University of Virginia Library

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.