The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) ::

Gorgo, Eunoa, Praxinoe, two strangers, an old Woman.
Gorgo.
Pray, is Praxinoe within?

Eunoa.
What, Dear
Gorgo! how great a stranger? yes, shee's here.

Prax.
I'th' name of wonder, what's the news with thee?
Fetch her a Stool and Cushion.

Gorgo.
Not for me.

Prax.
Nay sit.

Gorgo.
Well fare a stout heart yet: I thought
I scarce should er'e alive to thee have got
Through such a throng of men, and Coaches: All
The streets are set with Guards, and every stall
Crowded with gallants; and thou know'st beside
From hence to our house is no little stride.

Prax.
My Goodman Dotard (thank him) at th'worlds end
Hath found this hole for Me; lest any friend
Should e'r come at Me: Mischief on his Care
That's onely bent to cross me.

Gorgo.
Dear, beware
To talk thus 'fore the child: See how his eye
Is set upon thee!

Prax.
I, 'tis my good boy;
We speak not of thy Father.

Gorgo.
Now by'r Lady
The Child does understand—Dad's a fine Daddy.

Prax.
Well, this fine Dad, (for we in private may
Say what we please) being spoke to th'other day,
Ceruse and Merc'ry at the shops to buy,
Brings me home salt: this Dunce twelve Cubits high.

Gorgo.
Just so my Diocleides does; that Grave
Of money! Yesterday, a Crown he gave
For a few Dag-locks coarser than Doggs hair;
Five Sheep-skins too he bought: most precious ware!
But let that pass: come, make thee ready strait;
And let's to Court, to see them celebrate
Adonis Feast: the Queen intends (they say)
To make a gallant shew on't.

Prax.
Great ones may
Do great things: tell them this that nothing see.

Gorgo.
Faith, dress thee straight, and go along with me:
With loyterers t'is alwaies holiday.

Prax.
Fetch me some water hither, Eunoa:
D'ee hear, Joan Cleanly! high you, make more haste;
Quick; The Cat loves a Cushion: see how fast
She comes with it!—pour forth: not so much (Drone!)
Yee idle slut, why hast thou wet my gown?

Hold!—W'are e'en washt after a sort, as please
The Fates:—lock the great chest, and bring the keys.

Gorgo.
That gown does thee exceeding well become.
How much might the stuff cost thee from the Loom?

Prax.
I pray thee do not ask Me: 'bove one Pound
Or two, the weaving: but the yarn I found.

Gorgo.
Troth it does mighty well.

Prax.
And well y'have sed.
Reach me my Kirtle, wench; and help me spread
My scarf.—Child, you must stay at home: there's sprites
Where we are going, and a horse that bites.
Nay, cry (and th'woo't) as long as thou canst scream,
I care not: dost thou think I'le see thee lame?
Come,—take the boy, and play with him: d'ee hear!
Call the Dog in, and make the dore fast.—Dear
What a huge crowd's here! how shall we get by?
They swarm like Ants. O noble Ptolomy!
Many a good deed since thy Fathers daies
We ow thee thanks for. Free are now the waies
From Thieves and Murtherers: no Rogues flock together
To act their cheats now, like birds of a Feather.
But which way now? there's the Horse-guard before us.
Pray friend be fair condition'd; don't ride or'e us.
O, he curvets; 'tis a fierce horse that Bay;
Hee'l throw his Rider, let's get out o'th'way:
Run Eunoe:—I'm glad yet I have made
The boy keep home.

Gorgo.
Come, courage; ben't afraid:
They'r past us now.

Prax.
And so's my fright: good Lord!
A Horse and Snake are two things I've abhorr'd

Even from a child:—but haste, or else another
Shole will or'etake us.

Gorgo.
Come you from Court, Mother?

Old Woman.
Yes, my good Daughter.

Gorgo.
Pray, may one get in?

Old Woman.
The Greeks did Troy by their endeavours win:
Endeavour will do all things.

Gorgo.
Sli'd th'old Crone
Speaks Oracles. To woman what's unknown?
How Jove wood Juno they can tell. But see,
Before the Gate what store of company?

Prax.
A world! Gorgo, thy hand: Eutychides,
Lend Eunoa thine, least she be lost i'th' press.
Let's all crowd in together: Eunoe,
Be sure you keep your hold. Gorgo, Ah me!
My scarfe's rent quite in two: good Sir, for love
Of Heaven, help save my scarf there.

Stranger.
'Tis above
My power to do it: yet I'le do my best.

Prax.
They thrust like Swine: how vildely are we prest!

Stranger.
Come, come, w'are well now: take a good heart.

Prax.
May it be ever so with thee, that art
So kind to us: an honest civil man:

But O, they crowd as bad as e're again.
Help, help alas! thrust Eunoa for thy life.
So, now w'are in, as the man said to's wife.

Gorgo.
Come, look upon these Hangings first; so fair,
As if the handy work of Gods they were.

Prax.
Bless me! what Artist made them of so fine
A Woof? what Painter could so well design?
They seem to move: sure they're alive, not wrought:
Lord! Lord! the wit of man surpasses thought.
But see how lovely on a silver bed
(His tender cheeks with a soft down o'respread)
Adonis lies! how admirably fair!
With whom the powers of Hell enamour'd are.

2d. Stranger.
Peace, foolish tatling women; hold your prate:
Your wide mouth'd Dorick here is out of date.

Gorgo.
Gup: who art thou? what is our talk to thee?
Correct your maids, not us of Sicilie:
Yet (would you knew't) we are from Corinth sprung,
As was Bellerophon: our Mother Tongue
Peloponnesian is: nor is it scorn
That they speak Dorick, who are Dorick born.

Prax.
More Lords then one, Sir, we disclaim: so short!
Ye need not faith: here's those care little for't.

Gorgo.
Whist! whist Praxinoe! The Hymn let's hear:
This is the maid that did from Sperchis bear
The Prize. I know shee'l sing anon, she hums
Unto her self such sweet Præludiums.

The Hymn.

Thou who in Golgos, and Idalia tak'st
Delight, with lofty Erix; who gold mak'st

Thy joy: sweet Venus! see the soft pace't hours
Thy dear Adonis from th'Infernal powers
Have brought again at the years end to thee!
Though slowest of the Deities they be,
Yet they come wish'd for, and with something fraught
Alwaies to all. Thou whom Dione brought
To light, fair Cypris! Berenice's said,
Mortal, by thee to be Immortall made,
And fed with sweet Ambrosia: wherefore now,
Her daughter (to make good her grateful vow
To thee) her Daughter (who for form may be
A second Helin) fair Arsinoe,
To thy Adonis choisest gifts assigns;
O thou, that gloriest in thy numerous shrines!
The several fruits which laden Top-boughs yeild
Beside him lie: here flowers of every field
In Silver Baskets: there Gold Boxes stand
Full of Assyrian unguents: on his hand,
All sorts of rare Confections; and with those,
What e're of Oyl or Hony we compose.
All Fowls, all beasts for food: green Arbours drest
With soft Dil branches, where Loves make their nest:
And like young Nightingales that have but now
New try'd their wings, flutter from bough to bough.
O the golds splendour! the pure Ivories too!
The Eagle with Joves Cup-bearer that flew!
And Purple Carpets then sleep softer! may
The wondring Samian, and Milesian say.

