University of Virginia Library

TO HIS NOBLE FRIEND Sir ASTON COKAIN on his Poetical composures.

Sir , though I cannot on such praises hit,
As well may suit the wardrobe of your wit,
Rich and repleat; yet give me leave to aim,
And light my Taper at your Delphick flame.
But how should such a dazeled sence as mine,
(Lost in high-waies of Excellence divine)
See to pass judgements on your lines aright,
That seem all gilded with Phoebæan light
From your rich brain effus'd, that to the skie
Rightly conformes in clear sublimity?
I almost should have thought your nimbler soul
Had fire from Heaven, like sly Prometheus, stole;
But that whereas accursed plagues he brought,
Wherewith Pandora's box was sadly fraught,
You with choice things have blest us, such as be
Treasures of wit, art, language, history.
How strangely winds your fancy here and there!
Like to your Anchor, built with streams more clear
That glide along as if they long'd to see
Themselves ingulft in vast eternity.
Surely you drew from noble birds of Po
Those numerous sweetnesses that ravisht so;
And from rich Naples and renowned Rome
Brought forth fine courtship and choice learning home.
Your Muse (impregnate with no common worth)
Thus travail'd for a fame, and brought it forth:
Whose issue he that envies, let him hear
(Like Phrygian Midas) with a lengthn'd eare
Nothing but scornes shot at him sundry waies,
Yet take those pellets for a charge of praise.
Kick at such currish slaves, nor think them fit
To pick up at your chair the crumbs of wit;
But think, whilst other Muses seem to dance
After your measures, they your praise advance.
Needs must those wits or harsh or heavy be,
That move not at your strokes of harmony.

A Remedy for Love.

That which the Sulmo Poet sung, again
I do declare, but in a chaster strain.
Of all the sisters that do sport upon
The bifront hill, and Phocion Helicon,
Thou unto whom this task doth most belong,
Conduct my pen & guide my faultering tongue:
Give me a cup of the Castalian spring,
That Remedy I may more sweetly sing:
And sacred Phœbus, patron of the Nine,
And God of Physick, thy assistance joyn.
Henceforth no poor Inamorato shall
Be accessary to his Funerall.
Wherefore should mighty Turnus fall beneath
The hand of Anchisiades in death?
'Tis shame that Dido should despair and die,
Because the Trojan will from Carthage flie.
Wherefore should Phillis for Demophoons stay
With her own Girdle take her life away?
And why in Phœbus Temple should decease
For his fair Dardan Lass Æasides?
If any of these had but view'd our lines
Surely they would have been of other minds.
If Clytemnestra had this Poem read,
She had not done great Agamemnon dead,
For vile Ægistus sake; nor had his son
By hers, reveng'd the Kings destruction.
If Paris Alexander had but seen
This work, he had not stole the Spartan Queen:
And Ilions gorgeous Towers yet had stood,
And fam'd Scamander never drunk the bloud
Of those couragious Princes that there dide,
To rescue and keep back Atrides bride.
If me (brave Achelous) thou hadst known,
Alcides thee had never overthrown.
If Alcumena's glorious son had view'd
This Poesie, the fatall shirt embrew'd
With poison, and the Centaures bloud, had lain
Useless, and he on Oeta not been slain.
I wish that Tereus had read us over,
For then he had not been a bloudy lover,
Nor had transfigur'd been. All these I could
Have made more staid then Matrons grave and old.
But such like ends hereafter none shall know:
For we will slack the Paphian Archers bow.
Wherefore (untoward Boy) art thou severe
To those that gladly would thy yoke hold dear,
If thou wouldst grant them such felicity,
That whom they do affect they might enjoy:
And that their hearts should never entertain
Such darts as lawless passions would constrain?
I will not be too difficult to follow
My Rules, though they be true they shall be shallow:
All you therefore that love in vain, or where
You should not, give unto my precepts ear.
And gentle Ladies, you whose tender hearts
Have felt the force of conquering Cupids darts;
Suffering in vain the burthen of his yoke,
Attend, and your affections Ile revoke:
For almost all my documents will prove
(If you apply them) Remedies of Love;
For what I write to men, you also may
Make use of, your own passions to allay:
Perform but my Injuctions, and you shall
From all your fond desires be loosed all:
Know happy liberty again, and throw
Contempt on them that no regard would show.
Here many Remedies we write, that all
Of Liberty may us Physician call:
One mind doth not possess all men, therefore
Our art of Antidotes doth publish store.
Perhaps at first these Remedies may seem
Too difficult for you to follow them:
A new back'd horse grieves greatly at the bit,
But quickly after will away with it:
Likewise the Oxen do at first conceive
The yoke intolerably full of grief.
I do not bid you, if you can obtain,
A meritorious mistress to refrain:
Our purpose is to quench base flames, and such
As vainly burn; but honest not to touch.
If you have been where you have seen a Lass
Whose marv'lous beauty your subjection was,
Or whose admired qualities prevail'd
So far, that they obtain'd when they assail'd:
Think when you are retir'd, if you can win
Her to your suit, which if you can, therein,
If it be good, persist, if not, proceed
To put in practice what you here shall read.
Be willing to perform what I do sing,
And thee from Cnidos there is hope to bring.
Not Podalirius, nor Machaon can
Unbridle the affections of a man;
Nor skild Apollo's son: none but himself
Can unto him again restore his health.
What should be done I can but onely show,
Which if you slight, your self is your own foe.
Now leave to love, and do not (fondling) say
To morrow you'l begin, and not to day.
The longer you affect the more you burn,
And therefore finding her too coy, return.
Doth not time make the little twig a tall
Advanced tree, shading the humble vale?
Will not a Current which one here may stride
Below, for such a passage be too wide?
And the small seeds which in the fields are sown,
Unto high corn are they not quickly grown?
Strongly shun idleness; take that away,
And Cupids bow breaks, and his lamps decay.
A standing water daily putrifies;
But that is fresh which through a channel hies.
As much as fishes do in streames delight;
As much as Bats affect the silent night:
So much contented Venus is with ease,
For that the Fountain is of this disease.
His Souldiers, the Wagge, the Idle makes,
And all the busie as his fomen hates.
By labour thou maist cure thee of this trouble,
Which unto thee will bring a profit double:
And though a sedentary life some hold
To be an easie way, to grow in old
It is a busie course, as they shall find,
That study and employ their brains and mind:
And thousand nights and dayes they must bestow
In learning, that deep Scholars mean to grow,
Yet 'tis a pleasing toyl; knowledge being known,
Full recompence for th'Acquisition.
Keep one of our two Universities,
And closely there thy knowledge make to rise
By daily studies; Cambridge our dear Mother,
Fair Albions eldest birth; or else the other,
Her sister Oxford; Places far tenown'd
For Education, and nobly crown'd
By sweet-tongu'd Poets with eternal bayes,
Fully deserv'd by their melodious laies.
Or if thou pleasest, unto London go.
(Corruptedly from Luds-town called so)
The seat of English Monarchs, and the grave
Of more then any, since Norman valour gave
It unto William (Harold being slain)
And the Realme from the Saxons took again.
There into one of her four Innes withdraw
Thy self, and seriously go study Law.
Or be a Souldier, and maintain his right,
Whose cause is just, so thou may'st justlier fight;
Though wise Ulysses had a beautious wife,
And chaste, and young, he led a souldiers life:
Had she a proud disdainful mistress bin,
Frown'd on his services and scorn'd him;
You may conceive he then would sooner far
Have left, and slighted her, and gone to th'war.
Or lead a Countrey life, where far from noise,
Pride of the Court, and City-vanities,
Thou may'st enjoy thy self sweet days and nights,
And spend thy time in harmlesser delights.
There thou maist hunt, or hawk, plant, graff, & find
Thousand diversions for thy troubled mind.
The noblest Romans many times would leave
Their spendent City, and in th'Countrey live:
Augustus self (when it was at the height)
Forsook it, and in Capræ did delight.
If that the Lyrick Horace had liv'd at home
In his own Countrey-house, and kept from Rome,
Perhaps he from's fond passions had been free,
As the chaste Virgin Anaxarete.
If there thou spendest all the day in toyle,
In wonted fire at night thou wilt not broyle:
For then sweet sleep you onely will request,
That after wearinesse you may have rest.
Travelling is a proved Antidote,
Whereby a double profit may be got.
I do not give thee counsel to subdue
Thy passions by sailing unto Peru:
Neither advise I thee to pass the seas,
To take a view of the Pyramides:
Nor into Italy where Romans old
The Scepter of the Universe did hold:
Nor into Spain, where John of Gaunt, the Duke
Of Lancaster such battailes undertook:
Nor into France, which our fifth Henry won,
And when he died left to his infant-son,
Who what his great victorious sire did gain,
Piece-meal to Charles the seventh did lose again.
The journey I enjoyn will not enforce
Thee to take shipping, but to ride an horse:
For will not England be sufficient
To cure thy wound, and to produce content?
Travel it through; but take along with thee
A friend or two to bear thee company.
I do not bid thee to go up and down,
Through every Village, and through every Town:
Onely the best and notedst places view;
Whereof unto thee I will name a few.
To Troynovant, now called London, ride,
By new fair buildings daily beautifide,
And great resort of people; There thou maist
See how the Thames under a Bridge doth hast
Of nineteen Arches; That so fair an other,
And strangely built, is scarce all Europe over.
There thou maist see the famous Monuments
Of our Heroes, fram'd with large expence:
There thou upon the Sepulchre maist look
Of Chaucer, our true Ennius, whose old book
Hath taught our Nation so to Poetize,
That English rythmes now any equalize;
That we no more need envy at the straine
Of Tiber, Tagus, or our neighbour Seine.
There Spencers Tomb thou likewise maist behold,
Which he deserved, were it made of gold:
If, honour'd Colin, thou hadst liv'd so long,
As to have finished thy Faery Song,
Not onely mine, but all tongues would confess,
Thou hadst exceeded old Mæonides.
Thence unto Canterbury take thy way,
Famous for being our chief Arch-Bishops sea:
Where thou maist see the ruines of the Tombe
Of that great Prelate, who whilom in Rome
Complained of his Soveraign, and did stand
Boldly himself alone 'gainst all the Land.
Dover is worthy of thine eyes, from whence
Thou maist see Calice lost no long time since
By Philip, son to Charles the fifth, and her
That did again the Roman faith prefer.
Afterwards into Surry go, where you
Five of our Monarchs Palaces may view;
And Okam that renowned Village, were
William was born, the deep Philosopher,
Sur-named from his birth-place, whose divine
Wit is observ'd by Nations transmarine.
To Hant-shire, Winchester doth thee intreat,
A journey to vouchsafe the ancient seat
Of the West Saxon Kings, where thou may'st turn
Thine eyes upon Canutus royal urn.
From thence (if thou art of a noble race)
To Totnes ride, Brutus his Landing-place;
A gallant branch of Anchisiades
Flying from Italy through unknown seas.
In Somerset-shire travel to the Bath,
A place frequented much because it hath
Waters for many a sickness good; yet I
Believe none there can cure loves malady.
And upon Glassenbury Abby daine
To look, where our Crow-fam'd King was lain,
And Joseph; and upon the Hawthorn-tree,
On Christmas-day that blossoms annually.
Wilt-shires Cathedral Church is of such price,
That worthily it doth deserve thine eyes:
Wherein as many windows do appear,
As there be dayes in the divided year:
Wherein the Marble pillars parallel
The hours that in four quarters one may tell.
And lastly where as many gates vouchsafe
Entrance, as moneths a year completely hath;
In Bark-shire unto Windsor Castle ride,
By British Arthur built ore Thames's side,
Which glorious Castle at one time detain'd
Two captive Kings by our third Edward gain'd:
And in whose Chappel those two Monarchs are
Interr'd, that toyl'd us with intestine war.
Saint Edmonds Bury is frequented much,
Because that thereabouts the air is such:
Unto that town a journey take, and thence
To Ipswich go, by Danish violence
Sack'd and made desolate, but now so brave
That (through't be none) we worser Cities have.
Although the King of the East Angles did
Beside at Thetford, yet I do not bid
Thee see it: Lyn and Yarmouth more invite
Thine eyes, but Norwich most deserves thy sight;
Norfolks chief glory, wherein rustick Ket
For the commotion died he did beget.
And take a view of Cambridge, wherein I
Compos'd this Poem for thy Remedy.
Hail honour'd Mother! O vouchsafe so much,
That worthless I may thee a little touch,
Englands bright and right eye! now honour'd more
Then famous Athens was in dayes of yore,
Accept my wish. May all thy sources be
For ever ignorant of vacancie:
And thou arise unto that height of fame
That none comparatively may Oxford name:
Which soon would come to pass, if that our King
Would end what our sixth Henry did begin.
Trinity Colledge (unto which I do
For my own education my self owe)
Invites thee to behold a spacious Court
And what it is, afterwards to report:
That Royal Fabrick rais'd by him that died
By Crook-backs hands, and is so magnified,
For that strange roof, will doubtless thee invite
(Within the walls) of it to take a sight.
For Colins sake (who hath so well exprest
The vertues of our Faery Elves, and drest
Our Poesie in suth a gallant guise)
On happy Pembroke-Hall employ thine eyes.
Oxford our other Academy, you
Full worthy must acknowledge of your view:
Here smooth-tongu'd Drayton was inspired by
Mnemosynes's manifold progenie;
And Sydney (honour'd by all English men)
In Castalie here dip'd his numerous pen.
From Oxford go to Gloster, and from thence
To sumptuous Bristow, whose magnificence
For building every stranger much admires;
A City situated in two shires.
Kenchesters Phœnix, Hereford behold:
And Marcley hill whose motion is so told.
In Worcesters Cathedral Church you may
King Johns white Marble Monument survey.
And Arthurs sad Jet Tomb, the eldest son
Of him that Bosworth field from Richard won.
Thither a journey make. Then Coventry
That by Godiva gained liberty,
Be sure to visit; where at Gofford gate,
Hangs a Boars bone that some do wonder at.
See Peterborough Minster: And the

Leicest.

place
Which second Henry did so much deface,
For Earl Bossus Rebellion Lincolne grown
Far into Age, a City whilome known
More populous and great, do not pass by;
The Minster in it merits any eye.
Nor suffer fair and pleasant Notingham,
(Where the great Mortimer by those that came
Thorow a vault, was taken with the Queen)
By any means by thee to be unseen.
Thence unto Darby (for your Authors sake,
A Native of that Shire) a journey take:
Where in a Black-pot of renowned Ale
Drink unto me, wishing I may prevail
So far in Poetry, that my lov'd name
May be preserved by an endless fame.
Here Melborne Castle stood, wherein the Duke
Of Burbon was kept prisoner, bravely took
In Agincourts great Battel, wherein we
Conquered by a double policy.
Repton a station was to glorious Rome,
And yields unto a Saxon King a Tomb.
At Buxton (in the Peak) nine Springs break out
Within a little compass, wondrous thought,
Because that eight of them are warm, and one
As if it were under the frigid Zone.
Here likewise are two Caves, whereof one doth
To stones turn water-drops that hang at th'roof:
The other (of which strange reports are told)
The Devils Arse is called. These behold,
And Elden Hole, which had Ænæas seen,
He would have thought the way to Hell had been,
And the renown'd Elysium shades; for this
(To humane search) remaines yet bottomless.
Stafford-shire (Trents producer) Lichfield doth
Adorn, and Shrop-shire Shrewesbury: See both.
On (Dublins opposite) Westchester look,
Wherein of eight Kings Edgar homage took.
York-shire a City hath, our best but one,
And a strange water that turns wood to stone.
Kingstone on Hull a fine Town is, and which
Then many of our Cities is more rich.
Kendall that by the River Cane doth stand,
(Famous for cloth) is chief of Westmorland.
Doubtless in Cumberland, Carleil by far
Is the most eminent: See what these are.
Upon New-Castle builded somewhat nigh
Severus wall, lastly imploy thine eye.
What ever City it may be, or Town
Your Mistresse makes her habitation,
You must avoid it, and let no pretence
Occasion be of your not going thence:
No business you must value that may be
A prejudice to your recovery.
But you to leave your Mistresse may suppose
A misery below the depth of woes.
Were but your body hurt you would endure
Both Fire, and Iron to hasten on your cure:
Or were you sick, & abstinence could gain
Your health, from plentuous meals you would refrain,
And though a thirst even seem to burn you, yet
You would abstain from drink, and bridle it:
And now to cure your mind, and draw the dart
Of angry Cupid from your festring heart,
You startle and recoil: For shame be bold,
And the mind's health above the bodie's hold.
If you can pick a cause that may produce
Dislike of your coy Lasse, thereof make use.
Ill's sometime neighbour unto good: For so
Vertue (by errour) oft for vice doth go.
Judge all things in your Mistress at the worst,
For why should you be kind to her that's curst?
If she be big made, eas'ly her esteem
A match befitting monstrous Polypheme.
Is but her stature low? a Dwarfe her call,
That like a Serpent on the ground doth crall.
If she be slender, lean: If tall, suppose
Her Charing-cross dress'd up in womans clothes.
If she be merry think her wanton: or
Reserv'dly fashion'd, as unbred abhor.
If in the Northern parts she hath been bred,
Say she her life most clownishly hath led.
Or if in any City, or great Town,
That she hath been a gadder up and down.
What e're she is, be sure her to dispraise,
A thousand Girles dislike a thousand wayes.
If you perceive a want in her in ought,
By crafty means to shew't she must be wrought:
As if she hath no voice, to sing, or dance,
If she be skilless in that art, by chance.
Hath she a big voice, or an ill discourse?
Occasion her to talk, and think them worse.
Hath she an ill gate? see her walk; and tell
Her merry stories, if her teeth be ill,
To make her laugh and shew them. If her eyes
Be weak, relate strange saddest Tragedies
To force her tears; And if she cannot play
Upon the Lute, to play upon't her pray.
Never presume to take a walk alone,
But ay delight in some Companion:
If any time the scorching Lions heat
Compelleth thee into a Grove to get,
In imitation of Alcides strong,
A Phyloctetes bring with thee along,
With whom play, laugh, converse, and so to thee
Dione's Grand-child will no tyrant be.
Lovers, beware of solitariness;
A very dangerous thing for your disease:
Let Crustamæna's daughter's woful Fate
(That walk'd alone through Forrests, and would waite
Upon the Thracian shore (as he did land)
In hope t'embrace Demophoon on the strand)
From all such melancholy walkes deter
And warn you, by frequent remembring her.
In your bed-chambers have some friends till sleep;
That from your minds they may by talking keep
All amorous thoughts; so Venus will depart,
And leave in rest to each a quiet heart.
Beware of reading Love; take heed of those
That either pourtract him in verse or prose:
For amorous lines will many mischiefs raise,
And make the Cinders of affection blaze.
Though the Arcadia be a book approv'd,
Arcadia must not be by thee belov'd.
The Lady Wrothes Urania is repleat
With elegancies, but too full of heat.
Spencers and Daniels Sonets do not view,
Though they are good, they are not so for you.
From feigned Histories refrain thy sight,
Scarce one is there but is an amorous Knight.
Musæus English'd by two Poets shun;
It may undo you though it be well done.
Harrington's Ariosto do not touch,
For wanton lines scarce any book hath such.
And my old friend Drayton's Epistles you
(Being too soft and languishing) eschew.
Be opposite to Cupids law, and when
Thy tears are falling, forcibly smile then:
But yet mistake me not, as if I thought,
That unto freedome you might soon be brought,
And on a sudden; no, he must take time,
That o're a mighty Mountain means to climb:
So you resolvedly your health intend,
Y'are certain to arrive at happy end.
Talk not of Love. Alas! the very name
Is so enchanting that it will inflame;
Neither hear any, turn your head aside
Or presently their company avoide;
Daphne had yeilded to Heavens Charioter,
Had she but staid his wanton words to hear.
Drinking of wine forbear, and be to feed
Wary on meats from which lust doth proceed;
At every meal be sure to shun excess;
By eating little heat grows less and less.
Antonius one of the Triumvirate,
Competitor with Cæsar for the State,
With flowing Bowles, and with luxurious feasts
Was entertain'd, and entertain'd his guests;
Which was the cause his lust so high did flame,
That life he lost for the Egyptian Dame,
And over all those Countreys to be head,
Wherein the Roman Eagles ere were spread.
If by some flight a Garter you have got
From her that will not love you, keep it not;
Or if you have a Bracelet of her hair,
Or any such like toy, them never wear;
For surely these are Cytheræa's Baites,
Which infinitely chast Diana hates.
Or if your Mistriss heretofore hath bin
Kind unto you, and you have gloried in
Her bounteous favours, thought your self above
All mankind grac'd, with th'honour of her love;
If under her fair hand you Letters have,
That she returns her heart for that you gave,
Fraught with so sweet expressions as would draw
Even women-Haters under Cupids Law:
If she retreats and alters in her minde,
To you grows cruel that to her are kinde,
Assume a noble Courage, and condemn
To angry Vulcan every one of them;
Or if you have her Picture, send it home,
Or offer it a gallant Hecatombe
To your offended Love; that she may know
You scorn her Relicks that hath us'd you so.
Being in love with one, and cannot get her,
Affect another and you will forget her.
So Ariadne did when she did find
Renowned Theseus was to her unkind
In Naxos Isle, where he did her forsake,
Neptune she did into her favour take.
Affection divided you will find
To be a lesser burthen to your mind.
As a great river with a mighty rore
Runs through the vales, and wounds the yeilding shore,
If into several Channels it doth fall,
It less impetuous and majesticall
Will prove, and in an humbler manner glide,
Rob'd of it's former glory, strength, and pride.
So Love bestow'd on several beauties will
Grow much less dangerous and an easier ill.
When his disloyal Queen the Trojan Prince,
(With's beauty and his courtly eloquence)
Did win, and steal away, had Atreus Son
But done, as many others would have done,
(And it had prov'd the best) become a Lover
(For sure she had some equals) of an other;
He in a flourishing and happy peace
Had liv'd at home in his own Court in Greece,
And many an Argive King at home had found
A Sepulchre, and not in Phrygian ground;
Therefore new Beauties seek to try, if you
Can part with any love unto a new;
And to that end frequent all Solemn Balls
All publick shows and sumptuous Festivals.
Conjecture that which is not: think that you
Are free from love, and that your thought is true:
When one because he would not drink doth make
As he were fall'n asleep, sleep him may take.
If in the Wars you have a trusty friend,
Your Cogitations to him always bend,
Thinking upon the hazard he is in;
And so your thoughts your Mistress shall not win.
Or if you have a Ship with riches fraught
Returning home, ay on it fix your thought;
Contemplating the fury of the Sea,
And how that many have been cast away;
Whereby your scornful Girl you shall forget,
Sith your imaginations are not set
On her, but on the Goods that Neptune hath
Within the power of his love, or wrath.
If that thy Mistress with a nimble hand
All the Lutes ravishing harmony doth command,
Or upon other Instruments can play
Equal to Orpheus, that did make his way
Through the Infernal Shades by his rare skill;
Hear her not play; It will increase thine Ill.
Or if she sings like Venus, when she fain
Her weary wanton Cupid would constrain
To lay his fatal quiver and bow away,
And in the Groves of Amathusia
Sleep by her side, while on the Cypress Trees
A thousand birds warble their melodies,
Hear her not sing; Her voice will so allure
That her contempt you longer will endure.
Or dances she like to the Graces, when
They are retir'd from the abodes of men,
And Gods their pleas'd spectatours do become;
If she intends to dance avoid the room.
Imagine not a Rival; For so doing
You never will be able to leave wooing;
For, (to obtain the Girl from him) you will
Persist a vain Inamorato still.
The one-ey'd Cyclop, when he Acis found
Sitting with Galatea on the ground,
His Rival with a rent up rock did kill,
Yet ne're the nearer to obtain his will;
When she anothers did begin to be,
The more Orestes lov'd Hermione.
Refrain from Playes; Let not the Theatre
At all include thee; for by seeing there
One act an amorous passion, may make you
Your suit to your proud Lady to pursue.
Because when you have seen that he hath got
His Mistress, may conceive, why may you not?
Ah! his was but th'Invention of a brain,
Your Ladies scorns runs in an higher strain.
If you conveniently can, surprise
Your mistress dressings, so your wary eyes
Some strange conceal'd deformities may finde,
To ease, if not release your Captive minde;
Which when you think upon (at leisure) more,
They to your liberty may you restore.
Most of our Ladys when they do expose
Themselves to view, maythank their costly clothes
Rich jewels, feigned statures, borrow'd hair,
And beauteous colours that unnatural are;
They would not else seem objects of delight,
But homely women, such as we should slight:
And your disdainful one perhaps being such,
You see the least of her you love so much.
But rashly do not practise this; Be sure
She useth art, or fly her chamber dore;
For a pure native beauty that doth scorn
All helps of Art, arises like the Morn
In a cleer sky, and (dressing) may discover
Sights too attractive for a slighted lover.
Do these, and though affections fire should blaze
Like Ætna in your breast, you thence would chase
Easily all those flames, and after be
From all the Paphian vexations free.
Unfortunate Lovers many times (I guess)
All that reciprocally love do bless,
Think every star (when they were born) did shine
Benignely on them, and the Heavens combine
To grace them with continuance of joyes,
As if they were above all miseries;
When it falls often out, a fervent love
A more extreme affliction doth prove.
Alcyone her Ceyx did prefer
Above all men, and he all women, her;
Yet she did see his body float to shore
Drowned at Sea but a few days before.
Therefore to Hymens Temple though they come,
And hear the soft Epithalamium,
And many dayes do live in joy and peace,
In depths of wretchedness they may decease.
And many that for love do marry, be
After unfortunate, and not agree;
Almighty Jove that did Saturnia wed,
Bringing for love his sister to his bed,
Quickly neglected her; His wandring eies
Not long being pleas'd without varieties;
As witness Danae in the Brazen tower,
And Semele his daring'st Paramour,
Læda by him esteem'd most beautifull,
And fair Europa riding on a Bull;
Calisto (chast Diana) One of thine
Deceiv'd, and vitiated neer Nonacrine;
Married Alcmena in a threefold night,
And many such too tedious to recite.
These and the like of his Amours being known,
Juno's firm'st patience was overthrown;
Who (by her much opprobrious language given)
Hath divers times even scolded him from Heaven.
Be gentle henceforth (Cupid) and invite
Reciprocally unto thy delight:
For bloodshed (wanton) is unfit for you;
Thy Sire-by-law should dreadful Armes pursue;
Tis he that may great Territories wast,
And make whole Kingdoms at his name agast.
Tis he not thou that sternly should advance
(To the expulsure of a Soul) a Lance.
Tis he that should sound trumpets, and the noise
Of baleful Drums make penetrate the skies.
Lutes, Viols, Orpherions, such as these,
Not Mars his wrathful Musick thee should please:
But be as cruel as thou wilt, my verse
Shall blunt thine arrows that they shal not peirce.
Our work we have concluded, and do pray
All those, whose burnings Fits it shall allay,
To love our Memory, and speak our prayse,
And (if we merit them) to give the Bayes.

The first Eglogue. Why Strephon, art thou melancholy grown

Coridon, and Strephon.
Cori.
Why Strephon, art thou melancholy grown
And wilt not use thine oaten pipe? hast known
Any ill news of late hath dul'd thy wit,
Made us unhappy, and thy self unfit?

Stre.
'Tis no Report, kinde Coridon, hath made
Me cloud my brow with sorrow and be sad;
It is a cause more high, a cause that can
Destroy the joy of the most fortunate man.

Cori.
And may I know it Strephon? Dare you trust
Me with a Secret, and conceive me just,
Believe I will be silent? If you dare,
I should desire this Novelty to hear.

Stre.
Ah, Coridon! I am in love with one,
The fairest Shepherdess was ever knowne;
Her Face is beauties abstract, wherein we
May (at perfection) every beauty see.

Corid.
And art thou sad because thou art in love?
So Jove should grieve because he reigns above;
There is no fate so high befalls a Swain,
As to love where he is belov'd again.
Tell me (my Strephon) therefore why art sad?
Is it because thy Dear will not be had?

Stre.
She cannot (Coridon) for she is wed,
And fine young Perigot hath her maiden-head,
As blithe a Shepherd as did ever sing
Neat Roundelayes unto our Goat-foot King;
He is an happy man, and doth enjoy
That beauty which I languish for, and dy.

Cori.
Strephon, I grieve thou art enthralled so;
Desist betimes, and forward do not go;
Thy flames extinguish whilst they do begin,
For such a Love is against Pan a Sin.
And while yong Perigot lives what hope have you,
If she unto him do not prove untrue?

Stre.
I do confess I have none; neither would
Commit so great an evil, if I could;
I am enamour'd neither more nor less
Then Thenot, on the faithful Shepherdess:
I love her vertues, and if she should fall,
My love to her would be no love at all.

Corid.
Thou art an honest Swain, and our Feild-God
Will bless thee in thy Cottage and abroad.

Stre.
As I have faithfully to you replide,
So let none of my questions be denide.

Cori.
They shall not (Strephon;) I should be unjust
Unto your merits, if I did distrust
Your secresie in any thing I speak;
He that doth doubt his friend, doth friendship break.

Stre.
Is there no lass whom Coridon doth like?
You, did the Paphian Archer never strike?
Or are you such a man as never car'd
Whether a womans heart were soft or hard?

Corid.
Strephon, I love, but I do fear in vain,
Because rich Melibe intends to gain
A wealthier Shepherd for his daughter, one
Whose fortune must prevent thy Coridon.

Stre.
And would he merchandize his daughter? may
He long expect and never see that day.
Steal her young Shepherd; never let her be
(Whom thou affects) subject to salarie.

Corid.
But ere I saw my Mira, or did know
What beauties made her perfect, I did owe
My love to Galatea; but I lost
My labour, which good old Palæmon crost,
Because he did believe that I would prove
A careless Shepherd, and the Downs not love:
Judge (Strephon) that know'st me above report,
If I be justly censur'd by him fort';
Do I not love the fields, and use to play
On Oaten reedes many a Roundelay?

Stre.
He that says otherwise, he doth not know
Thy Nature truly, but becomes thy foe;
Because (being Ignorant) he doth undertake
So bold a Character of thee to make;
Were he acquainted with thy wayes, to thee
Palæmon would give Galatea free;
And think his age more happy then his youth,
That made a Shepherd his of so much truth.

Corid.
Flatter not (Strephon) I do want those parts
That make a man be lov'd for his deserts;
Could I but sing such neat fine Lays, as you,
I might believe these praises were my due.

Stre.
And so you can if Tityrus says right,
Who told me Dities you did well endite.

Corid.
Now you do mention Tityrus, I must
Be to his merits, and our friendship just;
He is a Shepherd (would he please to sing)
Might lengthen with his voice the speedy Spring:
Did he but know how much the downs he wrongs,
The woods and dales would eccho with his songs;
He knows when Notes are over-sharp, or flat,
And is the ablest Boy that ever sat
Upon an Hillock, would he use his Reed,
And joy his wanton flock while it doth feed.

Stre.
He is an able Lad indeed, and likes
Arcadian Pastorals, and (willing) strikes
A Plaudite to th'Epilogues of those
Happy Inventions Shaksphere did compose;
Beaumont and Fletcher he will listen to,
And allow Johnsons method high and true.
He prais'd you to me, and I do believe
He his own Judgement would not wrong to give
Feign'd Commendations; Do not (therefore) fear
Sith he approves your pipe, who doth it hear.

Corid.
Strephon, I thank both you, and him, & will
Be proud hereafter to make known my skill:
If I but please the few I mean it for,
To seek for vulgar praise I shall abhor.

Stre.
Coridon it is late: Farewel untill
We meet again upon this flowry Hill;
My Master will make wonder at my stay,
I otherwise would not so soon away.

Cori.
Thy Master's happy in thy care, Adieu:
As I will be in absence, be thou true.

