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Some Females are so early pregnant grown,
They rock those Cradles lately were their own.
Their Nurse's milk wants time, and scarce digests;
And what they suckt, unturn'd comes from their Breasts.
But soon, like Spanish Wifes, they barren grow;
Their Springs are drain'd when ours begin to flow.
And happy 'tis—else we should be undone,
And by our Native Vandals over-run.
Although my Muse begun to bear betimes,
Still at this Age her Courses keeps in Rhymes.
What Pliny writes of Mares of Spanish kind,
She's pregnant with no Stallion, but the Wind.
When e're that airy Pegasus but blew,
My Muse more fruitful than

Of whom ('tis feign'd) the Centaur was gotten.

Phillira grew
Fruitful as Flies in Summer; tho the gain
Prove small, to boast these maggots of the Brain.
Should all this Spawn of Helicon but live,
The Frogs in Egypt did less trouble give.
This Brood, like Conies, hardly are destroy'd;
The Warren prospers on Parnassus side.
In whose increase small benefit is found;
And little else thrives in the haunted ground.

'Tis labour lost to till a barren Soil;
When no Returns, but Weeds, requite the toil.
Yet weeded well before the Seedlings shed,
They make the Land more mellow, where they bred;
And Vouchers are that other things than Weeds
Would prosper there, if sown with better Seeds.
Nature will work: and would not own a loss;
The steril'st Soils unsown will bring forth Moss.
If not improv'd, she's ruin'd; Truths confess
That Canaan now is turn'd a Wilderness.

The ROYALIST.

Upon Creswick Dean of St. J. C. C—ordering Verses for the Victory at Worcester.

1651.

Is't not enough to make our Purses pay,
Assessments on our whole Estates to lay?
But Taxes must on our Opinions 'rise,
Nay, and our Wits be forc'd to pay Excise?
Harsh Laws! since Sack pays Custom when't comes in,
Distill'd in Verse, must it be taxt agin?
But now a Victory is got; what then?
Must we write Ballads at the death of men,
Like London-Wits? who deck each Tyburn-Herse,
And execute men o're again in Verse?
Are we Death's Chaplains, that we must be prest
To give thanks after such a bloody Feast?
In Baal's new Priests that Office only lies,
Where Blood is mingled with their Sacrifice.

The Royal MARTYR.

Upon the Martyrdom of that Glorious Prince Charles the First, King of Great Britain, &c. Who died Jan. 30. 1648.

Written Jan. 30. 1652.

Great Solomon, not circumscrib'd to Rules,
Freed from the slavish Method of the Schools;
No more than Air (that Libertine) confin'd,
And no less comprehensive was his mind;
The shining fruit of Eden was his meat,
Which without curse, or surfeit he did eat.
In Proverbs he his wisdom often shrouds:
As Phœbus sometimes wears a Cloak of Clouds.
Their knowledg wisest Nations thus convey'd,
And in such Cabinets their Jewels laid.
And these are some of Ours—, viz. Night follows Day
And purest Gold is lessen'd by Allay.

Both of the Morals are but one great truth,
Be'ng fully prov'd i'th' fortune of my Youth:
For when great Charls fell, by untimely fate,
The glorious Martyr both of Church and State;
His Sacred Blood, by basest Rebels spilt,
Besprinkled all the Nation o'er with guilt.
Some with that scarlet Sin are spread all o're:
As Plagues are known by the inflaming Sore.
Nor staies it there—like to the leprous Jew,
The infection creeps into their Houses too.
'Twill moulter them to dust! the spreading Stains
Flow (with the Seed) into their Children's Veins.

By some notorious Brand upon them show'n,
The guilt will be to future Ages known.
More than from Sin, none from the guilt is free'd;
On ev'ry head the Crimson show'r does bleed.
This Scottish Mist wets all of us to th' skin;
Some are so rain'd on they are dous'd within.
A blessed shelter yet my Youth does bring:
Rains seldom fall, or gently in the Spring.
Yet from some share of guilt, I can relieve
My self no more, than from the crime of Eve,
But like Orig'nal Sin, It less appears;
Long since baptiz'd, and washt away with tears.
My inn'cent youth, like to the springing Day,
Disperses all despairing shades away.

The first part of the Proverb's so far right.
But now, alas, I am o'rwhelm'd with night!
Thus in a harmless state of youth I stood;
I did no harm, but, ah! I did no good.
My influence, like to Winter Suns, did show;
They scortch not, but yet nothing make to grow.
To th' Solstice of my strength I may arrive,
And th' operations of my Soul will thrive.
If I to

Brutus slew the Tyrant;

Brutus's glory may not come;
I dare, with

Curtius to expiate Romes guilt, leapt into a Gulph.

Curtius, tempt a noble doom;
And plunge into the Gulph to rescue Rome.
Cæsar's return we faithfully must wait,
That time shall come, I prophecy the fate
The Prince of Judah shall return with praise,
Our Temples found, and sacred Altars raise.
No more, till then, my mournful Muse shall sing,
Her Harp untun'd shall on the Willows hing;

Unless it be to sound some doleful Airs;
To which I'l tune my Sighs, and teach my tears
A mournful cadence; until th' art be found,
To form such Waterworks into a Sound.
Ne'r juster cause! to see the Rabble run,
Like steams from Dunghils rais'd, to hide the Sun.
To see rank Poyson work in every part,
Until at last its Venom seize the heart.
To see our royal Oak, (alas!) cut down,
And cleft with

Witness E. Essex, Sir Hen. Mildmay, &c.

woodden wedges of its own.
To see great Charls before his Palace lye:
Like fate had once the Sun, when crown'd on high
Arrested in his very Court, the Sky.
But that was done by no ignoble hand;
It was at Joshua's suit the Sun did stand.
But ours eclipst by hellish Vapours, stood,
And (as at th' end o'th' world) did set in Blood.
Behold a mighty Monarch there lyes dead
Without his Crown, and (ah!) without his Head!
Expiring Muses with him receive thy doom,
And dye, like Indian slaves, upon his Tomb.
It is enough thou'st thither him convey'd,
And in a Tomb of thine own framing laid.
All Monuments decay, and Marbles rot,
Compar'd to th' Quarries in Parnassus got.

Thus the great Pompey, (who the World subdu'd)
By Rome's ill fate, and Tyrant's force pursu'd,
Did to a barb'rous Nation seek for aid;
By them, to murd'ring Villains, was betray'd:
Headless expos'd on the Pelusian shore
The World's Head lay, and all defil'd with gore!

By the dear Body faithful

His Slave.

Codrus stood,
And with his flowing tears washt off the blood.
Then did interr the sacred Relicks safe;
Whose Piety is his best Epitaph.
Heroic Lucan has preserv'd his fame,
Which bears an equal date with Pompey's name;
Well known to all that World he did subdue,
Flying as far, as Pompey's Eagles flew.

The GOWN.

Upon Sir Ward, borrowing my Gown.

1652.

I, like Philemon, may Jove's Fav'rite be,
In shelt'ring thus his darling-Mercury.
And yet I hated am, as once was Lot,
When Angels under his blest Roof he got.
Some think it thy disparagement, to see
The Lord of Wit cloath'd in my Livery.
But here thy Worth unjustly they upbraid;
Since Kings sometimes are seen in Maskarade.
Nay 'tis well known, that heavenly Forms appear
In mortal shapes, or seem such Veils to wear.
When next I put it on, for ought I know,
I may infected be, and witty grow.
Some influence must be left; thus pretious Gums
Taken from Boxes leave their rich perfumes.
And I have read—He that did once inherit
Elija's, Mantle, got Elija's Spirit.

MODEST WORTH.

Upon the Death of Mr. R. Winterburn, B. D.

1652.

For flouds of tears this mournful fate does call;
'Tis Egypt where (they say) no showers fall.
Melt then your beams to tears, my thawing Eyes,
And Heav'n dissolves in Dews, when Phœbus dyes.
Alike they were; for he long time did sway
The Muse's Scepter, they did him obey.
Nay he excell'd in this—for he was free
From any thought of Daphne, but her Tree.
His Gold lay close in's Mine: His Helicon
Was full and deep; and so did silent run.
This made some slight him: Stars seem Motes i'th' Skies;
Height lessens Objects to imperfect Eyes.
Yet none more lowly thought, or spoke than he:
So rich mens cloaths persuade a Poverty.
Plain Scutcheons Heralds look upon as best;
And Maids lose credit that go lightly drest;
Di'monds in barren Mountains are inshrin'd;
And Popes their Sackcloth wear, with Velvet lin'd.

The Royal MOURNER.

Upon the Princess Elizabeth's Death.

1652.

No Prophet's tongue should this sad loss condole,
Unless first heated by the Altar's coal.
Nor Poet to an Elegy aspire.
If not inlightn'd with Apollo's fire.

But yet my Zeal is warmer than his flame,
And I more nobly influenc'd by her Name;
How, with more joy, had I imploy'd my hours
In writing of her Sun-shine, than her showers?
Ah! who would think such Sun-beams should be known
To dry all Springs of tears, unless her own?
Or rather, that her Suns, (with all their beams)
Should be extinguish't by those native streams?
When the World's Eye its proper safety found,
And yet its Body was i'th' Deluge drown'd;
With quickning smiles it did recruit the Earth,
Making it pregnant with a second birth;
But hers (like Nature in her last extremes)
Melted a way, by weeping down their beams.
Such dashing rains, and Tempests often rage
I'th' Winter Solstice of afflicted age.
Experience then of woes occasion brings
To ope the Flood-gates of our flowing Springs.
Wet seed-times oft' are crown'd with fruitful years;
And they shall reap in joy that sow in tears.
Her highest Region was free from the powers
Either of sighing storms, or weeping showers.
Like pow'rfull Cynthia, there her Soul did show,
Ruling the Tides of raging Seas below.
For she (like Venus) amidst Seas was born;
And her short life, alas, one rainy morn!
Thus early Lillies (Virgins of the year)
Ne'r ope' their wakeful Eyes, without a tear.
Too moist a Season makes 'em droop and dye,
And in their native winding-sheets to lie.
A common grief may common tears extort;
But hers were blood-drops of a weeping heart.

Those Rubies from her dying Father's Head,
Were not more fatal, than the tears she bled.
Thus Flora's justest Pride, the Rose, appears,
Produc'd not only, but nurst up with Tears.
All its short time with the like drops 'tis fed,
And tears each Night bedews its fragrant Bed.
At last, being tortur'd by unnat'ral heats,
Dyes as 'twas born, and weeps away in Sweats.

The Good BISHOP.

[_]

Upon Bishop Hall's Balm of Gilead, presented to my Uncle Mr. Griff. Divall, 1652.

Against the pains, and multitude of cares
That bring on age, and Silver all our hairs
By Nature's Chymistry; no means can add
More help, than Hall's rich Balm of Gilead.
Other old men, like common Trees do bear;
He's fruitful (like that rare one)

Call'd the Duce An.

twice a year.
All others blossom in the Spring; but he
In Winter too, like th'

As the Monks fable one did there every Christmas-day, as well as in May.

Glassenbury tree.
Winter yields Fruit; and in himself he shows
The place where all the year an Harvest grows.
His Judgment's brighter than the Sun's uprise;
Yet scorns to hide it self in Evening-skies.
Unchaste, intemp'rate Youth not seldom meets
An aged Penance nightly in the Sheets.
Lameness crawls after Lust; Disease, and Pain
Are all the Bed-fellows that now remain.
Rottenness waits on Lux'ry; its perfumes
Are putrefied Lungs, its Baths are Rhewms.

He's troubled with no Rhewm but that of's Pen;
Always o'rflowing, and yet full agen.
Whose Springs are rarer than the Spaws; wherein
You may wash off the Leprosie of Sin.
His Ink's a Medicine, if us'd betimes,
To cure the Tetters of our spreading Crimes.
His Pen dropt daily at the Nose indeed;
But then each drop turn'd Balm of Gilead.
What are his Words? To speak Diviner sense,
Angels blest Food distill'd to Eloquence.
Had then that

S. Hierom.

Father known so great a Light
Would shine to make the World's last Evening bright;
Who wish'd h'had liv'd Christ in the Flesh to see,
And Rome's great Empire in its Majesty;
And Paul i'th' Pulpit; thus his wish had run,
Paul in the Morn, Hall in the Afternoon.

To Mr. T.S. The Tooth-ach cur'd.

1652.

Oh, how it stings! Peace Gouty Sir, you'r blest
In such a Pain, as forces you to rest.
Mistake not, Madam, Child-birth is a toy;
Nay; by your longing for't, it seems a Joy.
Hanging it self is not so sad a thing;
Else at the Gallows they would never sing.
Blest they, whose Mouths hold nothing but their tongue!
'Tis this sure makes our Grannams live so long.
Thrice happy they, who are o'th' horned crew;
They've but one row of teeth, and full enow.
If Cuckolds had that priviledge by right,
I'd have a Wife my self before 'twas night.

Now Ælia's Fate I wish, which I did flout,
Who with two coughs blew all her tushes out.
I sadly find their reason is not bad,
Who hold 'tis Tooth-ach makes our Dogs run mad.
Tormented still! no ease? pray, let m'alone;
I've try'd all Remedies I've heard, but one.
That is—as old-Wifes say, in ancient time
They cur'd the Tooth-ach with some Charms in rhyme,
Divine Apollo, then vouchsafe me ease.
Wondrous effects of Verse! my Pains now cease.
Thanks, great Apollo! thanks! I find it true,
Thou'rt God of Poets, and Physitians too.

The BEADES-MAN.

1652.

To M. J. T. sending begging Verses.

I Thank you for your Rhymes; there cannot be
A surer voucher of your Poverty.
Verse shews a swelling mind, but a lank Purse;
This makes me answer you again in Verse.
But to the purpose, Sir; alas! my fate
Fits me to pity, not to help your State.
And pity, without help, is just as good
As much-good-doe-you, when a Man wants Food.
God-help-you will not doe; 'tis of no force;
Prayers can do much; these are but Words of course;
A civil no: a skillful Beggar swore
That godly-talkers seldom help the Poor.
Alas! I cannot help it, I use wit
Sometimes like you, to bribe a benefit.

So that to beg of me is but to call
For Alms, at th' door of some poor Hospital:
I'm but a Beads-man, of the better note;
Like them in every thing, but Beard and Coat.

The SEAL.

1652.

To Fr. L. Esq;

Their costly pride I hate, who did invent
These Silver Seals; 'twere better they were spent
In Sprightly Sack, than commonly to hing
By th' neck, at some old-greasie Purse's string;
Or chain'd to rusty Keys: thus Vulcan joyn'd
With Venus, and black thighs with snowy twin'd.
As odd a Match, as when our Syres convey
Soft Silver Curls, to Beards of Iron-gray.
Poyson, like Hannibal, in Rings we wear;
And, like to Anchorites, our Coffins bear.
To set our selves i'th' stocks is an odd jest,
As to turn Bayliffs, and our selves arrest.
Seals are for nothing good but to convey
Our Land (that clog of rising Souls) away.
No feats of Chymistry like this are told.
Nor sooner drossy Earth can turn to Gold,

The PROMISE.

1653.

To F. L. Esq; with Crashaw's Poems.

These as I promis'd, Sir, I send.
'Tis the chief duty of a Friend
(If that great honour you'l allow)
To owe his Life, and pay his Vow.

He that to's Promise does not stand,
Is Knave and Fool under's own hand.
Yet 'tis not wisdom to appear
In Rhyme, when witty Crashaw's near.
A Fool that talks in a wise throng,
Libels himself with his own tongue.
A Face with native blackness tann'd,
Dares not before a Beauty stand.
My Muse is very black and low,
And yet not proud, as Proverbs go.
Nor, like the Gallants of her Sex,
Does she at greater Beauties vex.
She does not with pale Envy frown,
Because she wears the worser Gown.
Yet when her Service she expresses
To you, she'd wear her richest Dresses.
Alas! that makes her Wants seem more;
So Beggars richest rags are poor.

Forc'd ABSENCE.

1654.

To T. H.

What keeps thee, Tom, from visiting thy Friend?
I ghess the cause, & doubt thou canst not mend.
Thou art quite out of Robes, hast no cloaths new,
But what thou vapourd'st with in fifty two.
Thou com'st far short of Horses; they appear
More modish, and their coats cast twice a year.
But one whole week abstain from tempting Ale;
'Twill be apparent by thy little Stale;
'Tis ten to one thy Dad will not deny
Any thing, if thou ask him not to dye.

And that he'll scarcely do, (his Conscience such)
Until thy Trap-stick turn unto a Crutch.
O! that thou hadst a conscientious Father,
Whose Eyes and Beard would kindly out together;
Whose watchful Providence such care would keep,
To die whilst thou hadst Moisture left to weep.
But if he rub on still a few more years,
Rhewm will have spent the Stock of all thy tears,
And Coughs so waste thy breath, all will be gone,
Not any left thee to create a Groan.

The SHOWER.

1653.

To Mrs. S. V. being in the Rain. raptim.

Thus looks a Sea-Nymph, when she leaves
Her Bed, and rises from the Waves:
Thus Flowers we in Water steep,
That so they may their freshness keep.
Your Tresses are like Sol's bright Rayes,
When he appears in rainy dayes.
Diana when she did appear
I'th' Fountain, was not half so fair;
Her ruddy Cheeks deserve a Scoff,
Although a blush did set 'em off.

The Short ENJOYMENT.

1653.

To the same.

Hence flatt'ring Fate, with hypocritick wiles!
Thou that didst cheat me with Sardonic smiles!

Didst mount me to receive the greater Fall?
And give me Honey thus to swallow Gall?
Thou shewd'st a chearful Countenance, as they
Who lavish Smiles, but Smiles that will betray.
Though one Look from her can inrich my fate,
There is no man but would increase his State.
Alas! like Sun-shine seen in cloudy dayes,
I only saw a glimm'ring of her Rayes.
Fortune on some bestowes a happy fate,
Only to make them more unfortunate.
Beasts for the Sacrifice were crown'd with Wreaths;
And sometimes men are brisk before their deaths.
Deceiving twilight! checquer'd with the powers
Of Light and Darkness! thus the April-showers
Drown'd the faint Sun-beams: Midwives daily try,
We're born no sooner than have cause to cry.
Thus did I see her, but soon lost her sight;
She, and the Sun withdraw their Beams at night.
She, like a fatal flash of Lightning, shin'd
With sudden glance, only to strike me blind.

The CONVEYANCE.

1654.

To Mrs. S. V.

Madam,

My thoughts were vain, as well as high,
To hope the favour of your Eye.
You shed your Beams on Objects fine,
On such as do deserve your shine.
Your Rayes live at a higher rate
Than Sol's; who does debase his State

In gilding Dirt; all must consess,
In seeing us, you do no less.

Yet, since we Rusticks justly may,
In Harvest, wish a Sun-shine day;
'Tis not a crime to wish you here;
For without you no dayes are clear.
This Paper rhymes,—because 'tis meet
A Lacquey should not want his feet:
Such is my Muse; who comes to day,
Only this Letter to convey.
Acceptance almost is its due;
Since, Madam, it was born for you.
'Twill ne'r appear, unless it be
Adorn'd in your rich Livery.
For Wit and Fancy grow so scarce,
Your Name must bring 'em into Verse.

The FROST.

1654.

To Mr. W. L.

The streams are fetter'd, and with us as rare,
As Fountains in Arabian Desarts are.
No tears in Woman's Eyes; their skill is crost,
And that most ready Fountain now is lost.
Our Nose-drops freez to Pearls, and Jewels there,
Like salvage Indians, we are forc'd to wear.
Bracelets may now be cheap; our Lasses try—
They can spit forth as good as they can buy.
Glass-Fornaces are needless; he's an Ass
That will buy any, when he pisses Glass,
Surgeons, with all their Lancets, do no good;
Our Veins are stufft with Coral, not with Blood.

To be i'th' Rain the Service now's as hot,
As 'twixt two Armies joyn'd; each drop's a shot.
Each Hail a Bullet, shot with ratling noise;
And Snow (white-Powder) silently destroys,
If now our sheep lye down upon the Grass,
You'd swear how each a

Plant-Animal.

Boronetho was,
And there took rooting: for thus fixt they show
Like snowy Hillocks, or like breathing Snow.
Fish freeze i'th' Deeps, and think't a happy lot
Now to be caught and put into a Pot.
And Hares ev'n frozen in their Forms do lye,
As they had put themselves into a Pye.

Nature's inslav'd; her very Breath confin'd,
Her Lungs are stopt, and cannot gather Wind.
Sometimes she's raging mad, and fiercely blows,
Foaming and Froathing all the Earth with Snows.
Those downy show'rs appear (which Boreas brings)
As though the moulting Clouds had mew'd their wings;
What else is Snow but feather'd drizzel, blown
Fro' th' Sky, where their swift Pinnions late had flown;
No other flights than these now haunt the Air,
Till lym'd with frost, they're forc'd to tarry here.

The Air's so thick it does like th' Dead-Sea flow
Where Birds, with feather'd Oars, can scarcely row.
And hollow Clouds, ramm'd full as they can bear,
Discharge Hail-shot in Volleys through the Air.
Those Dew-drops that upon the Earth are found,
Right Pearls they are, and pave the glitt'ring ground.
Wherever any grassy Turf is view'd,
It seems a Tansie all with Sugar strew'd.

The Sea is one great Blister, till the Sun
Pierce the thick skin and make the Water run.

'Twas ne'r the Sun's right Looking-Glass before;
Ice is the Chrystal, lin'd with silver Oar.

Bold Brittain (if but to her self a Friend)
All the World else seeks vainly her t'offend.
Safe-bulwarkt with two Walls that fates do grant;
With those of Wood and these of Adamant.

Ladies now testifie what Poets told;
True Pearls they weep, Silver they void and Gold;
But, ah! for all these Comforts they are cold!
We Men grow stiff! no punishment is worse,
When former blessings turn a horrid curse.
Love cools; nay burning Lust is frozen dead,
As cooling Metals lose their shining Red.
The Nuptial sheets, ev'n freez into a Tomb;
And Lovers, their own statues there become.
If some small Thaw from Nature's warmth appears,
The aid is comfortless that ends in Tears.

The SHRYNE.

Upon seeing her in a Scarlet-Velvet-Mantle.

1665.

Aurora thus begins to rise,
When she with Crimson trims the Skies;
But her weak beams are conquer'd soon;
Yours, Madam, triumph o're the Sun.
Too fiercely they our Eyes assail'd,
If Moses-like you were not veild.
Infolded there, your sweets make good,
You are a Damask-Rose i'th' bud.
Roses, when they lay by their leaves,
(Those Velvet-Mantles Nature gives)

Lose their chief Vertue; all confess,
You are most sweet without your Dress.
Yet since we use with reverence,
A Carkass, when the Soul's flown thence;
And when obedience here was shown,
They honour'd Courts, though Kings were gone;
Let us, when we her presence want,
Adore the Shrine that held the Saint.
Divines affirm our Churches are
Sacred for th' Service offer'd there.
Rich Mantle! when thou her dost fold,
Thou art the Mine, and she the Gold.
Nature's Exchequer, where does lye
The total of her Treasury.
The Zodiac never did intwine
More Beauties, than are clos'd in thine,
From her it takes the dazling Grace:
The Sun-beams shine so through a Glass.
Thus the expanded Chrystal Skies,
That both inlight, and bless our Eyes;
Yet serve but as a glorious Skreen,
For greater beauties are within.
Nor is it vain to praise the Shell,
And not the Pearl that there does dwell;
It is enough, if here my Muse
Can do, but as our Ladies use,
When they on Limons set their minds,
And only Candy o're the Rinds.

The KISS.

1656.

To Mrs. C.

Hold not your Lips so close; dispence
Treasures, Perfumes, and Life from thence.
Squeeze not those full-ripe Cherries; this
Becomes a Simper, not a Kiss.
There's danger to lock up your Breath,
It Cousin-German is to Death.
None baggs up wind, the Merchant swears,
Unless some wrinkled Laplanders.
What needs this Guard; it is small sence
Thus to hedge in a double Fence.
Clos'd Lips express but silent Blisses,
And at the best are but dumb Kisses.
You are with Cupid little kind,
To make him Dumb as well as Blind.
Such Smacks but shew a silent state;
Kisses should be articulate.
An open-mouthed Kiss speaks sence,
It is the Lovers eloquence,
Let yours speak out then; there's no Bliss
To th' Pronuntiation of a Kiss.

The SCANDAL.

Upon Mrs. K. C. raising one.

1656.

How now, mad Kitling, peevish Brat!
Canst thou no sooner see, than scrat?
That all who see thee, justly doubt
Alecto in her Swathing-clout.

Feat early Mischief! tell me why
Thou sought'st to wound me with this lie?
What's my offence? is it not this,
Because I do no oftner kiss?
What Fool would do himself the wrong,
To venture half so near thy Tongue?
Far worse than Snakes, or Adders are;
Thou dangers dost at both ends bear.
Thou'rt worse than Scorpions, who bring
A cure themselves for those they sting.
But thou'rt all o're with Venom smear'd;
Thy very Looks are to be fear'd;
Not that thy Glances have a spice
Of Venus, but of Cockatrice.
Nor boast thy Flaxen Curls; they be
As well signs of a Leprosie.
That Rock of Tow upon thy Head,
Prove there are Poyson-pates, not Red.

The Vertues of CANARY.
[_]

Tune Isaac's Balls.

1656.

To Mr. G. H.

Sack will make a Coward Fight,
And his Humour vary;
It will infuse a Nobler Sp'rite,
Than great Hector's did carry:
Nay it so will play its part,
He had rather spill a Quart
Of Blood, than of Canary.

Sack makes the daring Seaman wise,
And resolute as Phocion;

Not all the Artillery of the Skies,
Can make him alter his brave motion;
Tho' Tempests rage, and Thunder crack,
Let him be drowned first in Sack,
And a Fico for the Ocean.

If you would have a Doctor wise,
Bestow on him a Pottle.
All Wisdom in the Bottom lies,
No Helicon unto the Bottle.
And when he can pour down no more,
He will upon his Knees adore
Bacchus, above Aristotle.

Sack can make an Alderman wise,
And venture at a Ditty:
'Twill make a Beggar's thoughts to rise
Let his shirt be ne'r so Nitty.
It can make sweet the crabbed face
Of Sergeants, and controul their Mace,
And melt the Rogues to pitty.

If one have but a spark of Wit,
Sack will quickly show it;
And in troth I think it fit,
By my example you should know it;
For, as once my Lord Gray said,
I this fine new-sing-song made,
But Sack made me the Poet.

The DELUGE.

Upon the Death of R. Sanderson Esq; by the Eruption of a Vein.

1657.

Sad Deluge, this! what could no Art restrain,
Nor stop th' o'rflowing Chanal of a Vein?
A Flood in Harvest thus destroys the hopes
Of all the Year, and spoils the fruitful Crops.
Blest Nilus! thou deserv'st immortal thanks;
Thou profit bring'st, when thou o'rflow'st thy Banks.
Of all sad Deluges this was the worst,
And little less destructive than the first.
Where's Surgery become, that boasted Theme?
No Sluce, no Flood-gate that can turn this Stream?
Shall the dull Dutch damm up the Springs o'th' Sea,
And fetter Neptune, till his Tides obey?
Yet our fam'd Artists study all in vain
To stop the little Torrent of a Vein?
Let us confide no more in erring Dust;
That great Physician may command our Trust,
Who stopt, by touching of his Garment's hem,
Th' unruly Current of a Bloody Stream.
Nay more; by vertue of his sole command,
And sacred Pow'r allow'd to Moses's Wand,
Stop't the Red-Sea, and check'd the foaming Tide,
Roaring and swelling with impetuous pride:
And made the crouding Waves, on either hand,
Like shining Walls of polish'd Chrystal stand;
He! he alone! such Miracles can show,
And stop those Fountains who first made 'em flow.

The RECOVERY.

1657.

To my dear S. Mrs. S. S.

So you recruit, tell me no more
Of lesser beauty than before;
Yet where's the loss? since still I'spy
Those Arched Brows, that sparkling Eye,
Wherein such contradictions fix,
That Sun and Clouds together mix.
Though neither conquer, yet both fight;
No Cloud so black, no Sun so bright.
A Sun with no Eclipses harm'd:
A Cloud with Lightning ever arm'd:
Then is not here each charming grace
That formerly shin'd in that Face?
Those modest smiles, whose native slight
At once denies, yet does invite?
Like a Gilt-harnest-valiant Foe,
Whose Arms cry, Take me, Sword says no.
What Parts then do these wants disclose?
Because each Cheek has lost its Rose,
Your Lips their Cherries? never fear;
Tho' th' Season's past, they'l spring next year.
Your Sickness did this Autumn bring;
But Health will soon create a Spring.

The POET.

Upon that incomparable Enthusiast Mr. Jo. Cleveland.

1657.

Whoe're reads Cleveland (Leader of the Pack)
Carouzes Essences, and sp'rit of Sack.

For what he drank, it was for publick use;
And, in his Brains, he did preserve the Juyce.
Where heated in his Head (that Chymic Still)
Wits-Essence flow'd fro' th' Spout of his rich Quill.
The Sun thus moisture sucks, and after pours
From cloudy Limbecks all the fruitful showers.
His wit was universal: like the Sun,
It gilded every thing it look'd upon.
Some (as poor I) rich Subjects do debase;
He (like great Monarch) did the poorest grace:
By his rare faculty our Times were mov'd
To think that barren Forests might b'improv'd.
Each matter hits aright to his desire;
His conqu'ring flame converted all to fire.
The highest things did to his fancy stoop;
The Scythian so proud Bajazet did coop.
His wit was free, not to set-rules confin'd;
But clear, and ripening like the Summer-Wind.
Pleasure and profit he from thence did bring;
As it makes Corn to grow, and Flowers to spring.
He made the Company where 'ere he came;
And warm'd the coolness, or else quencht the flame.
Nor did he owe one help to any man,
Like those first Heroes who all Arts began.
His thriving thoughts no Foreign Aids did need,
But on their fruitful Soyl alone did feed.
He ne'r the way of our new Rhymers chose,
In racking, or (at best) Translating prose.
To force his Fancy he did never use,
Like some who ravish an unwilling Muse,
Was big with thought, yet happy in his choice,
Like the smooth'd tuning of a nat'ral Voice.

The Subject known, he did the humours hit;
First chose the stuff, then did the Ribbons fit.
His Fancies jostled, were together prest;
Puzzled he was to chuse, not make the best.
His Refuse would inrich us all; the poor
Thrive thus by raking at the rich Man's door.
He was more than us all! Imagine what
He could say of himself, and Cleveland's that.

DISCREET LOVE.

1657.

To M. S.

Peace, Syrens, Peace! experienc'd harms
Serve but to antidate your Charms.
The World's more wise now, than to seek
Roses and Lillies in a Cheek;
Coral in Lips; himself he mocks
That looks for Sun-beams in her Locks.
Or he who fancies those blew stains
Saphyres or Violets, but Veins.
None trusts an amorous Muse, that sings
His Mistress Breasts two Nectar springs,
Lockt up with Rubies, that there grow,
Soft Marble Quarries, and warm Snow;
That she sweats Amber, breaths sweet Gums,
Voids Marmalad, and vents Perfumes.
Beauty's the Sawce, that brings delight
To Love, which is the Appetite:
But Wealth's the Food; 'tis a sad pause,
When hungry, to have only Sawce:
Thus foolish Boys neglect their meat,
So they may red-cheek'd Apples eat.

Beauty is only in the Skin;
The worth, and substance is within;
'Tis spoil'd when us'd; now Gold's more bright
With time, and use; Aurora's light
Improves thus till the Sun does rise;
(That twenty-shillings-piece o'th' skies)
Talk then no more of loving faces,
Of outward parts, and inward graces;
Since Cupid's self can strike no heart
In love, without his golden dart.

The Resolute COURTIER.

1658.

Prethee say I or no;
If thou't not have me tell me so,
I cannot stay;
Nor will I wait upon
A smile, or frown.
If thou wilt have me say;
Then I am thine, or else I am mine own.

Be white or black; I hate
Dependence on a checker'd fate,
Let go, or hold;
Come either kiss or not;
Now to be hot,
And then again as cold,
Is a fantastick Fever you have got.

A tedious Wooe is base,
And worse by far than a long Grace:
For whilst we stay,
Our lingring spoils the Roast,
Or Stomach's lost;
Nor can, nor will I stay;
For if I sup not quickly, I will fast.