Here on a rich Bed doth Adonis lie;
And lovely Venus on another by.
Soft are his kisses, and his lips still red;
Venus, now joy in his regained Bed.
For we to morrow, e're the dew's exhal'd,
With hairs unbound, loose garments, brests unveild,
Him to the foaming waves that wash the shore,
Shall bear from hence, and with sad songs deplore.
The way from Hell (Adonis) unto thee
Is ever open, though to none else free
Of all the glorious Heroes (as they tell)
This ne'r t'Atrides, Ajax ne're befel.
Not Hector, chief of Hecub's numerous Race,
Patroclus, Pyrrhus, those of elder daies,
The Lapithites, Deucalions issue; nor

The Sons of Pelops, (Princes fam'd in War)
Nor Argive Kings could er'e to this attain.
Be now appeas'd: and the next year again
Bring gladness with thee: still propitious prove,
And as thou cam'st, return to us in love.

Gorgo.
O deer! what a rare woman's this? what choice
Of knowledge hath she? and how sweet a voice?
But go:—My husband's fasting still, and then
He eats his own Gall: Fear a hungry man.
Fare-well Adonis for this time; and when
The year's done, come, and make us glad agen.

THE SUN-RISE

Thou youthfull Goddess of the Morn!
Whose blush they in the East adore;
Daughter of Phœbus! who before
Thy all-enlightning Sire art born!
Haste! and restore the day to me,
That my Loves beautious Object I may see.

Too much of time the night devours,
The Cocks shrill voice calls thee again;
Then quickly mount thy golden Wain
Drawn by the softly-sliding hours:
And make apparent to all eyes
With what Enamel thou dost paint the skies.

Leave thy old husband, let him lie
Snorting upon his downy bed;
And to content thy Lover, spread
Thy Flames new lighted, through the sky;
Heark how thy presence he conjures,
As leading to the Woods his Hounds, he lures.

Moisten the fallow grounds before
Thou com'st, with a sweet dewie rain;
That thirstie Ceres having ta'ne
Her Mornings draught, that day no more
May call for drink; and we may see
Spangled with pearlie drops each bush and tree.

Ah! now I see the sweetest dawn!
Thrice welcome to my longing sight!
Hail divine beautie! Heavenly light!
I see thee through yon Cloud of Lawn
Appear; and as thy star does glide,
Blanching with raies the East on every side.

Dull silence, and the drowsie King
Of sad and Melancholie Dreams,
Now flie before thy cheerful Beams,
The darkest shadows vanquishing:
The Owl, that all the night did keep
Ahouting, now is fled and gone to sleep.

But all those little Birds, whose noats
Sweetly the listning ear enthrall,
To the clear waters murmuring fall,
Accord their disagreeing throats,
The lustre of that greater Star
Praising, to which thou art but Harbinger.

'Bove our Horizon see him scale
The first point of his brighter Round!
O how the swarthie Æthiop's bound
With reverence to his light to veil,
And love the colour of his look,
Which from a heat so mild, so pure he took.

A God perceivable is he
By humane sense, Natures bright eye,
Without whom all her works would die,
Or in their births imperfect be:
He Grace and Beautie gives alone,
To all the Works of her Creation.

With holie Reverence inspir'd,
When first the day renews it's light,
The Earth, at so Divine a sight,
Seems as if all on Altar fir'd,
Reeking with Perfumes to the skies,
Which she presents, her Native Sacrifice.

The humble Shepherd to his Raies,
Having his Rustick Homage paid,

And to some cool retired shade
Driven his bleating Flocks to Graze;
Sits down, delighted with the sight
Of that great Lamp, so milde, so fair, so bright.

The Eagle in her Airy sitting
Spreading her wings, with fixed eye
Gazes on him, t'whose Deitie
She yields all Adoration fitting:
As to the only quickning fire,
And Object that her eye does most desire.

The Salmon (which at Spring forsakes
Thetis salt Waves) to look on him,
Upon the waters top doth swim:
And to express the joy he takes,
As sportingly along he sails,
Mocks the poor Fisher with his silver Scales.

The Bee through flowrie Gardens goes
Buzzing to drink the mornings tears;
And from the early Lillly bears
A kiss, commended to the Rose;
And like a wary Messenger,
Whispers some Amorous story in her ear.

At which, shee rowsing from her sleep,
Her chaster Flames seems to declare
To him again (whil'st Dew her fair
And blushing leaves in tears doth steep)
The sorrow which her heart doth waste,
That shee's so far from her dear Lover plac't.

And further seems, as if this plaint
In her mute Dialect she made:
[“]Alas! I shall with sorrow fade,
[“]And pine away in this restraint,
[“]Unless my too too rigorous Fate,
[“]My Constant faithful Love commiserate.

[“]Love having gain'd the victory
[“]Over my soul, there acts his harms,
[“]Nor Thorns so many bear my Arms,

[“]As in my heart now prickles be:
[“]The onely Comfort I can give
[“]My self, is this; I have not long to live.

[“]But if some courteous Virgin shall,
[“]Pitying my Fate, pull my sweet flowre,
[“]E're by a sad and fatal hour
[“]My Honours fade away and fall;
[“]I nothing more shall then desire,
[“]But gladly without murmuring expire.[”]

Peace sweetest Queen of Flowres! now see
Sylvia, Queen of my Love, appear:
Who for thy Comfort brings with her
What will thy wishes satisfie;
For her white hand intends to grace thee
And in her sweeter Brest, sweet flower to place thee.

The Night:

OR, The fair Mourner.

This fair, and animated Night
In Sables drest; whose Curls of Light
Are with a shade of Cypresse veil'd;
Not from the Stygian Deeps exhal'd,
But from Heaven's bright Balcone came;
Not dropping Dew, but shedding Flame.
The blushing East her smiles display,
Her beauteous Front the Dawn of Day;
The Stars doe sparkle in her Eyes,
And in her Looks the Sun doth rise.
No mask of Clouds and Storms she wears,
But still serene and calm appears:
No dismall Birds, no hideous Fiends,
Nor charming Hag on her attends;
The Graces are her Maids of Honour,
And thousand Cupids wait upon her.

Dear Flames! still burning, though you are
Supprest: Lights, though obscur'd, still fair!
What Heart does not adore you? who
But sighs, or languishes for you?

Heaven wishes, by your shade outvy'd,
It's milky Path in Ink were dy'd:
The Sun within an Ebon Case,
Longs to shut up his golden Face:
The Moon too with thy sad Dresse took,
Would fain put on a mourning Look.

Sweet Night! and if th'art Night, of Peace
The gentle Mother! Cares Release!
My Heart, now long opprest, relieve;
And in thy softer Bosome give
My weary Limbs a short Repose;
'Tis but a small Request, Heaven knows:
Nor think it shame to condiscend,
For Night is stil'd the Lovers Friend.
But Muse, thou art too loud I fear,
The Night loves silence, Muse forbear.

I SOSPIRI.

[_]

Sighs.

Sighs! light, warm spirits! in which, Air,
And Fire, possesse an equall share:
The Souls soft Breath! Loves gentle Gales!
Which from Griefs Golfe (when all else failes)
Can by a speedy Course, and short,
Conduct the Heart to it's sweet Port:
Ye flattering Zephyrs! by whose Pow'r,
Rais'd on the Wings of thought, each How'r
From the Abysse of Miseries
To her Lov'd Heav'n the freed Soul flies.

True lively sparks of that close Fire,
Which Hearts conceal, and Eyes inspire:
Chast Lamps that burn at Beauties shrine,
Whose purer Flames let none confine:
Nature a warmth unto my Heart,
Does not so kind as yours impart;
And if by Breath preserv'd alive,
By your Breath only I survive.

Loves faithfull Witnesses! the Brief,
But true Expresses of our Grief!

Embassadors of mute Desires!
Dumb Rhetorick which our Thoughts attires!
Grief, when it overloads the Brest,
Is in no other language drest;
For you the suffering Lovers Flame,
Sweet, tounglesse Orators, proclame.

