.
But thou hast squar'd thy rules, by what is good;
And art, three ages yet, from understood:
And (I dare say) in it, there lyes much wit
Lost, till thy readers can grow up to it.
Which they can ne're out-grow, to finde it ill,
But must fall back againe, or like it still.

Song.

[Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt teares]

Slow , slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt teares;
Yet slower, yet, O faintly gentle springs:
List to the heavy part the musick beares,
“Woe weeps out her division, when shee sings.
Droup hearbs, and flowres;
Fall griefe in showres;
“Our beauties are not ours:
O, I could still
(Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,)
drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since natures pride is, now, a wither'd daffodill.

Song.

[Come follow me, my wagges, and say as I say.]

Come follow me, my wagges, and say as I say.
There's no riches but in ragges; hey day, hey day.
You that professe this Art, come away, come away,
And helpe to beare a part. Hey day; hey day, &c.

Song.

[O, That joy so soone should waste!]

O, That joy so soone should waste!
or so sweet a blisse
as a kisse,
Might not for ever last!
So sugred, so melting, so soft, so delicious,
The dew that lyes on roses,
When the morne her selfe discloses,
is not so precious.
O, rather than I would it smother,
Were I to taste such another;
It should bee my wishing
That I might die kissing.

Song.

[Thou more than most sweet glove]

Thou more than most sweet glove,
Vnto my more sweet love,
Suffer mee to store with kisses
This emptie lodging, that now misses
The pure rosie hand, that ware thee,
Whiter than the kid, that bare thee.
Thou art soft, but that was softer;
Cupids selfe hath kist it ofter,
Than e're he did his mothers doves,
Supposing her the Queen of loves,
That was thy mistresse,
Best of gloves.

The Hymne.

Song.

[If I freely can discover]

[Swell me a bowle with lustie wine]

Hor.
Swell me a bowle with lustie wine,
Till I may see the plump Lyæus swim
Above the brim:
I drink, as I would write,
In flowong measure, fill'd with flame, and sprite.

Song.

[VVake, our mirth begins to die]

Herm.
Then , in a free and loftie straine,
Our broken tunes we thus repaire;

Cris.
And we answere them againe,
Running division on the panting ayre:

Ambo.
To celebrate this feast of sence,
As free from scandall, as offence.

Herm.
Here is beautie for the eye;

Cris.
For the eare, sweet melodie;

Herm.
Ambrosiack odours, for the smell;

Cris.
Delicious Nectar, for the taste;

Ambo.
For the touch, a ladies waste;
Which doth all the rest excell!

Song.

[Fools, they are the only nation]

Fools , they are the only nation
Worth mens envy, or admiration;
Free from care, or sorrow-taking,
Selves, and others merry-making:
All they speake, or doe, is sterling.
Your foole he is your great mans darling,
And your ladies sport, and pleasure;
Tongue, and bable are his treasure.
Eene his face begetteth laughter,
And hee speaks truth free from slaughter;
Hee's the grace of every feast,
And, sometimes the chiefest guest:
Hath his trencher, and his stoole,
When wit waits upon the foole.
O, who would not bee
Hee, hee, hee?

Song.

[You that would last long, list to my song]

You that would last long, list to my song,
Make no more coyle, but buy of this oyle.
Would you be ever faire? and yong?
Stout of teeth? and strong of tongue?
Tart of palat? quick of eare?
Sharpe of sight? of nostrill cleare?
Moist of hand? and light of foot?
(Or I will come neerer to't)
Would you live free from all diseases?
Doe the act, your mistris pleases;
Yea fright all aches from your bones?
Here's a med'cine, for the nones.

EPIGRAMMES. I. BOOKE.

I. To the Reader.

Pray thee, take care, that tak'st my Book in hand,
To read it well: that is, to understand.

II. To my Book.

It will be look'd for Book, when some but see
Thy title, Epigrammes, and nam'd of mee,
Thou should'st be bold, licentious, full of gall;
Wormewood, and sulphure, sharp, and tooth'd withall,
Become a petulant thing, hurle inke, and wit
As mad-men stones: not caring whom they hit.
Deceive their malice, who could wish it so.
And by thy wiser temper, let men know
Thou art not covetous of least selfe-Fame,
Made from the hazard of anothers shame.
Much lesse, with lewd, prophane, and beastly phrase,
To catch the worlds loose laughter or vaine gaze.
He that departs with his own honesty
For vulgar praise, doth it too dearely buy.

III. To my Book-seller.

Thou, that mak'st gaine thy end, and wisely well,
Call'st a Book good, or bad, as it doth sell,
Use mine so, too: I give thee leave. But crave
For the lucks sake, it thus much favour have,
To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought;
Not offer'd, as it made sute to be bought;
Nor have my title-leafe on posts, or walls,
Or in cleft-sticks, advanced to make calls
For termers, or some clerck-like serving-man,
Who scarce can spell th'hard names: whose Knight lesse can.
If, without these vile arts, it will not sell,
Send it to Bucklers-bury, there 'twill well.

IIII. To King James.

How, best of Kings, dost thou a Scepter beare!
How, best of Poets, dost thou Laurell weare!
But two things rare, the Fates had in their store,
And gave thee both, to shew they could no more.
For such a Poet, while thy daies were greene,
Thou wert, as chiefe of them are said t'have been.
And such a Prince thou art we daily see,
As chiefe of those still promise they will bee.
Whom should my Muse then flye to, but the best
Of Kings for grace; of Poets for my test?

V. On The Union.

When was there contract better driven by Fate?
Or celebrated with more truth of State?
The World the Temple was, the Priest a King,
The spoused paire two Realmes, the Sea the ring,

VI. To Alchymists.

If all you boast of your great Art be true;
Sure, willing poverty lives most in you.

VII. On the New Hot-house.

Where lately harbourd many a famous whore,
A purging bill, now fix'd upon the doore,
Tels you it is a Hot-house: so it ma,
And still be a whore-house. Th'are Synonyma.

VIII. On A Robbery.

Ridway rob'd Duncote of three hundred pound,
Ridway was tane, arraign'd, condemn'd to dye;
But, for this money was a Courtier found,
Beg'd Ridwayes pardon: Duncote, now, doth crye;
Rob'd both of money, and the laws reliefe;
The Courtier is become the greater thiefe.

IX. To All, To Whom I Write.

May none, whose scatter'd names honor my Book,
For strict degrees, of rank, or title look:
'Tis 'gainst the manners of an Epigram:
And, I a Poet here, no Herald am.

X To My Lord Ignorant.

Thou call'st me Poet, as a terme of shame:
But I have my revenge made, in thy name.

XI. On Some-thing, That Walkes Some-where.

At Court I met it, in clothes brave enough,
To be a Courtier; and looks grave enough,
To seeme a statesman: as I neere it came,
It made me a great face, I ask'd the name.
A Lord, it cried, buried in flesh, and blood,
And such from whom let no man hope least good,
For I will do none: and as little ill,
For I will dare none. Good Lord, walk dead still.

XII. On Lieutenant Shift.

Shift, here, in towne, not meanest among Squires,
That haunt Pickt-hatch, Mersh-Lambeth, and White-fryers,
Keeps himselfe, with halfe a man, and defrayes
The charge of that state, with this charme, god payes.
By that one spell he lives, eats, drinks, arrayes
Himselfe: his whole revenue is, god payes.
The quarter day is come; the hostesse sayes,
She must have money: he returnes, god payes.
The taylor brings a suite home; he it 'ssayes,
Looks o're the bill, likes it: and say's, god payes.
He steales to Ordinaries; there he playes
At dice hisborrow'd money: which, god payes.
Then takes up fresh commodities, for dayes;
Signes to new bonds, forfeits: and cries, god payes.
That lost, he keeps his chamber, reades Essayes,
Takes physick, teares the papers: still god payes.
Or else by water goes, and so to playes;
Calls for his stoole, adornes the stage: god payes.
To every cause he meets, this voice he brayes:
His only answer is to all, god payes.
Not his poore cocatrice but he betrayes
Thus: and for his letchery, scores, god payes.
But see! th'old baud hath servd him in his trim,
Lent him a pocky whore. She hath paid him.

XIII. To Doctor Empirick.

VVhen men a dangerous disease did scape,
Of old, they gave a Cock to Æsculape;
Let me give two: that doubly am got free,
From my diseases danger, and from thee.

XIV. To William Camden.

Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe
All that I am in Arts, all that I know.
(How nothing's that?) to whom my Countrey owes
The great renowne, and name wherewith she goes.
Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave,
More high, more holy, that shee more would crave.
What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things!
What sight in searching the most antique springs!
What weight, and what authority in thy speech!
Man scarse can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.
Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty,
Which conquers all, be once over-come by the
Many of thine this better could, than I,
But for their powers, accept my piety.

XV. On Court-worme.

All men are wormes: But this no man. In silke
'Twas brought to Court first wrapt, and white as milke;
Where, afterwards, it grew a butter-flye:
Which was a cater-piller. So 'twill dye.

XVI. To Braine-hardy.

Hardy, thy braine is valiant, 'tis confest;
Thou more; that with it every day, dar'st jest
Thy selfe into fresh braules: when, call'd upon,
Scarce thy weeks swearing brings thee of, of one.
So, in short time, th'art in arrerage growne
Some hundred quarrels, yet dost thou fight none;
Nor need'st thou: for those few, by oath releast,
Make good what thou dar'st do in all the rest.
Keep thy selfe there, and think thy valure right;
He that dares damne himselfe, dares more than fight.

XVII. To the learned Critick.

May others feare, flye, and traduce thy name,
As guilty men do Magistrates: glad I,
That wish my poemes a legitimate fame,
Charge them, for crown, to thy sole censure hye.
And, but a sprig of bayes given by thee,
Shall out-live garlands, stolne from the chast tree.

XVIII. To My Meere English Censurer.

To thee, my way in Epigrammes seemes new,
When both it is the old way, and the true.
Thou saist, that cannot be: for thou hast seene
Davis, and Weever, and the best have beene,
And mine come nothing like. I hope so. Yet,
As theirs did with thee, mine might credit get:
If thou 'ldst but use thy faith, as thou didst then,
When thou wert wont t'admire, not censure men.
Pr'y thee, beleeve still, and not judge so fast,
Thy faith is all the knowledge that thou hast.

XIX. On Sir Cod The Perfumed.

That Cod can get no widdow, yet a Knight,
I sente the cause: He wooes with an ill sprite.

XX. To The Same Sir Cod [The Perfumed].

Th'expence in odours is a most vaine sin,
Except thou couldst, Sir Cod, weare them within.

XXI. On Reformed Gam'ster.

Lord, how is Gam'ster chang'd! his haire close cut!
His neck fenc'd round with ruffe! his eyes halfe shut!
His clothes two fashions off, and poore! his sword
Forbidd' his side! and nothing, but the word
Quick in his lips! who hath this wonder wrought?
The late tane bastinado. So I thought.
What severall ways men to their calling have!
The bodies stripes, I see, the soule may save.

XXII. On My First Daughter.

Here lies to each her parents ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth:
Yet, all heavens gifts, being heavens due,
It makes the father, lesse, to rue.
At sixe months end, she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soule heavens Queen, (whose name she beares)
In comfort of her mothers teares,
Hath plac'd amongst her Virgin-traine:
Where, while that sever'd doth remaine,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth.
Which cover lightly, gentle earth.

XXIII. To John Donne.

Donne, the delight of Phœbus, and each Muse,
Who, to thy one, all other braines refuse;
Whose every work, of thy most early wit,
Came forth example, and remaines so, yet:
Longer a knowing, than most wits do live;
And which no affection praise enough can give!
To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,
Which might with halfe mankind maintaine a strife;
All which I meane to praise, and, yet, I would;
But leave, because I cannot as I should!

XXIV. To The Parliament.

There's reason good, that you good laws should make:
Mens manners ne're were viler, for your sake.

XXV. On Sir Voluptuous Beast.

VVhile Beast instructs his faire, and innocent wife,
In the past pleasures of his sensuall life,
Telling the motions of each petticote,
And how his Ganimede mov'd, and how his goate,
And now, her (hourely) her own cucqueane makes,
In varied shapes, which for his lust she takes:
What doth he else, but say, leave to be chaste,
Just wife, and, to change me, make womans haste.

XXVI. On The Same [Sir Voluptuous] Beast.

Than his chast wife, though Beast now know no more,
He 'adulters still: his thoughts lye with a whore.

XXVII. On Sir John Roe.

In place of scutcheons, that should decke thy herse,
Take better ornaments, my teares, and verse.
If any sword could save from Fates, Roe's could;
If any Muse out-live their spight, his can;
If any friends teares could restore, his would;
If any pious life ere lifted man
To heaven; his hath: O happy State! wherein
We, sad for him, may glory, and not sin.

XXVIII. On Don Surly.

Don Surly, to aspire the glorious name
Of a great man, and to be thought the same,
Makes serious use of all great trade he knowes.
He speakes to men with a Rhinocerotes nose,
Which hee thinks great; and so reades verses, too:
And that is done, as he saw great men doe.
H'has tympanies of businesse, in his face,
And, can forget mens names, with a great grace.
He will both argue, and discourse in oathes,
Both which are great. And laugh at ill made cloathes;
That's greater, yet: to crie his owne up neat.
He doth, at meales, alone, his pheasant eat,
Which is maine greatnesse. And, at his still boord,
He drinks to no man: that's, too, like a lord.
He keeps anothers wife, which is a spice
Of solemne greatnesse. And he dares, at dice,
Blaspheme God, greatly. Or some poore hinde beat,
That breathes in his dogs way: and this is great.
Nay more, for greatnesse sake, he will be one
May heare my Epigrammes, but like of none.
Surly, use other arts, these only can
Stile thee a most great foole, but no great man.

XXIX. To Sir Annual Tilter.

Tilter, the most may admire thee, though not I:
And thou, right guiltlesse, may'st plead to it, why?
For thy late sharpe device. I say 'tis fit
All braines, at times of triumph, should runne wit.
For then, our water-conduits doe runne wine;
But that's put in, thou'lt say. Why, so is thine.

XXX. To Person Guiltie.

Guiltie, be wise; and though thou know'st the crimes
Be thine, I tax, yet doe not owne my rimes:
'Twere madnesse in thee, to betray thy fame,
And person to the world; ere I thy name.