Whilst we are fresh, and stout,
And vigorous, let us to't:
Alas, what good
From wrinkled Man appears,
Gelded with years;
When his thin wheyish Blood,
Is far less comfortable than his Tears.

Right COURTSHIP.

1658.

Should I kiss every one that's fair,
Or marry all I court;
I like the Captain should appear,
That conquered every Fort,
And nothing left for those that love the Sport.

What matter I though Rumour snarle,
That I took not the Town:
Since I did bring her to a Parle,
It is as much renown,
As If I knock'd, and beat her Bulwarks down.

Self-int'rest is the safest claim,
Let Wealth, and Worth be had;
To level there's the surest aim,
And he the wisest Lad
Who makes no Match, but by a Match is made.

The PLAGIARY.

Upon S. C. a Presbyterian Minister, and Captain, stealing 48 Lines from Crashaw's Poems to patch up an Elegy for Mr. F. P.

1658.

Monstrous! and Strange! & scarcely heard of yet!
A Presbyterian, and pretend to wit!
Steel'd arrogance! to nibble at the crime
Of Verse, and meddle with that Dagon-Rhyme!
Tremble, great Dogril Sir, at what I say;
For Verse is Cousin German to a Play.
But Poets may with Church-men well agree:
David did Verses make, and Prophecie.
This is his canting Plea; but soft, Sir, stand;
You are arraign'd for Theft, hold up your hand.
Impudent Theft, as ever was exprest,
Not to steal Jewels only, but the Chest.
Not to nib bits of Gold from Crashaw's Lines,
But swoop whole Strikes together from his Mynes!
Unconscionable thief! than

A famous Robber.

Hind far worse;
To rob one both of Money and of Purse.
Thou, of thy Brethren-Taxers, get'st the start,
In taking more than th' five and twentieth part:
Like to those Fiends we Sequestrators call,
Thy stretching Conscience goes away with all.

Arch piece of Robbery! Gigantick knack!
To take both Goods and House too on thy back;
Quote Scripture for't, as for Rebellion, say,
Sampson in Gaza took the Gates away.
Thy Muse, Philira like, is turn'd a Mare;
And by his Pegasus is cover'd here.
Unnat'ral Coupling this as e're did pass;
As if his Pegasus should leap an Ass!
Like a Drum-major, he with Zeal appears,
Beating his Pulpit to get Volunteers.
Thy Black-coat, furious Jehu, most men think
Takes colour from thy Powder, not thine Ink;
And thy Dragooning Genius has a share
More in Salt-peter than Saint Peter's Chair.
How much the Cause owes to this Braves command,
Who taught Rebellion both with Tongue and Hand;
As Balaam of his Ass, he learnt this Trick
Of some such Colt, both for to whee and kick.
A Preacher! Captain, Thief, and Poet view!
A Jack of all Trades, and of all Sides too.
But Mar-text, how dost thou declare thine hate,
In joyning Poets with the Bishops Fate?
To rail at Poets, but to steal their strains,
To hate the Bishops, but to love their means.
Did parted Souls (as some have held) but know
Those things are done by their left friends below;
Think'st thou deceased Pierpont likes such Verse
As thou hast filch'd here to adorn his Herse?
Judge but how such an Act thy self would scan,
A Thief subscribe thee for an Honest Man.

The OLD MAN.

An Epitaph upon my Gr. Mr. T. S.

1658.

Here lies an aged Corps, which late
Incag'd a Soul; whom neither fate,
Nor Times, could change from its first State.

Opprest more with Age than cares:
Respected more for Silver hairs
Than Gold; for Wisdom more than Years.

Happy in every Child he had;
Happy in self, and only sad,
Being born in good days, but deceas'd in bad.

The MOURNER.

Upon the Death of my dear Father, Mr. W. S.

1659.

Let not the ranting Crew explode my Tears;
Nor stop my sighings with their Mocks and Jeers:
Such as lament in Sack for Father's dying,
'Till Eyes look red, then swear it came with crying:
Who to the Church such modish Mourners come,
As if they meant to revel o're the Tomb.
I leave that road, so that I now forbear
To strew his Grave, but with a gaudy tear.
For Drops of Ink are so that do distill
From a luxuriant, or too trim a Quill.
Nor let some think the grief is small, where time,
And such Composure is to build a Rhyme

Since David's Muse did never higher rise,
Than when it took its fountain from his Eyes;
And if in these Lines any Life can be,
Or can transmit it to Posterity;
'Tis but a just endeavour Life to give
To that lov'd Person, who did make me live.
Not that I think this power in my Verse,
(The common Hatchment now of every Herse)
But in his Vertues, which they would declare;
These give the life of which those hope a share.
For thus a Pen that limms a good man's story,
Improves its own, well as the subjects glory.
So every Duty is a Benefit,
And gains a blest reward for doing it,
I wish I could his Vertues imitate,
And praise together; such a lucky fate
Befell that Orator, who as he stood
Praising his vertuous Friend, himself turn'd good.

His Zeal to God and Church glow'd with that heat
First Christians us'd, without the modern cheat.

Imprisoned long by the Rebels at Nottingham. vid.

Loyal to's Prince without the hope of gains,
And constant too in midst of loss and chains.
His Prayers were fervent, and his Faith was strong,
Still hop'd, although Rebellion prosper'd long.
At length the storm blew o're, the skyes did clear,
And light begun to gild our Hemisphere.
His breast with publick joy so over-flow'd,
His Soul was forc'd to leave its old aboad:
Yet like the dying Swan he tun'd his knell,
And with old Simeon sung his own farewell.

Thus the long look'd-for Prospect Moses gain'd;
He saw, but ne're injoy'd the Promis'd Land.

Wit's EPICEDIUM.

Epitaph upon Mr. J. Cleveland.

1659.

Here lies great Cleveland! whom 'tis fit,
To name the Phœnix of true Wit.
His Fate suits sadly with the name;
Since he expired in a Flame.
A Fever! hence this fate did come,
The Muses suffer'd Martyrdom!
He like the Phœnix dy'd! Alas!
Not like the Phœnix bury'd was!
Since with the Gums of his own Stile,
He did not build himself a Pyle.

The DIVINE.

Upon Dr. Huit's Death by Cromwel.

1659.

Rash times, and men, to hurry hence
What Ages cannot recompence!
For by his timeless death we lost
The rarities of holy cost.
He try'd all Learning, and from thence
Did cull the perfect quintescence
Hence was his Tongue with Essence tipt,
His Lips in heavenly Nectar dipt.
He pleas'd the Mind, and eas'd the Heart;
His Sermons twisted Grace and Art.
His Zeal was learn'd he could intice
A man, with pleasure, from a Vice.

Those who did hear his Sermons right,
And practis'd, grew good with delight;
He heard his Sentence with that chear,
That upstart Lords their Titles hear.
Let Traitors quake with crimes opprest;
Let guilt raise Earthquakes in their Breasts;
Let a rebellious Ague seize
Their bloods, and Horrour turn disease;
Let such ones tremble: Glorious Soul!
Thou dost thine envious fate controul:
What Coward arm'd with thy sure Ward,
Need fear a Tower or a Guard?
Halberds and Troops (ta'n in right sence)
Serv'd but to guard thine Innocence.
Thy Cause, and Spirit makes us vow
Thy Judges suffer'd, and not thou.
Their bloody Sentence (to their spight)
More then their Pardon, did thee right;
The Axe cut them; and once they'l know
They had by far the worser blow.
Thy rising Soul was then more tall,
When others stoop, just at thy fall;
Sol biggest is, when he does come
To rest thus in his Western home;
In Seas he sets, and thou in tears;
Thine Ocean far more deep appears.
And when thou dost in Glory rise,
Thy beams will daze their blood-shot-Eyes.

The ADAMITE.

Upon the loss of a Ladies Linnens; all her Shifts and Cloaths being stollen.

1659.

Adam of temper'd Clay was rais'd;
His Body with rich Linnen cas'd;
An earthen Vessel finely glas'd.

But Eve was of a purer frame;
She from compleated Adam came:
From the young Sun so shin'd the Flame.

To him she seem'd a glorious sight;
Her very Nakedness was bright:
Thus is the Moon skin'd o're with light.

Her Innocence no Coverings had;
'Twas Guilt did cause the Fig-leaf shade:
As Beams are hid by Clouds they made.

Besides, the Spring-time now invites
Nature, to bless our wondring sights,
With her rare Closet of Delights.

Lillies (those Virgins of the year)
Their Snowy Bosoms now appear;
Each opening her lac'd Stomacher.

Tulips start from their Winter-beds,
Unfolding their thick Coverlids;
Lie bare, and shew their Maiden-heads.

Roses although with blushes born,
Their green-silk Plackets now are torn,
And shew their beauties to the Morn.

Your Hand faire Lady, then hold by,
Or kindly let my searching Eye
Through th' Lattice of your Fingers pry.

The Russian Empress need not fear,
If Cold or shame would Coverings wear,
She's cloath'd with native

A rich sort of Furr.

Miniver

The ARCH-TRAITOR.

Upon the Death of Oliver Cromwell.

1659.

The Muses, like the Cavaleers, confin'd,
(For Wit and Loyalty are best, when joyn'd)
Have now their liberty: the time affords
Poets to use their Pens, and those their Swords:
The Tyrant knew by both he might be harm'd;
So Playes he voted down, and them disarm'd.
For he did doubt whether more hurt might rise,
Or from the Standish, or the Mortar-piece.
Arm'd against Swords, but not 'gainst Cleveland's Quill,
More sharp than Porcupines, it pierc'd his Steel.
Twas try'd of old when feather'd Arrows flew,
They far more Foes than all our Cannons, slew.
'Twas this made him so cautiously severe;
Poets and Souldiers tam'd, he did not fear.
But all his cruel Policies were vain;
Mastiffs are much the fiercer for the Chain.

Helicon rougher runs when 'tis disturb'd,
And Pegasus kicks more for being curb'd.
Who did his Provant, and his Curb neglect;
Nor would those clear Streams his grim looks reflect.
'Tis true, a Slave or two, to shew his face,

Let some of our fam'd Poets and their Consciences be here examined.

Made Stix, not Helicon his Looking-Glass.
Their Turkish Souls and fancies were so vain
To serve as Footstools to that Tamberlane.
Their mercenary Bays as largely spread
Upon the Tyrant's as the Prince's head.

One noted Poet, his Panegyrick upon Oliver.

Base! that in verse Rebellion should appear;
As though Apollo were turn'd Presbyter.
As th' Muses (stirred up by zealous wrath)
Should lend their Treasures to the Publick Faith.
Wretches! who if they live to better days,
May merit Hempen Wreaths, instead of Bayes.
Wit, like true Courage, never should abate,
But bravely stand unmov'd in spite of Fate;
Confront the Tyrant in his guarded Den,
And, like bold Brutus, stab him with a Pen.

He fir'd it, and then laid it on the Christians.

Nero set Rome on fire, a crime Severe!
Noll fir'd three Kingdoms, and then warm'd him there;
Play'd o're the Flames, and long exulting stood;
Then strove to quench them with the Natives blood.

Nor was't enough to make our Purses pay;
But Taxes on our Consciences to lay.
We might connive not only at his Guilt,
But take on us the blood the Tyrant spilt.
The Commons did it; he like Pilate, stands;
And we the Water hold to wash his hands.

Prodigious arrogance! he did defie
The chiefest pow'rs both of the Earth and Sky!
Against both God and Church he stood alone;
Thrust one fro' th' Church, the other from the Throne.
His sacrilegious hands at once pluck'd down
The sacred Myter, and the regal Crown.
The Graces, and the Muses he accus'd,
Because by's lust they would not be abus'd.
And yet this devillish Hypocrite would pray,
Hyena-like, would cry, and then betray.
With counterfeiting groans he hid his wiles,
Like to the treacherous sobs of Crocodiles.
His Tears, like those of baneful Yew did trill,
Whose baneful drops their neighb'ring Trees do kill.
His whining always did portend some harm:
So hardest Marbles weep against a Storm.
His Trulyes cheated, and his Smiles betray'd;
In Velvet-skabbard lay his murd'ring blade.
His poys'nous heart in Beds of Flowers lay;
Like Quagmires into which their Greens betray.
A Sodom-Apple, rotten at the Coar;
A Pestilential Bubo plaister'd o're.
But now the Botch is broke; his Reign is done,
And he himself into Corruption run.

The APPARITION.

Upon Cromwel's burying (by Ireton) in Westminster Abby.

1659.

Pardon, great Souls, if I presume
So near, as your Withdrawing room;

Your royal Wardrobe, wherein rests
Your Garniture in Marble Chests.
Safely lockt up, to make more gay
Your second Coronation day.
Then will those mouldy Garments shine
Like that pure stuff, which them must line.
Air'd by the influence of a Ray,
Stronger then what gives life to Day.
Which will new cloath that Beldame Night
With robes, spun of eternal light:
Will make the Sun in Cynders lye;
That Phœnix in its Nest to dye.
For it would be a needless sight,
When every object is more bright.
That shining time we once must know,
If't be allow'd to call it so,
When no degree nor space is found,
But an immortal Nunc goes round.
This thought such deep impressions makes,
My muse with awful rev'rence shakes.
Methinks I hear the Trumpet's sound;
An Earth-quake strikes the palsy'd ground.
The Marbles now discharge their trust,
And faithfully return their Dust.
Behold the quickning Attoms play,
Invited by an heavenly ray.
In close embraces dancing round,
'Till each its old position found,
Uniting then with joy, they rest;
Form'd to a Temple fitly drest
To hold the bright-descending Guest.

Who will not lose by changing place,
Convey'd into its shining Case;
As Sun-beames into Chrystal pass.
Thus animated from above,
Look how the rising Monarchs move!
With lofty meen they Earth despise;

Kings are esteem'd Gods, but dye like men.

Gods now indeed, and worthy Skies!
Attended by a fitting Train,
Which humbly at their feet had lain.
No Subject boasts a nobler state,
Than on his Prince's dust to wait.
Kings honour bring where they resort,
Making ev'n Golgotha a Court.

From Heav'n amongst the Angels came
A glitt'ring Wayter called Fame;
Breaking her Trumpet with a blast;
For what needs Fame when time is past?
Here other Heralds then appear'd,
Those Poets that were there interr'd:
'Tis fit they should some glory share,
Who did so much advance it here.

Just as all these prepar'd to fly
To the shining Rendezvous i'th' Sky;
Two Monsters from their filth did craul;
Off'ring to rise, still down they fall.
Their blood-shot eyes, with gloating shame,
Too weak to bear the heavenly flame
Of such a Presence dazling bright,
With glory crown'd and roab'd with light.
One of 'em with a glaring look,
Swelling with spite, and fury spoke.

“These are but Kings, and Cromwell, I!
“They at my Genius us'd to fly.
“Death (that great Tyrant) being dead;
“Why should we petty Monarchs dread?
“What makes us so dejected lie?
“Those vainly fear that cannot die.

“Yet die we will rather then shun
“To act what we before have done;
“Quoth damn'd remonstring

That Villain drew the Armies Remonstrance, which was the moving cause of the KING's Death.

Ireton.
“Let's charge their Troop, and both prepar'd,
Red fury from their Beacons glar'd;
Their heads the groveling serpents rear'd.

— Fame then reply'd —

“Avaunt, thou odious spawn of Night;
“Thou Beam i'th' very Eye of Light!
“Wer't not enough you did defile
(“Nay worse, profan'd) this hallow'd Soyle;
“Reducing it to so vile price,
“Like Egypt's it may turn to Lice?
“Were't not enough you did invade
“Their Throne, but you usurp their Shade?
“Pursuing them ev'n to the Tombe,
“And now dare in their Presence come?
“You ought to be (for this bold crime)
“Damn'd down to Hell before your time.

Like red-hot Iron then Cromwel glowes,
Yet nothing shin'd unless his Nose.

Of red and blew mixt was the flame;
As it from Fire and Brimstone came.
The Angel shunning further stay,
His Heavenly Banner did display;
Such power i'th' sacred Cross did dwell,
Struck with its Lightning, down they fell,
For ought I know, as deep as Hell.
Humbly the shining presence bow'd,
And Hallelujahs sung aloud.
All ravish'd with the heavenly noise.
Amaz'd I op'd my wondring Eyes.
When nothing did to them, alas! appear,
But all these Glories vanish'd into Air.

The ABSENCE.

1660.

To Captain Ben. Marshal leaving Newark.

Good-Fellowship begins to mourn,
And in thine absence, finds its Urne.
When now we meet, 'tis to condole
Our Bodies rob'd of thee, the Soul.
And since thou art from Newark fled,
Both Sack and Ale for grief are dead.
Thus standing Brooks begin to stink,
When Sol is absent, or does wink.
Excise men much thy flitting curse,
Since lesser Income swells their purse.
For what thou drank'st, by some is said,
To make ten of 'em thrive o'th' Trade.
In vain Town-Musick seeks to cheer
Our griefs, whilst sprightly Ben's not here.

For without thee the Boy that sings
Is hoarse, his Fiddle wanteth strings.
All that to Church on Sundays come
Wish thou wert there, or all else dumb;
Since without thee they howl, not sing:
Like jangling Clowns that cannot ring.
They aim at Psalms, as do the Chymes,
And spoil 'em worse than Hopkin's Rhymes.
When thou wert here all did admire,
To hear, both Organs and the Choire.
Thy Voice form'd theirs: when thou didst sing,
Thou wert both finger and the string.
Thou mad'st the Tune; and all men say
Thy breath did make their Pipes to play.

The PEEK of Tenariff.

1660

To my dear Br. Mr. W. Shipman, Merchant.

Talk not of Mount Parnassus! since I write
Of such a subject as transcends its height.
Where th' Muses cannot mount; their winged Steed
(Tho Fame and Lightning cannot reach his speed)
Must flagge below, when he would try this Cliff,
And soar up to the Pyke of Thenariff.
Some Hills are perruk'd o're with Trees and Snows,
Others wear wreaths of Clouds about their brows;
But thou, imperial Mount, art more renown'd;
Since thou art only with the Heavens crown'd.
Olympus and the hills of Arrarat,
Compar'd to thee, seem as a lowly Flat.

Pelion and Ossa (though they proudly bear
Their heads) poor Dwarfs, yet but as Footstools are.
Other great Mountains (though not half so high)
Weary the Foot, whilst thou dost tire the Eye:
Thou art

On its Summit is a hollow fire called Celdico.

Sol's Fornace, where he lights his Torch
When he first peeps from out the Eastern porch.
Had those old Gyants known thee when th' assail'd
The Gods, their Palace they had eas'ly scal'd,
Had Nimrod ever of thy tallness known,
His Babel never had been thought upon.
Had Noah of this Mountain e're heard tell,
The Ark had useless been, and he as well.

Was now my Muse as quick of foot as you,
(Who here climb'd high as ever Eagle flew)
She then would trace your steps; and in the Story,
Prove that high Peek some leagues below your glory.
Hannibal's march o're th' Alps needs no such stir;
Since it was feazible with Vinegar.
Sack here was requisite; which Poets sing
Can mount one higher, than an Eagles Wing;

A flying Horse.

Astolfo's Horse (which Ariosto quotes)
Was fed with Grapes (no doubt) instead of Oats,
That gave him Wings! my Pegasus might dare
To mount as high with the same Provender.
And since such store does from your Islands come;
If you would see him soar, pray send him some.

An Hystorick Poem.

Upon the blessed Restauration of his Sacred Majesty Charles the Second, &c.

1660.

The PREFACE.

Though these Thoughts gain not Charls his sight,
To give him his, gives me my right.
And yet now to approach so near,
May rather dazzle me, than clear.
Since Mercury is scarcely known
(Though Prince of Wit) when near the Sun.
Loyalties due, although not heard;
And, Vertue-like, brings its reward.

From Mount Parnassus, my desire
To Sion sometimes does aspire.
I thought it but a fitting state,
That Muses on the Graces wait.
From hence let not the Reader fear
I am a rhyming Presbyter.
As tho my Muse (when but a Child)
Did go to School to Robin Wild.
Or that my Pegasus would stoop
To ride in

A Rhymeing Presbyterian.

Captain Wither's Troop.

But stay, amongst the Rhyming croud
I 'spy some Wits whom Fame makes proud.

A Trumpeter to Rebellion, in his Nec habeo, nec cæreo, nee curo; a Book of his in Rhyme. Vid. his famous Panegyric.

Whose Lawrel-wreaths on Cromwell seen
(Though he be wither'd) are yet green.
That Leprous Syrian they admit
To wash i'th' Jordan of their Wit.

Not for to cure him, but to please;
They made him proud of his Disease.
Though some of these i'th' Front appear;
I'll Muster too; if but i'th' Rear.
And though their Cannons loudly roar,
Some sound comes from my Pistol-bore.

The Restauration and Welcome. 1660. An Historical Poem upon the Return of King Charles the Second.

[[1.]]

Great Britain's Soyl, like Ægypt's, fertile turn'd
By overflowing of its Natives blood:
Thus did the Compost of the Houses burn'd
Fatten the ground where Priam's City stood.

Her Bosom scarce was more bedew'd with rain,
Than with those precious dropsher Children bled;
And manur'd with the heaps of Bodies slain;
She grew so rank, that only Weeds she bred;

Such Weeds as suck'd the heart-blood of the Land,
Smother'd each fruitful Plant and pleasant Flower.
So did the thin bad Ears of Pharoh stand,
And all the full and hopeful ones devour.

Nor could the Shrubs think much at such a blow,
Or know how to divert the fatal stroak;
When those curs'd Rebels that brought them so low,
Cut down, alas! Great Britains Royal Oak.

A Crime that blasts our former Lawrels won,
Sullies those Trophies that our Syres did yield:
Saint Georges bloody Cross we cannot own,
Since now 'tis lost within a bloody Field.

What hope of future Glory, or of Fame?
For with the Sun the wasting light must go;
And we have lost, to our eternal shame,
Not only Honour, but the Fountain too.

Success mean time did the bold Rebels crown;
Success! too oft the thieves, and Murd'rers boast:
Prosperity brings seldom true renown;
Since oft' they merit least, who thrive the most.

If Wrongs may be esteem'd by their Success;
Let us praise Cæsar, who inslaved Rome,
And think that richer Crowns their heads must bless,
Who caus'd, than those that suffer'd Martyrdom.

Worth, when opprest, finds all its Solace here;
This quickens Hope (that Shield against distrust)
Without whose arguments, weak thoughts may fear
There is no resurrection from the dust.

Faith (that great Optick) whose quick piercing force
Fixes the wand'ring glances of our eyes,
And guides (like Gallilæo's Glass) their course,
To make Discoveries above the Skies;

By whose clear evidences we possess
Heaven in reversion, and dispairing scorn;
By whose Philosophy we surely guess
The Sun, tho set at night, will rise i'th' Morn:

'Twas this kept us alive; for hopes that are
Founded on reason, credit may obtain:
Since to our Charls Heav'n did such blessings share,
We could not think that he was born in vain.

We might as well conclude the glorious Sun
Had, to no other end, his light bestow'd;
Then idly round about the World to run,
And that his quickning Beams but vainly glow'd.

Altho he from his Kingdoms were exil'd;
Forein experience did increase his store:
Thus in afflicting Job was Hell beguil'd;
Since he at last was richer than before.

Nor did it show as Heaven took not his part,
Because his fortune before theirs did fall;
Since he who shar'd in the Almighty's heart,
Was persecuted by a wicked Saul.

Most men did fear our happy dayes were done,
Since Charls (our joy) was clouded from our sight;
The World's end thus is guess'd because the

Since Ptolomy took its height 1400 years ago, its height is declin'd 30 minutes.

Sun
Grows lower than it wonted, and less bright.

But thanks to Heav'n we happily mistook,
And now rejoyce in our deluded Eyes:
The blessing came when we least for't did look:
The Sun thus lowest seems just at its rise.

2.

Man's life's a Sea; when fortunate, it's smooth,
But when afflicted, then the Waves are rough:
Twixt Storms and Billows toss'd he scornd 'em both,
Like a stout Friggat that is Weather-proof.

Afflictions, on right objects well apply'd,
Bring Crowns; as showers make our Roses grow:
And like to Gold within a Fornace try'd,
His splendor's greater and his vertue too.

Phœbus ecclips'd attracts the greater gaze,
As tho oblig'd more to his loss of light:
Scorch'd with the fury of the Dog-star's blaze,
The ground's requited by the dewy Night.

Heroick Charls his crosses then esteem'd
As his Refiners, Lees purge richest Wines:
Amidst his troubles he most glorious seem'd:
Incompast thus with Clouds bright Phœbus shines.

Inured to Affliction (Vertue's School)
For future Empire he was made more fit,
Our Prince here followd his great Master's rule;
Upon whose brows Thorns before Gold did fit.

Nor can it as a banishment be said;
He only travel'd to increase his store:
Flowr's so transplanted from their Native bed,
Their beauty, sweetness, goodness is the more.

Further that Rivers run they more improve:
'Tis said that things far fetcht our Ladies please,
Nothing but worthless weeds do float above,
We dive for Pearls into the deepest Seas.

3.

England still senseless of that happy state,
Which by a Prince so hopeful she might gain,
O're-aw'd by fear, or overswayd by Fate,
Like stubborn Atheists, will her crimes maintain.

Scar'd by our Crimes, and blinded by our sins,
We like those salvage Indians appear;
Adore the Fiend, insnared by his Gynns,
And pay him homage out of slavish fear.

Thus have I sometimes certain flowers seen,
Whose leaves were shut to th' Sun, but ope to th' Shade:
As more obliged to that killing Skreen,
Than to those beams, from whence they Being had.

Rebellious Scotland first did ope her Eyes;
Scotland! the source of Treason, and our Woes:
From Charls the Second she expects a prize
As great as she in Charls the First did lose.

In Selling him the price of blood she had,
And now she sells to Second Charls his Crown.
Too wily Scot

By tying him to hard and base Conditions, as to take the Covenant.

this bargain is as bad,
Since now for that he must himself lay down.

Too high a price for all the Crowns on Earth,
Though all constellate in one Diadem;
His Vertues well consider'd, and his Birth,
They cannot him deserve, though he may them.

But let not here Posterity mistake;
Boast of her Heroes Scotland justly dares;
Condemn not all the Twelve for Judas sake,
Heav'n has its falling, well as fixed stars.

Amongst which glorious Sparks in his high Sphere,
Shines great Montross, the glory of his Age;
Who brave, did like the Roman Curtius dare,
Perisht his Country's Judgments to asswage.

His pious valour lasting glory got,
When he alone, to aid his King durst come:
Thus Decius did himself to death devote,
And battled thousands to preserve his Rome.

Heroic Soul! until all time be gon,
His fame shall largely spread; until he come
With his first Master to the justest Throne;
And there receive their Crowns of Martyrdome.

Though not with such Poetic fury fir'd,
His vast heroic actions to reherse;
Yet with a rhyming guess I am inspir'd;
And Prophecies themselves were spoke in verse.

Fulfill'd truly and justly.

He who contriv'd thy death, (although Argyle
That bloody Fox) before one year he see,
Shall, like to Haman, both in fate and guile,
Perish upon that Cross he rear'd for thee.

4.

See now what Vertue in a King can doe!
His great example has made Scotland good.
To cure her Leprosie she now will go
To bathe in Jordans of her Natives blood.

His goodness and his Royal parts have won
More than whole Armies ever did before;
All Scotland now does to his standard run,
To help his other Kingdoms to restore.

To England (his choice Vineyard) he is gone:
Where though his faithful Servants murder'd were;
He thought they would not to such madness run,
Or durst attempt to violate the Heir.

But she, besotted with her slavish state,
This blessed opportunity did shun;
Stood idly, careless of a better fate,
And though, in darkness, would not meet the Sun.

Thus did she slight her glory, and her pride,
And to that Idol-Cromwel still incline:
So Christ was by the Gadarenes deny'd,
Who valu'd him far lesser than their Swine.

Though their vast odds, and usual success,
Sufficient were to cool a Cæsar's blood

At the Battel of Worcester.

So undauntedly he charg'd that all confess
Nothing but Englands Sins his Arms withstood.

Oh! that I had now an heroick Vein,
His brave heroic Actions to relate:
Although his Army lay about him slain,
His Vertue yet did triumph o're his Fate.

Horatius thus withstood Porsenna's Host;
Such was his valour, such his love to Rome;
And leaping into Tyber, well might boast
To make Retreats so was to overcome.

Through Troops of foes he undiscover'd rides,
Till unto blessed Boscabel he got:
To little Zoar, with his heavenly Guides,
From blinded Sodom so escaped Lot.

To him, as to God's Israel, was allow'd
A sure defence against th' Ægyptian spight;
He march'd behind the Bulwark of a cloud,
A Blind to those it was, to these a Light.

Not their proclaim'd Rewards nor curious Spyes,
Nor Cromwell's luck in Plots, this prize could win:
As he had been a second Paradice,
His careful Guardian was a Cherubin.

Blest Charles then to an Oak his safety owes;
The Royal-Oak! which now in Songs shall live,
Until it reach to Heaven with its boughs;
Boughs! that for Loyalty shall Garlands give.

Let celebrated Wits, with Lawrels crown'd,
And wreaths of Bayes,; boast their triumphant brows;
I will esteem my self far more renown'd
In being honour'd with these Oaken Boughs.

The Genii of the Druids hover'd here,
Who under Oaks did Britains glories sing;
Which since in Charles compleated did appear,
They gladly came now to protect their King.

Thus God for him did Miracles create,
And Moses-like with signal blessings grac'd:
To pass the British Seas, was then a fate
Not less, than when he through the Red-Sea pass'd.

5.

Thus he (at once both ours, and Heaven's care)
For landing-place his Normandy did chuse;
Whose glad Inhabitants, with earnest prayers,
Begg'd for that blessing which we did refuse.

In Paris now receiv'd with jealous eye;
Nor can we justly tax that Prince's fear:
Since in his Chronicles He may espy
What bus'ness our fifth Henry once had there.

Those Titles that his Birth, and Merits claim'd,
More than the League with Oliver did work;
And that French King might be as little sham'd
To slight a Christian Prince, as court the

Not seldome used by that Crown.

Turk.

But Charles, disdaining a Discharge to hear,
Left that inconstant Prince with fitting scorn;
A base indignity! which France may fear,
And Frenchmen rue that are as yet unborn.

Yet, in return for this poor short retreat,
Brave York fights for 'em, that he may requite;
Whose Valour did the Crown more surely set
Upon that Head usurps his Brothers right.

By whose brave Actions, France with terrour sees
What he can do, when he an Army brings;
For if his fortune with his worth agrees,
Upon his Sword depends the fate of Kings.

In Holland now great Charls keeps his small Court,
Where he their native bruitishness converts;
To whom great Foreign Statists make resort,
T'adore, and wonder at his mighty Parts.

Oblige him, Holland, with thine utmost fate,
His wants do now, as thine did once invite;
Our blood and treasure did advance thy State;
Serve him, and thou wilt fully us requite.

And now the great

King of Spain.

Iberian Monarch wooes
His prescence: Joseph thus his Keepers blest.
A Treasure! which, when known well, he will chuse
Before the precious wonders of his East.

Here was he fixt; and patiently did wait,
Until the Stars each accident did fit;
Till Heavens prefixed time had ripen'd fate;
That we the fruit of all our Prayers might get.

6.

The Tempest, which for sixteen years had rag'd,
Could not continue long it blew so fast,
As men in mortal Agonies ingag'd,
Their breathings are most violent at last.

With loud commands the dreadful Prince o'th Air
Summons his blust'ring ministers to blow;
The trembling Trees so palsi'd are with fear,
Their Leaves not only fall but Bodies too.

And 'tis but fitting State such ways to try;
Their Roots disclose the Center where they fell:
When bloody Tyrants, and Usurpers die,
All passages are ope that lead to Hell.

Some Nat'ralists, who deeply'r search than forms,
And into th' hidden Wombe of Causes pry,
Presume those violent Autumnal storms,
Proclame aloud the Tyrant now must die.

They say that Fiends did ply the Bellowes so,
And over-heat the Fornace so beneath;
The intense Air broke through, and made ours blow,
And raging flames did make the Ocean seeth.

But 'tis below the candor of a Muse
To strike the dead; 'tis left to abler pow'rs;
Nor is such weakness proper for the use;
Alecto's lashes pierce more deep than ours.