A numerous Descant upon Sorrow!
Which sweetnes doth from sadnes borrow,
VVhen Love two differing Hearts accords,
And Joy, in well-tun'd Grief, affords.
The Musick of whose sweet Concent,
In a harmonious Languishment,
Does softly fall, and gently rise,
'Till in a broken Cloze, it dies.

Nature, and all that call her Mother,
In Sighs discourse to one another:
Theirs, Nightingals, and Doves, in Tones
Different expresse; this sings, that grones:
The Thrush, his, whistles to his Hen;
The Sparrow chirps out his agen;
Snakes breath their amorous sighs in Hisses;
This Dialect no Creature misses.

The Virgin Lilly, bashfull Rose,
In Odours their soft sighs disclose;
Theirs, sportive VVinds in whispers breath;
Earth hers in Vapours doth bequeath
To her cælestiall Lover; He,
Touch't with an equall Sympathie,
To fann the Flame with which she burns,
In gentle Gales his sighs returns.

Yee glowing Sparks of a chast Fire!
Now to those radiant Lights aspire,
The fairer Nests of my fair Love,
And the bright Spheres where you should move.

The Surprise.

There's no dallying with Love
Though he be a Child and blind;
Then let none the danger prove
VVho would to himself be kind:

Smile he does when thou do'st play,
But his smiles to death betray.

Lately with the Boy I sported;
Love I did not, yet Love feign'd;
Had not Mistress, yet I courted;
Sigh I did, yet was not pain'd;
'Till at last this Love in Jeast,
Prov'd in Earnest my Unrest.

VVhen I saw my fair One first,
In a feigned fire I burn'd;
But true flames my poor Heart pierc't,
VVhen her Eyes on mine she turn'd:
So a reall VVound I took
For my counterfeited Look.

Slighted Love his skill to show,
Strook me with a Mortall Dart;
Then I learnt that 'gainst his Bow,
Vain are the weak Helps of Art:
And thus captiv'd, found that true
Doth dissembled Love pursue.

'Cause his Fetters I disclam'd,
Now the Tyrant faster bound Me;
VVith more scorching Brands inflam'd,
'Cause in Love so cold he found me:
And my sighs more scalding made,
'Cause with VVinds before they playd.

None who loves not then make shew,
Love's as ill deceiv'd as Fate;
Fly the Boy, hee'l cogg and wooe;
Mock him, and he wounds thee strait.
Ah! who dally boast in vain;
False Love wants not reall Pain.

Chloris Eyes and Breasts.

Chloris! on thine Eyes I gaz'd;
When amaz'd
At their brightnes,
On thy Breasts I cast my Look;

No lesse took
With their whitenes:
Both I justly did admire,
These all Snow, and those all Fire.

Whilst these Wonders I survay'd,
Thus I said
In suspence;
Nature could have done no lesse
To expresse
Her Providence,
Than that two such fair Worlds, might
Have two Suns to give them Light.

Love's Arithmetick.

By a gentle River laid,
Thirsis to his Phillis said;
Equall to these sandy Grains,
Is the Number of my Pains:
And the Drops within their Bounds
Speak the sum of all my Wounds.

Phillis, whom like Passion burns,
Thirsis Answer thus returns:
Many as the Earth hath leaves,
Are the Griefs my heart receives;
And the Stars, which Heaven inspires,
Reckon my consuming Fires.

Then the Shepheard, in the Pride
Of his happy Love, reply'd;
With the Choristers of Air
Shall our numerous Joyes compare;
And our mutuall Pleasures vy
With the Cupids in thine Eye.

Thus the willing Shepheardesse
Did her ready Love expresse:
In Delights our Pains shall cease,
And our War be cur'd by Peace;
We will count our Griefs with Blisses,
Thousand Torments, Thousand Kisses.

Cælia weeping.

A Dialogue.

Lover.
Say gentle God of Love, in Cælia's Brest,
Can Joy and Grief together rest?

Love.
No; for those differing Passions are,
Nor in one Heart at once can share.

Lover.
Why grieves hers then at once, and joyes,
Whilst it anothers Heart destroyes?

Love.
Mistaken Man! that Grief she showes,
Is but what martyr'd Hearts disclose
Which in her Breast tormented lye,
And Life can neither hope, nor dy.

Lover.
And yet a showre of Pearly Rain
Does her soft Cheeks fair Roses stain.

Love.
Alas! those Tears you hers surmise,
Are the sad Tribute of poor Lovers Eyes.

Chorus.

Lover & Love.
What reall then in VVomen can be known!
When nor their Joys, nor Sorrows are their Own?

The Vow.

By my Life I vow,
That my Life, art Thou:
By my Heart, and by my Eyes:
But thy Faith denies
To my juster Oath t'encline,
For thou say'st I swear by thine.

By this Sigh I swear,
By this falling Tear,
By the undeserved Pains
My griev'd Soul sustains.
Now thou may'st beleeve my Moan,
These are too too much my own.

Ice & Fire.

Naked Love, did to thine Eye,
Chloris, once to warm him, fly;
But it's subtle Flame, and Light,
Scorch'd his Wings, and spoyl'd his sight.

Forc'd from thence he went to rest
In the soft Couch of thy Brest:
But there met a Frost so great,
As his Torch extinguish'd strait.

When poor Cupid, thus, (constrain'd
His cold Bed to leave) complain'd;
'Lass! what lodging's here for Me,
If all Ice and Fire She be.

Novo Inamoramento.

And yet anew entangled, see
Him, who escap'd the snare so late!
A Truce, no League thou mad'st with Me
False Love! which now is out of date:
Fool, to beleeve the Fire quite out, alas!
VVhich only laid asleep in Embers was.

The Sickness not at first past cure,
By this Relapse despiseth Art:
Now, treacherous Boy, thou hast me sure,
Playing the VVanton with my Heart,
As foolish Children that a Bird have got,
Slacken the Thread, but not unty the knot.

Cælia's Eyes.

A Dialogue.

Lover.
Love! tell me; may we Cælia's Eyes esteem
Or Eyes, or Stars? for Stars they seem.

Love.
Fond, stupid Man! know Stars they are,
Nor can Heaven boast more bright or fair.

Lover.
Are they or erring Lights, or fixed? say.

Love.
Fix'd; yet lead many a Heart astray.

The Resemblance.

Marble (coy Cælia!) 'gainst my Pray'rs thou art,
And at thy Frown to Marble I convert.
Love thought it fit, and Nature, thus
To manifest their severall Powers in us.
Love made me Marble, Nature thee,
To express Constancy and Cruelty.
Now both of us shall Monuments remain;
I of firm Faith, thou of Disdain.

Love once, Love ever.

Shall I hopeless then pursue
A fair shadow that still flies me?
Shall I still adore, and wooe
A proud Heart that does despise me?
I a constant Love may so,
But alas! a fruitless shew.

Shall I by the erring Light
Of two crosser Stars still sail?
That do shine, but shine in spight,
Not to guide, but make me fail?

I a wandring Course may steer,
But the Harbour ne'r come near.

Whilst these Thoughts my Soul possess,
Reason, Passion would o'rsway;
Bidding me my Flames suppress,
Or divert some other way:
But what Reason would pursue,
That my Heart runs counter to.

So a Pilot bent to make
Search for some unfound out Land,
Does with him the Magnet take,
Sailing to the unknown Strand;
But that (steer which way he will)
To the loved North points still.

The Pendants.

Those Aspes of Gold with Gems that shine,
And in Enammel'd Curles do twine,
Why Chloris in each Ear
Dost thou for Pendants wear?
—I now the hidden meaning guess:
Those Mystick signs express
The stings thine Eyes do dart
Killing as Snakes into my Heart:
And shew that to my Prayers
Thine Ears are deaf as theirs.

The sweet Meat.