XXXI. On Banck The Usurer.

Banck feeles no lamenesse of his knottie gout,
His moneyes travaile for him, in and out:
And though the soundest legs goe every day,
He toyles to be at hell, as soone as they.

XXXII. On Sir John Roe.

VVhat two brave perills of the the private sword
Could not effect, nor all the Furies doe,
That selfe-divided Belgia did afford;
What not the envie of the seas reach'd too,
The cold of Mosco, and fat Irish ayre,
His often change of clime (though not of mind)
What could not work; at home in his repaire
Was his blest fate, but our hard lot to find.
Which shewes, where ever death doth please t'appeare,
Seas, serenes, swords, shot, sicknesse, all are there.

XXXIII. To The Same [Sir John Roe].

Ile not offend thee with a vaine teare more,
Glad-mention'd Roe: thou art but gone before,
Whither the world must follow. And I, now,
Breathe to expect my when, and make my how.
Which if most gracious heaven grant like thine,
Who wets my grave, can be no friend of mine.

XXXIV. Of Death.

He that feares Death, or mournes it, in the just,
Shewes of the Resurrection little trust.

XXXV. To King James.

Who would not be thy subject James, t'obay
A Prince, that rules by'example, more than sway?
Whose manners draw, more than thy powers constraine.
And in this short time of thy happiest raigne,
Hast purg'd thy Realmes, as we have now no cause
Left us of feare, but first our crimes, then lawes.
Like aydes 'gainst treasons who hath found before?
And then in them, how could we know God more?
First thou preserved wert, our King to bee,
And since, the whole Land was preserv'd for thee.

XXXVI. To The Ghost Of Martial.

Martial, thou gav'st farre nobler Epigrammes
To thy Domitian, than I can my James:
But in my royall subject I passe thee,
Thou flattered'st thine, mine cannot flatter'd bee.

XXXVII. On Chev'rill The Lawyer.

No cause, nor client fat, will Chev'rill leese,
But as they come, on both sides he takes fees,
And pleaseth both. For while he melts his grease
For this: that winnes, for whom he holds his peace.

XXXVIII. To Person Guiltie.

Guiltie, because I bade you late be wise,
And to conceale your ulcers, did advise,
You laugh when you are touch'd, and long before
Any man else, you clap your hands, and rore,
And cry good! good! This quite perverts my sense,
And lyes so farre from wit, 'tis impudence.
Beleeve it, Guiltie, if you lose your shame,
I'le lose my modestie, and tell your name.

XXXIX. On Old Colt.

For all night-sinnes, with other wives, unknown,
Colt, now, doth daily penance in his own.

XL. On Margaret Ratcliffe.

XLI. On Gypsee.

Gypsee, new baud, is turn'd Physitian,
And gets more gold than all the Colledge can:
Such her quaint practice is, so it allures,
For what she gave, a whore; a baud, she cures.

XLII. On Giles And Jone.

Who sayes that Giles and Jone at discord be?
Th' observing neighbours no such mood can see.
Indeed, poore Giles repents he married ever.
But that his Jone doth too. And Giles would never,
By his free-will, be in Jones company.
No more would Jone he should. Giles riseth early,
And having got him out of doores is glad.
The like is Jone. But turning home is sad.
And so is Jone. Oft-times when Giles doth finde
Harsh sights at home, Giles wisheth he were blind.
All this doth Jone. Or that his long-yearn'd life
Were quite out-spun. The like wish hath his wife.
The children, that he keepes, Giles sweares are none
Of his begetting. And so sweares his Jone.
In all affections she concurreth still.
If, now, with man and wife, to will, and nill
The selfe-same things, a note of concord bee:
I know no couple better can agree!

XLIII. To Robert Earle Of Salisburie.

VVhat need hast thou of me? or of my Muse?
Whose actions so themselves doe celebrate?
Which should thy countryes love to speake refuse,
Her foes enough would fame thee in their hate.
'Tofore, great men were glad of Poets: Now,
I, not the worst, am covetous of thee.
Yet dare not to my thought least hope allow
Of adding to thy fame; thine may to me,
When in my Book, men reade but Cecil's name,
And what I writ thereof finde farre, and free
From servile flatterie (common Poets shame)
As thou stand'st cleare of the necessitie.

XLIV. On Chuffe, Banks The Usurer's Kinsman.

Chuffe, lately rich in name, in chattels, goods,
And rich in issue to inherit all,
Ere blacks were bought for his owne funerall,
Saw all his race approach the blacker floods:
He meant they thither should make swift repaire,
When he made him executor, might be heire.

XLV. On My First Sonne.

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sinne was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy,
Seven yeares tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate on the just day.
O, could I lose all father, now. For why,
Will man lament the state he should envie?
To have so soone scap'd worlds, and fleshes rage,
And, if no other miserie, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and ask'd, say here doth lye
Ben. Jonson his best piece of Poetrie.
For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what hee loves may never like too much.

XLVI. To Sir Lucklesse Woo-All.

Is this the Sir, who, some waste wife to winne,
A Knight-hood bought, to goe a wooing in?
'Tis Lucklesse he, that tooke up one on band
To pay at's day of marriage. By my hand
The knight-wright's cheated then: Hee'll never pay.
Yes, now he weares his knight-hood every day.

XLVII. To The Same [Sir Lucklesse Woo-All].

Sir Lucklesse, troth, for lucks sake passe by one:
Hee that wooes every widdow, will get none.

XLVIII. On Mungril Esquire.

His bought armes Mung' not lik'd; for his first day
Of bearing them in field, he threw 'hem away:
And hath no honour lost our Due'llists say.

XLIX. To Play-wright.

Play-wright me reades, and still my verses damnes,
He sayes, I want the tongue of Epigrammes;
I have no salt: no bawdrie he doth meane;
For wittie, in his language, is obscene.
Play-wright, I loath to have thy manners knowne
In my chast booke: professe them in thine owne.

L. To Sir Cod.

Leave Cod, Tabacco-like, burnt gummes to take,
Or fumie clysters, thy moist lungs to bake:
Arsenike would thee fit for societie make.

LI. To King James.

Vpon the happie false rumour of his death, the two and twentieth day of March, 1607.

That we thy losse might know, and thou our love,
Great heav'n did well, to give ill fame free wing;
Which though it did but panick terror prove,
And farre beneath least pause of such a King,
Yet give thy jealous subjects leave to doubt:
Who this thy scape from rumour gratulate,
No lesse than if from perill; and devout,
Doe beg thy care unto thy after-state.
For we, that have our eyes still in our eares,
Looke not upon thy dangers, but our feares.

LII. To Censorious Courtling.

Courtling, I rather thou should'st utterly
Dispraise my Work, than praise it frostily:
When I am read, thou fain'st a weak applause,
As if thou wert my friend, but lack'dst a cause.
This but thy judgement fooles: the other way
Would both thy folly, and thy spite betray.

LIII. To Old-end Gatherer.

Long-gathering Old-end, I did feare thee wise,
When having pill'd a book, which no man buyes,
Thou wert content the authors name to loose:
But when (in place) thou didst the patrons choose,
It was as if thou printed had'st an oath,
To give the world assurance thou wert both;
And that, as Puritanes at baptisme doe,
Thou art the father, and the witnesse too.
For, but thy selfe, where, out of motly, 's hee
Could save that line to dedicate to thee?

LIV. On Chev'ril.

Chev'ril cryes out, my verses libells are;
And threatens the Starre-chamber, and the barre.
What are thy petulant pleadings, Chev'ril, then,
That quit'st the cause so oft, and rayl'st at men?

LV. To Francis Beaumont.

How I doe love thee Beaumont, and thy Muse,
That unto me dost such religion use!
How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there, where most thou praisest mee,
For writing better, I must envie thee.

LVI. On Poet-Ape.

Poore Poet-Ape, that would be thought our chiefe,
Whose Works are eene the frippery of wit,
From brocage is become so bold a theefe,
As we, the rob'd, leave rage, and pitie it.
At first he made low shifts, would pick and gleane,
Buy the reversion of old Playes; now growne
To'a little wealth, and credit in the Scene,
He takes up all, makes each mans wit his owne.
And, told of this, he slights it. Tut, such crimes
The sluggish gaping auditor devoures;
He markes not whose 'twas first: and after-times
May judge it to be his, as well as ours.
Foole, as if halfe eyes will not know a fleece
From locks of wooll, or shreds from the whole peece?

LVII. On Baudes, And Usurers.

If, as their ends, their fruits were so the same,
Baudry', and Usury were one kind of game.

LVIII. To Groome Ideot.

Ideot, last night, I pray'd thee but forbeare
To reade my verses; now I must to heare:
For offring, with thy smiles, my wit to grace,
Thy ignorance still laughs in the wrong place.
And so my sharpnesse thou no lesse dis-joynts,
Than thou did'st late my sense, loosing my points.
So have I seene at Christ-masse sports, one lost,
And, hood-wink'd, for a man, embrace a post.

LIX. On Spies.

Spies, you are lights in State, but of base stuffe,
Who, when you'have burnt your selves downe to the snuffe,
Stinke, and are throwne away. End faire enough.

LX. To William Lord Mounteagle.

Loe, what my Countrey should have done (have rais'd
An obeliske, or columne to thy name,
Or, if shee would but modestly have prais'd
Thy fact, in brasse or marble writ the same)
I, that am glad of thy great chance, here doe!
And proud, my worke shall out-last common deeds,
Durst thinke it great, and worthy wonder too,
But thine, for which I doo't, so much exceeds!
My countries parents I have many knowne;
But Saver of my countrey thee alone.

LXI. To Foole, Or Knave.

Thy praise, or dispraise is to me alike;
One doth not stroke me, nor the other strike.

LXII. To Fine Lady Would-bee.

Fine Madam Would-bee, wherfore should you feare,
That love to make so well, a child to beare?
The world reputes you barren: but I know
Your' pothecary, and his drug sayes no.
Is it the paine affrights? that's soone forgot.
Or your complexions losse? you have a pot,
That can restore that. Will it hurt your feature?
To make amends, yo'are thought a wholesome creature.
What should the cause be? Oh, you live at Court:
And there's both losse of time, and losse of sport
In a great belly. Write, then on thy wombe;
Of the not borne, yet buried, here's the tombe.

LXIII. To Robert Earle Of Salisburie.

Who can consider thy right courses run,
With what thy vertue on the times hath won,
And not thy fortune; who can clearely see
The judgement of the King so shine in thee;
And that thou seek'st reward of thy each act,
Not from the publick voyce, but private fact;
Who can behold all envie so declin'd
By constant suffring of thy equall mind;
And can to these be silent, Salisburie,
Without his, thine, and all times injurie?
Curst be his Muse, that could lye dumbe, or hid
To so true worth, though thou thy selfe forbid.

LXIV. To The Same [Robert Earle Of Salisburie]. Vpon the accession of the Treasurership to him.

Not glad, like those that have new hopes, or suites,
With thy new place, bring I these early fruits
Of love, and what the golden age did hold
A treasure, art: condemn'd in th'age of gold.
Nor glad as those, that old dependents bee,
To see thy Fathers rites new laid on thee.
Nor glad for fashion. Nor to shew a fit
Of flattery to thy titles. Nor of wit.
But I am glad to see that time survive,
Where merit is not sepulcher'd alive.
Where good mens vertues them to honours bring,
And not to dangers. When so wise a King
Contends t'have Worth enjoy, from his regard,
As her owne conscience, still, the same reward.
These (noblest Cecil) labour'd in my thought,
Wherein what wonder see thy name hath brought?
That whil'st I meant but thine to gratulate,
I'have sung the greater fortunes of our State.

LXV. To My Muse.

Away, and leave me, thou thing most abhord
That hast betray'd me to a worthlesse lord;
Made me commit most fierce idolatrie
To a great Image through thy luxurie.
Be thy next masters more unluckie Muse,
And, as thou'hast mine, his houres, and youth abuse.
Get him the Times long grudge, the Courts ill will;
And reconcil'd, keepe him suspected still.
Make him lose all his friends; and, which is worse,
Almost all wayes, to any better course.
With mee thou leav'st an happier Muse than thee,
And which thou brought'st me, welcome povertie.
Shee shall instruct my after-thoughts to write
Things manly, and not smelling parasite.
But I repent me: Stay. Who e're is rais'd,
For worth he has not, He is tax'd, not prais'd.

LXVI. To Sir Henry Cary.

That neither fame, nor love might wanting be
To greatnesse, Cary, I sing that, and thee.
Whose House, if it no other honour had,
In onely thee, might be both great, and glad.
Who, to upbraid the sloth of this our time,
Durst valour make, almost, but not a crime.
Which deed I know not, whether were more high,
Or thou more happie, it to justifie
Against thy fortune: when no foe, that day,
Could conquer thee, but chance, who did betray.
Love thy great losse, which a renowne hath wonne,

The Castle and River neere where hee was taken.

To live when Broeck not stands, nor Roor doth runne.
Love honours, which of best example bee,
When they cost dearest, and are done most free.
Though every fortitude deserves applause,
It may be much, or little, in the cause.
Hee's valiant'st, that dares fight, and not for pay;
That vertuous is, when the reward's away.

LXVII. To Thomas Earle Of Suffolke.

Since men have left to doe praise-worthy things,
Most think all praises flatteries. But truth brings
That sound, and that authority with her name,
As, to be rais'd by her, is onely fame.
Stand high, then, Howard, high in eyes of men,
High in thy blood, thy place, but highest then,
When, in mens wishes, so thy vertues wrought,
As all thy honours were by them first sought:
And thou design'd to be the same thou art,
Before thou wert it, in each good mans heart.
Which, by no lesse confirm'd, than thy Kings choice,
Proves, that is God's, which was the peoples voice.

LXVIII. On Play-wright.

Play-wright convict of publick wrongs to men,
Takes private beatings, and begins againe.
Two kinds of valour he doth shew at ones;
Active in's braine, and passive in his bones.

LXIX. To Pertinax Cob.

Cob, thou nor souldier, theefe, nor fencer art,
Yet by thy weapon liv'st! Th'hast one good part.