The second Eglogue. Why art thou sad (fair Shepherdess)

Thenot, and Amarillis.
Then.
Why art thou sad (fair Shepherdess) and so
Fil'st Heaven with sighs of hidden inward wo?
What is the reason that in thy fresh years
Thou drown'st thy lovely cheeks with showers of tears,
Withering the Roses that did flourish there,
And pal'st thy youthful blood with heavy chear?
Behold the long expected Spring is come,
And joyful Birds are now no longer dumbe:
They every Grove that is do make a Quire,
Chirping in them the layes of their desire.
Our Lads and Lasses that in winter were
Drowsie like the dull season of the year,
Are merry now, and (upon all the Downs)
Kindly receive, and kindly give green Gowns.
Onely our Amarillis fain'st of all
Mourns like a follower of a Funeral:
What is the cause? for I would gladly know
If it such sorrow doth deserve, or no.

Amar.
Ah Thenot, reverenc't for thy hoary hair,
Of all the Shepherds that amongst us are!
To thee the soon'st I would unload my minde,
That art in Counsel wise, in pity kinde,
Wise, to advise me if I do amiss,
And pitiful, to rue my wretchedness:
Know I have cause to weep, as long as I
Have any moisture left in either eye,
To tear off every hair from off my head,
And rage impatiently till I am dead.
O my Credulity! That did suppose
There could be faith in any Lovers oathes!

Then.
Then tis for love that Amarillis thus
Disconsolately liveth here with us:
But which of all our Boyes is so unwise
To slight a Beauty of so rich a price?

Amar.
Knew'st thou not Thyrsis, that had wont to keep
On yonder Hill a jolly flock of Sheep,
Who all the while they on the banks did feed,
Play'd merry tunes upon his Oaten reed?
Such songs as Alta highly did esteem,
And for their quaintness was in love with him;
The Daughter of rich Ionius, who was
Took with his pipe, like many an other Lass.
But then my Shepherd all the rest did slight,
And in my beauty onely did delight,
He did not care for all her wealth, and (tho
She was an hansome Wench) would never wo;
For such Command I then had of his heart,
That I did think he never could depart:
Which being known, his angry Father sent
Him out of Arcadie in discontent;
That being far remov'd, and forth of sight
He might forget his Amarillis quite.
And so I hear he hath; and yet he swore
Absence should make his love not less, but more.
Ah, perjur'd man! He faithless and untrue,
Hath falsly slighted me, and took a new.
O Thenot! Couldst thou think that Thyrsis, he
That made such vows would ever faithless be?
His vows had he broke onely, it had bin
A pardonable and a venial Sin:
Thenot! can men weep like a Crocodile?
Have they their tears so ready to beguile?
He wept when we did part as much as I,
And now is guilty of such perjury.

Then.
Sad Amarillis, though I know thy youth
Cannot sustain the breach of Lovers truth
Without Impatiency (For women when
They bear affection seldom change like men)
Yet know (in you) 'twere wisdom to remove
Your heart from him that hath so fail'd in love.

Amar.
Ere I can leave my Thyrsis, Thenot, know
I must want life; when I do backward go,
Just Jove revenge my falshood; I will be
True as I was, though he hath slighted me;
Know honest Thenot that I am not Wind,
When I have setled once, to change my minde;
When I prove false, Thou glorious Guide of day,
Change East and West, and run another way;
And thou pale-horned Queen of night constrain
The Sea to dulness, neither wax nor wane;
The pleasant Ladon first shall change his Course,
And every River run back to the Source;
The fixed Stars weary of standing shall
Amaze Astrologers, be Planets all:
And toil'd Bootes (tired with his pain)
Leave travel off, and fix his sevenfold Wain.

Then.
Be comforted (sweet Lass) For sure when he
Returns again, again he will love thee.

Amar.
Thenot, could I expect but so much good,
I here would live as merry as I cood,
And to our rural Pan each night and morn
Make faithful Orisons for his Return.

Then.
Trust me (young Amarillis) I have no
Doubt of him; but am sure it will be so:
An honest man may fall, and yet may be
Not ever in his fault; neither will he.
When he returns and finds that you have bin
True unto him, ashamed of his Sin,
His former faith he will renew, and more
Love Amarillis then he lov'd before.

Amar.
Thanks (gentle Thenot) for these words of joy,
Poor Amarillis to her Fortunes try,
And (if that me you ever thankless find)
Banish my name for ever from your minde:
Thy Speeches have rais'd hope he wil come back,
And me again into his favour take;
And that on Holy-days (when all the Rout
Do sport the medows and the fields about,
(Crowning with Garlands her that Dances best,
Making her Mistress of our Country-Feast)
With showing Gambals on the dazy Green
And eating Chees-cakes with our Summer Queen)
I with my Shepherd (among th'others) shall
Dance many a merry Jig, and many a Brall:
For since my Thyrsis from Arcadia went,
I solitary have liv'd discontent;
When others have been playing, have sat down
And moystned wth my tears the Sun-burnt ground.

Then.
But leave such sadness (Amarillis) now
And unto us thy Company allow;
For I dare lay the best Lamb I have here,
He shortly will return, and love thee deare.

Amar.
My thanks again, good Thenot; Ever be
Belov'd of Pan for comforting of me.

Then.
And may our rural God (fair Shepherdess)
Thee with fruition of thy Wishes bless.

Amar.
I have no other wish but that my Swain
Would come to us, and be mine own again.
Happy the day when we by Ladon side
Eat Cream, and kisses mutually enjoyde:
And happy were those Nights, when on his knee
He by the Fire side did dandle me!
How often as we sat so hath thy Son
Thy Billy Thenot to th'old Woman run,
For apples to make Lambs-wooll! Never more
We two shall drink as we have drunk before.
But far more happy were those days of note,
When we from Mantin did live far remote,
In thy kind Cottage, when I did not know
What 'twas to love and be forsaken so;
There I have sung, and laugh'd, & laugh'd, & song,
And been as merry as the day was long;
But since my Thyrsis hath both woed, and won me,
And so forgotten me, he hath undon me.

Then.
We should have something to divert this thought;
For Melancholy (Shepherdess) is naught.
I hope that now we very shortly shall
Hear on our Green that pleasant Pastorall,
Which (of an Obstinate Lass) young Coridon,
Thy love-sick Brother did write long agon;
Which Tityrus his faithful Friend approv'd,
A Shepherd for his able parts belov'd.

Amar.
When it is song I will not fail to hear
For Coridons sake, whom I do love so dear;
To me that Pastoral he oft hath said,
While both our neighbor-flocks have fed, & plaid;
And (honest Thenot) many sundry times
I unto him have read my Thyrsis rimes,
Wherein he prais'd me above woman-kind;
And little did I think those Words were winde.
But those few happy days are past, and now
Sad care sits always heavy on my brow.
Ere Thyrsis went none danc'd so much as I,
None laugh'd so chearfully, none did enjoy
So many nights of joy, and days of bliss;
And all because I thought that I was his:
And if (when he returns again) he will
Receive his long-forsaken Amarill,
The Lamb, which best of all my Flock I prize,
Unto our rural Pan I'le sacrifice.

Then.
Fair Shepherdess, be confident ere long
He will return, and quit him of the wrong
That he hath don himself, increasing so
His former love that you no end shall know.
Tis time to fould our Flocks: For we have sat
So long a talking that it is grown late.

Amar.
Thenot, Goodnight! And thanks for thy kind stay,
Heaven prosper thee long to Arcadia:
For, if that thou, and some few more should die,
Our Countery soon the Pastoral Muse would flie.

A Satyre.

Away with Plays, and Sonnets! I will write
A dreadless Satyre shall the town affright,
And make the Gallants curse and swear that he
Meant this by him, and this he meant by me.
I will spare none, but warn; that each man learns
(When he applies) to minde whom it concerns.
But heark! I hear a friend: Away! And do
Not such a thing; It should not come from you:
Let needy Poets that cannot sell their Plays
Exclaim (out of their want) against the days;
Or (whom a Lord for Dedication ows)
Tax him with all his faults, a way each knows;
Or let a despis'd Lover (whom of late
His Mistress for his verses jeer'd) go prate,
Tell how she paintes, who are her Bawds, & which
Of the young Courtiers comes to ease her Itch;
But not a man of our own ranke disclose,
What either he by his experience knowes,
Or from his friendes relation; In this time
Not to perform but to be seen's a Crime:
And there are many do grow worse when they
See vice reveal'd, cause then they know the way.
This cannot serve: I will unlode my spleen,
And spare no ulcers be they old or green.
Methinks I hear one speak; Sir, do your worst,
We shall not be the last, nor are the first
That have by Paper-blurrers been defam'd,
And (when y'ave done) we will proceed unsham'd.
I did believe as much, but I will on
Onely for my own recreation.
Ask but a Chamber-maid (which are the froth
Of vain discourse) what her young Lady doth;
And she will certifie you of each change
Her humour hath, and every subtile range
Her strange unbridled passions lead her to;
How she complains her Knight is grown untrue
Unto his vows and her, and therefore she
Seeks Pastimes to divert her Melancholie;
Frequents the Theatres, Hide-Park, or els talkes
Away her pretious time in Gray's Inn Walkes;
Layes out what she can spare (to win his heart
By any means) for the last helps of art;
And vowes (if nothing in her power lyes
To gain him) she'l no longer be unwise,
And spend her flourishing days in solitude,
Unfit, and unagreeing with her blood;
That there's a Gallant Courtier, young, and rich
In Natures perfectest Endowments, which
She yet hath slighted much; but now (tis thought)
She will requite her Husband, and be naught.
O Feminine Revenge! to brand her Name,
With Infamy, and Family with shame!
Nor is this all her News: She can discover
Whom the old Knights daughter hath made her lover;
That she dotes on him so, she cannot keep
Her tongue from naming him though in her sleep;
That she would fain be married, for the awe
She bears unto an unkind Mother in law;
How he's a younger brother, and doth lack
Silver in's purse though ha's enough on's back.
O vanity of times! Secrets that shoo'd
Be lock'd within's fast as our bosomes blood,
And faults that should be mended, and not known
(By such like means) common discours are grown:
Some will be censuring things that are above
Their way, because such things they do not love;
Sir, out of love unto you I am come
To certifie you, you give cause to some
To laugh at you; y'ave writ a Play, and they
Say tis a shame for you to write a Play:
Besides you Poetry so much affect,
That you the better Sciences neglect.
O thou sweet Charmer of the Soul! Why should
This Iron age so meanly of thee hold?
Hast thou mov'd salvage beasts, and rocks, & trees,
And canst not win upon the hearts of These!
Enjoy your earthen thoughts: minds full of fire
Can never grovel, but do all aspire.
Madam! Tis true I've writ some Plays, and wood
I had the happiness to call them good,
I would be proud on't: for my love unto
The Muses, I will ever love them so;
And though some think't a fault, I know it none;
There is no poyson grows on Helicon.
You are resolv'd: but I do think it fit
That you on better things emploid your wit;
And so I leave you. Madam, Fare you well;
And what I've said, unto my Laughers tell.
Mend your own faults: be not so proud of your
One portion, as if no body had more;
And when that you have Suitors, do not scare
Them away with looks like th'angry God of war.
But I must leave her: For I see another
That for her wit may call my Madam mother.
She is a young one, lately married to
A Lord: Now let us see what she will do.
Sir, I am glad to see you; Madam I
Rejoyce to hear of your good fortune; why?
You have a noble and rich husband; So
I did deserve for what I brought you know.
Were I but such a man I would not wed
So low, and rather keep a single bed.
I am an Hogen Mogens daughter; good,
You may boast of your wealth, not of your blood.
Of my Husband I may. Indeed tis true;
But he was much to blame to marry you:
Sir, you do wrong me much: and I do pray
To me you would not dedicate a Play,
I scorn to own such Trifles; I did hear
'Twas your Intent, which if it was, forbear:
A Poet once of your acquaintance did,
But for his sawciness he was well chid.
Madam know this, I do not write for gain,
My pleasure is the Guerdon of my pain;
And never with one mean to trouble you,
Though it were acted in a publick Stew.
I know the Poet you spoke of, and know
It was his want that forc'd him thereunto;
He knew you was unfit for't, and that scant
Could understand a Scene so ignorant.
Therefore learn this; The rich the poor do praise,
Not for their merits, but their stock to raise:
And tis no doubt but he did give you high
Titles of worth, yet knew himself did lye.
Take your unpay'd for Coach, and to Hide-Park,
And (Madam) when the Cuckow sings, pray heark;
It is a musick you can manage; or send
For a Croud of Fidlers and their skill commend;
Know, that for you tis an impossible thing
The hear the sweet and solemn Muses sing:
An earthen minde hath earthen thoughts, and they
That noble Souls have noble things survey.
Madam adieu! Think of me what you will,
Of your Opinion I am careless still.
Whether this Lady angry be or no
I do not care at all; So let her go.
Go into Gray's Inn Walks, and you shall see
Matter for Satyres in each Companie;
This Lady comes to show her new fine Gown,
And this to see the Gallants of the town.
Most part of Gentlemen thither repair,
To censure who is foul, and who is fair.
Yon Lady in th'red Sattin looks so pale,
That either she hath th'Green-sickness, or is stale.
She in the Hat and Feather looks so like
An Amazonian Tosser of a Pike,
She's fit for a fiery Captain: yon's a face
Pretty and beautiful at the first Gaze;
But view it seriously, and it is slight.
What an old womans that with a young Knight?
Sure tis his Grand-mother, or great Aunt; alas!
He had much rather a walk'd with a young Lass.
O, says a young Lady to her brother, when
Did you see so complete a Gentleman?
Has he not curious legs? fine curled hair?
How well the Suite is made that he doth wear!
I would my Husband were so handsome: So
He is her brother swears, but she sighs no.
Yon Gallant's gate is like unto a Dance,
Sure he's return'd but newly out of France;
Yon's like a fools or clowns, I know not whether,
And (if h'as any wit) hee'l soon go thither,
Says a Lady to her husband: He replide,
See how that woman walks! with what a pride,
She very lately was a City-wife
But now a Lord o'th Court hath chang'd her life:
Her Husband being dead, and she left rich,
She for a title of more height did itch;
Which her good fortune got her: In her own
Conceit she is the onely happy one;
She thinks her Husband loves her, and I dare
Be sworn that he for her doth nothing care.
When he at night comes in, towards him she trips,
And he must kiss her though he lothe her lips,
Which out of his affection he doth doe,
She thinks, but I have told you what is true.
Vain, windy honour! what a sought for thing!
'Twill make a Kettle have a silver ring.
Survey a Tavern; Not a Room but will
Deserve a Satyre, they are all so ill.
Here is a Gentleman that hath a smack
Of riming with a Poet at his back,
And half a dozen of his drunken friends,
Who doth adopt him son for what he spends;
Praises his Poems for the best that were
(Since Hengist time) writ in the English aire:
And (For 'tis vain to go to Delphos now
For Oracles) Son! read my lines, and thou
(Cryes he) wilt say Apollo never coo'd
(God of the sacred Muses) write as good.
He swears as many oathes as he repeates
Verses, then calls for the dear'st Fowl, and eates,
Beg's mony when the reckning's paid, and so
(Having fil'd his Tobacco-box) doth go.
Another chamber view, and you may find
Gentlemen staggering with wine as wind;
See healths drunk round & round; To her that lies
By Suffolk-house, and hath the fine blackeies;
Unto whose Lodgings he dares not repair,
Because she will not marry but an Heir;
To the rich Lady Widow that did invite
Him kindly unto supper yesternight,
Who (though his means be smal, her joynture great)
Without his company can eat no meat;
To the rich Citizens daughter (gallant Girle!)
The last Mask full of Diamonds and Pearle.
Were you within the next Room, you might see
A Gentleman with a great Companie
Of miscal'd Captains, and Rorers that think
Oathes (Sugar-like) sweeten each Glass they drink;
A pretious Engle! Hug'd over, and over, and styl'd
An hopeful spark, or they are all beguil'd;
The Table full of Pottles, Pintes, and Quartes,
And they a humouring him with some old parts
Of the last Coranto's, or perhaps some thing
Of Note, perform'd by the late Sweden King.
They call for what they list, meaning that he
Shall pay the reck'ning for th'whole Companie;
Which when he hath, theysteal what plate they can
Finger, and part, and laugh at th'idle man.
I'le not go up two pair of stairs, yet there
Could be Satyrical as well as end here.
And now I send, desiring those that know
Themselves touch'd in these lines away to goe
Silent, and mend; For every thing is true:
And though I neither do name him, nor you,
Believ't if I could & that I would. But (faith!)
Would you not be revenged? Do; Show your wrath,
Of me go and write Satyres, for (I know it)
My faults will serve although you are no Poet.

Love Elegies.

1. Of my falling in Love.

Having resolv'd in Numbers great and high
To sing our Brutus Flight from Italie;
How in this Island he arriv'd, and fought
Till he it under his Subjection brought;
Here reign'd some years in peace, & when he di'de
To his three Sons did all the whole divide:
And being prepar'd to write, a sudden noise
Of a Coach did occasion me to rise,
Conjecturing whom it might be that did come,
Till a new day approch'd our Dining-room.
She was no sooner entred in the Place,
With her fair hand dispers'd Night from her face
By taking off her mask, and with a free
Well-pleasing Garbe look'd on the Companie,
(My eies being all the while fix'd on her face,
Astonish'd at her beauty, and her grace)
But I both sigh'd and trembled; For I saw
The winged Boy did follow her in awe,
And was become her Champion, to subject
All mankind at her feet that dare reflect
Rash looks on her. Alas! had I espide
The fatal God, ere I her Beauties eyde,
The sight of his resistless bow had soon
(With down cast eies) made me to leave the room.
To him she turning scornfully, did finde
No shaft in's hand, I had it in my minde,
And said; Why Truant, do you suffer thus
A rash presumptuous youth to gaze on us?
He humbly gave this answer; Madam, you
May be appeas'd, he soon his fault will rue;
When he came hither first, he did intend
A mighty Epick Poem to have pen'd;
But now that resolution will despise,
And court your favours in soft Elegies:
Before he had withdrawn his eies he found
His yeilding heart assaulted with a wound.
This said, a pretty, and disdainful look
She cast upon me, and her leave then took
Of those she came to visit, leaving me
Possest with sad thoughts of my Miserie.
Away (Great Mars) sigh'd I, when she was gone,
And welcome (Gentle Venus) with thy Son;
The horrid wars that I did mean to write
(In stately numbers) of the Trojan Knight,
I must convert to softer Layes, and prove
All ways t'incline her noble heart to Love.

2. To my Mistress.

Fair glory of your Sex! when you have read
My name subscrib'd, and find who's conquered,
Blame not myweakness; know your eies are strong,
And can do what they will, or right or wrong.
I did not look to love, onely to see,
And was enthral'd when I least thought to be.
Be kind; or (if you needs will tyrannize)
Ile be your Martyr, burn me with your eies.
But let me live; For th'Art is more profound,
To save a dying Man, then kill a Sound.

3. To my Mrs. before Mr. Mayes Lucan that I sent her.

Pardon me Lady, that I dare invent
Lines neither worth your view, not my intent.
Nero did murther Lucan, but I doe
Expect a life, and not a death from you:
With Piso and the learned Seneca
He treason against Cæsar did assay;
Yet's Emperour gave him leave to choose by what
Means he would undergo the Law of Fate.
I never did conceive a thought that you
Might think offence, unless affection true;
And that should not your indignation move:
The Gods will give us leave their Heaven to love.
He lives unto Report, and so shall I
(If slain) demonstrate your great Cruelty.
You are my Empress; under your fair hand
Send me what Destiny you will command.
My Fate is what you please to have it: I
Live by your kindness, or your coyness dye.

4.

[Lady, in your applause verse goes]

Lady, in your applause verse goes
As slow and dull as heavy prose;
And your known worthes (would you submit
Your self a subject unto Wit)
Would blunt invention, and (ore'come
With strong Amaze) make Poets dumbe.
By what means then shall I declare
My thoughts at height, or what you are?
A world of Paper would but be
My love in an Epitome:
Fair Lady, therefore do not look
For my affection in a book:
Search my life through, and if you find
Not what I can do, be unkind.

5.

[Petrarch, for the neat Sonnets he did frame]

Petrarch, for the neat Sonnets he did frame
In Laura's praise, obtain'd a Poets Name:
I of my Mistress write in verse, and show it,
And yet I do profess I am no Poet.
They feign, but I speak truth; what they invent
(Out of long study) for a Complement,
In me is earnest; Those rich words that they
Enforce upon some beauties, I can lay
With reverence on you whom I adore,
And Times to come may as a Saint implore;
Then unto all may you propitious be,
I wish to heaven you now were so to me.
Believe, because these are unsmooth, my wit
Dul'd with amazement, and my hand unfit
To hold a pen so steddy as to write,
Lest some Offence should frustrate my delight.
Your Beauty is my wonder: That you should
Prove merciless, my fear: but my most bold,
And happiest earthly wish is, That you may
With kindness save whom else your beauties slay.

6.

[Lady I love, and (if you can]

Lady I love, and (if you can
Believe there is a faith in man)
No one can think a Mistress fitter,
Nor any love a Mistris better.
When I do look on you, I scorn
The rosie blushes of the morn;
When I do hear you speak, I know
No musick can so sweetly go;
When I at first your lips did touch,
I thought Jove never met with such;
I tasted Odours in your breath
Able to win a Soul from death;
All things that have been by you, smell
So fragrant after, and so well,
That Flora may be banished,
And you elected in her stead.
My sences being yours, make all
My future days one Festival:
And comfort me who now am sad,
Least losing Senses I grow mad.

7.

[Now after tedious weeks of being mute]

Now after tedious weeks of being mute,
The Mistress of my life I do salute.
As it is in your power to make each line
Of Poesie I write to you, divine;
(For if you kindly smile on them, you give
Ability enough to make them live)
So is it in your power (if you would please
To speak those words) to raise me unto ease;
For unto me, Enceladus doth lye
In flakes of Snow, and I in Fiers dye.
Do not believe I counterfeit, who think
Verses in your praise would transcolour Inke;
And your Glass an Elizium, where one may
Behold your Shadow ere your dying day;
And that reflection I had rather view
Then all the beauties in the world but you.
Had I your Picture reasonably wrought,
No Lady like it should command my thought;
Pigmalion-like I would adore't, until
You did prove kind, or me my griefes did kill.
Think not I do dissemble; For who can
Look on your face unmov'd, that is a man?
Who ist'hath heard your voice, but he will say
Your Tongue can charm all hearers to obey?
And who hath touch'd your lips, but like unto
A Lethe-drinker, forgets all save you?
But I am extasied! you are above
My best expressions though I am in love.

8.

[When I look on your Ribband-knots, I find]

When I look on your Ribband-knots, I find
That my rash gazing eies have thral'd my mind:
For they become you so exceeding well,
That they have tide my toung, I cannot tell.
When I perceive the wanton Windes to play
With your unequal'd hair, amaz'd I stay,
And bless their happiness; that they can move
Those amorous tresses and not fall in love.
When you into Hide Parke do go, all there
To follow the race-riders do forbear,
And all of them unanimously approch,
And (as if waiters) do attend your Coach;
That your fair eys may shine on them, whose light
Doth set their hearts on fier at the sight;
And force vows from them, that for your dear sake
Of greatest toils they greatest joys would make.
But what do I do then! I nothing can;
Your beauties make a Statue of a Man.
I cannot look and talke to you like some;
Lady! your matchless Beauties strike me dumbe.
But when I am retired, and alone,
My resolutions then do yeild to none;
Regard, reward my earnest love, and so
Raise me to heights of joy from depths of wo.

9.

[Lady, from Cornwall unto you I writ]

Lady, from Cornwall unto you I writ,
But my hard Fates kept you from seeing it.
How glad had I been if that you had known
That there I was yours much more then mine own!
Each wind that blew I lov'd, because I thought
The sound thereof might to your ears be brought;
Each Showre that came I wish'd of gold, and that
Jove-like I fell into my Danae's lap:
Each star I saw put me in minde of thee;
But th'art too fair a little star to be.
I went to Sea, and when I there was come,
I thought of him that to his Hero swom,
And wish't so you did love as she did him,
That like Leander I to you might swim.
But now I am return'd again, be you
As kind to me as you have found me true.

10.

[Awake my Muse, put on thy best attire]

Awake my Muse, put on thy best attire
To sing her Beauty, and my raging fire:
Make all the world know, (since she will not know)
That she is much to blame to use me so.
Sweet, cruel, fair one! (unto all of these
You may reply causes of my unease)
For you are sweet as flowry May's west wind;
Why should so sweet a Creature be unkinde?
And you are fair, and fair, and sweet must be,
The reason I endure your Cruelty.
Each Statue I see makes me my Case thus mone;
It hath a Body, you an heart of stone.
I fain would die, but thinking I must come
To be a wanderer in Elizium,
I do destroy that infant-thought; for there
No Soul's so pure as is your body here.
Each night my troubled thoughts keep sleep away;
That time's to me as busie as the day:
But you that are with never a care opprest,
Enamour the night Deities in your rest;
Old Somnus fears his wand may do some ill,
And therefore charms your eies with kisses still.
O that I knew the way whereby to move
My sweet and cruel fair One unto love!
Will sighing do it? O you Gods of wind!
Lend me your breathes that I may sigh her kind:
Will tears prevail? O that my eies would then
Melt out themselves into an Ocean!
Or may Entreaties win upon her sense?
Assist me all you Powers of eloquence;
Pity my miseries which are grown so high,
That you must pity them, or I shall die:
And be not henceforth harsh; That I may finde
My sweet and fair One like a Goddess kinde.

11.

[Fair Mistress, though my fate is so adverse]

Fair Mistress, though my fate is so adverse,
That I could rather weep then sing in verse;
Yet one or two I'le force my Muse to write,
And you with your own Cruelty delight.
Me-thoughts when last I heard the Nightingal,
She did not mention her own woes at all;
But every note that past my listning ear
Did make me my own misery to hear:
It was a change worthy her skill, for she
Will sing the saddest things, and therefore me.
Pity a man in Hell, for there I am,
I could not else live so amidst my flame;
And make my joyes with all my sufferings even;
But two kind words, and I shall be in Heaven.

12.

[Dear Lady, from your eies there came]

Dear Lady, from your eies there came
A lightning did my heart inflame,
And set it all on burning so,
That forth the fire will never go.
Be merciful, for I remain,
Till you be kind, in endless pain;
And (machless fair One) deign to know
That pity should with beauty goe;
That comely bodies should include
Mindes in them equally as good.
I will not doubt you until I
Have reason from your Crueltie.
Since we deformed bodies finde
To be the Emblems of the minde;
Why should not I pursue that art,
And think one fair hath such an heart?
Confirm Philosophie, which you
By being merciful may do:
And unto the eternal praise
Of your rich Beauty I will raise
A fame so high, that times to come
Of your deare name shall ne're be dumbe;
So you with Rosalinde shall be
Eterniz'd unto Memorie,
With Stella live; names known as well
As Colin Clout, and Astrophel.
As kindness in a Lady can
Preserve in life a dying man;
So verses (after she is dead)
Report will of her spread.
Return affection, and we then
Shall live though die, and live agen.

13.

[I have mine eyes and love: for who]

I have mine eyes and love: for who
Hath eyes to see and doth not so?
Who can behold a lovely face,
Both full of beauty and of grace;
See pretty lips, and glorious eyes,
And not be chang'd though ne're so wise?
Rich Cherry-cheeks, and browes Divine,
And not desire would she were mine?
I have a Lady lately seen
Far perfecter then beauties Queen;
Diana's vertues make her stai'd,
And Venus forme a lovely Maid;
Surely two Goddesses have strove
To make a wonder of my Love:
No Beauty Venus lets her want;
And Dian hath made her a Saint.
To pray to Saints many deny,
And censure for idolatry;
But none of them will say I erre
If I with prayers petition her.
Deign therefore virtuous, beauteous Fair,
(You that are more then others are
For beauty whom all wonder at,
And for your vertues emulate)
Pity my heart by you enflam'd;
For cruelty be not defam'd:
Nor joy to see my miseries rage,
Which your tongue onely can asswage;
But a true service entertain,
Rewarding it with love again.

14. Before a little Book of my own that I sent her.

Lady, I do not give this Book alone,
But with't my heart, which you have made your own:
Censure my verses as you please; but be
Kind to my heart, lest you do ruine me.
I made these little Poems, and (if you
Vouchsafe your love to me) you make me too.
Be kind as you are fair, I wish no other;
So make a doubtful man an happy Lover.

15.

[Be kind (blind Boy) and let not her alone]

Be kind (blind Boy) and let not her alone;
Tis tyranny in thee to shoot at one.
Me thou hast wounded, she untouch'd remains;
Slights all my Sighs, and credits not my pains.
If th'hast an Arrow (though but one) behind
Strike her, and make us both be of one mind.
Thou God of Love born in an happy hour
In some fresh Garden, in some flowry Bower,
I, by thy wings fill'd with the sighes of thy
Fast-fetter'd Subjects, by thy Quiver, and by
Thy fatal Bow, by Venus drawn along
Olympus Star-pav'd Courts (the Gods among)
If thou dost ever hope eternal Jove
Will eyes vouchsafe unto the God of Love;
By these and more I do beseech thine aide,
Or make me mine, or mine, this Angel-Maide.
Pity my misery, and take my part;
Or heal my wound, or wound her cruel heart.
Fair Love! Sole Centre of my thoughts! to you
I am a Suppliant, be my Judge, and true;
Censure my passions, prayers, affections, me
Throughly and narrowly, and (if you see
No fault in me, as you no fault shall finde)
Leave off your cruelty, and be you kinde.
Use me according to my love, if I
Adore you not, let me unpitied die.

16. At her going out of the Countrey.

Farewell fair Saint! But when you are away
And far remote, think of me once a day.
When shall I see again your Amber-haire?
Look on your stately forehead, arched fair?
View those two Suns, your heart-bewitching eies?
Your Nose, and Mouth, and all your Rarities?
Hear your sweet tongue again, whose words alone
Would make deaf Mortalls hear, if not a stone?
Not till I come to London: Phœbus, hie;
Drive not the Sun so slowly through the skie.
If these short dayes, these Winter-days will seem
So tedious, then what should I think of them
If they were Summer-Hours? Surely I
Should wish (like Phaeton) thou might'st fall & die:
For in your absence I shall take delight
In Dreams of you t'wear out the longest Night.
I love, and that is all that I can say;
My vehement thoughts take all my words away.
The more I think to write, I can the less:
His heart is safe who can his love express.
Know I am yours much more then I can tell,
And say (with grief) sweet'st of your Sex! Farewell.

17. At my Return, having brought her the first days Journey.

Farewell again, Fair Mistress of my heart;
For you must go, and I must now depart.
My body doth return; my heart doth stay:
You it along with you do bear away.
Lay it by yours, thither it would withdraw;
The fire of mine the frost of yours may thaw.
Farewel dear eies: It will be tedious Night
With me as long as I do want your light.
Farewell sweet mouth, encompass'd with a row
Of richest Cherries over and below;
The Nectar and Ambrosia I shall want
That hang on them, and fast an irksome Lent.
Farewel best tongue; Now thee I shall not hear,
I would not care if all things silent were.
Farewell all fair! Beauty I shall not view,
Until again I do behold't in you.
All things befriend you; Hyems, do not frown
Keep Boreas still, and all his Brethren down.
Be of a kind Aspect, and look not pale
With frost or Snow; nor sullenly let fall
Showr's from thine eies; Be milde, that Phœbus may
Waite on my lovely mistress every day.
So she may hap to favour thee; which thing
May change the Winter to another Spring.
My last Farewel: Till I in London see
My Love again, I shall a mourner be.

18.

[Hail my Delight! whom I so well lov'd here]

Hail my Delight! whom I so well lov'd here,
Do now love there and will love every where.
I hope you do not doubt my faith: For I
Know I adore you so I daily die.
When you was here my passion was so great,
That I did bow and sink down under it:
But now y'are gone my Love is so extreme,
I am distracted: when your happy name
I think upon, your beauty, Goodness, all
What you include, I into madness fall;
Rave at these days that do divide us two,
At these slow hours that keep me from you.
Thus I affect: would you did love me so,
That when we meet there might not pass a No.
Tell me how doth that richest jewel, your
Unkindest heart against all love endure?
Although Diana's Charms environ round,
And circle it, to keep it from a wound;
Yet Cupids Dart hath greater force then those,
And when he please can peirce it with his throws.
And I will make such prayers to him, that he
Shall be reveng'd (unto the height) for me:
If's ears be not deaf as his eyes be blind,
I'le make him hear me, and he'l make you kind.
You cannot (fairest Maid) your Fate remove:
Yield therefore not by force, but will to love.