Thou gav'st me late to eat
A sweet without, but within, bitter Meat:
As if thou would'st have said, Here, taste in this
What Cælia is.

But if there ought to be
A likeness (deerest!) 'twixt thy gift and thee,
VVhy first what's sweet in thee should I not taste,
The bitter last?

Violets in Thaumantia's Bosome.

Tvvice happy Violets! that first had Birth
In the warm Spring, when no frosts nip the Earth;
Thrice happy now; since you transplanted are
Unto the sweeter Bosome of my Fair.
And yet poor Flowers! I pitty your hard Fate,
You have but chang'd, not better'd your Estate:
What boots it you t'have scap'd cold Winters breath,
To find, like me, by Flames a sudden death?

The Dream.

Fair shadow! faithless as my sun!
Of peace she robs my Mind,
And to my sense, which rest doth shun,
Thou art no less unkind.

She my Address disdainfull flies,
And thou like her art fleet;
The reall Beauty she denies,
And thou the Counterfeit.

To cross my innocent desires,
And make my Griefs extreme,
A Cruell Mistris thus conspires
With a delusive Dream.

An old Shepheard to a young Nymph.

Scorn me not Fair because you see
My Hairs are white; what if they be?
Think not 'cause in your Cheeks appear
Fresh springs of Roses all the year,
And mine, like Winter, wan and cold,
My Love like Winter should be cold:
See in the Garland which you wear
How the sweet blushing Roses there
With pale-hu'd Lillies do combine?
Be taught by them; so let us joyn.

Beauty encreased by Pity.

'Tis true; thy Beauty, (which before
Did dazle each bold gazers Eye,
And forc'd even Rebell-Hearts t'adore,
Or from its conquering splendour fly)
Now shines with new encrease of Light,
Like Cynthia at her full, more bright.

Yet though thou glory in th'Increase
Of so much Beauty deerest Fair!
They err who think this great Access,
(Of which all Eyes th'Admirers are)
Or Art, or Nature's gift should be:
Learn then the hidden Cause from Me.

Pitty in thee, in me desire
First bred; (before, I durst but aime
At fair Respect) now that close fire
Thy Love hath fann'd into a flame:
Which mounting to its proper Place,
Shines like a Glory 'bout thy Face.

Weeping and Kissing.

A kiss I begg'd; but smiling, Shee
Deny'd it Me:
When strait, her Cheeks with tears o'rflown,
(Now kinder grown)
What smiling shee'd not let me have,
She weeping gave.
Then you whom scornfull Beauties aw,
Hope yet Relief;
For Love, (who Tears from Smiles) can draw
Pleasure from Grief.

The Dilemma.

As poor Strephon (whom hard Fate
Slave to Chloris Eyes decreed)
By his cruell fair one sate,
Whilst his fat Flocks graz'd along:

To the Musick of his Reed,
This was the sad Shepheards Song.
From those tempting Lips if I
May not steal a Kiss (my Dear!)
I shall longing pine and dye:
And a Kiss if I obtain,
My Heart fears (thine Eyes so near)
By their lightning 'twill be slain.
Thus I know not what to try:
This I know yet, that I dye.

Change defended.

Leave Chloris, leave, prethee no more
With want of Love, or Lightness charge Me:
'Cause thy Looks captiv'd me before,
May not anothers now enlarge me?

He, whose misguided Zeal hath long
Pay'd Homage to some Stars pale light,
Better enform'd, may without wrong
Leave that, t'adore the Queen of Night.

Then if my Heart, which long serv'd thee,
Will to Carintha now encline;
Why term'd inconstant should it be,
For bowing 'fore a richer shrine?

Censure that Lover's such, whose will
Inferiour Objects can entice;
VVho changes for the better still,
Makes that a Vertue, you call Vice.

The Microcosme.

Man of himself's a little VVorld, but join'd
VVith VVoman, VVoman for that end design'd,
(Hear cruell fair One whilst I this rehearse!)
He makes up then a compleat Universe.
Man like this sublunary VVorld is, born
The sport of two cross Planets, Love, and Scorn:

VVoman the other VVorld resembles well,
In whose Looks Heav'n is, in whose Breast is Hell.

The Defeat.

Gainst Celinda's Marble Brest
All his Arrows having spent,
And in vain each Arrow sent,
Impotent, unarmed Love,
In a shady Myrtle Grove
Layd him down to rest.

'Soon as layd, asleep he fell:
And a Snake, in (as he slept)
To his empty Quiver crept.
VVhen fair Chloris, whose soft Heart
Love had wounded, (and its smart
Lovers best can tell)

This Advantage having spy'd;
Of his Quiver, and his Bow
Thought to rob her sleeping Foe:
Softly going then about
To have seiz'd upon them; out
Strait the Snake did glide.

With whose Hisses frighted, she,
(Nimbly starting back again)
Thus did to herself complain:
Never cruell Archer! never
(Full, or empty) does thy Quiver
Want a sting for Me.

Amore secreto.

Content thy self fond Heart! nor more
Let thy close Flames be seen:
If thou with covert Zeal adore
Thy Saint enshrin'd within,
Thou hast thy Feast, as well as they
That unto Love keep open Holy-day.

In his Religion, all are free
To serve him as they may.
In publick some, and some there be
Their vows in private pay.
Love that does to all Humours bend,
Admits of severall Waies unto one End.

Yet wilt thou not repining cease!
Still dost thou murmurs vent?
Stubborn, Rebellious Zealot, peace!
Nor sign of Discontent
So much as in one sigh afford;
For to the Wise in Love, each sigh's a Word.

A Maid in Love with a Youth blind of one Eye.

Though a Sable Cloud benight
One of thy fair Twins of Light,
Yet the other brighter seems,
As 't had robb'd its Brother's Beams;
Or both Lights to one were run,
Of two Stars, now made one Sun.
Cunning Archer! who knows yet
But thou wink'st my Heart to hit!
Cloze the other too, and All
Thee the God of Love will call.

The broken Faith.

Lately by cleer Thames his side,
Fair Lycoris I espy'd
With the Pen of her white hand
These words printing on the Sand:
None Lycoris doth approve
But Mirtillo for her Love.
Ah false Nymph! those Words were fit
In Sand only to be writ:
For the quickly rising Streams
Of Oblivion, and the Thames,
In a little Moments stay
From the Shore wash'd clean away
What thy hand had there imprest,
And Mirtillo from thy Brest.

Complaint on the Death of Sylvia, to the River.

Cleer Brook! which by thy self art chac'd,
And from thy self dost fly as fast,
Stay here a little; and in Brief
Hear the sad Story of my Grief:
Then, hasting to the Sea, declare
Her Waves not half so bitter are.

Tell her how Sylvia (she who late
Was the sole Regent of my Fate)
Hath yeelded up her sweetest Breath,
In the best Time of Life, to Death:
Who proud of such a Victory,
At once triumphs o'r Love, and Me.

But more (Alas!) I cannot speak;
Sighs to my sadder Accents break.
Farewell kind Floud! now take thy Way,
And like my Thoughts, still restless, stray:
If we retarded have thy Course,
Hold! with these Tears thy speed inforce.

A Shepheard inviting a Nymph to his Cottage.

Deer! on yond' Mountain stands my humble Cot,
'Gainst Sun and Wind by spreading Oaks secur'd;
And with a Fence of Quickset round immur'd,
That of a Cabban, make't a shady Grot.
My Garden's there: o'r which, the Spring hath spread
A flowry Robe; where thou may'st gather Posies
Of Gilliflowers, Pinks, Jelsomines, and Roses,
Sweets for thy Bosome, Garlands for thy Head.