Cromwel (that bloody Rebell) being dead,
Our hopes, like Sol in Winter, late did rise;
Which in few minutes after hides its head,
Or wears a mask of Clouds before its Eyes.

For lo! our Cup of wrath again is fill'd!
One of his Sons the Tyrant does succeed:
Although the old pestiferous Serpent's kill'd,
We still are plagu'd with the invenom'd breed.

What hopes although a gangren'd member be
Cut off, whilst it does to another spread?
Hercules found the Hydra would not dye,
Untill he had cut off the seventh head:

Monck our Alcides was, the brave Saint George;
Who to set England free, the Dragon slew;
Destin'd by Heaven to that mighty Charge,
And found their Mazes, having got the Clue.

Before he proffer'd us his helping hand,
Those Blood-hounds which the Nimrod-Cromwel bred
Thought to have made their Prey of all the Land,
And on our very Carkasses have fed.

Then they that damn'd old Junto did recall,
That murder'd King, and Kingdom too inslav'd;
Those Calves of Bethel, at whose feet now fall,
None but those few, who first the Idols made.

Such sudden Changes in so short time shown,
Buoy'd up our faith, and made our hopes increase,
Since Agues when they shift, will soon be gone;
And change of pain seems like a kind of ease.

Some small efforts were try'd to set us free:
As weak Physicians on Recruiters dare
Bestow their skill; but when the bold Disease
Faces about, they leave off with despair.

No George but Monck is destin'd for the deed,
Whose great experience does to him reveal
When to cut off, to purge, and when to bleed;
And now he sees the Wound is fit to heal.

England his Patient is: and like a try'd
And carefull Doctor, he his skill did show;
He felt her Pulse, and every grievance 'spy'd;
And found no Remedy, but Charls, would do.

Warwick's great Nevil Albemarl out-sounds;
Monck is a make King too! whose glorious fame
Shall flourish whilst the Sun with light abounds,
Or golden stars shine in their azure frame.

7.

But stay, my Muse, though in his clouded state
Thy Wings unsing'd in his faint beams could play:
Dar'st thou, with Semele, incite thy fate,
And now in his Meridian glory play?

With thy weak Pinions thou canst not soar high,
This weighty Subject such a burden brings;
But must, like to the cumber'd Estrich, fly;
Whose Bulk is furnish'd with unequal Wings.

This is to spend above our slender rate;
The charge will our abilities outvye:
The Eccho tho Heavens Thunder can repeat;
And smallest Brooks reflect the spatious Sky.

Since all are joy'd, all should their joys declare:
Low notes do Musick, well as high compound;
An Oaten Reed may yield as true a share
Of Love and Welcom as a Trumpets sound.

The Nightingals (those airy Poets) who
Make Helicon of every purling spring,
Their choicest Songs not only will bestow,
But feather'd Rhymers welcome in the Spring,

Tho great Wits rob us, and the Springs have drain'd,
(Bethesda to the poor man was deny'd)
Something of use ev'n may from Mud be gain'd,
As by the Holland industry is try'd.

The Heart's not best declar'd by finest words;
Silence ev'n sometimes great Rejoycements show;
And humble Turf, when kindled well, affords
As much true heat, as Chips of Cedar do.

Go forward then, and hope to gain excuse;
Rags will be hid in such a multitude:
Heav'n, that bestows on all its fruitful dews,
Will not refuse the meanest gratitude.

8.

Behold! when all our hopes were almost fled,
Heav'n did inlighten us him to invite:
From Faintings men start up as from the dead;
'Tis darkest just before the break of light.

Nor does it shew as we did quite despair,
Because our sickly faiths such wav'rings have:
Flames are most tremulous, that highest are;
And we least hope for what we most do crave.

After such storms our Rainbow now appears,
That voucher of our safety is in sight;
And glorious Charls to joys converts our fears:
Phœbus gilds o're the Clouds thus with his light.

He is arrived now to Scheveling Strand,
Which gives just cause to boast her of that bliss;
And is the happiest part of all that Land;
Since honour'd his last Foot-steps there to kiss.

Holland that formerly her Kings did hate,
Is so with his heroick vertues ta'n?
Our hot inquires after him they rate
Worse than the Inquisition once from Spain,

Had he an equal him their King they'd get;
But since that quite Impossible is known;

Another Prophecy fulfill'd.

Orange (his Princely Nephew) they will set
In's Father's honours, to confirm their own.

Where, with more reason, can their hopes be plac'd,
Then on a branch of that renowned Tree;
Under whose spreading boughs, they safely grac'd,
From nothing, sprung to this sublimity?

9.

Great Prince, please to regard your Britain's call;
Let Holland make you no more ling'ring stand;
A little longer stay will murder all,
And you be King of a dis-peopled Land.

Behold your Neptune, with his Trident there,
Uncrisps the Billows, smoothing them like Glass;
And shews now his Allegiance in his care
That undisturb'd you on your way may pass.

The simp'ring waves their Viceroy's call obey,
And do for you (the Ocean's Monarch) wait;
With ready Shoulders see they humbly stay;
And if they swell, 'tis pride for such a fraight.

The

A Man of War made and so called by Oliver.

Naseby (once a Dipper) now begins
To hate that Title with repentant shame,
And hopes to wash of her Orig'nal Sins,
Being baptiz'd now into Charls his Name.

As the Demoniacs newly Converts turn'd,
Some signal blessing did on them attend:
So she no sooner with his Name adorn'd,
But the good Spirit did expell the Fiend.

Great Britain, like Tobias Bride, possest,
Needs here an Angel the same cure to do;
Of which no fear, when she with him is blest,
Since Charls her Husband is, and Angel too.

The Frigat now the foamy billows plows,
Whose burden is beyond the reach of fear;
And steered safely by our Pray'rs and Vows,
Does both our Cæsar, and his fortunes bear.

But here, my Muse, let's leave him for a while,
Him, whom the Sea-Gods chearfully attend,
And all the Deities that guard this Isle;
Blest Charls! whom now both God and Man befriend.

10.

Chuse now a place, where thou mai'st sit and see;
Where his blest motion may be fitly'st shown:
Let Dover Pier then thy Parnassus be,
And Britains Straits thy better Helicon.

From Sea-ward now turn thine unwilling eye,
A little casting it upon the Strand;
There hasty crouds thou quickly wilt espy,
Whose thronging numbers far exceed the Sand.

Look! how like Images they stand unmov'd;
Their greedy eyes to Sea-ward fixed set:
Thus seem'd the Statue, by Pigmaleon lov'd,
When the cold Marble first begun to heat.

To th' neighb'ring Coasts whole Brittany does flock,
Clings to the Cliffs, her only joy to see:
Andromeda was chain'd thus to a Rock,
And Perseus hasten'd thus to set her free.

No sayl appears yet to her greedy eyes,
But she tormented is with sharp delayes:
Her large Shores eccho round about with cryes
That all her Herrings are turn'd Remoraes;

Those living Anchors, scarce twelve inches long,
That mighty ships arrest when under sayl:
Thus a small Pibble being rightly flung,
Did over great Golia's strength prevail.

Britain, that does the pangs of longing feel,
This sluggish motion of the Fleet compares
To that slow Beast Pigritia in Brasile,
That scarcely crawls a League in seven years.

Nearer their end that nat'ral motions be,
Philosophers maintain they swifter go;
This motion, like the blessing, then we see
Cannot be natural, because so slow.

Would now that

Ericus.

Swedish King were Pilot here,
Whose Cap could point the Winds which way to blow:
Nor does this Wish extravagant appear,
Since

Five petty Kings rowed his Barge over the Dee.

Edgar (Charle's great Syre) had Kings to row.

The pious breathings from the crouded shore
(A brisk West-wind) keep what they pray for, back:
Thus o'r kind throngings that would breath restore
To fainting Persons, that intention slack.

The Proverb's crost: the Eastern Winds are best:
Since now they waft great Charles here to his own:
And vye their blessings with those from the West,
By which the Locusts were from Egypt blown.

Our Mariners need not to Lapland send,
To buy false Winds, or charm the boistrous Sea:
Since that great Pilot does our Charls befriend,
Whom both the Ocean, and the Winds obey.

No raging tempest can disturb the Sea,
Whilst he (our greater Neptune) is upon't
Charls easily'r may the British Ocean sway,
Than Xerxes try to fetter Hellespont.

Methinks the Ship, designed for this fraight,
Should need no Sayles, nor Rudder her to guide:
But Dolphins should out of Allegiance wait,
Upon whose skally backs the ship might ride.

Thus the tam'd Argo that did sail to Greece,
Her willing Oars were seen alone to row:
The royal Charles brings home a richer Fleece,
And

Our Admiral,

Mountague can more than Jason do.

Not Indian ships were ever richer fraught,
Nor did deserve more welcome to the Port:
Although the treasures of the East they brought,
And had the plunder of the Moguls Court.

Who can the worth of Charles, York, Glouc'ster say?
Orprize their Values to a just degree?
Those Triumvirs! fit all the World to sway,
As equal Consorts to the fatal three.

As they the Names, so they the Vertues bear
Of Syre, and Grandsires, Princes all renown'd
For brighest Stars, each in his proper Sphere;
And each with Mercy, Wisdom, Valour, crown'd.

To all of them thou ow'st thy several Vows.
But here, my Muse, thy scarcity is shown;
Thy Laurel is so thinly stor'd with Boughs,
Th'art forc'd to twist three Garlands into one.

But if incouragement refresh the root,
And fortune take from me her wonted frowns;
My groveling Laurels to the Skies may shoot,
And I, instead of Garlands, offer Crowns.

11.

Come to those straits from whence he once did go,
The motion does a blessed Circle frame:
A nobler Ring! his property to show,
Than that wherewith

They yearly espouse the Sea by casting in a Ring.

Venetians court the Dame.

But listen now to that rejoycing noise;
Those piercing shouts that ev'n to Heav'n advance;
Whose rattling sounds makes Brittany rejoyce,
And ecchos terrour to ingrateful France.

If shouts of Peace can make their Lillies pale,
At shouts of Battle they will ghastly shew;
And if our Squibs and Crackers make 'em quail,
What will the Thunder of our Cannons do?

Hark! hark! a shout far louder than the first!
Behold! the swelling Top-sail now appears!
All now (like Clouds of Summer thunder burst)
Melt into showers of their joyful tears.

When on this hand I see the Navy there,
And England's Coasts exalted too on that:
The Royal Charles may with the Ark compare,
And Albion's Cliffs with those of Arrarat.

Toss'd by a Deluge, caus'd by our late crimes,
He safely now approaches Albion's shore,
(Like Noah) to make happy future times,
And the destruction of our World restore.

Before his landing though, his Dove's sent out;
That

His Act of Oblivion.

Messenger of mercy, and of peace.
Him right Heir to his Father who can doubt,
Since so much like him in such acts as these?

Grant, mighty Monarch, Britain's humble pray'r!
Let not thy Clemency prove too unkind;
But let some Justice, with thy Mercy, share;
Lest after ages no distinction find.

If thine impartial eye vouchsafe to look,
'Twill find that some did worse, tho none did well:
Heaven's self that on great Sinners pitty took,
Yet the rebellious Angels sent to Hell.

Altho there have whole Seas of blood been spilt,
And thousands sacrific'd on Charles his Tomb;
'Tis not enough to expiate the guilt,
Nor wash away one letter from our doom.

Some of the Tribe of Corah still we see,
Such as 'gainst Gods anointed did conspire;
All of 'em, like the common Enemy,
Are to be scourged hence with sword and fire.

We justly then may hope for better times,
When those are gone, by whom we were beguil'd:
When Achan was condemn'd for his base crimes,
Success again upon the Hebrews smil'd.

Your Mercy (th' only Balm our wounds to cure,)
Should be like that within

Related by G. Sandys, in his Travels.

Grand-Cairo found;
Which Stories say will not the Turks indure,
And only prosper in the Christian-ground.

12.

And now He's landed; Welcome glorious King!
'Tis fit we branches of fresh Lawrels spread;
And all our Poets their choice Bays should bring;
To strew the Paths wherein thy footsteps tread.

Prostrate, my branch, and Muse, I here lay down;
Where if she chance thy Royal foot to meet,
She may prove Laureat, and receive a Crown,
Nobler than those, that Popes give with their feet.

On what more glorious Subject can we write?
Or what Theme can more choice of Fancy give,
Than his great Name? which brings a sure delight,
For 'tis by it, we and our Verse must live.

'Tis strange that Verse should be to Charles obligd;
When Kings were formerly oblig'd to it;
Because his Merits do all Verse exceed,
And theirs could not attain to what Verse writ.

His Worth is so apparent, Claim so just,
His Restoration is rejoyc'd by all:
Thus there was not one Hebrew did disgust
The pleasant Manna that from Heav'n did fall.

To London now he marches, and is there
Expected, with such longing hopes and joys,
As men condemn'd their welcome pardons hear,
Or he feels comfort that despairing lies.

Couragious York, wise Glouc'ster on each side;
Valour and Wisdom on our Monarch wait:
He in the fortune of great Rome may pride,
When Fabius and Marcellus serv'd her State.

Thus on the Body both our Arms attend,
Which for the common good they're bound to do:
And whilst our Moses, and his Arms defend
His England, there's no fear of any Foe.

Black-heath presents it self now to our Eyes,
Where thronging Troops seem like a moving Wood;
Whose silken Colours whistle out their joys,
As each its loyal Motto would make good.

The Horses neigh as he to them were known:
Bucephalus thus Alexander knew.
By their loud neighing at our rising Sun,
They (like the Persian Steeds) their Monarch shew.

13.

Blest England! since thou now canst make it known,
What, to thine honour, has of thee been said;
How foreign Conquest thou ne'r nobly won,
But when some King of thine thy Armies led.

Thus of thy Cor-de-Lyon thou may'st boast,
Who in one Week did sawcy Cyprus win;
Whose Sword and courage (more than the French host)
Dazled the eyes of furious Saladin.

Thus thy first Edward (whose fame still must live)
When he to captive Palestine did go,
His very looks did Ptolomais relieve;
Let any judge then what his Sword did do.

Thus thy third Edward fought at Cressy-field;
Where he beat one King, and two others slew;
Thus that young Mars (his glorious Edward) quell'd
The furious French and haughty Spaniard too.

Fifth Henry (Europe's wonder and thy pride)
Fought thus at Agen-Court, and conquer'd France.
Thus thine eighth Henry did his Ensigns guide,
And in Tournay, and Turwin them advance.

But let none think this a diversion here:
To him (the Sea) run all those higher floods,
All their deserts ally'd to him appear,
And his th' Elixir of their royal bloods.

14.

But stay, my Muse, to shorten now the way,
Whilst he to his Metropolis does ride;
Here let us celebrate the Month of May,
May! the Spring's glory, and the whole years pride.

I praise it not, because the swelling Vine
Shews then its Rubies, or the Rose-tree buds,
Or Lovers, stirr'd by Nature's chief design,
Walk amorous mazes in the pleasant Woods;

Because the Blossoms smile, or Black-bird sings,
Because the Earth is carpeted with green,
Or that the fairy Nymphs now dance their Rings,
As Crowns design'd for Flora, by their Queen:

A far more glorious Cause creates my Song,
Since in this Month great Charles saw his first Morn;
To which a second blessing does belong;
Since now for us this second time he's born.

The same procedure has eternal bliss,
Which the great Word to all has spoken plain,
For, the first birth brings no true happiness,
Nor comes it, unless man be born again.

Nor was't enough, that the reviving Spring,
Or pleasant Flow'rs, his Ushers did appear;
More state was fitting for so great a King,
Which made Heav'n send that

A Star appeard at his Birth

shining Harbinger.

Charles has one Star now more than in his Wayn:
To point our Saviour out one did appear;
Both Heaven and Earth by his blest Birth did gain;
We got a King, the Heav'ns did get a Star.

Blest Prince! whom Heav'n providing for, did place
A Star: thus Land-marks serve the Port to show
To Sea-men, toss'd upon tempestuous Seas:
So this directs him where at last to go.

15.

London is ghess'd now by those Clouds of Smoak,
Whose thick curl'd Volumes seem to reach the Skies:
Thus Priests of old did for great blessings look,
When Altars smoak'd the most with Sacrifice.

It is not Fire, nor Vapours, that compound
Those Clouds, well nigh in Heav'n already blest:
No they are pray'rs and pious breathings found,
That rise from Altars of each loyal breast.

They're vanisht now: and now the Skies are clear;
And other Objects meet our wandring Eyes:
Loud shouts, and Bells first having thinn'd the air,
Temples and Palaces begin to rise.

Paul's first (that mighty Fabrick) does appear,
And to the Skies its lofty top display:
Which (Babel-like) our Ancestors did rear,
To reach to Heav'n, though in a better way.

What, was its height before by Lightning fir'd?
Those active Meteors (jealous) did chastize
Th' usurping Steeple; that it thus aspir'd,
To mount its daring head in higher Skies.

First Charles design'd to rescue it, and thence
Its fixed glory never could revolt;
Since his great Piety would surer fence,
Than any Lawrels, 'gainst a Thunder-bolt:

But our great Crimes, like to the Jewish Sins,
Did both the Temple, and our selves destroy:
Though Charles (like Prince Zerubbabel) begins
(Now he's return'd) to recreate our joy.

To him she bows her venerable head;
Which (after his) she hopes will be new crown'd;
Thus, when the Patriarchs had hap'ly sped,
To God they quickly did an Altar found.

The Tower (by heroick Cæsar built,
Upon whose Battlements those Streamers play)
Pleads how the Tides have washt away its guilt,
Which lately came from the repentant Sea.

The stately Bridge, opprest beneath its weight,
Yet gladly bears great Charles, and all his Train;
Under whose Arches, Tides returning wait;
Proud to be seen beneath him once again.

Backwards the Waves with smiling Eddies roul,
'Till they again their Viceroy Neptune meet;
Who charges all his Subjects 'twixt each Pole,
To smooth their Passes for our Royal Fleet.

Go on, my Muse, thou must not leave him here;
Into the Town thou must on him attend:
If thou wilt not the Citie's joy declare,
Henceforth the Drawers will not be thy friend.

All hearts together at this instant meet;
And all his welcome in one shout combine;
The Crouds are weav'd together in one Street,
And all their Eyes are thridded on one line.

The little Pupil of the Eye contains
At once the spatious object of the Skies;
Yet such a Miracle in Charles now reigns,
He's big enough himself to fill all Eyes.

The Walls, instead of Bricks, of Heads are made,
So closely joyn'd, and orderly they stand:
And for more Ornament, it may be said,
Each wears a Turky Carpet for a Band.

With Pray'rs, and loyal Vows the Town's made sweet,
Houses are Wall'd with Men, Roofs tyl'd with Boys;
The Chanels washt with Wine; Streets pav'd with feet;
And all the Windows glazed are with Eyes;

16.

Come now show service, Muse, as well as love;
When both Necessity and I do call;
Let thy soil'd Lawrels then a Beesom prove,
And sweep the way before him to White-hall.

White-hall! late soyl'd with dirt, with Thistles grown;
As commonly is seen, where Swine resort:
But here a Miracle will soon be shown,
Hee'l make it both a Garden and a Court.

For whereso'ere he sets his Royal Foot,
Soon will the Red, and White-Rose there be shown;
Since our great Charles is their undoubted Root;
For him both York and Lancaster do own.

Though now, my Muse, th' hast brought him to the Port;
Thou may'st not enter; for the Courtiers say
Thy Poverty will not beseem a Court;
Although thy Love and true Allegiance may.

Thou canst not then, what there was done, relate;
That is impossible for thee to show:
But tho these Wishes cannot gain the Fate
To come to him, may they to Heaven go.

The SOULDIER.

1660.

To the Illustrious and High-born Prince, James Duke of York, &c.

The little Spot I on Parnassus till,
Were it, great Prince, but fruitful to my will,
The Lawrels that my slender Stock allows,
Each day should yield fresh Garlands to thy Brows.
And tho last Month great Charles did justly gain
The spreading boughes, one branch does still remain,
Which shortly will a greater thing be thought,
If fitting Wreaths be to thy Merits brought;
Since all the Lawrels that the Earth brings forth,
Will be too scanty for thy growing worth.

Thine Ancestors, and Parents, all were sent
By Heav'n to be their Ages ornament;
With all their several Virtues thou art fill'd;
Roses, and Lillies Essences distill'd.
Thy Father's Soul vyes with thy Mothers face;
From her thy Beauty, and from him thy Grace.
Nor is this all; thou must more Justice have;
Prudent with James, and with great Henry, brave.
Thy Royal Fathers Crowns being from him torn,
Wise Providence ordain'd thou should'st be born.
For so, what from him by our Sins were ta'ne,
By thy great Valour might be won again.
And tho with bold success they storm'd the Walls;
Thou (like Camillus) had'st expell'd those Gaules,
But that kind Heav'n in league with us did stand,
Whose aid did save the labour of thy hand.

Thus Hezekiah might devoutly boast,
When Angels routed the Assyrian Host.
Whilst such ones fought for us; a doubt might be
Whether they took not one of them for thee.
Such is the lightning of thy piercing Raies;
And such fair Signs of Conquest in thy face;
So true a heat thy noble Passion stirr'd,
So swift the motion of thy flaming Sword.

Nor was't enough, thy Birth did thee advance,
Valour thy Nature, and Inheritance;
But thou hast practis'd War ev'n from thy birth:
Like Cadmus's Soldiers, peeping first from Earth.
The Martial Skarf thy swathing-band was deem'd,
Bullets thy Nuts, and Drums thy Rattles seem'd.
Bellona was thy Nurse, with blood thee fed,
Bright Steel thy Blankets, and the Field thy Bed.
Alcides's sp'rit in thy young breast did dwell,
Who, in the Cradle did the Serpents quell.
Young Princes, bred up in luxurious Courts,
(Like May-Kings) are alone design'd for sports.
Silk Knots their Colours from vain Women torn,
Nor seek they other Forts than theirs to storm.
Vict'ry thine only Mistris was, and there
(If ever) thou wilt turn Idolater:
Bold Scythians so a Spear did fix in Ground
And there alone their reverence was found.

Nor did those sullen times infect thy mind;
Tho fierce as Lyons, yet as Ladies kind.
This made th' admiring World both love, and fear:
Thy Grapes produc'd both Wine and Vinegar.

Gentle in Peace, in War most bravely bold;
Thy Springs in Winter hot, in Summer cold:
Compos'd in tumults, and in troubles gay;
Thou, like the Porpois, canst in tempests play.

Cromwel ne'r thought his bus'ness to be done
Whilst thou wer't safe, tho all Foes else were gone:
His restless jealousie disturb'd his mind;
More dangers yet in thee he fear'd to find.
But when the Fates thee in his

Taken when Oxford was deliver'd and imprisoned in ---

pow'r had brought,
He only then himself in safety thought.
Jerusalem of rescue thus despair'd,
And the grim Saracens no longer fear'd,
When they with joy the Austrian Leopard saw

Escaped thence by help of ---

To hold our Cor-de-Lyon in his paw.
But of thy Chaines he was not long time proud:
He could not keep this Thunder in a Cloud.

And now thy spreading Fame began t'advance;
Which he did hear, with terrour, out of France;
That sound scarce settled, when, behold, again
One louder, when thou fought'st for worthy'r Spayn.
Honour thine int'rest was, and sway'd thy heart
To take the juster, tho the weaker part.
Thus did brave Guy the bloody strife decide,
And help'd the Lyon as the weakest side.
Thy brave Atchievements made the Tyrant quake,
And at the last, his Grave for refuge take.

BEAUTY'S ENEMY.

Upon the Death of M. Princess of Orange, by the Small Pox.

1660.

Hence, hence, vain Fancies! 'tis a Sin to be
A witty praiser of a Misery.
Like those hard Wits, who name the Scars
Upon her Face, Ennamel, and bright Stars.
They crown their brows with Cypress boughs, and make
Garlands of Flow'rs, which they from Coffins take.
Then should the Jews, those hands have kist with joy,
That did their Temple, and themselves destroy.
Her Eyes, amidst her torments, sparkled beams:
Thus martyr'd Saints smil'd in their hottest flames.
Nor can the Parallel be well deny'd;
Since 'its too true, she Beauty's Martyr dy'd.

Fatal Disease! thy Spite too oft is sent,
Like Sequestrators, on the Eminent.
Thy Crimes, like those of their damn'd Masters, show;
Like them thou ruin'st England with a blow.
Great Charles his loss, and hers were near ally'd;
In them the Monarchs of both Sexes dy'd.

Most cruel Death! could not one wound suffice?
Must she as many have as Heav'n has Eyes?
Each Spot upon her Face a Comet show'd,
Which did, alas, this fatal ruine bode!
So do those purple streaks, that often stand
Upon Aurora's Cheeks, tell storms at hand.
This fatal Mask, that thus beclouds her Eyes,
Is no deformity, but a disguise.

'Tis but an Angel's Veil she now has on;
For veil'd they are, when they approach the Throne.

THE GENTLEMAN.

1662.

To's honour'd Friend Sir Ger. Clifton, of Clifton, K. and B.

Th' imbalming Art that checks the pow'r of Time,
And curbs Corruption in its very Clime;
That guards our Carcasses against the Foes
Which in the trenches of the Grave repose;
With whose repairs our Cottages are drest,
Till the return of their Cœlestial Guest;
Yet yields to Verse: a drop of Ink can guard,
From rav'nous Time, more than a pound of Nard.
When Bodies, by such means, are most kept safe,
Thy lie i'th' Tombe, but live i'th' Epitaph.
Yet Verse (from whence such benefits accrue)
Has a design, and hopes for more from you:
Thus Kings of old, whence streams of Honour come,
Receiv'd their Crowns fro' th' Common-wealth of Rome.
Nor does the Simile unfit appear;
Since a whole Senate's congregated here.
For your great Family did always use
A Cæsar, or a Cato to produce.
In this one House a noble croud appears:
The eighth Sphear shines thus with a thousand Stars.
Like Pliny's fruitful Tree, from whose large root
An intire Orchard did together shoot.

Cambyses.

One dreamt a Vine sprung from his Daughter's Bed,
Whose lofty branches Asia overspread;

Thus England's grac'd, and shelter'd by the Tree
Of your illustrious-fruitful-Progeny.

The Chanel of your Blood's unmixt, and free
From common Issues; like to that fam'd Sea
Which proudly sucks into its Womb profound,
That Mess of Rivers which did Eden round.
You are a rich compound, and Heralds view
A troop of Nobles, and yet all in you.
Your Person's a whole Presence; in each Eye
Ten Heroes in their mixt Elixirs lie.
You are Mosaick work, ta'n in right sense,
Where each piece speaks a several excellence.

THE INVITATION.

1662.

To the worthy Lady Mrs. Margaret Trafford.

It is a Sin to know where Vertues are,
Goodness, and Beauty, and not make a Pray'r
T'injoy 'em; since then, Madam, all can tell
In you these blessings with rich plenty dwell;
I should be impious, not to request
To see you, and then after to be blest.
Your absence is a Judgment, most men say
But little less than that at th' latter Day;
When we shall want by day the Sun's great light,
Nor must injoy the beauteous Queen of Night.
Black fate! and yet your absence makes each time
Mourn without light, as guilty of the crime.
'Tis true, these Planets may be seen, and are
When you are absent; but they then appear

Like dying Tapers, or (with truer sense)
Like things that want their prime Intelligence;
That's you! you gild their Orbs, and then refine
Their beams by yours, and teach 'em how to shine.
'Tis a religious point now to contend
T'injoy you; since you'r more than any friend.
You are a blessing, Madam, and a Crown;
For Vertue's so, and serves you as her own.
How great's your priviledge? since what the best
Of Saints did strive for, you find in your breast.
Your goodness will instruct you more at large;
We are your Creatures, Madam, and your charge;
You must be careful of us, and create,
By your rich presence, a more happy state.
Haste then, thou true Divinity, and give
These blessings, that we may be good, and live.

Right CHOICE at last.

1662.

To the same.

The Soul, too oft in Coldness lost,
Stands need of Zeal to thaw that Frost.
Whose Sunshine can great Vertues bring,
Blossom the Mind, and make it spring.
Fir'd with that sacred heat, my breast
Copies in flames the Phœnix Nest.
The ancient Bird, consum'd with Fire,
Revives into a new desire:
I'th' Cynders thrives the hopeful Birth:
As Ashes help t'improve the Earth.

Those will the fittest Compost prove
T'inrich my Heart, (that Soil of love.)
Cutting the Suckers from the root
Will make my Myrtle branches shoot.
When Zeal's to more than one inclin'd,
It is th' Idolatry o'th' Mind.
Love canton'd out, lessens its store:
As many Sons make Kings ev'n poor.
But Fate does so my Heart advance,
To be your sole Inheritance.
That Monarch of my breast (as due)
No Heyr apparent owns but you.
The noble Romans thus supply'd
By Adoption, what the Flesh deny'd.
Observing more returns of worth
From Choice, than from uncertain birth.
Those easie charms that Nature move,
Are but the Childishness of Love.
The noblest Triumphs, and more fame
From Consuls, than their Tyrants came.
Till Cæsar's fate did overcome,
And made one Trophy ev'n of Rome.
My Heart, that Common-wealth of Love,
Like that of Rome in this did prove;
To present Rulers It was true;
But yearly chang'd again for new.
With Crouds of Deities well stor'd,
And, as they pleas'd it, them ador'd.
Like Cæsar's, your attractive sway
Makes it my interest to obey.
And like dull Mayors inslav'd by Gain,
I boast the glory of my Chain.

The LIBERAL LOVER.

1662.

To the same.

What can my Mistris want? whilst I
Lay some small claim to Poetry?
With Cleopatra she shall vie.

My boasting shall not her deceive;
For Poets, Pope-like, Kingdoms give;
Nay more, can make the dead to live.

Compar'd with Poets, Kings are poor;
Kings have done much but Poets more;
For they made Gods for Kings t'adore.

If glitt'ring Pearls seem richer prize,
I'l millions give; for my Supplies
Drop daily from Aurora's Eyes.

Rubies and Saphires shall not fail;
With red, and blue Clouds I'l prevail,
To drop 'em down in shining hail.

If I once say't, I'l surely do't;
Planets, instead of Stars, shall shoot,
And drop down Diamonds at her foot.

Of Silver, her I'l never stint;
The Moon's my Mine, and the Man in't
Shall be the Master of the Mint.

If Guinnies seem the better change,
Phœbus (my Patron) shall advance;
For Gold's made only by his glance.

For all these Riches I am poor!
Then why should I thus feign a store,
When really her self has more?

Pearls, Rubies, Saphires, she outvies,
And all the Diamonds of the Skies,
With Teeth, with Lips, with Veins, with Eyes.

My idle Fancy makes me sin;
The Moon's not current, 'tis but Tinn,
Compar'd to th' Silver of her Skin.

By these great truths I am controul'd;
My Guinies will not value hold;
She's all one piece of Angel-Gold.

DARBY-SHIRE.

1663.

To Mr. P. K. upon his Prolusion to his intended History of that County.

I'l knock at Gate; Who is it lives here? Ho!
It is a Palace by the Portico.
The Porch of Solomon was thus esteem'd;
Compar'd with others it a Temple seem'd.
'Tis thine Aurora, which (as Poets say)
Is Harbinger to a more glorious Day.
Thy Lady-Fancy in her Bed still lies,
This is the Usher that attends her rise,

Her Face is beautiful, and makes us wooe
T'enjoy the Blessings of the Body too.
Thy quick Invention may be justly ghest
More than half ready, since her Head is drest.
Thy Preface, like a hopeful Heir, does stand
Rich in Reversion of the Father's Land.
The infant-bud that does such sweetness own,
What may it promise when the Rose is blown?
In this small Handful thou hast clutcht such store,
Methinks thy Country should afford no more.
Yet Darbyshire is so enrich'd by thee,
It now may vie with fruitful Thessaly.
Potosi Mines, and Rocks of Bengalay,
Thine happy Country are more rich than they.
Its Leaden Treasures (that our Cannons hold)
We can exchange for Argosies of Gold.
Pearls, Diamonds, Rubies, and such costly fraight,
Our smaller Shot can purchase weight for weight.

Those rare Coal-Mines (thy Book to us here shows)
Far greater Miracles than all disclose:
The Carbuncle and Topaz are out-shone;
Here's Light and Heat too, treasur'd in a stone.
Pliny did ne're of such a Wonder write;
Here you may see the Heat, and feel the Light.