19.

[I will not now implore a Muse, not One]

I will not now implore a Muse, not One
Of the inhabiters of Helicon:
Neither Apollo, he that doth above
Sing Sacred Anthems to eternal Jove:
If you (sweet Mistress) will vouchsafe to be
Gracious, and read each line will come off free.
Since I beheld your Beauty I've forgot
My former pleasures, and now know them not:
I've no Delight but you, and you are so
Unkind to me you are my torment too.
Unmerciful Destinies! that do unite
A cruel torment with a sweet delight.
But be you far more harder-hearted then
Was ever Lady yet to any man;
Though Daphne-like you shun, and run away;
Like Phœbus I behind you will not stay.
You are regardless, and will lend no ear
Unto my vows, nor my entreaties hear:
Deign therefore, you immortal Deities
That reign enthroned in the lofty Skies;
Hear, and redress my wrongs, pity my mone,
Or make her's flesh, or mine an heart of stone;
Or guide her tongue that thence kind words may come,
Or strik me deaf, or strik my Mistress dumb:
Yet is her tongue all Musick, and so rare,
It makes me even to love my own despair.
For Neptunes sake, whose Trident awes the Sea,
Pale Luna shine with an auspicious ray.
If thou dost love the bright delicious bride
Of Mulciber, Mars be thou on my side.
By thy wing'd feet, and by thy Charmed wand,
A gracious influence, Mercury, I command.
For Alcumena's Night, and for her Child,
The Monster-Queller, Jupiter be mild.
If ever thou didst love Adonis deare,
Now Venus favour me in thy Careere.
If thou dost hope Jove will allow thee peace
In heaven, that did affor'd thee small in Greece;
On Lovers (Saturne) gently smile, and joyn
(With th'other Six) to perfect my design.
By all Ver's various flowers, and Autumns fruit,
Sol, I implore thee to complete my suit.
If me the Planets do befriend in this,
Her Cruelty cannot withstand my bliss;
Against the Stars there is no striving, she
Must yield unto her Fate, which is to me;
And (Lady) if their beams be gracious, know,
I mean to have you whether you will or no.

20.

[My love (Dear Soul) is grown unto that height]

My love (Dear Soul) is grown unto that height,
That when I cannot see you I must write:
By my affection, now I am from you,
You may perceive my former words were true.
Doubt me not (Lady!) rather doubt the Sun
(Dash'd out with Ocean waves) will cease to run:
Believe the Moon, pale Cynthia of the night,
Will leave her Sphere, and on the earth alight;
And th'other Planets (frighted at this change)
Will stand still in a maze, and leave to range;
Believe old Neptune missing of his Deare,
Will be dul'd into calmness out of fear;
Suppose the earth wanting the Light Divine
That nourish't it, will never more be green;
Believe the earth agreeing yet with Heaven,
Into another Chaos will be driven;
Imagine what you will, true or untrue;
But never think I can be false to you.
Know that if you affection will return,
That now Im'warm, and will hereafter burn;
That now I curb my passions; but will then
Give way unto them, love, and love agen.
We'l not be parted, be not you ingrate,
By Lands, or Seas, by friends or foes, or fate.

21.

[Dear Saint, I do love you so well]

Dear Saint, I do love you so well,
You cannot think, nor I can tell.
As when from earth some look on high,
And see the Lights that grace the skie,
They think them small, because they seem
Not unto them to be extreme;
So you perchance when you do read
My Love dress'd in so poor a weed
As my weak Muse can frame, will straight
Or think it counterfeit, or light:
But could my hand express my minde,
You would no longer be unkinde;
For tis so full of love to you,
You cannot think, nor I can shew.

22.

[May you (fair Sweet) live long and happily]

May you (fair Sweet) live long and happily:
But do not you live so that I must dye.
Be kind; for if you chance to frown I fall:
Your No is equal to the Fates sad Call.
A curious Limner dares profess a Strife
With Nature, thinks with art to match the life:
O that my pen could draw my heart, and you
Be won (by certainties) to know me true!
How many thousand prayers would you read over!
How many vows professed by your Lover!
What a poor martyr you would see! An heart,
Dying in flames because you care not for't!
Shall I believe you always will remain
So careless of me, and so slight my pain?
I'le not despair; when you least think to be
Kind unto me, the Gods may pity me;
Make you with me in an affection joyn
And mollifie your heart as much as mine,
To sacred Hymen their high wills reveal,
And make him sign our Loves with his broad seal.
Nor will I wish (if you do slight me ever)
That you may love, and may be pitied never;
Far be it from me: onely that you may
Sigh once, weep one tear, and wear black one day.
But I will hope you may be kind, and (though
Y'are strange so long) not always use me so.
Pity your Servant; if I do not prove
Worthy of your love, then withdraw your love.

23. To her resolved to go beyond Sea.

Unkind, fair Mistress! are not frowns and Noes
Enough, to fill your Servant full of woes?
Can you not be cruel enough, unless
You leave this Kingdom, and do pass the Seas?
Like unto Cæsar would you have me fall
With many wounds, and triumph over all?
Though, when y'are gon my fate is sad, I will
Wish you all good though you wish me all ill.
May Neptune proud of such a burthen, smooth
His old and angry Face, and fall in love;
May not an adverse winde as much as breath;
That you may smile upon the Seas beneath.
Were I not wondrous true, instead of prayers
I should use imprecations, curse the stars,
Wish Neptune with his powerful Trident throw
The waters from the Centre, and below
In that Abyss sink down your Ship, and then
The raging winds blow back the Seas agen
And cover you, that women henceforth may
Beware, and earnest love with earnest pay.
But I am patient, and (though in vaine
I love) I dare not therefore be profane.
May you arrive safely and soon, and live
In all felicity whil'st I here grieve,
And sigh, and weep for you; may not a thought
Of yours remember me, (be I forgot)
Lest when you think how you have left me, you
Should give a stop unto your mirth, and rue.
But one word more; it is not yet too late
To make a wretched Lover fortunate:
Let not my prayers, sighes, vows be spent in vain,
But as I do love you, so love again;
And we will go together, never part,
Till I your body have who have my heart;
Which had I in possession, I should finde
Ways soon enough to win your backward mind.

24.

[Although she cannot number thousands, even]

Although she cannot number thousands, even
With some deform'd, whom Fortune more hath given;
Shall want of wealth (scorn'd by true happiness)
Resist my way, or make me love her less?
Yet hath she a fair Portion, and her Name
From one of our best Houses, Coritane;
And she is beauteous as a cheerful day,
Or Venus rising from her Mother-Sea.
Are not her teeth the richest Pearls? and sure
He that hath Pearls enow cannot be poor;
Are not her radiant eies two diamonds fair?
And we all know that those stones precious are;
Art not her hairs of Gold? And what but it
Makes wrinkles smooth; Age, youth; unfit things, fit?
Her beauteous Cheekes are Roses, such as neither
The Spring can give, nor the cold Winter wither.
Her lovely Breasts are Apples of more worth
Then ever the Hesperides brought forth;
Arabian Odours, both the India's Good
She in one curious body doth include;
Cupid in nothing more his eies doth miss,
Then that he cannot see how fair she is.
Jupiter for her would unthrone his Queen,
And Pluto leave his lovely Proserpine;
Neptune from Amphitrite would remove,
And Mars for her forsake the Queen of love.
She's like a Soul before it doth depart;
Even all in all, and All in every part.
No man hath seen her, but to every Sence
Of him she bettereth the intelligence;
He knows his eies are perfect in their sight,
That in no other Object can delight;
He knows his smelling's exquisite that doth
When he hath felt her breath all others loth;
A perfume for the Gods most fit, and sweet
When they (at Counsel) on Olympus meet,
And Iris they or Mercury beneath
Tis likely send for her so fragrant breath:
A free and unconfined touching her
Above the lips of Queens all would prefer,
Or sacred hands of bounteous Kings; compar'd
The pretious Down of Phœnix's being hard
Unto her softer skin: And her sweet Tongue
Which chides in Musick, and enchantes in song,
And strikes the ablest Rhetoricians dumb,
Is fit'st to plead the peace of Christendom;
He in the sphere of happiness will move
On whom she pleases to bestow her love,
And have the most delicious Repast
That shall her Hymenæan Dainties tast.
You that are beauty in the Zenith, who
Can find no Equal wheresoer'e you go,
My Love no longer cruelly despise,
But dart me mercy from your gracious eyes,
And we shall both be rich: For I am sure,
Themselves no happy Lovers ere thought poore.

25. To her obtain'd.

Past are my sighs, and woes, complaints, and tears,
Nor am I longer subject to my fears;
Her frowns no more strike terrour to my soul,
Though I was wounded she hath made me whole.
Within the rank of happy Lovers I
Am now enrol'd, and march triumphantly
Ore all the Crosses that before did stay,
And hinder me to enter in this way,
And sing the Boy-Gods praise, who (wanting sight)
Shot at my Mistress and did hit the White.
My happiness is such, that Times to come
Shall not complain I of my joys was dumbe.
Let him whose Mistress is deform'd or old,
Not worth a Sonnet nor a Line, withhold:
Or (if on such an heap of years, or sad
Chaos of features, he will needs run mad;
Loose the true judgement of his eyes, or think
That Channel water's Nectar he doth drink)
Let him profess he's happy ne're so much,
The World that sees her cannot think him such.
'Twere fondness in me, that what ere my youth
Writ in her praise I now should say was truth;
I would not if I could: but to be just
To her, and to my self, thus much I must.
I'm so far from repenting of my choice,
That every day she's dearer in mine eyes.
Dear heart! and dearer to me then mine heart!
We'l live in love, and in our loves depart.
The World shall bless our Fates, and they that come
Into sad bonds, wish happy Lovers dumb.

Funeral Elegies.

1. On the Death of my very good Friend Mr. Michael Drayton.

Phœbus , art thou a God, and canst not give
A Priviledge unto thine own to live?
Thou canst: But if that Poets nere should dye,
In Heaven who should praise thy Deity?
Else still (my Drayton) thou hadst liv'd and writ;
Thy life had been immortal as thy wit.
But Spencer is grown hoarse, he that of late
Song. Gloriana in her Elsin state:
And so is Sydney, whom we yet admire
Lighting our little Torches at his fire.
These have so long before Apollo's Throne
Carrol'd Encomiums, that they now are growne
Weary and faint; and therefore thou didst dye,
Their sweet unfinish'd Ditty to supply.
So was the Iliad-writer rapt away;
Before his lov'd Achilles fatall day,
And when his voice began to fail, the great
Unequal'd Maro did assume his seat:
Therefore we must not mourn, unless it be
'Cause none is left worthy to follow thee.
It is in vain to say thy lines are such
As neither time nor envies rage can touch:
For they must live, and will whiles there's an eye
To reade, or wit to judge of Poetrie.
You Swans of Avon, change your fates, and all
Sing, and then die at Drayton's Funeral:
Sure shortly there will not a drop be seen,
And the smooth-pebbled Bottom be turn'd green,
When the Nymphes (that inhabit in it) have
(As they did Shakespeere) wept thee to thy grave.
But I molest thy quiet; sleep, whil'st we
That live, would leave our lives to die like thee.

2. On my dear Sister Mrs. Isabella Cokaine, who who died at Ashbourne about the 18th yeer of her Age, and lyes there buried.

It is an irreligious pride to turne
Away our eyes, and not to see thine Urne.
For sure that body whose blest soul doth keep
A Jubile in heaven, (while here asleep
It lies in holy earth) is every day
Bless'd by good Angels, that do pass that way:
And therefore we with reverence should eye
The Sepulchres where Saints entomb'd do lye:
And every time that we do go or come
Nigh where thine Ashes lye, behold thy Tombe:
But when we see it, should we weep our eyes
Dry of their tears, and then conclude in cries?
It is impossible that our complaints
Should make a Diapason to the Saints.
Can Hallelujahs song above agree
With tears on earth? Tis an Antipathie.
But 'tis unnatural we should be glad,
And 'tis Impiety we should be sad:
We must not grieve therefore, nor yet rejoyce;
But fix us in the mean, and shew us wise.
Be glad, that we believe her soul is crown'd
With endless Glory in Heavens ample Round:
Onely lament that we have lost our guide,
And (wanting her) are apt to wander wide.
We need not bid thee sleep secure, that know
That God himself rock'd thee asleep below.
Sweet Sainted Maid, thou meritest the Pen
Of Cherubims to shew thee unto men:
And dost deserve a bench of Poets grave
To study, and to write thine Epitaph,
Which in Mosaick work with diamonds bright
Should be drawn out, and read by it's own light.
A Titian, or a Bonarota should
Cast thee a Statue of pure Ophir Gold:
Had'st thou thy due, the eager earth would sure
Anatomize one India for Ore
And precious stones, a Pyramid to reare,
Lasting and great as the Egyptian were,
To thy eternal memorie; and from
The eastern-lands bring all the plenteous sum
Of spices and perfumes, and on the height
Of that rich monument burn them day and night,
But 'tis a thing impossibly too hard
For men on earth to give thee thy reward:
Thy God, whose power and love is infinite,
Thee hath, and doth, and ever will requite
Among the Chorus of Heavens Virgins pure,
To sing Divinest Anthems evermore.
The homely verses I have writ, she oft
Hath smil'd upon, approv'd them smooth and soft:
And if my pen hath power to give a fame,
Dear Isabella, here shall live thy Name.
Had I the deathless Homer's brain, and could
Sing lofty numbers like to Maro Old;
A wit to match Sulmonean Ovid, I
Had writ a Poem, not an Elegie.
'Tis known, and I confess this is beneath
Her Life, and her expressions at her death:
Her resurrection plain will shew how well
She led her life, and bad the World Farewel.

3. On the death of Henry Lord Hastings, Son to the right Honourable Ferdinand Earl of Huntingdon, & c.

Know all to whom these few sad lines shall come,
This melancholy Epicedium,
The young Lord Hastings death occasion'd it,
Amidst a storm of Lamentations writ;
Tempests of sighes and grones, and flowing eyes
Whose yielding balls dissolve to Deluges:
And mournful Numbers that with dreadful sound
Waite his bemoned body to the ground,
Are all, and the last duties we can pay
The Noble Spirit that is fled away.
Tis gone, alas! tis gone, though it did leave
A body rich in all Nature could give;
Superiour in beauty to the youth
That won the Spartan Queen to forfeit truth,
Break wedlocks strictest bonds, and be his wife;
Environed with tumults all her Life.
His years were in the balmie Spring of Age
Adorn'd with blossomes ripe for marriage,
And but mature; His sweet conditions known
To be so good they could be none but's own.
Our English Nation was enamour'd more
On his full worth, then Rome was heretofore
Of great Vespasian's Jew-subduing Heire,
The love and the Delight of mankind here.
After a large survey of Histories,
Our Criticks (curious in honour, wise
In paralleling generous Souls) will finde
This youthful Lord did bear as brave a minde.
His few but well spent years had master'd all
The liberal Arts: And his sweet tongue could fall
Into the ancient Dialects, dispence
Sacred Judeas amplest eloquence;
The Latine Idiome elegantly true;
And Greek as rich as Athens ever knew:
Italy, France, and Spain, did all confess
Him perfect in their modern Languages.
At his Nativity, what angry Star
Malignant influences flung so far?
What Caput Algolls, and what dire Aspects,
Occasioned so tragical effects?
As soon as death this fatal blow had given,
I fancy mighty Clarence sigh'd in Heaven;
And till this glorious Soul arrived there,
Recover'd not from his Amaze and fear.
Had this befal'n in ancient credulous times,
He had been deifi'd by Poets rimes;
That Age enamour'd of his Graces, soon
Majestick Fanes (in adoration)
Would have rays'd to his memory, and there
On golden Altars (year succeeding year)
Burnt holy incense, and Sabæan Gums,
That Curles of vapour from those Hecatombs,
Sould reach his Soul in Heaven: but we must pay
No such Oblations in our purer way:
A nobler Service we him owe then that,
His fair example ever t'emulate.
With the Advantage of our double years
Lets imitate him, and (through all Affairs,
And all Encounters of our Lives) intend
To live like him, and make as good an end.
To aim at brave things is an evident signe
In Spirits, that to honour they incline;
And though they do come short in the Contest,
Tis full of glory to have done one's best.
You mournful Parents whom the Fates compel
To bear the Loss of this great miracle,
This wonder of our Times, amidst a sigh
(Surrounded with your thick'st Calamity)
Reflect on joy, think what an happiness
(Though humane Nature oft conceits it less)
It was to have a Son of so much worth,
He was too good to grace the wretched earth.
As silver Trent through our North Countries glides,
Adorn'd with Swans, & crown'd with flowry sides,
And rushing into mightier Humbers Waves,
Augments the Regal Æstuarium's Braves:
So he, after a life of eighteen years
Well mannaged Example to our Peeres,
In's early youth encountring sullen Fate,
(Orecome) became a Trophey to his State.
Didst thou sleep Hymen? or art lately grown
T'affect the Subterranean Region?
Enamour'd on bleard Libentina's eyes,
Hoarse-howling Dirges, and the baleful Cries
Of Inauspicious voices, and (above
Thy Star-like torch) with horrid tombs in love?
Thou art; or surely hadst oppos'd this high
Affront of death against thy Deity:
Nor wrong'd an excellent Virgin who had given
Her heart to him, who hath his Soul to Heaven;
Whose Beauties thou hast clouded, and whose eyes
Drowned in tears at these sad Exequies.
The fam'd Heroes of the golden Age,
Those Demigods whose vertues did asswage
And calm the furies of the wildest mindes
That were grown salvage even against their kinds,
Might from their Constellations have look'd down
And by this young Lord seen themselves out-gon.
Farewel (Admired Spirit) that art free
From this strict Prison of Mortalitie.
Ashby, proud of the honour to enshrine
The beauteous Body (whence the Soul Divine
Did lately part) be careful of thy trust,
That no profane hand wrong that hallow'd Dust.
The Costly Marble needes no friend t'engrave
Upon it any doleful Epitaph;
No good Man's tongue that Office will decline,
Whil'st years succeeding reach the end of time.

4. On the death of my dear Cousin Germane Mrs. Olive Cotton, who deceased at Berisford the 38th year of her Age, and lyes buried at Bently by Ashbourne, &c.

Amongst the many that shall celebrate
(With sighes and tears) this excellent womans Fate;
And with the many that shall fix a verse
(Sacred unto her Fame) upon her Herse;
World! pardon me my boldness, that intrude
These few poor lines upon thy Multitude:
They need not read them, I have my desire
If they but see my name, and look no higher:
But with my Sadness thou may'st well dispence
A tribute due to her Departure hence;
For from my soul I honoured her, and grieve
That I've but such small means to win beliefe.
Others may aim with a victorious Rhime
To vindicate her from the rage of time;
Our ablest Poets, whose each Distick may
Both Brass and Marble Statues wear away,
Last till the noble Soul again shall come
And take possession of her ancient Roome;
Converting all their Funeral Elegies
(By that Reunion) t'Epithalamies;
And so by solemnizing her just worth,
Acquire themselves an endless Name on earth.
I no Ambition have but to make known
Her merits, were my Admiration.
Her Conversation harmless was and free,
For neither Pride nor ill Discourse had she:
Her sweet Conditions all the vertues were,
Not studied, but habitual in her:
And (ere the fatal Feaver had begun
T'disturb her calm Soul's Habitation)
The beauteous body was a Palace fit
(Above all other) t'entertain in it
So Sublime, and so many vertues, such
As made old Saints and martyrs prais'd so much.
But she is gone, and we are left behinde
To mourn the want of worth in Woman-kinde;
For femal vertues (as our fears surmize)
Are all with her return'd to Paradise.
And there (best Cousin) may your welcome be
A Crown of Glory and Immortalitie.

5. A funeral Elegie on my Dear Cousin Mistress Elizabeth Reppington, who deceased at Ammington about the eighteenth year of her age, and lyes buried at Tamworth.

The Contemplation of death to prize
Above all thoughts of humane vanities
A Sublime wisdom is, and makes Amends
For such sad Contemplations at our Ends.
Stifle therefore (my Muse) at their first birth
All thoughts that may reflect upon the earth:
Be metaphysical, disdaining to
Fix upon any thing that is below.
Fame, set thy Trump unto thy lips, and sound
The world this sad news from her hallow'd ground;
Elizabeth Reppington, that glorious Maid,
Hath left to guide us in this mortal shade
By her unparallel'd example; she
Hath chang'd all Finite for Infinity.
Her Grave all beauty doth include, for there
Two Suns eclips'd lie in one Hemisphere,
Enveloped with Clouds, thicker then those
Which the remotest Arctick doth impose.
Her humble Lovers, that like Persians pai'd
Devotion to the Beams of her fair Head,
(Whose hair their eyes in wonder did contain)
Continue to wish that Golden Fleece in vain:
Flowers more rich then graced Eden ever,
Lillies and Roses there to dust do wither,
Oracles too are ceas'd again, they from
The temple of her mouth that had us'd to come.
A lurid paleness sits upon the skin
That did enclose the beauteous body in:
As after a bright day Night doth succeed,
And clothe high Heaven in a most horrid weed.
Her hands a Consort were of musick, such
As skilfully best Instruments did touch,
Begetting harmony to emulate
What the Intelligencing Spirits create
By motion of the Spheres; yet now they lye
Uselesly here through deaths Impietie.
You that shall chance to read in these poor rhimes
This Virgins Fate, whose life did grace our times,
Whose Death this Nation justly may lament,
She being of it the prime Ornament;
And many vertues must a pattern prove
To all those generous Souls that vertue love:
Consider what a loss her Parents have
Whose Hopes are fal'n with her into the Grave;
(Her Graces grown to an unequal'd height)
Lying now sleeping in the longest night.
Yet any Soul but hers would have been glad
So fair and pure Confinement to have had:
But more illustrious hers, like a bright flame
Broke loose, and is return'd from whence it came;
Where she enjoys all joys, smiles on our tears,
Wishing that ours as happy were as hers:
And her sweet Company and Conversation
We are depriv'd of, but by Contemplation,
The maides that do in Naides streames
Conceal themselves from busie Phœbus beames,
(Upon whose Banks she us'd to walk, and smile
On the slow waters that past by the while)
Her immature Decease cease not to mone
Under each Willow, and on every stone.
The woods of Amington, which oft times she
Grac'd with her Presence to hear harmonie
From the Innocuous Quiristers of the Aire,
Now murmure for her loss in sad despaire;
The Dryades that there had wont to play,
Spending in weeping for her every day.
The Graces, that us'd thither to retire
To dance unto skilful Apollos Lyre,
As often since as they that way do come,
Sit down, and sing an Epicedium.
Thus I could prosecute; but being grown
Dull with so long a Lamentation,
My hand so trembling it can onely blot,
And Eies so fraught with tears that they see not;
I leave the World (though sorrow struck it faint)
To mourn her Loss, and make up my complaint.

6. A Funeral Elegie upon the Death of Mr. Thomas Pilkington, one of the Queens Musicians, Who deceased at Wolverhampton about the 35. year of his Age, and lies there buried.

At the Report of so sad News sure soone
The grieved Nation will be out of tune;
For Pilkington is dead, who did command
All Instruments with his unequal'd hand:
Mastring all Musick that was known before;
He did invent the Orphion, and gave more.
Though he (by playing) had acquir'd high Fame,
He evermore escap'd a Gamesters Name:
Yet he at Gamut frequent was, and taught
Many to play, till Death set his Gam out.
He was facetious, and did never carp,
Making that Musick which came from him sharp.
His Flats were all Harmonious; not like theirs
Whose ebbs in prose or verse abuse our ears:
But to what end praise I his Flats, since that
He is grown One himself, and now lies Flat?
Others for Days mispent are charged with crime,
But he a strict observer was of time.
Nothing escap'd his Study (by all votes)
Being most perfect of mankind at Notes.
Though he was often in his Moodes, they were
Such as rejoyc'd all mindes, and pleas'd each ear.
The Muses two-clif'd Hill he did surpass;
Whose Musick had three Cliffs to do it Grace.
With rashness none his Credit could impair,
Who did observe his Stops with so much Care.
His Frets were gentle Ones, such as would be
Stop'd with a Finger, and make Harmonie.
His Family agree so in their Hearts,
That they did make a Consort of five Parts;
(To be a Pattern unto every one)
Himself, his Wife, two Daughters, and a Son:
Though somtimes there might some Division run,
Twas for the best in the Conclusion;
For each learn'd Master in this Science knowes
Good Musick often hath from Discords rose.
A Large his generous heart was and a Long;
His Life was wish'd by all the happy Throng
Acquainted with his worths: But (in the chiefe
Of all his Dayes) Death made it be a Briefe.
Crotchets he had good store, yet such as were
Harmonious, full of Spirit, life, and aire.
His Life was but a Minum, till his prime,
When as old Age should last out Sembrief-time;
His proved over short, as if indeed
He were, Alas! to die by Quaver-speed.
Whose Loss our trembling Heart such wise lament,
As they like Semi, and Demi-Quavers went.
So he is gone (as Heaven hath thought it best)
And (after all his pains) hath made a Rest.
Musicks best Instrument his body made,
Wherein his soul upon the Organs plai'd:
But Death was likewise Sacrilegious grown,
Who rudely hath those Organs overthrown.
For other Exequies what need we call?
Play o're his Hearse his own fam'd Funeral;
The doleful Aire that he compos'd, to mourn
For beauteous Reppingtons untimely Urne.
What need more words, when no words can declare
The Merits of a Man so wondrous rare?
He was too excellent for earth: And's gone,
To be in Heaven a prime Musician.

Letters to divers Persons.

1. To the Right Honourable John Lord Mohun Baron of Okehampton, my Uncle in Law.

My Lord, unto you now I have not writ
For Ostentation, or to boast my wit,
I know it weak; this onely is to shew
How willingly I'de pay the debt I owe;
Which though I cannot, I should be most rude
To let my Silence prove Ingratitude.
I must write therefore, though when I have done
I rest in silent Admiration.
Be you but pleas'd to reade, although tis true
I cannot draw a line deserveth you:
So gracious Kings will give their Subjects leave
To gratulate the Blessings they receive.
Let our most able Poets, such as can
Feign vertues for a well deserving Man,
Express with th'eloquence of all the Arts,
Half one of your Innumerable Parts:
I can but onely wonder, and profess
I know so little that I cannot guess.
It were an easier matter to declare
The heights and depthes that in each Science are:
All Labyrinthes that Dialect affords,
And (Critick-like) which are the hardest words.
Of you a Character would be a task
Mæonides and Maro would not ask,
If for preeminence they were to write;
It is so weighty, and their skill so slight.
The fluent Singer of the Changes would
In imploration for Aide grow old:
And yet they were the Miracles of Wit,
Through all Times famous, and renowned yet;
Honour'd by Grandees of the world, and by
The Supreme beauty of sweet Italy.
Witness the conquering Macedonian Prince,
Who wept for envy Homer's eloquence,
And mighty Poesie rais'd to the Stars
Achilles Fame; and thunder'd not his wars:
And great Augustus who could easily slight
All other things, t'admire rich Virgil's height.
Witness bright Julia too, who far above
The Roman Princes all did Ovid love.
Happy was Orpheus that in former times
(To admiration) did rehearse his rhimes:
So was Amphion too, that long ago
His matchless skill in poetry did show.
Had they been your Contemporaries, they
(Whom all men did, and Salvages obey,
And rocks and trees) with all their study ne're
Could pen one line worth your attentive ear.
Had great Æacides your worthes, he so
Had not effected Hectors Overthrow:
He had been slain fairly or liv'd; for great
And worthy mindes unworthy Actions hate.
Ajax was onely honour'd in the field;
Would you had pleaded for him, for the sheild,
The Ithacan disgrac'd away had gone,
And the blunt Souldier put the trophie on.
Comparisons are odious; I disgrace
You, to look on you by anothers face.
You Heaven-bred souls whom Phœbus doth inspire
From high Olympus with Poetick fire,
Bewail no more these ignorant wretched days;
This singular Lord will not withhold the Bays.
You Sisters that frequent the Thespian Spring,
And on Parnassus Io Pæans sing,
He hath been, and is now a Patron to you,
And in his own immortal Lays doth woe you.
Proceed my Lord, and let it be your Glory
No Chronicler dares put you in his Story:
For if your vertues verse cannot express,
I must believe that heavy Prose much less.
Again proceed, and let this move you to it;
Of your own worthes you must be your own Poet:
Or let your vertues rule Amazements throne,
To be expres'd by no Muse but your own:
And (lest from your own goodness you decline)
Pardon each fault that is in every line.

2. To my friend and Kinsman Mr. George Giffard, who cal'd his Mistress the Green Bird of France.

The Necromancy of your love doth change
Your Mistress to a Bird, so to 'estrange
Her name from vulgar ears, and to conceal
Those harmless passages of love you steal:
And by this means be your heart what it will,
Your tongue's Platonick that can keep this still.
But sure your judgement and most curious eyes
Fancie no bird, but that of Paradise,
The Phœnix, or a third of mighty worth;
A wonder and a Glory to the earth.
Jove's Eagle's too aspiring to invite
Your mind to love, or love to apetite:
The Doves of Venus you too gentle know;
And yours must give you cause to court and wo.
Minerva's Owl is onely for the Night;
And your fair Mistress doth become the light:
Saturnia's Peacock hath a gaudy train,
But feet too course such Colours to sustain:
Your Bird so curious is, she would disperse
The Clouds of prose, and make it run in verse.
She's not deriv'd from Magellanick Streights,
Where the most numerous Parat-Covey delights:
But from a richer Soyle, and may perchance
The Dolphin wake, to court the Bird of France:
But Cæsars self might conquer Gaul anew,
And with his victories not trouble you.
Your fair green Bird of France doth know her power
Superiour to the roughest Conquerour;
Whil'st she resists no fort so strong as she,
Whose victour must her own consenting be.
Nor martial engine, sword, or piece can move
Her from your love while she will be your love.
But if her Resolution alter, then
Her how to you will you retrieve agen?
Like the mad lover make your heart the lure,
And that will bring her, or she'l come no more.
Had Hymen lighted his auspicious Pine,
And you joyn'd happy hands before his shrine,
Then would not you and your admired love
The Changes imitate of amorous Jove,
Who like a Swan fair Læda did compress,
And on her got the Twins Tyndarides?
But why since Birds are of all colours seen,
Do you call her you most affect the Green?
The Firmament we see attir'd in blew,
But that too heavenly a Colour is for you.
The earth is green; and you do think most fit
That she be so, while she doth live on it.
The Sea is green, and Sea-born Venus was
Made beauties Goddess being most beauteous Lass:
And your fair One, whom you think Parallel
To her, you call the Green-Bird wondrous well.
All health I wish her, from each sickness free
But one, whose cure I do commit to thee:
If the Green Sickness she doth chance to get,
Your Love and Care of her may remed' it.

3. To the right honourable Ferdinand Earl of Huntingdon, &c.

My Lord, I have not silent been so long
For want of zeal, but fear'd to do you wrong:
Could I but draw a line deserv'd your eyes,
Your name should from the earth touch at the skies.
But as the meanest Pesants came before
The greatest Cæsars Rome did ere adore;
And as the gracious Gods no more despise
The poorest then the richest Sacrifice;
So I (my Lord) present my self to you,
And this slight humble verse unto your view.
Let our best Heralds, such as are most good,
Sail up the mighty Current of your blood,
And from the ancient and most glorious Stem
Of those that wore the English Diadem,
Blazon your pedegree, whil'st I admire
Your fair Conditions, sparks of honours fire.
To be born onely great, and not to be
Vertuous too, is, as we often see
The morning Sun rise clearly in the East,
Presently after be with Clouds opprest,
And (after one fair chearful blaze of light)
The day prove stormy till it mix with night.
But this concerns not you; you are as far
From all unworthiness, as is that star
That by the vertue of the Southerne stayes
This Mass of earth, and water in its place
From earth: And as those opposite Stars do poise
This Globe of earth, and Water midst the skies
Equally distant, in all places, from
The Heavens that round it in Circumference come.
Or to descend; As Mahomets tombe doth fix
By vertue of two Loadstones them betwixt;
So you (my Lord) for sweet Conditions known
Parallels to your high birth, stand alone
Unaim'd, and unarriv'd at, (to their ends)
Th'Amaze of all, and honour of your friends.
Accept this graciously my Lord! And know
'Tis but a Glimps of the respect I owe,
And but an Atome of the Service; For
Whole volumes would not be a Character.