Down from that Rocks side runs a purling Brook
In whose unsullied Face
(Though thine needs no new Grace,)
Thou mayst, as thou think'st best, compose thy Look.
And there thine own fair Object made,
Try which (judg'd by the River) may be said
The greater Fire,
That which my Brest feels, or thy Eyes inspire.

Sogno, a la sua donna

Once unto my amorous flame,
Dear, thou dreamd'st thou didst consent;
But that dream of truth fell short,
'Cause it from the Ivory Port
Of thy white bosom came.
But if thou wouldst what that meant
Now a real truth should prove,
(Dearest Love)
Thy old bedfellow forsake,
And a new and better take;
And thou'lt find 'twill then return
By the other Gate of Horn.

To Ligurinus.

[_]

Horat. Carm. l. 4. Od. 10. Paraphrasticè.

Cruel, and fair! when this soft down,
(Thy Youths bloom,) shall to bristles grow;
And these fair Curls thy shoulders crown,
Shall shed, or cover'd be with snow:

When those bright Roses that adorn
Thy Cheeks shall wither quite away,
And in thy Glass (now made Time's scorn)
Thou shalt thy changed Face survey.

Then, ah then (sighing) thou'lt deplore
Thy Ill-spent Youth; and wish, in vain,
Why had I not those thoughts before?
Or come not my first Looks again?

The Penitent Murderer.

[_]

Theocrit. Idyl. 31 [30].

Εις νεκρον Αδωνιν.

VVhen Venus saw Adonis dead,
His Tresses soyl'd, his Colour fled,
She strait her winged Loves commands
To bring the cruell Boar in Bands.

They, the Woods nimbly ranging, found
The pensive Beast, and brought him bound:
This drags along the captiv'd foe,
That pricks him forward with his Bow.
With trembling steps the Boar drew nigh,
For he fear'd angry Venus Eye.
—T'whom thus she spake: O thou the Worst,
Of all wild Beasts, and most accurst!
Was't thou with wounding Tusks didst tear
This whiter Thygh? thou kill my Dear?

To whom the Boar reply'd, I swear
By thy self Venus, by thy Dear,
By these my Bonds, these Hunters, I
Meant to thy Love no Injury:
But gazing on him, as some fair
Statue, unapt the flames to bear
Desire had kindled in my Brest,
To kiss his naked Thigh I prest;
And kissing, kill'd him: wherefore these,
These murd'ring Tusks, doom as you please.
(For why alas! Teeth do I bear
That useless and enamour'd are?)
Or if a punishment too small
You yet think that, take Lips and All.

But Venus, pittying the Beast,
Commands that strait he be releas'd;
Who to the Woods ne'r went again,
But liv'd as one of Venus Train:
And coming one Day near a Fire,
Quench'd there the flames of his Desire.

The Shepheard.

[_]

Theocrit. Idyl. 21 [20].

Fair Eunica I sweetly would have kist,
But was with scorn, and this reproach dismist.
Hence! what? a Shepheard, and yet hope from Me
For such a Grace? We kiss no Clowns, saith she.
My Lips I would not with a kiss so vile
As thine, so much as in a Dream defile.
Lord! how thou look'st? how like a Lubber sport'st?
What fine discourse thou hast? how sweetly court'st?

How soft thy Beard is? and how neat thy Hair?
Thy Lips like sick mens blush, and thy hands are
White as an Ethiops: fogh! thou stink'st, out, quick,
Carrion! be gone; lest thy smell make me sick.
Then in her Brest thrice spitting, me a skew
(Mumbling t'her self) from Head to foot doth view.
Such Pride in her self-flatter'd Beauty takes,
Whilst in Derision Mouths at Me she makes.

This scorn my bloud inflam'd, and red I grew
With anger, like a Rose new bath'd in Dew.
She went her way, and left me vext, to see
I should by such a Huswife slighted be.

Say Shepheards! am I not a handsome Lad?
Or hath some God transform'd, and lately made
M'another Man? for once I'd a good face:
And that (as Ivy Trees) my Beard did grace;
My Locks like Smallage 'bout my Temples twin'd;
And my white Front 'bove my black Eye-brows shin'd.
My Eyes more lovely than Minerva's were,
Than Curds my Lips more soft, and sweeter far
My Words than Honey: play too, would you knew't,
I sweetly can, on Pipe, Shalm, Reed, and Flute.
There's not a Country Lass but likes, as passes,
And loves me too: all but your City Lasses;
Who, 'cause a Shepheard, me without regard
(Forsooth!) pass by, alas! they never heard
How Bacchus on the Plains did Oxen tend,
And Venus to a Shepheards Love did bend,
And his fat Flocks on Phrygian Mountains kept,
Or lov'd in Woods, and for Adonis wept.
VVhat was Endymion but a Shepheard? whom
The Moon affected, and from Heaven would come
To lye whole Nights on Latmus with the Boy.
A Shepheard (Rhea) too was once thy Joy:
And oh, how many scapes Jove didst thou make
From Juno's Bed for a young Shepheard's sake?
But Eunica alone doth Swains despise,
And 'bove those Goddesses her self doth prize.
Venus no more thou with thy Love may'st keep
In Town, or Hill; alone thou now must sleep.

The Pastorall Wooing.

[_]

Theocrit. Idyl. 28 [27].

Daphnis, and Shepheardess.
Daphnis.
Paris the Swain, away coy Helen bare:
And I, a Swain, am kiss'd by one more fair.

Shepheardess.
Brag not rude Hind; Kisses are empty things.

Daphnis.
From empty Kisses yet sweet pleasure springs.

Shepheardess.
I'l wash my mouth, wipe off thy Kisses stain.

Daphnis.
Wip'st thou thy Lips? then let us kiss again.

Shepheardess.
Go kiss your Cows; you fit to kiss a Maid!

Daphnis.
Be not so proud: your youth will quickly fade.

Shepheardess.
Grapes though they're dry, yet still are Grapes we see,
And Roses although wither'd, Roses be.

Daphnis.
Let's sit and talk beneath this Myrtles shade.

Shepheardess.
No; your smooth Tongue me once before betraid.

Daphnis.
Beneath these Elms then sit and hear me play.

Shepheardess.
Play to your self; I not your Musick weigh.

Daphnis.
Take heed lest thou the Wrath of Venus find!

Shepheardess.
Venus her worst; be but Diana kind.

Daphnis.
Oh say not so: lest her excited Rage
Thee in unextricable Snares ingage.

Shepheardess.
Do what she can, find we Diana's Grace.
Hold off your hands, or else I'l scratch your Face.

Daphnis.
Love, which no Maid e'r did, thou must not fly.

Shepheardess.
By Pan I will: why dost thou press so nigh?

Daphnis.
I fear he'l make thee stoop to thy first Love.

Shepheardess.
Though woo'd by many, none I did approve.

Daphnis.
Amongst those many, here, behold! I sue.

Shepheardess.
Why, my kind Friend, what would'st thou have me do?
The married Life with troubles is repleat.

Daphnis.
No Cares, Joys only Marriage doth beget.

Shepheardess.
They say, Wives of their Husbands live in fear.

Daphnis.
Of whom do Women? rather domineer.

Shepheardess.
But thought of Child-bed Pains makes me afraid.

Daphnis.
Diana, whom thou serv'st, will be thy Aid.

Shepheardess.
But bearing Children will my Beauty wrong.

Daphnis.
In Children thou wilt see thy self still young.

Shepheardess.
What Dowry wilt thou give if I consent?

Daphnis.
My Flocks, my Groves, my Fields, be thou content.

Shepheardess.
Swear, that, when married, thou wilt ne'r forsake me.

Daphnis.
By Pan I will not, so thou please to take me.

Shepheardess.
Thou'lt give me Beds, and House, and Sheep to breed?

Daphnis.
Both House, and Beds, and the fair Flocks I feed.