LXX. To William Roe.

When Nature bids us leave to live, 'tis late
Then to begin, my Roe. He makes a state
In life, that can employ it; and takes hold
On the true causes, ere they grow too old.
Delay is bad, doubt worse, depending worst;
Each best day of our life escapes us, first.
Then, since we (more than many) these truths know:
Though life be short, let us not make it so.

LXXI. On Court-Parrat.

To pluck downe mine, Poll sets up new wits still,
Still, 'tis his luck to praise me 'gainst his will.

LXXII. To Court-ling.

I grieve not, Court-ling, thou art started up
A chamber-critick, and dost dine, and sup
At Madames table, where thou mak'st all wit
Goe high, or low, as thou wilt value it.
'Tis not thy judgement breeds the prejudice,
Thy person only, Courtling, is the vice.

LXXIII. To Fine Grand.

VVhat is't, fine Grand, makes thee my friend-ship flie,
Or take an Epigramme so fearefully:
As't were a challenge, or a borrowers letter?
The world must know your greatnesse is my debter.
In-primis, Grand, you owe me for a jest;
I lent you, on meere acquaintance, at a feast.
Item, a tale or two, some fortnight after;
That yet maitaines you, and your house in laughter.
Item, the Babylonian song you sing;
Item, a faire Greeke poesie for a ring:
With which a learned Madame you belye.
Item, a charme surrounding fearefully,
Your partie-per-pale picture, one halfe drawne
In solemne cypres, the other cob-web-lawne.
Item, a gulling imprese for you, at tilt.
Item, your mistris anagram, i' your hilt.
Item, your owne, sew'd in your mistris smock.
Item, an Epitaph on my lords cock,
In most vile verses, and cost me more paine,
Than had I made 'hem good, to fit your vaine.
Fortie things more, deare Grand, which you know true,
For which, or pay me quickly, or I'le pay you.

LXXIV. To Thomas Lord Chancelor.

VVhil'st thy weigh'd judgements, Egerton, I heare,
And know thee, then, a judge, not of one yeare;
Whil'st I behold thee live with purest hands;
That no affection in thy voyce commands;
That still th' art present to the better cause;
And no lesse wise, than skilfull in the Lawes;
Whil'st thou art certaine to thy words, once gone,
As is thy conscience, which is alwayes one:
The Virgin, long-since fled from earth, I see,
T' our times return'd, hath made her heaven in thee.

LXXV. On Lippe, The Teacher.

I cannot think there's that antipathy
'Twixt Puritanes, and Players, as some cry;
Though Lippe, at Pauls, ranne from his text away,
T' inveigh 'gainst Playes: what did he then but play?

LXXVI. On Lucy Countesse Of Bedford.

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire,
I thought to forme unto my zealous Muse,
What kinde of creature I could most desire,
To honour, serve, and love; as Poets use.
I meant to make her faire, and free, and wise,
Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great,
I meant the day-starre should not brighter rise,
Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat.
I meant she should be courteous, facile sweet,
Hating that solemne vice of Greatnesse, pride;
I meant each softest vertue, there should meet,
Fit in that softer bosome to reside.
Only a learned, and a manly soule
I purpos'd her; that should, with even powers,
The rock, the spindle, and the sheeres controule
Of Destinie, and spin her owne free houres.
Such when I meant to faine, and wish'd to see,
My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was shee.

LXXVII. To One That Desired Me Not To Name Him.

Be safe, nor feare thy selfe so good a fame,
That, any way, my booke should speake thy name:
For, if thou shame, ranck'd with my friends, to goe,
I' am more asham'd to have thee thought my foe.

LXXVIII. To Hornet.

Hornet, thou hast thy wife drest, for the stall,
To draw thee custome: but her selfe gets all.

LXXIX. To Elizabeth Countesse Of Rutland.

That Poets are farre rarer births than Kings,
Your noblest father prov'd: like whom, before,
Or then, or since, about our Muses springs,
Came not that soule exhausted so their store.
Hence was it, that the Destinies decreed
(Save that most masculine issue of his braine)
No male unto him: who could so exceed
Nature, they thought, in all, that he would faine.
At which, shee happily displeas'd, made you:
On whom, if he were living now, to look,
He should those rare, and absolute numbers view,
As he would burne, or better farre his book.

LXXX. Of Life and Death.

The ports of Death are sins; of Life, good deeds:
Through which, our merit leads us to our meeds.
How wilfull blind is he then, that should stray,
And hath it, in his powers, to make his way!
This World Deaths region is, the other Lifes:
And here, it should be one of our first strifes,
So to front death, as men might judge us past it.
For good men but see Death, the wicked tast it.

LXXXI. To Proule The Plagiary.

Forbeare to tempt me, Proule, I will not show
A line unto thee, till the World it know;
Or that I'have by two good sufficient men,
To be the wealthy witnesse of my pen:
For all thou hear'st, thou swear'st thy selfe didst doo.
Thy wit lives by it, Proule, and belly too.
Which, if thou leave not soone (though I am loth)
I must a libell make, and cozen both.

LXXXII. On Cashierd Capt. Surly.

Surly's old whore in her new silks doth swim:
He cast, yet keeps her well! No, she keeps him.

LXXXIII. To A Friend.

To put out the word, whore, thou do'st me woo,
Throughout my Book. 'Troth put out woman too.

LXXXIV. To Lucy Countesse Of Bedford.

Madame, I told you late, how I repented,
I ask'd a Lord a Buck, and he denied me;
And, ere I could aske you, I was prevented:
For your most noble offer had supply'd me.
Straight went I home; and there most like a Poet,
I fancied to my selfe, what wine, what wit
I would have spent: how every Muse should know it,
And Phœbus-selfe should be at eating it.
O Madame, if your grant did thus transfer me,
Make it your gift. See whither that will beare me.

LXXXV. To Sir Henry Goodyere.

Goodyere, I'am glad, and gratefull to report,
My selfe a witnesse of thy few dayes sport:
Where I both learn'd, why wise-men hawking follow,
And why that bird was sacred to Apollo,
Shee doth instruct men by her gallant flight,
That they to knowledge so should toure upright,
And never stoope, but to strike ignorance:
Which if they misse, they yet should re-advance
To former height, and there in circle tarrie,
Till they be sure to make the foole their quarrie.
Now, in whose pleasures I have this discerned,
What would his serious actions me have learned?

LXXXVI. To The Same [Sir Henry Goodyere].

VVhen I would know thee Goodyere, my thought looks
Upon thy well-made choise of friends, and books;
Then doe I love thee, and behold thy ends
In making thy friends books, and thy books friends:
Now, I must give thy life, and deed, the voyce
Attending such a studie, such a choyce.
Where, though 't be love, that to thy praise doth move,
It was a knowledge, that begat that love.

LXXXVII. On Captaine Hazard The Cheater.

Touch'd with the sinne of false play, in his punque,
Hazard a month forswore his; and grew drunke,
Each night, to drowne his cares: But when the gaine
Of what she had wrought came in, and wak'd his braine,
Upon th' accompt, hers grew the quicker trade.
Since when, hee's sober againe, and all play's made.

LXXXVIII. On English Mounsieur.

Would you beleeve, when you this Mounsieur see,
That his whole body should speake french, not he?
That so much skarfe of France, and hat, and fether,
And shooe, and tye, and garter should come hether,
And land on one, whose face durst never bee
Toward the sea, farther than halfe-way tree?
That he, untravell'd, should be french so much,
As French-men in his company, should seeme Dutch?
Or had his father, when he did him get,
The french disease, with which he labours yet?
Or hung some Mounsieurs picture on the wall,
By which his damme conceiv'd him clothes and all?
Or is it some french statue? No: 'T doth move,
And stoope, and cringe. O then, it needs must prove
The new French-taylors motion, monthly made,
Daily to turne in Pauls, and helpe the trade.

LXXXIX. To Edward Allen.

If Rome so great, and in her wisest age,
Fear'd not to boast the glories of her stage,
As skilfull Roscius, and grave Æsope, men,
Yet crown'd with honors, as with riches, then;
Who had no lesse a trumpet of their name,
Than Cicero, whose every breath was fame:
How can so great example dye in me,
That Allen, I should pause to publish thee?
Who both their graces in thy selfe hast more
Out-stript, than they did all that went before:
And present worth in all dost so contract,
As others speak, but only thou dost act.
Weare this renowne. 'Tis just, that who did give
So many Poets life, by one should live.

XC. On Mill. My Ladies Woman.

When Mill first came to Court, the unprofiting foole,
Unworthy such a mistris, such a schoole,
Was dull, and long, ere she would go to man:
At last, ease, appetite, and example wan
The nicer thing to taste her Ladies page;
And, finding good security in his age,
Went on: and proving him still, day by day,
Discern'd no difference of his yeares, or play.
Not though that haire grew browne, which once was amber,
And he growne youth, was call'd to his Ladies chamber,
Still Mill continu'd: Nay, his face growing worse,
And he remov'd to gent'man of the horse,
Mill was the same. Since, both his body and face
Blown up; and he (too 'unwieldly for that place)
Hath got the Stewards chaire; he will not tarry
Longer a day, but with his Mill will marry.
And it is hop'd, that she, like Milo, will
First bearing him a calfe, beare him a bull.

XCI. To Sir Horace Vere.

Which of thy names I take, not only beares
A Romane sound, but Romane vertue weares,
Illustrous Vere, or Horace; fit to be
Sung by a Horace, or a Muse as free;
Which thou art to thy selfe: whose fame was won
In th'eye of Europe, where thy deeds were done,
When on thy trumpet she did sound a blast,
Whose rellish to eternity shall last.
I leave thy acts, which should I prosequute
Throughout, might flatt'ry seeme; and to be mute
To any one, were envy: which would live
Against my grave, and time could not forgive.
I speake thy other graces, not lesse shown,
Nor lesse in practice; but lesse mark'd, lesse known:
Humanity, and piety, which are
As noble in great Chiefes, as they are rare;
And best become the valiant man to weare,
Who more should seek mens reverence, than feare.

XCII. The New Cry.

Ere Cherries ripe, and Straw-berries be gone,
Unto the cryes of London I'le adde one;
Ripe Statesmen, ripe: They grow in every street;
At sixe and twenty, ripe. You shall 'hem meet,
And have 'hem yeeld no savour, but of State.
Ripe are their ruffes, their cuffes, their beards, their gate,
And grave as ripe, like mellow as their faces.
They know the States of Christendome, not the places:
Yet have they seen the maps, and bought 'hem too,
And understand 'hem, as most chapmen do.
The counsels, projects, practises they know,
And what each Prince doth for intelligence owe,
And unto whom: They are the almanacks
For twelves yeares yet to come, what each State lacks.
They carry in their pockets Tacitus,
And the Gazetti, or Gallo-Belgicus:
And talke reserv'd, look'd up, and full of feare,
Nay, aske you, how the day goes, in your eare.
Keep a Starre-chamber sentence close, twelve dayes:
And whisper what a Proclamation sayes.
They meet in sixes, and at every mart,
Are sure to con'the catalogue by heart;
Or, every day, some one at Rimee's looks,
Or Bils, and there he buyes the names of books.
They all get Porta, for the sundry wayes
To write in cypher, and the severall keyes,
To ope' the character. They 'have found the sleight
With juyce of limons, onions, pisse, to write;
To breake up seales, and close 'hem. And they know,
If the States make peace, how it will go
With England. All forbidden books they get.
And of the poulder-plot, they will talke yet.
At naming the French King, their heads they shake,
And at the Pope, and Spaine slight faces make.
Or 'gainst the Bishops, for the Brethren, raile,
Much like those Brethren; thinking to prevaile
With ignorance on us, as they have done
On them: And therefore do not only shun
Others more modest, but contemne us too,
That know not so much State, wrong, as they do.

XCIII. To Sir John Radcliffe.

How like a Columne, Radcliffe, left alone
For the great marke of vertue, those being gone
Who did, alike with thee, thy house up-beare,
Stand'st thou, to shew the times what you all were?
Two bravely in the battaile fell, and dy'd,

In Ireland.

Upbraiding rebells armes, and barbarous pride:
And two, that would have falle as great, as they,
The Belgick fever ravished away.
Thou, that art all their valour, all their spirit,
And thine own goodnesse to encrease thy merit,
Than whose I do not know a whiter soule,
Nor could I, had I seen all Natures roule,
Thou yet remayn'st, un-hurt, in peace, or war,
Though not unprov'd: which shews, thy fortunes are
Willing to expiate the fault in thee,
Wherewith, against thy blood, they offenders be.

XCIV. To Lucy, Countesse Of Bedford, With Mr. Donnes Satyres.

Lucy, you brightnesse of our Spheare, who are
Life of the Muses day, their morning Starre!
If works (not th'Authors) their own grace should look,
Whose poemes would not wish to be your book
But these, desir'd by you, the makers ends
Crown with their own. Rare Poemes aske rare friends.
Yet, Satyres, since the most of mankind bee
Their un-avoided subject, fewest see:
For none ere tooke that pleasure in sins sense,
But, when they hard it tald, took more offence.
They, then, that living where the matter is bred,
Dare for these Poems, yet, both as be, and read,
And like them too; must needfully, though few,
Be of the best: and 'mongst those best are you;
Lucy, you brightnesse of our Spheare, who are
The Muses evening, as their morning-Starre.

XCV. To Sir Henry Savile.

If, my religion safe, I durst embrace
That stranger doctrine of Pythagoras,
I should beleeve, the soule of Tacitus
In thee, most weighty Savile, liv'd to us:
So hast thou rendred him in all his bounds,
And all his numbers, both of sense, and sounds.
But when I read that speciall piece, restor'd,
Where Nero falls, and Galba is ador'd,
To thine owne proper I ascribe then more;
And gratulate the breach, I griev'd before:
Which Fate (it seemes) caus'd in the historie,
Only to boast thy merit in supply.
O, would'st thou adde like hand, to all the rest!
Or, better worke! were thy glad Countrey blest,
To have her storie woven in thy thred;
Minervaes loome was never richer spred.
For who can master those great parts like thee,
That liv'st from hope, from feare, from faction free;
That hast thy brest so cleere of present crimes,
Thou need'st not shrinke at voyce of after-times;
Whose knowledge claymeth at the helme to stand;
But, wisely, thrusts not forth a forward hand,
No more than Salust in the Romane State!
As, then, his cause, his glorie emulate.
Although to write be lesser than to doo,
It is the next deed, and a great one too.
We need a man that knowes the severall graces
Of Historie, and how to apt their places;
Where brevitie, where splendor, and where height.
Where sweetnesse is required, and where weight;
We need a man, can speake of the intents,
The counsells, actions, orders, and events
Of State, and censure them: we need his pen
Can write the things, the causes, and the men.
But most we need is faith (and all have you)
That dares not write things false, nor hide things true.