4. To a Lady that was so like another that I cal'd her Picture.

I call you Picture, and by your Consent;
Although I know you want no Ornament,
Nor any curious Arts use, to supply
Any defect in you to any eye.
You then are none, and do want Colours so
As heaven wants clouds, or Summers earth wants snow;
Both which do both deform; And you therefore
To outvy heaven and earth admit no more.
You then no picture are, but unto those
That can become enamour'd on your clothes.
Vandike, Mitten, Geltrep, or Johnson may
Draw something like you; As a Summers day
May in the fleeting Clouds well counterfeit
Similitudes of things here, and not hit;
For 'tis impossible to Limn you right,
As 'tis the earthly Globe without a night.
To make your eyes were to amaze us all;
Make in your face two Suns rise; And to vail
Their glorious motions, no eclipses there
Can be more beautiful then your brown hair;
So doth the brightest star ofttimes repine
At it's own glory, and forbear to shine.
To name Apelles, and to wish him draw
Your Portraicture, could he perform't 'twere law
To future Limners; but your beauties height
All imitation doth transcend outright.
Your Lips are like the rosy buds of May;
And your even teeth the pearls of India;
Your mouth's the sweetest Magazin of bliss,
Where Cupids Dialect best spoken is.
Your loveliest Cheeks are the tru'st Hemispheres
Of beauty, triumphing above your Peeres.
This your first sitting is; when you sit next,
I shall be better pleas'd, and you more vext;
For I shall more admire your beauties store,
Though you be angry th'are so slubberd o're.

5. To my Mistress.

To love you (Lady) is but just; we know
We have good eyes and Judgments that do so.
Your beauties are no Common Ornaments,
But Rarities, and plac'd (with excellence)
By Natures curious hand; That could entice
Even Jove from all his Glories, and the Skyes;
Make him reject his full triumphant way
O're Gods and men, and thunder cast away;
Depose himself from high Olympus, leave
Amaz'd the heavenly Deities, and beneath
Retire himself on earth to gaze on you,
More wonderful then all the Goddess Crew;
Make him forsake his stately Queens embrace,
Wise Pallas eyes, and amorous Venus Face,
His draughtes of Nectar fil'd by Ganymed,
And the sweet Lessons by Apollo plai'd;
His sister Juno had not been his Queen,
If you the statelier beauty he had seen.
His daughter Venus had not been enstal'd
Goddess of love, but you the Goddess cal'd:
Nor had Minerva (with the fair gray eyes)
Been crown'd for wisdom 'bove the Deities,
Had Jove heard your discourse; your words do fall
With such a ravishing force upon us all.
Immortal Phœbus that with glorious beams
All Nations lights, and gilds all Ocean streams;
In all his Progress yet did never view
A beauty so supreme, and bright as you.
Had Phaeton liv'd till now, and skilful been,
He would have given his Chariot unto him,
Left the Star-chequer'd Court, and (from the skies)
Alight on earth in some unus'd disguise,
To court your smiles, more precious then his throne,
And all the glories that attend thereon;
And (in your company) swear by a kiss
He never was before in any bliss.
Your eyes are not the Sun and Moon; for they
Are equal lights, and both do rule by day:
Your Nose is such as doth become your face
Better, then the best other in that place.
Your mouth exceedes the breaking of the day;
For that is sweet when Night drives light away.
Your teeth surpass the milky way in Heaven,
More white then it, more wonderful, more even.
Your lips are smooth as Chrystal, red as is
Pure abstract redness, blessedness to kiss.
Your bosom's a new paradise of joy,
And undiscover'd to the vulgar eye.
Your hidden beauties do as much excell
All, all Art can invent, and all tongues tell;
As doth your body (magazin of joyes)
Exceed your clothes seen onely by our eyes.
But were this all, you onely did present
A curious Outside, picture, Ornament:
Your mind (brave Lady) is a thing above
All Objects yet of all the past worlds Love:
It is so gentle, sweet, and unconfin'd
In goodness, that it makes the body, minde:
Like the Philosophers Stone that mixing with
Worse metals, doth to them gold-substance give.
Let them therefore that do not wonder, when
They have seen you, be counted beasts not men.

6. To the Lady M.

Best of your Sex, and handsomest to boot,
I here present you with no marriage-suit;
My Fate is fix'd, and I contented am,
Although sometimes I court another flame.
I dare not wish a wrong to your desert;
(Far be such thoughts for ever from my heart)
Yet must not be so cruel to my self,
As not from you to covet such a wealth,
Arabia's rich perfumes are nothing to,
Nor all the Spices all the East can show.
Sure my desire can be no Crime in me,
Nor your Consent can your dishonour be:
Else all the ancient Poets did devise
To cheat the modern with most Stygian lyes.
Wherefore should Jove neglect Saturnia's Love,
And all his endless happiness above?
Assume so many various Shapes t'enjoy
With humane beauties sensuality?
And glorious Phœbus cast his Rayes away,
With our fine Lasses here below to play?
Although grim Pluto the Infernal flames
Endures; his rage Proserpin's beauty tames.
Cynthia, whose chastity each Grecian pen,
And Roman wit, renowned left to men,
Victorious Love in triumph trampled on,
And made her wanton with Endimion.
These high examples we may imitate;
For Deities did nothing we should hate.
They, whom all nations for Heroick soules,
And vertuous Actions, above the Poles
Have enthroniz'd, did nought we should condemn:
And therefore (Lovely One) let's follow them.
Strict Hymens rules wherefore should we obey,
Which on themselves the Gods did never lay?
Is it more honour to observe the lives
Of surly Cato's then the Deities?
Away with fear; 'Tis reason prompts you to
What I desire, and love, me what to do:
And therefore do not blush, unless it be
Because so many will envy thee and me:
Yet (Madam) know (after so much exprest)
I honour vertue, and have writ in jest.

7. To my Cousin Mr. Charles Cotton.

I wonder (Cousin) that you would permit
So great an Injury to Fletcher's wit,
Your friend and old Companion, that his fame
Should be divided to anothers name.
If Beaumont had writ those Plays, it had been
Against his merits a detracting Sin,
Had they been attributed also to
Fletcher. They were two wits, and friends, and who
Robs from the one to glorifie the other,
Of their great memories is a partial Lover.
Had Beaumont liv'd when this Edition came
Forth, and beheld his ever living name
Before Plays that he never writ, how he
Had frown'd and blush'd at such Impiety?
His own Renown no such Addition needs
To have a Fame sprung from anothers deedes.
And my good friend Old Philip Massinger
With Fletcher writ in some that we see there.
But you may blame the Printers; yet you might
Perhaps have won them to do Fletcher right,
Would you have took the pains: For what a foul
And unexcusable fault it is (that whole
Volume of plays being almost every one
After the death of Beaumont writ) that none
Would certifie them so much? I wish as free
Y'had told the Printers this, as you did me.
Surely you was to blame: A Forreign wit
Ownes in such manner what an English writ:
Joseph of Exeters Heroick piece
Of the long fatal war 'twixt Troy and Greece,
Was Printed in Cornelius Nepos Name,
And robs our Countreyman of much of 's fame.
'Tis true; Beaumont and Fletcher both were such
Sublime wits, none could them admire too much;
They were our English Polestars, and did beare
Between them all the world of fancie cleare:
But as two Suns when they do shine to us,
The aire is lighter, they prodigious;
So while they liv'd and writ together, we
Had Plays exceeded what we hop'd to see.
But they writ few; for youthful Beaumont soon
By death eclipsed was at his high noon.
Surviving Fletcher then did pen alone
Equal to both, (pardon Comparison)
And suffer'd not the Globe, and Black-Friers Stage
T'envy the glories of a former Age.
As we in humane bodies see that lose
An eye, or limbe, the vertue and the use
Retreats into the other eye or limb,
And makes it double; So I say of him:
Fletcher was Beaumonts Heir, and did inherit
His searching judgement, and unbounded Spirit.
His Plays are Printed therefore as they were,
Of Beaumont too, because his Spirit's there.

8. To my Son Mr. Thomas Cokaine.

You often have enquir'd where I have been
In my years Travel; and what Cities seen
And stai'd in: of the which therefore (in brief)
I (for your satisfaction) name the chief.
When four and twenty years, and some moneths more
Of Age I was, I left our English Shore:
And in a thousand six hundred thirty two
Went hence, fair France and Italy to view.
At Roy July the sixteenth we took Ship,
And on the seventeenth did arrive at Deipe,
Henry the fourths secure retreat; where one
Night having lain I rode next day to Roan;
Thence in a Coach I did to Paris go,
Where then I did but spend a day or two.
Thence with the Lions messenger went thither,
And pass'd through Mont-Argis, Mollins, and Never.
In two days thence we did to Cambray get,
A City at the foot of Eglebet:
At Maurein I din'd, and six days spent
Among the Alpes with high astonishment.
There dreadful Precepice, and horrid sound
Of water, and hills hid in Cloudes I found,
And trees above the Clouds on Mountains top,
And houses too; a wonder to get up.
On Mount-Sinese's top I did ride o're,
A smooth, and pleasant Plain, a League or more:
Upon the which a large Fish-pool there is,
And one o'th Duke of Savoy's Palaces:
At the Plains End, a little Chappel, and
A pretty Inn do near together stand.
That night we did descend 'bove half the way,
Where first we heard Italian spoke, and lay.
Next morn we down to Susa rode, full glad
When Mount-Sinese we descended had:
And that same night to Turin came, where we
Staid but a day the Beauties of't to see.
There we took Coach for Millaine, and (by th'way)
A Dinners time did at Vercelli stay,
And at Novara lay a night, and stai'd
But at great Millaine one; such hast I made:
And but at Crema one, and by the Lake
Of stormy Garda did a dinner take.
Through the low Suburbs of high Bergamo
I rode, and that night did to Brescia go,
For works of Iron fam'd; And having past
Thorow Verona, by Catullus grac't,
Did at Vicenza dine, so forward went
Through Padoa, and (on the banks of Brent)
Saw many Palaces of pleasant Site,
And to the rich fam'd Venice came that night.
Thence (having stai'd there half a year) did go
Unto Ferrara by the river Poe,
Saving some four miles, where a Coach we took,
When Phaetons fatal River we forsook.
I at Ravenna din'd, Rimmini lay,
And the next Night did at Ancona stay;
A long days journey, wherein we betime
Pesaro rode through, did at Fano dine,
For hansome women fam'd; And (in our way)
Rid neer small, well-wall'd Siningaglia.
The next day at Loretto din'd, and there
View'd the Fair Church, and House fam'd every where:
Thorow long Recanati rode, and so
To Macerata in the Even did go.
Next day I din'd at Tolentin, and was
It'h Church of their renown'd Saint Nicholas.
Foligno and Spoletto having past,
Terni, and Narni, took a Nights repast
Within Otricoli, I the next day
Din'd at Rignano 'ith' Flaminian way:
And in the Evening afterwards did come
Thorow the Port del Popolo to Rome;
Where what the holy week, and Easter could
To strangers view afford, I did behold:
Where that old Cities wonders I did view,
And all the many Marvels of the new.
Three weeks I there made my abode, and then
For Naples took my travels up agen:
Of all Frascati's Wonders had a sight,
And thence unto Velletri rode that night;
At Terrachina lay the next. Then through
The Kingdom pass'd at Mola, took a view
Of Old Gaeta, thence to Capua rode,
Where onely I dinners time abode.
So I to Naples came, where three weeks stay
Made me the wonders thereabouts survey.
I at Puzzolo was, there cross'd the Bay
(Fam'd for the bridge of proud Caligula)
To Baja, and that day a view did take
Of Aniana, and Avernus Lake.
The mortal Grott was in, and Sepulchre
Which murther'd Agrippina did interre:
Was in Sybilla's Cave, and on the Ground
Cal'd Vulcans Forge, yielding an hollow sound.
At Pausalip pass'd through that hollow path
Which Virgil for its primest Glory hath.
These and the rest beheld: One day got up
On evermore smoking Vesuvius top;
Vesuvius that two years before did throw
Such death and damage upon all below:
Which burnt up grass, and trees did make appear;
And Torre Griego that did stand too near.
Above three weeks I did at Naples stay,
Then (in a Galley) went to Genoa;
Which (in it) an Embassador did bear
To th'Cardinal Infante landed there,
Sent by the Vice-Roy to salute his hands,
Going t'be Governour oth' Netherlands.
I there remain'd but a few days, but found
A vessel that was for Marseilles bound;
I in it thither pass'd, but by the way
Did at Savona land, and dinner stay.
I at Marseilles but two dayes abode,
And the next after to Avignion rode.
I din'd at Orange, and lay at Vienne,
And so to Lyons did return agen,
There stai'd a day, or two; and then did ride
Unto Roana on the Loyers side:
About three days and nights along that streame
We went by Boat, till we to Briack came.
There we did leave the River, and next morne
Unto Mount-Argis did again return.
The morning after we from thence did go,
And lay that Night at pleasant Fountain-Bleau.
Thence we to Corbiel went, and (on the Seine)
To Paris thence by Boat did come again.
There I above two moneths then made a stay;
Save on Saint Dennis wonders spent a day.
After which time I went to Amiens,
There lay one night, and went to Calice thence.
As my stay serv'd, what ever was of Fame
Or note I visited where ere I came.
Four days I was in Calice, then cross'd over
The Sea in eight hours space, and came to Dover.

Encomiastick verses on several Books.

To my friend Mr. Thomas Randolph on his Play called the Entertainment, Printed by the name of the Muses Looking-Glass.

Some austere Cato's be that do not stick
To term all Poetry base that's Dramatick:
These contradict themselves; For bid them tell
How they like Poesie, and they'l answer well.
But as a stately Fabrick raised by
The curious Science of Geometrie,
If one side of the Machine perish, all
Participates with it a ruinous fall:
So they are enemies to Helicon,
That vow they love all Muses saving one.
Such supercilious humours I despise,
And like Thalia's harmless Comedies.
Thy entertainment had so good a Fate
That who soe're doth not admire thereat
Discloseth his own Ignorance; for no
True Moralist would be supposed thy foe.
In the pure Thespian Spring thou hast refin'd
Those harsh rude rules thy Author hath design'd:
And made those precepts which he did reherse
In heavy prose, to run in nimble verse.
The Stagarite will be slighted; who doth list
To read or see't becomes a Moralist:
And if his eyes and ears are worth thine Ore,
Learn more in two hours then two years before.
Thou hast my suffrage Friend; And I would fain
Be a Spectator of thy Scenes again.

To my friend Mr. Philip Massinger, on his Tragi-comedy called the Emperour of the East.

Suffer (my Friend) these lines to have the grace
That they may be a mole on Venus face:
There is no fault about thy book but this,
And it will shew how fair thine Emperour is.
Thou more then Poet! our Mercury, that art
Apollo's Messenger, and dost impart
His best expressions to our ears, live long
To purifie the slighted English Tongue.
That both the Nymphes of Tagus and of Po
May not henceforth despise our language so:
Nor could they do it if they ere had seen
The machless features of the Faery Queen;
Read Johnson, Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, or
Thy neat-lin'd pieces (skilful Massinger.)
Thou known, all the Castellians must confess
De Vega Carpio thy foil, and bless
His Language can translate thee, and the fine
Italian wits yield to this work of thine.
Were old Pythagoras alive again,
In thee he might finde reason to maintain
His Paradox, that Souls by transmigration
In divers bodies make their habitation:
And more; that all poetick Souls yet known
Are met in thee contracted into one.
This is a truth, not an applause; I am
One that at farthest distance view thy flame,
Yet dare pronounce, that were Apollo dead,
In thee his Poetry might all be read.
Forbear thy modesty: thy Emperours vein
Shall live admir'd, when Poets shall complain
It is a pattern of too high a reach,
And what great Phœbus might the muses teach.
Let it live therefore, and I dare be bold
To say, It with the world shall not grow old.

To my Friend Mr. Philip Massinger on his Tragi-comedy called the Maid of Honour.

Was not thine Emperour enough before
For thee to give, that thou dost give us more
I would be just but cannot; that I know
I did not slander, this I fear I do.
But pardon me if I offend; thy fire
Let equal poets praise whil'st I admire.
If any say that I enough have writ;
They are thy Foes, and envy at thy wit.
Believe not them nor me: they know thy Lines
Deserve applause, and speak against their mindes.
I out of Justice would commend thy Play:
But (Friend) forgive me, 'tis above my way.
One word, and I have done: and (from my heart)
Would I could speak the whole truth, not the part:
Because 'tis thine, It henceforth shall be said,
Not th'maid of honour, but the honour'd maid.

Of Mr. John Fletcher his Plays, and especially the Mad Lover.

Whil'st his well organ'd Body doth retreat
To it's first matter, and the formal heat
Triumphant fits in judgement to approve
Pieces above our Candor and our love;
Such as dare boldly venture to appear
Unto the curious eye, and Critick ear:
Lo! the Mad Lover in these various times
Is prest to life t'accuse us of our Crimes.
Whil'st Fletcher liv'd, who equal to him writ
Such lasting monuments of natural wit?
Others might draw their lines with sweat, like those
That with much pains a Garrison enclose,
Whil'st his sweet fluent vein did gently run
As uncontrol'd, and smoothly as the Sun.
After his Death our Theatres did make
Him in his own unequal'd Language speak:
And now (when all the Muses out of their
Approved modesty silent appear)
This Play of Fletchers braves the envious Light,
As wonder of our ears once, now our sight.
Three and fourfold blest Poet, who the lives
Of Poets and of Theatres survi'st!
A Groom or Ostler of some wit, may bring
His Pegasus to the Castalian Spring;
Boast he a Race ore the Pharsalian plain,
Or happy Tempe valley dares maintain;
Brag at one leap upon the double Cliffe
(Were it as high as monstrous Temariffe)
Of far renown'd Parnassus he will get,
And there t'amaze the world confirm his seat:
When our admired Fletcher vaunts not ought,
And slighted every thing he writ as nought;
Whil'st all our English wondring world (in's cause)
Made this great City eccho with applause:
Read him therefore all that can read, and those
That cannot, learn; If y'are not Learnings Foes,
And willfully resolved to refuse
The gentle Raptures of this happy Muse.
From thy great Constellation (noble Soul)
Look on this Kingdom, suffer not the whole
Spirit of Poesie retire to Heaven,
But make us entertain what thou hast given.
Earthquakes and thunder Diapasons make,
The Seas vast rore, and Irresistless shake
Of horrid winds a Sympathie compose;
So that in these there's musick in the close:
And (though they seem great discords in our ears)
The cause is not in them, but in our fears.
Granting them musick, how much sweeter's that
Mnemosyne's daughters voices do create?
Since Heaven, and earth, and Seas and air consent
To make an harmony (the Instrument
Their own agreeing selves) shall we refuse
The musick that the Deities do use?
Troy's ravish't Gamymed doth sing to Jove;
And Phœbus self playes on his Lyre above.
The Cretan Gods, or glorious men who will
Imitate right, must wonder at thy skill,
Best Poet of thy times! or he will prove
As mad, as thy brave Memnon was with love.

To my very good Friend Mr. Thomas Bancroft on his Works.

A done (my friend) lay pen and paper by,
Y'ave writ enough to reach eternity;
In soft Repose assume thy happy Sent
Among the Laureats to judge of wit:
Apollo now hath cal'd you to the Bench
For your sweet vein, and fluent eloquence;
Whose many works will all rare patterns stand,
And deathless Ornaments unto our Land,
Belov'd, admir'd and imitated by
All those great souls that honour poesie.
Against th'approch of thy last hour, when
He thee shall call from the abodes of men,
(In his own Quire (for thy exceeding Art)
Among renowned wits to sing a part)
Nor you, nor any friend need to prepare
Marble or brass a Pyramid to reare,
To thy continuall memory, nor with
A Mausoleum hope to make thee live:
All such materials time may devour,
But ore thy works shall never have a power.
While nimble Darwen Trent augments and while
The streams of Thames do glorifie our Isle,
And th'English tongue whiles any understand,
Thy lines shall be grace unto this Land.
Our Darbyshire (that never as I knew
Afforded us a Poet untill you)
You have redeem'd from obloquie, that it
Might boast of wooll, and lead, but not of wit.
Virgil (by's birth) to Mantua gave renown,
And sweet-tongu'd Ovid unto Sulmo town,
Catullus to Verona was a fame;
And you to Swarton will become the same.
Live then (my friend) immortally, and prove
Their envy that will not afford thee love.

To Mr. Humphry C. on his Poem entitled Loves Hawking Bag.

Sir, I applaud your enterprise, and say
Y'our undertaking was a bold assay:
But you have nobly don't, and we may read
A work that all old Poems doth exceed.
Avant you Grecian Mungrils, with your Scraps
Fal'n from blinde Homers, or did Hesiods chaps:
Musæus too (for all Scaligers cracking).
With Hero and Leander may be packing.
Virgil be gon! we hate thy slandrous tongue,
For doing the chast Queen of Carthage wrong.
Venusian Horace too hereafter may
Put up his pipes, and hearken to thy Lay.
Ovid, thy several witty Poems, all
From hence to Pontus into exile call.
Valerius Flaccus, hang thy Golden Fleece
Before some honest Tavern door in Greece.
Silius Italicus hence get thee far
With all the tumults of thy Punick war:
And Spanish Lucan quickly call away
Cæsar and Pompey to Pharsalia.
Statius thy Theban story leave to brag:
And listen all unto Loves-Hawking Bag.
Chaucer, we now commit thee to repose,
And care not for thy Romance of the Rose.
In thy grave at Saint Edmonds Bury, thy
Hector henceforth (Lydgate) may with thee ly;
Old Gower (in like manner) we despise,
Condemning him to silence for his Cryes.
And Spencer, all thy Knights may (from this time)
Go seek Adventures in another Clime.
These Poets were but Footposts that did come
Halting unto's, whom thou hast all outrun:
For Sol hath lent thee Pegasus the Nag,
To gallop to us with Loves-Hawking Bag;
And welcome (mighty Poet) that alone
Art fit to sit with Phœbus in his throne.

To Mr. James Stronge Bachelour, upon his wonderful Poem called Joanareidos.

What a fine piece of poetrie appears!
Such as hath not been seen these many years:
So strange for matter, and so strangly writ
That Joanareidos is matchless yet.
The Iliads and Odysses must give way,
And fam'd Ænæados yield up the day:
The high Austriados must also yield,
And Mortemeriados leave the field.
For where's that poet (all the world among)
That must not vail the bonnet to James Strong?
Thou bachelour of Arts, or rather bungler,
Or bachelour in life to whom the stronglier
(What else should move thee to commend thy sluts,
That might'st have spent thy time in cracking nuts,
Or looking birds-nests? or (what's best of these)
In eating butter'd cake, or tosted cheese)
Hail our James Strong! (Strong James!) whose every line
Draws like a cable all our wondring ey'ne,
And general applause from friends and foes,
And many strangers up and down (he trowes.)
O'tis a wondrous book; each word doth smell
As if't had something in it of a spell:
The lines are charming, and (if I guesse right)
They will bewitch women to scold and fight.
Old Robin Hood your western dames excel
Scarlet, and little John, and Adam Bell,
Clem of the Clough, and William Cloudeslee,
And all the out-laws of the Greenwood tree.
Had Guy of Warwicke, and the bold Sir Bevyes,
Stukely, and Jonny Armstrong made their levies
Of the most valiant Souldiers of their time,
And come to this siege, th'had been bet at Lime.
The Chubs in buff trembled, when (like to Turks)
The saw thy Joanes to rage upon the works,
They might have burnt their foes in piteous plight,
Had they but been their bed-fellows a night.
But oh! their fury was so rash, they kept
That fire within, for those they did protect:
So (for their zeal unto the Cause) perhaps
They pay'd them with a plaudite of claps.
Merciless then they were (there is no doubt)
That spar'd no friends within, nor foes without.
Nor within walls onely their valour lay,
But field too, as thy title page doth say:
And I believe their mettle they have shown
Under some Hedges, if the truth were known.
But I digress their power to relate,
It is a theme onely becomes thy pate.
I for thy pains (if such there can be found)
Wish thee one of thy Joanes, and that Joane sound;
That thou may'st lime her, and (on her) in time,
Beget a race of Joanes to fight for Lime.
O happy New-Inn-Hall! (where thou hadst luck
Such savoury dregs of poetry to suck)
For all will say it henceforth must excel
(For rhiming) Kates-Hall and Emanuel.
This Nation may report (upon their Oathes)
As Coriate did exceed for writing Prose;
So thou for penning an Heroick Song
Dost all surpass; In meeter being James Strong.

A Præludium to Mr. Richard Bromes Plays.

Then we shall still have Plays, and though they may
Not them in their full Glories yet display;
Yet we may please our selves by reading them,
Till a more noble Act this Act condemn.
Happy will that day be, which will advance
This Land from durt of precise Ignorance;
Distinguish moral vertue, and rich wit,
And graceful Action, from an unfit
Parenthesis of Coughes, and Hums and Haes,
Threshing of Cushions, and Tautologies:
Then the dull zelots shall give way, and fly,
Or be converted by bright Poesy;
Apollo may enlighten them, or els
In Scottish Grots they may conceal themselves.
Then shall learn'd Johnson reassume his Seat,
Revive the Phœnix by a second heat,
Create the Globe anew, and people it,
By those that flock to surfeit on his wit.
Judicious Beaumont, and th'ingenious soul
Of Fletcher too may move without control.
Shakespeare (most rich in humours) entertain
The crouded theatres with his happy vein.
D'avenant, and Massinger, and Sherly then
Shall be cri'd up again for famous men:
And the Dramatick Muse no longer prove
The peoples malice, but the peoples love.
Black, and White-Friars too shall flourish again,
Though here have been none since Queen Mary's reign:
Our theatres of lower note in those
More happy days shall scorn the rustick prose
Of a Jack-Pudding, and will please the Rout
With wit enough to bear their Credit out.
The Fortune will be lucky, see no more
Her Benches bare as they have stood before:
The Bull take Courage from applauses given,
To eccho to the Taurus in the heaven:
Lastly, Saint James may no Aversion show,
That Socks and Buskins tread his Stage below.
May this time quickly come, these days of bliss
Drive Ignorance down to the dark Abyss:
Then (with a justly attributed praise)
We'l change our faded Brome to deathless Bayes.

To my worthy, and learned Friend Mr. William Dugdale, upon his Warwickshire Illustrated.

They that have visited those forreign Lands
Whence Phœbus first our Hemisphere cōmands;
And they that have beheld those Climes, or Seas
Whence he removes to the Antipodes:
Have follow'd him his Circuit through, and been
In all those parts that day hath ever seen,
(Although their number surely is but few)
Have not (learn'd friend) travel'd so much as you;
Though in your study you have sat at home,
Without a mind about the world to rome.
Witnesse this so elaborate piece; how high
Have you oblig'd us by your Industry!
We may be careless of our fames, and slight
The pleasing trouble any books to write:
The Nobles and the Gentry (that have there
Concerne) shall live for ever in your Shire.
Our names shall be immortal, and when at
The period of inevitable fate
We do arrive, a poet needes not come
To grace an Herse with's Epicedium.
Marble and brass for tombes we now may spare,
And for an Epitaph forbear the Care:
For, for us all (unto our high content)
Your book will prove a lasting monument.
And such a work it is, that England must
Be proud of (if unto your merit just;)
A grace it will unto our Language be,
And Ornament to every Library.
No old, or modern rarity we boast,
Henceforth shall be in danger to be lost:
Your worthy book comes fortunately forth;
For it again hath builded Killingworth.
Maugre the rage of war or time to come
Aston shall flourish till the general doome:
And the Holts Progeny shall owe as much
Unto your lines, as him that made it such.
The Spires and walls of Coventry your pen
Hath built more lasting then the Hands of men.
The prospects of our noble seats you shall
Secure from any ruine may befall:
Our pleasant Warwick and her Castle (that
Surveyes the streams of Avon from her seat)
Your Labours more illustrious have made
Then all the Reparations they e're had.
Victorious Guy you have reviv'd, and he
Is now secure of Immortality.
Even my beloved Pooley that hath long
Groan'd underneath sinister fortunes wrong,
Your courteous eyes have look'd so kindly on,
That now it is to it's first splendor grown;
Shall slight times devastations, and o're
The banks of Anchor flourish evermore;
For there's such vertue in your powerful hand,
That every place you name shall ever stand.
The skilfullest Anatomist that yet
Upon an humane body e're did sit,
Did never so precisely show his Art,
As you have yours, in your Cornavian part:
You (in your way) do them in theirs exceed,
You make the dead to live, they spoil the dead.
Now Stratford upon Avon, we would choose
Thy gentle and ingenuous Shakespeare Muse,
(Were he among the living yet) to raise
T'our Antiquaries merit some just praise:
And sweet-tongu'd Drayton (that hath given renown.
Unto a poor (before) and obscure town,
Harsull) were he not fal'n into his tombe,
Would crown this work with an Encomium.
Our Warwick-shire the Heart of England is,
As you most evidently have prov'd by this;
Having it with more spirit dignifi'd,
Then all our English Counties are beside.
Hearts should be thankfull; therefore I obtrude
This testimony of my gratitude.
You do deserve more then we all can doe:
And so (most learned of my friends) Adieu.

To my learned friend Mr. Thomas Bancroft upon his Book of Satyres.

After a many works of divers kindes,
Your Muse to tread th'Aruncan path designes;
'Tis hard to write but Satyres in these dayes,
And yet to write good Satyres merits praise:
And such are yours, and such they will be found
By all clear Hearts, or penitent by their wound.
May you but understanding Readers meet,
And they will find your march on stedfast feet.
Although your honest hand seems not to stick
To search this Nations Ulcers to the quick,
Yet your Intent (with your Invective Strain)
Is but to lance, and then to cure again,
When all the putrid matter is drawn forth
That poisons precious Souls, & clouds their worth.
So old Petronius Arbiter appli'd
Corsives unto the age he did deride:
So Horace, Persius, Juvenal (among
Those ancient Romans) scourg'd the impious throng:
So Ariosto (in these later times)
Reprov'd his Italy for many crimes:
So learned Barclay let his Lashes fall
Heavy on some, to bring a cure to all.
So lately Withers (whom your Muse doth far
Transcend) did strike at things Irregular.
(But all in one t'include) So our prime wit
(In the too few short Satyres he hath writ)
Renowned Don hath so rebuk'd his times,
That he hath jear'd vice-lovers from their crimes.
Attended by your Satyres, mounted on
Your Muses Pegasus (my friend) be gone,
(As er'st the Lictors of the Romans went
With Rods and Axes (for the Punishment
Of Ill) born with them) that all vice may fly
(That dares not stand the Cure) when you draw nigh.

To my most honoured Cousin Mr. Charles Cotton the younger, upon his excellent Poems.