Shepheardess.
What shall I to my aged Father say?

Daphnis.
He, when he hears my Name, will soon give way.

Shepheardess.
How art thou call'd? for Names do often please.

Daphnis.
Daphnis my Name, my Father's Lycidas,
My Mother's Nomæa.

Shepheardess.
Of an honest Line
Thou com'st, nor we of no more mean than thine.

Daphnis.
Yet not so great to make your Pride aspire,
For, as I tak't, Menalcas is your Sire.

Shepheardess.
Shew me your Stalls, and Groves.

Daphnis.
Come let thine Eyes
VVitness how high my Cypress Trees do rise.

Shepheardess.
Feed Goats whilst I survay the Shepheard's Bounds.

Daphnis.
Graze Bullocks whilst I shew the Nymph my Grounds.

Shepheardess.
VVhat do'st? why thrust'st thy hand into my Brest?

Daphnis.
Thus thy soft, swelling Bosome should be prest.

Shepheardess.
Help Pan! I faint; Swain, take thy hand away.

Daphnis.
Fear not sweet Nymph; nor tremble with dismay.

Shepheardess.
'Twill spoyle my Coat should I i'th'durt be thrown.

Daphnis.
No: see! on this soft hide I'l lay thee down.

Shepheardess.
Ah Me! why hast thou loos'd my Virgin Zone?

Daphnis.
To Venus this will be an Oblation.

Shepheardess.
Heark! see! some body comes; I hear a Noise.

Daphnis.
The Cypress Trees are whispering of our Joyes.

Shepheardess.
Th'hast torn my Cloaths, and me quite naked layd.

Daphnis.
I'l give thee better.

Shepheardess.
VVords no deeds e'r paid.

Daphnis.
Would I could send my soul into thee now!

Shepheardess.
Oh Phœbe, pardon! I have broke my Vow.

Daphnis.
A Calf to Love, a Bull to Venus burn.

Shepheardess.
A Maid I came, a Woman shall return.

Daphnis.
And be a Mother-Nurse to pretty Boyes.

Thus intertalk'd they 'mid'st the active Joyes
Of close Embraces; when at length they rose,
And being up, to feed her Flock she goes
With blushing Face, but with a lightsome Heart,
Whilst to his Heards he no less pleas'd doth part.

On the Picture of Icarus in Wax.

[_]

Marino.

What once did unto thee impart
The means of Death; by happy Art
Now thee restores to life again:
Yet still remember to refrain
Ambitious Flights; nor soar too nigh
The Sun of an inflaming Eye;
For so thou may'st, scorcht by those Beams,
In Ashes dye, as once in Streams.

On a Marble Statue of Nero, which falling kill'd a Child.

[_]

Marino.

This Statue, bloudy Nero does present;
To Tyrants a sad Document.
Though Marble, on his basis yet so fast
He stood not, but he fell at last.
And seems as when he liv'd, as cruell still,
He could not fall, but he must kill.

On Paula.

[_]

Mart. l. 9. Epig. 5 [6].

Fain shee'd have Priscus; and who blame her can?
But hee'l not have her: and who'l blame the Man?

On an Ill Husband and Wife.

[_]

Mart. l. 8. Epigr. 34 [35].

Since both of you so like in Manners be,
Thou the worst Husband, and the worst Wife she,
I wonder, you no better should agree.

On Candidus, a rich Miser.

[_]

Mart. l. 3. Epig. 26.

Alone thou dost enjoy a fair Estate,
Alone rare Myrrhine Vessels, golded Plate;
Alone rich Wines dost drink; and hast for None
A Heart, nor Wit but for thy self alone.
None shares with thee, it is deny'd by no man:
But Candidus, thou hast a Wife that's Common.

On Bassus a Pittifull Poet.

[_]

Mart. l. 5. Epigr. 53.

VVhy writ'st thou of Thyestes, Colchis hate,
Andromache, or Niobes sad Fate?

Deucalion (Bassus!) better far would fit,
Or Phaeton, believe me, with thy Wit.

On a Boy kill'd by the fall of an Icesicle.

[_]

Mart. l. 4. Epig. 18.

VVher streams from Vipsan Pipes Port Capen pow'rs
And the Stones moystned are with constant show'rs
A drop congeal'd to a sharp Icesicle
On a Child's Throat that stood beneath it, fell,
And when the Wretches Fate dissolv'd it had,
Melted away in the warm VVound it made.
VVhat may not cruell Fate? or where will not
Death find us out, if VVater Throats can cut?

On Nestor a whisperer.

[_]

Mart. l. 3. Epig. 28.

Thou wonder'st Marius Ears should smell so Ill:
They may thank thee; thou whisper'st in 'em still.

On Martinia, an old, old, leacherous—

[_]

Mart. l. 3. Epigr. 32.

VVhat? canst thou not with an old VVoman bed
Thou criest?—yes: but thou art not old but dead.
VVe could with Hecuba, or Niobe
Make shift, but then (Martinia!) it must be
Before the one
Into a Bitch be turn'd, t'other to Stone.

On Philomuse, a needy Newesmonger.

[_]

Mart. l. 9. Epig. 35 [36].

To gain a Supper, thy shift (Philomuse!)
Is to vent lies, instead of Truths, for News:

Thou knowst what Pacorus intends to do,
Can'st count the German Troops and Sarmats too.
The Dacian General's Mandates dost profess
To know, and Victories before the Express.
How oft it rains in Ægypt, thou as well,
And Number of the Lybian Fleet, canst tell.
VVhom Victor in the next Quinquatrian Games
Cæsar will crown, thy knowing Tongue proclames:
Come, leave these shifts: thou this Night (Philomuse)
Shalt sup with Me; but, not a word of News.

On Aulus a Poet-Hater.

[_]

Mart. l. 8. Epig. 63.

Aulus Loves Thestius; him Alexis fires;
Perhaps he too, our Hyacinth desires;
Go now, and doubt if Poets he approves,
When the Delights of Poets Aulus Loves!

On Lentinus, being troubled with an Ague.

[_]

Mart. l. 12. Epig. 17.

Lentinus! thou dost nought but fume, and fret,
To think thy Ague will not leave thee yet.
Why? it goes with thee; bathes as thou dost do,
Eats Mushromes, Oysters, Sweet-breads, wild Boar too,
Oft drunk by thee with Falern Wine is made,
Nor Cæcub drinks unless with snow allay'd:
Tumbles in Roses dawb'd with unctuous sweets,
Sleeps upon Down between pure Cambrick sheets,
And when thus well it fares with thee, wouldst thou
Have it to go unto poor Damma now?

To Priscus.

[_]

Mart. l. 8. Epigr. 11 [12].

VVhy a rich Wife (Priscus) I will not wed,
Ask'st thou?—I would not have my Wife, my Head:
Husbands should have superiority;
So Man and Wife can only equall be.

On Phœbus that wore leather Caps.

[_]

Mart. l. [12]. Epig. [45].

VVhilst thou a Kidskin Cap putt'st on
To hide the Baldness of thy Crown,
On jested wittily, who sed,
Phœbus, that thou hadst shod thy Head.

On Horace a poor fellow.

[_]

Mart. l. 4. Epigr. 2.

Horace alone, 'mongst all the Company,
In a black Gown the Plays did lately see.
Whilst both the Commons, and the Knights of Rome,
Senate, and Cæsar all in white did come;
When strait it snow'd apace; so he the sight
Beheld as well as all the rest, in white.

On a Swallow torn in Peeces by her Fellowes.

[_]

Mart. l. 5. Epig. 67.

VVhen for their winter Homes the swallows made,
One 'gainst the Custome in her old Nest staid.
The rest at Spring return'd, the Crime perceive,
And the offending Bird of Life bereave.
Late yet she suffer'd, she deserv'd before,
But then when she in Peeces Itys tore.