XCVI. To John Donne.

VVho shall doubt, Donne, where I a Poet bee,
When I dare send my Epigrammes to thee?
That so alone canst judge, so' alone do'st make:
And, in thy censures, evenly, do'st take
As free simplicitie, to dis-avow,
As thou hast best authoritie, t'allow.
Read all I send: and, if I finde but one
Mark'd by thy hand, and with the better stone,
My title's seal'd. Those that for claps doe write,
Let pui'nees, porters, players praise delight,
And, till they burst, their backs, like asses load:
A man should seeke great glorie, and not broad.

XCVII. On The New Motion.

See you yond' Motion? Not the old Fa-ding,
Nor Captayne Pod, nor yet the Eltham-thing;
But one more rare, and in the case so new:
His cloake with orient velvet quite lin'd through;
His rosie tyes and garters so ore-blowne,
By his each glorious parcell to be knowne!
He wont was to encounter me, aloud,
Where ere he met me; now hee's dumbe, or proud.
Know you the cause? H' has neither land, nor lease,
Nor baudie stock, that travells for encrease,
Nor office in the towne, nor place in Court,
Nor 'bout the Beares, nor noyse to make lords sport.
He is no favorites favorite, no deare trust
Of any Madames, hath neadd squires, and must.
Nor did the king of Denmarke him salute,
When he was here. Not hath he got a sute,
Since he was gone, more than the one he weares.
Nor are the Queenes most honor'd maids by th'eares
About his forme. What then so swels each lim?
Only his clothes have over-leaven'd him.

XCVIII. To Sir Thomas Roe.

Thou hast begun well, Roe, which stand well too,
And I know nothing more thou hast to doo.
He that is round within himselfe, and streight,
Need seeke no other strength, no other height;
Fortune upon him breaks her selfe, if ill,
And what would hurt his vertue, makes it still.
That thou at once, then, nobly mayst defend
With thine owne course the judgement of thy friend,
Be alwayes to thy gather'd selfe the same:
And studie conscience, more than thou would'st fame.
Though both be good, the latter yet is worst,
And ever is ill got without the first.

XCIX. To The Same [Sir Thomas Roe].

That thou hast kept thy love, encreast thy will,
Better'd thy trust to letters; that thy skill;
Hast taught thy selfe worthy thy pen to tread,
And that to write things worthy to be read:
How much of great example wert thou, Roe,
If time to facts, as unto men would owe?
But much it now availes, what's done, of whom:
The selfe-same deeds, as diversly they come,
From place, or fortune, are made high, or low,
And even the praisers judgement suffers so.
Well, though thy name lesse than our great ones bee,
Thy fact is more: let truth encourage thee.

C. On Play-wright.

Play-wright, by chance, hearing some toyes I' had writ,
Cry'd to my face, they were th' elixir of wit:
And I must now beleeve him: for, to day,
Five of my jests, then stolne, past him a play.

CI. Inviting A Friend To Supper.

To night, grave sir, both my poore house, and I
Doe equally desire your company:
Not that we think us worthy such a ghest,
But that your worth will dignifie our feast,
With those that come; whose grace may make that seeme
Something, which, else, could hope for no esteeme.
It is the faire acceptance, Sir, creates
The entertaynment perfect: not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectifie your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better sallad
Ushring the mutton; with a short-leg'd hen,
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,
Limons, and Wine for sauce: to these, a coney
Is not to be despair'd of, for our money;
And, though fowle, now, be scarce, yet there are clarks,
The skie not falling, think we may have larks.
I'le tell you of more, and lye, so you will come:
Of partrich, phesant, wood-cock, of which some
May yet be there; and godwit, if we can:
Knat, raile, and ruffe too. How so ere, my man
Shall reade a peece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livie, or of some better booke to us,
Of which wee'll speake our minds, amidst our meate;
And I'le professe no verses to repeate:
To this, if ought appeare, which I know not of,
That will the pastrie, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will bee;
But that, which most doth take my Muse, and mee,
Is a pure cup of rich Canary-wine,
Which is the Mermaids, now, but shall bee mine:
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,
Their lives, as doe their lines, till now had lasted.
Tabacco, Nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but Luthers beere, to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And wee will have no Pooly', or Parrot by;
Nor shall our cups make any guiltie men:
But, at our parting, we will be, as when
We innocently met. No simple word,
That shall be utter'd at our mirthfull boord,
Shall make us sad next morning: or affright
The libertie, that wee'le enjoy to night.

CII. To William Earle Of Pembroke.

I doe but name thee Pembroke, and I finde
It is an Epigramme, on all man-kinde;
Against the bad, but of, and to be good:
Both which are ask'd, to have thee understood.
Nor could the age have mist thee, in this strife
Of vice, and vertue; wherein all great life
Almost, is exercis'd: and scarce one knows,
To which, yet, of the sides himselfe he owes.
They follow vertue, for reward, to day;
To morrow vice, if she give better pay:
And are so good, or bad, just at a price,
As nothing else discernes the vertue or vice.
But thou whose noblesse keepes one stature still,
And one true posture, though besieg'd with ill
Of what ambition, faction, pride can raise;
Whose life, ev'n they, that envie it, must praise;
That art so reverenc'd, as thy comming in,
But in the view, doth interrupt their sinne;
Thou must draw more: and they, that hope to see
The Common-wealth still safe, must studie thee.

CIII. To Mary Lady Wroth.

How well, faire crowne of your faire sex, might he,
That but the twi-light of your sprite did see,
And noted for what flesh such soules were fram'd,
Know you to be a Sydney, though un-nam'd?
And, being nam'd, how little doth that name
Need any Muses praise to give it fame?
Which is, it selfe, the imprese of the great,
And glorie of them all, but to repeate!
Forgive me then, if mine but say you are
A Sydney: but in that extend as farre
As lowdest praisers, who perhaps would finde
For every part a character assign'd.
My praise is plaine, and where so ere profest,
Becomes none more than you, who need it least.

CIV. To Susan Countesse Of Montgomery.

Were they that nam'd you, Prophets? Did they see,
Even in the dew of grace, what you would bee?
Or did our times require it, to behold
A new Susanna, equall to that old?
Or, because some scarce think that story true,
To make those faithfull, did the Fates send you?
And to your Scene lent no lesse dignitie
Of birth, of match, of forme, of chastitie?
Or, more than borne for the comparison
Of former age, or glory of our one,
Were you advanced, past those times to be
The light, and marke unto posteritie?
Judge they, that can: Here I have rais'd to show
A picture, which the world for yours must know,
And like it too; if they looke equally:
If not, 'tis fit for you, some should envy.

CV. To Mary Lady Wroth.

Madame, had all antiquitie been lost,
All history seal'd up and fables crost;
That wee had left us, nor by time, nor place,
Least mention of a Nymph, a Muse, a Grace,
But even their names were to bee made a-new,
Who could not but create them all, from you?
He, that but saw you weare the wheaten hat,
Would call you more than Ceres, if not that:
And, drest in shepherds tyre, who would not say:
You were the bright Oenone, Flora, or May?
If dancing, all would cry th' Idalian Queene
Were leading forth the Graces on the greene:
And, armed to the chase, so bare her bow
Diana alone, so hit, and hunted so.
There's none so dull, that for your stile would aske,
That saw you put on Pallas plumed caske:
Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,
There Juno sate, and yet no Peacock by.
So are you Natures Index, and restore,
I'your selfe, all treasure lost of th'age before.

CVI. TO Sir Edward Herbert.

If men get name, for some one vertue: Then,
What man art thou, that art so many men,
All-vertuous Herbert! on whose every part
Truth might spend all her voice, Fame all her art.
Whether thy learning they would take, or wit,
Or valour, or thy judgement seasoning it,
Thy standing upright to thy selfe, thy ends
Like straight, thy pietie to God, and friends:
Their latter praise would still the greatest bee,
And yet, they, all together, lesse than thee.

CVII. To Captaine Hungry.

Doe what you come for, Captaine, with your newes;
That's, sit, and eat: doe not my eares abuse.
I oft looke on false coine, to know't from true:
Not that I love it, more; than I will you.
Tell the grosse Dutch those grosser tales of yours,
How great you were with their two Emperours;
And yet are with their Princes: Fill them full
Of your Moravian Horse, Venetian Bull.
Tell them, what parts yo'have tane, whence run away,
What States yo'have gull'd, and which yet keeps yo'in pay.
Give them your Services, and; Embassies
In Ireland, Holland, Sweden; pompous lies
In Hungary, and Poland, Turkie too;
What at Ligorne, Rome, Florence you did doe:
And, in some yeare, all these together heap'd,
For which there must more sea, and land be leap'd,
If but to be beleev'd you have the hap,
Than can a flea at twice skip i'the Map.
Give your young States-men, (that first make you drunk,
And then lye with you, closer, than a punque,
For newes) your Ville-royes, and Silleries,
Ianin's, your Nuncio's, and your Tuilleries,
Your Arch-Dukes Agents, and your Beringhams,
That are your words of credit. Keepe your Names
Of Hannow, Shieter-huissen, Popenheim,
Hans-spiegle, Rotteinberg, and Boutersheim,
For your next meale; this you are sure of. Why
Will you part with them, here, unthriftily?
Nay, now you puffe, tuske, and draw up your chin,
Twirle the poore chaine you run a feasting in.
Come, be not angrie, you are Hungry; eat;
Doe what you come for, Captaine, There's your meat.

CVIII. To True Souldiers.

Strength of my Countrey, whilst I bring to view
Such as are misse-call'd Captaines, and wrong you;
And your high names: I doe desire, that thence
Be nor put on you, nor you take offence.
I sweare by your true friend, my Muse, I love
Your great profession; which I once, did prove:
And did not shame it with my actions, then,
No more, than I dare now doe, with my pen.
Hee that not trusts mee, having vow'd thus much,
But's angry for the Captaine, still: is such.

CIX. To Sir Henry Nevil.

Who now calls on thee, Nevil, is a Muse,
That serves nor fame, nor titles; but doth chuse
Where vertue makes them both, and that's in thee:
Where all is faire, beside thy pedigree.
Thou art not one, seek'st miseries with hope,
Wrestlest with dignities, or fain'st a scope
Of service to the publique, when the end
Is private gaine, which hath long guilt to friend.
Thou rather striv'st the matter to possesse,
And elements of honour, than the dresse;
To make thy lent life, good against the Fates:
And first to know thine owne state, then the States.
To be the same in root, thou art in height;
And that thy soule should give thy flesh her weight.
Goe on, and doubt not, what posteritie,
Now I have sung thee thus, shall judge of thee.
Thy deeds, unto thy name, will prove new wombes,
Whil'st others toyle for titles to their tombes.

CX. To Clement Edmonds, On His Cæsars Commentaries observed, and translated.

Not Cæsars deeds, not all his honours wonne,
In these west-parts, nor when that warre was done,
The name of Pompey for an enemie,
Cato's to boot, Rome, and her libertie,
All yeelding to his fortune, nor, the while,
To have engrav'd these Acts, with his owne stile,
And that so strong and deepe, as't might be thought,
He wrote, with the same spirit that he fought,
Nor that his work liv'd in the hands of foes,
Un-argued then, and yet hath fame from those;
Not all these, Edmonds, or what else put too,
Can so speake Cæsar, as thy labours doe.
For, where his person liv'd scarce one just age,
And that, midst envie, and parts; then fell by rage:
His deeds too dying, but in bookes (whose good
How few have read! how fewer understood?)
Thy learned hand, and true Promethean art,
(As by a new creation) part by part,
In every counsell, stratageme, designe,
Action, or engine, worth a note of thine,
T'all future time, not only doth restore
His life, but makes, that he can dye no more.

CXI. To The Same; On The Same [Clement Edmonds, on his Cæsars Commentaries observed, and translated].

Who Edmonds, reades thy book, and doth not see
What th'antique souldiers were, the moderne bee?
Wherein thou shew'st, how much the latter are
Beholding to this master of the war;
And that, in action, there is nothing new,
More, than to vary what our elders knew:
Which all, but ignorant Captaines, will confesse:
Nor to give Cæsar this, makes ours the lesse.
Yet thou, perhaps, shalt meet some tongues will grutch,
That to the world thou should'st reveale so much,
And thence, deprave thee, and thy work. To those
Cæsar stands up, as from his urne late rose,
By thy great helpe: and doth proclaime by mee,
They murder him again, that envy thee.

CXII. To A Weake Gamster In Poetry.

VVith thy small stock, why art thou ventring still.
At this so subtile sport: and play'st so ill?
Think'st thou it is meere fortune, that can win?
Or thy rank setting? that thou dar'st put in
Thy all, at all: and what so ere I do,
Art still at that, and think'st to blow me up too?
I cannot for the stage a Drama lay,
Tragick, or Comick; but thou writ'st the play.
I leave thee there, and giving way, entend
An Epick Poeme; thou hast the same end.
I modestly quit that, and think to writ,
Next morne, an Ode: Thou mak'st a song ere night.
I passe to Elegies; Thou meet'st me there:
To Satyres; and thou dost pursue me. Where,
Where shall I scape thee? in an Epigramme?
O, (thou cry'st out) that is thy proper game.
Troth, if it be, I pitty thy ill lucke;
That both for wit, and sense, so oft dost plucke,
And never art encounter'd, I confesse:
Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is lesse.
Pr'y thee, yet save thy rest; give ore in time:
There's no vexation, that can make thee prime.

CXIII. To Sir Thomas Overbury.

So Phœbus make me worthy of his bayes,
As but to speake thee, Overbury, is praise:
So, where thou liv'st, thou mak'st life understood!
Where, what makes others great, doth keep thee good!
I think, the Fate of Court thy comming crav'd,
That the wit there, and manners might be sav'd:
For since, what ignorance, what pride is fled!
And letters, and humanity in the stead!
Repent thee not of thy faire precedent,
Could make such men, and such a place repent:
Nor may' any feare, to lose of their degree,
Who'in such ambition can but follow thee.