Pactolus, Tagus, and those Eastern streams,
(Whose Pibbles, Poets have advanc'd to Gemms)
Exceed not thy clear Trent; when thou hast told
Its Stream's like Silver, and its Sand like Gold.
Why dost not witty Cotton then invite,
To do thee and his native River right.

Such Trophies rais'd in great Augustus's days,
Their Founders were not only crown'd with Bays;
But we may see each Leaf was edg'd with Gold,
Mecænas Favours in their Verse inroll'd.
Nor were their hopes by Patrons only rais'd;
Their merits also were by Poets prais'd.
Thus when thou dost thy lofty Building reer,

Stately Palaces of the E. of Devonshire's, built by Elizab. Countess of Shrewsbury. in an. Qu. Eliz.

Stately, as Hardwick or as Chatsworth are;
Thou'lt see the prouder Wits make their resort,
And humbly beg admittance to thy Court;
Whilst I am justly proud that I may wait,
And stand a Porter to attend thy Gate.

The CRITICK.

1663.

To Captain W. W. carping at a Synelepha in a Souldier's Motto.

What Man is free from Censure, when
It fastens on a Souldiers Pen?
The best-arm'd parts its force may feel
When Estritch-like it bites on steel.
A Critick's Bolt's of such weak stuff,
It breaks, or turns again at Buff.
He that a Souldier thinks to bind
In Rules, must tye his hands behind.
They hate a Concord, Discords are
The only Rudiments of War.
They slight such Rules; and boast their fate
In breaking yours, or Priscian's Pate.
It is then vainer to reherse
To them the Niceties of Verse;

When they will swear before your Face
That Synelepha's are a Grace;
And how they serve to trim each line
With knots, and make the Muses fine;
That 'tis a pretty apish jarr,
And imitates the feats of War;
One word here runs on th' others point,
Another too has lost a Joynt;
A Synelepha's but a skar
In Verse, and those no Scandals are
With Souldiers, where they bring more grace
Than Moles to any Ladies face.
And if a Verse should prove too short
They'l have some lame Excuses for't;
To want a Foot is no more fault
Than for a Souldier 'tis to hault.

The CHEAP INVITER.

1663.

To the Right Honourable Patrick Viscount Chaworth, inviting him to Venison of his own sending.

Your Promise I suspect not in the least;
And tho the Scripture calls Believers blest;
'Tis wise Civility not to restrain
From doubling pray'rs for what we would obtain.
When Court or Church Preferments do bestow,
They are not only begg'd, but paid for too.
Whereas you yours more gen'rously dispence,
And noble are, all at your own expence.
Thus liberal Princes, when they Visits give,
Exhaust not by the favour, but relieve.

Besides the blessing of his Eye, the Sun,
Makes rich the Earth that Winter had undone;
Yet seeks no more reward for all he brought,
Than some cold water for his Morning's Draught.
And tho, my Lord, I may too justly fear
You'l scarcely find a better Treatment here;
You shall be welcome, and have Thanks good store:
And Heav'n for all it's Blessings asks no more.

KNIGHTHOOD.

1664.

To my honoured Friend Sir Fran. Leek, being made Knight and Baronet.

This Title aim'd for Merit, now the Stale
For Fools, since Honour is expos'd to Sale.
Whose Chapmen for the most part make it base:
As Cromwel's Lords brought Scarlet in disgrace.
'Twas Valour's badge; but now some new Knights know,
Nor see drawn Sword, but that which dubs 'em so.
This Glory was too bulkey, far too wide
For such slim Heroes in their upstart Pride.
The mighty Gyant Honour, vexing, shares
His Trophies to Pigwiggin-Souls like theirs.
Like Boys opprest, in Arms they idly sit:
Goliah's Sword would only David fit.

Nor was there any way left to redeem
It's credit, or create a new esteem,
But by your Name: so that which was thought fit
To honour others, you have honour'd it.

Your constant Soul stood firm in wicked times;
Which murder'd Loyalty, and favour'd Crimes.
Castles and Armies fell beneath their hand;
Yet you (more strong than either) nobly stand.
That thund'ring force, which made three Nations bow,
Stirr'd not the Lawrel on your warlike Brow.
Which did not there, as your Protection, sit;
Instead of guarding you, you guarded it.
So that which as the Guard of Valour stands,
Boasts that it took it's Safety from your hands;
And Fortune, that does trample on the World,
Yet trampled on, beneath your feet is hurl'd.

This made you watch'd so by that jealous Crew;
Yet your Souls noble Motions you pursue.
To keep a standing Guard they were oblig'd;
And you did always eat, and sleep besieg'd.
They rated you an Army, could withstand
The Body eas'ly, when they held the hand.
And when their Crimes the Blessing them deny'd
To be of yours, they wish'd you of their side.
Thus did you force 'em both to Fear and Love;
As did become the Son of thund'ring Jove.
Thus them, without a Sword, you Pris'ners took;
Who slighted Cannons, trembled at your look.
Then he that without Arms did Conq'rour stand,
What will he do arm'd now with just command?

GRIEF.

Upon the death of my dear S. Mrs. P. S.

1664.

Farewel, dear Sister! precious Soul, farewel!
Go to thy fitter place, where thou wilt dwell
With thy Companions, spotless Virgins; where
Thy Veil will be as white as any there:
Of thine own spinning too, e're thou went'st hence;
Made up of Chastity, and Innocence.
But now, alas, this sad truth I have learn'd,
None can write Elegies that are concern'd.
Objects too near, are never seen so well
As those which at remoter distance dwell.
Grief, when tis gotten to the highest pitch,
Damms up our tears, and locks up all our Speech.
Groans then prove you articulate! appear
So courteous, Reader, as to drop a tear.
And since Grief dulls the Muses; please to try
Thy fitter Genius for an Elegy.
And when th' hast lost as dear a Friend as mine,
I promise here to doe as much for thine.

The GIPSIE.

Upon Betty Boswel, Daughter to Captain Boswel, Leader of the Gipsies, to vindicate her.

1664.

A Gipsie! no such wonder, since tis known
How great Queen Cleopatra's self was one;
And that Mark Antony (whom old Rome saw
One of the three that to the World gave Law)

Wander'd abroad, leaving his Native home,
A Captain of the Gipsies to become.
We may as well that Empress Learning flout,
Who first from Egypt rang'd the World about.

Because black-hair'd, and of a brownish hew,
Must Madam Betty be a Gypsie too?
The best complexion sure! and all men know,
That lines of Beauty nought to Colours owe.
What though her Cheeks be tann'd? it may be ghest
The shadow only that her Eye-beams cast.
Talk not what Silver drops in Pearls are found;
Black is the Water of a Diamond.
Her eyes (those sparkling Gems) hence shine more bright:
Jewels advance their lustre in the night.
There's none who sees her tho, but would be proud,
Ixion-like, to dally with this Cloud.

The Irish MASSACRE.

Upon Captain Robert Sutton's death in Ireland.

1664.

Brave Sutton! Drums and Trumpets fit thine Herse
More than the slight solemnity of Verse.
The Muses Heralds may put up with shame,
They are out-sounded by the Trump of Fame.
'Tis fitter far that thou great Mars shouldst have
Close Mourner, then Apollo at thy Grave.
Thy Martial Steed, with his courageous Neigh,
Jostles my Pegasus out of his way.
Thy Sword has carv'd out such a lasting Story,
My Pen adds nothing to thy full-grown glory.

Here lies a Youth, had but his Stars been kind,
Or Fortune equal to his Birth, and Mind;
He had brave Sidney, and those Sparks outgone,
Who did at thirty all that could be done.
But none can limm him right, who have not been
Where they might him before his Troop have seen.
How he that day made many Dons to fall,
When English Swords protected Portugal.
Where dying Valour he again reviv'd:
Like th' Soul, when to a Body newly arriv'd.
The lustre that his Arms, and Actions show'd,
Like Lightning, darted through the Sulph'ry Cloud.
His beauty then, with heat of fight improv'd,
Had Venus seen, she Mars no more had lov'd.
Yet was he not provoking, nor did watch,
Like Tinder, alwaies ready for a Match
He rather seem'd like to the hardy Flint,
Cold until struck, tho Fire lye dormant in't;
Or like a Tempest that is slow to rise.
But woe to him, that in its way then lies!
This made old gallant Schomberg so admire
To find new kindled here his youthful fire;
This made him court him every way to own
What he that day deserv'd, the Lawrel Crown.

Blind Love! 'twas thou allur'dst him to neglect
Bellona's Favours to gain thy respect.
Who would believe such Toyes should Sutton move
To leave crown'd Victory, and follow Love?
The Moral he made good, and, to his cost,
Snatch'd at the Shadow, but the Substance lost.

Ill fare those charms! that made him shun the light,
For vain Idæas, only fit for Night!
Nor can, nor shall she thrive, but helpless be;
False to her self, in being false to thee!

Farewel, brave Soul! the raging Irish Seas
Contain not tears enow for thy decease.
That rainy Region, though it weep each day,
For thy sad loss does but due tribute pay.
Ingrateful Ireland! thou hast cost us dear,
Committing here a second Massacre.

The CLAIM.

1665.

To my honoured friend Sir Clifford Clifton. To whom is dedicated the ensuing Poem.

Sir, I present you here with nothing new;
Since what I write now, all before-time knew.
Your Father's merits were i'th' last Age known;
And shall be, when this and the next is gone.
In such Records they need not up be laid;
Tho Kings, nay Gods, of old, have crav'd that aid.
Tradition will preserve it; whence may come
More good, and wonder, than from those of Rome.
Yet ev'ry Poet now should have a fling:
As ev'ry bungling Painter draws the King.
But I presume so much of Art to own,
To say the Picture's like, tho faintly drawn.
If it be bigger made, than others drew;
It is that I grieve more than others do.

And reason good; since what I have of Fame,
Is only that which from his Friendship came.
Since then you heir his Goodness well as Lands;
I humbly claim my Portion from your hands.

The Old-English GENTLEMAN.

An Elegiac Poem upon the truly honourable Sir Gervas Clifton, of Clifton, Knight and Baronet.

1665.

1.

Imagine me one toss'd on shore,
O'rewhelm'd in tides of Grief before;
Come to my self, I now must him deplore.

Men well nigh drown'd cannot invent
One word, whilst any Water's pent:
So Grief is silent, untill Tears have vent.

But now my Sorrow is wept dry,
And I long since did tilt each Eye;
Tears from my Pen must now that want supply.

Yet if I every tear should tell,
They would into an Ocean swell;
These are but those that in my Standish fell.

But now these Tides their Banks must break,
Lest standing too long still they make
The clear-quick Streams of Helicon a Lake.

Grief shows then best when freshly wept:
Roses lose scent, if too much steept;
And Manna mouldy grows if too long kept.

Silent I was when I did come
T'attend the Sermon o're his Tomb:
When Sion speaks, Parnassus should be dumb.

Though Poets hence are noblest crown'd;
They are, alas! too seldom found
To trace their Measures out in holy ground.

Yet when in Anthems, their desires
Are tun'd to th' key of Angel-Quires;
Such Breathings may augment Cœlestial Fires.

'Tis well if Paphian Lawrels may
Presume to sweep the dust away,
Fell from the Prophet's feet that solemn day.

Especially my fading Bays;
Too often wither'd by the Rays
O'th' Cyprian Star, whereon young Dotards gaze.

Yet if my Muse can now indite
Any thing, that comes near the right;
Blest Clifton! 'tis become thy Proselyte.

2.

'Tis good to treat of Subjects fit:
An Atheist once of Heaven writ,
And Heav'n was pleased to convert his Wit.

But what can Wit or Verses do
To his Advance? alas! 'tis true,
They may contract his greatness to our view.

Phœbus needs none but his own Light;
Prospectives make not him more bright,
But only serve to aid our purblind Sight.

From Romes Republick Crowns did come;
But Verse can give a nobler doom;
Yet he crowns Verse; as Cæsar crowned Rome.

Poets shall make his Name to bear
Live-Lawrels, and inhabit there:
As Nightingales on Orpheus's Sepulchre.

Yet they who can themselves retrieve
Fro' th' Grave, and Life to others give;
Will gladly court his Shadow there to live.

3.

'Tis said, the Pourtraiture of Wit
Exceeds the Life, and is then fit,
When 'tis not so like us as we like it.

But such vain Rules we now must shun;
Hyperboles are here out-done,
As much as Candles are out-shin'd by th' Sun.

A genuine Beauty suits each dress;
Bad faces, to their shame, confess
All Art but paints 'em into Ugliness.

Great mens Defects are oft supply'd
By Verse, hence Crimes derive their Pride:
Thus Cæsar's Garlands did his Baldness hide.

But no more blame falls to our share,
Than to those Chamber-maids, whose care
But washes Faces that before were fair.

If Truth should never be exprest
But by those who can do it best;
She might go naked still, or thinly drest.

At Coronations 'twere a thing
Most strange, if only great Bells ring;
Or none but Courtiers cry'd, God save the King.

From low Stops highest Notes are rais'd;
By poor mens pray'rs none are disgrac'd:
Cæsar did boast when in a Cottage prais'd.

All Wit is here by Grief out-done;
And Brains dissolv'd, to Tears do run;
Yet Tears distill'd thus may prove Helicon.

Let never any Poets more,
The help of other Streams implore;
Here is sufficient to increase their store.

May they amend what I have done;
By my Defects their helps are shown:
Thus Hones set Edges, tho themselves have none.

4.

Variety of choice is such
A puzzle, few know how to touch;
So here too little is, because too much.

Over-great store distracts a mind;
Excess of light may strike one blind;
Friends make us poor, by being over-kind.

Lately when Justice, Learning, fail'd,
Honour and Loy'lty were assail'd;
By him alone those Vertues all were bail'd.

Since dead, let's keep his Name alive;
That if hereafter Hell should strive
To murder Vertue, It might hence revive.

Clifton! a name too big for Verse;
Fit only to describe his Herse;
Pens cannot, Trumpets should the Name reherse.

So ancient! some learn'd men afford
This observation on record,—
It's likely to have been the first-made word.

Nor at its rising hath it done
Like to the far less glorious Sun,
Rise by degrees, its very Morn was Noon.

Tho i'th' first age It had that height;
I'th' last It does remain so bright,
As (tho revers'd) its Morning were at Night.

The reason is, It never shrouds
Its beams with any low-born Clouds;
This Family is only Light in crouds.

Strange! not to find one low desire!
A noble Climax! still climb higher!
The generous flame ne'r out! right Vestal Fire!

Heroes are by such Matches found:
When heavenly Dew falls on right ground,
Roses and Lillies in great store abound.

Unequal mixtures courser are:
Velvets appear more rich and fair
Than glitt'ring Stuffs made up of Silk and Hair.

Those Off-springs that are old and good,
Lose lustre, joyn'd with common blood:
The silver stream run out, nought's left but Mud.

Hence 'tis each Age they fall more low;
Their houses less and lesser Grow:
Like those of Gothland that are built of Snow.

The Sun has Mists, the Moon her blots,
Venus her Moal, the Ermin Spots;
Th' Apostles Judas had, and England Scots.

This then must be a wond'rous sight;
Strange Day! that never knew a Night;
A miracle! no Shade attends this Light!

100

Only some busie Pates find one;

His Eldest Son, a most hopeful Gentlem. tho miserable in his after Years.

And that because too like the Sun;
For our late Phœbus had his Phaeton.

Yet this Remark falls to his share,
His Morning did most bright appear;
Heav'n grant his Evening prove but half so fair.

But here's some comfort in the Close;
He that had much might sometimes lose:
Tho one Star fell, yet he had many rose.

'Mongst which his Phospher does appear:
Bright Star! mount now thy Fathers Carr;
And may thy Beams (like his) shine long and far.

See with what twisted Rays he shines!

Sir Clifford Clifton.

What Heroes may spring from those Loyns
Where noble Clifford's blood with Clifton joyns?

5.

But let us now again adjourn
The Court of our Requests; and turn
Our Thoughts once more to the great Father's Urn.

An Urn! which precious stuff does line;
Whose Lustre does quite thorough shine;
And hereby shews the Relicks are divine.

Could Rome but of him (as hers) vaunt,
I'th' Kalendar she would him paint,
And turn a Saint already to a Saint.

101

But he does no such Varnish need;
Himself did his true Glory breed,
And on its proper Substances can feed.

Cato the period was, and Pride
Of ancient Rome; nor is't deny'd
But that Old England too with Clifton dy'd.

The Hospitality of old
(Which gave that Age the name of Gold)
He did revive, and afterwards uphold.

The noble Pyles those times did rear,
Inviting Landmarks did appear,
And gave free Welcome to each Passenger.

Not like those, which our poor-men call
(And justly too) Mock-beggar-Hall;
Where Rats and Mice do into Famine fall.

Their Prospects yield a false delight:
Thus Nauplius, with deceitful Light,
The Grecians did to barren Rocks invite.

But Clifton gain'd no such Report;
By th' entertainment and resort,
It ought in Justice to be call'd a Court.

Nor did his vast Revenues rise
From Rackings, worst of Tyrannies;
His Farms were Portions, and his Rents a Prize.

He would not such hard Penn'worths let,
Like th' Tyrant Russe, who in a Pet
Took Tribute from his Subjects Rest and Sweat.

102

His Charity aim'd high, and true;
Not like some Great ones in our view;
He made as many, as they did undo.

To that proud Zeal he ne're did fall,
Alms Houses build in sight of all;
For every poor man was his Hospital.

Tho still his Charity aim'd high'r:
Like Moses bush, that sacred Fire
Did not consume it self, nor yet expire.

All's Neighbours he did love so well;
Although a Cedar, Truth must tell,
His drops ne're hurt the Shrubs on which they fell.

Amongst those Days, whose nipping pow'r
Did almost blast each hopeful Flow'r,
And verdant Tree, his Lawrels scorn'd to lour.

Base Actions he did so defie,

Having lost in the late Wars 80 thousand l. at least.

He lost what would an Earldom buy,
Rather than sell one Drachm of Loyalty.

Let Fortune all her Ills invent;
Like true Elixir, his Intent
Improvement did receive from each Event.

Diamonds by darkness shew their light;
Oppress'd like Laurels, he's more straight;
A well-built-Arch is stronger by its weight.

103

Tho Vapours clouded Britains Sky,
He, like Pythagoras's Bird, did fly
Above those Clouds, and all their Storms defie.

For all these Clouds he scorn'd to yield;
But still remain'd like his rich Shield;
A Lyon argent, in a Sable Field.

6.

After Great Brittany had mourn'd
Twelve years, her Sorrows were adjourn'd;
Her Joys again with glorious Charles return'd.

When Clifton did attend his Train,
How he rejoyc'd, to find again
The ancient Glories of his Grandsire's Reign?

Thus Nestor's Bliss he did enjoy;
In peace his last days to employ,
After the tedious bloody Wars of Troy.

7.

But still his Warfare is not done;
There's one Fight more he cannot shun;
None truly crown'd untill that Battle's won.

This was, alas! his sharpest fight;

He died of the Torments of the Stone.

His Pains were a deplored sight;
But most to us, plac'd in the worser light.

104

Th' Egyptians only Darkness 'spy'd
I'th' Cloud, that was the Hebrews guide;
'Twas so to them, Light on the other side.

Immunity's to none allow'd:
Iris, in her gay Colours proud,
Is made betwixt the Rain-bow and a Cloud.

In's last Mile he was forc'd to stay
Turmoil'd with pains: and Church-men say
The Road to Paradise is rugged way.

Foes crown us who are hardly bet;
And Dangers noblest Conquests get:
For Laurels flourish most when steep'd in Sweat.

Clouds could not smother all his Beams;
Most patient in his sad Extreams:
The martyr'd Saints thus smil'd amidst their flames.

He praying paid the Debt he ow'd;
His last Breath, whence he had it, show'd;
His Ashes, like to those of Incense, glow'd.

And now, poor Muse, close up those Eyes
Whence all thy Light and Hopes did rise:
The Sap being ta'n away, thy Laurel dies.

The POET on Foot.

1665.

To Mr. S.

Tho late, I come at last, this stay of mine
Carries no more of Rudeness than Design;

105

For well I know the common Custom's such,
That look'd-for Guests find always chear too much.
Which my weak Stomack never could digest;
Since too much Expectation daunts a Guest.
But this, Sir, was not all my Muse kept home,
Constrain'd by fate, else she had sooner come.
She wants a Steed; and she has got the pride
Of wanton Girls, that would on Cock-horse ride:
But the strange-Horse-disease, that rag'd with us,
Amongst some others, caught my Pegasus.
But tho he did escape; He yet does lack
The only Medicine, a Drench of Sack:
Which is such costly feeding this hard year,
Our Hacknies will be, than ourselves, more bare;
I mean us Poets: For those who are able
Keep their Jades lean i'th' Study, fat i'th' Stable.
I loyter'd thus hoping at Lenton-fair,
Amongst our Gallants, I might borrow there.
Alas, in vain! unless I would shift thus,
Making a Hobby-Horse my Pegasus.

The PICK-POCKET.

1655.

To my good friend Mr. R. Mason. raptim.

If Clients wants, or follies grant thee pause;
Or Sack, which is more powerful than Laws;
Please to unbend a while; lay Ploidon down,
And Cook, the two worst pick-pockets i'th' Town.
They rob with priveledge, and pow'rful hands;
When the poor Cutpurse close, and trembling stands.

106

And yet their malice is at them displeas'd:
Thus Alexander a less Pirat seiz'd.
The Law attaches Felons when it pleases:
The Plague so routs the Pox, and small diseases.
Yet we must seek its help; for 'tis well known,
Moll Cut-purse sought to help folks to their own.
Leave then this Scandal, and repair to me;
Who, tho half drunk, thirst for thy Company.
Here's Sack, if Noy (the quickest of your Tribe)
Had supp'd, he would have ta'n before a bribe.
Such as will make thee eloquent as Finch;
And yet not eek thy Rhet'rick with a Clinch.
Each drop of which a Ruby will create,
Inriching Noses at the Indian rate.
Haste then, or we shall be so rich and great,
We shall disdain, what now we do intreat.

The MISTAKE.

Upon drinking a Glass of Beer to C. J. B. for one of Sack. raptim.

1665.

Pardon, great Bacchus, I repent!
The Error has its punishment:
Poor Travellers are cheated so,
That come where Sodom Apples grow.
This change of mine has his disgrace,
Who did, for Juno, Clouds imbrace.
Nor is the distance lesser here;
Immortal Sack, and Mortal Beer!
So did the crazed Hebrew fail,
Deserting God, to go to Baal.

107

Your Spanish Donna has a touch
More charming than the thick-skin'd Dutch.
One thus a Beauty thought to wed,
But got a Gypsie to his Bed:
Beer has that tann'd and yellow hew,
Like hers that did the Liquor brew.
When Sack's Complexion is refin'd;
As though it were with Sun-beams lin'd.

The DISGUISE.

Upon Mr. Ger. Lee, imputing a scandalous Paper to me, and subscribing his Name covertly within a Circle of inverted Letters.

1665.

Rather than suffer this, my injur'd Muse!
Mount now, and spur thy sku-bald Pegasus;
And turn Apparitor. Here's bastard Wit
Laid at thy Door, if thou wilt Father it.
Observe the Castling well! What, no Wall-eye,
Mare-face, or Mark, to know the Stallion by?
Look there at lowest end a Buttock-brand;
A Transcript from that in the Father's hand.
His shrivel'd Name (fit for a larger Stage)
Shows like to Bajazet within his Cage;
His envious-black-mouth'd Verses make it said
A Knot of Snakes, torn from Erinnis head.
A peevish Fiend within a Circle shut;
Homer's fond Fables ramm'd into a Nut;
A Knave in Fetters; Gotham in a Map;
A crafty Fox caught justly in a Trap.

108

Thy Name, methinks, peeps forth, and seems to be
(As th' Owner ought) upon a Pillory.
Justice triumphant is; nor can it choose,
When such a Hang-man's catch'd in his own Noose.

The MERCHANT.

Upon the Death of my Br. Mr. S. S. in the Canaries.

1655.

Who knows his Fate, or where he shall expire?
'Tis comfort tho, that Heav'n is no where nigh'r
Than where we dye. The Grave's an humble rise,
From whence we take our leap into the Skies.
A true Enlargement Death for all prepares;
Takes cares from Young-men, and Old-men from cares.
Let us not then his loss of hopes deplore;
Those who have full Injoyments, hope no more.
Hope is the Balm of Life, and Balm is found
In vain, when we no more can have a Wound.
Nor could long Life have much advanc'd his Story;
They have gain'd full enough who have gain'd Glory.
His vertuous Inclinations claim that State;
Such early hopes attract the smiles of Fate,
Nor did he vainly suck in foreign Air,
Since half the World now claims in him a share.
A Life to him his loved Europe gave;
And Africk did bestow on him a Grave.
Those Isles to him did fortunate appear;
And he gain'd well who purchas'd Heaven there.

109

The CAVALEER.

An Elegy upon Capt. Ben Marshal's Death.

1665.

O'r whelm'd in Night, and Grief I sit;
For Verse, or Humour most unfit:
Aurora's Mother both of Joy, and Wit.

By day, the Chanters of the Spring
Warble, and keep time with the Wing;
But yet by Night the Nightingale does sing.

'Tis midnight now, and all at rest;
Except the sorrows in my brest;
Which are so far from sleep, they yet are drest.

For Verse is Grief's most Solemn dress;
Verse, more than tears, can grief express;
Such drops their lasting fountains must confess.

For tears (tho from a double Rill)
Are sometimes dry, the Brain springs still;
It is the Conduit, and its Pipe the Quill.

Let none say Verse may lessen Grief:
David (altho the Poet's Cheif)
His tears fro' th' Muses fountain got relief.

No artifice is needful here

Who order'd all his Nobles after his Death to be murder'd so that it might be attended with general sorrow.

(Like Herod's) to exact a tear;
His loss its self's a general Massacre.

110

He such true Friendship did possess,
As might its wasting stock increase,
And furnish this our jarring World with Peace.

Such a Companion all would crave,
Or such to be, or such to have;
Nay we for him did Wine, Plays, Women, wave.

To prove his Inclinations right;

He went to assist the King about sixteen Years old.

His Loyalty was his delight;
For tho a Boy, he left his Play to fight.

Those Wounds, which for the King he met,
Spoke glorious Toils; for Blood's the Sweat
Of Honour, the best Scarlet Souldiers get.

Tho Fortune (to maintain her spite)
Did aid the Wrong against the Right;
He courage shew'd in Suff'rings, as in Fight.

In Persecution he had share;
Yet Patience did that smart repair:
So Thunder troubles, and yet clears the Air.

As in those days he scorn'd to bow
To any Tyrants threatning Brow;
So he disdain'd as base a crouching now.

For though his Worth could not be heard,
He knew it was it's own reward;
Since Traitors were prefer'd, he favours fear'd.

111

It would but our devotion blame,
Alone the inward Rites to name,
And quite neglect the stately Temples frame.

Such was his Body, strait and high;
And then the Chrystals of each Eye
Did well reflect the beauties of his Sky.

His Body's strength, like to his Mind;
That we despair in one to find
Their equal, 'till at last again they're joyn'd.

Fruits ripest sooner suffer wrong;
This made him dye, alas, too young:
'Tis hard to run so fast, and travel long.

That Conq'rour Death (to name him right)
Durst not trust here to his own might;
But cowardly avoided open Fight.

H'attackt him like a wily Foe;
Wasted his strength without a blow;
And kept aloof till sure to find it so.

Yet still mistrustful to prevail,
With all his force did him assail;
Yet till the last his Heart did never fail.

Thus Martial Troy (that Gods did build)
Defended by the sacred Shield;
When all was lost, the Temple then did yield.

112

His EPITAPH.

True Fame, from Envy, takes no wrong;
Where Merit is, Stones find a Tongue.
And this declares—Here lies inclos'd
A Body, was so well compos'd
For strength, and beauty; none could find
An equal to it, but his Mind.
Heav'n has his Soul, the World his Fame;
We only can his Body claim.
Death (that great Chymist) has refin'd
The Oare, and left the Dross behind.

The GOSSIPS.

1666.

To Sir Clifford Clifton, for a Buck against a Christ'ning.

My fate is, when I write to you,
To own old favours, or beg new.
Not strange with Poets; since an Alms
And Thanks, make up the Book of Psalms.
'Tis lawful, when, like th' Alms-house wont,
The Benefactor's shewn i'th Front.
My wants need no more Vouchers take
Then that I Verse, and Children make.
Both got in an odd itching Vein;
Expensive to the Purse, and Brain.
Yet of the two Children are most;
With labour born, brought up with cost.
Especially since Gossips now
Eat more at Christnings, than bestow.

113

Formerly when they us'd to troul
Gilt Bowls of Sack, they gave the Bowl;
Two Spoons at least; an use ill kept;
'Tis well now if our own be left.

Since Friends are scarce, and Neighbours many,
Who will lend mouths, but not a penny;
I must (since poor, as almost may be)
Thyestes like, cook up a Baby.
Or if you grant not a supply,
Must ev'n provide a Crisome Py,
It will be tenderer then Gelly,
So long parboil'd in Mothers Belly.

Venus and Mars Conspirers be,
And frown'd on my Nativity.
My Fortunes, first by War o'rpow'rd,
And now, alas, by Love devour'd.
Children will rob what Round-heads left;
Yet we make blessings of the theft.
The gain's soon told, if we compare
Our joy with grief, our hope with care.
Children grow up as we decay,
Their structures on our Graves they lay.
And Christning-Feasts are but a Toll
Exacted, or an earlier Dole.
A Font brings far the heavier doom
To a poor Father, than a Tombe.
We're brought to th' Grave with Solemn state,
Where Friends and Mourners kindly wait:
Worms on our Corpses only thrive;
But Guests devour us here alive.

114

To you the Pow'r, Sir, only falls
To save me from these Canibals.
A Buck, you know, oft' stops the fury
Both of an hungry Judge and Jury.
Please to bestow one; He shall run
In four Parks then, instead of one.
Wee'l follow th' Chase so, that he shall
Be forc'd to leave the Crusted Wall;
'Till to the inmost Copse he skips,
Pal'd round with Teeth, and hedg'd with Lips.
There Blown, and hot we will design,
To make him plunge in Ponds of Wine.
Then, Sir, your health begun shall be,
As Crown to the Solemnity.
And he who dares that health disown,
Shall have the Horns, and not the Crown.

The PARTHIAN ARCHER.

Upon a Spanish Needle run into a Ladies Breech.

1666.

Well hit, small Don! I'le now protest
That one-ey'd Marks-men aim the best.
Thy piercing Charge none can withstand,
When guided by a Ladie's hand.
S'attractive, and so fair a Mark,
A man might hit, tho in the dark.
Such a white pair of Butts ev'n wo'd
Make all men shoot, like Robin Hood;
Whose steady aim such credit got,
It never mist to cleave the Mott.
All would with David's Slingers dare,
Amd aim their stones to hit the Hair.

115

Sharp Spanish Pike! that can prevail
To wound her through the double Mail
Of Coats and Smock! when Cupid's Cannon
(Mounted on wheels that it does stand on)
Thunders in vain on that design,
And's forc'd at last to undermine.

Sure Cupid, thirsting for such drink,
Approach'd so near the Fountain's brink;
And pierc'd that Butt whence he did know
Rich Nectar, tunn'd up there, would flow.
The waving Needle here does fix,
And steady against her North-star sticks.
Hence that Magnetick power does come;
No Loadstone to a Lady's Bumm.

The CANARY ISLANDS.

1666.

To my dearly beloved Brother, Mr. William Shipman, Merchant there.

Come Bacchus, God of Poetry, by right;
Lend me thine influence, whilst now I write.
Thy Sackbut can into my breast inspire
More active heat, than can Apollo's Lire.
He's an Usurper; and his pow'r a crack,
If we his Helicon compare with Sack.
Lock up that Nectar but a year or two,
And see what all his Hippocrene can do.
That Trough of Pegasus! a pretious grace
To vaunt thus of an Hackney's wat'ring-place!