To Apollo pursuing Daphne.

[_]

Auson.

Throw by thy Bow, nor let thy Shafts appear,
She flies not thee, but does thy weapons fear.

De Erotio Puella.

[_]

Mart. l. 5. Epigr. 38 [37].

She, (who than down of aged Swans more fair,
More soft was than Galæsian Lambkins are;

More beautious than those Shels Lucrinus shews,
Or Stones which Erythræan Waves disclose;
Smooth as the Elephants new polish'd Tooth,
VVhiter than Lillies in their Virgin Growth,
Or Snow new fallen; the colour of whose Tresses
Outvy'd the German Curles, or Bætick Fleeces;
VVhose Breath the Pestan Rosaries excell'd,
The hony in Hymættian Hives distill'd,
Or chafed Ambers scent: with whom conferr'd
The Phænix was but thought a common Bird)
She, she, in this new Tomb yet warm, doth lye,
VVhom the stern hand of cruell Destiny
In her sixth year, e'r quite expir'd, snatch'd hence,
And with her all my best Joyes: yet 'gainst all sense
Pætus perswades me not to grieve for her;
Fye, saies he, (whilst his hair he seems to tear)
Art not asham'd to mourn thus for a Slave?
I have a Wife laid newly in the Grave,
Fair, rich, and noble, yet I live you see.
O what than Pætus can more hardy be?
No sorrow sure a heart like his can kill,
H'hath gain'd ten thousand Pounds, yet he lives still.

On Mancinus a Prating Braggart.

[_]

Mart. l. 4. Epig. 61.

Thou mad'st thy Brags that late to thee a Friend
A hundred Crowns did for a Present send:
But four days since (when with the Wits we met)
Thou saidst Pompilla too (or I forget)
Gave thee a rich Suite worth a thousand more,
(Scarlet of Tyre with gold embroyder'd o'r:)
And swor'st that Madam Bassa sent thee late
Two Em'rald Rings, the Lady Cælia, Plate.
And yesterday, when at the Play we were,
At comming forth, thou told'st me in my Ear,
There fell to thee that Morning, the best part
Of Fourscore Pounds per Annum next thy Heart.
What wrong have I thy poor Friend done thee, that
Thou thus should torture me? Leave, leave this Chat
For pitties sake; or if thou'lt not forbear,
Tell me then something that I'd gladly hear.

On Picens.

[_]

Mart. l. 8. Epig. 62.

Picens the Backside of his Book doth fill
With tedious Epigrams; yet takes it ill
Phœbus should shew himself his Back Friend still.

On Caius, one of large Promises, but small Performances.

[_]

Mart. l. 10. Epig. 16.

If not to give, but say so, giving be,
Caius! for giving we will vie with thee.
What e'r the Spaniard in Gallician Feilds
Digs up, what the gold Stream of Tagus yields,
What the tann'd Indian dives for in the deep,
Or in its Nest th'Arabian Bird doth keep,
The wealth which Tyrian Caldrons boyl; receive
All this, and more; but so as thou dost give.

To Posthumus, an Ill Liver.

[_]

Mart. l. 5. Epigr. 58.

Still, still thou cry'st to morrow I'l live well:
But when will this to morrow come? canst tell?
How far is't hence? or where is't to be found?
Or upon Parthian, or Armenian Ground?
Priams, or Nestors years by this 't has got;
I wonder for how much it might be bought?
Thou'lt live to morrow?—'tis too late to day:
Hee's wise who yesterday, I liv'd, can say.

To Thelesinus.

[_]

Mart. l. 3. Epigr. 40.

Thou think'st th'hast shewn thy self a mighty friend,
'Cause at my Sute thou fifty Pounds didst lend:
But if thou, rich, for lending, may'st be said
So great a Friend: what I, who Poor, repaid?

On Cinna a bold Suter.

[_]

Mart. l. 3. Epigr. 60 [61].

Thou say'st 'tis nothing that thou ask'st me; Why,
If thou ask'st nothing, nothing I deny.

The happy life. To Julius Martialis.

[_]

Mart. l. 10. Epig. 47.

Those things which make life truly blest,
Sweetest Martial hear exprest:
Wealth left, and not from Labour growing;
A gratefull soyl, a Hearth still glowing;
No Strife, small Business, Peace of Mind,
Quick Wit, a Body well inclin'd,
Wise Innocence, Friends of one Heart,
Cheap Food, a Table without Art;
Nights which nor Cares, nor Surfets know,
No dull, yet a chaste Bedfellow;
Sleeps which the tedious Hours contract;
Be what thou mayst be, nor exact
Ought more; nor thy last Hour of Breath
Fear, nor with wishes hasten Death.

Epitaphium Glauciæ.

[_]

Mart. l. 6. Epig. 28.

Here Meliors Freed-man, known so well,
Who by all Rome lamented, fell,
His dearest Patrons short-liv'd Joy,
Glaucias, beneath this Stone doth lye,
Neer the Flaminian Way interr'd:
Chast, modest, whom quick Wit preferr'd
And happy Forme, who to twelve past,
Scarce one year added; that, his last.
If Passenger thou weep'st for such a Loss,
Mayst thou ne'r mourn for any other Cross.

To Sextus.

[_]

Mart. l. 2. Epig. 3.

You say y'ow nothing; and 'tis true you say;
For he ows only, who hath means to pay.

To Maximus.

[_]

Mart. l. 7. Epig. 72 [73].

Th' Esquiliæ a House of thine doth show,
Mount Aventine, and the Patrician Row.
Hence Cybells Fane, thence Vesta's thou dost view;
From this th'Old Jupiter, from that the New;
Where shall I meet thee? in what Quarter, tell?
He that does every where, does no where dwell.

To Stella.

[_]

Mart. l. 7. Epigr. 35 [36].

VVhen my poor Villa could not storms sustain,
Nor watry Jove, but swam in Flouds of Rain,
Thou sent'st me Tyles, wherewith to make a Fence
'Gainst the rude Tempests sudden violence.
We thank thee Stella: but cold Winter's near,
The Villa's coverd, not the Villager.

On Parthenopæus.

[_]

Mart. l. 11. Epig. 87 [86].

Thy Doctor, that he may asswage the Pain
Of thy sore Throat, which a sharp Cough doth strain,
Prescribes thee Hony, sweet-meats, luscious Pies,
Or what e'r else stills fretfull Childrens cries:
Yet leav'st thou not thy coughing: now we see
'Tis no sore Throat, but sweet Tooth troubles thee.

On Philænus.

[_]

Mart. l. 10. Epigr. 102.

If how Philænus may be stil'd
A Father, who ne'r got a Child
Thou'd'st know; Davus can tell thee it,
Who is a Poet and ne'r writ.

The Choice of his Mistris.

[_]

Mart. l. [11]. Epigr. [100].

I would not have a VVench with such a VVaste
As might be well with a Thumb-Ring embrac'd;
VVhose bony Hips, which out on both sides stick,
Might serve for Graters, and whose lean Knees prick;
One, which a saw does in her back-Bone bear,
And in her Rump below carries a Spear.
Nor would I have her yet of Bulk so grosse
That weigh'd should break the Scales at th'market-cross;
A meer unfathom'd lump of Grease; no, that
Like they that will; 'tis Flesh I love, not Fat.

To Sextus.

[_]

Mart. l. 2. Epig. 55.

Sextus thou will'st that I should show
Thee Honour, where I love would ow;
And I obey since 'tis thy will,
By Mee thou shalt be honour'd still:
But Sextus if thou'lt honour'd be,
Thou shalt not then be lov'd by Me.