CXIV. To Mrs. Philip Sydney.

I Must beleeve some miracles still bee,
When Sydnyes name I heare, or face I see:
For Cupid, who (at first) took vaine delight,
In meere out-formes, untill he lost his sight,
Hath chang'd his soule, and made his object you:
Where finding so much beauty met with vertue,
He hath not only gain'd himselfe his eyes,
But, in your love, made all his servants wise.

CXV. On The Townes Honest Man.

You wonder, who this is! and, why I name
Him not, aloud, that boasts so good a fame:
Naming so many, too! But, this is one,
Suffers no name, but a description:
Being no vitious person, but the vice
About the town; and known too, at that price.
A subtle thing, that doth affections win
By speaking well o'the company 'it's in.
Talkes loud, and baudy, has a gather'd deale
Of news, and noyse, to sow out a long meale.
Can come from Tripoly, leape stooles, and wink,
Do all, that 'longs to the anarchy of drink,
Except the Duell. Can sing songs, and catches;
Give every one his dose of mirth: and watches
Whose name's un-welcome to the present eare,
And him it layes on; if he be not there.
Tel's of him, all the tales, it selfe then makes;
But, if it shall be question'd, under-takes,
It will deny all; and forsweare it too:
Not that it feares, but will not have to do
With such a one. And therein keeps it's word.
'Twill see it's sister naked, ere a sword.
At every meale, where it doth dine, or sup,
The cloth's no sooner gone, but it gets up
And shifting of it's faces, doth play more
Parts than th' Italian could do, with his dore.
Acts old Iniquity, and in the fit
Of miming, gets th'opinion of a wit.
Executes men in picture. By defect,
From friendship, is its own fames architect.
An inginer, in slanders, of all fashions,
That seeming prayses, are yet accusations.
Describ'd it's thus: Defin'd would you it have?
Then, The towns honest man's her errant'st knave.

CXVI. To Sir William Jephson.

Iephson, thou man of men, to whose lov'd name
All gentry, yet, owe part of their best flame!
So did thy vertue 'enforme, thy wit sustaine
That age, when thou stood'st up the master-braine:
Thou wert the first, mad'st merit know her strength,
And those that lack'd it, to suspect at length,
'Twas not entayl'd on title. That some word
Might be found out as good, and not my Lord.
That Nature no such difference had imprest
In men, but every bravest was the best:
That blood not minds, but minds did blood adorne:
And to live great, was better, than great borne.
These were thy knowing arts: which who doth now
Vertuously practise, must at least allow
Them in, if not, from thee; or must commit
A desperate solœcisme in truth and wit.

CXVII. On Groyne.

Groyne, come of age, his state sold out of hand
For 'his whore: Groyne doth still occupy his land.

CXVIII. On Gut.

Gut eates all day, and lechers all the night,
So all his meat he tasteth over, twice:
And, striving so to double his delight,
He makes himselfe a thorough-fare of vice.
Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin,
Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.

CXIX. To Sir Raph Shelton.

Not he that flies the Court for want of cloths,
At hunting railes, having no gift in othes,
Cries out'gainst, cocking since he cannot bet,
Shuns prease, for two maine causes, poxe, and debt,
With me can merit more, than that good man,
Whose dice not doing well, to 'a pulpit ran.
No, Shelton, give me thee, canst want all these,
But dost it out of judgement, not disease;
Dar'st breath in any ayre; and with safe skill,
Till thou canst find the best, choose the least ill.
That to the vulgar canst thy selfe apply,
Treading a better path, not contrary;
And, in their errors maze, thine own way know:
Which is to live to conscience, not to show.
He, that, but living halfe his age, dyes such;
Makes the whole longer, than 'twas given him, much.

CXX. An Epitaph On S.P. A Child Of Q. El. Chappel.

VVeep with me all you that read
This little story:
And know, for whom a teare you shed,
Death's selfe is sorry.
'Twas a child, that so did thrive
In grace, and feature,
As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive
Which own'd the creature.
Yeares he numbred scarce thirteene
When Fates turn'd cruell,
Yet three fill'd Zodiackes had he been
The Stages jewell;
And did act (what now we moane)
Old men so duely,
As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,
He plaid so truely.
So, by error to his fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since (alas, too late)
They have repented;
And have sought (to give new birth)
In bathes to steep him;
But, being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vowes to keep him.

CXXI. To Benjamin Rudyerd.

Rudyerd, as lesser dames to great ones use,
My lighter comes, to kisse thy learned Muse;
Whose beter studies while she emulates,
She learnes to know long difference of their states.
Yet is the office not to be despis'd,
If only love should make the action pris'd:
Nor he, for friendship, to be thought unfit,
That strives, his manners should procede his wit.

CXXII. To The Same.

If I would wish, for truth, and not for show,
The aged Saturne's age, and rites to know;
If I would strive to bring back times, and try
The World's pure gold, and wise simplicity;
If I would vertue set, as she was yong,
And heare her speak with one, & her first tongue;
If holiest friend-ship, naked to the touch,
I would restore, and keep it ever such;
I need no other arts, but study thee:
Who prov'st, all these were, and again may bee.

CXXIII. To The Same.

Writing thy selfe, or judging others writ,
I know not which th'hast most, candor, or wit:
But both th'hast so, as who affects the state
Of the best Writer, and Judge, should emulate.

CXXIV. Epitaph On Elizabeth, L.H.

VVould'st thou heare, what man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Under-neath this stone doth lye
As much beauty, as could dye:
Which in life did harbour give
To more vertue, than doth live.
If, at all, she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
Th'other let it sleep with death:
Fitter, where it dyed, to tell,
Than that it liv'd at all. Farewell.

CXXV. To Sir William Uvedale.

Uv'dale, thou piece of the first times, a man
Made for what Nature could, or Vertue can;
Both whose dimensions, lost, the World might find
Restored in thy body, and thy mind!
Who sees a soule, in such a body set,
Might love the treasure for the cabinet.
But I, no child, no foole, respect the kinde,
The full, the flowing graces there enshrin'd)
Which (would the world not mis-call't, flattery)
I could adore, almost t' idolatry.

CXXVI. To His Lady, Then Mrs. Cary.

Retyr'd, with purpose your faire worth to praise,
'Mongst Hampton shades, and Phœbus grove of bayes,
I pluck'd a branch; the jealous god did frowne,
And bade me lay th'usurped laurell down:
Said I wrong'd him, and (which was more) his Love.
I answer'd, Daphne now no paine can prove.
Phœbus replyed. Bold head, it is not shee:
Cary my love is, Daphne but my tree.

CXXVII. To Esme, Lord Aubigny.

Is there a hope, that Man would thankfull bee,
If I should faile, in gratitude, to thee
To whom I am so bound, lov'd Aubigny?
No, I do, therefore, call Posterity
Into the debt; and reckon on her head,
How full of want, how swallow'd up, how dead
I, and this Muse had been, if thou hadst not
Lent timely succours, and new life begot:
So, all reward, or name, that growes to mee
By her attempt, shall still be owing thee.
And, than this same, I know no abler way
To thank thy benefits: which is, to pay.

CXXVIII. To William Roe.

Roe (and my joy to name) th'art now, to go
Countries, and climes, manners, and men to know,
T'extract, and choose the best of all these knowne,
And those to turne to blood, and make thine owne.
May winds as soft as breath of kissing friends,
Attend thee hence; and there, may all thy ends,
As the beginnings here, prove purely sweet,
And perfect in a circle always meet.
So, when we, blest with thy returne, shall see
Thy selfe, with thy first thoughts, brought home by thee,
We each to other may this voyce enspire;
This is that good Æneas, past through fire,
Through seas, stormes, tempests: and imbarqu'd for hell,
Came back untouch'd. This man hath travail'd well.

CXXIX. To Edward Filmer, on his Musicall Work dedicated to the Queen. Anno 1629.

VVhat charming Peales are these,
That, while they bind the senses, doe so please?
They are the Marriage-rites
Of two, the choicest Paire of mans delights,
Musique and Poesie:
French Aire, and English Verse, here wedded lie.
Who did this Knot compose,
Againe hath brought the Lilly to the Rose;
And, with their chained dance,
Recelebrates the joyfull Match with France.
They are a School to win
The faire French: Daughter to learne English in;
And, graced with her Song,
To make the Language sweet upon her tongue.

CXXX. To Mime.

That, not a paire of friends each other see,
But the first question is, when one saw thee?
That there's no journey set, or thought upon,
To Braynford, Hackney, Bow, but thou mak'st one;
That scarce the Towne designeth any feast
To which thou'rt not a weeke, bespoke a guest;
That still th'art made the suppers flagge, the drum,
The very call, to make all others come:
Think'st thou, Mime, this is great? or, that they strive
Whose noise shall keepe thy miming most alive,
Whil'st thou dost raise some Player, from the grave,
Out-dance the Babion, or out-boast the Brave:
Or (mounted on a stoole) thy face doth hit
On some new gesture, that's imputed wit?
O, runne not proud of this. Yet, take thy due.
Thou dost out-zany Cokely, Pod; nay, Gue:
And thine owne Coriat too. But (would'st thou see)
Men love thee not for this: They laugh at thee.

CXXXI. To Alphonso Ferrabosco, on his Booke.

To urge, my lov'd Alphonso, that bold fame,
Of building Towns, and making wild beasts tame,
Which Musick had; or speak her knowne effects,
That shee removeth cares, sadnesse ejects,
Declineth anger, perswades clemencie,
Doth sweeten mirth, and heighten pietie,
And is t'a body, often, ill inclin'd,
No lesse a sov'raigne cure, than to the mind;
T'alledge, that greatest men were not asham'd,
Of old, even by her practise to be fam'd;
To say, indeed, shee were the soule of heaven,
That the eight spheare, no lesse, than planets seven,
Mov'd by her order, and the ninth more high,
Including all, were thence call'd harmonie:
I, yet, had utter'd nothing on thy part,
When these were but the praises of the Art.
But when I have said, the proofes of all these bee
Shed in thy Songs; 'tis true: but short of thee.

CXXXII. To The Same.

When we doe give, Alphonso, to the light,
A work of ours, we part with our owne right;
For, then, all mouths will judge, and their owne way:
The Learn'd have no more priviledge, than the Lay.
And though we could all men, all censures heare,
We ought not give them taste, we had an eare.
For, if the hum'rous world will talke at large,
They should be fooles, for me, at their owne charge.
Say, this, or that man they to thee preferre;
Even those for whom they doe this, know they erre:
And would (being ask'd the truth) ashamed say,
They were not to be nam'd on the same day.
Then stand unto thy selfe, nor seeke without
For fame, with breath soone kindled, soone blowne out,

CXXXIII. To Mr. Josuah Sylvester.

If to admire were to commend, my praise
Might then both thee, thy Work and merit raise:
But, as it is (the Child of Ignorance,
And utter stranger to all ayre of France)
How can I speak of thy great paines, but erre?
Since they can only judge, that can conferre.
Behold! the reverend shade of Bartas stands
Before my thought, and (in thy right) commands
That to the world I publish, for him, this;
Bartas doth wish thy English now were his.
So well in that are his inventions wrought,
As his will now be the Translation thought,
Thine the Originall; and France shall boast,
No more; those mayden glories shee hath lost.

CXXXIV. On The Famous Voyage.

No more let Greece her bolder fables tell
Of Hercules, or Theseus going to Hell,
Orpheus, Ulysses: or the Latine Muse,
With tales of Troyes just knight, our faiths abuse.
We have a Shelton, and a Heyden got,
Had power to act, what they to faine had not.
All, that they boast of Styx, of Acheron,
Cocytus, Phlegeton, our have prov'd in one;
The filth, stench, noise: save only what was there
Subtly distinguish'd, was confused here.
Their wherry had no saile, too; ours had none:
And in it, two more horride knaves, than Charon.
Arses were heard to croake, in stead of frogs;
And for one Cerberus, the whole coast was dogs.
Furies there wanted not: each scold was ten.
And, for the cryes of Ghosts, women, and men,
Laden with plague-sores, and their sinnes, were heard,
Lash'd by their consciences, to die affeard.
Then let the former age, with this content her,
Shee brought the Poets forth, but ours th' adventer.

The Voyage It Selfe.

THE FORREST.

I. Why I Write Not Of Love.

Some act of Love's bound to reherse,
I thought to bind him, in my verse:
Which when he felt, Away (quoth he)
Can Poets hope to fetter me?
It is enough, they once did get
Mars, and my Mother, in their net:
I weare not these my wings in vaine.
With which he fled me: and againe,
Into my rimes could ne're be got
By any art. Then wonder not,
That since, my numbers are so cold,
When Love is fled, and I grow old.