116

Not the least spark of Wit it can inspire,
Without assistance both of Malt and Fire.
When Heat within the lusty Grape does grow,
'Tis to it's self Malt, Heat, and Water too.
A Pipe of Sack (which is great Bacchus's Throne)
Is both Parnassus and a Helicon.
Juno her self and Venus too are dull,
If Hebe do not fill their Glasses full.
New Vigour to their Eyes it does afford;
Mars swears it whets his Courage and his Sword.
The Spirits of Jove himself are dull as Lead,
Without this Nectar fill'd by Ganimede;
He's one of Bacchus's Drawers. Sack creates
Life in those Gods that do direct our Fates.
See the Injustice then of lying Fame!
Bacchus deserves, Apollo gets the Name!
Thus Princes in their Wars fill up the Story,
When their brave Generals deserve the Glory.

Blest Soil! that does distill so rare a Juyce,
More precious far than Canaan did produce.
The Milk and Honey which did thence proceed,
Made only nauseous Butter-milk and Mead.
Whose Influence more of Phlegm than Blood did breed,
Dispersing Weakness through the Jewish Seed.
Made them desist and give their conquest o're,
Truckling to those they trampled on before:
When as the haughty Spaniard did decline
The Universal Monarchy, 'till Wine
Infus'd that lofty Spirit in his Veins;
And more by that then by his Sword he reigns.

117

Bold Britain does her Trophies here decline,
As never conquer'd but by Spanish Wine.
Their mighty Navy, tho she forc'd to wrack,
Yet falls beneath the Puissance of Sack.
Had Sack been the Commodity, the Day
Had lucky been at

We were worsted at Rheez by France, but came most gloriously off at Tercera against Spain.

Rheez, as Tercera.
French-Wines work small efforts; as may be known
By th' Spirits, which in Gallick veins are shown.
Their Wines and Spirits both alike are vain;
Soon kindled, and as soon piss'd out again.

Wonder then, that we fall not out with Spain
On purpose, those rich Islands to obtain!
Our English youth would all its valour try,
In one six months to win, and drink 'em dry.
Wee'd rigg out such a Fleet that all the Ground
Should scarce sufficient be for Ballast found:
And that high Peek there should the honour gain,
To be Main-mast i'th' Royal Sovereign.
The Rhyming Tribe would rally all its store,
And strive to charm the Dolphins to the Shore,
Where on their scaly Saddles they might sit,
Serving as Trumpets to th' Canary Fleet.
Whose ecchoing blasts, like those of Flame, would do;
Incite their courages, and crown 'em too.
What rich Incouragements might hence needs flow;
When they at once Lawrels, and Life bestow?
Their share should then be double, as their pains;
Because their private, would be publick gains.
For Sack is only proper for the use
Of Poets, who can best preserve the juyce.

118

Which when distill'd by active heats o'th' brain,
Is all th' Elixir that our Chimists mean.
Churchmen and Poets might increase their light;
Since Psalms and Plays, both may be better'd by 't.
None that could get a Boat would stay behind;
Our very breaths would serve us for a Wind.
Nay rather than be absent on this Quarrel,
There's some would venture over in a Barrel;
Despising Tempests, and the fears of Wrack,
With very hopes of filling it with Sack.
Cowards would gladly bleed a Quart in fight,
To drink a Quart of dearer Sack at night.
And this does prove Bacchus the God of War;
Since he alone can make a Dutch-man dare.

If you would kill these Boars, let 'em not root
Within a Vineyard, and you'l surely do't.
Keep 'em from Brandy, and from other Wine,
These Holland Boars are worse than other Swine.
O, for some Devillish Swine-herd, to convey
This Herd, like th' Gadarenes, into the Sea!
But this conclusion is not lately found;
Like th' Devil's Darlings, they will not be drown'd:
Except by one attempt, which cannot fail;
When we get Sack, let's send 'em all our Ale.
Which soon its wonderful Effects will shew,
And drown them, which the Ocean cannot do.
Hail, mighty Bacchus! thou hast won the Field;
Mars and Apollo both are forc'd to yield.
Claim then the Empire due to thy deserts;
And henceforth reign thou God of Arms and Arts.

119

The Old MOURNER.

Upon an Old Mourning Suit.

1667.

To Sir J. D.

What am I like now? do not spare;
A Vicar preach'd thred-bare;
Or younger Brother left to th' Heir.

Worth waits not alwayes upon store;
Despise not then the poor;
Mock not a Cripple for his Sore.

Silk cannot make each Wearer fine;
Nor does Gold only shine:
Tissue wears out, unless you line.

I flourish't once (I speak aloud)
As you, be ne'r so proud:
Phœbus himself may meet a Cloud.

Will Mourning, think you, fresh appear
After 'tis worn a year?
You may as well expect a tear.

Yet I could mourn six twelve months more,
Upon a Lawful Score;
And I have Friends, I hope, in store.

My Black-Coat speckt you call white Ink;
Or tears o'th' Tankard think;
Why Grief is thirsty, and must drink.

Grief's a Good-fellow, as appears;
For he will tipple tears;
Your thirsty Mourner merits Jeers,

120

True Grief will make one lean appear;
Conceit each thrid that's bare
A Rib, by Grief consum'd so near.

Each mournful Hole that you espy
Imagine then an Eye
Wept out, and that's more than wept dry.

My peeping Shirt, through every Chink,
Perswades me much to think
I'm like this Paper, blurr'd with Ink.

GRATITUDE.

Some grateful Acknowledgments to that most excellent Poet, Mr. A. C.

1667.

Henceforth, my Muse, more boldly claim the Bays,
Ennobled now by Cowley's generous Praise.
Apollo here has silver'd o're thy shades:
Thus Lords can Ladies make of Chamber-maids.
Thou art a royal Miss, and now must get
No lesser Honour than a Coronet.
Nay, richer Blessings Cowley's Praises share;
Now thou'lt be thought both vertuous and fair.
Such plenteous Contributions to the Poor,
Proclaim his Soul as large as is his store.
The Sun is no less glorious in his Blaze,
Although he gild the lower World with Rays.
His Beams thou must reflect, and grateful prove,
And nourish in thy Breast his kindling Love.
'Twill bring effects worthy his virtual Powers,
Making thee pregnant both in Fruits and Flowers.

121

For that which blossoms not with Cowley's Praise,
Is but a sapless branch of wither'd Bays,
Warm'd vainly by Apollo's quickning Rays.
Without his Light, vain are the quickest Eyes;
His influence, ev'n from Dust, makes Insects rise.
Such mighty Sums 'tis easi'r to repay
When they're not lent, but freely giv'n away.
Like heav'nly Blessings upon thee bestow'd,
To make thee thankful and thy Works more good.

Hail God of Wit! England's Apollo, hail!
Thou art no Off-spring of an idle Tale,
Like Homer's Deity. But since that fame
All Ages gave him, is thy proper claim;
Accept the Veneration and the Name.
Fulfill'd in thee is what the Ancients feign,
And Pallas is the issue of thy Brain,
As th' Muses of thy Wit: when safely laid,
Of thy first-sheets their swathing Cloaths were made.
Others there are would thy fair Off-spring claim;
Theirs (by their want of heed) o're-laid or lame.
But when it comes to Tryal they resign;
Justice decrees the Living Child for thine.

The Muse's Empire bears so great a Name,
Thou hast two Rivals in thy Lady-Fame;
Waller and Donne. You are the only three
Who justly can pretend that Monarchy.
Donne's Judgment, Fancy, Humour, and his Wit,
Strong, searching, happy, and before ne're hit,
Gives him a fair pretence to climb the Throne;
But Waller rather stops than plucks him down.

122

Rich he appears; his courtly Vesture grac'd
With golden Similes all over lac'd.
But Cowley (like the Infant of the Sun)
Out-glitters Waller, and ev'n dazzles Donne.
Both of 'em, to Augustus, leave the Field;
Like Lepidus and Anthony, they yield.
He triumphs! their triumv'racy of Rays
Unite in Cowley and compound his blaze.

Poetical POVERTY.

1667.

To C. M. D.

Poverty , I, like Small Drink, hate;
Yet 'tis, alas! the Poet's Fate.
And Want is such a stingey Crime,
It has no good excuse but Rhyme.
Yet here some comfort is exprest,
Poor, tho we be, the Poor are blest.
A favour granted by the Church,
To leave poor Poets in the lurch.
But they revenge this want of Alms,
By making her no better Psalms.
Who would make others sweetly chant,
And sigh themselves away for want?
As Poets shrivel'd Guts should be
Lute-strings for others Melody;
Thus Nightingals haste on their death,
By lavishing their sweet-tun'd Breath.
Those who rhyme on, and nothing get,
Ink may be call'd their mortal Sweat.
And every Copy that's so writ,
May be esteem'd their Winding-sheet.

123

Which makes me to this Thought assent,
Poets did Paper first invent;
Whose prompting Wants did first begin
Such Rags to lap his Verses in.

The Churching-FEAST.

1667.

To Sir Clifford Clifton, for a Fat Doe.

Tho I kiss without Wit or Fear,
And get two Children in a year,
What is that to your harmless Deer?

Must one dye for each Brat of mine,
As tho my Cod-piece were a Shrine?
Or Priapus again divine?

Such Bounty if you do not shun
It will dis-park your Hodsack soon;
For each Buck is by me out-done.

If still we both so forward be,
You'l find it a Necessity
To geld your Gifts as well as me.

If some do not for me this Knack,
I, like the Mountebank, may crack,
How that my leaping breaks my Back.

Let no man mock at what is writ;
To shew my Poverty is fit;
For Want's a special sign of Wit.

124

Nor do these my Pretences cheat,
But their good Fortunes seek to get,
Who Ballads sing at Doors for Meat.

Then I may boast Apollo's Skill,
If now a fat Doe I can kill
With th' feather'd Arrow of my Quill.

To Orpheus Fame I'll then aspire,
If one dance now to my desire,
Charm'd by the twangings of my Lyre.

A Midnight's RAPSODY.

Upon my dear W. at the point of Death.

1668.

Dark time, alas! when both the light
Of Heaven, and my sad Soul, have ta'n their flight,
And both intomb'd in deepest night!

Dejected Muse! how canst thou think
To look or write, when th' Eyes of Heav'n do wink,
And Paper looks it self like Ink?

Lord! but increase my inward Sight;
Thou who from Chaos didst create a Light;
One Smile from thee can gild my Night.

A Night! that foils the brightest Ray
O'th' Moon, and clouds the clearest Beam of Day;
Yet will thy smallest Glance obey.

125

Behold the courteous Queen of Night
Is pleas'd to lend a Ray, by whose kind light,
Although wept blind, I now can write.

Hark how her pretty small ones cry!
And who can doubt that Heaven will deny
Those Tears would Marbles mollifie?

My Pray'r, methinks, more swiftly flies,
Born on the Pinnions of their purer Cries;
Which court at once, and scale the Skies.

Sleep then, sad Eyes; do not despair
When next you ope to find th' effects of Pray'r;
For Heav'n was hers, she Heaven's care.

Awake again! this sadly shows
That falling Drops not always bring Repose;
Nor will Streams let my Flood-gates close.

My Grief flows with a constant Tide,
Which does the Ocean's shallow Ebbs deride,
And swell'd does o're my Eye-banks glide.

Not yet wept dry! my Tears increase!
After such Show'rs methinks this Rain should cease;
Yet Griefs, like Heat, new Vapours raise.

Mix'd with my Ink let my Tears run;
And let thy holy Spirit move thereon,
To make a sacred Helicon.

126

Which, like to Jordan then shall be,
And cleanse the stains of injur'd Poetry,
Too long defil'd with Leprosie.

'Tis fit alone to sing thy praise,
Thou who canst only give immortal Bays,
And us above our Fancies raise.

HOPE RUIN'D.

Upon the Death of the Right Honourable the Lady Mary Mannors, youngest Daughter to the Noble House of Rutland.

1668.

So long I staid (in vain, alas!) to try
If other Tributes than those from the Eye,
Would have been offer'd at her Virgin-Shrine;
But must, it seems, begin with this of mine.
Let others Marble give her Tomb to grace;
It will my Glory be to pave the place.
Tho their bright Torches on her Herse must shine;
'Tis Honour that this twinckling Lamp of mine
Did glimmer first: so does Aurora run,
As Usher to the Lord of Wit, the Sun.
When Church doors are shut up, true Pray'rs may please,
Though they be offer'd up in Cottages.
But yet, methinks, 'tis odd to cherish Woes;
Verse quickens Grief that is but flat in Prose.
Ingenious Lines but too much deck an Herse,
And briny Tears pickle up Grief in Verse.
Yet 'tis our Fate here; who like Merchants lose
Our Treasures first, and then proclaim our Woes.

127

Her Actions were Examples; so that still
Those Ladies that don't practice her do ill.
She did excell the strictest Cloister'd Saint;
Affected Purity is worse than Paint.
And now she's gone, if Poets will declare,
And tell what Beauties other Ladies are,
They must get Praises from her parts, and tell
These Coral Lips, almost like hers, do swell;
Those Eyes resemble hers, that Ladies face
Has her sweet Features, this her winning Grace.
Each piece of hers makes perfect and compleat:
Thus a King's Ruines make ten thousand great.
So when the Sun is set, the Queen of Night
Borrows her shining Glory from his Light.
Sad Fate! thus when a Rose-tree dies at foot,
A croud of Beauties perish with the Root.
Let none then blame our Grief; 'tis not for one,
But for the Ruines of a Million.

The Early SPRING.

Upon the immature Death of my honoured Friend Theophilus Parkyns, Esq;

1669.

To lay this precious Dust, which the rough hours
Of March did cause, April now pours
It self away in Showers:
Such Drops produce a Spring,
And thus enable us to bring
These flow'rs, alas! which on his Herse we fling.

128

The Muses Gardens cannot yield supplies;
If we his worth should justly prize,
Eden would scarce suffice:
Nor could Arabia yield
From out her parcht and spicy Field,
Odours and Gums enow his Pile to build.

Altho this Fun'ral-charge may prove too deep
For any Poet's brains to keep;
Yet we, alas, can weep!
This Deluge of our Eyes
May help to make his Coffin rise,
Like Noah's Ark, and raise it to the Skies.

When we have wept all this, we may have fears,
The Briny Ocean of our tears
Not half enough appears:
For judge by what we lost,
(Out Country's nay our Nation's boast)
If tears, or words can give sufficient cost.

How beautiful each look, each line of's Face?
Each limb, each motion had a grace;
Nature in him did place
What either Sex thinks rare;
Tall, and yet lovely; strong yet fair;
Venus and Mars in him compounded were.

Tho Nature to his Body was so kind;
Yet not content, he sought to find
The beauties of the Mind,

129

At all perfections vies;
Charming his Looks as Ladies Eyes;
Bold as young Heroes, as old Doctors, wise.

His powr'ful Wit had such an Empire gain'd;
It every Subject could command,
And all its Foes withstand.
Fro' th' Schools it first did come;
As conq'ring Cæsar did from Rome,
Till strong enough to rule its native home.

He who had gone so far, might well have staid;
But like a man that thrives o'th' Trade,
He further progress made:
Like Rich men he sought more;
Tho he had treasures heap'd in store,
Yet free from pride, he thought himself but poor.

Death did, alas, all these fair hopes betray;
As Blossoms in a Frosty day,
Drop from a Tree in May.
His Autumn was not slow;
And yet surpriz'd by Winter so,
His fruit lyes bury'd now in Sheets of Snow.

Tho whilst alive we scarcely saw him right;
His worth will now come more in sight:
As Stars shine most by night.
Why then should foolish I,
To raise his fame thus vainly try,
When things eternal can themselves supply?

130

The FRIEND.

Epitaph upon Roger Waldron, Esquire.

1669.

Reader, what pale cold Guest
Under this speaking Stone does rest,
Is by these faithful lines exprest.

One of an ancient Name,
Who left as full and clear a fame
To's Children, as fro's Grandsires came.

Nature to him did lend
A Heart, that knew no other end,
But how to love, and serve his Friend.

His humour rightly plac'd,
And so by conversation grac'd;
It, manna like, did please each Tast.

This is no flatt'ring dress;
For Envy's self must needs confess
Truth and a Friend could say no less.

YORK.

A Prologue for a Company of Players leaving London for York, upon their first appearance.

1670.

Methinks you all look here, as you would know,
Why we left London to attend on you.

131

I'th' first place, we could stay no longer there,
Because new Playes were both so bad, and dear,
We could not thrive o'th' trade: for each Wit now
Regards far more his Belly, than his Brow.
The second thing that made us to retire,
Alas, the Mercer's Books escap'd the Fire!
The third, the Gallants were so worn, they must
Not see a Play, unless it were on trust:
But with us Infidels that would not do;
Our Pit, and Women then they'd enter too,
And no admittance pay: But we were loth
—Cuckolds to be, and Beggars both.

But the grand mover of our forc'd retreat;
We were inspir'd by Prophecies and Fate.
Tho London the Metropolis be known;
York has the grandeur in reversion.
And Shipton's Prophecies may now prove true;
Since we have London left to wait on you.

Epilogue.

Mere thanks make but a slender shew,
When for great favours more are due;
Yet, Gentlemen, they're all we have for you.

But wee'l indeavour to repay
The Time, the Coin you cast away;
Wee'l tell you how, if you but please to stay.

For those three hours you here shall sit;
Wee'l give you Scenes of Mirth, and Wit;
Such as the Poet ne'r in three Months writ.

132

Then with our Jewels we devise
To pay the Ladies back that prize,
Which we each day shall purchase from their Eyes.

Yet here we have a hard Task met:
Thou ours were right, and richly set,
Ladies, your Eyes would make 'em counterfeit.

Our gen'rous freeness then to show;
For th' Money you on us bestow,
Wee'l spend it all amongst you e're we go.

The VILLIER S.

1671.

To my honour'd Friend, Sir George Villiers, Bar.

You from the Vulgar are far off remov'd,
Where 'tis disparagement ev'n to be lov'd.
Yet as we see the greater Worlds bright eye
Warms all below, whilst it does move on high;
So, you forget the State to which you're born;
Your goodness pardons what your height may scorn.
And yet 'tis true that to your self you owe
Th' officious troubles their respects bestow.
For were you but less worthy, or more proud,
You'd soon be free from the adoring croud.
But such attractive Virtues take their place
Alwayes in some of your illustrious Race;
That in each Age Fame does 'em justly sing
True Fav'rites to their Country, or their King.
A glorious truth! since from your Grandsire came
He (who was justly both) great Buckingham.

133

Where Bucking, was born; one of Sir G. V. his Lordships.

Your Brooksby boasts, we her may justly bless
For th' honour o'th' last age, the love of this.
And yet here springs a doubt, whether's more due,
This boast to your brave Ancestors, or you.
You who reflect their worth, and makes us see
Both what they were, and what your Son will be.

The VALENTINE.

1671.

To Mrs. J. M. bestowing a Present in a Letter.

Did not sufficiently my glory shine,
When you acknowledg'd me your Valentine?
But you must add new Trophies to your praise,
And make that Vassal rich you pleas'd to raise?
Thus generous Princes, when their pow'rs they show,
They Titles first, and then Estates bestow.
Madam, in this with Heav'n you share renown;
Which makes a Saint, and after gives a Crown.
Your costly gift though too too rich before,
Yet you with richer lines have gilded o're.
Lines, where each word, nay letter may be fit,
To prove a Cordial to decaying Wit.
A favour which at once I cannot know;
Since at each reading I see new ones grow:
Like th' Orange-Tree, whose fruit at once, and bloom
Blesses this Season, and the next to come.
But we, alas, who're only rich in dreams
Of Golden Sands, that pave Pactolus Streams.
Yet sadly find (when seriously we think)
No Sand but Pindust, and no Stream but Ink;

134

We can make no returns but thanks, and those
Would sound too flat, if only drest in Prose.
Your favour was obliging to excess;
'Tis fit my Gratitude should be no less.
And no expressions here can act that part,
Unless they be extracted from the heart.
Neither can these their purposes obtain,
If not in Verse, th' Elixir of the Brain.
Thus, Madam, when you have my chiefest store
Of brain, and heart, tis vain to offer more.

DANGEROUS SAFETY.

1671.

To the Honourable Mrs. Chaworth.

Sol (tho his Throne be in the Skies)
Vouchsafes the courtship of our Eyes.
We are as much oblig'd to you,
Blest with the favour of your view.
And tho from us you're so much rais'd,
That it's below you to be prais'd;
Yet 'tis our duty to admire,
And honour you without desire.
Our Lowness guards us; and our share
Of safety comes from our Despair.
Our thoughts are daunted at your sight:
Thus salvage Beasts are tam'd with Light.
Such fainting hopes cannot succeed;
Our thoughts against our selves we breed:

A Tribute of their children; whence are made the Spachi and Janizaries, the strength of the Turks.

Poor Græcians thus inslaved were
By Children, which themselves did bear.
The two-edg'd Sword of your bright Eyes
Keeps back the croud of amorous sighs.

135

Your Roses, and your Lillies are
Safe-fenc'd against presumptuous Air.
We know your Virtues, and we prize
The charming Glories of your Eyes;
But this can no more good bequeath,
Than Wine to Persons doom'd to death:
Like tortur'd Souls, who know that bliss
Which they're, alas, condemn'd to miss.

The RESCUE.

To Mrs. D. C. Whose name being left after drawing Valentines and cast into the Fire, was snatcht out.

1672.

Fortune , that does the World subdue,
Submits her Empire here to you.
Your smiles can fix her changing state,
And spight of her can bliss create.
Henceforth you will more courted be,
And have more Altars far than she.
You need not her Advancements mind,
No more than Light to be refin'd.
Compost is vain for your rich Soil;
Your Di'mond shines without a foil;
And you have such an awful flame,
She durst not meddle with your Name.
Which scorn'd her Laws, and would not be
Subservient to her Lottery.
She rag'd with fury at the slight,
Aping the Syrian Tyrant's spite;

Nebuchadonezer.

That did to flames those Persons vow,
Who would not to his Idol bow.

136

I, like the Angel, did aspire,
Your Name to rescue from the fire.
My Zeal succeeded for your Name;
But I, alas, caught all the flame!
A meaner off'ring thus suffic'd,
And Isaac was not sacrific'd.

The REFORMADO.

Upon a certain Levite who had tryed many Sects, writing bald Acrosticks against Mr. R. W.

1672.

Inlighten'd by his fiery rant,
I find out George, but not the Saint.
His Idle Phrensie makes it ghest,
Tho not inspir'd, he is possest.
The ancient Jews for cure did play,
And Fiend at Musick fled away.
But here, alas, our modern Jew
Is both the Fiend, and Fidler too.

Stumbling in his Acrostick way,
Look how his Muses feet are splay.
From letter they to letter stride:
As Cripples upon Crutches ride.
George, the fierce Dogril, tortures Verse,
'Till every Sheet becomes an Herse.
For as that Tyrant's cruel wit

Procrustes.

Made each man's legs his Bed-stead fit:
So here's a foot rackt to reach G,
And here's one lopt to size with D.

137

When Verse does in Acrosticks lie,
The tortur'd sense lies gasping by.
Look but with what a painful pride,
His Pegasus does trammel'd ride.
Like Baker's Palfry thorough pac'd;
An Issachar 'twixt Panniers plac'd.
But he pretends to Helicon,
As Priest of the Prophetick Tun.
For as of old, the Delphian Knave,
Inspir'd fro' th' hole of Sybil's Cave,
With glowing Cheeks and staring Eyes
Half mad did from the Tripos rise;
And then with odd phrenetick zeal
The fates of Mortals did reveal:
So when prophetick George does come
From sage Eliza's lower room;
Inspir'd with false outragious zeal,
With brains and cheeks red hot with Ale,
Having first set his Mouth to Bung;
His chanting Oracles are sung.

Deep George in ancient Saws delights;
A Grecian only in their Rites.
With pious fictions, impious jests,
And Revels fitting Sibyl's Priests,
Reeling from Bacchanalian feasts.

If old Pythagoras rule hold true,
How each soul transmigrates a new;
That unfledg'd Muse in former times
Which flutter'd into Hopkin's Rhymes,
Being lured now to George his use,
Seems transmigrated to a Goose.

138

But such a Goose whose gagling bawl,
Is hir'd to serve the Capitol.
His Faith, as well as Wit, is known
To've suffer'd Transmigration:
For having learnt the Garb and Caw,
It transmigrated to a Daw.
And Jack-daw-like in Church did rest,
Till the foul Bird defil'd its nest.
Then, Dormouse like, made its repair
T'a Meeting-house, with twilight pray'r,
And roosted in a Cobler's Chair;
Till to a Drake it did arrive,
And with the Dipper learnt to dive.
Then Raven-like the Air did coast,
And hover'd over Cromwel's Host;
Incouraging that Tyrant's crime,
Its Feathers took a deeper grime.
Yet, as old Nick would fain seem white,
To ape the glorious Sons of light;
So George in Surplice now does lurk,
Gaining this Title for his work,
George-Bajazet the Christian Turk.

The CONTEST.

Upon the death of my dear S. Mrs. M. S.

1673.

Dear precious Soul! tho now thou shin'st more bright
Than new born Phœbus swath'd about with light;
Accept this gloomy, tho free Sacrifice;
If it can pierce the mounting Clouds of Sighs.
My Grief, and Love (like two fierce storms) contest,
And raise an Earthquake in my trembling breast,

139

Both strive for mastery, yet neither yield;
Grief sometimes, and Love sometimes gains the Field;
As two stout Mutineers in Fortress penn'd,
Ruine that Place by strife, they should defend.

O! that our Souls, of a cœlestial Race,
And neither circumscrib'd to time or place;
Should (whilst they're clog'd with flesh) not have the arts
T'obey the motions of our loving Hearts;
Each other (tho at distances) to greet,
And at each moment in imbraces meet.
But we shall meet e're long, tho I be slow,
And with mine unfledg'd Pinnions stay below.
Thy Soul (being born on glorious Angels wings)
And guided by those bright and friendly things,
Did get the start, and fly to Heav'n before me,
Altho I set out fourteen years before thee.
But none can be the glorious Bridegroom's Guest,
Unless accouter'd for the Wedding-Feast.
They're thrust, alas, as bold Pretenders thence,
Who glitter not in robes of Innocence;
Shine not in Chastity, Devotion, Peace,
Humility, and such like Gems as these.

Thou having gain'd those Ornaments before,
And brought by Angels as a fitting Guest;
Saint Peter open'd soon the shining Door,
And gladly let thee in amongst the rest.

140

The RICH PURCHASE.

1673.

To the honourable Mrs. Chaworth, commanding two of my Tragedies.

The Town's applause is but a dream;
You are my Theater, and Theme.
'Tis you that kindle Fancies fire;
Whose every smile does Wit inspire.
The Muses, nay the Graces too,
Were only dusky Types of you.
More influence does in one Eye
Of yours, than whole Apollo lye.
And you must merit most esteem;
Who make those Poets, that make him.
That Wit we labour for with pain,
More happy you by Nature gain.
And Virtue which from Rules we own,
Is, Madam, your Complexion.
Our bliss you only must create;
If we can faintly imitate.
But that will be as hardly done,
As for small Lamps t'out-shine the Sun.
Yet Heav'n will those Devoto's fit
For glory, that but aim at it:
Thus I may gain by giving praise;
And off'ring Lawrels, purchase Bays.

141

POETICAL PLENTY.

1673.

To my good friend Mr. Ar. Lomaex, saying, I had not yet learn'd to ballance my Expences, nor either of us guilty of hoarding Money.

Ballance Expences Friend! sure thou dost ghess
I'm damnably given to excess,
Or Purse than Stomack less:
Neither's to great, I swear;
Yet I might purchase better chear,
If I that knack of Drinking could forbear.

I'le rather learn the Science how to steal,
Than be prescribed for my Meal
Thin broath and Racks of Veal.
I'm yet in no such strait,
Besieged by my wants, or fate,
Like sterv'd-out Towns, to eat, and drink by weight.

'Tis Tyranny to any free-born heart,
To be confined to a quart;
I'le rather have no part.
Set-diet shews a want,
And danger too; since Casuists grant
Our Grandam Eve sin'd chiefly by restraint.

My self to famish to increase my store,
Is to take pains how to be poor;
I'le rather run o'th' Score.
For I would rather fear
Grim Judges and their Sentence hear,
Than be my self my Executioner.

142

If thou'rt not rich, thou would'st not Fates obey,
Who set thee in a ready way,
But led me quite astray:
For Megs, with tempting light,
(Which are the Muses, as some write)
Dazled mine Eyes, and did mislead me quite.

These Dalila's they tempted out mine Eyes,
And made me grope like foolish Boys,
For praise and Wreaths, mere Toys!
When that care (some will say)
If but turn'd downwards (the right way)
Had digg'd up Gold, as soon as pluck't the Bay.

But fam'd Parnassus, and the Silver stream
Of too-bewitching Hippocrene,
Me from those thoughts did wean:
They, like some Fairy Land,
Or like scortch'd Affrick flatt'ring stand.
With pleasant Shores, but full of barren Sand.

'Tis true, we please our Fancies, and can tow'r,
Like chirping Larks after a shower;
But 'tis not in our power
In that state to remain;
But to the Earth we fall again,
Eying the Sun's bright Gold, we ne'r obtain.

Yet for all this, I must the Muses love;
Constrain'd by some odd Pow'r above,
Tho they unkindly prove:
Inslav'd thus by our Fate
Is our mad Sex, that cannot hate
Woman, that ruin'd first our happy state.

143

Those sweet Devourers by our selves are nurst:
As from his side old Adam first
Gave what him after curst.
Each Poet Adam is,
His Muse an Eve, who makes him miss,
With false pretences tempting him from bliss.

Thou Damn'd inchanting Wealth, alluring Hagg!
Keep in thy smoth'ring Hell, thy Bag,
And make not me thy brag.
Whilst I but thought of thee;
Such is thy devillish Witchery,
I was infected with thy Heresie.

Wouldst thou turn me a Rebel? have me seen
To take up Arms against my Queen?
Hold, hold, my swelling Spleen!
Wouldst stop my Muses Song?
Like that base Wretch, who did the wrong
To Philomel, and then cut out her tongue?

Pardon Apollo, and you Muses nine;
Tho your Hill's bare it is a sign
It does infold a Mine.
Yet, fool, how was I craz'd,
Like silly Conjurers, amaz'd
With Apparitions, that my self had rais'd?

Poets are counted poor; 'tis true; but know
They riches have, they will not show:
Deep Rivers, silent flow.
There is a Place they call,
At Rome, Saint Peter's Hospital,
And yet the Pots and Dishes Silver all.

144

They have no shining Oar, no pleasing Chink;
Yet find in Verse a sweeter clink,
And glitter in their Ink.
Such wealth will not deny
Them Wings, with Gold they cannot fly,
'Tis th' heavi'st Metal, and with Dirt must lye.

Gold is the dross, and Wit the precious Oar;
Whilst Poets do injoy that store,
How can they be call'd poor?
This tho the World gain-say;
It, like bad Chymists, throws away
The purer Metal keeping the Allay.

Apollo's so attractive, some we see
Would leave their Infidelity,
And real Converts be:
They gladly would compound,
And now his Temples do surround:
Thus Christian Churches with the Turks are found.

Such Hereticks, who have been so profane;
All their devotion will be vain
Before his Sacred Fane:
For none such can be ghest
Worthy to be Apollo's Priest;
Some whining Clerk, or Deacon at the best.

Then let us charily keep close our Skill,
As they do all their Treasure still;
Soon change with us they will:

145

Else when they come to dye,
How will they get an Elegy?
For Poets when unpaid will never lye.

The NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

1674.

To the honourable Mrs. Chaworth.

Come, great Apollo now, and shew thy might;
Thou glorious Patron both of Wit and Light.
From those two gifts, the greatest comfort's hurl'd,
Both on the greater, and the lesser World.
Advance some Present worthy of her Eyes;
But that will quite impoverish thy Skies.
And yet thou may'st those Treasures safely spare,
Since she'l once bring more Beauties than are there.
Yet keep 'em to thy self, so thou'lt bestow
Some of those treasures, that thou mak'st below.

Gold is thy work, tho, not as Dryden said,
When under Turfs to hatch by Indians laid.
The ghess this way more probably is told;
For when thou pour'st on earth thy molten Gold,
(Which ev'ry night ascends to thee again)
Gold is the Dross, that does below remain,

The Rocks of Ormus, and of Bengelay,
In whose dark Caves Jewels create a day;
Thou mak'st those Gems (whose light thy lustre mocks)
Fine exudations of those pregnant Rocks?
Thy Rayes contracted into drops, are found
The cause o'th' lustre of the Diamond.
When thou, for thy refreshures every night,
Dives to imbrace thy beauties Amphitrite;

146

Those pleasant Coral Groves i'th' Deeps below,
Blest by thy smiles obtain their tincture so.
And glitt'ring Pearls, fixt on the roots of Rocks,
Are dew-drops shaken from thy shining Locks.