On Baucis, an old drunken Crone.

[_]

Antholog. Græc.

Baucis the Bane of Pots, what time she lay
Sick of a Feaver, thus to Jove did pray;
If I escape this Fit, I vow to take

These hundred Suns no drink but from the Lake:
Wanting her wonted Cups, (now past all doubt
Of Danger) she one day this shift found out,
She takes a Sive, and through the bottome pries;
So she at once a hundred Suns espies.

On Captain Ansa, a bragging Run-away.

[_]

Casimire.

VVhilst timorous Ansa led his Martial Band
'Gainst the Invaders of his Native Land,
Thus he bespake his Men before the Fight:
Courage my Mates, let's dine, for we to Night
Shall Sup (saies he) in Heaven: this having said,
'Soon as the threatning Ensigns were displaid,
And the loud Drums and Trumpets had proclam'd
Defiance 'twixt the Hoasts; he, (who ne'r sham'd
At Loss of Honour) fairly ran away,
When being ask'd, how chance he would not stay
And go along with them to sup in Heaven?
Pardon me Friends (said he) I fast this Even.

To Fuscus.

[_]

Mart. l. 1. Epig. 55.

If Fuscus thou hast room for one Friend more,
(For well I know thou every where hast store)
Let me compleat the List; nor be thought e'r
The worse 'cause New; such once thy old friends were:
But try if he you for your New Friend take,
May happily an old Companion make.

On Marcus Anton: Primus his Picture.

[_]

Mart. l. 10. Epig. 32.

This Picture, which with Violets you see
And Roses deckt, askst thou whose it may be?

Such was Antonius in his Prime of Years,
Who here still young, though he grow old, appears.
Ah! could but Art have drawn his Mind in this,
Not all the World could shew a fairer Peece.

Horat.

[_]

[Carm. l. 1. Od. 9.]

Seest thou not, how Soractes Head,
(For all it's Height) stands covered
With a white Perriwigg of Snow?
Whilst the labouring Woods below
Are hardly able to sustain
The Weight of Winters feather'd Rain;
And the arrested Rivers stand
Imprison'd in an Icy Band?
Dispell the Cold; and to the Fire
Add fuell, large as it's Desire;
And from the Sabine Casque let fly
(As free as Liberality)
The Grapes rich blood, kept since the sun
His Annuall Course foure times hath run.
Leave to the Gods the rest, who have
Allay'd the Winds, did fiercely rave
In Battail on the Billowy main,
Where they did blustring tug for Raign.
So that no slender Cypress now,
It's Spirelike Crown does tott'ring, bow:
Nor aged Ashtrees, with the shock
Of Blasts impetuous, doe rock.

Seek not to morrow's Fate to know;
But what day Fortune shall bestow,
Put to a discreet Usurie.
Nor (gentle youth!) so rigid be
With froward scorn to disapprove
The sweeter Blandishments of Love.
Nor mirthfull Revels shun, whilst yet
Hoary Austerity is set
Far from thy greener years; the Field
Or Cirque should now thy Pastime yield:
Now nightly at the Howre select,
And pointed Place, Loves Dialect,
Soft whispers, should repeated be;

And that kind Laughters Treacherie,
By which some Virgin closely layd
In dark Confinement, is betrayd:
And now from some soft Arm, or Wrist,
A silken Braid, or silver Twist,
Or Ring from Finger, should be gain'd,
By that too nicely not retain'd.

Ad Puellam edentulam.

[_]

Mart. l. 2. Epig. 41.

Smile if th'art wise; smile still, fair Maid!
Once the Pelignian Poet said;
But not to all Maids spake he this,
Or spake he to all Maids I wisse,
Yet not to thee; for thou art None.
Thy bare Gums show three Teeth alone,
Scal'd o'r with black and yellow Rust:
If then thy Glasse or Me thou'lt trust,
Thou laughter shouldst no lesse abhorre,
Than rough Winds crisped Spanius, or
The neat-drest Priscus the rude Touch
Of boisterous hands, and feare as much
As Cælia does the Sun; or more
Than painted Bassa does a showre.
Looks thou shouldst wear more grave, and sad,
Than Hectors Wife, or Mother had:
Never at Comedies appear;
All festive Jollities forbear;
And what e'r else doth laughter cause,
And the clos'd Lips asunder drawes.
Thou Childlesse Mothers shouldst alone,
Or Brothers haplesse Fates, bemoan:
Or follow still some mournfull Hearse,
And with sad Tragedies converse.
Then rather doe as I advise,
Weep (Galla) still, weep, if th'art wise.

Epitaph on an old drunken Crone.

[_]

Ex Antipatr. Sidon.

This Tomb Maronis holds; o'r which, doth stand
A Bowle, carv'd out of Flint, by Mentor's hand:

The tipling Crone while living, death of friends
Ne'r toucht, nor Husbands, nor dear Childrens Ends.
This only troubles her, now dead; to think,
The Monumentall Bowle should have no drink.

On Bibinus, a notorious Drunkard.

[_]

Scaliger.

The Sot Loserus is drunk twice a day;
Bibinus only once; now of these, say,
Which may a man the greatest Drunkard call?
Bibinus still; for hee's drunk once for All.

On poor Codrus, who though blind, was yet in Love.

[_]

Mart. l. 3. Epig. 15.

None in all Rome, like Codrus trusts I find;
How, and so poor! he loves, and yet is blind.

FINIS

University of Virginia Library

LUDICRA

THE SYRACUSIANS,

OR ADONIS FESTIVAL

The Hymn.

THE SUN-RISE

The Night:

OR, The fair Mourner.

I SOSPIRI.

The Surprise.

Chloris Eyes and Breasts.

Love's Arithmetick.

Cælia weeping.

A Dialogue.

The Vow.

Ice & Fire.

Novo Inamoramento.

Cælia's Eyes.

A Dialogue.

The Resemblance.

Love once, Love ever.

The Pendants.

The sweet Meat.

Violets in Thaumantia's Bosome.

The Dream.

An old Shepheard to a young Nymph.

Beauty encreased by Pity.

Weeping and Kissing.

The Dilemma.

Change defended.

The Microcosme.

The Defeat.

Amore secreto.

A Maid in Love with a Youth blind of one Eye.

The broken Faith.

Complaint on the Death of Sylvia, to the River.

A Shepheard inviting a Nymph to his Cottage.

Sogno, a la sua donna

To Ligurinus.

The Penitent Murderer.

The Shepheard.

The Pastorall Wooing.

On the Picture of Icarus in Wax.

On a Marble Statue of Nero, which falling kill'd a Child.

On Paula.

On an Ill Husband and Wife.

On Candidus, a rich Miser.

On Bassus a Pittifull Poet.

On a Boy kill'd by the fall of an Icesicle.

On Nestor a whisperer.

On Martinia, an old, old, leacherous—

On Philomuse, a needy Newesmonger.

On Aulus a Poet-Hater.

On Lentinus, being troubled with an Ague.

To Priscus.

On Phœbus that wore leather Caps.

On Horace a poor fellow.

On a Swallow torn in Peeces by her Fellowes.

To Apollo pursuing Daphne.

De Erotio Puella.

On Mancinus a Prating Braggart.

On Picens.

On Caius, one of large Promises, but small Performances.

To Posthumus, an Ill Liver.

To Thelesinus.

On Cinna a bold Suter.

The happy life. To Julius Martialis.

Epitaphium Glauciæ.

To Sextus.

To Maximus.

To Stella.

On Parthenopæus.

On Philænus.

The Choice of his Mistris.

To Sextus.

On Baucis, an old drunken Crone.

On Captain Ansa, a bragging Run-away.

To Fuscus.

On Marcus Anton: Primus his Picture.

Horat.