II. To Penshurst.

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show,
Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polish'd pillars, or a roofe of gold:
Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told;
Or stayre, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,
And these grudg'd at, art reverenc'd the while.
Thou joy'st in better marks, of soile, of ayre,
Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire.
Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport:
Thy Mount, to which the Dryads do resort,
Where Pan, and Bacchus their high feasts have made,
Beneath the broad beech, and the chest-nut shade;
That taller tree, which of a nut was set,
At his great birth, where all the Muses met.
There, in the writhed barke, are cut the names
Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames
And thence the ruddy Satyres oft provoke
The lighter Faunes, to reach thy Ladies oke.
Thy copp's, too, nam'd of Gamage, thou hast there,
That never failes to serve thee season'd deere,
When thou would'st feast, or exercise thy friends.
The lower land, that to the river bends,
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed:
The middle grounds thy Mares, and Horses breed.
Each banck, doth yeeld thee Coneyes; and the topps
Fertile of wood, Ashore, and Sydney's copp's,
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purpled Phesant, with the speckled side:
The painted Partrich lyes in every field,
And, for thy messe, is willing to be kill'd.
And if the high-swolne Medway faile thy dish,
Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish,
Fat, aged Carps, that run into thy net.
And Pikes, now weary their own kinde to eat,
As loth, the second draught, or cast to stay,
Officiously, at first, themselves betray.
Bright Eeles, that emulate them, and leap on land;
Before the fisher, or into his hand.
Then hath thy Orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,
Fresh as the ayre, and new as are the houres.
The earely Cherry, with the later Plum,
Fig, Grape, and Quince, each in his time doth come:
The blushing Apricot, and woolly Peach
Hang on thy wals, that every child may reach.
And though thy wals be of the countrey stone,
They' are rear'd with no mans ruine, no mans grone;
There's none, that dwell about them, wish them downe;
But all come in, the farmer and the clowne:
And no one empty-handed, to salute
Thy Lord, and Lady, though they have no sute.
Some bring a Capon, some a rurall Cake,
Some Nuts, some Apples; some that think they make
The better Cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare
An Embleme of themselves, in plum, or peare.
But what can this (more than expresse their love)
Adde to thy free provisions, farre above
The need of such? whose liberall boord doth flow,
With all, that hospitality doth know!
Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to eat,
Without his feare, and of thy Lords own meat:
Where the same beere, and bread, and selfe-same wine,
That is his Lordships, shall be also mine.
And I not faine to sit (as some, this day,
At great mens tables) and yet dine away.
Here no man tels my cups; nor, standing by,
A waiter, doth my gluttony envy:
But gives me what I call for, and lets me eate;
He knowes, below, he shall finde plentie of meate;
Thy tables hoord not up for the next day,
Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray
For fire, or lights, or livorie: all is there;
As if thou, then, wert mines, or I raign'd here:
There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.
That found King James, when hunting late, this way,
With his brave sonne, the Prince, they saw thy fires
Shine bright on every harth as the desires
Of thy Penates had beene set on flame,
To entertayne them; or the Countrey came,
With all their zeale, to warme their welcome here.
What (great, I will not say, but) sodaine cheare
Didst thou, then, make 'hem! and what praise was heap'd
On thy good lady, then! who therein, reap'd
The just reward of her high huswifery;
To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh,
When she was farre: and not a roome, but drest,
As if it had expected such a guest!
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.
Thy lady's noble, fruitfull, chaste withall.
His children thy great lord may call his owne:
A fortune, in this age, but rarely knowne.
They are, and have been taught religion: Thence
Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.
Each morne, and even, they are taught to pray,
With the whole houshold, and may, every day,
Reade, in their vertuous parents noble parts,
The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee
With other edifices, when they see
Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,
May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

III. To Sir Robert Wroth.

How blest art thou, canst love the countrey, Wroth,
Whether by choyce, or fate, or both!
And, though so neere the Citie, and the Court,
Art tane with neithers vice, nor sport:
That at great times, art no ambitious guest
Of Sheriffes dinner, or Maiors feast.
Nor com'st to view the better cloth of State;
The richer hangings, or crowne-plate;
Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to have a fight
Of the short braverie of the night;
To view the jewels, stuffes, the paines, the wit
There wasted, some not paid for yet!
But canst, at home, in thy securer rest,
Live, with un-bought provision blest;
Free from proud porches, or their guilded roofes,
'Mongst loughing heards, and solid hoofes:
Along'st the curled woods, and painted meades,
Through which a serpent river leades
To some coole, courteous shade, which he cals his,
And makes sleep softer than it is!
Or, if thou list the night in watch to breake,
A-bed canst heare the loud stag speake,
In spring, oft roused for their masters sport,
Who, for it, makes thy house his court;
Or with thy friends; the heart of all the yeare,
Divid'st, upon the lesser Deere;
In Autumne, at the Partrich mak'st a flight,
And giv'st thy gladder guests the sight;
And, in the Winter, hunt'st the flying Hare,
More for thy exercise, than fare;
While all, that follow, their glad eares apply
To the full greatnesse of the cry:
Or hauking at the River, or the Bush,
Or shooting at the greedy Thrush,
Thou dost with some delight the day out-weare,
Although the coldest of the yeare!
The whil'st the severall seasons thou hast seene
Of flowry Fields, of cop'ces greene,
The mowed Meddows, with the fleeced Sheep,
And feasts, that either shearers keep;
The ripened eares, yet humble in their height,
And furrows laden with their weight;
The apple-harvest, that doth longer last;
The hogs return'd home fat from mast;
The trees cut out in log; and those boughs made
A fire now, that lend a shade!
Thus Pan, and Sylvane, having had their rites,
Comus puts in, for new delights;
And fils thy open hall with mirth, and cheere,
As if in Saturnes raigne it were;
Apollo's Harpe, and Hermes Lyre resound,
Nor are the Muses strangers found:
The rout of rurall folk come thronging in,
(Their rudenesse then is thought no sin)
Thy noblest pouse affords them welcome grace;
And the great Heroes, of her race,
Sit mixt with losse of State, or reverence.
Freedome doth with degree dispence.
The jolly wassall walks the often round,
And in their cups, their cares are drown'd,
They think not, then, which side the cause shall leese,
Nor how to get the Lawyer fees.
Such, and no other was that age, of old,
Which boasts t'have had the head of gold.
And such since thou canst make thine own content,
Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent.
Let others watch in guilty armes, and stand
The fury of a rash command,
Go enter breaches, meet the cannons rage,
That they may sleep with scarres in age.
And shew their feathers shot, and Cullours torne,
And brag that they were therefore borne.
Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the barre,
For every price in every jarre,
And change possessions, oftner with his breath,
Than either money, war, or death:
Let him, than hardest sires, more disinherit,
And each where boast it as his merit,
To blow up Ophanes, Widdows, and their states;
And think his power doth equall Fates.
Let that go heape a masse of wretched wealth,
Purchas'd by rapine, worse than stealth,
And brooding o're it sit, with broadest eyes,
Not doing good, scarce when he dyes.
Let thousands more go flatter vice, and winne,
By being organes to great sin,
Get place and honor, and be glad to keepe
The secrets, that shall breake their sleepe:
And, so they ride in Purple, eat in Plate,
Though poyson, thinke it a great fate.
But thou, my Wroth, if I can truth apply,
Shalt neither that, nor this envy:
Thy peace is made; and, when mans state is well,
'Tis better, if he there can dwell.
God wisheth, none should wracke on a strange shelfe:
To him man's dearer, than t'himselfe.
And, howsoever we may thinke things sweet,
He alwayes gives what he knowes meet;
Which who can use is happy: Such be thou.
Thy mornings and thy evenings Vow
Be thankes to him, and earnest prayer, to finde
A body sound, with sounder minde;
To do thy Countrey service, thy selfe right;
That neither Want doe thee affright,
Nor Death; but when thy latest sand is spent,
Thou maist thinke life, a thing but lent.

IV. To The World.

A farewell for a Gentlewoman, vertuous and noble.

False world, good-night, since thou hast brought
That houre upon my morne of age,
Hence-forth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.
Doe not once hope, that thou canst tempt
A spirit so resolv'd to tread
Upon thy throat, and live exempt
From all the nets that thou canst spread.
I know thy formes are studied arts,
Thy subtill wayes, be narrow straits;
Thy curtesie but sudden starts,
And what thou call'st thy gifts are baits.
I know too, though thou strut, and paint,
Yet art thou both shrunke up, and old;
That onely fooles make thee a saint,
And all thy good is to be sold.
I know thou whole art but a shop
Of toyes, and trifles, traps, and snares,
To take the weake, or make them stop:
Yet art thou falser than thy wares.
And, knowing this should I yet stay,
Like such as blow away their lives,
And never will redeeme a day,
Enamor'd of their golden gyves?
Or having scap'd, shall I returne,
And thrust my neck into the noose,
From whence, so lately, I did burne,
With all my powers, my selfe to loose?
What bird, or beast is knowne so dull,
That fled his cage, or broke his chaine,
And tasting aire, and freedome, wull
Render his head in there againe?
If these, who have but sense, can shun
The engines, that have them annoy'd;
Little, for mee, had reason done,
If I could not thy ginnes avoid.
Yes, threaten, doe. Alas I feare
As little, as I hope from thee:
I know thou canst nor shew, nor beare
More hatred, than thou hast to mee.
My tender, first, and simple yeares
Thou did'st abuse, and then betray;
Since stird'st up jealousies and feares,
When all the causes were away.
Then, in a soile hast planted me,
Where breathe the basest of thy fooles;
Where envious arts professed be,
And pride, and ignorance the schooles,
Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,
But, as 'tis rumor'd, so beleev'd:
Where every freedome is betray'd,
And every goodnesse tax'd, or griev'd.
But, what we'are borne for, wee must beare:
Our fraile condition it is such,
That, what to all may happen here,
If't chance to mee, I must not grutch.
Else, I my state should much mistake,
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kinde: that, for my sake,
There should a miracle be wrought.
No, I doe know, that I was borne
To age, misfortune, sicknesse, griefe:
But I will beare these, with that scorne,
As shall not need thy false reliefe.
Nor for my peace will I goe farre,
As wandrers doe, that still doe rome;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosome, and at home.

V. Song. To Celia.

Come my Celia, let us prove,
While wee may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours, for'ever:
He, at length, our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vaine.
Sunnes, that set, may rise againe:
But, if once wee lose this light,
'Tis, with us, perpetuall night.
Why should we deferre our joyes?
Fame, and rumor are but toyes.
Cannot wee delude the eyes
Of a few poore houshold spyes?
Or his easier eares beguile,
So removed by our wile?
'Tis no sinne, loves fruit to steale,
But the sweet theft to reveale:
To bee taken, to be seene,
These have crimes accounted beene.

VI. To The Same.

Kisse mee, Sweet: The wary lover
Can your favours keepe, and cover,
When the common courting jay
All your bounties will betray.
Kisse againe: no creature comes.
Kisse, and score up wealthy summes
On my lips, thus hardly sundred,
While you breathe. First give a hundred,
Then a thousand, then another
Hundred, then unto the tother
Adde a thousand, and so more:
Till you equall with the store,
All the grasse that Rumney yeelds,
Or the sands in Chelsey fields,
Or the drops in silver Thames,
Or the stars, that guild his streames,
In the silent sommer-nights,
When youths ply their stoln delights.
That the curious may not know
How to tell 'hem as they flow,
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pin'd.

VII. Song. That Women Are But Mens Shaddows.

Follow a shaddow, it still flies you,
Seeme to flye it, it will pursue:
So court a mistris, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Stil'd but the shaddows of us men?
At morne, and even, shades are longest;
At noone, they are short, or none:
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they're not knowne.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Stil'd but the shaddows of us men?

VIII. Song. To Sicknesse.

Why, Disease, dost thou molest
Ladies? and of them the best?
Do not men, ynow of rites
To thy altars, by their nights
Spent in surfets: and their dayes,
And nights too, in worser wayes?
Take heed, Sicknesse, what you do,
I shall feare, you'll surfet too.
Live not we, as, all thy stals,
Spittles, pest-house, hospitals,
Scarce will take our present store?
And this age will build no more:
'Pray thee, feed contented, then,
Sicknesse; only on us men.
Or if needs thy lust will taste
Woman-kind; devoure the waste
Livers, round about the town.
But forgive me, with thy crown
They maintaine the truest trade,
And have more diseases made.
What should, yet, thy pallat please?
Daintinesse, and softer ease,
Sleeked lims, and finest blood?
If thy leannesse love such food,
There are those, that, for thy sake,
Do enough; and who would take
Any paines; yea, think it price,
To become thy sacrifice.
That distill their husbands land
In decoctions; and are mann'd
With ten Emp'ricks, in their chamber,
Lying for the spirit of amber.
That for the oyle of Talck, dare spend
More than citizens dare lend
Them, and all their officers.
That to make all pleasure theirs,
Will by coach, and water go,
Every stew in towne to know;
Date entayle their loves on any,
Bald, or blind, or nere so many:
And, for thee at common game,
Play away, health, wealth, and fame.
These, disease, will thee deserve:
And will, long ere thou should'st starve,
On their bed most prostitute,
Move it, as their humblest sute,
In thy justice to molest
None but them, and leave the rest.

IX. Song. To Celia.

Drink to me, only, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And Ile not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did'st onely breathe,
And sent'st it back to mee:
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of it selfe, but thee.

X.

[And must I sing? what subject shall I chuse?]

XI. Epode.

[Not to know vice at all, and keepe true state]

Not to know vice at all, and keepe true state,
Is vertue, and not Fate:
Next, to that vertue, is to know vice well,
And her black spight expell.
Which to effect (since no brest is so sure,
Or safe, but shee'll procure
Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard
Of thoughts to watch, and ward
At th'eye and eare (the ports unto the minde)
That no strange, or unkinde
Object arrive there, but the heart (our spie)
Give knowledge instantly,
To wakefull Reason, our affections king:
Who (in th'examining)
Will quickly taste the reason, and commit
Close, the close cause of it.
'Tis the securest policie we have,
To make our sense our slave.
But this true course is not embrac'd by many:
By many? scarce by any.
For either our affections doe rebell,
Or else the sentinell
(That should ring larum to the heart) doth sleepe,
Or some great thought doth keepe
Back the intelligence, and falsely sweares,
Th'are base, and idle feares
Whereof the loyall conscience so complaines.
Thus by these subtill traines,
Doe severall passions invade the minde,
And strike our reason blinde.
Of which usurping ranck, some have thought Love
The first; as prone to move
Most frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests,
In our enflamed brests:
But this doth from the cloud of error grow,
Which thus we over-blow.
The thing, they here call Love, is blinde Desire,
Arm'd with bow, shafts, and fire;
Inconstant, like the sea, of whence 'tis borne,
Rough, swelling, like a storme:
With whom who sailes, rides on the surge of feare,
And boyles, as if he were
In a continuall tempest. Now, true Love
No such effects doth prove;
That is an essence farre more gentle, fine,
Pure, perfect, nay divine;
It is a golden chaine let downe from heaven,
Whose linkes are bright, and even.
That falls like sleepe on Lovers, and combines
The soft, and sweetest mindes
In equall knots: This beares no brands, nor darts,
To murther different hearts,
But, in a calme, and god-like unitie,
Preserves communitie.
O, who is he, that (in this peace) enjoyes
Th'Elixir of all joyes?
A forme more fresh, than are the Eden bowers,
And lasting, as her flowers:
Richer than Time, and as Time's vertue, rare:
Sober, as saddest care:
A fixed thought, an eye un-taught to glance;
Who (blest with such high chance)
Would, at suggestion of a steep desire,
Cast himselfe from the spire
Of all his happinesse? But soft: I heare
Some vicious foole draw neare,
That cryes, we dream, and swears there's no such thing,
As this chaste love we sing.
Peace luxury, thou art like one of those
Who, being at sea, suppose,
Because they move, the Continent doth so.
No, vice, we let thee know,
Though thy wild thoughts with sparrows wings do flye,
Turtles can chastly dye;
And yet (in this t'expresse our selves more cleare)
We do not number here,
Such Spirits as are only continent,
Because lust's meanes are spent:
Or those, who doubt the common mouth of fame,
And for their place and name,
Cannot so safely sinne. Their chastity
Is meere necessity.
Nor meane we those, whom Vowes and conscience
Have fill'd with abstinence:
Though we acknowledge, who can so abstayne,
Makes a most blessed gaine.
He that for love of goodnesse hateth ill,
Is more crowne-worthy still,
Than he, which for sins penalty forbeares;
His heart sins, though he feares.
But we propose a person like our Dove,
Grac'd with a Phœnix love;
A beauty of that cleare, and sparkling light,
Would make a day of night,
And turne the blackest sorrowes to bright joyes:
Whose od'rous breath destroyes
All taste of bitternesse, and makes the ayre
As sweet as she is faire.
A body so harmoniously compos'd,
As if Nature disclos'd
All her best symmetrie in that one feature!
O, so divine a creature,
Who could be false to? chiefly when he knowes
How only she bestowes
The wealthy treasure of her love on him;
Making his fortunes swim
In the full flood of her admir'd perfection?
What savage, brute affection,
Would not be fearefull to offend a dame
Of this excelling frame?
Much more a noble, and right generous mind
(To vertuous moods inclin'd)
That knowes the weight of guilt: He will refraine
From thoughts of such a straine.
And to his sense object this sentence ever,
Man may securely sinne, but safely never.