Bear back you Croud of Wits, that have so long
Been the prime Glory of the English tongue;
And room for our Arch-Poet make, and follow
His steps, as you would do your great Apollo:
Nor is he his Inferiour, for see
His Picture, and you'l say that this is he;
So young, and handsome both, so tress'd alike,
Thar curious Lilly, or most skil'd Vandike
Would prefer neither: Onely here's the odds,
This gives us better verse, then that the Gods.
Beware you Poets that (at distance) you
The reverence afford him that is due
Unto his mighty merit, and not dare
Your puny thrids with his lines to compare;
Lest (for so impious a pride) a worse
Then was Arachne's Fate, or Midas curse,
Posterity inflicts upon your fames,
For ventring to approch too near his Flames;
Whose all-commanding Muse disdains to be
Equal'd by any, in all Poesy.
As the presumptuous Son of Clymene
The Suns command importun'd for a day
Of his unwilling Father, and for so
Rash an attempt fell headlong into Po;
So you shall fall, or worse; not leave so much
As empty names, to show there once were such.
The Greek and Latine Language he commands,
So all that then was writ in both those Lands:
The French and the Italian he hath gain'd,
And all the wit that in them is contain'd:
So, if he pleases to translate a piece
From France, or Italy, Old Rome, or Greece,
The understanding Reader soon will find
It is the best of any of that kind;
But when he lets own rare Fancy loose
There is no flight so Noble as his Muse:
Treats he of War? Bellona doth advance,
And leads his March with her refulgent Lance:
Sings he of Love? Cupid about him lurks,
And Venus in her Chariot draws his works:
What e're his subject be, he'l make it fit
To live hereafter Emperour of wit.
He is the Muses Darling; All the Nine
Phœbus disclaim, and term him more Divine.
The wondrous Tasso that so long hath born
The sacred Laurel, shall remain forlorn:
Alonso de Ercilla that in strong
And mighty Lines hath Araucana song:
And Salust that the ancient Hebrew-story
Hath Poetiz'd, submit unto your Glory:
So the chief Swans of Tagus, Arne and Seine,
Must yield to Thames, and vail unto your streine.
Hail generous Magazin of Wit; you bright
Planet of Learning, dissipate the Night
Of Dulness, wherein us this Age involves,
And (from our Ignorance) redeem our soules.
A word at parting Sir, I could not choose
Thus to congratulate your happy Muse:
And (though I vilifie your worth) my zeal
(And so in mercy think) intended well.
The world wil find your Lines are great & stronge;
The Nihil Ultra of the English Tongue.

To my learned Friend Mr. Thomas Bancroft, on his Poem entituled the Heroick Lover.

From your retir'd abode in Bradley town
Welcome (my Friend) abroad to fair renown.
Nova Atlantis and Utopia you
Again expose unto the publick view
By your Heroick piece; unknown before
To all Mankind, but Bacon, and to More.
To the tripartite world Columbus er'st
The Western India discover'd first;
Yet after his more curious Survey
Vesputius much on's Glory took away,
By giving it his Name: So (though those two
Most learned Lords did first those countries shew)
You by your Antheon, and his fair delight
Far-sought Fidelta, skilfully unite
Utopia and Atlantis: what they two
Ow'd singly to their Pens, they both owe you.
Nor Belgium, Italy, nor France, nor Spain,
Nor Græcia, nor Sicilia could constrain
(With their most tempting Objects) your brave Knight
To yield submission to a false delight.
Although Sir Antheon did refrain to run
The monstrous Courses of the Knight o'th Sun,
(Whose Fablers so strange tales of him rehearse,
That such untruths never appear'd in'verse)
Those Countrey beauties he despis'd, and pelf;
Others o'recome others, but he himself:
And of all victories it is the best
To keep our own wilde appetites supprest.
Hereby his prowess he did most discover,
And hence you term him the Heroick Lover.
Your fair Fidelta did not range about
Utopian Cities to find Suitors out:
A free well-order'd house she kept, and there
Sir Antheon met with her, and married her.
Joy, or long life, I need not wish them either,
They in your Lines shall happy live for ever:
And you (for penning their high Epick Song)
With Laurel crown'd, shall live ith' Poets throng.

A MASQUE Presented at Bretbie in Darbyshire On Twelfth-Night. 1639.

The Prologue

To be spoken by whom the Masquers shall appoint.
To you great Lord, and you most excellent Lady,
And all this wel-met, wellcome Company,
Thus low I bow: And thank, that you will grace
Our rude Solemnities with such a presence.
The Lar Familiaris of the house being proud of so much and great Company, and glad of their free and noble Entertainment, appears to congratulate the hospitality of the Lord and Lady, and speaks these lines.
Better then I could wish! Superlative
To all relations, not examples now!
I've known the Houshold Gods of Rome & Greece,
And all the good Penates of fam'd Troy,
Heard what they could triumph in, of their Fates;
Tell jovial stories of the frolick Greeks,
And the great Banquets of fam'd Ilium;
Have been inform'd of Egypts glorious Feasts
To entertain the Courtly Anthony:
Yet was there or Necessity, or pride,
Or empty prodigality in all.
Here is a Course steer'd even, and voluntary;
And I rejoyce, as much as Ganymed,
Olympus Nectar, and Ambrosia Keeper.
Here I grow fat with plenty of all sorts
That either Seas, or Land, or Air can yield;
And here I live as well admir'd, as envi'd
By all the Lares of all other Places:
For there's a Constancie in my delights,
A blest Elyzium where I do not want
The tithe of any wish I ever thought.
The proudest Lares of the greatest Princes
May boast of state, and languish in a noise,
Whil'st here I live secure, and do enjoy
As much of every thing, but fears and dangers.
And may it last while Fate attends on time,
Until the supreme Deities of Heaven
Think you too worthy to adorn the earth,
And mean to fix you glorious Stars in Heaven:
And whiles there's air but to receive a Sound,
May your Names busie it to speak your praise,
Continue ever matchless, as you are
A Pair without Compare, and but a Pair.
A Satyre invited by the Loudness of the Musick, and the perpetual concourse of people to inform himself to what end all tended, comes boldly in, and meets with the Lar Familiaris.
Lar.
What means this bold Intrusion?

Sat.
Friend, forbear,
Though I was born ith'Woods, and rudely bred
Among the Salvages, I have a mind
Aspires the knowledge of great Princes Courts,
And to what end aimes all this jollity
In yours as well as others Palaces.

Lar.
Dost thou approch to censure our delights,
And nip them in the bud? Satyre! take heed
We'l hunt you hence through al the woods & launs,
And over all the brooks thine eyes have seen.

Sat.
You threaten more perhaps then you can do:
What art?

Lar.
I am this Palace Deity.

Sat.
I wish thou wert a Servant unto Pan,
Or any God that doth frequent the Fields.

Lar.
So would not I: I'm better as I am.

Sat.
Thy Ignorance bewitches thee to this:
Thou liv'st among all fears, all noise, all cares,
While I walk merry under heavens bright eye.
We in the Fields are free from any Sin
Against th'almighty Deities of Heaven:
We know no Law but natures; do not tremble
At Princes frowns; have neither fear nor hope;
And are content, a State the Gods exceed not.
You languish in a perpetuity
Of thoughts as unconfin'd as are your ends
You truly lavish all your faculties
In getting covetous wealth, which we contemn.
Your sleeps are starting, full of dreams and fears;
And ours as quiet as the Barks in Calmes.
The youthful spring makes us our Beds of flowers,
And heaven-bright summer washeth us in springs
As clear as any of your Mistress's eies:
The plenteous Autume doth enrich our Banquets
With earths most curious fruits, & they unbought:
The healthful Winter doth not pain our bones,
For we are arm'd for cold, and Heat in Nature.
We have no unkind loves in meads or fields,
That scorn our tears, or slight our amorous sighes.
Nor are we frantick with fond jealousie,
The greatest curse Iove could inflict on's Queen,
For all her curious search into his Life:
We in the woods esteem that Beast the stateliest
That hath his head the richliest spread with horns.
The Golden Age remains with us, so fam'd
By your Athenian and Roman Poets.
Thus we enjoy what all you strive to get
With all the boundless riches of your wit.

Lar.
Satyre! When I but say th'art Ignorant,
Thy flourishing Boast is answered at the full.

Sat.
But I desire a larger way.

Lar.
And take it.
Canst thou compare the Rags of nakedness
Before the studied dressings of these times?
And canst thou like a cold and stony Cave
Before the perfum'd Beds of Palaces?
Admire the Melancholie falls of waters,
Or whistling Musick of th'inconstant windes,
The chirping discords of the wanton Birds,
Above the Angel-voices of our Ladies,
And th'exquisite variety of Musick
Order'd to thousand several Instruments?
Content to cloy thy homely Appetite
With Crabs, and Slows, and Nuts, and rude mixt herbs,
Before the stately Banquets of the Great?
How canst thou like Beasts inarticulate voices
Above the Heaven-given eloquence of men?
Forsake the Woods (fond Satyre) and but try
The unthought difference 'twixt them and us.
The Hills are fit for Beasts: Converse with men,
And thou wilt never like thy Cause agen.

Sat.
Thou almost dost perswade me: but then I
Shall leave mine old, and honest Company.

Lar.
Thy new Ones shall exceed them. Her's a Butler
Wil give thee wine as rich as is thy blood:
And her's a Cook will clothe thy bones with flesh
As rich as was young Jason's Golden Fleece.

Sat.
Well: I will live with thee.

Lar.
And welcome Satyre.

Sat.
Spite of the Fates, and Grecia's best Protector,
I'le be Achilles, and o'recome by

The Cooks Name.

Hector.

Lar.
A resolution worthy thy Sylvanus.

Sat.
But for my last Farewell unto the Woods,
I'le shew you a wild Dance of nimble Satyres:
For we do dance as much as they that live
In Princes Courts, and Tissue-Palaces.

First Song.

You Satyres that in Woods
Have frozen up your bloods,
Advance your selves, and show
What great Pan's men can do;
Appear.
Here you had need beware,
And move as swift as Air:
These are not Sylvane Swaines,
But Courtly Lords and Dames
Sit here.

The Antimasque.

Satyres rudely but decently attired; stuck with Flowers, and Bayes-Chaplets on their heads, come in, and dance as many several Anticks, and in as many several shapes, as shall be necessary. Being ready to depart, two excellent youths in rich apparel, come striving in together; to whom the Lar speaks.
Lar.
What do you mean (sweet Boys) to interrupt
Our sports? I pray you leave your wrestling thus,
And do not strike your skins, too soft for blows.

1.
He would out-run me, and be kist before me.

2.
And he leave me among these dreadful Satyres.

Lar.
Whence come you?

1.
We both were left i'th woods, and tempted by
Such things as these to live abroad with them.

Lar.
What would you have?

1.
I would go to my Father.

2.
And I unto my Mother.

Lar.
Who is your Father?

1.
The ever honour'd Earl of Chesterfield,
Worthy of all his Titles by his vertues;
And full of Noble thoughts. A great maintainer
Of our great Grand-Fathers vertue, Hospitality:
The Feeder of the poor; whose Gate's so open,
It doth not need the Office of a Porter:
Whose House is now Delphian Apollo's seat:
For he's the Patron of all Arts and Wit.

Lar.
And who is your Mother, pretty One!

2.
She is the Countess to that Noble Lord;
A Lady worthy more then earth can give her:
Rich in those vertues make her Sex admir'd;
A fair exceeder of the best examples
That Greek or Roman stories e're produc'd:
Goddess of Tame, of Anchor, and of Trent.
She's such an one as hath none equal to her,
And therfore you may very easily know her.

Lar.
I know them both, and honor'd in my knowledge:
Sweet youth! yon'd is your Father, kiss his hand:
And that (fair little One) th'unequal'd Lady
You asked for: go, and beg a kiss of her.

Here the Lord of the House gives his hand to his Son, and the Countess kisses her Son. Then the Satyre speaks to his Companions.
Sat.
Fellows, since you have done, Farewel: I'le leave you
And all the rural Pastimes of the woods:
I like this noble Company so well,
That I hereafter here intend to dwel.

The Anti-Masquers depart: then the Lar Familiaris speaks to the Satyre.
Lar.
Now (Satyre) I will let thee see how far
The Palace-pleasures do exceed the Woods.

The Lar leads the Satyre to a curious bower, all deckt with the best and finest flowers of the season: and opens a wide entry into it, where sitting upon pleasant banks, full of the sweetest herbs and delicatest flowers, he discovers the Masquers: then presently invites them forth with this song.

Second song.

Here the Grand Masquers come forth; the Lady's drest like the ancient Goddesses; then the Lar speaks to the Satyre.
Lar.
Satyre sit, and observe a while alone:
For I do mean to mix with these in Dance.

Here they Dance what or as many Set-dances as they please, the Masquers being Men and Women, or onely Women: When they have danced all they intended, the Lar, or one of the Masquers invites the Spectator-Ladyes with this song to joyn with them.

Third song.

Here all the Company dance what they please, and while they please; when they leave, the Lar, or one of the Masquers, sings this to the spectator Ladyes, as they go from them.

Fourth song.

This being sung, the Masquers, the Lar Familiaris, and the Satyre, go into the Arbour, which closes on them.

An Epithalamium, design'd for the Nuptials of Sir Andrew Knyvegston my Wives Brother, and Mrs. Elizabeth Stanhope of Elveston my Cousin-german; Their Marriage prevented by her death.

Rise amorous Virgins, rise and dress
The Bride, her Groome's in readiness:
She wakes, and fain would call you from
Your Beds, but blushes; therefore come.
The early Bridesgroom swears he knowes
You dream't to night of pleasing Showes;
Of Hymen joyning willing hands
To be subjected to his bands;
Of Hymen joyning mutual hearts,
And Hymen joyning other Parts,
Or else you did not sleep at all,
For thinking what was to befall
To the fair Virgin, that to night
(Full of soft trembling, and delight)
Must a pure Maiden go to Bed
And rise without her Maidenhead.
But merry Lasses hast; It may
Be your own turn another day:
Attire her quickly, and while you
Are busied so laugh at her too;
And any of you would laugh to be
So happy, and so nigh as she.
Let her be drest as Juno, when
She tempted Jove, scorn'd mortal men:
As the bright Cyprian Queen, when she
Did first enthral War's Deitie:
As the delicious Memphian Dame
When she great Anthony o'recame,
Not by her Souldiers masteries,
But beams of her al-powerful eyes.
Now she is ready, stay a while,
And let us see her blush and smile:
May all the Genial powers Divine,
Most gentle sweet One, now combine
And shower and power upon you two
All that you can desire, they do.
But lead her out; Now go together
To be of two made one, or either:
You go divided, and alone,
But must return both of you One:
He must be hers not his, and she
Must not be hers, but his must be.
Now they do walk triumphant o're
Those fears that troubled them before;
And all their friends attendants by,
All joyful for this day of joy.
She studies not as she doth go,
How she again may answer No;
But unto every thing say I,
As all the Maides would that are by.
He happy man, soon to be blest,
Unto the Temple maketh hast:
And every minute hates that stands
Not 'twixt their hearts but 'twixt their hands.
Behold! they are arrived where
They will be placed in one Sphere,
To run through a most glorious Life
Of Love; most blessed Man and Wife.
Th'Amazed Priest when he espies
The radiant beauties of her eyes,
Cannot believ't the Bride to be,
But an Immortal Deitie
Descended from Olympus Top,
Where they all drink in Hebe's Cup;
Or Cytheræa Queen of love,
Or the chast daughter of high Jove,
The new Solemnities to grace,
Or on the youthful Pair to gaze.
But when he's satisfi'd 'tis she,
He looks no more for fear that he
His heart should deep enthral in love,
Past any hope of a remove.
When both are willing and past woing,
No Marriage can be long a doing:
The Parson asks, and they Consent,
Both eager of their own Content;
Though now and then he smiles, and she
Doth blush to think what soon must be.
Now all is done that's to be done
Within the Church, and they are One;
The Bride-men wish all joy betide
Unto the glad and bashful Bride;
And the Bride-maides do bid the like
To him: which he expects at night.
At their Return (with all the prayers
Of all their Friends for happy years)
A Sumptuous Dinner doth invite
All to't with different Appetite.
Most sit to feed their covetous eyes
With the Brides matchless delicacies:
No other Object can remove
Their looks, and many rose in love,
Some old cold few, and their neer kin
Eat well, and many healths begin
To both their future days of joy,
And the soon getting of a Boy:
Such healths do often make her spred
Her beauteous face with sudden red;
For Virgins often blush to hear
Those things they long for, and love dear.
All Dinner-while a fine-voic'st Boy
Sings many a Song, and many a Toy
Of Love, and of lost Maiden heads,
And all the joyes of Marriage-Beds.
The Bridegroom happiest man of all
May safely take survey (and fall
Into no danger) of the sweet
Delicious Bride; and she doth meet
His every look, and every smile,
And blushes for't all dinner-while.
She is asham'd to look therefore;
And loves so she cannot give o're;
On fire and fire again they set
Their hearts, but careless are of it:
They know the night will come, and then
Th'are sure to cool themselves agen.
Dinner being done, the afternoon
Is tedious in regard of soon;
Yet with variety worn away
Of sports belonging to that day.
They dance, and the fair Bride doth move
In conjuring circles of sweet Love:
She treads so evenly as she meant
To make the ground an Instrument;
And sends up sounds so soft and rare,
Angels might dance unto that Aire.
The Bridegroom's blest by every tongue
Of all the merry various thronge,
To be an Owner of that One,
Whose equal they have never known:
And she is counted happy too,
To be belov'd by him, so true
To her, and worthy unto all,
Both blest in equal Nuptial.
He now dares boldly kiss, and oft
Doth give her hard ones; she him soft.
She is his own, and no delight
He wants, but what will come at night.
Though she's asham'd when he doth kiss,
She's not content when he doth miss.
And thus the Afternoon being spent,
Time draws then nearer their content;
They go to Supper, not to eat,
But both to be reveng'd on meat:
Because, till that be done they know
To bed they must not, cannot go.
Supper being finish't (and indeed
Too much time, knowing what's to succeed)
The fearfull Virgin's lead away
Trembling at what she would assay;
And her undresses tell next morn,
What she must rise, yet wish her turn:
And lay her in a bed so sweet,
Jove would come down to't, did he see't;
Where lies a jewel of richer use
Then either India can produce.
The first assault she wisheth done;
And he that it was but begun:
What between smiles and fears, she lies
In the tru'st posture to entice:
And scarce dares see who looks upon her,
Thinking her honour her dishonour.
Her Bed doth seem the bower of bliss,
Where every sweet and pleasure is:
Her eyes two Lights divine, to smile
On all, and comfort them the while:
Her delicate hair (that's onely found
Upon her Cheeks) a net on ground
Of purest Marble, set to take
Not onely Mars, but all that make
On high Olympus top abode;
Even every stern, and gentler God,
Her Lips the twins of Loveliness,
Like roses on a bank, that bless
The eyes of all the lookers on;
From whence a Zephyrus doth come,
So sweet, and calm, as it would soon
Turn every thing into perfume.
The pleasant Garden of Delight,
Her cheeks mantled with red and white,
Seem like the early morning, e're
The Sun comes in our Hemisphere.
The Stately Column of her Neck,
Is onely worthy to protect
Beauties rich Palace, her fair head,
As smooth as Ivory polished.
She was in bed, and we no more
Could see of all her wondrous store.
Now comes the Bridegroom, now so blest,
His onely miserie's not undrest:
He helps, and they do help him streight;
(Few Men do linger on this night.)
Who soon stands in his Shirt, whil'st she
Doth hide her Face, asham'd to see:
But by her side he's quickly laid
And kisses the fair bashful Maid.
When they hop'd all would leave the Room,
The Bridal Posset in doth come:
A Ceremony he exclaimes
Unfit for Hymens youthful flames,
And all the company prayes, (If we
Must eat it) let it our breakfast be:
And many thought the Virgin kind
Was also of her Bridegroom's mind.
The Company laugh'd, and said 'Twas just
For him to do as others must:
There is no help, he doth obey,
And eats to get them soon away.
The Posset being done, they wish
Goodnight, and leave them to their bliss.
Now he and she are equally
Blest, and possest both of their joy:
And Innocent Love his Part doth play,
And recompences long delay.
Love's is no Coward Fight, although
A Friend meets Friend, and Foe not Foe;
It is a battel sweet, not cruel,
And yet an even and naked duel:
No timorous giving back, yet strife
Perpetual 'twixt man and wife.
As Nilus in one channel bound,
Runs long through Egypts fertile Ground,
And yet at last into seven Currents
Divides his swift and plenteous Torrents,
And separated so runs on
Till it mix with the Ocean:
So, happy Pair, I wish may prove
Your fruitful and auspicious Love;
May you pass through a fortunate
And glorious Life, and know no fate
Sinister whiles you live; and from
Your Loves an hopeful Off-spring come,
That may grow great, and equal good
As you are now! and as their blood:
To honours highest Zenith climbe,
And fix there till the end of time.
As this, I wish full of delight
To you all nights; and so goodnight.

EPIGRAMS

The first Book.

1. To the Right Honourable Philip Earl of Chesterfield, Baron of Shelford, &c. My Uncle.

My Lord, you are my Patron; and I'le tell
The reason why, then judge if I do well:
None of these Epigrams are worth a rush;
And naughty Wine doth need a gallant bush.

2. To the Reader.

Though (Generous Reader) now and then I write
Verses that justly may appear too light:
Yet on my word (and you may credit me)
In jest I make them for varietie;
And do protest to all censorious men;
They flow not from my heart, but from my Pen.

3. To Chloris.

What a beginning is, you fain would know,
And it therefore unto you thus I show:
You are exceeding naught; be good, and so
Of a beginning you example show.

4. To Mr. William Turner.

School-fellows when we (Friend) together were,
The verses that I writ you lov'd to hear:
Soon as I can I will requite the same;
In the mean while receive this Epigram.
But this is nothing you reply: In troth,
And your applauses then were little worth.

5. To my Cousin germane Mrs. Olive Cotton.

Suspicion, Grief, Disdain: Fame, Beauty, Truth,
Wrongeth, consumes begets: keeps, wounds, indueth
Friendship, life, hatred: deeds, the mind, the best.
You want the first three, and enjoy the rest:
Suspicion hate, shun grief, abhor disdain,
Love fame, keep beauty, and in truth remain.

6. To my worthy Friend Mr. Harbert Aston.

When we at Chenie School together were,
I knew you often to abuse a Boy,
Whom, when he did to you for pity cry,
You beat the more; but good Sir! Do you hear!
Is not this true, when he to you did mone
Did he not then lament unto Aston?

7. Of my self, when I was motion'd to a Judges Daughter.

I hate to lacquey humours, and detest
Some things as vile, though others think them best.
I must not lose my freedom for a face
I cannot dote on; nor refrain that place
Nor company I like; think Poets poor,
Of Captains too prejudicately, endure
No sight of Wine, judge Playes unlawful be;
A fraudulent shadow men can onely see.
Hypocrisie I do abhor; and woo'd
My Life should be chearful as well as good.
I know I have spies on me, but I slight
Their vigilancie, and dare take my delight.
I may obtain another Mistress, know
No such constraints for her, nor undergo
Censure for things I should do: I prefer
My liberty, and friends much above her:
Not that I do dislike that beauty; so
I should erre foully from a truth I know.

8. Of my staying Supper with my Cousin Mrs. Olive Cotton.

If that the Seas were gentle, there would be
No violent Tides, waters would run as free
When they mix with the Ocean, as at first
When out of their original rocks they burst,
If that the winds were quiet, and would stay
Enclos'd in rocks under their Sovereigns sway;
The frighted Lilly would as firmly grow
As the great'st-bodied Beach, and never bow.
If that wise Fate had not appointed what
Our lives should aim to either this or that;
Rebellious man would make his will his rule
To live by, and his Soul his body's fool.
I meant not to have stai'd: but must relate,
Ladies do what they please like Seas, Winds, Fate.

9. An Epitaph on my younger Brother Mr. Thomas Cokaine, who died at Bath about the 18th year of his age, and lyes there Buried.

Passenger stay, and (though thou art
Of Flint) weep e're thou dost depart:
For underneath this stone lies he
Who was Heavens Epitome.
Mourn, if thy Friend, that he did take
His slight so soon, and thee forsake:
Or (if a stranger to his worth)
That he unknown to thee went forth.
What old men are so long about,
He learn't to do e're he went out;
The Art of dying well: And so
May all by him. Now thou mai'st go.

10. To Mr. John Honyman.

On hopefull youth, and let thy happy strain
Redeem the Glory of the Stage again:
Lessen the Loss of Shakespeares death by thy
Successful Pen, and fortunate phantasie.
He did not onely write but act; And so
Thou dost not onely act, but writest too:
Between you there no difference appears
But what may be made up with equal years.
This is my Suffrage, and I scorn my Pen
Should crown the heads of undeserving men.

11. Of Love.

Heroick Cæsar that did overcome
So many Nations, triumphed in Rome,
Was by a Lady's eye captived so
That amorously he did both court and woe;
And never quiet was till he enjoy'd
Fair Cleopatra her young brothers bride:
Illustrious Anthony did leave the Care
To be Romes Emperour, and forsook the War,
Left all his Souldiers in a doubtful Fight,
And on the Seas pursued his fled delight.
Since such great mindes by Love enthralled be,
Wherefore, alas! wonders the world if we?
May married couples lawfully enjoy
The Sweetes of Love till they themselves do cloy,
And must the rest their censures undergo
For the same thing which they so often do?
We must not have fruition where we woo'd,
But onely there where we do know 'tis good.
A circumstance doth make a thing unjust:
For th'chastest Love is but a Lawful Lust.

12. To young Maides, translated out the 3. lib. De Arte Amandi.

Think often on old Age, and it's decayes,
And so you will not lose your flourishing dayes.
Whil'st you enjoy fit years, young wenches, play:
For years like speedy waters steal away.
Past streams will never be cal'd back again:
Nor will an hour return, though spent in vain.
Use youth, for it quickly away doth pass,
And time to come's not as the former was.
Thus far the Roman Poet. But alas
That book the cause of his exilement was:
And (if you follow the advise h'ath given)
'Twil work you a worse banishment from Heaven.

13. To Plautia.

Away (fond thing) tempt me no more;
I'le not be won with all thy store.
I can behold thy golden hair,
And for the owner nothing care:
Thy Starry eyes can look upon,
And be mine own when I have done:
Thy cherry ruby lips can kiss,
And for fruition never wish:
Can view the Garden of thy cheeks,
And slight the roses there as leeks:
Can hear thee sing with all thine Art,
Without enthralling of mine heart:
My Liberty thou canst not wrong
With all the Magick of thy tongue:
Thy warm Snow-breasts and I can see,
And neither sigh nor wish for thee:
Behold thy feet, which we do bless
For bearing so much happiness;
Yet they at all should not destroy
My strong preserved Liberty:
Could see thee naked as at first
Our Parents were when both uncur'st;
And with my busie searching eyes
View strictly thy hid rarities;
Yet after such a free survey,
From thee no Lover go away.
For thou art false, and wilt be so,
I else no other fair would wo.
Away therefore, tempt me no more,
I'le not be won with all thy store.

14. Of my Mistress, written at Venice.

I thought when I was far remov'd,
My Mistress I should not have lov'd;
But having seen another Fair
(As in all Cities Beauties are)
My former passions should forget,
And here a new affection set.
But Venice, though fam'd every where
For matchless Ladies; cannot bear
My thoughts from her whom I unkind
(Though she the cause) have left behind.
Had she not been a cruel One,
But lov'd, I then had stai'd at home:
And be she far more harsher then
Tigers half starv'd, or salvage men;
Abroad she shall not kill me, I
In my own Countrey will go die;
And vow some true friend to engrave
Upon my Stone this Epitaph:
Here lies the Man, whose faith him slew;
Who still had liv'd if been untrue.

15. To Mrs. Mary Coke, an Acrostick.

16. To my Uncle Sir John Stanhope, an Acrostick.

17. Of my Mistress.

I love a Lass, whose eyes are Stars Divine;
Whose teeth are pearls set in a ruby line;
Whose mouth's a sacred spell, and doth encharm
Her coldest hearers hearts, and makes them warm;
Whose hairs are curls of God, and can compel
The God of Love himself to love her well.
But be she cruel; would here eyes were not
Such Heavenly Stars, that they might be forgot;
Would her teeth were not pearls, but far from fair,
That I for them at all might nothing care;
Would her mouth were an homely one, and all
Her hair would change the curious hew, or fall:
For if my Mistress force me to despair,
I cannot choose but wish she were not fair.

18. To my Cousin Mr. Charles Cotton, an Acrostick.

19. To my very good Friend and Cousin Mr. Roger King.

I love, and so do you; but know you whom?
Faith that same party best that first doth come:
And my love is as constant as her stay;
Why should I love her when she goes away?
If you are of the same mind, we are then
Two constant Lovers though not constant men.
We both are still in love, but fix not; for
We the new Object evermore preferr:
And that affection surely is most wise
That comes not from the heart, but from the eyes.

20. To Thalia.

Weep out thine eyes (Thalia!) why are they
Unmelted yet into an Inland-Sea?
Drown all thy slanderers with them; such as dare
Affirm thee guilty, and thy name not fair:
Or rather scorn their Ignorance that frame
Unworthy Calumnies against thy Name.
Mnemosyne, thou mother of the maides,
And you sweet Sisters that in Ascra shades
(Retired from the troubles of the Earth)
To many a lasting verse give fortunate birth;
Do'st not offend you that the Comick Muse
Should suffer such affronts, and high abuse?
Because that I frequent the thronged Stage,
I'm censur'd by the malice of this Age
Of Levity; but I despise the frowns
Of rigid Cato's, and the hiss of Clowns.
Illiterate Fools may please their gluttonous tast
At dinner with some Epicure-Lord, and wast
Their precious dayes in riot; whil'st I feed
Mine ears with all the wit these Times do breed.
Sing loud, Thalia! Noble Souls will love
To see thy Servants in their Socks to move:
And may their ends be Tragical that hate
The harmless mirth thy Comedies create.
I do profess I'm one that do admire
Each word refin'd in true Poetick fire:
And do approve of natural action, where
Fables seem as true passages they were:
And love our Theatres of worth, where we
May thee in all thy several dresses see.

21. An Epitaph on my dear Cousin German Mrs. Elizabeth Stanhope, who died at Elveston about the 20th year of her age, and lies there buried.

Here lies a Virgin, and (in stead
Of losing of her Maiden-head;
For she should soon have been a wife)
Bereaved of a noble Life:
Stanhopes lament, and Ratcliffes mourn
Before her sad untimely Urne.
But such a sorrow is too slight
For cause of so extreme a weight;
Droop Elveston, and Darbyshire,
No Green, but black perpetual wear:
May April showers to Heavens tears turning,
Make all May-flowers spring up in mourning.
Weep all that ever knew her, or
Rather all that have heard of her.
For trivial Deaths let's mourning wear
Of black, for her of cloth of hair:
Or let us senseless clothes despise,
And show our sadness in our eyes.
Let's melt our hearts though they be stones,
And weep our eyes to Diamonds.
Which (being touch'd by deaths cold hand)
Congeal'd may on her Marble stand.
Any discourse let us detest;
For sighs and grones express us best.
But who is this that we in such
A sorrow must lament so much?
Elizabeth Stanhope; now you know,
Go mourn until you die for wo.

22. An Epitaph on my dear sister the Lady Boteler, who deceased about the 34th year of her Age.

Here lies the Lady Boteler, who ran through
Two States of Life, and both of them so true
And just were known to all that knew her, that
Her, her survivers all may imitate.
The Virgin, and the matrimonial life
She blest with her example: And so rise
Her memory doth flourish, that it can
Not die, while there on earth lives one good man.
Cokaine her own name was: Elveston gave
Her Life, Tutburie death, Ashbourn a Grave.

33. To Lesbia.

I thank you (Lesbia) for your lips, and smiles,
Your pretty courtship, and your amorous Wiles.
Her breath was sweet as Venus bower of bliss,
Her joyes uncounterfeit, and not remiss;
Her skin was smooth as calmest summers day,
And warm as are the temperate Noons in May:
Her mind was willing, and her body laid
In th'truest Garbe to tempt who durst invade.
There wanted nothing to complete our joyes,
Had not the house been liable to spies;
For I do value more a Ladies fame,
Then satisfaction of my highest flame.
Thus much in jest, now to speak truth is time;
I'm glad we parted, and escap'd the Crime.

24. An Epitaph on a great sleeper.

Here lies a great Sleeper, as every body knows,
Whose Soul would not care if his body ne're rose.
The business of life he hated, and chose
To die for his ease for his better repose;
And 'tis believ'd when the last trump doth wake him,
Had the Devil a bed, he would pray him to take him.

25. An Epitaph on a great Wencher.

Here lies a great Wencher, and dead I dare swear,
For were he alive an whore would be here.

26. To my honoured Friend Mr. Marmaduke Wyvel.

Sir, I have ever honour'd you, and do
Owe all fair service I can pay to you:
But (Friend) I owe you more then this, yet shall
(With all the speed that may be) absolve all.

27. An Epitaph on Mrs. M. H.

Here lies a body whose soul went hence
Fuller of Glory then Innocence:
What her life wanted to make high
Her worth, she wrought when she did die:
And now when all her fight is done,
Her Foes must say that she hath won.
Let her faults perish with her breath,
And none think of her life, but death.