From those bright Pearls either a Neck-lace spare,
Which by her Skin improv'd, may turn more fair:
Or from those Diamonds vouchsafe supplies;
Which will gain brighter lustre from her Eyes:
At which some of the brightest sham'd will grow,
And by their blushes turn to Rubies so:
Or with some Coral branches be but kind,
And in her Lips they'l richer Scarlet find:
Or grant me Saphires, and their fainter stayns
Shall take a purer Azure from her Veins.
Or if to give them all thou'lt be so kind;
They'l yield to th' treasures of her richer Mind.

At these great truths Apollo, 'sham'd, withdrew;
Sham'd to be baffled and out-shin'd by you:
His treasures, and his favours now denies.
But, Madam, I hope greater from your Eyes.
The heavenly pow'rs thus their acceptance show
Of Duties, by the Blessings they bestow.
And tho your merits to such heights are rais'd,
That my weak Eyes to see them are amaz'd,
You've too much light not to be seen and prais'd.
Altho I am unfit your praise to write,
Some dusky gleams flash from the darkest night.
Virtue's adorn'd enough with Native rayes,
Needing no garnish from a Poet's praise;
Yet just repute may add to Virtues height:
As curious Pictures are advanc'd by light.

147

Your smiles I crave not, only beg a glance,
Since honour'd by your Father's countenance;
That noble Lord! to whom such fame is due
From all the World, because he gave it you.
In whom he paid more than himself did cost;
Tho from his Blood great Monarchs make their boast
Judge of this truth since the Lancastrian Line
Vouchsaf'd its glorious beams with his to joyn.
Its Rose, tho crimson'd with its native flood,
Yet took rich tinctures from Cadurcis blood.

Vid. Heylins Cosmogr. pag.

For tis a doubt, whether more fame is due,
To come from Kings, or Kings to come from you.

Since Blessings by that Match did so abound;
That many Princes sprung from thence were crown'd;
I must beg pardon to presume it due
For some of them to give a Crown to you.

BEAUTIES PERIPHRASIS.

1674.

To Mrs. E. W.

My Muse, more happy far than I,
Has long my Mistris Hand-maid been,
Us'd to unlace, unpin, untye,
And has all her Perfections seen.

On New-years day I 'spy'd my Madam;
She and the Year both in their prime,
More fresh, than was the Miss of Adam
Sprung from the Maiden-head of Time.

148

Her Garments I will first disclose;
Then naked lay my blushing Queen,
The same procedure has the Rose;
First Leaves, and then the Bud is seen.

Her Hoods sometimes her Beauties hide;
Which custom may be well allow'd;
Since Sol's bright Face in all his pride,
Is often hid beyond a Cloud.

Her Visard-mask, that hides her face,
Declares more cruelty than state;
She looks as Beauty Prisoner was,
And peeping through a double grate.

Amongst her Curls she Jewels wears,
All glittering with those shining drops:
Which like Aurora's pearly Tears,
Sit trembling on the Lillies tops.

If we consider worth or state;
The Diamond neck-lace that she wears,
May challenge Ariadne's fate,
And turn into a wreath of Stars.

Her costly Points by Artists fram'd,
Like Wings of Cherubims imbrace
Her swelling Breasts; which once I nam'd
(Unjustly tho) the Mercy-place.

Her Gowns, tho rich, and worthy pride,
Lock up the beauties of her youth:
Like cloudy Parables that hide
The glorious majesty of Truth.

149

Her Gloves are like the tender Rind
Of that rare Plant, that sweateth Balm,
The truth of this you'd quickly find,
If you but kist her melting Palm.

Through scarlet-stockins shines her Skin:
Light pierces thus red-painted Glasses.
Ten shining Pearls inclos'd within,
Are lockt up in those ruby Cases.

Her Shoos with envy I did prize,
And wish'd my self be so grac'd;
Stor'd with two pair of open Eyes,
For tempting objects rightly plac'd.

Her envious Smock tho hid my bliss:
Thus Snow strikes earnest gazers blind;
All may be seen when thaw'd it is
By Love, that Sun-shine of the Mind.

Her Beauties are cloath'd o're with light,
Not here expos'd to wild desires;
Such thoughts, the beams of vertue fright:
As rav'nous Beasts retreat from fires.

Her Hair may justly make her prouder
Than Queens who to their Crowns were born;
And looks when candy'd o're with powder,
Like Sun-beams in a rimy morn'.

A curious chrystal prop (her Nose)
Supports the Arches of her Skies.
Her Front the chrystalline Heaven shows,
Studded with shining Stars, her Eyes.

150

Each Cheek like to a Roseal Grove,
Where thousand Cupids sporting lye;
Whetting their several Darts of Love;
Her Brows the Bows from whence they flye.

Her simpring Mouth such charms declare,
Which Rhetorick never could produce;
Her Lips, like full-ripe Cherries, are
Preserv'd in their own natural Juyce.

Her Breath more sweet than perfum'd gales,
That from Arabian Gardens blow;
Or those which sweep the Indian Vales,
Where Jasmins in their vigours grow.

Such treasures of her Breath and Tongue,
Ought not to be too much expos'd;
Hence Fate, to bulwark them from wrong,
With double fence of Pearls inclos'd.

Her Shoulders Beauty's Atlas are,
But coverd with a purer Snow;
And far a richer burden bear
Of Beauties, and of Glories too.

Her Breasts a pair of Ivory Bowls,
With Biasses of Rubies nail'd:
Or else two whitest Paper-scrouls,
Which Nature had with red-wax seal'd.

Beneath those Hills a Valley spread;
Where Violets and Lillies strove;
Through which a perfum'd Path did lead,
Directing to th' Elisian Grove.

151

Her Back-side two round snowy Mountains,
Which 'twixt 'em did a Valley hide;
In which did spring a pair of Fountains,
Where Gold and Silver streams did glide.

Her Knees, I these rare Hinges named,
On which this beauteous Fabrick mov'd;
Her Thighs, the Columns strongly framed
On which my stately Temple stood.

Thus have I vowed, sworn, protested,
To lift my Mistris to the Sky;
Yet, cruel she, thinks I but jested;
And, by my troth, Sirs, so think I.

REPOSE.

1674.

To Mr. W. W. of Grantham.

Not for the reason others do,
It is I now sollicit you:
A juster cause designs my choice;
It is for your sake, not your Boyes.
Excess of study does you wrong;
A Bow may break that's bent too long.
The Heav'nly Bow (whose lasting stuff,
Would make one think it strong enough)
Is not bent always, but allow'd
To be cas'd up within a Cloud.

Let none here mock at what is said;
For Archery is there a Trade.

152

Dian, Apollo, Archers good;
And Cupid is their Robin Hood,
Long shining Darts Apollo shoots;
Th' Antipodes, and we his Butts.
Yet when 'tis night his Bow unbends,
And Arrows to his Sister lends;
Who buckles to't (her skill to show)
'Till she become the very Bow.
And when she's at the utmost bent,
Her Darts with brightest Piles are lent;
Yet she by day refreshment seeks.
Then Cupid mostly shoots at Pricks;
And when at Butts the motto nicks.
Strange marks-man, who ne'r misses aim,
Yet slacks his string at every Game.
Moisture, (that heart-blood of the Earth)
From whence all things derive their birth,
Shrinks sometimes to the Springs i'th' Deep,
That so it may its vigours keep.
Sap (that prolifick Sperm of Trees)
Bestows its blessings by degrees;
Blossoms and Leaves it gives i'th' Spring;
And does its fruit in Autumn bring;
In Winter tho retires to th' Deep,
New strengths to gain or old to keep.
The Soul (that bright cœlestial Guest)
Altho eternal, seeks for rest.
Nor can this Ease be a disgrace;
Since Heav'n's the chiefest resting place.

153

The GROVE.

1675.

Some thoughts dedicated to the Nymphs of the pleasant Grove at S. belonging to my most honour'd Friend Peniston Whalley Esq.

How am I in an instant blest?
This Grove affords some chearful Guest,
A stranger to my wounded breast.

But how can Musick there be found,
Where daunting cares have made a wound?
Yet breaking Heart-strings yield a sound.

But now my Crest-fall'n thoughts aspire;
As Saul's black humours did retire,
Before the twangs of David's lire.

Verse has such charms, It can advance
A captive Soul from hellish Trance,
Can bridle Dolphins, make Beasts dance.

But stay, I doubt this boasted grace
Denies its rise from my dull layes;
And owes its Being to this place.

As Priests of old were not inspir'd,
Their breasts with sacred heat ne'r fir'd,
'Till they into their Groves retir'd.

Nor came this Virtue from the Trees,
Nor from the Prophet's Rapsodies,
But from the Neighb'ring Deities.

154

None views this Grove but soon allows
It is a Temple roof'd with Boughs;
Where faithful Lovers pay their Vows.

And that betwixt the Leaves, those spaces
(Through which the prying Sun-shine passes)
Seem quarter'd Panes of Chrystal Glasses.

Then Nature here each year does bring
The sweet-tongu'd Black-coats of the Spring,
With other Choristers to sing.

Who to this service are ordain'd,
From its Revenues are maintain'd,
With Berries from the Bushes gain'd.

Yet if you take a neerer view,
The Simile will seem more true;
This Temple has its Scriptures too.

Upon the Barks, with curious slit,
Devotion is ingrav'd with Wit,
And by some Goddess Fingers writ.

Whose adoration, merit, fame,
Shall still inlarge, as does the Name,
Which thrives till it out-grows the frame.

Nor do the Trees confus'dly stand;
But rank'd, and fil'd as they were trayn'd
By the Commanders skilful hand.

155

Each row of sturdy Oaks appears
Squadrons of English Musketeers;
The Acorns Shot, Leaves Bandileers.

Those stands of Ashes strongly spread,
Like our stout Pike men, void of dread;
With Keys, like Fringe about each head.

Here Elms: whose bending Boughs retain
The shapes of our old Bows in vain;
Never to conquer France again.

Those Aspen-trees, like French, look high;
As they would scale the very sky;
Yet shake, whilst English Elms are by.

The Willows here like Dutchmen show;
All sap not good for Pyke or Bow;
And only will by Waters grow.

Thrice happy Trees, where future times
(Not clouded with our present crimes)
Shall in their Barks read am'rous rhymes.

For who can greater Wit desire
Than that, which Beauty does inspire?
Verse then is cloath'd in Queens attire.

It needs must be a happy sight,
The golden age did first delight
All Verse in Rynds of Trees to write.

156

Tho Bayes and Lawrels still abound,
Nobler rewards will then be found;
They'l with their Ladies Names be crown'd.

Each then must lofty numbers frame,
Whilst she thereto subscribes her Name;
'Twill be at once, Reward and Theme.

If I that happy fate could prove,
Incourag'd by those Eyes I love;
This should out-vye Dodona's Grove.

But as I first with cares were crost;
These thoughts have so my Soul ingrost,
That I am in this Labyrinth lost.

When loe! as I did gaze about,
I saw a Path, which (without doubt)
As't leades them in, will lead me out.

With Lady-Smocks, and Dayes-Eyes white;
The very Path they tread are bright:
So the Sun's tracks are pav'd with Light.

The RENT.

Advice against envious Reports.

1675.

To the honourable Lady, Mrs. Chaworth.

My Rent-day's come, and I must pay.
Nor must your plenty make me stay,
Lest I grow poorer by delay.

157

Forbearance but unkind appears;
And the poor Tenant's justest fears
May be deduc'd from long Arrears.

Whilst either Wit or Fancy grows,
They're yours; but when depriv'd of those,
I must be forc'd to pay in Prose.

Decaying Farmers thus lament;
When their best Stock, and Mony's spent,
Their very Raggs are seiz'd for Rent.

This is a Quit-rent yearly paid;
By which my Title's surer made;
Th' Estate else may be forfeited.

Tho such mean Homages you scorn;
Yet some, to noble Fortunes born,
Take nothing but a Pepper-Corn.

For these poor Rhymes, a pretty Cloak!
Words vanish with the breath th' are spoke:
Yet Sacrifices went in Smoak.

Truth's a great Empress, and will reign:
This New-years-Gifts pretence is vain;
It is not so much Gift as gain.

Thus our Devotions, when most hot,
Pay dues to Heav'n that needs 'em not;
We profit by the pious Plot.

156

Heaven at the Heart did ever aim,
Far more than at the costly flame
Which from the Sacred Altar came.

Who would not such a Goodness trust,
That grateful is to worthless Dust;
And makes them happy that are just.

My Duty such procedures know;
Since I in paying what I ow,
Purchase that fame I would bestow.

But whence can I that Patent claim,
Either to give, or purchase fame?
Who nothing knows of it but name?

Nor is it more than fleeting Air;
Untill condens'd (by Poet's care)
To Jewels for each Ladies Ear.

Your worth such rich Materials brings,
Wherewith to make those precious things,
Fit both for Ears, and Crowns of Kings.

Disturb not then your self, but shun
Th' effects of Envy, for 'tis known
Obnoxious Vapours cloud the Sun.

Vertue's a Piramid of Light,
Attracting dazling Gazer's sight,
And envious shades attend its height.

With native Balsam ease your pain:
Tho Skies o'recast, and turn to Rain;
Those drops inrich the Earth with Grain.

157

Time calms rough tempests, raging Seas?
No Storms can wreck an inward Peace;
Wrong'd Worth, like bruis'd Perfumes, increase.

Reports, like Darts of Reed, when shot
At a right Breast-plate, hurt it not;
You, Madam, have such Armour got.

There cannot be a surer fence
Than yours; whose Guard is Innocence,
And whose Desires are free'd from sense.

To raise the meanest doubt's a Sin:
She must the noblest Trophies win,
Whose Fort's impregnable within.

In her a pow'r resistless lies,
Who bears Artillery in her Eyes;
And conquers Death's self when she dies.

OLYMPUS.

Spoken by Mrs. P. L. to the right honourable the Lord and Lady Roos, at Belvoir, before a Play; she starting up, as rising from the dead.

1675.

Blessings upon those Eyes! whose pow'rful shine
Has open'd mine.
The pointed raies that from your Glories broke,
Like Sun-beams, glanc'd on me, and I awoke.
Your rich intensive Light
Broke through the Clouds of Nature's deepest Night.

160

Bright Twins! your Sun-like power
Reviv'd a drooping Flower,
And made it grow
From Winding-sheets and Graves of Snow.
May Smiles, Joyes, Loves, attend your sight;
For thence they gain their choicest light.
From you may ghastly Objects fly,
As gloomy shades fro' th' morning Sky.
Nothing that can frightful be
To Innocence, or purity,
Can in this Orbe appear;
No more than darkness in the upper Sphear.
If th' Issue of the Poets brain,
Either were obscene, or vain;
We cleans'd his Muse;
Like muddy Carps in springing Stews.
If in the Cradle any thing seem'd wild;
We circumciz'd the Child;
And tam'd its wanton rage:
Thus Priests i'th' Golden-Age
Only thought the Sacrifice
Worthy to ascend the Skies;
When the Smoak vanish'd, and the flame did rise.
Acceptance almost is our due;
Since we are so devout for you.
Consult this place, none can despair,
Since influenc'd from the Noble, and the Fair.
Your smiles, fair Lady, and most noble Lord,
Must life to us afford.
Shine from your lofty Sphear,
Our blossomes soon will fruit appear.
Thus Jove and Juno on Olympus sate,
Smil'd on the infant World, and crown'd its fate.

161

ACTIVITY.

Upon the Death of Capt. Matt. Dale.

1676.

In Nature's chiefest strengths who would confide?
Or in the choicest of her Gifts take pride?
If either Wit, Activity, or Truth,
Wisdom of Age, or Jollity of Youth,
Could have prevail'd with Death; He had been safe,
Not living only in this Epitaph.

He with dull Gravity had ne'r to do;
Discreet he was, yet a good-fellow too.
The strongest fumes of Wine he could restrain,
And make 'em useful to his active Brain:
Thus ripening dews in pleasant Meads are found;
When noisome Mists arise in boggy ground;
Unmanag'd Soils are worse for fruitful showers,
And bring forth Weeds, when Gardens smile with Flowers.
His Tongue the motions of his Heart did tell:
So th' Clapper shews the Metal of the Bell.
He made no difference 'twixt Mine and Thine;
Fro' th' low-run Age he did those Dregs refine:
Yet in his own Concernments was no Tool
For Knaves to work with, a good-natur'd Fool:
But, like the useful Swiss, he could defend
His native Cantons, and assist his Friend.

In Running he did others so outvy,
'Tis wrong to him to say he did but fly.
Those mystic Darts, that are from Objects shot,

He leapt at one leap backward and forward, 7 yards, now mark't out in—

With slower motion to the Sight are got.
And in his Leaping, his Beholders say,
He did not jump, but shot himself away.

162

His Back, like Indian-Bow, with Sinews bent;
And like an Arrow, from the Jerk he went.
Nature in one did ne'r more wonders show;
Himself the Archer, Arrow, String, and Bow.
Nay, at his Death he practis'd o're this part;
And did, in several Postures, try his Art.
First, to the Posture of the Swede he got,
And then from bended Knees his Arrows shot;
With out-stretch'd Arms fro's Breast such Darts he drew,
Sherwood's fam'd Bow-men's shafts they quite o're-flew.
Theirs only aim'd at Sun and Moon! his high'r;
Feather'd with Angels Plumes, and Piles of fire:
Nothing flyes swifter than inflam'd Desire.
Then Death's convulsive Cramps his Body drew
To th' utmost bent, till it in pieces flew.
A Bombard thus o're-loaden, when 'tis broke,
Sends forth its dying groans in sighs of Smoak.
Th' infolded Ball tho, cloath'd in bright attire,
Elias-like, mounts in a Coach of Fire.

The HEROINE.

Upon the death of the right Honourable Frances Countess of Rutland, &c.

1676.

No heats of Love, nor thirsts of Fame,
Did Poet's mind e're more inflame
Than mine, to write great Rutland's Name.

My meanness let no man despise;
We know the smoak of Sacrifice,
That aim'd at Heav'n, from Earth did rise.

163

Honour does from Inferiours come:
So did the Consuls owe their doom,
And place, to th' Common Votes of Rome.

Her Death by Verse may well be shown;
For Gods and Goddesses are known
Their very Beings hence to own.

And yet this Reason may prove lame;
Since Praises, that did God-heads frame,
Fall short when they should speak her Name.

Truth, well as Heralds, makes it good,
Her Veins swell'd with a noble flood,
Sprung from third Edwards Royal blood.

Rutland an equal Match then brings,
Since the great Issue that hence springs,
Quarters both Arms, and Blood of Kings.

No pride tho did her looks attend,
Which to the lowest she would lend;
As heav'nly blessings do descend.

Whilst she in that high Orb did move;
She copy'd those bright Pow'rs above,
And gain'd both reverence and love.

Her blessings did with lustre twine;
Greatness and Goodness here did joyn,
The Sun does fructifie, and shine.

164

Her Gates, or Pity never barr'd;
Vertue, and Innocence her Guard;
Her Looks, obligements, and Reward.

Such Miracles were in her fate;
She never envy did create;
All did admire, or imitate.

In Youth each noble Lover's dream;
In Age the gaze and rule of fame;
In Death the Priest's and Poet's Theme.

How have I heard her, without noise,
Direct, and rule the publick voice;
As each Discourse had been her choice?

How have I seen whole crouds depart,
When she, with her obliging Art,
Both pleas'd and captiv'd every heart.

Nor here alone was all her care;
She left Examples, great and fair,
To cause both wonder and despair.

Belvoir! thou shalt one instance be,
Where we the Arts of times past see,
Of these, and of Posterity,

New builders here she did oppose;
And greater fame in this she chose;
Since here this Frame from ruines rose.

165

Let none reflect it as a shame;
To win a good one, is less fame,
Than to recover a bad Game.

As some Philosophers maintain,
'Twas less at first to make a man,
Than dead, to raise him up again.

First she all fitted and then reer'd;
Nor David nor his Son thus dar'd;
For this but us'd what that prepar'd.

So goodly and so strong it shows,
As Mars this stately Castle chose
For his lov'd Goddesses repose.

Who views its Beauties and its Power,
At once may think of Cæsar's Tower,
And Rosamund her lovely Bower.

Large as her Mind, high as her Fame,
As tho she rais'd this stately Frame,
For all that from her Marriage came.

And such a Number from it past;
As have seven noble Houses grac'd:
Here her vast Debts are paid at last.

For as from many a Noble Strain,
Her Ancestors lent to each vein;
She here repaid it all again.

166

What's more to do then; but away,
When all is done for which we stay?
'Tis the last Act commends the Play.

This noble Lady clos'd her dayes,
(After such Acts as challenge praise)
Upon that Scene, her self did raise.

Rare thus in life, and death, we prize
The Phœnix; who with closing Eyes,
Mounts on her Spicy Pile, and dyes.

Her Epitaph.

Here Brass and Marble are but vainly spent;
Her Name, to them, will be a Monument.
A lasting Fame Posterity must give,
Whilst Belvoir, Mountague, and Rutland live.

The COPY.

1676.

To the right Honourable, the Lady Anne Howe, sixth Daughter to the Countess; with the preceding Elegy.

If to pay Vows, be only due
To Persons, who can equal you;
Then your adorers must be few.

For when in Desarts Kings remain,
Their Name and Office both are vain;
Whilst they have none o're whom to reign.

167

And Fame (which is the great ones choice)
Is rais'd but by the publick noise;
An Eccho from the Peoples voice.

Hence then my comfort is compleat;
And my design (tho boldly great)
Has no suspition of defeat.

I often hear our Prophets say,
That poorest Mortals safely may,
To Heav'n, their true devotions pay.

Incourag'd thus is my design;
The object of my thoughts divine;
Which here I offer at your Shrine.

When that bright Soul to Heav'n flew;
Her glorious Mantle fell your due;
Her Spirit doubly shar'd to You.

Your Youth she did so justly frame,
Both to her goodness and her fame;
Y'are not the Copy but the same.

She gave this Age a happy doom,
When she form'd you within her Wombe;
And yours must bless the Age to come.

168

The CONSERVES.

Upon the same.

1676.

To the right honourable Mrs. Chaworth, her Grand-Child, by Lady Grace Viscountess Chaworth, second Daughter to the Countess.

When Angels did on Earth appear,
The glitt'ring Strangers treated were.
Which they vouchsaf'd only to shew
Poor Mortals what they ought to do.
They graciously made their resorts
To Threshing-floors, as well as Courts.
Where're these shining Guests appear'd,
Immediately were Altars rear'd.
On which at once their thanks they pay'd,
And for a second blessing pray'd.

Madam, there may be well suppos'd
Some curious Confects here inclos'd.
And bolder Poets dare reherse,
No Conserves like to those of Verse.
But nothing here deserves that name,
Unless 'tis borrow'd from my Theme.
And that affords such glorious prize,
It may claim favour from your Eyes.
Impute not, Madam, this to pride;
You, and my Theme are near ally'd;
As near as those rich Gardens were
To th' Golden Apples they did bear.

169

The PLUNDER.

1677.

To the honourable William Byron, begging Verses he pleas'd to write upon my Tragedy of Henry the fourth.

I'm told (and therefore well may hope for Bayes)
You have been pleas'd my Tragedy to praise.
It unregarded was by me before,
Like a rude lump of undigested Oare.
Made current by your praise, It now may pass:
So Princes Stamps put value upon Brass.
But then your Warrant must be sign'd and shown;
Else may the value of it be unknown.
The World's applause will then obedience be
To you, and your respects applause to me.
Being honour'd with your Badge 't will be allow'd;
And pass, if not alone, yet in the Crowd.
I, all its Wit, and Worth must duly own
As yours, and by your Mark 'twill best be known.
For Wit, as your Propriety, is meant;
And such Acknowledgments as this, your Rent.
The Criticks then must hazard loss and shame,
If they distresses make upon your claim.
Bald Gybes, and Censures hurt not so my Muse,
As they your Representatives abuse.
Bold Grillon and the generous Navarre,
I here acknowledge but your Transcripts are.
Your Conversation does the Poet make;
And from your Words and Acts I Heroes take.

170

Each visit's plunder; for I steal away
More Wit at once, than would make up a Play.

The Badge of Good-fellowship.

Upon Scarlet-Faces, Rosie-Cheeks, and Ruby-Noses.

1677.

To. C. Cooper, Esq.

Kind Bacchus does requitals send
For all that we Good-fellows spend;
No Merchants in their Indian trade,
Richer returns than we have made:
Tho Pearls for Beads of Glass are sold,
And Iron purchase finest Gold.
True! we spend Mony; where's the loss?
All Coin is but authentick dross.
The Stamp prefers it, and base need
Does all its estimation breed.
How many years are vainly spent,
Riches to get, and lose content?
In gaining it, the Day's lost quite;
And in preserving it, the Night.

Judge now what profit may be made
Out of the jolly-drinking trade.
What tho the Purse its trash has lost?
The Nose with Rubies is imbost,
For blood that such rich Bubbles swells,
Is Kernel to those shining shells,
Whose lustre takes a deeper dye,
As the good-fellow drinks more high.
And yet the Rubies are but pale,
Whose base extraction is from Ale.

171

How can the Liver brew what's good,
(That Mash-fat of the boiling blood)
When dregs of Ale pollute the Veins?
As th' blood were tapt off from the Grains.
But when we those rich Rubies make,
With drinking Claret, Tent, or Sack;
They take their bigness, colour, shape,
Fro' th' Clusters of the Scarlet Grape.
Good-fellows hence, by drinking get
That boasted thing call'd Chimick-heat.
Which, from the Body forces out
The blood to th' Nose (the Limbeck-spout)
Those drops condens'd by the cold Air,
Advance to Rubies, and fix there.
The Rocks that are in Ormus found,
Only in pretious Gemms abound;
But barren on their tops appear.
As if their heart-bloods wasted were;
And blood of Rocks those Rubies are.
He who for Tyrian-purple seeks,
May find it in Good-fellows Cheeks.
The grain of Sarra's only there;
And Bow-dies first invented were
From some old Brewer, who liv'd there.
Canary so refines the Skin,
The blood's transparent from within.
That modest blush which Virgins boast,
Had long since from the World been lost;
But for strong-liquor and a Toast.
Nay,—which is more-Physicians prove,
That—Sanguin temper which all love,

172

Some Red-nos'd Drinker rais'd the Breed,
Transfusing 't to his happy Seed.

Sack makes not only ruby'd Noses,
But in our Cheeks plants Beds of Roses:
For as the heav'nly dew, first drops
Upon the Rose-Trees pregnant tops;
Feeding them with prolifick blood,
Untill they belly to a Bud:
Phœbus his Midwifry then shows,
And in green Mantles layes the Rose.
The Juice so of the lusty Grape,
On Madam Temperance acts a Rape;
Swelling our Cheeks with seeds of Roses,
Which Bacchus's heat to th' World discloses;
In those hot Beds they'l freshly last,
In spite of Frost, or Winters blast.

Then let Red-Noses henceforth be
No subjects for vain Drollery.
'Tis sawcy here our Wits to try;
Scarlet's the badge of Majesty.
Kings buy their pomp; when Drinkers have
Their Shop, and in themselves are brave.
Roses in June are only blown?
Good-Fellows theirs all th' year are shown.
A Virgins blush is rul'd by th' Moon;
Their Tides soon flow, and ebb as soon:
When as Good-Fellows never shrink
Till Death; that is, till they want drink.
Its virtues are not half told yet;
It heightens Valour, quickens wit;
The Heart is cheerd, Friendship increast;
No care, but for some harmless Jest.

173

Then let's not leave it, tho some scold,
Because phanatical, or old:
Let such grave Fops inslave their will
He who made these, will drink on still.

The RENT.

1677.

To the Honourable Lady, Mrs. Chaworth.

Or worn with cares, and ag'd with discontent;
I'm scarcely able to procure your Rent.
Tho Poverty, and Poetry may hit;
Tenants, I'm sure, it will but odly fit.
Besides a double Obligation's due;
Since I have paid most Persons off, but you.
No greater happiness could me befall;
Not that I'm quit from them, but owe you all.
Poor Debtors so (that are behind hand hurl'd,
Frown'd on above by th' Stars, below by th' World,)
Contract their Mortgages; One mortal wound
Less pain, than living to be flead, is found.
One Massy Fetter (tho its weight be more)
Is far less troublesome than half a score:
None (tho with Bracelets) would be hung all o're.
A Dungeon's easier, than at once to be
Both Stockt, and Whipt, and on the Pillory.
Thus roving Lovers that diffuse their Fires,
(New objects always kindling fresh desires)
Catching the flame, like Powder, at a touch,
Ne'r rightly love, because they love too much:
So men in Debt almost to every one,
Are so distracted, they can pay to none.

174

My several lines of Obligations due
To others, now concenter all in you.
But, Madam, as each Debt to Heav'n requires
The Stock o'th' Heart, and use of our Desires;
So mine shall be as justly paid to you;
Both in the Principal, and Int'rest too.

The NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

1677.

To the same.

My Rent is paid; but something is behind;
There I was just, but here I must be kind.
Th' expression suits with voluntary things;
And such are Presents, altho made to Kings,
'Tis true they honour us, when they receive,
But still it shows a kindness when we give.
Of all your New-year's-gifts mine is the least;
Yet none gives better, than who gives his best.
As I were studying what this best might be;
Intranc'd I fell into an Extasie.
I 'spi'd i'th' Airy Region, from a far,
A shining thing shoot like a falling Star.
As it drew nearer my astonisht sight,
Still did it bigger seem, and still more bright.
So dazling fierce its neighb'ring glories grew;
Mine Eyes I hid, unable for the view.
Wip'd thrice with some soft thing, I was so bold
To look what't were; and found it downy Gold:
The lining of the Wing of my bright Guest
A young and glitt'ring form, all heav'nly drest.

175

Fear not, it said; I've laid my lightning by,
It else would melt the Chrystal of thine Eye,
And work effects so contrary—Its light
Would cloud thy sickling beams with lasting night.
Hail off-spring of the Morning, I did cry!
Or art thou not Aurora's self, said I?
Or some Angelic-form, that hath put on
The Veil of that fair Sex? Know I am none
Of all thy flatt'ring ghesses, then it said;
Yet, tho so bright, I'm but to them a shade.
One that attends upon the Thespian Quires
Design'd to warm thy breast with nobler fires;
To rule thy Fancy, heighten thy Desires.
The Heav'nly-Muse I am, whom thou dost wrong,
Imploying me in every idle Song.
I was forsaking thee; and now would go;
But for the Lady thou art writing to.
To her I'le from the Muses's service run:
By her those shining Ladies are out-shone;
And yet they are Daughters of the Sun.
A New-years-gift thou want'st. Let me be it;
Or I'll condemn thee to the dearth of Wit.
Seis'd shall thine Humour and thy Fancy be
As forfeited; for both belong to me:
But if thou wilt me with her service grace,
Henceforth imploying me to sing her praise,
I'll from Apollo's Daphne get the Bayes.
No with'ring Springs, but such as shall have root;
Whose living wreaths about thy brows shall shoot.
Thus, Madam, I cut-doe my former use;
Then I gave Verses, now I give my Muse.

176

The VIRGIN.

Epitaph upon my dear S. Mrs. S. S.

1677.

If Dust imbalm'd inricht the Soyl,
Making such Tombs intice to spoil;
She needs must yield a richer prize,
Imbalm'd with Virtue more than Spice.
This Stone she turns into a Shrine,
Making the Grave become a Mine.
Her precious worth, like Ingotts, shines,
And is new minted in these Lines.

Read, if thou canst, with unwet eyes,
Where Vertues Darling bury'd lies.
Fair as the Sun; yet scorn'd to twist
Her Virgin Splendor with a Mist;
Chaster than Snow, unmelted tryes
The hottest beames of amorous eyes.
Her Looks, at Sin and Lust incens'd,
Like Cherubim her Eden fenc'd.

Yet if the World can imitate
Her Vertues, tis a happier fate
Than if she had left Children here.
These mortal, those immortal are.

177

CREDE BYRON.