XII. Epistle To Elizabeth Countesse Of Rutland.

Madame,

VVhil'st that, for which all vertue now is sold,
And almost every vice, almightie gold,
That which, to boote with hell, is thought worth heaven,
And for it, life, conscience, yea soules are given,
Toyles, by grave custome, up and downe the Court,
To every squire, or groome, that will report
Well, or ill, only, all the following yeere,
Just to the waight their this dayes-presents beare;
While it makes huishers serviceable men,
And some one apteth to be trusted, then,
Though never after; whiles it gaynes the voyce
Of some grand peere, whose ayre-doth make rejoyce
The foole that gave it; who will want, and weepe,
When his proud patrons favours are asleepe;
While thus it buyes great grace, and hunts poore fame;
Runs betweene man, and man, 'tweene, dame, and dame;
Solders crackt friendship; makes love last a day;
Or perhaps lesse: whil'st gold beares all this sway,
I, that have none (to send you) send you verse.
A present which (if elder Writs reherse
The truth of times) was once of more esteeme,
Than this, our guilt, nor golden age can deeme,
When gold was made no weapon to cut throats,
Or put to flight Astrea, when her ingots
Were yet unfound, and better plac'd in earth,
Than, here, to give pride fame, and peasants birth.
But let this drosse carry: what price it will
With noble ignorants, and let them still,
Turne, upon scorned verse, their quarter-face:
With you, I know, my offring will finde grace.
For what a sinne 'gainst your great fathers spirit,
Were it to think, that you should not inherit
His love unto the Muses, when his skill
Almost you have, or may have, when you will?
Wherein wise Nature you a dowrie gave,
Worth an estate, treble to that you have.
Beauty, I know, is good, and blood is more;
Riches thought most: But, Madame, think what store
The world hath seene, which all these had in trust,
And now lye lost in their forgotten dust.
It is the Muse alone, can raise to heaven,
And, at her strong armes end, hold up, and even,
The soules, she loves. Those other glorious notes,
Inscrib'd in touch or marble, or the cotes
Painted, or carv'd upon our great-mens tombs,
Or in their windowes; doe but prove the wombs,
That bred them, graves: when they were borne, they dy'd,
That had no Muse to make their fame abide.
How many equall with the Argive Queene,
Have beauty knowne, yet none so famous seene?
Achilles was not first, that valiant was,
Or, in an armies head, that lockt in brasse,
Gave killing strokes. There were brave men, before
Ajax, or Idomen, or all the store,
That Homer brought to Troy; yet none so live:
Because they lack'd the sacred pen, could give
Like life unto 'hem. Who heav'd Hercules
Unto the starrs? or the Tyndarides?
Who placed Jasons Argo in the skie?
Or set bright Ariadnes crowne so high?
Who made a lampe of Berenices hayre?
Or lifted Cassiopea in her chayre?
But only Poets, rapt with rage divine?
And such, or my hopes faile, shall make you shine.
You, and that other starre; that purest light,
Of all Lucina's traine; Lucy the bright.
Than which, a nobler heaven it selfe knowes not.
Who, though shee have a better Verser got,
(Or Poet, in the Court account) than I,
And, who doth me (though I not him) envy,
Yet for the timely favours shee hath done,
To my lesse sanguine Muse, wherein she hath wonne
My gratefull soule, the subject of her powers,
I have already us'd some happy houres,
To her remembrance; which when time shall bring
To curious light, to notes, I then shall sing,
Will prove old Orpheus Act no rule to be:
For I shall move stocks, stones, no lesse than he.
Then all, that have but done my Muse least grace,
Shall thronging come, and boast the happy place
They hold in my strange poems, which, as yet,
Had not their forme touch'd by an English wit.
There like a rich, and golden Pyramede,
Borne up by statues, shall I reare your head,
Above your under-carved ornaments,
And show, how, to the life, my soule presents
Your forme imprest there: not with tickling rimes,
Or Common-places, filch'd, that take these times,
But high, and noble matter; such as flies
From braines entranc'd, and fill'd with extasies;
Moods, which the god-like Sydney oft did prove,
And your brave friend, and mine so well did love.
Who, wheresoere he be ------

The rest is lost.

XIII. Epistle. To Katherine, Lady Aubigny:

'Tis growne almost a danger to speake true
Of any good minde, now: There are so few.
The bad, by number, are so fortified,
As what th'have lost t'expect, they dare deride.
So both the prais'd, and praisers suffer: Yet,
For others ill, ought none their good forget.
I, therefore, who professe my selfe in love
With every vertue, wheresoere it move,
And howsoever; as I am at fewd
With sinne and vice, though with a throne endew'd;
And, in this name, am given out dangerous
By arts, and practise of the vicious,
Such as suspect themselves, and think it fit
For their owne cap'tall crimes, t'indite my wit;
I, that have suffer'd this; and, though forsooke
Of Fortune, have not alter'd yet my looke,
Or so my selfe abandon'd, as because
Men are not just, or keepe no holy lawes
Of nature, and societie, I should faint;
Or feare to draw true lines, 'cause others paint:
I, Madame, am become your praiser. Where,
If it may stand with your soft blush to heare,
Your selfe but told unto your selfe, and see
In my character, what your features bee,
You will not from the paper slightly passe:
No Lady, but, at sometime loves her glasse.
And this shall be no false one, but as much
Remov'd, as you from need to have it such.
Looke then, and see your selfe. I will not say
Your beautie; for you see that every day:
And so doe many more. All which can call
It perfect, proper, pure, and naturall,
Not taken up o' th'Doctors, but as well
As I, can say, and see it doth excell.
That askes but to be censur'd by the eyes:
And, in those outward formes, all fooles are wise.
Nor that your beautie wanted not a dower,
Doe I reflect. Some Alderman has power,
Or cos'ning Farmer of the customes so,
T'advance his doubtfull issue, and ore-flow
A Princes fortune: These are gifts of chance,
And raise not vertue; they may vice enhance.
My mirror is more subtill, cleare, refin'd,
And takes, and gives the beauties of the mind.
Though it reject not those of Fortune: such
As Blood, and Match. Wherein, how more than much
Are you engaged to your happie fate,
For such a lot! that mixt you with a State
Of so great title, birth, but vertue most,
Without which, all the rest were sounds, or lost.
'Tis onely that can time, and chance defeat:
For he, that once is good, is ever great.
Wherewith, then, Madame, can you better pay
This blessing of your starres, than by that way
Of vertue, which you tread? what if alone?
Without companions? 'Tis safe to have none.
In single paths, dangers with ease are watch'd:
Contagion in the prease is soonest catch'd.
This makes, that wisely you decline your life,
Farre from the maze of custome, error, strife,
And keepe an even, and unalter'd gaite;
Not looking by, or back (like those, that waite
Times, and occasions, to start forth, and seeme)
Which though the turning world may dis-esteeme,
Because that studies spectacles, and showes,
And after varied, as fresh objects goes,
Giddie with change, and therefore cannot see
Right, the right way: yet must your comfort bee
Your conscience, and not wonder, if none askes
For Truths complexion, where they all weare maskes.
Let who will follow fashions, and attyres,
Maintaine their liedgers forth, for forrain wyres,
Melt downe their husbands land, to powre away
On the close groome, and page, on new-yeares day,
And almost, all dayes after, while they live;
(They finde it both so wittie, and safe to give)
Let 'hem on poulders, oyles, and paintings, spend,
Till that no usurer, nor his bawds dare lend
Them, or their officers: and no man know,
Whether it be a face they weare, or no.
Let 'hem waste body, and state; and after all,
When their owne Parasites laugh at their fall,
May they have nothing left, whereof they can
Boast, but how oft they have gone wrong to man:
And call it their brave sinne. For such there be
That doe sinne onely for the infamie:
And never think, how vice doth every houre,
Eat on her clients, and some one devoure.
You, Madam, yong have learn'd to shun these shelves,
Whereon the most of mankind wracke themselves,
And, keeping a just course, have early put
Into your harbour, and all passage shut
'Gainst stormes, or pyrats, that might charge your peace;
For which you worthy are the glad increase
Of your blest wombe, made fruitfull from above
To pay your lord the pledges of chaste love:
And raise a noble stemme, to give the fame,
To Cliftons blood, that is deny'd their name.
Grow, grow, faire tree, and as thy branches shoote,
Heare, what the Muses sing above thy root,
By me, their Priest (if they can ought divine)
Before the moones have fill'd their tripple trine,
To crowne the burthen which you go withall,
It shall a ripe and timely issue fall,
T'expect the honors of great 'Avbigny:
And greater rites, yet writ in mystery,
But which the Fates forbid me to reveale.
Only, thus much, out of a ravish'd zeale,
Unto your name, and goodnesse of your life,
They speake; since you are truly that rare wife,
Other great wives may blush at: when they see
What your try'd manners are, what theirs should be.
How you love one, and him you should; how still
You are depending on his word, and will;
Not fashion'd for the Court, or strangers eyes;
But to prease him, who is the dearer prise
Unto himselfe, by being so deare to you.
This makes, that your affections still be new,
And that your soules conspire, as they were gone
Each into other, and had now made one.
Live that one, still; and as long yeares do passe,
Madame, be bold to use this truest glasse:
Wherein, your forme, you still the same shall find;
Because nor it can change, nor such a mind.

XIIII. Ode. To Sir William Sydney, On His Birth-day.

Now that the harth is crown'd with smiling fire,
And some do drink, and some do dance,
Some ring,
Some sing,
And all do strive t'advance
The gladnesse higher:
Wherefore should I
Stand silent by.
Who not the least,
Both love the cause, and authors of the feast.
Give me my cup, but from the Thespian Well,
That I may tell to Sydney, what
This day
Doth say,
And he may think on that
Which I do tell:
When all the noyse
Of these forc'd joyes,
Are fled and gone,
And he, with his best Genius left alone.
This day says, then, the number of glad yeares
Are justly summ'd, that make you man;
Your vow
Must now
Strive all right ways it can,
T'out-strip your peeres:
Since he doth lack
Of going back
Little, whose will
Doth urge him to run wrong, or to stand still.
Nor can a little of the common store,
Of nobles vertue, shew in you;
Your blood
So good
And great, must seek for new,
And study more:
Nor weary, rest
On what's deceast.
For they, that swell
With dust of ancestors, in graves but dwell.
'Twill be exacted of your name, whose sonne,
Whose nephew, whose grand-child you are;
And men
Will, then,
Say you have follow'd farre,
When well begun:
Which must be now,
They teach you, how.
And he that stayes
To liue untill to morrow 'hath lost two dayes.
So may you live in honor, as in name,
If with this truth you be inspir'd;
So may
This day
Be more, and long desir'd:
And with the flame
Of love bee bright,
As with the light
Of bone-fires. Then
The Birth-day shines, when logs not burne, but men.

XV. To Heaven.

Good, and great God, can I not think of thee,
But it must, straight, my melancholy bee?
Is it interpreted in mee disease,
That, laden with my sinnes. I seeke for ease?
O, be thou witnesse, that the reines dost know,
And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,
And judge mee after: if I dare pretend
To ought but grace, or ayme at other end.
As thou art all, so be thou all to mee,
First, midst, and last, converted one, and three;
My faith, my hope, my love: and in this state,
My judge, my witnesse, and my advocate.
Where have I been this while exil'd from thee?
And whither rapt, now thou but stoup'st to mee?
Dwell, dwell here still: O, being every-where,
How can I doubt to finde thee ever, here?
I know my state, both full of shame, and scorne,
Conceiv'd in sinne, and unto labour borne,
Standing with feare, and must with horror fall,
And destin'd unto judgement, after all.
I feele my griefes too, and there scarce is ground,
Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound.
Yet dare I not complaine, or wish for death
With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath
Of Discontent; or that these prayers bee
For wearinesse of life, not love of thee.

PART OF THE KINGS ENTERTAINMENT, IN PASSING TO HIS CORONATION.

The speeches of Gratulation.

GENIUS.
Time, Fate, and Fortune have at length conspir'd,
To give our Age the day so much desir'd.
What all the minutes, houres, weekes, months, and yeares,
That hang in file upon these silver haires,
Could not produce, beneath the

As being the first free and natural government of this iland, after it came to civilitie.