28. To Mr. Nathaniel Hazard and his Wife, on their Marriage.

Blest Pair Goodnight! The Prologue now is done:
Your wooing's past, and both of you are won.
The sweets of Love remain, the Play's behinde,
To yield delight to a long longing minde.
May all fair fortune crown your happy Lives,
You out-love husbands, and she out-love wives.
May every night and day, and day and night;
And hour and minute be to you delight.
May all my wishes prosper, and may you
Never repent y'are one, and wish you two:
And (for your Epilogue) when you return
To earth, may all that know you for you mourn.

29. To Corinna.

Why (excellent Corinna) do you throw
Your gold away for durt to lay on snow?
For so, compar'd unto your whiter skin,
The Linen is you veil your body in:
For like a Diamond taken from a rock
You would appear unclouded of your smock.

30. Of Lycoris.

Beauty and Honour are great names; and they
Here and hereafter differ many a way.
Beauty half Age destroyes; and none can be
Enamour'd on the fair'st Anatome.
Immaculate Honour easily disperses
All Cloudes that hover o're Heroes Heirses.
Beauty triumpheth over humane kind,
And mighty Love enthrones in every mind.
Honour disdains base Actions, and would have
A noble life to be our Epitaph.
The fair Lycoris doth desire a long
And flourishing Spring of beauty, ever young;
Her many years to wear away in mirth,
And Heavens epitome to have on earth:
Her dayes in musick, and in feasts; and nights
(Between her lovers Armes) in soft delights;
But with so cunning Carriage to enjoy
This momentary false felicity,
As to deceive the curious world, that for't
She every where may have a fair report:
And that (when she enters the Grave's descent)
Honour may fix upon her Monument.

31. Of Mary a Chambermaid.

Mary a Chambermaid, a brown-eyde Lass
Complain'd that she all day in labour was;
I laugh'd at her simplicity, and said,
Surely at Night then you'l be brought to bed.

32. Of Katherine, a Kitchen-wench.

Katherine a Kitchen-wench merrily said
That lame men were the best to please a maid:
I ask'd her why? She wittily repli'd,
They that have Legs defective love to ride.

33. Of the Infamie of his Mistress. Tibull. Lib. 4.

Of falshood Fame my Mistress doth accuse:
Would I were deaf, and could not hear the newes.
This is not forged without my unease:
Why dost thou vex me? cruel Rumour, peace.

34. To Apollo, Ausonius Gallus.

Phœbus thy Bow and Arrows hide; for she
Thy weapons fears, but doth not fly from thee.

35. To my Cousin Mr. Charles Cotton.

Pardon my boldness (Cousin) that defames
Your name among my trivial Epigrams:
Yet I before have sometimes us'd you thus;
For in my Eclogues you are Tityrus.

36. Of Chaucer.

Our good old Chaucer some despise: and why?
Because say they he writeth barbarously.
Blame him not (Ignorants) but your selves, that do
Not at these years your native language know.

37. Of Edmond Spencer.

Our Spencer was a Prodigie of wit,
Who hath the Fairy Queen so stately writ:
Yield Grecian Poets to his Nobler Style;
And ancient Rome submit unto our I'le.
You modern wits of all the four-fold earth (worth)
(Whom Princes have made Laureates for your
Give our great Spencer place, who hath out-song
Phœbus himself with all his Learned Throng.

38. To my Noble Cousin Colonel Ralph Sneyde.

When the last spring I came to Keel, and found
Old Hospitality on English Ground,
I wonder'd: and (Great Sydney) did prefer
My Sneyde superiour to thy Kalander.
All things are neat, and Jovial Plenty keepes
Continual Festivals by years, not weekes:
He good decai'd House-keeping doth revive,
And doth preserve our English Fame alive.
So liv'd our worthy Ancestours, and so
May you till you the oldest Man may grow
Within the Land; and ripe for heaven go hence,
Bemon'd as far as known. Poets th'expence
Of time and paper both may save that day,
The Poor your lasting'st epitaph will say.

39. Of Farmo.

Farmo one afternoon was drunk extreamly,
Wherein he curs'd, and swore, & ly'd, not meanly.
One ask'd him whence (when he had's wits again)
So many vices did proceed, so vain?
Marry (quoth he) as I do truly think,
They came not from my heart, but from my drink.

40. Of Ovids Banishment.

The secret cause of Ovids sad mischance
Was seeing or being seen in dalliance.
They that dare act that vice should choose their time,
And not add scandal also to the crime.

41. To Mr. Thomas Bancroft.

Sir, in your Epigrams you did me grace
T'allow me 'mong your many Friends a Place:
T'express my gratitude (if Time will be
After my death so courteous to me,
As to vouchsafe some few years to my name)
Freely enjoy with me my utmost Fame.

42. To the Lady Elizabeth Darcy, my Cousin German.

Madam, the greatest Ladies of past Times
Kind Influences upon Poets rhimes
Have from their gracious eyes bestow'd, and made
Them Heaven with their Inventions to invade.
As the Pelignan Poet honour'd by
The supreme Princess of sweet Italy,
Who singing her (under Corinna's Name)
Fill'd the whole Roman Empire with her Fame;
Which having spread from his immortal verse,
Is now renown'd through all the Universe.
And (Madam) you will do your self no wrong
T'encourage a good Poet in his Song;
And to your mercy you no Injury do,
If you forgive this toy I've sent to you.

43. To my worthy Friend Colonel Edward Stamford.

Great-soul'd Achilles was a noble Friend;
Hector for valour every where renown'd;
Thousands the bounteous Cæsar did commend;
Antonius the best natur'd man was found.
What need I search for more in Rome or Greece?
You (in you) have the vertues of all these.

44. To my Cousin German Mrs. Cordelia Harryes.

When as in Cornwall at Powlmaggon, I
Enjoy'd that sweet retired Companie.
Methought that house afforded all the bliss
Poets can feign there in Elysium is.
My Lord and Lady (blest in wedlock) led
Their dayes in as much quiet as in bed
They spent their Nights; fit couple t'entertain
Hermes and Jove, walk't they on earth again:
And their House to be made a Temple, where
Concor'd and peace triumphed all the year.
But old Philemon and his reverened wife
Led a most poor though a contented Life.
My Lord Mohun liv'd in a plenteous wise,
Able to feast the wandring Deities.
You and your Sisters Graces seem'd to grace
Your Parents firm Affection, and the Place.
So live the blest, and best: and so may I,
While you a more transcendent Life enjoy.

45. To Lydia.

You boast that you are beautiful, and wear
A several rich Gown every week i'th'year;
That every day new Servants you do win:
But yet no vertue have to glory in.
One of less beauty and less bravery, and
Servantless, sooner should my heart command.
Beauty will fade, and ruines leave behind;
Give me the lasting beauty of the mind.
Servants and clothes are the Enammel oft
Of bodies too luxurious and soft.
Leave vaunting (Lydia) therefore till you can
Speak one true vertue, and I'le hear you then.

46. Of a Room in an Ale-house that we call the Apollo.

This Room with Mirth and jests we hallow
Unto the Deity of Apollo:
And (although here we do want Wine
To consecrate before his Shrine,
To absent Friends) we do prevail
In plenteous Pots of mighty Ale:
Such as it seemes great Dis did love,
Who Ceres daughter from above
Did steal; such drink as will constrain
Ceas'd Oracles to speak again;
And noble Spirits will infuse
Into the poor'st and humblest Muse:
And Men in all the humours dress
Of Ovids Metamorphosis.
An Ant by drinking this is grown
To be a lusty Mirmydon:
The rustick Numa it will bring
From Plow, and make him Rome's great King:
Desire in coldest bosomes move,
Quickning Pygmalion's marble Love:
Against Troy's Conquerours combine,
And turn the victours into Swine.
Then welcome all that hate the Folly
Of Solitary Melancholy,
Love mirth and jests, and mean to hallow
This Room unto the great Apollo.

47. Of Delia.

Talking with Delia I did perceive
A natural Perfume in her fragrant breath;
And could not choose but gather many a kiss
From her sweet lips, Portcullisies of bliss.
Like a Chamelion I could live, and spare
All other things to feed upon that air.

48. Ca. Germanici Augusti Epigramma de Puero Thracensi.

A Thracian Boy on frozen Hebrus plai'd,
Till with his weight a breach i'th Ice he made,
Which from his body cut his tender head,
The rest being by the Waters swallowed.
His Mother sigh'd (bestowing 't in an Urne)
That I brought forth for waters, this to burn.

49. Of Cajus Germanicus Augustus.

Germanicus was Drusus Son, o'th high
And the illustrious Claudian Family;
An eminent Poet; to whom Ovid sent
His Roman Kalander from Banishment.
His Cousin Agrippina was his Wife,
By whom he many children had. His life
(At thirty four years age in Antioch)
Tiberius (by poyson) from him took.
Of all his many Poems nothing came
Unto our Times, but that one Epigram.

50. To my very good Friend Mr. Francis Lenton.

Sir, many years ago when you and I
Frequently kept together company
With Master Lightwood, and my Noble Brother
Sir Andrew Knyveton, and some few such other;
Tom Lightwood made each following Anagram
(Which I illustrated) upon your name,
While (at the Fleece in Covent Garden) we
Drank roundly Sack in Rosen Cans, and free.
There all was done in jest, and so was took:
Pray laugh at them again now in this book.

51. Francis Lenton Poet. Anagram. Fil-pot Rosen Canne.

Filpot! What Pot? A Rosen Canne:
Who shall? Frank Lenton shall, that man.
But must he then turn Tapster? No,
But fill for him he drinks unto.
He (like a small Wit) scorns to put
My Friends health in a little Cup,
But (like a Generous valiant man)
His smal'st health drinks in a whole Can:
But Poets Drink is surely Wine;
No Ale-house trash makes men Divine.
Why then Filpot, and Rosen Can,
Except he be a Malt-drink-man?
He's nothing less; Glasses being small,
In Cans he doth drink Sack to all.
His Anagram is true, and so
His sack doth him true Poet show:
He therefore is a Gallant man,
And owneth Filpot Rosen Can.

52. Francis Lenton. Anagram. Nann Colts fire.

Nann Colts Fire, That is Love: For Love's a Flame;
But sure Nann Colt then is some curious Dame.
It may be not: For he may carry perhaps
Nann Colts fire in his Breeches, have her claps.
Then Nann Colt is unsound, and likely he,
Why should he fresher then his Mistress be?
Nann Colts fire once did burn his heart: but lo!
It now hath setled in a place below.
I thought that Poets Wits should be of fire,
And not their bodies; that flames did aspire.
Art thou burnt Frank? Be not dejected; so
Many a Quart of Wine hath been you know,
And yet the better for't; and so mai'st thou
By leaving her upon a solemn vow.
But thou may'st be her fire another way,
The Man that doth her heart and passions sway:
A goodly fortune, to express desire,
To have thy brains distil'd by Nann Colts fire!

53. To the World, of Nan Colt.

If there be Lady that this Name doth own,
Or (of inferiour condition)
A Woman in the world; world! witness bear
We did not mean (by this) to injure her:
We knew none such, he found it in his name,
And (thus much said) I hope w'are free from blame.

54. To Mr. Francis Lenton, refusing wine.

Dost thou endeavour (Franke) to leave thy drink
That made thee such high raptures write & think?
Or art a weary of the Muses? for
What els could make thee Phœbus Sack abhor?
It is our grief, our mourning, and thy shame,
That the Queenes Poet, and a man of name,
Should drive Apollo from his breast with a
Fine glass of six shillings, or a dish of Whey.
Redress our sorrows, and return again
To wine, and make thy head like Charles his wain.

55. Francis Lenton. Anagram. Not Nel; Cis, Fran.

Not Nel, for she is fair and sound and sweet;
But Cis, for she's as common as a street.
Why should a Poet that can drink base drink,
After a Lady that's deserving think?
Or why should you, because your Characters
Are good, expect a Mistress like the Stars?
Because your Anagrams are rich to you,
Would you a Mistress rich in beauty too?
Not Nel; Cis (Fran) is thine, and use her well,
That's make her tympanous belly rightly swell.
Blame not thy fortune but thine eyes; or sure
Some dark nights sport behind, or 'gainst a dore.
What though she be decai'd like wither'd rose?
She is no ancienter then her best clothes.
You'l say this Anagram is naught: but shew
Your reason, for we all do know it true.
However 'tis unfortunate, you'l say:
For Poets Loves should be as bright as day.
It is your name (good Fran) doth tell she's foul,
And makes the world acquainted with her soul.
But you will ask, why may not Cis be fair,
And Nel the homely One beneath compare?
This will not help you Fran: for Nel is known
Famous for beauty, witness Sparta Town:
And Cis is yet, and hath been ever since,
A common name for every Kitchen-wench.
You must be patient therefore, and may thank
Your name for this fine beast; Not Nel, Cis (Frank.)

56. To my very good Friend M. Thomas Lightwood.

Sir, that I do expose these trifles to
The world, which we (in jest) writ long ago,
Pray pardon me: for (I am sure) I do
A greater wrong unto my selfe then you.
After so many troubles, they remain
Once more to make us laugh at them again.

57. To my noble Cousin Mr. William Milward.

When I have wanted company sometimes,
I've made my self merry with writing rhimes;
And I do hope that reading them you will
Laugh too, and pardon what you finde too ill:
For worth your approbation here is nought;
My whole book being a continual fault.

58. To my worthy Friends the two Colonel William Bales.

So lov'd the two Alcides as you two:
So did Attrides and Pæantius do.
In the same steps that Noblest friends have mov'd,
And with as firm a love as they have lov'd,
You hand in hand have walk'd, and work'd as high
And glorious Actions of Amity,
Striving each others affection to out-go:
Yet (from your Spheres of Honour) look'd below
On me, and me into your friendship took;
Who here have link'd you (with me) in my book:
And that fair Fortune that your hearts inclines,
Grant us a life immortal in my lines.

59. To my dear Cousin Mr. Robert Milward.

Whil'st you retir'd at Alsop in the Dale,
With Poets and Philosophers converse;
And o're Voluminous Law-books do prevail,
And those hours you from study steal, desperse
Into your Oeconomical Affairs,
You mixe much pleasure with some easie cares.

60. To my noble Friend, Mr. Marmaduke Wivel.

After so many in the English tongue,
Whose happy Muses, Epigrams have sung,
I have too boldly done, and writ in vain
To get repute by following that strain.
When I bethink me that great Johnson (he
Who all the ancient wit of Italy
And learned Greece (by his industrious Pen)
Transplanted hath for his own Countreymen,
And made our English tongue so swell, that now
We scarce an equal unto it allow)
Writ Epigrams, I tremble, and (instead
Of praise) beseech a pardon when I'm read.

61. To my honoured kinsman Mr. Henry Kendal the younger.

Your Grand-Mother was hospitable, did
Invite me often to her house, and bid
Me hearty welcome; And I hope to prove
The like effects hereafter of your love.
Poets of old were Prophets held; and I
For once will venture on a Prophesy:
You shall at Smithsby flourish, gain the Hearts
Of all your Countrey by your worthy Parts.

62. To Maides.

Soft Virgins, you whose tender hearts are prone
To yield unto your own destruction,
Resist all vicious flames, and you will find
The Glories of an undefiled mind;
Preserve your bodies as a Magazin
That doth contain the richest Treasure in;
For Diamonds, Pearls, and Stones of highest price
Heaven lov'd virginity mainly out-vies:
Patavine Chastity enjoying more
Content, then Acts of a

A prime street in Old Rome.

Suburran Whore.
'Tis mean to yield submission unto Sense,
When virtue hopes so great a Recompence.

63. To the truly Noble Sir Arthur Gorges.

Those worthy Romans that scorn'd humble things,
Created, and obliged after-Kings,
Amidst their thoughts of highest honour, ne're
Conceiv'd Imaginations 'bove your sphere.
The Babylonian Euphrates may
For ever run, and Tybris never stay;
The plenteous Rhine continually speed on,
And Danubie, each to it's Ocean,
And not out-go your fair and high repute,
Which doth amaze the world, and strikes me mute.

94. To Sir Andrew Knyveton my wives brother.

Wonder not why among so many of
My Epigrams, I do no oftner scoff,
And taunt at men, observing when they halt,
And tax them smartly after for their fault.
I know that Epigrams should either be
Satyres reduc'd to an Epitome;
Or els in choicest Language should invite
(Being what you please) the Readers with delight.
Troth! I in scoffes but little do prevail,
Which is the cause that I no oftner rail:
And have for Eloquence but what you see;
And therefore all my friends must pardon me.

65. To my Cousins Germans Mr. Cromwell, Mr. Byron, Mr. Ratcliff, and M. Alexander Stanhope.

The worlds four Parts, and all the various Seas
And Rivers that embrace them thousand wayes,
Perfect the Globe terrestrial, set it fix't
Equal the circumvolving Heaven betwixt:
So you four (joyning in a Sympathie
Of an unmach'd, fraternal Amitie,
Sought to for noble Soules, by all that can
Understand Honour, or a Generous man)
Are courted on all sides, and truly do
Love them reciprocally that love you;
So that your friends and you do justly stand
The Centre of fair Friendship in the Land.

66. To my Cousin Mr. Charles Cotton the young.

In how few years have you rais'd up an high
Column of Learning by your Industry,
More glorious then those Pyramids, that Old
Canopus view'd, or Cair doth yet behold!
Your noble Father (that for able Parts
Hath won an high Opinion in all hearts)
May like the elder Scaliger look down
With admiration on his worthy Son.
Proceed fair plant of Ex'lencies, and grow
So high, to shadow all that are below.

67. To my honest Kinsman Sir John Reppington.

I pray you (Sir) impale your Woods, that we
In them the hunting of the Buck may see:
By which good deed you will be sure to please
The Naiades, and Hamadryades;
Honouring the woods and brooks that grace those grounds,
And raise a stately Eccho by your Houndes,
T'invite Diana to your Groves; that she
A partner in your rural sports may be:
Or peirce the beauteous Goddess Venus ear,
And bring her down from her celestial sphere
To be spectatress of your game; brought thence
To guard some young Adonis from Offence.
By making you a park all this is done,
A pleasant Grace unto your Amington.

68. To my Brother in Law Colonel Will. Nevil.

[illeg.] old luxurious Romans vaunts did make
Of gustful Oysters took in Lucrine Lake:
Your Essex better hath, and such perchance
As tempted Cæsar first to pass from France.
How did those ancient Worthies captive all
The humbled world unto their Capitol!
Yet from it's highest Towers could not survey
So rich a Countrey as (from Holt) you may.
The noble Brutus, vertuous Portia,
Luckless Antonius, chast Octavia,
Soul-fix'd Paulina to her murther'd Lord
(The learned Seneca) such worthes afford
As have astonish'd Ages; yet your best
Of wives may justly with them all contest.
You then enjoying a full Fortune, and
The delicacies may eat of Sea and land;
Your dayes spend at a house of so fair site,
And (with a so deserving wife) each night:
Consider (since that you possess all this)
If y'are not happy, who the Devil is?

69. An Epitaph on a Penitent Bawde.

Here lies a good woman (to speak but the truth)
Who liv'd by her Tail all the days of her youth:
And when she was old, and none could endure her,
Stuck still to the Flesh, and became a Procurer:
Yet was at her death so full of Remorses,
That she cri'd a peccavi for all her lewd courses.

70. An Epitaph on an old Bawde.

Here lies an old Bawde whom the grave should have gotten
Fourty years since, for then she was rotten:
Now here she doth lie for all People to piss on,
(For fear of Doomes-day) in a stinking Condition.
But enough of this business; for well we may think
The more we stir in it the more it will stink.

71. To my Cousin Mr. William Milward.

Whil'st you at Chilcote live, and I at Pooley,
Let's every Week meet one another duly;
Talk of our long Acquaintance, and the strange
Things that have hapned since this mighty change:
And drink a Glass of honest Countrey-Ale
To all our absent Friends at every Tale.

72. Don Quixot. Quarta parte, Cap. 33.

---

172

Englished. Of Women.

73. Of a Servant-Maid.

A servant maid in Winter washing clothes
Upon the banks where pleasant Arnus flowes,
A passenger espi'd her, and did say
I wish (sweet heart) you had a warmer day.
She look'd upon him in a pretty snuff,
And then repli'd; Sir, here I've fire enough,
Laying her hands you may guess where. He smil'd
To hear her answer come so quick, and wild:
And (pulling out his weapon) said (fair Wench)
Light me this Candle then e're I go hence.

74. The Boyes Opinions.

A few untoward Boyes hapning together,
Started a Question t'be resolved whether;
And from the youngest put it to the oldest,
What part about a Woman was the coldest.
The first a knee did say (in his Opinion)
Was the cold'st place of any female Minion.
The next recovering from some thought he stuck at,
Said he conceiv'd it needs must be her buttock,
By feeling cold (but he was but a Noddy)
When she takes up her clothes to ease her body.
The third then spake (with very earnest urging)
The breasts he did imagine of a virgin.
Maid, or no maid, the fourth cri'd, 'tis no matter,
The cold'st place sure lies between wind & water.
After the Question thus being vext and hammer'd,
Oh! sigh'd a Lover (lately grown enamour'd)
(Who ever speaks the truth may be the boldest)
Of a coy Ladies parts her heart's the coldest.
I (quoth the sixth) from all of you do vary,
And am of an Opinion quite contrary:
For with a Woman I lay late, and found her
Warm every where to th'purpose (Pox confound her)
They all laugh'd, saying, he might thank his riot,
And they gues'd him a Clap by his strict diet.
My Hostess heard them, (grunting on her Palet)
And swore, an old Woman as any Sallet
Was cold & wholesome: And (to clear this riddle)
She to him call'd; Son! you may come and fiddle:
But he seem'd bashful, and refus'd the Grannum;
Swearing, what Lust is in these beasts to dam u'm?

75. Of a Sawyer.

One cleaving Billets for a Courtezan,
(Viewing her beauty) was a wounded man:
He sigh'd, and mus'd, and did his work neglect;
So that she came and him for Loytering check't.
He standing more amaz'd; she said, speak (friend)
What dost thou aile? Why dost not make an end?
Recovering from's astonishment, he thought
That faint hearts never fair Atchievement wrought:
And (Mistress) said, A great desire I have
To lie with you: She answered him, peace (knave)
I scorn so base a Clown. For all this he
Pli'd her, and at the last they both agree:
A Crown of Gold he was to give her: so
She pluckt her Clothes her favour to bestow,
And with her white hand clapt her whiter Thigh,
Saying's this flesh fit for a Sawyer? Fye!
He hearing this look't on his Gold again,
And said, is't fit to give this to a Quean?
And so the Goodman chanced to recover,
(Saving his mony) and went home no Lover.

76. Of a Gentleman of Venice, and his Mistress.

A Gentleman of Venice (as the most
Of them themselves do put unto that cost)
Kept a fair Mistress, and did every day
(In solace) weare with her some hours away.
Coming one Afternoon (with an Intent
To spend some time in amorous blandishment)
He found her undispos'd, and newly laid
Groning, and sick, and cover'd on her Bed.
He (seeing this) sigh'd sadly (Love) I fear,
I'm now but troublesome in staying here;
An other time I'le visit you. Pray stay,
Quoth she: Introth you shall not go away;
Come sit down by me: Heark you (Servant) I
Am ner'e so sick, but on my back can ly.

77. To my especial Friend Mr. Henry Thimbleby.

Platonick Love must needs a Friendship be,
Or els Platonick Love's a Gullery:
Love is (as Johnson in's New Inne hath prov'd)
Desire of union with the belov'd:
And cannot onely be a gazing at;
But a strong Appetite t'incorporate.
Why do you praise a Ladies Beauties so,
And (in a silence) let her vertues go?
Leave trifling; for we gather (by your suit)
Your marriage shortly will your words confute.

78. The Florentine Dutchess, and her Woman Dwarfe.

A great Duchess of Florence some years since
Had a She-Dwarfe of quick Intelligence,
And a surpassing beauty; whom (above
Her other Servants) she did highly love.
Nanna, I bear thee such good will (she said)
That I've a great desire to have thee wed
One of thy Size, but handsome as might be;
Because I Children fain would have of thee.
Madam (she answer'd I) have sometimes been
Within your Cellar, and your vessels seen;
And (which did me with a strange pleasure strike)
The great and least had bunge-holes all alike.

79. To my honoured Friend Sir William Persal.

Sir, you are every where belov'd, and should
I say admir'd, my words a truth woo'd hold.
You master all the Arts, and can discourse
Of any science from the very Source
To the full growth of it: From Pole to Pole
Nature hath made you Doctor of her whole.
What others have grown old about and gray,
You have acquir'd by a more gentile way:
For what they an Herculean Labour make,
To you is but a soft Symposiack.
Your quick, all-apprehending brain is such,
It dictates wonders; which are prov'd as much.
Let not this (Sir) seem flattery, and offend:
I write but what I think; And so I end.

80. A Design of an Epick Poem.

81. To my vertuous fair Cousin the Lady Trentham.

Madam, I dare not blame this Age, nor call
Any vice in it Epidemical:
You are immaculate, and of so high
A vertue, that you awe Impiety.
Your Heart is a pure Heaven, where nothing is
Admitted that can be conceiv'd amiss.
The Poets Flight of vertues I contemn,
And patient flow Astrea's after them:
You are their Sphere of happiness, and do
Entertain all the Goddesses in you.

82. To the Same.

You bear that holy Martyrs name that did
Die for her chastity, Saint Winnifrid,
An honour here you do her; and when you
Shall meet in Heaven, she will return your due:
You there will the precedent Saint appear,
And she your name eternally then bear.

83. To my old Friend Mr. Rob. Grosvenor.

Sir, we have heard of Slanders of that height,
As if to Paradise they directed right:
When (out, alas!) it is a foul offence
Any way to traduce an Innocence.
Those Crimes that are by some on others thrown
Guiltlesly, they do make those faults their own:
And the just Judge their punishment will give
Due to the sins that they have slander'd with.
Besides, his Soul he within vengeance bounds,
That with a truth a reputation wounds:
Your Friend and mine so much abus'd doth fall
Under the First, and not the last at all.
To talk of things commonly known and true,
No mulct from Heaven will unto us accrue.
But sure he of a blest Condition is
That hates of any one to speak amiss:
That hath a merciful and candid thought,
And thinks all good, rather then any naught.
Heaven by a spotless life is won, and by
The patient bearing of an Infamy.

84. To my honest Cousins Mr. Robert Milward, and Mr. Roger King.

You best of Friends, and my best Friends, that me
Have many years grace'd with your Amity;
My lines you honour with your worthy Names,
(A lasting Glory to my Epigrams:)
As Princes Stamps upon base metals do
Make them prove currant, and of value too.

85. To Sir Francis Boteler, my brother in law, from Ashbourn.

How Christmas steals upon us, as in fear
To be oppos'd by the bold Presbyter!
And how you part from us against this Time,
As if you thought to meet it here a Crime!
But oh inevitable business! when
Old Christmas we meant to have trick'd agen,
In's long neglected usual Ornaments,
You have prevented it by going hence:
So your Departure we accuse to be
Guilty (by chance) of an Impietie;
Tom Hurt, Will Taylour, and my self shall mourn,
Till you recover our joy by your return.

86. To the right Honourable Henry Lord Hastings Baron of Loughborough.

My Lord, when in my youth I (for some while)
Did leave the pleasures of our native Isle,
And travel'd France and Italy, I spent
(Methought) my Time in a most high content;
And was so far from longing to return,
That I when I was sent for home did mourn.
And doubtless you are pleas'd, who now enjoy
A Calme after a storme of jeopardy.
Homer his Iliads might have writ of you;
And (as our fear prompts) his Odysses too.
But we will hope the best, and that you may
(As er'st Ulysses to his Ithaca)
Return to England (all those tumults past)
And finde it crown'd with happy dayes at last;
Be reconcil'd to every own, and know
(Among so many Friends) no single foe.

87. To my Noble Cousin Mr. Henry Hastings of Branston.

Sir, since our first acquaintance, ever through
Our Friendship with the Noble Loughborough,
What tumults have we seen, and dangers past,
Such as in graves have many thousands cast!
And yet we live (thanks to the Powers Divine)
And love, I thank your Friendship gracing mine.
I needes must say such troubles disagree
Both with my Genius as well as me.
Though Poets often sing of Wars, and with
A mighty verse an Eccho seem to give
To the shrill Trumpet, or the loudest Gun
That thunder rores, and spreads destruction;
Yet in a sweet retreat from care and noise,
They draw those lines that make those Sympathies;
And though I am no Poet, I confess
I am enamour'd much of Quietness.

88. To the right honourable Charles Lord Cokaine, Viscount Cullen.

My Lord, you have an honest Heart, and known
To be of a most sweet Condition;
A Grace unto our Family and Name,
And every where of a most candid Fame:
This is a truth; but lest you should suppose
(If I proceed) I flatter'd, here I close.

89. An Epitaph on my worthy Cousin German Colonel Michael Stanhope slain at Willoughbie-Fight, and lyes buried in the Church there.

Here Michael Stanhope lies, who fought, and dy'd,
When prosp'rous fortune left the Regal side:
He of a dauntless minde by all was known,
And of a Noble disposition:
Yet his conditions, and his valiant Heart
Could not prevail with Death to stay his Dart;
For here he lies, and doth (by's Fall) express,
Great Courages do often want Success.

90. An Epitaph on my dear Cousin German Mrs. Olive Cotton.

Passenger stay, and notice take of her
Whom this Sepulchral marble doth inter:
For Sir John Stanhope's Daughter, and his Heir
By his first wife, a Be[illeg.]for'd lies here.
Her Husband of a Noble house was, one
Every where for his worthes belov'd, and known.
One onely Son she left; whom we presage
A grace t'his family, and to our age.
She was too good to live, and young to die,
Yet stay'd not to dispute with destinie;
But (soon as she receiv'd the summons given)
Sent her fair Soul to wait on God in Heaven.
Here, what was mortal of her turns to dust,
To rise a Glorious Body with the just.
Now thou may'st go: But take along with thee
(To guide thy Life and Death) her Memory.

91. To my Cousin German Mr. John Stanhope of Elveston.

When in an Epigram I did salute
Your other brothers, and of you was mute,
The reason was because I did not know
Whether that then you were alive or no.
Your safety I congratulate, and wish
You a long Life of as long happiness.
This Tribute of my Love to you I give,
Under the Honour of your Name to live.

92. Of Cæsar and Cleopatra.

Great Cæsars vaunt is known to all, who said,
That he did come, look't on, and conquered:
But when to Egypt he did come from Rome,
And saw the Queen, he then was overcome:
But (to prove rather he was not beguil'd)
Her he o'recame; for he got her with childe.

93. An Epitaph on my most honour'd Kinsman Colonel Ralph Sneyd, who dy'd in the Isle of Man about the 40th year of his Age.

Here lyes a body that gave Lodging to
A Soul as noble as the world did know;
It was well-organ'd, handsome, manly, and
Of equal structure to the best o'th Land:
Yet was unworthy of the Soul was given,
And therefore dy'd cause that fled back to Heaven,
Here Colonel Ralph Sneyd doth lie; In brief
The joy of mankind living, now the grief.

94. Of Slander.

To speak too well of thousands safer is
Then of one single Person once amiss;
Happy is he therefore whose wary tongue
Wisely refrains to do another wrong.

95. To Elveston a Town in Darbyshire.

Dear Elveston, that art a grace
Unto the Shire where I was born;
And Elveston, that art the Place
Where first I did salute the Morn;
The noble Stanhopes are thy praise,
Whom thou afford'st a birth, and Urne:
And may they flourish there always
Till th'world to Chaos doth return.

96. Of Venice, Translated out of Sannazarius. Englished.

In Adriatick Waters Neptune saw
Venice, that layes on the whole Sea a Law:
Object Tarpejan Towers, Jove, whil'st thou wilt,
He said, and walls by thy Mars Off-spring built,
Prefer'st thou Tyber! view both towns, and th'ods,
And thou wilt yield men that made, this the Gods.

97. Of the Gratuity given the Poet.

The noble Senate for the fair renown
(From his immortal pen) fix'd on their town,
Crown'd (with six thousand crowns) the Poets wit;
Would I had half so for translating it.