To the Honourable William Byron, upon a Paper of Verses sent me—upon a Present to the most beautiful Ladies his Daughters.

1677.

[_]

These are the Verses.

You, like the gen'rous Sun, do still dispence,
To those that merit least, your influence.
Your Obligations have that pow'rful charm;
They need must conquer, when they first disarm.
The Favours, you so freely have bestow'd,
Are such we ne'r deserv'd, nor you e're ow'd.
The Debt is mine I own; I ought to pay;
But, like a Bankrupt, beg a longer Day:
They're brisk, and young; and can another way.
My Muse I should excuse, she's dull and rude;
Those that do write to you in Verse intrude;
Were not her Products all from Gratitude.
Presumption is a crime, but worse despair;
One errs in boldness, and the other fear.
But I presume you'l pardon the first Fault:
The Man's a Coward that ne'r makes Assault.
In such Atchievements if I chance to dye;
I live in fame, if in your memory.
My whole ambition only does extend
To gain the name of Shipman's faithful Friend.
And tho I cannot amply speak your praise;
I'le wear the Myrtle, tho you wear the Bayes.

W. B.

178

Did not Heav'ns blessings rich requitals bring,
Constant Devotion were a tiresome thing.
Our int'rest 'tis tho, thus to spend our Dayes,
Blessings to pray for, and when gain'd, to praise.
In this blest Circle you and I do move;
Your Love my Duty gains, and that your Love.
My Gratitude owns all you gave before,
And is an Earnest here to purchase more.
Yet when, on grateful Altars, Incense burns,
The Virtue's lost, if we expect returns;
And looks as Subjects should with Princes vye,
Exacting honour for their Loyalty.
But I'll with reverence wait, and faithful be;
Be noble Byron what he will to me.
Your Favours lose no virtue by delay;
You grant me those for which I dare not pray:
Oh, teach the Ladies, Sir, your winning way.
To be your Friend is such a glorious name,
It urges merit, and it offers fame:
I, from the Commons, rise your Buckingham.
This heightens me above the common view,
And makes me thus expostulate with you.

Was't not enough your Ancestors did aid
The mighty Norman, when he did invade?
Whose noble Acts increast their former store,
And here confirm'd those Honours they brought o're?
Is't not enough that this Illustrious Line
Succeeds in you, and you maintain the Shine?
Diff'ring but thus fro' th' glory they have won,
They were the Morning, you the Mid-day Sun?

179

Is't not enough the Byrons all excell,
As much in loving, as in fighting well?
Witness their Motto, prov'd in Bosworth Field,
Where Truth did their triumphant Chariot gild.
Is not that fame enough your Noble Sire,
With his six noble Brothers, did acquire?
All valiant Knights! whose Title was not bought,
But under Charls his Royal standard sought.
Is't not enough that Brittish Coronet
Circles your head, your Ancestors did get?
But you must thirst after inferiour praise,
And from the Brittish Bards too gain the Bayes?
The Civic-Garland and the Mural too,
Are by succession your unquestion'd due.
The Lawrel Crown you may by title claim;
Honour's reward is Tribute to your Name.
But this of Bayes your humour may condemn,
Be not our Rival since you are our Theme.
Noble Acquists than these, you have design'd;
Honour and Glory must inflame your Mind.
Your Inroads only into Verse are made,
Like mighty Monarchs that small States invade.
It is not worth their while: the chiefest charms
Are to get fame and terrour by their Arms.
To big you are in Verse to be confin'd:
Verse is too narrow for your worth, or Mind

But I am impudent, nay worse, profane,
To make your courtship of the Muses vain:
As tho there were disparagement i'th' thing;
When I would gladly do't were I a King.
Upon two Poles the Soul (like Heav'n) does move,
The bright and lasting Poles of Wit, and Love.

180

Nor Wit, nor Love, of Rivals will admit;
We jealous are in Love, but more in Wit.
But I offend more in this vain excuse;
Since you already have injoy'd the Muse.
She's yours by mutual choice; then 'tis not fit,
That her good Graces I should seek to get;
For that would be th' Adultery of Wit.
Sometimes you entertain her for your Sport;
So th' Players have admittance to the Court.
The Roman Consul with his Children play'd;
And Jove Sports sometimes with his Ganimede.
After such Toying she'l inconstant be;
And your attraits will make her cuckold me.

T. S.

WIT and NATURE.

1677.

A Pindaric Ode to Sr. Edw. Rich.

Great Nature, hail!
Who over mankind do'st prevail.
Queen Regent of this sublunary Frame,
Distinguish't by what ever Name,
For Metaphysick Notions I lay by,
Thin subtleties for me too high.
Such Thee define
To be the Art Divine,
Or the eternal fixt decree,
From all inferiour appealments free;
The fil'd Record in Heaven's high Chancery:
This is methinks an over-rate
Or they confound thy State;
Not well distinguishing 'twixt thee and Fate.

181

Such mystick definitions puzzle more,
Blinding Eyes but dim before.
Whose studies, like your Oxford's, seem to be
The Magick of Divinity.

Be what it will,
In me—It shews its magick skill.
Is pow'rful charms to Poetry inclin'd
My youthful mind.
Castalian Liquor did imbue
My Vessel whilst 't were new.
No other relish it will own.
Each drop that from the Dregs is spilt,
(For now I am o'th' Tilt)
Has some small taste of Helicon.
Nor herein will I Nature blame;
Let great and rich-Men bustle for a name;
We, we must raise their fame.
That's more for ours, than their Renown,
'Tis a Regalio of Apollo's Crown,
From him all beams of Glory flow;
Heroes are mighty things indeed but Poets make 'em so.

From this imperial height to which I'm flown
I tumble down.
Give me a Cypress not a Lawrel Crown!
With detestation, I espy
The Scandals upon Poetry.
Shall burning Lust be said or heating Wine,
The breasts of Poets to refine;
Is the Bay more freshly leav'd,
When with the Vine 'tis interweav'd?

182

Coy Daphne, silence break;
Let thy Rind chap into a Mouth, and speak.
Would not Apollo's Rape more grateful be
Than Bacchus Love, tho he should marry thee?
Can we produce no happy thought,
Unless betwixt a Muse and Satyr got?
Have those chast Virgins chang'd their loves,
And left Pierian Groves,
To ramble up and down,
And be like Misses of the Town?
Say whether fate is more renown'd
To be a Dutchess crown'd;
Or with immortal Glories shining round?

Nature—I cannot yet define;
More fit for some Seraphical Divine:
Tho they but Graces three, and we have Muses nine.
To wreaths of Bay they have sufficient claim,
Their Sions holy Hill
Out-rivals our Parnassus in its fame.
And Hermon's sacred Dew
Will give an Influence as true
As Aganippe's Rill.
Priests we are both alike, and both alike are fir'd
With sacred heat: Poets have been inspir'd,
Shar'd in their gifts of Prophecy,
As they in ours of Poetry,
And both have Lawrels won;
They have their Doctor Sprat, & had their Doctor Donne.

Nor do we come behind.
The Muses, and the Graces too
Have Lay-men courted oft, and yet they do,
And some of us too are to them inclin'd.

183

David the golden Age did gild;
His Harp, as lasting glory as his Sword did yield;
And he intit'led to as fair renown,
By Wreaths of Bay, as Judah's Crown.
Virgil the Silver Age did cause to shine.
The Iron Age Cleveland and Cowley had;
Both of them, alas, are dead!
And with 'em too, I fear, their heat divine!
But stay! some comfort yet does come,
We have good Poets store, as—faith I know not whom;
But this Pindarick rapture has convey'd
Me from my first intent,
I had some faint Idæas made,
How I might Nature represent.
To her I would a glorious Substance give,
Compos'd of Body and of Soul.
She does a mighty Sovereign live,
Ruling from this, to th' other Pole.
What is her Body, Muse, then say?
'Tis Beauty, that bright Ray;
The Copy of a Summers shining Day,
Just when Aurora meets the Sun.
And yet the fair Original by th' Copy is out-done.

When She's so drest
She's fine,
As when a glittering Vest
Adorns an Angel; when the Silver Light
Peeps through the azure Tinsel, that does line
The shining Robe, and makes it heav'nly bright.
Her rosie blushes shine
Quite through the Lilly skin:

184

As shooting Flame through burnt White-Wine:
The outward Stuff's so thin,
The Scarlet lining all appears within.
Her bright and piercing eye
Can by no Clouds be hid;
But quite shines through the Lid:
As Sun-beams thorough Chrystal fly.
Nay, hers excell; their light does stay,
And knows no West, no setting Sun;
Here's almost everlasting day,
As at the Poles, where Night is seldome known.

If we such rare attractions owe
To Nature's Body; then (without controul)
We must far greater know,
When we're acquainted with her Soul.
Then, Muse, 'tis very fit,
Thou tell'st us it.
It is that pow'rful pleasant thing call'd Wit.
Wit is the Soul of Nature! but what more
In troth I cannot tell.
But I will shew where it does dwell;
And you can ask no more.
Some starve it out; and so unfortunate am I!
Some starve it too with Luxury;
Some seek to murder it in Rhyme;
And some with Clinches torture it to death;
Some others guilty of the Hangman's crime,
With strong Lines stop its breath.
Then sometimes it does stay
With those who plenty know;
But they soon weary grow,

185

And it is turn'd away,
On all accounts as well content as they.
It sometimes for its habitation payes,
As when our Poets Mony get for Plaies;
Before 'twas never heard
That they did seek reward,
Unless it was a Crown of Bayes.
For if Mecænas would some favours give;
They, in requital made Mecænas live.
But great ones are our Rivals grown
In these ill-humour'd days,
As though they had suspition,
To live in no Verse but their own;
Like Nero, now they fiddle too for praise.

But where's this place of Wit?
For I before did promise it.
After the strict re-searches I have made,
I fear'd that it above was fled,
After Astræa, that fair heav'nly Maid.
'Till Friday last I gain'd a view;
And after much cold hunting too;
I did recover my last Game, and found it, Sir, in you.

The ANTIQUARY.

Upon the Baronage of England, by Sr. Will. Dugdale, Garter-Principal King at Arms.

1677.

A Selden, or Camden's only fit
To judge, and praise the Works that he has writ.
So noble structures, by rare Artists rais'd,
Should only by Vitruvius rules be prais'd,

186

Praise is a Tax by Justice-self thought fit;
And every worthy man has claim to it.
Which should as strictly be to merit paid,
As Taxes that by Parliaments are made.
Authentick praises should these Works regard,
Such as at once bring Honour and Reward.
Prodigious were the pains that brought them forth;
By nothing to be equal'd, but their worth.
Here England's rising splendors he has shown,
Till come to Man-hood in its glorious Noon;
—But now alas!—
Small are the shadows of its Evening Sun.
Her honours streams he from the Fountain brings,
Guiding the Current to the lower Springs.
Obstructions in each Channel he does clear;
As if the Law of Sewers govern'd here.
His active knowledge has the searching force
Of Spirits, that can see, and not discourse.
Strange penetrating art! to pierce, like Air,
Each close recess, and ransack all things there.
Rare Learning that reveals as clear as Light,
The secret Treasures both of Time and Night.
Which like the Sun throughout the World can pry,
And is at once to't self both Light and Eye.
In Graves (those shades of Death) now Life is found,
As quickning heat brings Flowers from the Ground.
No Marble Tombs, no Pyramids can hold
From turning like the Dust they did infold.
Names, tho long lost in Rubbish, own his power:
As Chymists can from Ashes raise a Flower.
Of Statues long defac'd, and smooth as Glass,
As in a Chrystal, here he shews the Face.

187

If any part be left, he can it own:
Hercules here may by his Foot be known.
From stragling characters in worn-out Deeds,
Th' intrigues of ancient Families he reads.
Successions vary'd to and fro agen,
(Alcides-like) he traces to their Den.
Those Families that lost themselves, and run
Into a various succession;
He does reduce to their first Marriage-Bed;
And shews sev'n-chanel'd Nile its Fountain Head.

For all this cost, but Mortal aid he brings,
As all must do, that write of mortal things.
Tho his efforts are of the strongest rate,
Yet cannot save what is condemn'd by Fate.
Stones thus, that crown a lofty Turret's head,
May pave the Ground for ev'ry foot to tread.
Marbles must moulder, Steel consume with Rust;
Crowns, with their Crowners, all resolve to Dust.
Nor there secure! that very Dust be gone,
Into the vast Abyss of Air be blown;
The sport of Winds who kept the World in fear;
Their Dust as restless as their thoughts were here.

RED CANARY.

With some Bottles of it—

1677.

To the right honourable Katharine Lady Roos, &c.

Th' inspired few, whose glowing breasts
Refin'd 'em for Apollo's Priests;
When mystick heat their bloods did fire,
Themselves did from themselves retire.

188

Banisht the mortal from their breast,
That Presence-Chamber richly drest;
The glorious Furniture all shin'd;
For with Apollo's self 'twas lin'd.
What charming words might needs fume hence,
Mixt with that neigh'bring Influence,
Whose thickning breath appear'd to be
A Chariot for the Deity.

Were my Productions but so blest,
Your Ladiship might be exprest.
But Poets now heed no such fires;
Yet still some Deity inspires.
Venus or Bacchus heightens sence,
Tho with malignant influence.
Those Dæmons now profane our Groves
With vain, or with dishonest loves;
Making a Desart of the place,
With'ring the Mirtles and the Bays:
The Fiend thus, with contagious vice,
Blasted the Trees of Paradice.
But, Madam, your illustrious name
Is both my Influence and Theme;
Refining all my Smoak to flame.
Hence baffled Poetry may thrive,
And Oracles again revive.
Its clouded beams may brighter rise,
Kindled by th' Sun-shine of your eyes,
As Persians fire their Sacrifice.
'Till th' Muses have that bliss obtain'd,
They're like fall'n Stars in darkness chain'd.
Then farewel Poetry!

189

—But stay—
Venus may prove Urania.
She may injoy that happy fate,
If she your virtues imitate.
Her Chariot then, through th' heav'nly lawn,
By Doves, not Sparrow will be drawn:
And virtuous Love henceforward boast,
You have restor'd what Venus lost.

But, Madam, 'tis too sad a truth,
Bacchus is so debauch'd a youth;
That Lees as soon will leave his Wine,
As his corruptions he'l refine.
Ill humours soonest are withstood,
And cured best by letting blood:
That hot-braind God, with fumes opprest,
Bleeds here some ounces of his best.
His Heart-blood-drops he offers here
To you his fair Deliverer;
The Stoick so himself resign'd,
(Hence owning the eternal mind.)
And thus his best Drops did prefer
To Jove, the great Deliverer.
This my Oblation may attone
For all offences he had done.
If in your Favour it finds place,
The Reprobate recovers Grace.
Your influence then must be divine;
Since, Madam, it can thus refine
The dregs of Love, of Wit, of Wine.

190

The HUFFER.

Spoken by Ant. Eyre Esquire, and directed to the right Honourable, the Lady Roos, when he acted Almanzor in the Granada, at Belvoir; in way of Prologue.

1677.

I that made Fortune Lacky by my side,
Had Fame for Trumpet, and Success for Guide:
I that did conquer Armies with a word,
Making Fate yield to my more pow'rful Sword:
I that could with a Smile bestow a Crown,
Then blast my new rais'd Monarch with a Frown.
Almanzor, I, who (by the Poet taught)
Huft more, than ever Hero did, or ought:
I now submit, and lay my Lawrels down;
But from your favours hope a nobler Crown.

Whence is this sudden calm? what could controul
The working passion of my boistrous Soul?
My breast did like some Northern Climate show,
Its fountain froze, and cover'd o're with Snow.
Thaw'd, Ladies, by your Eyes (those Mid-day Suns)
The melting Spring drops Rubies, as it runs.
My Blood, once safe under this Icy Lock,
Softens like Coral on the melting Rock.
No Lapland Spell, can temper any Arms
To be of proof, 'gainst Beauties stronger charms.
And one amongst those Ladies I have 'spi'd,
Whose pointed rayes wound more than Almahide.

Nature, and Dryden, all that both could do
To perfect Almahide, falls short of you.

191

Tho they advance the lustres of her Eyes,
Above the Stars o'th Rocks, or Gemms o'th' Skies:
When you appear, their sickly beams give way,
Like frighted Phantoms to the springing Day.
Nay I, who thought no passions me could move,
Be'ng free from fear, and therefore free from Love.
Greater than Nature, you my Heart constrain'd;
And Love has now his stubborn Rebel chain'd:
Yet not content to rest his Empire there,
It's doubly chain'd; and now inslav'd to fear.
Two strong Diseases I at once indure,
Yet as an Ague does from Plagues secure;
My trembling Fear, lest I presumptuous prove,
Allayes the raging Pestilence of Love.

The REPRESENTATION.

Upon the Honourable Mrs. Bridget Noel, acting the Part of Almahide in Dryden's Granada, at Belvoir.

1677.

Astonish'd Muse now thou hast gain'd thy Tongue,
Exalt thy fancy in a noble Song.
Thy honour'd Belvoir (that most pregnant Wombe
Of Wonders) with amazement struck thee dumb:
Thus the old doubtful Priest, his Lips were seal'd,
When that bright Quest i'th' Temple was reveal'd.
Surpriz'd alike, I silently retir'd;
Withdrew my Song, and inwardly admir'd,
That such a Lady in the Stage was seen,
Less'ning her self to represent a Queen.
Conscious of which, her Cheeks with Scarlet dy'd,
Show'd Modesty in her most Royal pride:

192

Heav'n's Face is fleckt so, when the bashful Light
Muffles her Glories in the Clouds of Night.
Mistake me not, her Splendors were not gone;
They only seem'd so, like the setting Sun.
Like him, she in her self is always bright,
Though not to us, plac'd in a vary'd light.
She may confirm the Tartar Princes's lot,
That Stories say, was by the Sun-beams got.
Her Bodie's cloath'd with light; the Sky's her Skin;
(That glorious Curtain of the Heav'n within;)
Her circ'ling Blood (like to the Worlds bright Eye)
Rounds all her World, and glitters through her Sky.
Dangers may come then by too near a view;
Her beams both dazzle may, and burn us too.
For Light is Fire, altho but thinly spread;
Through burning Glasses of her Eyes convey'd.

Mongst all those flames sh' has none that inward glow,
Nor feels the heat that warms our World below:
Cold is her Blood, as tho with Julips fed;
Not strange, since in a Snow-house it is laid.
Frost in her Blood, tho Fire is in her Eyes:
Thus Lightning from the coldest Region flyes.

Whilst the Town-scumm (those Midianites o'th Stage)
Surprize the Zimries of this wifling Age;
Apparent dangers must to us accrue,
Since real Princes here may justly woo.
Beautie's fair Goddess, and the Queen of Night,
When gaudi'st in their tissu'd robes of Light,
Tread not th' Etherial Stage with greater state;
Tho Gods themselves from them attend their fate.
Whirl'd in their Sphears (those bright Machines) they fly
Quite through the space of their archt-roof of th' Sky.

193

Nor does the simile unfit appear,
Or for this Actor or this Theater.
Formerly, when the Prophets zeals were fir'd,
By pow'rs which they ador'd, they were inspir'd.
Blest age! wherein the Oracles of Wit
Were sacred Dictates from the Altar Writ.
When Poëts were the Trumpets that convey'd
Those formed sounds that by the Gods were made.
Then from the Deities they gain'd respect;
But now from heedless Mortals find neglect:
Immortal Verse sprung from immortal aids;
Now Misses rule then rul'd the Thespian Maids.
Hence they of future things divinely writ;
Now past and present fooleries are Wit;
Poems, and Poets, one another fit.

It must be so, now thirst of Fame's away,
Quencht with large Draughts, and th' Vine out-grows the Bay.
Whilst Farces and such Vices of the Stage,
Corrupt the Poetry of this loose Age.
No Heroe, no Mecænas in these times,
For Subject, or incouragement of Rhymes.
Dryden alone, has got some Title now
To th' Lawrel wreaths, that grace his lucky Brow.
Tho neither Deity nor Muse inspires,
Her breath alone fann'd his Poetick fires.
Th' old custom is to his advantage broke;
For here he made those words the Goddess spoke.
Blest by her Mouth, they may obtain the fate
Of Oracles, and gain as long a date.
Thus his rude Oare cast in that precious Mould,
Lost all its Dross, and turn'd refined Gold.

194

She did create its worth, and made the Play;
And breath'd the breath of Life into his Clay.

The VISION.

1677.

To the Right Honourable the Lady Roos, &c. Upon the Birth of the Heir of Rutland.

This Night injoys so sweet a calm;
As th' Air dissolv'd it self to Balm.
So deep a silence all things keep,
As Nature's self were hush't asleep.
Cynthia neglects her watch i'th' Skies,
And drowzy too has clos'd her eyes.
Or is with her Endymion, hid
Under some cloudy Coverlid.
Yet light I through her Curtains 'spy,
Scap'd from the corner of her Eye.

But soon the Harbinger of Day
Chas'd all those gloomy shades away:
With Roses strew'd the Paths o'th' East,
Till Tethys had her Lover drest.
That way I turn'd my ready eye;
When I your Belvoir did espy.
(For all our Vale is fully West,
And Belvoir is its Sun i'th' East)
I gaz'd—the other Sun to 'spy;
When thence a thing did swiftly'r fly
------ than Light
Which in one moment gilds the Sky.
Gently to me the Vision came,
Snatching me up with arms of flame:

195

And me through yielding Air convey'd,
In Belvoir Chappel safely laid.

The sacred Genii of the place,
Whence it both safety takes, and grace;
Bright Off-springs of cœlestial race.
Their downy Qinnions-Gold out-vy'd,
All o're with sparkling Diamonds ey'd.
Flying about the sacred Frame,
They fann'd the ambient Air to flame;
Or from their eyes the lightning came.
After some Ceremonies past;
They sung ------

------ ‘Our Belvoir now shall last:
‘Our Habitations are secure;
‘The Honour of our Charge is sure.
Flying about, strange Musick plaid;
Their sounding Wings a Consort made,
As every shining Quill therein,
A well-tun'd Organ-pipe had been.

Amaz'd (as well I might) I spoke;
And up the Conventicle broke.
All vanisht but my flaming Guide;
Who to my wond'ring thoughts reply'd.
‘This night thou art a Prophet crown'd;
‘For Belvoir now an Heir has found.
‘The blushing Portals of its East
‘Are with an infant Phœbus blest.
‘With native scarlet he was born:
‘As Roses cloath the Chrysome Morn.

196

“This ancient Earldom boast now may,
“Its honour finds a full-grown Day.
“Great Rutland is the Evening bright,
“Safe guarded from approaching Night;
“His own seven Stars preserve his light.
“Illustrious Roos, that full-ripe Sun—
“Supplies the glorious place of Noon;
“All shining in Meridian beams:
“Like Virtue crown'd 'twixt two extreams.
“That Infant of the Sun, new born,
“Rutland i'th' Cradle, Sol i'th' Morn;
“Incirc'led with a gentle blaze
“Reflected from his Mothers Face;
“'Till her clos'd Eyes have made the Night,
“Amaz'd ours cannot bear her light.
“This makes us at this Season play,
“Like Birds of Night, avoiding Day.
“W'are tho the Genii of this Place,
“Attendants of this noble Race.
“Thy ready Zeal wee'l so inflame,
“By off'ring, thou shalt purchase fame.
“Thy Incense from the Vale shall rise,
“And crown with curled Clouds these Skies,
“Untill their Jove his golden show'rs
“Upon thy barren Danae pours.
“Thought I this Angel may say true;
“Else he is in a Vision too.

You, Madam, prove so rich a Theme,
You can make Poets in a Dream.

197

The MUSICIAN.

Upon the Death of Mr. W. D. excellent in Musick, Servant at Belvoir.

1677.

Of those five Senses that our Nature grace,
Seeing, and Hearing, have the noblest place.
By th' Eares, the Soul its chiefest bliss obtains;
And showes by th' Eyes those blessings that it gains.
Those others to the Body more belong,
And th' heav'nly Guest oft by excesses wrong.
Whose grossly humours we can serve at home,
But must to Belvoir for the purer come.
What choice Object can indear the Sight?
Above the Earth as much in worth, as height.
A second Eden shining all about;
Glorious within, and beautiful without!

Then for to please the Ears (those Doors o'th' Mind)
Where could we rarer choice of treatments find?
What wonders have I from his Musick known?
Passions to raise in all breasts but his own.
His Viol more than Magick Spells could do,
Both raise our Tempests, and then calm 'em too,
Each Finger was a Tongue, and could impart
Persuasive force, above Rhetorick art.
The Stubborn Passions he might well command,
When every Heart was in his pow'ful hand.
Here a soft charming Air for Mast'ry tries,
With Venus breath, and mov'd more than her Sighs.
There from her Bow darts forth a piercing strain,
Wounds more than Cupid, and yet brings no pain.

198

When he his speaking Violin laid by,
And would his Flagelt or Cornet try;
The wanton Air he'd in chaste measures bind,
To gentle sounds tuning th' unruly Wind.
Strada's fam'd Lutænist his art might fail,
And dye for shame before this Nightingale.
Whose peaceful Soul did for its change prepare,
And vanisht calmly in a well-tun'd Air.
But all mischances here are so ingrost;
Not th' Artist only, but the Art is lost.
Thus their sad fate the Græcians did lament;
Their Orpheus, and his Harp together went.

To my respected Friend, Capt. Shipman.

1678.

To you, as to my Guardian, I go;
To ask protection from a mighty Foe.
My tender Muse, frighted with Critick's fame,
Starts, and gives back, when she but hears the name.
She's young, and dares not hope to come to good;
Yet strangely dreads a blighting in the bud.
So little Birds, below the Fowler's care,
Most apprehend the danger of the snare.
And whilst he shoots at some more noble prize,
They hear the ecchoing noise, and trembling rise.

It is presumption in my worthless Muse
To ask your help, worthy a better use.
Yet she's ambitious, and desires to live;
And says, if you'l vouchsafe your Pass to give;
She's sure no Critick dares against you strive.

199

When I consider how the mighty Jove
Receiv'd the Token of the poor Bee's love;
Methinks I cann't but hope—that as a Friend
You'l not despise (I'm sure you cann't commend)
That wch scarce half an hour both thought & penn'd.

SPRING and AUTUMN.

1678.

To that hopeful Gentleman, Jo. Howe, Esq; In answer to the fore-going Verses.

The fruitful Trees, that shade the Southern Climes,
Are like the blooming fancies in your Rhymes.
Where Spring, and Autumn, in one season meet,
The fruit delicious, and the blossoms sweet.
You need no Guardian, but Apollo's care;
And that which makes you bud, will make you bear.
Fruits, with such early Sun-shine grac'd, must grow,
And bear, and flourish, and no blastings know.
Secure from Criticks—their sharp frosty Air
Serves but to nip your Lady-Muse more fair.
Their Ginns, and Censures are but needless found:
Snares useless are for Birds that scorn the ground.

Your youthful Muse deserves the choicest note:
So Essences are from first-runnings got.
Last droppings make but Taplash, such as mine;
Your's is the boiling blood o'th' lusty Vine.
You shine like Planets (those rich Lords of Light)
Out-braving us mean Commons of the Night.
I've scribled out my Helicon—, afraid
The Issue in my Arm has drain'd my Head.

200

Your praise is, Pension-like, on me bestow'd;
Old, and decrepit now, that does no good.
By such advances tho, I keep in sight:
Thus can the Moon gild o're the gloomy night.
The Name I've wrongly got else soon will fail;
Tho Hillocks may seem Mountains in the Vale.

INCONSIDERATE LOVE.

Strephon's Arguments to Cœlia, to forsake Youth, Wealth, and Temperance, in his Rival, and to accept their Extreams in him.

1678.

To C. B. M.

Love , that i'th' happy Age, a Monarch reign'd,
Is now by wealth in golden fetters chain'd.
His Altars once to Merit sacred were,
'Till Riches turn'd the World Idolater.
Hearts now by pairs, are like to Turtles, sold;
Love, Vowes, and Sacrifice all rul'd by Gold.
Now Cælia, now's the time to shew your worth,
And from Love's Temple drive the Bankers forth.
For whilst you seek to marry pelf to pelf,
You buy a Husband, but you sell your self.

Fat soils bring Weeds; the cleanest Corn is found
In leaner Fields, if you well dress the ground.
Tho more of cost, yet more content is had
To build a House, than buy one ready made.
Philip of Spain did to no meanness fall,
From Cloister poor to raise th' Escureal.
Scorn not poor Strephon: you may be o'recome:
The thred-bare Gauls o're-ran triumphant Rome.
Sure honour he must gain in this hard Fight,
If he retreat not, whilst a Crown's in sight.

201

He need not fear white Wiggs nor downy Chins,
Who lose their leaves, before their fruit begins.
Yielding your self to such, you must decay,
And mony lend against your self to play.
There's no more dang'rous, no more frequent thing,
Than is a Surfeit of raw Love i'th' Spring.
When Love to his try'd Stomach must succeed,
And, like digested meat, new vigours breed.
Their ravenous Love with active motions blown,
(Like Fire) consumes what e're it preys upon.
His flames yet burns not; like æthereal Fire,
Whose nature is to last and to aspire.
Days may in Winter be both cool and fair;
And Fires in coldest seasons brightest are.
Love may sometimes seem sleepy in his breast:
Souls thus tow'rds Night compose themselves to rest
But wake more fresh, and with new vigours blest.
Youths burning-Feavers make 'em restless lye,
Consume their loves in vi'lent heats, and dye.
His Aguish-heats are temper'd well with cold;
Such Loves, like that Disease, will longest hold.

See now, fair Cælia, neither Wealth nor Youth
Can true content secure, or vouch for truth.
In rich and beauteous Meads sweet Flowers grow;
His craggy Rocks have precious Stones below.
Unpractis'd Youth may lavish out Love's store,
Turn Bankrupt, and forsake you, being poor.
His Age will be so frugal not to waste
That treasure, but preserve it to the last.
No other Rival now sure dares advance,
Unless that thin-gut-chap-fall'n Temperance.

202

Although your Empire great as Cæsar's were;
A meager Cassius you may justly fear,
Abstemious Zealots ruin'd England more,
Than all its jolly Heroes did before.
O Cœlia! ne'r to such become a Prey;
Make use of fleeting Joys whilst they will stay;
Since Life's confined to so short a day.
A right Good-Fellow daily whets delight,
Returning briskly as to th' Wedding Night.
Life's fed with Love; as Men with Oysters dine;
They cloy, if not digested well with Wine.
Heightned with mirth, and Sack, he entertains
His Spouse, with various sorts of pleasing Scenes.
Wit's requisite in Love, as in a Play;
To recompence the labour of the Day.
These Virtues, Cœlia, then in Strephon chuse;
And in all others their Extreams refuse.
Though he want Wealth, and Temperance, and Youth,
Yet he abounds in Merit, Wit, and Truth.
Or if to wed without those three y'are loth;
You have your self enough of them for both.

The Perfect GENTLEMAN.

Upon the Death of the truly Honourable Gentleman, John Howe, Esq; of Langar in Nottinghamshire, my most honoured Friend.

1678.

Eyes having done their parts, the Tongue must speak:
And tho loud sighs have made mine accents weak;
That brest must yield a sound, whose heart-strings break.

203

Their griefs are most, who silently lament:
Such fires are hottest in their Fornace pent;
Yet fann'd by sighs the flame now finds a Vent.

Those sad reverberating groans that rise
Fro th' Caverns of my bosome, change their noise,
And, Eccho-like, dissolve into a Voice.

No show'rs of tears my sorrows storms can lay;
Nor sighs (those gusts of grief) blow tears away:
My life must be one rainy-windy-Day.

The Life of Man depends on breath in chief:
Chameleon-like, my sorrows gain relief
Fro th' inward air of sighs, that breath of grief.

Such signs of grief by Nature should be sent;
Since she has lost her choicest Ornament,
Her Winds in sighs, Rain should in tears be spent.

Both Nature and the Graces here combin'd
All beauties both of Body and of Mind;
Perfections, scatter'd through the World, here joyn'd.

So curious, so proportion'd every part,
That neither strength, nor Beauty got the start,
Hence Durer might have form'd more rules of Art.

Those charming Muscles that his smiles compos'd,
Were like the Net, which Mars and Venus clos'd.

Consult but him—old stories did not feign;
Th' Amazonian Empire prov'd here plain;
Beauty, and Valour did together reign.