Britaine stroke,
The Roman, Saxon, Dane, and Norman

In respect they were all Conquests, and the obedience of the subject more enforced.

yoke,
This point of Time hath done. Now London, reare
Thy forehead high, and on it strive to weare
Thy choisest gems; teach thy steepe Towres to rise
Higher with people: set with sparkling eyes
Thy spacious windowes; and in every street,
Let thronging joy, love, and amazement meet.
Cleave all the ayre with shouts, and let the cry
Strike through as long, and universally,
As thunder; for, thou now art blist to see
That sight, for which thou didst begin to bee.
When

Rather than the Citie should want a Founder, wee choose to follow the received storie of Brute, whether fabulous, or true; and not altogether unwarranted in Poetry: since it is a favor of Antiquitie to few Cities, to let them know their first Authors. Besides, a learned Poet of our time, in a most elegant Work of his Con. Tam. & Isis, celebrating London, hath this verse of her: Æmula maternæ tollens sua lumina Troie..

Here is also an ancient rite alluded to in the building of Cities, which was, to give them their bounds with a plough, according to Virg. Aen. lib. 10. Interea Aeneas urbem designat Aratro. And Isidore, lib. 15. cap. 2. Urbs vocata ab orbe, quod antiquæ civitates in orbem fiebant; vel ab urbo parte aratri, quo muri designabantur, unde est illud. Optauitque locum regno & concludere sulco.

Brutus plough first gave thee infant bounds,
And I, thy Genius walkt auspicious rounds
In every

Primigenius sulcus dicitur, qui in condenda nova urbe, tauro & vacca designationis causa imprimatur; Hitherto respects that of Camd. Brit. 368. speaking of this Citie, Quicunque autem condiderit, vitali genio constructam fuisse ipsius fortuna docuit.

furrow; then did I fore-looke,
And saw this day

For so all happie dayes were. Plin. cap. 40. lib. 7. Nat. Hist. To which Horace alludes, lib. 1. Ode 36. Cressâ ne careat pulchra dies nota. And the other, Plin. epist. 11 lib. 6. O diem lætum, notandumque mihi candidissimo calculo. With many other in many places. Mart. lib. 8. epist. 45. lib. 9. epist. 53. lib. 10. 38 lib. 11. 37. Stat. lib. 4. Syl. 6. Pers. Sat. 2. Catull. Epig. 69. &c.

mark't white in

The Parcæ, or Fates, Martianus calls them scribas ac librarias superum; whereof Clotho is said to be the eldest, signifying in Latine Eucatio.

Clotho's booke.
The severall

Those before mentioned of the Britaine, Roman, Saxon, &c. and to this Register of the Fates allude those verses of Ovid Met. 15.—Cernes illic molimine vasio, Ex aerae, & solido rerum tabularia ferro: Que neque concussum cœli, neque fulminis Iram, Nec metuunt ullas tuta atque aeterna ruinas, Inuenies illis incisa adamante perenni Fata &c.—

circles, both of change and sway,
Within this Isle, there also figur'd lay:
Of which the greatest, perfectest, and last
Was this, whose present happinesse we tast.
Why keepe you silence daughters? What dull peace
Is this inhabits you? Shall office cease
Upon th'aspect of him, to whom you owe
More than you are, or can be? Shall Time know
That article, wherein your flame stood still,
And not aspir'd? Now heaven avert an ill
Of that black looke. Ere pause possesse your brests
I wish you more of plagues: “Zeale when it rests,
Leaves to be zeale. Up thou tame River, wake;
And from thy liquid limbes this slumber shake:
Thou drown'st thy selfe in inofficious sleepe;
And these thy sluggish waters seeme to creepe,
Rather than flow. Up, rise, and swell with pride
Above thy bankes. “Now is not every tide.

TAMESIS.
To what vaine end should I contend to show
My weaker powers, when seas of pompe o'reflow
The Cities face: and cover all the shore
With sands more rich than

A River dividing Spaine and Portugal, and by the consent of Poets stil'd aurifer.

Tagus wealthy ore?
When in the floud of joy, that comes with him,
He drownes the world; yet makes it live and swimme,
And spring with gladnesse: not my fishes here,
Though they be dumbe, but doe expresse the cheere
Of these bright streames. No lesse may

Vnderstanding Euphrosyne, Sebasis, Prothumia, &c.

these, and I
Boast our delights, albe't we silent lie.

GENIUS.

GENIUS.

Fl.
Rather what art thou
That dar'st so rudely interrupt my vow?
My habit speakes my name.

Ge.
A Flamen?

Fl.
Yes,
And

Of Mars whose rites (as wee have to toucht before) this Flamin did specially celebrate.

Martialis call'd.

Ge.
I so did ghesse
By my short view; but whence didst thou ascend
Hither? or how? or to what mystick end?

Fl.
The noyse, and present tumult of this day,
Rowsd me from sleep, and silence, where I lay
Obscur'd from light; which when I wakt to see,
I wondring thought what this great pompe might bee.
When (looking in my Kalender) I found
The

VVith us the 15 of March, which was the present day of this triumph: and on which the great feast of Anna Perenna (among the Romans) was yearely, and with such solemnity remembred. Ovi. Fast. 3. Idibus est, Anne festum geniale Perennæ. Haud procul à ripis, &c.

Ides of March were entred, and I bound
With these, to celebrate the geniall feast
Of

Who this Anna should be (with the Romans themselves) hath been no trifling controversie. Some have thought her fabulously the sister of Dido, some a Nymph of Numicius, some Io, some Themis. Others an old woman of Bovilla, that fed the seditious multitude, in Monte sacro, with wafers, and fine cakes, in time of their penurie: To whom, afterward (in memory of the benefit) their peace being made with the nobles, they ordayned this feast. Yet, they that have thought nearest, have mist all these, and directly imagined her the Moone. And that shee was called ANNA. Quia mensibus impleat annum, Ovid. ibid. To which, the vow that they used in her rites, somewhat confirmingly alludes which was, Ut Annare, & Perannare commode liceret, Mocr. Sat. lib. 1. cap. 12.

Anna still'd Perenna,

So Ovid. ibid. Fast. makes Mars speaking to her, Mense meo coleris, iunxi mea tempora tecum.

Mars his guest,
Who, in this month of his, is yearely call'd
To banquet at his altars; and instal'd

Nuper erat dea facta, &c. ibid. Ovid.

A goddesse with him, since she fils the yeare,
And

Where is understood the meeting of the Zodiack in March, the month wherein she is celebrated.

knits the oblique scarfe that girts the spheare.
Whilest fourefac'd Janus turnes his

That face wherewith he beholds the Spring.

vernall look
Upon their meeting houres, as if he took
High pride and pleasure.

Ge.
Sure thou still dost dreame,
And both thy tongue, and thought rides on the streame
Of phantasie: Behold here he nor she,
Have any altar, fane, or deity.
Stoope: read but this

Written upon the Altar, for which we referre you to the page 83.

inscription: and then view
To whom the place is consecrate. 'Tis true
That this is Janus temple, and that now
He turnes upon the yeare his freshest brow:
That this is Mars his month; and these the Ides,
Wherein his Anne was honor'd; both the tides,
Titles, and place, we know: but these dead rites
Are long since buryed, and new power excites
More high and hearty flames. Loe, there is he,
Who brings with him a

The Queen: to answer which in our inscription we spake to the King MARTE MAIORI.

greater Anne than she:
Whose strong and potent vertues have

The Temple of Ianus we apprehend to be both the house of War, and Peace: of war, when it is open, of peace when it is shut: And that there, each over the other is interchangeably placed, to the vicissitude of times.

defac'd
Sterne Mars his statues, and upon them plac'd
His,

Which are Peace, Rest, Liberty, Safety, &c. and were his actively, but the worlds passively.

and the Worlds blest blessings: This hath brought
Sweet peace to sit in that bright State she ought,
Unbloody, or untroubled; hath forc'd hence
All tumults, feares, or other dark portents
That might invade weak minds; hath made men see
Once more the face of welcome liberty:
And doth (in all his present acts) restore
That first pure World, made of the better ore.
Now innocence shall cease to be the spoyle
Of ravenous greatnesse, or to steep the soyle
Of raysed pesantry with teares, and blood;
No more shall rich men (for their little good)
Suspected to be made guilty; or vile spies
Enjoy the lust of their so murdring eyes:
Men shall put off their yron minds, and hearts;
The time forget his old malicious arts
With this new minute; and no print remaine
Of what was thought the former ages staine.
Back, Flamen, with thy superstitious fumes,
And cense not here; Thy ignorance presumes
Too much, in acting any Ethnick rite
In this translated temple: here no wight,
To sacrifice, save my devotion comes,
That brings in stead of those thy

Somewhat a strāge Epithite in our tongue, but proper to the thing: for they were only Masculine odors, which were offerd to the Altars, Vir. Ecl. 8. Verbenasq adole pingueis, & mascula Tura. And Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. 12. cap. 14. speaking of these, hath Quod ex eo rotunditate guttæ pependit, Masculum vocamus, cum alias non ferè mas vocetur, ubi non sit fœmina: religioni tributum ne sexus alter usurparetur. Masculum aliqui putant à specie testium dictum. See him also, lib. 34. cap. 11. And, Aruch. lib. 7. advers. Gent. Non si mille tu pondera masculi tharis incendas, &c.

masculine gums.
My Cities heart; which shall for ever burne
Upon this Altar, and no time shall turne
The same to ashes: here I fixe it fast,
Flame bright, flame high, and may it ever last.
Whilst I, before the figure of thy peace,
Still tend the fire; and give it quick increase
With prayers, wishes, vows; whereof be these
The least, and weakest: that no age may leese
The memory of this so rich a day;
But rather, that it henceforth yearely may
Begin our spring, and with our spring the prime,
And

According to Romulus his institutiō, who made March the first month, and consecrated it to his father, of whom it was called Martius. Varro. Fest. in Frag. Martius mensis initium anni fuit, & in Latio, & post Romani conditam, &c. And Ovid. Fast. 3. A te principium Romano dicimus anno: Primus de patrio nomine mensis erit. Vox rata sit, &c. See Macr. lib. 1. Sat. cap. 12. and Solin. in Poly. Hist. cap. 3. Quòd hoc mense mercedes exolverint magistris, quas completas annus deberi feoffet, &c.

first accompt of yeares, of months,

Some, to whom we have read this, have taken it for a Tautologie, thinking Time enough expressed before in yeares, and months. For whose ignorant sakes we must confesse to have taken the better part of this travaile in noting, a thing not usuall, neither affected of us, but where there is necessity, as here, to avoid their dull censures: where in yeares and months we alluded to that is observed in our former note: but by Time we understand the present, and that from this instant, we should begin to reckon and make this the first, of our time. Which is also to be helpe by Emphasis.

of time:
And may these Ides as fortunate appeare
To thee, as they to

In which he was slaine in the Senate.

Cæsar fatall were.
Be all thy thoughts borne perfect, and thy hopes
In their events still crown'd beyond their scopes.
Let not wide heav'n that secret blessing know
To give, which she on thee will not bestow.
Blind Fortune be thy slave; and may her store
(The lesse thou seek'st it) follow thee the more.
Much more I would: but see, these brazen gates
Make haste to close, as urged by thy fates;
Here ends my Cities office, here it breakes:
Yet with my tongue, and this pure heart, she speakes
A short farewell; and lower than thy feet,
With fervent thankes, thy Royall paines doth greet.
Pardon, if my abruptnesse breed disease;
“He merits not t'offend, that hastes to please.

THE SPEECH.

ELECTRA.

A PANEGYRE, ON THE HAPPY ENTRANCE OF Iames, our Soveraigne, to His first high Session of Parliament in this his Kingdome, the 19 of March, 1603.

[This is mab the mistris-Fairy]

[Satyre]
This is mab the mistris-Fairy,
That doth nightly rob the dairy,
And can hurt, or help the cherning,
(As shee please) without discerning.

Elfe.
Pug, you will anon take warning?
Shee, that pinches countrey wenches,
If they rub not cleane their benches,
And with sharper nayles remembers,
When they take not up their embers:
But if so they chance to feast her,
In a shooe shee drops a tester.

Elfe.
Shall we strip the skipping jester?
This is shee, that empties cradles,
Takes out children, puts in ladles:
Traynes forth Mid-wives in their slumber,
With a sieve the holes to number.
And then leads them, from her borroughs,
Home through ponds, and water-furrowes.

Elfe.
Shall not all this mocking stirre us?
Shee can start our Franklins daughters,
In their sleepe, with shrikes, and laughters,
And on sweet Saint Annes night,
Feed them with a promis'd sight,
Some of husbands, some of lovers,
Which an emptie dreame discovers.

Elfe.
Satyre, vengeance neare you hovers.
And in hope that you would come here
Yester-eve the lady

For she was expected there on Mid-summer day at night, but came not till the day following.

Summer,
Shee invited to a banquet,
But (in sooth) I con you thanke yet,
That you could so well deceive her
Of the pride which gan up-heave her:
And (by this) would so have blowne her,
As no wood-god shoud have knowne her.

Here hee skipped into the wood.

Elfe.
Mistris, this is onely spight:
For you would not yester-night
Kisse him in the cock-shout light.

And came againe.

Satyre.
By Pan, and thou hast hit it right.

There they laid hold on him, and nipt him.

Fairy.
Fairyes, pinch him black and blue,
Now you have him, make him rue.

Satyre.
O, hold, Mab: I sue.

Elfe.
Nay the devill shall have his due.

3 Charme.

[The owle is abroad, the bat, and the toad]

The owle is abroad, the bat, and the toad,
And so is the cat-a-mountaine,
The ant, and the mole sit both in a hole,
And frog peeps out o'the fountaine;
The dogs, they do bay, and the timbrels play,
The spindle is now a turning;
The Moone it is red, and the Starres are fled,
But all the sky is aburning:
The ditch is made, and our nayles the spade,
With pictures full, of waxe, and of wooll;
Their liues I stick, with needles quick;
There lacks but the blood, to make up the flood.
Quickly Dame, then, bring your part in,
Spurre, spurre, upon little Martin,
Merrily, merrily, make him saile,
A worme in his mouth, and a thorne in's taile,
Fire above, and fire below,
With a whip i'your hand, to make him go.
O, now she's come!
Let all be dumbe.

[Buz, quoth the blue Flie]

Buz, quoth the blue Flie,
Hum, quoth the Bee:
Buz, and hum, they crie,
And so doe wee.
In his eare, in his nose,
Thus, doe you see?
He eat the dormouse,
Else it was hee.

[Soft, subtill fire, thou soule of Art]

Cyclope.