98. Of Women.

The tree a Grace to Eden did appear,
Yet was prohibited our Parents there:
So Women as earths glories we esteem,
And yet how mch are we forbidden them!
It pleases Heaven to keep us all in awe
(To try our duties) by a rigid Law.

99. Of the same.

In Paradise a Woman caused all
The ruine of mankind by Adams fall:
What wonder then if they o'recome us here
When w'are more weak, and they perhaps as fair?

100. An Epitaph on Mr. John Fletcher, and Mr. Philip Massinger, who lie buried both in one Grave in St. Mary Overie's Church in Southwark.

In the same Grave Fletcher was buried here
Lies the Stage-Poet Philip Massinger:
Playes they did write together, were great friends,
And now one Grave includes them at their ends:
So whom on earth nothing did part, beneath
Here (in their Fames) they lie, in spight of death.

101. Of Augustus Cæsar, and Marcus Antonius.

Augustus was to Ovid too unkind,
Who him not onely banish't, but confin'd
Him; had the noble Anthony o'recome,
He might have led his life, and di'd in Rome.
But of these two great Romans this is known,
Cæsar caus'd others deaths, Marcus his own.

102. To the Lady Mary Cokaine, Viscountess Cullen.

Madam, I hear you do intend to grace
Your Rushen with your presence all this year,
You cannot honour a more noble Place,
If you resolve the Countrey for your Sphere;
And Lords and Ladies enjoy happiest dayes
When in their homes their right Orbs they appear:
So Stars do glorifie Heaven that keep their Orders,
When Comets do presage ruines and murders.

103. To the same.

Madam, I do recant what I have writ,
As favouring too much of a countrey-wit,
And I fear Clownishness: for where should your
Fair Sexe live but in London evermore?
Bright Ladies in the Countrey, we esteem
As the Sun shaded by the cloudes doth seem;
So Pearls lie hid in Shells, and Diamonds so
Upon their solitary Rocks do grow.
As Stars grace Heaven, your beauties do the town,
Which is the proper Sphere for them to own.
Hast therefore up; you here will prove a Star
Of Glory, who move there irregular.

104. An Epitaph of Colonel Ferdinand Stanhope Son to the Earl of Chesterfield, who was slain about Shelford, and lies there buried.

Here underneath this monumental Stone
Lie Honour, Youth, and Beauty all in One:
For Ferdinando Stanhope here doth rest,
Of all those Three the most unequal'd Test.
He was too handsome and too stout to be
Met face to face by any Enemy;
Therefore his foe (full for his death inclin'd)
Stole basely near, and shot him through behind.

105. To my Wives Neece Mrs. Elizabeth Pegge.

I thank my Wife for my so neer relation
Unto a mine of vertue of our nation.
To name your handsomness I do decline,
As to tell Ethiops the Sun doth shine:
You are as witty as the Lesbian Lass,
Who the tenth Muse so oft accounted was:
And chaster then the glorious Roman Dame
That kil'd her self for vicious Tarquin's shame,
Thus I could prosecute your Worths, but know
Y'had rather Heaven then men should judg you so.

106. To her Brother Mr. Tho. Pegge.

The various manners you of men have seen,
And have in divers forreign Cities been;
And after three years travel are come home
From Brussells, Paris, and more glorious Rome,
To fix you here for all your future Life;
I wish y'a vertuous, rich, young, handsome wife.

107. To my Wife.

My Mall, how we desire both to go down,
And still how business stayes us in the town!
Since Plays are silenc'd by the Presbyter,
And Wine is grown so very naught and dear;
London seems frowning like a Step-dame now,
That look'd before with so serene a Brow.
Away therefore, and let us hasten home
To our Loves pledges our dear Mall and Tom.

108. Of Hubert Wypart.

Hubert Wypart a Leigios some years since
My Servant was i'th Countrey, and from thence
Ask'd leave to go to London to be by
At a Friends death of his condemn'd to dy;
For he (he added) loves me so I know,
That he three hundred miles and more would go
To see me hang'd; we could not choose but laugh:
Hubert had leave to go; but's Friend got off.

109. To Tom Mullins.

Tom sell good Ale; and since we do thee grace
To call thy Room Apollo, and the place
With mirth and jests raise Oracles in, be sure
Thy drink have strength to make them both endure:
For it would an Impiety be of thine,
With base Ale to pollute bright Phœbus Shrine.
In lieu of Eastern perfumes we will pay
Sacrifice of Verinas every day.
Though we by mighty Liquor fall sometime,
'Tis accidental, and a generous crime;
A fate that upon strictest Friends awaites,
When those that drown themselves in brooks, Heaven hates.

110. To his Wife.

What Vulcan's wife sell Ale! Thanks Venus for't;
The Goddess though did use another Sport.
Bess, since thou likewise art a Black-smiths wife,
Imitate somewhat the Cyprian Queen in life.
But thou art old, and honest: therefore get
A young Wench to fill drink that may be fit.
But thou too much of vertue hast; therefore
Sell Noble Sack, and we will ask no more.

111. An Epitaph on Mr. Isaac Coe who died about the 40th year of his Age.

Here Master Isaack Coe of Lincolns-Inn,
A Glory to that house, and to his kin,
Doth buried lie; which Loss we needs must mourn,
And pay our tears as Tribute to his Urne:
But how can we call this his Sepulchre,
Whom all his Friends do in their hearts inter?

112. To Zoilus.

Zoilus, thou say'st my Epigrams are worse
Then any that thy Censurer did curse:
Zoilus, I am of thy Opinion too;
And therefore (pray thee) make no more adoo.

113. Of Lupa.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten
Have lain with Lupa, and all lusty Men,
Such as their Boasts of strength in each place tell.
Yet none of them could make her Belly swell.
But Lupa vaunts of this; that she doth hate
Her Belly should confirm what Men do prate.
A slanderous tongue oft Innocence traduces;
But when the Belly tells, farewell Excuses.

114. Of Cloe.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,
Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen Men
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen more
Cloe hath tempted to make her an whore.
Count how many she hath wish'd she had lain under,
And you will find it come t'a pretty number.
Yet none of them have ever known her bed;
For Cloe still retains her Maidenhead.
Sure she's unhansome then! No; she's a Lass
As beautiful as ever Hellen was.
She is observed by so wary spies,
That hitherto she could not play her Prize:
But twenty t'one e'relong she'd find a time
To cheat their eyes, and perpetrate her Crime.

115. Of the Thames.

Some gallant Rivers do neglected run,
And have no viewers but the constant Sun,
The solitary Moon, and Beasts that by
Their hollow banks do feed themselves to die:
Whil'st upon Thames, the Glory of our Isle,
Fair Towns, and Palaces, and Castles smile:
But above all London (that doth embrace
Those sprightly streams) affords the chiefest grace.
'Tis well it is so big; or else this Town
(Would in the Beer that's drunk) soon quaff it down.

116. To my fellow Travellour Mr. Maurice La Meir, alias Ardenville.

How many Cities have we seen, together?
But now I wish we might seen one another.

117. To Porphyrius.

Porphyrius! that is enough to tell,
He that doth all things ill doth nothing well.
An Epigram's is too short for such a matter,
His faults but touch'd at brief deserve a Satyre;
And is as an expert Archer hits the white,
So on the Black his Poet needes must light.

118. His Mistress.

She is his own, and he is happy much,
Because besides himself none doth her touch:
But 'tis not for respect to him, or her;
For she's so foul all men do her abhor.
She constant is to him against her minde,
And he t'her, 'cause he can no other find.

119. Their Marriage.

A wedding solemniz'd, because none els
Would court them to divide them from themselves:
And it is fit they should be married, when
None els will have that Woman, or Woman Man.
The beasts are coupled; and 'twill be no wonder,
If like beasts they agree, or part asunder.

120. An Epitaph on Mr. Humphry Cumberford who died in Tamworth about the 34th year of his age, and lyes there buried.

Here Master Humphry Cumberford doth ly,
Who was a Man of truth, and honesty,
A Lady Knighted him (to his good fate)
Whose Honour so scap'd nulling by the State.
Belov'd he was by all of every sort,
From Bess of Bow-Mill to the very Court.
He dy'd a maid, or (if he did do ill)
'Twas not his Nature, but against his will.
But let him rest in peace; and may we all
Wish, we may die as well when death doth call.

121. To Clarinda.

That Lent is sweet, devout Clarinda sayes,
And why? she feeds on sweet-meats most those days.
But pardon me that thus traduce your merit;
You keep the flesh low to advance the Spirit.

122. To my Book.

Go trivial Book, and when thou art abroad
Be humble where thou find'st a kind abode.
If at thy errours any smile, give way,
It is not handsome in thee to gainsay.
They gave some money for thee; and 'tis fit
That (for their money) they some laughter get.

The second Book.

1. To the Fellow-Commoners of Trinity Colledge in Cambridge.

Gentlemen, in my youth I spent some years
Within your walls; but few, it plain appears
By this poor Book, which I an offering make
Unto you, for your recreations sake:
Not that I do presume that you may finde
Anything in it worth your eyes, or minde;
But that the view of these slight toyes may raise
You to accomplish works deserving praise.
When you have laugh'd enough at these, pray take
(Each of you) Pen in hand, and better make:
Which would a noble emulation prove,
And (from our rank) an Obloquie remove.

2. To the Reader.

Reader, (because I would escape the fury
Of all thy Tribe, the grand, and petty Jury
That sit on Books, and Wits) I do profess
Although this Book be small, the Wit in't's less.
Having thus censur'd it, I need not fear
What others say, or wish them to forbear.
Why should you read it therefore, you exclaime?
Because y'ave bought it read it o're for shame.

13. To Mr. Tho. Harper a Printer.

You Printers, and the Stationers do raise
Unto your selves a fame, if not a praise:
For be the Authour what he will, you give
Stamps of your Names on's Book, and with him live.
But if Errata's you prevent, you raise
Not onely to your selves a Fame, but praise.

4. Of Virgil.

Wherefore should Virgil wrong the Carthage Queen?
Was it through Ignorance, or out of spleen?
If he unwittingly eclips'd her Glory,
The ablest Poet was unskil'd in Story:
If he through malice tax'd her with such guilt,
It was 'cause she Romes dreaded rivall built.
But he might think (though her he did debase)
To be in his Lines any thing was Grace.

5. To Mr. Bryan Cokaine.

Cousin, I hope each Star when you was born,
Did Heaven with a benign aspect adorn:
And every glistering jewel of the sky
Dispense their Good to your Nativity.
You being sweet-condition'd, having mov'd
All men to honour you (so well belov'd)
Nobly descended, bred to all the Arts
That give a man renown for worthy parts;
To a great fortune heir, and a brave seat,
(For what then Rushton can be held more sweet!)
Married to a fine Lady, the first day
Of her youths spring (whose ripe and flourishing May
Of Beauty, still is years to come; yet she
Handsome as fancy can think woman t'be)
Inheritrix unto a grand estate,
(And yet her excellent vertues far more great)
We needs must guess the Heavens your friend, and know
(Y'ave so much Land upon't) the earth is so.

6. To Mrs. Elizabeth Cokaine, his Lady.

Hail Maid, and wife! But (Cousin) I wish you
Had chang'd that name (were older) for a new.
But this is not enough without another:
I wish you quickly too an happy Mother.
Rushton and Roster both expect you shood
Unite them strictlier by so great a good:
Cokaines and Trenthams then their joys will tell;
So till a Christning come (Cousin) Farewell.

7. To my honest kinsman Mr. John Cokaine.

When at your Pigeon-house we meet sometime
(Though bawling Puritans call it a Crime)
And pleasant hours from serious thoughts do steal
With a fine little glass, and temperate Ale,
Talk of Sir [OMITTED] Cokaine, and how near
He was alli'd to Will the Conquerer,
Liv'd in his reign at Henningham Castle, and
That lately there his Bow and Arrows did stand,
That there his Sword and Buckler hung, and that
(If they have scap'd these Times) th'are all there yet;
Some fall asleep because healths are but few,
And care not for such Tales though ne're so true.
So as (through too much drink) we see sleep come
On others, it for too little falls on some.

8. To Dulcinea.

Dulcinea (it seems) bears me a grutch
Cause of my Love to her I talk so much.
To love, and have no vent at all, would break
An heart, therefore give Lovers leave to speak.
But be appeas'd (fair Maid) for I'le be sworn
I love thee vertuous, vicious thee should scorn.

9. To Sir Robert Brett.

Sir, that your Lady Cousin-german is
Unto my wife (and yet I boast of this)
Is not my amplest glory; I rejoyce
That to the world your friendship I may voice.

10. To Mr. George Porter.

Whether in one that I affect above
Others, I honour should or friendship love,
Is now become my doubt; but soon I shall
(By contemplating you) o'recome it all.
What is anothers Honour unto me,
If our affections want a Sympathie?
And how can any friendship have a stamp
Of worth upon it, that doth Honour want?
Honour and friendship should Concomitants be,
And (in as near relation) should agree,
As Light doth with the Sun; for Honour doth
Keep friendship from all flawes; they both seem both,
The grand example of your excellent parts
(The wonder, and delight of noble hearts)
Honour and friendship (to their splendid height)
Do in all great and generous souls unite.
Malice it self no stain can tax you with,
But that unto me you your friendship give:
And (Sir) I am so proud on't, that I must
Unto your mighty merit be unjust;
(In this let envy censure how it will)
Pray honour me with your fair friendship still.

11. To Mr. Richard Grey of Adderston, my worthy kinsman.

Sir, you Platonicks do defend too much,
And I guess talking so may make you such:
Yet 'tis not in your nature, I suppose;
For something you may love besides their clothes,
Their conversation, and their vertues in
The tender female Sexe: but you have been
So long a champion for Platonick love,
That you conceit it a disgrace to move
From your aerial tenents; pray you leave
This argument, and all their hopes deceive,
That gape after your wealth when you are gone;
Marry a wife, and leave it to your own.
But (if your humour you resolve shall last)
Make me your heir, and all my trouble's past.

12. An Epitaph on my Noble Cousin Mr. Edward Reppington, who deceased about the 24th year of his age, and lies buried in Tamworth.

Stay, whosoe're thou art that passest by,
And notice take who here entomb'd doth ly:
For Edward Reppington (the hopes, and heir)
Of Ammington and Adderston lies here.
He was a Gentleman of so much worth,
That he hath left few equals on the earth;
As early Fruit for Princes got, even so
(Being ripe for Heaven) he hence so young did go,
The Reppingtons, and Seabrights should rejoyce
For giving being to such ex'lencies;
Although (through Natures weakness) they yet mourn
That's mortal part is faln into his Urne:
They that would be belov'd as he, must grow
In vertue as in years; think on't, and go.

13. Of Men.

How rude is mankind grown! savager far
And more inhumane then the brute beasts are!
When our first great Grandsire enjoy'd the joys,
The walks, and Groves of glorious Paradise,
When in the State of Innocense he stood,
(That little while he was completely good)
And ere his beauteous Mate was made, He then
Was King of beasts, and not a King of men.

14. To Robert Shotwall of Ashbourne.

Robin, thy Ale, and company are both
So good, that I to leave thee oft am loth.
But yet thy Bill for Boots and Shoes forgi'me;
And then (I'le promise) you shall oftner see me.
For then to spend I should have so much more
Which should be yours; So I would quit my score.

15. Of Rome.

Rome! once the conquer'd worlds great Head, and yet
The Queen of Cities, and deserving it,
Thy ruines are more glorious to behold
Than our new Palaces glittring with gold
And richest Tapistry: thy Statues broke,
Thy Amphitheatres half faln, the stroke
Of Time upon thy Obelisques, and
Decayes of Emperours; Termes do command
A reverence from our eyes; Each step in thee
Puts us in minde of some Antiquitie.
Triumphant Arches (though half buried) show
Which way victorious Cæsars once did go.
This was the earths Metropolis; In it
Historians, Oratours, and Poets met
From all the Provinces; and herein they
Wore many a day and many a night away
In frolick Banquets, made Suburra own
More joyes then on Olympus e're were known.
But various plenty of delicious Wine
Completes thy Praise, and makes an end of mine.

16. Of Womens Clothes.

The gentle female Sexe that doth affect
Liberty so, doth liberty neglect:
For (for the fashions sake) they are content
Their clothes should be their strict Imprisonment.

13. Of Cupid.

Beauty is but opinion of the Liker;
And Cupid's no good archer, but a striker.
His rage he strangly doth employ, and parts
(At random carelesly) with all his darts;
And all these mischiefs, and these miseries
We do impute unto his want of eyes:
But we may bless our fates that he is blind;
Else war (for beauty) would destroy mankind.

18. Of Galla.

Galla hath still her maidenhead; And why?
She is unhandsome, and her price too high.
Yet she would fain be rid of it; but none
Will pay so dear, therefore 'tis still her own.
So (although her desires be thus unjust)
Her covetousness doth overpoise her lust.

19. Of Bettina.

Ever to love a Lass so fair as she
Loseth no judgment, but doth settle me
In an opinion, that I would have no
Zeal in affection, but for her, to show.
All men admire her much who ever yet
Beheld her face: And shall I wrong my wit
Expresly to declare I like her not,
To whom I owe as much as I have got?
Have I my Sences? I can try no way
But by approving her; my eyes survey
All Objects, but like none like her; my ears
Receive no Musick like her voice: her tears
Compose the purest Nectar: her soft touch
Lends torn Prometheus ease; and body such
A perfume doth evaporate, that she
Yields choicer sweets then in Arabia be.

20. To the same.

Although, Bettina, I profess'd deep Love
Unto you, in the Epigram above,
Mine was no wanton flame; though I admir'd
Your beauties, I fruition ne're desir'd.
All your discourse was of such pretty stuff,
That I (methoughts) could never hear enough:
Your conversation did my motive prove;
So mine a friendship was, and not a Love.

21. Of the River Cham.

Why crooked Chams dull streams so slowly move,
It is, cause it with Cambridge is in love?
Poor river! thy Amours as vain decline,
For water Schollars care not for, but wine.

22. To my ingenuous Friend Mr. Alexander Brome on his Essay to translate Lucretius.

I know a Lady that hath been about
The same designe, but she must needes give out:
Your Poet strikes too boldly home sometimes,
In geniall things, t'appear in womens rhimes,
The task is masculine, and he that can
Translate Lucretius, is an able man,
And such are you; whose rich poetick vein,
And general Learning perfectly can plain,
And smooth your Authors roughnesses, and give
Him such a robe of English as will live,
Out-wear, and all such works exceed, and prove
This Nations wonder, and this nations Love.
Therefore proceed, (my friend) and soon erect
This Pyramid of our best Dialect.

23. To my dear Cousin-Germans Mrs. Anne, Mrs. Elizabeth, Mrs. Phillipia, and Mrs. Dorothie Stanhope, Sisters.

Lincolne was, London is, and York shall be
The most renowned City of the three,
Is an old saying: but I now must tell
Limby (near Nottingham) doth all excel:
Where live four Stanhopes of the female Sex,
Who (to produce them equals) would perplex
The Land; to which (for all things highly good)
They the best pattern may be understood.
My sweet, fair Cousins! all the worlds four parts
(By Imitation of your rare deserts)
May grow in vertue; you a mirrour be,
Where what they should be womankind may see.

24. To my Uncle (in law) Mr. Richard Sutton.

When you and I meet Master Bancroft, we
Envy no mirth of any Company:
We all love cordially; his Wit and Sack
Make us enjoy our selves and nothing lack.
We Covetousness despise and, cares let fly
In Spanish smoke, and consecrate to joy
The hours we spend; and when Sol leaves the skies
Drink our next merry meeting, and so rise.

25. Of Ashborn.

Ashborn (where many years our Cokaines name
Hath been (as Cambden tells us) of some fame)
Though in the Peak thou stand'st, thy fertile ground
(That like a Lover doth embrace thee round)
The Medows needes not envy, which the Thames
Saluteth (in his passage) with his streames.
The banks of Dove we think we do abuse,
If unto those compar'd, of York-shire Ouse.
Our fruitful soil we do prefer to that
Which holy Dee so long hath murmur'd at,
For not affording him a speedier way
To pay his waves to the Verginian Sea.
Severnes and Trent's it envies not and thence
We do conclude yields none preeminence.
If I commend too much, 'tis not a skill
I would profess, but onely my good will:
Yet other praises I (to this) could joyn;
If Betty Sheepy would draw better wine.

22. To Mrs. Elizabeth Sheepy of Ashbourne.

Betty, your wine is good: and yet we know
You may get better; which we pray you do.
Our Countrey-wits would then leave clubbing groats,
In Darby-Ale, and chang their penny-Pots
Into fine Venice-glasses (sparkling full)
Of generous Sack, and be more bountiful.
Your Talbot then would rore, and Poets sing
That there did run the true Castalian spring.
Your husband honest Tom (that's sick) it would
Recover soon, and make him live t'be old.
Get therefore (Betty) the best wine you may:
And we will style you our Mnemosyne.

23. To my dear Cousin Germans Mrs Stanhope, and Mrs. Isabella Hutchinson; Sisters.

Let others praise Nottingham for the Site,
The River Trent, and prospects of delight,
Mortimers Cave, and (now) the ruine sad
Of one of the best Castles England had:
I say that you two are the chiefest grace
(By living there) that doth adorn the place.

24. To Mr. John Young, of the Bear in Powlesworth.

Though Puritans on in their grumblings go,
Be merry Master Young, whil'st you are so.
What though their sensless zeal bark at your Bear?
If the Bandogs venture to come so near,
Keep such strong drink shall take them by the Crown,
And pluck the hypocrites of Piety down.
Making them do homage unto your sign,
And think it (though an Image 'tis) divine.

29. Of Men and Women.

Whilst Monuments of Brass and Marble stand,
Whilst Ships do grace the Seas, and Cities Land,
And Men do walk upon the Terrene Ball;
So sure (undoubtedly) will women fall.
Yet let not this the females onely taxe,
Men fall on them that fall upon their backs.

32. To Mr. Ralph Rawson lately fellow of Brasen Nose Colledge.

Though I of Cambridge was, and far above
Your Mother Oxford did my Cambridge love;
I those affections (for your sake) remove;
And (above Cambridge) now do Oxford love:
But I recant that change, and say where e're
You live, that a third Academie's there.
You conquer humane passions, and enshrine
All vertues that the Schooles did e're define;
And to such height master all learned Arts,
That I know none your equal for all Parts:
Therefore what place soever you shall please
To grace with your abode on Lands or Seas,
(Although in frozen Thule) I far above
My Cambridge, and your Oxford shall it love.

31. To my most honoured Cousin the Lady Mary Fitzherbert of Tissington.

Madam, the Peak is famous far and near
For a great many wonders that are there;
Pooles-Hole, the Devils Elden-hole, the well
That ebbes and flowes, make Darbyshire excel.
The sandy hill that ever falls away
And yet (in bulk) doth suffer no decay:
And Buxtons Baith (though in a village town)
Abroad our County give a fair renown.
These and the like do far and near invite
Strangers, and natives to delight their sight.
But these are Grotts, Waters, and Hills, and such
As we have one that doth exceed them much:
Your beauties, and your many vertues speak
You the chief Wonder that doth grace the Peak.

32. Of Naples.

Naples the Romans old Parthenope,
(Built under Hills, upon the Midland-Sea)
Thou to Compania (most delicious Part
Of Italy) the primest Glory art.
The Princes, Dukes, the Counts and Barons that
(In great abundance) there do make their seat,
And flourish in all joyes this Life can grant
To humane kind, others I leave to vaunt:
Above all things that honour't I preferre
The all renowned Virgils Sepulchre;
And think that Virgil dead gives more renown,
Then all those Lords alive, unto that Town.

33. Of Wakes, and May-Poles.

The Zelots here are grown so ignorant,
That they mistake Wakes for some ancient Saint,
They else would keep that Feast; For though they all
Would be cal'd Saints here, none in heaven they call:
Besides they May-Poles hate with all their Soul,
I think, because a Cardinal was a Pole.

34. An Epitaph on Mr. Will. Davenport, a Cousin-German of my wifes, who dyed at Henbury his own house in Cheshire, and lies buried by his wife at Dubridge in Darby-shire; he being aged about 29.

Here William Davenport lies, and (Stranger) know
That he was high in worth that lies so low.
He had a noble soul, and liberal mind,
A generous courage, and behaviour kind;
Sir Thomas Milwards daughter was his wife,
Whom he surviv'd, and led a widowers life.
Our age was proud of him, though (in his prime
Of years) Death gave a Period to his time:
He left two Daughters, and a spotless fame,
VVhich evermore shall wait vpon his Name.

35. To Iustice Would be.

That you are vext their Wakes your neighbours keep,
They guess it is, because you want your sleep:
I therefore wish that you your sleep would take,
That they (without offence) might keep their Wake.

36. To Mrs Elizabeth Spencer.

Hail beauteous Virgin! you whose glorious hair
Justly with Ariadne's may compare:
VVhose eyes are Globes of purest fire, whence flashes
Th'enamour'd Nation soon would burn to ashes,
Did not your mighty modesty delight
(VVith their fair lids, and veils) to cloud their sight.
Your features are such wonders, they can finde
No Parallels throughout all VVomankinde.
How fine your hands are! And how sweetly they
Command the Lutes delicious Harmony!
Your Figure with your Form so right agrees,
That you are Natures exquisitest Piece.
Pretty ones we your feet must guess to be,
That roots are unto such a graceful Tree;
Whose leaves your clothes are & conceal such things
As would in Queens raise envy, Flames in Kings.
Your own affection cause of fruit must prove,
VVhich yet none of our sex could ever move.
You are all fair without, and sure within
Your fairer soul's a glorious Cherubin:
He of mankind will lead the happiest life,
Whom you shall honour to become his wife.

37. Of Pope Urban the Eight.

When I in Rome made some abode, I oft
Urban the Eight beheld, and often laught
To think how here our Zelots bawld him down,
And Preach'd him for the whore of Babylon;
He seem'd a gallant Prince, and they that look,
May find him a fine Poet by his book.
Though bawds have sometimes beards; none sure did see
A Woman ere have such a beard as he.
But they were more mistaken in their speeches,
Tho, virtuous women may, whores wear no breeches:
Besides, no wencher would bestow a doit
To lye with such an whore a winters night.

38. To those Preachers.

My friends, I wish you would forbear your running
After this whore; and henceforth show your cunning
(Leaving this subject, to no purpose vext)
To follow in the lieu of it your text.

39. To Parissus.

Sir, I conceive that you are in the List
Of those that think the Pope is Antichrist:
Could you get one of them with child, alone
It should be you that made the true Pope Ioan.

40. To the Popes.

Princes you are, have Dukedomes, two, or three;
I wish you would give one of them to me:
But that were to rob Peter to give Paul,
Or rather to rob both of them for Saul:
For I a Lay-man am, and (which is worse)
I think a Poet, by my empty purse.

41. To my wife on the birth of her daughter Isabella.

I in this second Daughter wish you joy,
Yet should have had more, had it been a Boy.
Girles are (by far) more chargeable; And (when
Boyes are grown up) less care will serve for Men.
You say a Nun you mean her: such another
(I think) you do intend as was her mother.
But whether she live Maid, or prove a wife,
I wish her a long, healthful, happy life.
So I do leave you with your new Delight,
Till you and I do meet again at Night.

42. Of our Ladie of Loretto.

I have been at Loretto, and did there
See the fam'd House, which I'le not argue here;
Do onely wish (when I from Earth remove)
That I may see where she abides above.

43. An Epitaph on Mr. Thomas Pilkington, one of the Queens Musicians, who dyed at Wolverhampton about the 35 year of his age, and lies there buried.

Musicks prime Master of our Land, this stone
Covers; For here lies matchless Pilkington:
He was the soul of Musick, did contain
All sorts of it in his harmonious brain.
A strange malignant Fever set a strife
Between his soul and body; ceas'd his Life.
So with his soul the soul of Musick fled,
Leaving that Science fainting, though not dead.
Though oft his work was playing, it was such,
As all Musicians cannot do so much
With all their works. In brief, the richest Part,
The best Epitome of all that Art
And choisest Musick (that ere ravish'd ear)
(Put out of tune by death) lie buried here.

44. To Zoilus.

Zoilus reports never a line I write
Deserves t'appear before a wisemans sight:
Zoilus, at this I nothing do repine;
But say (thou being a Fool) th'are sit for thine.

45. An Epitaph on my dear sister Mrs. Lettice Armstrong, who deceased about the 43 of her age, and of Mrs. Lucy Cokain, who dyed about the 34 of hers, and lye both buried at Ashborn.

Lettice and Lucy here (two sisters) lye,
So constant to each others company,
Death could not part them long; for four years space
Reduc'd them both to this Sepulchral place.
There was no difference 'twixt them all their Life,
Save one liv'd single, th'other was a Wife.
They both were virtuous; left this world behind
In hope the Glories of the next to finde.
Their Coffins lye so very close, it doth
Appear, as if one Grave contain'd them both:
As their loves did unite them; so the stone
That both of them doth cover, is but one:
And (more to shew their mutual hearts) it hath
For both (upon it) but one Epitaph.

46. To my Cousin Mr. Thomas Cokaine of Manciter.

You boast your Manciter was once a Town
(When here the Romans govern'd) of Renown:
That Aderston from Ruines of it grew
To be so spacious, and so fair of view.
I yield unto your Truthes, and adde one more,
Aderston drink makes Manciter so poor.

47. Upon the Marriage of Mr. Edward Tilsly, and Mrs. Anne Fleetwood.

So all your fears are past; you both are sped,
And have no trouble but to go to bed:
Where (what young married couples love the best)
I wish you a good night with little rest.

48. Of Vesuvius.

I on the top have of Vesuvius been,
There laid me down upon my breast, and seen
Into the mighty Rupture, whence the smoke
Proceeds, that often seems the skies to choke:
Torre de Griego din'd at, which I found
(With that Hills scalding streams) much burnt and drown'd.
As with (their quarries) Hills build Cities, so
They (with their vomits) them may overthrow,

49. Of George Buchanon.

Buchanons oathes at Murries service were;
What he would say audacious George would swear.
Poets would lye I've heard, but never one
That would forswear himself but Buchanon;
Yet he a famous Poet was: what though?
Serpents may lurk in flowers of fairest show.

50. To Mrs. Anne Adams, my mothers Cosin-german

Whilst you the generous Trentham's name enjoy'd,
And knew not what it was to be a Bride;
You in delicious Brussels wore away
Most of your virgin-years beyond the Sea,
There you did thinke to lead a single life;
But thanks to Iohn that won you to his wife.
Who (when you did return to England) found
The way to fix you on your native ground:
For you together live, as if heaven meant
To make you (though not richest) most content.

51. To my highly honoured Cousin-German, Mr. Arthur Sanhope, son to the Earl of Chesterfield.

I do rejoyce at the respect you bear
To Bretby, by your choice of living there:
My Lord so great a house kept, that by none
(Of all our Noblemen) he was out-gone:
And you so neatly and gentilely live,
That all that know you Commendations give.
If my Lord Stanhope comes, and you remove,
May you be follow'd by all good mens love;
That (wheresoere you live) there may be seen
No change, but alteration of the Scene.

52. To Mris. Elizabeth Kendall, my wives Niece.

Twycross I cannot choose but envy, where
Such ravishing Musick is, and I not there.
You, and your sister Frank Pegge every day
So rarely sing, that wondring Queens would stay
(To listen to your Layes) from any sport,
And prize (that while) your house above a Court.

53. To Mr. Humphrey Mosley, and Mr. Humphrey Robinson.

In the large book of Playes you late did print
(In Beaumonts and in Fletchers name) why in't
Did you not justice? give to each his due?
For Beaumont (of those many) writ in few:
And Massinger in other few; the Main
Being sole Issues of sweet Fletchers brain.
But how came I (you ask) so much to know?
Fletchers chief bosome-friend inform'd me so.
Ith'next impression therefore justice do,
And print their old ones in one volume too:
For Beaumonts works, & Fletchers should come forth
With all the right belonging to their worth.

54. To my much honoured Cousin Sir Francis Burdet Baronet.

The honest Poet, Michael Drayton, I
Must ever honour for your Amity,
He brought us first acquainted; which good turn
Made me to fix an Elegie on's urn:
Else I might well have spar'd my humble stuffe;
His own sweet Muse renowning him enough.
In Warwick-shire your house and mine stand neer,
I therefore wish we both were setled there;
So we might often meet, and I (thereby)
Your excel'nt conversation oft enjoy:
What good should you get by it? truly none:
The profit would acrue to me alone.

55. To Mrs. Anne Gregson of Ashburn.

Y'are good, and great, and had you had some itch
For wealth, and married God be here, had been rich:
But money you contemn'd (it doth appear)
Content to live a widdow by good Beer.

56. To my sweet Cousin Mrs. Isabella Milward.

Your noble father Sir Iohn Zouch (when you
Was very young) occasion'd you to view
Virginia, took you thither, where some years
You spent, till you had moistned with your tears
His and your eldest sister Katharine's Tombe,
Interr'd so far from Codnor their old home.
After so sad a loss you thought it time
To return back unto your native clime,
Where your (by all men honour'd) husband found,
A richer Prize then all the spacious ground
Known by Vesputius surname ere did give;
And may you long together happy live.

57. An Epitaph on King Arthur.

Arthur our Worthy, whose grandname in war
Shall evermore load Fames triumphant Car,
This Marble covers; nobler dust then those
For whom the Pyramids of Egypt rose.
Had but his life reacht out to his intent,
Queen Artemisia's wondrous Monument
Had been his Sepulchre, and not his tombe;
His merits would have rose to such a summe.
Nothing but treason foul could periodize
The Progress in his Saxon victories:
And Glassenbury Abbey loudly boasts
That it contains the Terrour of their Hoasts.

58. An Epitaph on Henry the fourth of France,

Forbear thy rude approch, bold Passenger:
Henry the Great, the fourth of France lies here.
His claim unto that Crown he knew so right,
That he for it unarm'd did often fight.
The sword of Mars, Minerva's Lance, and Gun
Of Mulciber fear never made him shun.
Cover'd with fire and bullets by his Foes,
He wore them not as Terrours, but his clothes.
What Spain, France, and the League could not command
With their united force, a murtherers hand
Did perpetrate: Ravillac struck him from
The top of all his Glories to his Tombe.
As the bright Sun (throughout our Hemisphere)
His course being finished) sets full and clear,
And the next morn again doth beauteous rise,
And with his beams decks both the earth and skies:
So he (after a life triumphant led)
Did bid the world adieu, and here lies dead:
And when the last day comes (return'd from dust)
Shall glorious rise, and live among the Just.

59. Of Fame.

Fame's a strange Good, and a strange Evil, that
Doth often give too much, and oft detract;
And sometimes justice doth, and hits the Mean,
Avoiding each extravagant Extream.
Let us precisely to our duties stick,
And Fames worst malice shal not wound to th'quick:
Or if it gives us that which is above
Our merits, why such flatteries should we love?
Doth Fame the virtuous right? 'tis well. We shall
Else each have's due after his funeral.

60. An Epitaph on Mr. Ralph Fitzherbert who dyed at Ashby de la Zouch about the 22 year of his age, and lies there buried.

Cornet Fitzherbert (who in many a Fight
Lord Loughboroughs Colours bore in the Kings right)
Lies here inter'd: His skill in Musick gone,
And his good parts all cover'd with this stone.
He was too brave to find an Enemy
To kill him; and therefore in's bed did dye.
Yet was he young and virtuous: but alas!
On youth and virtue death no pity has.
Learn therefore (Reader) that no humane state
Is safe; and alwayes live prepar'd for Fate.

61. Of Death.

Once born the best must dye: why (therefore) then
Should Death inflict such terror on us men?
Faint-hearted souls they are that fear to run
The common Path which there's no hope to shun.
A Life to Heaven and Earth in justice led,
Will give us leave to live in no such Dread;
They that so pass their dayes, the world shall find
That they a fair Report do leave behind:
When those that otherwise do wast their Times,
Shall fill Posterities mouthes with their foul crimes.

62. To Mris. Katharin Pegge my wives eldest sister.

Although this age is against Crosses set,
I cannot quit me of my Crosses yet:
But welcome any Cross that comes, we say;
It may be for our goods another day.
So let us ever to the Powers divine
Our selves, and what belongs to us resign:
That no Prosperity may be allow'd
So to exalt our mindes to make us proud;
And no Adversity deject us so,
But patiently we may it undergo.
Then let our Crosses go, or Crosses come,
Whilest we can say, the will of Haaven be done.

63. Of Cambridge and Oxford.

Cambridge one doth commend, Oxford another,
And would have one prefer'd above the other.
VVhen they are best term'd equals: And no other
Such Foreign Place comes near the one or th'other.
This my opinion is: who would an other,
May leave to trouble me, and ask another.

64. To Mrs. Elizabeth Nevil, my wives youngest sister.

If you at Westow-Lodge do live, I there
Do often wish my self to be so near
My mother Cambridge: If at Holt you live
In Leicestershire, I there my self would give
The Pleasures of that gallant Seat, whose site
Affords fine Prospects various in delight.
Or if you live at Cressing Temple, then
Thither my wish transporteth me agen;
Colchester Oysters and Sea-fish invite
Thither ofttimes my longing appetite:
But pardon me these vanities: above
All these, I your sweet conversation love,
And your good husbands noble Company:
Those things I talk'd of, but would these enjoy.

65. To Parson Dulman.

Your zealous Ignorance doth oft dispraise
Our Poets whatsoever that write Playes:
So small a pittance you of learning have,
Their worst of Playes doth all your works outbrave;
And I your zealous ignorance dispraise,
Telling you fam'd Nick Machiavil writ Playes.
But you to write a Play think an offence,
Is it not worse to preach so much nonsence?

66. To Master Francis Shalcross, and Mrs. Julia Boteler my Niece, on their wedding night.

To bed (fair bride) your happy groom
(Full of desire) doth long to come,
Now lye down by her in a trice;
Your Genial bed's a Paradise.
Though she's to lose, you are to get,
Her Zone unti'd unriddles it:
You need not any sweet forbear,
Both moving in your proper sphere.
I need not wish you joy; you have
What Heaven can give, or Lovers crave:
But truely wish (unto this height)
It may last both your lives. Good night.

67. To Captain Mouther.

I've been importun'd by some friends to tell
How I approve your verses; I say well:
Nor dare I otherwise that understand
You have a desperate Courage, heavy hand,
And a long sword. Those few that do not matter
The trifle cal'd their lives, may scorn to flatter:
And so do I, swearing that you write Works
Will please the Christians, and amaze the Turkes.

69. To Mr. Clement Fisher of Wincott.

Shakspeare your Wincot-Ale hath much renownd,
That fo'xd a Beggar so (by chance was found
Sleeping) that there needed not many a word
To make him to believe he was a Lord:
But you affirm (and in it seem most eager)
'Twill make a Lord as drunk as any Beggar.
Bid Norton brew such Ale as Shakspeare fancies
Did put Kit Sly into such Lordly trances:
And let us meet there (for a fit of Gladness)
And drink our selves merry in sober sadness:

70. To Astrologers.

Your Industry to you the art hath given
To have great knowledge in th'outside of heaven:
Beware lest you abuse that Art, and sin,
And therefore never visit it within.

[71] An Epitaph on Mrs. Brigit Allibond, who dyed at Chenye about the eighteenth year of her age, and lies there buried.

Here Brigit Allibond doth buried lye;
Whose too much love occasioned her to dye.
Insatiate thirst of gold! Her Servants friends
Sent him to travel, and workt' both their ends;
There he deceas'd: which sad news thrust the Dart
Of death through both her ears into her heart:
So Love chang'd Darts with Death, Love too unkind
To kill the body with the wound oth'mind.
Virgins should mourn her loss; And (by her) men
May see how Maids belov'd can love agen.

72. An Epitaph on Lycisca, who forc'd her husband to counterfeit his Religion.

Here lyes Lycisca, that was full of Evil;
And (therefore to be fear'd) gone to the Devil.
Now (seeing he and she have set all even)
Her Husband may walk in the Rode to Heaven.

73. To Mrs. Francis Pegge, my wifes Neece.

You once did think to be a Nun, but now
I hope you will forbeae that sacred vow;
And if you will be making vows) pray take
An husband, and an holy vow him make:
So whether you become a Nun, or wife,
(Under a vow) you may lead out your life.

74. To Mr. Gilbert Knyveton, and Mr. Thomas Knyueton my wifes Brothers.

Pray take an house, and so continue on
The hospitality you have begun:
For of such means none handsomer did live,
Or to their friends more generous welcome give.
Though you from Bradley are remov'd, make known
To noble minds each Country is their own.

75. To my sister Mrs. Katharine Weston.

We were two brothers, and five sisters; now
They are all dead, alas! save I, and you:
All that Affection that among us was,
Let us therefore on one another place:
So we (for Brothers, and for sisters love)
An Emulation shall in others move.

76. To my Cousin Mr. John Milward.

Of women some are foul, and some are fair,
Some virtuous are, and others are as bad:
Some go in poor apparel, others rare,
Some melancholy are, and others glad:
Some are at their prime, others decaying are,
Some are reserv'd, and others to be had:
Some timorous are, any thing others dare,
Some dull and mop'd, and others blith, and mad:
Some humorous are, others of freakes beware,
Some love to keep their homes, others to gad:
Some high in virtues do themselves declare,
Others are overwhelm'd in vices sad.
Ovid would take of all to please his sences:
Give me a glass of Sack, and choose you wenches.

77. An Epitaph on Mr. Peter Allibond, Fellow of Lincolne Colledge in Oxford.

Here buried lies within this hallowd ground,
Oxfords prime glory, Peter Allibond:
His Learning Lincolne Colledge hath renown'd,
And few the road to his high Parts have found.
Death in his Proctorship gave him his wound,
And (thereby) hindred him to go his Round;
And here hath laid him in a sleep so drown'd,
Not to awake but by th'last trumpets sound:
From hence then to arise, and to be crown'd
(We hope) with joyes, where all joyes do abound.

78. To my Niece Mrs. Isabella Boteler.

Your sister Iulia's married well, and so
(Sweet Niece) I wish you were dispos'd of too.
You the greensickness languish in, and sure
For that an husband is the proper'st cure.
What tho child-bearing pains on women drawes?
Sweet-meats (by th'Proverb) should have sowre sauce.

79. To Mr. Andrew Whitehall.

You make a Violl speak: your nimble hand,
That instrument seems onely to command.
How meanly many play! strike so amiss,
That (at their want of skill) the strings do hiss:
Like resty horses they false steps do make,
And the vext strings with very shame to shake.
VVell tun'd that would agree, they wrong so far,
Their artless violence doth make them jar.
So they but scrape, abuse the strings, and stick;
How dull the quickest are to you more quick!
Some few with their soft hands may please; but you
Please not alone, but raise amazement too.
Your fingers on the neck, and hand on Bow,
The motions of the Intellect out-go.
Such is your playing: But if you would write,
How much you Works all mankind would delight!

80. An Epitaph on my Father Mr. Tho. Cokain, who deceased in London, about the [OMITTED] of his age, and lyes buryed in St. Giles's Church in the Fields.

Stay Passenger, and read under this stone,
Here Thomas Cokain lyes, Sir Edwards son.
Mapleton gave him birth; but far from home
At London he deceas'd, and this his Tombe
Too mean a Monument for his great worth;
But virtue never findes reward on earth.
He was his families Heir; but (transitory
Knowing all terrene wealth) chang'd his for glory,
And here his body soft repose doth take
Till him the Angels Trumpets shall awake.

81. Of Cats.

Two Cats fell out, and one an other slew;
May all Cats so to one another do:
Yet I can them endure, would be their friend,
But that they company so oft offend.

82. Of the English, Spanish, and French.

The Spaniards love the English, they them hate;
The English love the French, and they hate them;
A strange capriciousness of humane Fate,
VVhole Nations should affect whom them contemn!
Despised Lovers need not to complain,
Seeing tis known whole kingdomes love in vain.

83. Of the Low Dutch.

The Belgians hate all but themselves; wherefore
Because no nation else can them endure.
What should the reason be of such an hate?
For aid receiv'd they have been so ingrate.

84. To Isabel Manifold of the Black Swan in Ashburn

Heark Isbel Parker! Isbel Hood! But hold,
These names might serve were hers not Manifold
Pray answer, were your husband in the grave,
Soon after would not you another have?
If other women divers men should use,
They would disgrace their names for such abuse:
But (without blushes) you may hear it told,
That you (of Men) have lain with Manifold.

85. To the same.

As great a wonder as black Swans some guess,
So strange a thing an honest Hostess is.
It is believ'd that there no black Swans are,
But you are, and are honest, so more rare.

86. An Epitaph on my most honoured kinsman Ferenando Earl of Huntington, who deceased at his house in Donnington Park about the 48 year of [illeg.] age, and lyes buried at Ashby de la Zouch.

Here Ferdinando Earl of Huntington
Doth lye inter'd under this Marble-stone;
VVhich will weep drops of dew, if we refrain
To shed our tears; yet weeping is in vain.
Nor sighes nor tears will call him from his urn;
Our griefs then let's to imitation turn.
Let's emulate his worthy Parts (for such
His Qualities were) and we shall merit much:
For each man may report that passeth by,
Courtesie and good Nature here doth lie.

87. To Henry Right of the Cock in Poulesworth.

Harry, what ere thou dost (by day or night)
(Though it be never so amiss) th'art Right:
Though some for doing wrong taxe thee in spight,
Contemn their malice; for th'art known t'be Right.
Let thy Guests sober go to bed, not fight,
And all thy reckonings be as thou art, Right:
And lead an upright life, that thou mayst light
On Heaven at last, and here thou t'be most Right.

88. Of high-spirited women.

Neither do husbands heed, nor Heaven above
(For the mostpart) high-spirited women love
Are they in errour? through their ignorance,
And self-opinion they prove seldom Saints.
And husbands who are tide unto such wives,
Usually live with them unquiet lives.
To wed meek women men are most inclin'd,
And Heaven it self affects the humble mind.

89. In thalamis Regina tuis hac nocte jacerem,
Si verum hoc esset, Pauper ubique jacet.

Queen, in your chamber I should lye to night,
If a poor man lyes every where, were right.

To Sir Robert Hilliard.

Who made this Distich it is fit I tell,
Which I have English'd but indifferent well;
I think Tom Randolph: Pardon what's amiss
In my translation for my gift of his;
Whom you and I so well did love and know,
When Cambridge (for his wit) extol'd him so.

90. To my honoured Cousin Mr. Basill Fitzhetbert of Norbury, and his Lady.

Basill Fitzherbert did Iane Cotton wed,
And she hath blest him with a Sonne and Heire;
A Couple fortunate i'th Genial bed,
And in all other things an happy pair.
This is my judgement of your worths, and you
(By all your actions) confirme it true.

91. To my noble Cousin Mr. Charls Cotton the younger.

D'Avila, Bentivoglio, Guicciardine,
And Machiavil. the subtile Florentine,
(In their Originals) I have read through,
Thanks to your Library, and unto you;
The prime Historians of late times; at least
In the Italian Tongue allow'd the best.
When you have more such books, I pray vouchsafe
Me their perusal. Il'e return them safe:
Yet (for the courtesie) the recompense
That I can make you will be onely thanks.
But you are noble-soul'd, and had much rather
Bestow a benefit, then receive a favour.

92. To the same.

Your Basford house you have adorned much;
And Bently hopes it shortly shall be such:
Think on't; and set but Bentley in repair,
To both those Basfords you will show y'are Heir.

93. To my honoured friend Mr. Samuel Roper.

Make Darbyshire by your most able Pen,
Allow you her obliging'st Countrey-man;
From dust and dark oblivion raise her Glories,
And (from old Records) publish all her stories.
So you (with Mr. Dugdale) shall remain
Your Countreys honour; other Countreys stain.

94. To Mrs Mary Cokain my eldest daughter.

Because I fear my fate is not so good,
To give you such a portion as I wou'd:
Your Education I intend shall prove
Some satisfaction to you of my love.
Musick and Dancing I would have you taught,
And all the skil that is by needles wrought:
All sorts of houswifery that should be done,
(From your own chamber) to the meanest Room:
And (to give full perfection) to walk even
(Whilst here you live) in the right road to Heaven.

95. To the right honourable the Lord Winfield Cromwell Earle of Arglass, my noble kinsman.

My Lord, a share y'ave given me in a Grove:
But how shall I requite so great a Love?
If ever I (in any of my land)
Should Gold or silver find, you shall command:
I hope to get much money by your Lead,
If store of ore God Plutus there hath hid:
But should I gain no riches from your ground,
Yet I may boast that there your love I found.

96. To my worthy friend Mr. Henry Turville.

Most of these are too long and naught, tis true;
I wish them faultless both for me and you:
For I your candour would provoke, not blame,
And (to my self) acquire some little Fame.

97. Of Cupid and Marriage.

Cupid is careless and doth shoot at random,
Strikes a young man, and oftentimes a Grandam:
Yet neither he Physician is, or Surgeon,
To cure the wounds his senseless Darts do urge on,
Either by any med'cines, or Incision:
The nuptial bed is Surgeon and Physician.

97. To Parson Nameless.

When you do preach of Mountain Ararat,
And how Noahs floating Ark first staid thereat;
Though your loud voice doth fill the sacred house,
Your Sermon bigge with mountains drops a Mouse.

99. To my honoured Cousin Mr. Charls Cotton Iunior.

Donne, Suckling, Randolph, Drayton, Massinger,
Habbington, Sandy's, May, my Acquaintance were:
Iohnson, Chapman, and Holland I have seen,
And with them too should have acquainted been.
What needs this Catalogue? Th'are dead and gone
And to me you are all of them in one.

100. To Mr. John Adams, my Cousin.

When we at Pembletous in Roster meet,
Time that before went slow flyes very fleet;
The reason is, an easie thing to think,
A knot of Jovial Blades, and mighty Drink.

101. Of a Roome in [OMITTED] cal'd the Minerva.

Approch not you dull souls, that durt and muck
Do grovell in; follow your sordid luck:
Athens no Fame had for mechanick Arts,
But by those generous spirits of nobler Parts.
They that are Wits, and love the Wits, may come,
Converse and tipple in this jovial Room;
Pallas admits none else: For know, the Owle,
Her sacred Bird will (at their entrance) howl.
Herein the Grecian Sages do converse,
And here the Poets their high lines reherse.
Here Tully and Demosthenes doe plead,
And Plato here and Aristotle's read:
For this the Epitome of Athens is,
And teaches all the Liberal sciences.
Such is the companies discourse: Then hence
All earthen-minded Brats of ignorance;
And welcome the ingenious to this spring
That makes the Orator write, and Poet sing;
To the Philosopher new truths discovers,
And courage gives to the faint-hearted Lovers.
To those lets drink (Conversion from their Crime)
That over Ale and Beere can spend their time,
That on their Errours they may may turn their back,
And in Minerva's Fane here tipple Sack:
For Ale and Beer breed Flegm, engender Pains;
But rich Canarie elevates the Brains.

102. To my honoured Friend Mr. Cassevilan Burton.

When will you do your self so great a right
To let your English Martial view the light?
You will oblige this Nation by your pains,
Those 'specially to whom the Latin's strange.
And he (in the Elysian shades) will smile
To heare he speakes the language of this Isle.

103. Of Cardinal Bellarmine.

Of all the writers of the Roman Part,
Bellarmine, thou the most confuted art:
How happens thy ill Fortune, that we call
Thy confutation, if we drink up all?

104. Of Cornelius Gallus.

A Poet and a Traytour is such news,
Mercuries and Diurnals do not use.
Gallus a Traitour; Gallows a Reward:
But sure Augustus did not prove so hard.
He put him to a nobler death we hope;
Poets should live by linesn, ot dye by'th rope.

105. To Banellus.

Welcome (good Sir) to truth, and welcome to
The way to Heaven which you directly go:
May we your stedfast footsteps follow even,
And (tis no doubt) we shall arrive at Heaven.

106. To Mr. Henry Longville.

Marvel not (Friend) that oftentimes I write
As if in drinking I did take delight:
I (at my best) am ill enough, and hate
To make my self a Beast at any rate.
Of Mirth and companie I sometimes think;
The cause that now and then I write of drink.

107. Of Catullus, Tibullus, and Propertius.

The ancient Epigrammatist Catullus,
Propertius, and the amorous Tibullus,
Are often bound together: whats the reason?
They all were merry Blades at every season;
Whilst they did live they often were together:
And now th'are dead th'are bound up so in Leather.

108. To my Son Mr. Thomas Cokaine.

Let others glory in their Hawks and Hounds,
Their golden heaps, and Circuit of their Grounds,
Their gallant Breed of Horses, and their meat,
Drest so, that Heliogabalus would eat;
Their Mistresses (whose Beauties would inflame
Unknown Lands Salvages, and make them tame)
Themselves, and them so richly dres'd, that you
The Heavens (without a Cloud) would think in view:
Give me a study of good Books, and I
Envy to none their hugg'd Felicity.

109. To Mr. Daniel Millescent.

Momus doth carp that I do write so few
Lines on this Theme, and sayes th'are not enow:
I to a hundred thousand write tis true,
And worth so many (for your worths) are you.

110. To Mr. Robert Creitton Dr. of Divinity, formerly Oratour and Greek Professour of the University of Cambridge.

Among the many friends that I do name,
Neglected I do mention you, 'twere shame.
You were my Tutour; and tis fit I show
The world a Part of the Respects I owe:
Let this poor trifle be an atome of it,
Although to my disgrace and your no profit.
Expect from your learn'd Pupils Works of Art;
I can present you but a grateful heart.

111. Of high-spirited women.

Histories of all ages do declare
High-spirited women noble things have done:
One shall serve mention'd in particular,
And she the brave Ioenian Amazon.
Bonduca long the Romans force withstood,
And seal'd her love t'her Countrey with her blood.

112. To Momus.

Momus doth grumble; Prethee spare me not:
Th'excception's just thou hast against me got.
I writ Catullus, and the other two,
Were all of them Contemporaries, tis true:
Valerius ere they flourish'd dy'd, I know it;
Poets may feign, in that hold me a Poet:
With truth of History I was too bold,
As men tye knots on Ropes to make them hold.

113. To Mr. Edmond Ravenhill.

How in your company I do delight!
A Pleasure to my ears, as well as sight
When on the Harpsecals your sister Win
Doth play, and you upon the Violin;
I with that musick am affected much,
She plays so well, and eke your Art is such.
Hast t'us, and when (with playing) you are weary;
A Bottle of rich sack shall make us merry.

114. To Anne Hill.

Nan Hill, th'art good and great: Think it not better
To grow up to a Mountain, and be greater:
With marriage therefore do not be beguil'd;
Y'are made a Mountain if y'are got with child.
But marry (Nan Hill) if you should grow wanton,
Rather then to be worse become a Mountain.

115. To my honoured kinsman Mr. Edward Darcy.

Repair your house at Newhall, and hast down,
And leave the noise of this expenceful Town:
You here deprive your self of many a good
To be enjoy'd by Countrey-solitude.
Pretend not want of Companie; For I
Will waite upon you oft, that live thereby.
You may reply you better would; I grant it:
Keep a good house there, and you need not want it.

116. An Epitaph on Mr. Gilbert Knyveston, my wives Brother, who deceased in London about the 38 year of his age, and lies buried at St. Giles in the fields.

Stay Passenger, forbear thy hast,
And read whom Death herein hath plac't:
For Gilbert Knyveston here doth lye,
A shaking of mortality.
All Ethicks he his practice made,
On Christian foundation laid.
His Life was noble, and his Death
A rich soul did to heaven bequeath:
His loss we therefore should not mourn,
But (for our selves) to sadness turn;
Lament that we do want so much
Of those great worthes that made him such.
Let's study him, and imitate so,
That we may prove like him: Now go.

117. Of amorous Courtship.

Men do solicite Women, they contemne,
(If they are bashful) to importune them:
Man was made first, and therefore should begin;
Do Women? They 'gainst Modesty do sin.

118. Of Katherine Boer.

A Catholick German knit his angry brow,
And cal'd Frier Martin Luthers wife a Sow:
But such his Passion was it did run ore,
She could not be a Sow that was a Boar.

119. Of Puritans.

Against Saints Fasts the Puritans do bawl:
And why? To th'Flesh they are addicted all.

120. To my brother in law Mr. William Nevil.

Dear Cambridgeshire, leave off to boast
Thy University so crost:
And Cambridgeshire, forbear to vaunt
Of Ely, fam'd for many a Saint;
And Westow-lodge henceforth let be
The primest glory that's in thee;
Where plenty, neatness, and a right
Well-govern'd house yield full delight;
VVherein you and your Lady give
Example how the good should live.

121. To Mrs. Alice Nevill, his sister.

Y'are virtuous, young, and handsome; and I dare
VVith Sydneyes Queen of Corinth you compare.
Between you I no difference can write;
But she was slighted, you your servants slight,
You may relent, and I do hope you will:
If prayers prevail not, Cupid use thy skill.

122. To Mrs. An & Mrs. Mildred Nevil his daughters:

Henceforth our English youth may cease to glory
In famous Sydneys celebrated story:
For you two sisters shortly must incite
Some matchless pen your happy lives to write;
That unto all this land it may be known,
Pamela and Philoclea are out-gone.

123. To Paulinus.

Marry in Lent! tis strange; and yet no treason
You say, although unusual that season:
Marriage is not, but the solemnization
Forbidden then, and y'ave a dispensation.
The Church hath favour'd you; shew it your duty,
And prize 't henceforth above your Ladies beauty.

124. To my honoured friend Major William Warner.

Playes, Eclogues, Songs, a Satyre I have writ,
A remedy for those 'ith amorous fit,
Love Elegies, and Funeral Elegies,
Letters of things of divers qualities,
Encomiastick Lines to works of some,
A Masque, and an Epithalamium,
Two Books of Epigrams: All which I mean
Shall (in this volume) come upon the Scene;
Some divine Poems, which (when first I came
To Cambridge) I writ there, I need not name;
Of Dianea neither my Translation,
Omitted here as of another fashion.
For heavens sake name no more you say, I cloy you:
I do obey you; Therefore (friend) God b'wy you.

125. Of this Book.

This little Work I've done, which time may wast;
Or Ioves displeasure into darkness cast:
But I will hope the best, and that it may
Last (after I am ashes) many a day.

The third Book.

1. To the Gentry of Darbyshire.

Gentlemen, and my Countrey men! pray look
With courteous eyes upon this trivial Book:
For I present it to you, that it may
Show my respects to you another day.
Why to the Lords I write not you enquire:
I should not be so bold, though I desire.
But (to avoid prolixity of words)
Gentlemen they are, though you are not Lords.

2. To the Readers.

Two Books of Epigrams I've writ before,
Yet (Gentle Readers) I present you more:
Behold the third here offer'd you; but what
It will prove, good or bad, I know not yet.
May it likewise obtain your candor; els
Henceforth (for me) write Epigrams yourselves.

3. To the Right Honourable Philip Earl of Chesterfield, Baron of Shelford, &c.

Philip the second! Earl of Chesterfield!
I a request have, and I hope you'l yield:
Yet I (in modesty) long time have stuck
From making it; And 'tis but for a Buck:
Bestow one on me, and on this good reason,
I will not ask again till the next season.

4. An Epitaph on Elizabeth the Lady Reppington, who deceased at Ammington, about the 50. year of of her age, and lies buried at Tamworth.

Here underneath this Monumental Stone
Elizabeth the Lady Reppington
Doth lye inter'd: And therefore whosoere
Thou art that passest by, awhile forbear
Thy hast, and read, and weep; for he's unjust
Unto the merits of her precious dust,
That doth not drop his Tears in showers; for she
Is worthy of eternal Memory,
Worthy of storms of sighes, Thunder of Grones,
To mourn her loss with due afflictions.
The sea-bright family that gave her birth,
Hath gain'd thereby a glory on the earth.
Happy her husband in so good a wife!
Happy her children to receive a life
From such a Magazine of worthes as she!
A fair example for Posterity.
To name her virtues, is to name them all;
She was their Centre, she their pure White-hall,
Their Court, their Palace, where heaven did rejoyce
To see such Cherubims without a vice.
She was their Paradise, and her bright soul
The Diety that did command the whole.
But O! there is another heaven, else sure
Her soul had never left a place so pure.
Earth is not the reward for virtue. Look
Upwards, that's towards her, she is a Book,
A Directory for thy life; which read,
And practiced, thou wilt be so prais'd when dead.

[5]. An Epitaph on my honoured Cousin Mr. John Reppington, who deceased at Ammington about the 25 year of his age, and lies buried at Tamworth.

Here lies Iohn Reppington, that came to be
(By Edwards death) Heir of his Family:
As t'him his elder brother did give room,
So he t'his younger, witness by this tomb.
He a few weeks after his mother di'd,
And of the same (new term'd) disease beside;
So he a most obsequious son was found,
That waited on his mother under ground.
He was good natur'd, bore an honest mind,
Belov'd by all men, and to all men kind:
And had no foe but death, who (too severe)
Hath cast an Heir so young and hopeful here.

6. To Mr. Charles Hutchinson my Cousin German.

Cousin, I long to see you married well,
And long (at Rawslison) to see you dwell.
Then I should oft wait on you, make some stay;
It being (from Pooly t'Ashburn) in the way.
So I should make your house mine Inne; what tho?
W'are friends, and neer a kin: Pray be mine so.

7. To Mr. Francis Fitzherbert of Lincolnes Inne, my kinsman.

To love, and not to love; it is all one
If you do let the Fair belov'd alone:
And to love once, unless you do love ever,
Is a slight toy, and was an earnest never.
Therefore (to shew you true affection have)
Your Mistrisse wed, and love her to the grave.

8. To Mr. Will. Stanhope the younger my Cousin German.

Why do you live so long a Batchelor?
Is it cause you the femall sex abhor?
Or do you fear women are troublesome,
And therefore loth into their yoke to come?
If such opinions do your minde enthrall,
Marry a wife, and she'l confute them all.

9. Of Quintilla.

Quintilla talkes too much, and why is it?
Because Quintilla hath but little wit:
And at each thing she speakes, she doth laugh after;
A Fool is known by an excess of laughter.

10. To my mother Mrs Anne Cokain.

Let none our Ashbourn discommend henceforth;
Your Gardens shew it is a place of worth.
What delicate Sparagus you have growing there,
And in how great abundance every year?
What gallant Apricocks, and Peaches brave,
And what delicious Nectorins you have?
What Mellons that grow ripe without those Glasses
That are laid over them in other Places?
What Grapes you there have growing? and what wine
(Pleasant to tast) you made last vintage time?
Plant Vines; & (when of Grapes you have got store)
Make wine enough, and I will ask no more:
Then Mr. Bancroft (in high lines) shall tell
The world, your cellar's Aganippe's Well.

Song 1.

[I saw a proud fair Lass to day]

The second Song.

[You Ladies fair]

The third song being an answer to O no, I tell thee no.

The fourth song, being a fictitious Relation.

The fifth Song.

[It is an offence to love, and to love you]

The sixth Song.

[An health, an health, an health to all this day]

An health, an health, an health to all this day
That will drink half a dozen ere they go their way,
And will meet at an Ale-house;
Let come, let come,
Let this Pot be a sign
VVe are merry without wine,
And content in a Countrey Ale-house.
Lets drink, and sing Catches,
But few are our Matches.
And tipple, and tipple, and tipple a round,
Here's to thy wench, to my wench; come to al girles;
Though it cost us Lads many a pound.

The Seventh Song, of the Bear in Poulesworth.

The eight song, upon the first expedition into the North under the late King.

The ninth song.

[O Cupid use thy bow]

The tenth Song.

[Curle every hair, smile with your eyes]

The eleventh Song.

[Wherefore should gallants be sad]

The twelfth song. The wenches complaint, Non e maggior tormento.

The thirteenth song. William the Conquerour to Emma the Miliners daughter of Manchester.

The fourteenth song. Emma's answer to William the Conquerour.

The fifthteenth Song.

[Here's a Health to a merry old sinner]

The sixteenth Song, of two lovers.

[Two lovers lately that for some years space]

The seventeenth Song. Of a Mistresse.

The eighteenth song. Of women.

The nineteenth Song.

[You are too proud to love, and are too kind]

The twentieth Song. A Ballad of Darbyshire.

Song 21.

[Ah me! I have sinned so]