204

Nor joyn'd they only in his outward frame;
Their Virtues in his Soul too were the same:
Like Lightning bright, but threatning was his flame.

So working in his Breast his Spirits were;
Had they been ramm'd in any breast but there,
The weaker Gun had shiver'd into Air.

His Body only his great Soul did fit:
And there alone his Soul could only sit:
Nature's right Tallies! this, with that did hit.

His brighter Virtues we cannot unfold;
Those that less dazling are we may behold;
'Tis wise to save the very dross of Gold.

What we can comprehend, we here but write;
We guess at Pyramids above our sight,
And by their Shadows only take their height.

So true a Patriot—It was his care
His Prince's and his Countries love to share;
No Favourit, and yet no Popular.

So kind a Husband, his fair Lady knew
No carriage, but like that when he did wooe;
All he did then pretend, he since made true.

So good a Parent, it may raise debate,
Which of his gifts may claim the higher rate;
Their Life, his great Example, or Estate.

He was the bravest Foe, the truest Friend,
That ever Love, or anger did pretend;
Both which, with Justice, did begin and end.

205

To all in want he favours did bestow;
His Charity, like Nilus, did o'reflow,
And made the neighb'ring barren Soyls to grow.

His Conversation pleasant was, and good,
And like to Israels heav'nly Manna prov'd;
To all dilicious, yet substantial food.

Designd with Justice, by all-knowing Fate,
To all that Fortune gives both good and great:
Rich is the Stone, that without foyl is set.

How soon our hopes were bury'd in despair?
Thus Fabricks vast require no lesser care,
Nor cost to build, than keep 'em in repair.

Nature's great Gifts he nobly did requite;
The Splendors he receiv'd, he made more bright,
His Diamonds paid, as well as borrow'd light.

But we have lost the comfort of his rayes;
This sudden Cloud our Senses did amaze:
Darkness seems most, after the brightest blaze.

Let us with sadness his blest period view;
Sickness and Pains did so his Soul pursue;
As Fate would try what a great heart could do.

Too soon his lofty Soul did mount the Sky:
Spirits too fast sublim'd in vapours fly:
As richest men decay, that live too high.

Th' eternal spark, Heav'n kindled in his brest,
By mortal damps could never be supprest;
But soar'd a Phœnix from its flaming Nest.

206

So th' sacred Lamp (that was the High-Priest's care)
Long hid in darkness, when expos'd to th' Air,
Reviv'd its sleeping flame, and beam'd more fair.

His Soul (above the Sun's) scorn'd to set low;
Its faculties ev'n then did bigger show:
As Evening shadows in dimensions grow.

His thoughts were greater, when Death came in sight,
In those approaches to his latest Night.
H'inlarg'd his Room, to let in greater light.

With sharpest darts the Tyrant did assail;
Against his Heart of proof none could prevail;
It was so guarded with its Native Mail.

Bold Scæva thus, upon his faithful Shield,
Receiv'd a Grove of Darts, yet scorn'd to yield;
Retiring great as Cæsar from the Field.

Prologue to Henry the third of France, at the Royal Theatre. By Hart.

1678.

You're not t'expect to day the modish Sport,
Affronting either City, or the Court.
Our Poet's mannerly, and cautious too,
And neither will abuse himself, or you.
Faith both are needless; since they're done each day,
By you who judge, and he who writes a Play.
The sacred thirst for Bays and Fame is gone;
And Poetry now turns Extortion.
Nay worse, Stage-Poetry seduces more
Than Wine, or Women ever did before

207

Gain'd by its charms, hither the Wits resort;
The Stage robs both the Pulpit and the Court.
The other Sex too are stark rhyming mad,
Ev'n from the Dutchess to the Chamber-Maid.
Nor do these Charms in the North Country fail,
But took our Poet both from Hounds and Ale.

His Scenes (such as they are) in France are laid;
Where you may see the ancient English-Trade;
Either in beating France or giving aid.
Such Vertue reign'd then in our smiles or frowns,
Those did defend, as these could conquer Crowns.
These Miracles were in Eliza's Reign;
Whose left-hand France and Holland did sustain;
And whose right-hand both baffled Rome and Spain.
Whilst England only could the World subdue,
Nay found a new one out, and reign'd there too;
Judge then what now Great Britanny may do;
Since now her Helm a greater Pilot guides;
Who has th' advantage of his Sex besides.
Tho here our Poet rather would make known
His Country's Reputation than his own;
Yet he may chance by Criticks to be hist,
As he intrencht upon the Casuist.
But he no Controversies sets on foot;
And thinks it better if none else would do't.
Nor tells you which Religion he is on;
May be (like most of you) he is of none.
If this prove true, he must the States-man move;
Then for the Ladies he has Scenes of Love.
And here Gallants and fighting Scenes for you;
Nay, here is Huffing for you Hectors too.

208

What the pox, Gentlemen, would you have more?
Y'are cloy'd sure with the Atheist and the Whore.

Epilogue (by a Woman) to the same Play, soon after the Royal Theatre was fir'd.

1678.

'Tis very hard, whilst Fortune was our Foe,
You should dissert us for her being so.
We were your Favourites; and none before
Lost that Preferment by their being poor.
Small cause, that you should with that Whore conspire
To send us Famine, 'cause she sent us Fire.
The Scenes, compos'd of Oyl and porous Firr,
Added to th' Ruine of the Theatre.
And 'twas a Judgment, in the Poet's Phrase,
That Plays and Play-house perish'd by a Blaze
Caus'd by those gaudy Scenes that spoil good Plays.

But why for this should we forsaken be?
It was our House, alas! was burnt, not we.
And yet from hence might some suspicion come,
Since it first kindled in our lowest Room.
The Fire did seize on all, both Brick and Wood;
But we more lucky were in Flesh and Blood.

If we be poor, what then? we're honest tho;
And that's the thing, we fear, that loses you.
If you, Gallants and Ladies, sometimes range
Fro' th' other House, it will not seem so strange;
You know the brisk delightfulness of Change.

209

Sure you, and they are cloy'd e're this: One House
Must needs be dull and tiresom, as one Spouse.
By long Co-habiting and Dowry too,
They'l claim a Title, and a Right in you.
Nay worse; with Age they heighten still their sense,
Exacting more than due Benevolence.
In extream need such usage to pursue,
Is damn'd Extortion, and ill Manners too.
For by this trick you may be half undone;
If now, when all the Misses are from Town,
Each Suburb-sinner should exact a Crown.

The HERO.

1678.

To his Grace, the Duke of Monmouth, &c.

When Wars were rumour'd, or great dangers near,
Mars then was sought, his Temples crouded were.
From, You, great Sir, & from your flaming blade,
Our Eden boasts her glory, and her aid.
Not Eden only with your beams you gild;
But, like the Sun, shine upon ev'ry Field.
'Tis duty then our Lawrels we should bring,
As Off'rings to the Pow'r that makes 'em spring.
They 'mplore, great Sir, your Influence and your Aid;
Lawrels themselves! of Thunder not afraid!

What Gen'ral e're began with more renown,
At once to guard the Miter and the Crown?
Charls is our Jove, in's Conduct blest we are;
And Monmouth is his Thunder-bolt of War.

210

Witness the French at Mastricht, who, with shame,
Kindled their Valours at his gen'rous Flame.
You were the ruling Genius of the Field;
Their empty Veins your Spirits only fill'd.
You taught 'em how to conquer, rais'd their Name;
'Twas you advanc'd their Trophies, lent 'em Fame.
Which on a brave design you did bestow;
That is, to make them fit to be your Foe.

Rais'd by your Acts, at higher things they aim;
To follow Monmouth is the Road to Fame.
Europe, at their successful Arms amaz'd,
Look'd pale, and all its trembling Princes gaz'd.
On Britain's mighty Monarch fixt their Eyes,
Whose greater Puissance did more surprize.
For English Conquests swiftly'r might advance,
Since England, more than once, had conquer'd France.
But then remembring Charles, as just, as great,
His help, as their last Refuge, they intreat.

Mons is besieg'd, and ready to be ta'n;
Monmouth being absent, other hopes were vain.
At your Approach the Gallic Flame expires:
Thus does the Sun put out the weaker Fires.
Your very Name did weary'd Mons release,
Made the French fly, and truckle to a Peace.
Swift as the Lightning, and as piercing too!
Jove thus on's Eagle at the Giants flew.
The ancient Romans did some fear betray,
To pinnion Victory, and force her stay.
She, like their conqu'ring Eagle, courts your hand,
And will kill surer, by your Valour mann'd.

211

What e're she flies at must your Quarry be;
Who can resist Monmouth and Victory?

The fi'ry Mars is pow'rful in his Sphear;
Yet loses Virtue when concern'd elsewhere:
Our Mars a general influence can afford;
There is his Sphear where e're he draws his Sword.
In such Exploits Cæsar was never skill'd,
First to make France to conquer, then to yield.
Thus Æolus with his impetuous Bands,
Charging the Lybian Desarts, drives the Sands
Into a Mountain, which his Trophy stands.
'Till changing sides, he rallies in the Air
His Troops, and then commands to sound to War:
The lofty Pageant tumbles to the Ground,
And's Trophy now is in its Ruines found.

The MIRROR.

1679.

Presented to the Honourable Mrs. Byron.

Good Fortune! now at last be fond;
And give me that bright Diamond
O'th' great Mogul: when it appears,
Sun-like it routs his lesser Stars.
Here Phœbus fixing all his Rays,
Made it but one compacted Blaze.
It is so weighty, that it's said
To be by Ounce, not Caracts weigh'd.
As tho to lessen Pride, 'twas meant
For Burden, not for Ornament.

212

Had I this Gemm (your Merits due)
It I would sacrifice to you.
Pure Incense! where no Smoke aspires,
Kindling it self with native fires.
But now, alas! I have not time
To post to so remote a Clime!
Nay, when at Agra, or Lahore,
May be, the sullen Emperour
Would keep his Diamond, I'le not try;
And yet speed better, tho more nigh.

Presents should hold proportion due
To th' Persons they are offer'd to.
And mine's a Mirrour darting rayes,
That Diamonds, and Sun out-blaze.
The Chrystal I this Winter chose
From drops of Helicon new froze.
The Glass, I, with some Art design'd;
With Truth instead of Silver lin'd.
A Lining! that rich Tissue shames;
Brighter than are Meridian beams.
So heav'nly rich! to make 'em shine
It does the Vests of Cherubs line.

Being thus prepar'd, It shows to you
An Object worthy of your view:
Wit, Greatness, Virtue, Beauty, Worth,
At once in glorious Crouds break forth:
And from two shining Casements fly:
Like Angels shooting through the Skie.
Whose Rosie-blood, Dame Nature strains
Through Lilly-cheeks, and Violet-veins.

213

Whose Scarlet, Lancaster once wore,
His Rose dipt in that precious store,
Turn'd Red, a Damask-rose before.
Her whom I faintly here express,
Your modesty denies to ghess.
Untill my Glass, being heav'nly true,
Reflects your self, and speaks it you.

The HIEROGLIPHIC.

1679.

To the Honourable Mrs. Byron, having pleas'd to send me curious and significant Draughts of her Ladiships own hand, in way of Hieroglifics.

Could I like you, my Pencil use;
Or have command of such a Muse;
All other Artists I'd out-do,
By coming somthing near to you.
But as poor Dreamers oft conceit,
Were they in fortune rich and great,
They'd live, and spend at such a rate.
So had I your Estate in Wit,
Like you, methinks, I'd manage it.
Pallas (that charming Goddess) she
Should serve instead of Muse, to me.
Inthron'd she should Queen Regent sit,
And better rule my frothy wit.
As pow'rful Cynthia both guides
Th' unruly Sea, and all her Tides.

Your drops of Ink, like those i'th' Spring
Both Violets, Roses, Lillies, bring.

214

Your Fruit-trees equal Wonders shew;
Both bear at once and blossom too;
The Spring and Autumn's both in you.
Your planted Vines, i'th' infant Stems,
Seem to bud forth their blushing Gems.
Apelle's self would be mista'en;
Both Birds and He could not refrain.
When you, with Grass, cloath fancy'd fields,
They feed those Flocks your Pencil yields,
And what does greater Wonders show,
Your Ink's the Milk that makes 'em grow.
When you draw Birds we wond'ring stand,
And swear they fly from out your hand.
Here Tyanæus Art is gain'd;
And we their Voices understand.
When you a pleasant River limm,
Your Ink's the Stream where Fishes swim.
Nature's Defects you here recruit,
And Proverbs cross, they are not mute.
Your imitating Pencil can
First form, and then put Life in Man.
Each Shadow, Rib-like, can relieve
Your new-made Adam with an Eve.
Your Art, more strong than that of Fate,
Can liveless things ev'n animate.
Your Trees Dodona's influence share,
And are, like them, Oracular.
Your very Shadows set out Light;
What is your Day, if such your Night?
Your Pindust is not vainly hurl'd;
Its very Attomes make a World.

215

You th' Hieroglyphic-Art revive;
In Egypt dead, in you alive.
Thence Learning took it's happy flight:
So from the East first shot the Light.
What Admiration's then your due?
How much is Art it self oblig'd to you?
Since Madam you can make a World and it inlighten too.

MERIT Rewarded.

1679.

To the Right Honourable William Lord Byron, upon the Death of Rich. Lord B. his Father.

Ancient has been the use to mourn in Verse;
And Poets, more than Heralds, grac'd the Herse.
The sacred heat that did their Breasts inflame,
By Muses fann'd, kindled the breath of Fame.
Hence to diviner heights did Worth aspire,
And brighter shin'd than in the Fun'ral Fire.
To Heroes only did their Verse belong;
Immortal Acts found an immortal Song.
'Twas Merit then did only purchase Praise;
Nor could a Crown of Gold bribe one of Bays.
Your noble Father their choice Skill had try'd;
Had he in those days either liv'd or dy'd.
And though I am unfit to sing his Name,
This Epitaph I sacrifice to Fame.

The Epitaph.

Illustrious Byron Justice found;
Being four times crown'd.

216

1. From noble Ancestors did get
A Coronet.
2. Then loyal Valour did bequeath
A Lawrel wreath.
3. His Suff'rings Martyr's glory found
With Roses crown'd.
4. Nothing can add to his great Story,
But that of Glory.

My Lord,

I shall not vainly mourn his doom,
Since he dropt fully ripe into his Tomb:
Yet loaded more with Glory than with Days,
Hence with my Cypress then, and reach me Bayes.
My Muse, like to its Subject, should be bright,
And, like to Roman Mourners, clad in White.
When first his Death was told, her Tears she shed;
And, like moist Lillies, droopt her dewy head.
Pearls thus at midnight fall from Luna's eyes,
But are again dry'd up at Sol's uprise.

Hail then Restorer of our Joys! shine bright,
And with thy Cynthia joyn in sheets of Light.
Increase your noble Stock: Thus Persians say
The Queen of Night joyns with the King of Day;
And, curtain'd in Eclipses, there they get
That shining Brood that in the Skies are set.

217

ARREARS.

1679.

To the Honourable Mrs. Chaworth.

To you I have such Rents to pay;
In Policy I should not stay;
If from my self I knew to run away.

Your Cottage tho is in repair;
The inward Rooms well furnisht are;
The Windows glaz'd, and Roof new thatcht with Hair.

Your Tenant clad in Scarlet Vest,
Carouzing Clarret of the best
Within the Lodging-Chamber of my Breast.

High fares he with no ill intent;
For if he starve,—You lose your Rent;
Since none, but he, can farm the Tenement.

My hopes of thriving are decay'd;
Wire-drawing Wit in Rhyme's my Trade;
And I no store of Bullion have for aid.

Small stocks in Country trades may do;
Ev'n Pedlers there deserve a view:
As little Gold beat thin will make a shew.

A smutty Fancy, or bald Jest,
Profaneness in Hobb's Livery drest,
Serve for a Session's charge, or Churching-Feast.

This will not do in London-Town;
Not trusting without Money down:
Hence are their very Lawreats Bankrupts grown.

218

Nor strange; Times so expensive are:
The Tripos once requir'd less care
To manage well, than now a Barbar's Chair.

To woo a Lady 'till she's fit,
Needs now more cost of Plot and Wit,
Than formerly to wed, and Children get.

Sack's influence once inspir'd the brain:
'Tis well if now it can maintain
Fit Reparties for th' Drawers witty Vein.

The Coffe-houses now admit
More Criticks, than the very Pit;
As prodigal of Treason, as of Wit.

Besides all these expensive ways;
I lavisht out, and writ two Playes;
Catching at Hope, I nothing got but Bayes.

Into the Country quite undone,
My Muse and I, both Bankrupts, run:
Like wandring Luther, with his bare-foot Nun.

The RENT due.

Jan. 1. 1679.

To the same.

Last years expence has made me frugal grown:
Your Rent I sav'd, altho so long in Town.
Wit is not current now; the humou'rs hot
I'th' Town, to talk of nothing but the Plot.
No Age a greater wonder hath reveal'd;
The more discover'd 'tis, 'tis more conceal'd.

219

Thus some late Poets of their Phœbus write;
His Highness hidden is by too much light.
But lest my diff'rent fate (an obscure name)
Should prejudice the title of your Claim;
I have survey'd th' Estate, and Cottage too,
In this short Draught I here present to you.

Three Storyes high, upon an Arch 'tis plac'd;
Two Windows in the Front with Chrystal glaz'd;
A double Door; the Leaves of Coral made,
Which to the House, 'twixt Rayls of Pearls convey'd
A supple Porter in his Lodge does wait
To welcome every Guest that pass'd the Gate.
On either side the Door, two Spots of Snow;
Discolour'd now, where Roses once did grow.
Two Tunnels to convey the thicken'd Wind,
Rais'd by the heat, not yet to flame refin'd.
Of Bones, the Roof did like a Cupo show;
Thatcht o're with Straw that on the Soyl did grow.
Worn thin with time; to keep out Wind and Rain,
The Cupo warmly coated is again.
The bony frame dawb'd with a mud-wall case,
Refin'd by th' Fornace of its native place.
The lower Rooms mean Offices contain,
And cleanly kept, through which the Kennels drayn.

I'th' second Story, Places choicely drest;—
And first, the Presence-Chamber, where does rest,
In fitting state, the Monarch of the breast.
The Dining-Room, where Ventiducts are set
To bring refreshments for excessive heat.
And Stoves (which wisest Nature there did frame,
Like Vestal-hearths) to save the dying flame.

220

A sacred Fount does in the Center rise,
Rich as the Spring that water'd Paradise.
Th' Egyptian Queen who quaft a Kingdom up,
Infusing Pearls into her wanton Cup;
The Draughts compar'd, ours have by far the odds;
This was the Nectar of the Demy Gods.
And looks as tho that blushing Queen of Gemms
(The Ruby) were dissolv'd into these Streams.
Hence Princes are in this rich Colour drest;
Since Life it self shines in a Scarlet-Vest.

And now am I to the third Story come;
The highest, and, alas, the weakest Room!
That once Experience would but cross the Jest,
And prove the highest Chamber furnisht best.
For Knowledge (Nature's guide) should quarter there,
And Judgment, her most trusty Councellour.
Invention, Memory, and Wit, should stay;
And all their Treasures in this Turrit lay.
But for such Guests I have no fitting Room;
Or if I had, I've no such Guests to come.
If you vouchsafe it, You must from your store
(Like Princes) send your Furniture before.

I've here design'd a Draught with little cost,
To stand a Land-mark, lest your Claim be lost.
And mighty Purchasers, for want of heed,
Oft' leave out petty Parcels in the Deed.
When Alexander did the East subdue,
(And he no Conq'rour was, compar'd to you)
Amidst his many Trophies of renown,
Summing the Audit, he had lost a Crown.

221

The PROROGATION.

1679.

To the Honoured Sir Scroop Howe, Knight of The Shire for Nottingham-shire.

Some good from Prorogations come;
Since, worthy Sir, they send you home.
We Country-men did want you more,
Than did the Courtiers heretofore.
Your presence will advance our fates,
As much as it has their Estates.
Be kind to us and no more give;
They'l suffer you at home to live.

Love is not only here more true;
But it is also safer too.
I'th' bargain they are much mista'ne,
Who pay for pleasure and buy pain.
No Popish Plots disturb our Nights;
We sleep, or wake to safe delights.
They surely find a dreadful state,
Who burning fear from Love or Hate.
No sawcy Politicks we read;
Nor shoot our bolts who shall succeed.

To Law, and Gospel we refer it;
Let them decide who must inherit.
Who, without these, thinks of the Crown;
We need not fight, nor pray him down.

We here have nothing but the French,
Their Wine their Worship, and their Wench.

222

Welcome, dear Sir, to your true Friends;
Who love you only for your ends.
For your own worth you are desir'd;
By all, but by your self admir'd.
Nay, you are lov'd by more men here,
Than you, or I, lov'd Women there.

The WELCOME.

To the right Honourable the Lady Anne Howe.

The archest Cheats to London get,
Yet London is the archest Cheat.
Most there i'th' gentle-craft combine;
Both Courtier, Lawyer, and Divine.
Methinks, their arrogance is odd,
To rob both King, the Law, and God.
London! repent for what is past;
Thou mak'st us fair amends at last.
You, Madam, and your health repay
All Treasures, it e're took away.
For all the millions we have last,
Wee here get Damages and Cost.
Your presence will decay its store;
And we shall now complain no more.
Then fit Returns must needs be sought,
For all these blessings you have brought.
Our services, our pray'rs, and we,
Long since were your propriety.
And tho all these belong to you;
Here we present 'em to your view,
Their claim of int'rest to renew.

223

Then, Madam, you can never fail
Of hearty welcoms from the Vale;
The noble house from whence you came,
Vouchsafing Honour, and its Name.
Our Joy (that health o'th' Soul) we give
For th' health of Body, you receive.
But we have better things than these,
More worthy you, and fit to please.
To make this bold assertion good;
Behold th' Elixirs of your blood.
Fair transcripts of your noble mind;
Rich proofs Sir Scroop and you are kind.
Sure-vouchers of a future bliss;
Hopes of the next Age, Joyes of this.
May Sons and Daughters live t'inherit
Both Father's and the Mother's Spirit.
Love then may justly Trophies build;
For they will surely win the Field,
When all, both Men and Women yield.

BEAUTIES MONARCHY.

1679.

To the Honourable Mr. Briget Noel, vouchsafing a Favour.

Verse , without truth, is a dark Day;
Where peeping glimpses play,
Without the favour of one shining ray.

Where Poets leave fictitious Dreams;
Apollo gilds their Themes,
Smiling upon 'en with auspicious beams.

224

Accoutred thus, He courts your sight;
And you reflect his light:
Like polisht Chrystals making it more bright.

The treasures of his blazing Mine
All objects else refine;
Your Eyes alone gild o're his Silver shine.

'Tis you out-influence the Sun;
His Charter is out-done;
You make me Poet, who before were none.

The Statue thus that Memnon made,
Was silent in the shade:
Struck with the Sun-beams vocal Musick play'd.

No greater Treason can their be,
Than your own modesty;
Refusing Universal Monarchy.

Apollo with his Troops tho stands,
Like the Prætorian Bands,
Forcing the Empire on unwilling hands.

Inthron'd you sit on glorious blaze;
Disdaining Lawrels, Bayes,
Glories incirc'ling you of your own Rayes.

Dazled to death by your fierce Beams,
We but refine our Fames:
Like Martyrs glorying in the purging Flames.

But if your pitty cool your Eye,
And will not let us dye;
Like Confessors, our Faith wee'l not deny.

223

With Roses then I shall be crown'd,
Tho Bayes cannot be found;
Living, or Dying, your Rewards abound.

I must be just, tho I am vain:
My Conscience bears no stain
Though zeal, for you, makes me a Puritan.

With all Devotion I confess
Beauty than Goodness Less;
Yet yours so great, it would an Angel bless.

Your goodness tho must greater be;
Too large for Quantity;
Since, oh, it did vouchsafe to think of me!

Gifts then are duly entertain'd,
And in a right light stand;
When we regard the Persons whence th' are gaind.

In our Inferiours, Bribes they are;
To gain a better share:
As some for Riches, barter breath in Pray'r.

When from our Equals they are sent;
They are but favours lent
By Tenants to be stopt in the next Rent.

Superiours, in the meanest thing,
Not gifts, but honours bring:
As when a Knighthood is vouchsaf'd by th' King.

Yours, Madam, goes a higher rate,
And brings a richer fate;
Since you confer'd both honour and Estate.

224

Greater acknowledgments are due;
I owe my self to you;
For you both grac'd, inrich'd, and blest me too.
Blest I must be; for whilst I rate
The virtues of your state,
The World may fall in love, and imitate.
Inspir'd thus with a sacred rage,
To be your Poet I ingage:
Then whilst I sing your praises right,
The World will be converted by't,
And I the Apostle of this Heath'nish Age.

TRUE NOBILITY.

Upon the Death of the Right Honourable John Earl of Rutland, &c.

1679.

That little God within, the spark divine,
Which does, i'th' Body, through the Windows shine;
Whose influence here dresses us up a Name;
And, after Death, revives us in our fame:
Whose sprightly salt preserves the Body whole
In all its Parts, 'twould else stink out the Soul:
Which, whilst incarnate, is exactly drest;
For Scarlet both keeps warm, and lines the Vest.
It is the Sun that makes these Diamonds bright;
Dark drops! till he has lin'd 'em through with light.
How vainly we employ our sensual Eyes,
When we the beauties of the Body prize?
Useless the Lanthorn is, and dark as Night,
When Death's cold blast puffs out the trem'lous Light.

225

Whilst tenant'd, the House is in repair,
Built with Mud-walls of Flesh, and thatcht with Hair.
But when the Tenant's gone, 'tis ruin'd quite:
And who can say Death's cold and darksome Night,
When Fire's extinguisht, and put out the Light?

Yet ruin'd Temples still command our care,
And Stones, that made the Altar, sacred are.
For common use they should not be profan'd,
But in some choice Repositary stand;
Till by some pious resolution blest,
Once more they're fitted for the former Guest.

Great Rutland's Relicks may more rev'rence claim,
Than ever yet from Superstition came.
And 'tis but just—that we to Altars run,
Whence Blessings came, and Miracles were done.
What could from Mannors less expectted be;
Sprung from Fourth Edward's Royal Progenie?
Great York to plant his Roses here thought good,
Painting their Snow with drops of Mannor's blood.
But least th' advantages of so much cost,
Should in those azure Labyrinths be lost;
A glorious Mark eighth Henry did bestow;
That future Ages might the honour know.
No greater favour could the fame advance;
Grac'd with the Arms of England, and of France.

But I disturb his Dust with these bald Rhymes!
Dust when incurr'd, Bells cease their jangling Chimes.
Yet Love, Respect, and Truth, so fan my fire;
And from their flowing stores my breast inspire;

226

That like the Prophet, they supply my Muse
(That needy Widdow) with a springing Cruse.
My Standish dreyn'd, the Fountain bubbles still;
The fruitful Subject thrives upon my Quill.
When other strengths, before their time, are spent:
As Roses, by long handling, lose their scent.

True heats of Zeal did in his Actions glow;
A warmth, that frozen Age does seldom know:
And yet his Spring was hot, for all his Snow.
Thus Fires o'th' Altar, that from Heav'n first came,
For many ages did preserve the flame.
His chearful looks did represent his mind;
Through chrystal of his Eyes his candour shin'd.
Transparent were his thoughts, his virtues known:
Through Tagus streams, the golden Sands were shown.

His Charity fell like the Morning Dew,
As beneficial, and as constant too.
His pray'rs to Heav'n, from Heav'n did blessings gain:
As Vapours, sent from Earth, descend in rain.

This was the blessed Circle he did frame;
So went his Soul to Heav'n, from whence it came.
The tow'ring Falkon thus her self does skrew
In airy Rings, till almost lost to view;
Then perches on that Hand whence first she flew.
Whilst daily crouds his lib'ral Alms did gain,
How glorious he appear'd with such a Train?
Far more than those ostentuous Pomps now shown;
Begg'ring the Countrey, to inrich the Town.

227

Whose Goodness, like their Greatness, is mere show;
Like Winds, whose Being's only while they blow.
Their Names are lost in the deep calm of death;
And, Vapour-like, their fame fades with their breath.

Had I a Wreath of Bayes, I'd lay it down;
And Cypress should my Muses temples crown.
She, and her Sisters leave to boast their pride
In their extraction, by the Fathers-side;
Lay by their Vests, spun of the Morning Rayes,
And trimm'd with Mid-day-beams, like golden lace;
Courting their Aunt, (the Queen of Night) to gain
Mourning, of that same stuff did make her Train.
Accouter'd thus in fitting state sh'appears;
Pensive as Midnight, all bedew'd with tears.

NEW LIBANUS.

1679.

To the Right Honourable Catharine Countess of Rutland; Upon the Blessings brought to that (well-near-extinguisht Family) by Her self and Honourable Issue.

Honour'd Madam,

If I'm o're-bold, Zeal makes the errour less;
For Zeal is but Devotion in excess.
If it more forward prest than you requir'd,
'Tis my Soul's warmth by agitation fir'd,
Such Zeal, and true Devotion, are the same;
Or only differ, as do Heat, and Flame;
That cherishes it self; but Zeal incites
The World, to imitate its blazing lights.

228

Praises to sing, and Powers to admire,
Are the chief Descants of the heav'nly Quire.

'Tis fame enough, that I have led the way,
And tun'd the Strings for skilful hands to play.
They may advance th' inventions of my Muse:
As Sciences improve with time, and use.
In primitive Professors, all confess
Their Zeal devouter, tho their Knowledge less.
By no Divinity inspir'd, but you;
I am your Poet, and your Prophet too.
Rare Subject! where all Poetry may strain;
And never be asperst, that it does feign.
Where Fancy most exalted, seems to be
Plain Demonstration, and true History.
It easie is for Prophets to divine;
When blessings clearly through your Actions shine.
Bright Issue, from such Springs as surely streams,
As Sol and Luna propagate their beams.

Belvoir's an Orb so great, Both there unite;
And thence your Infant-Stars derive their Light.
As glorious, and as lasting, may they prove;
Those hopeful Products of your mutual love.
Great-Rutland, with these Prospects clos'd his Eyes;
And joyfull, like prophetick Jacob, dyes.

How should we celebrate your precious Wombe;
That this Age blesses, and the next to come?
Past Ages fitting recompences found;
Bellies of fruitful Princesses were crown'd.

229

O! that your Royal Name-sake could but set
A Crown as sure, as you a Coronet!
Your pregnant Soil, rich as are Indian Beds;
Where one Rose blows, soon as another sheds.
Fruitful as flowing Nilus, that ne'r swells,
But future blessings to its Country tells.
Like Gideon's Fleece, drencht with Cœlestial dew;
Whilst tears are all the Moisture others knew.
By friendly Fate, your happy Lord's allow'd
To meet a Juno in a fruitful Cloud.
Fruitful as those i'th' Spring when blessings pours,
Upon the Earth, and Silver melts in show'rs.

Nor are your poor, by these expences grown;
No more, than mid-day-beams exhaust the Sun.
What issues from your Orb adds to your shine:
As fragrant Blossoms crown the Gessamine.
You, by those dear reflections, are more bright:
So Stars (thou seeds o'th' Sun) rob not his light.
Nay you are fairer, as more happy found:
Some Seeds there are improve the Mother-Ground.

You, than the Foundress, I should more have prais'd,
Since you uphold the Fabrick that she rais'd.
She, like Pigmalion did the Image give;
But you the Goddess are that makes it live.

230

BELVOIR.

A Pindarick Poem; being a faint draught of that most noble Edifice, with some Characters of the late Noble Founder, Owners, and their Matches.

1679.

The DEDICATION.

To the Right Honourable Jo. Earl of Rutland. &c.

The greatest Orator, and Statesman said

M. T. Cic.

(May be the greatest ever Nature made,
Where grace design'd no aid)
That if a heave'nly Guest confin'd below,
Might none o'th' shining wonders show;
The fretting secret would corrode his mind,
And, Viper-like, a passage find:
So some o'th' Wonders that in Belvoir are,
And Belvoir' self I must declare!
Tho my Description has not equal grace,
Unworthy of the Place;
It may perform its trust,
And serve to keep away Time's dust,
By closing it within this Paper-case.

Such draughts of Poetry let none reject;
Fancy is no vain Architect;
Building cannot make it poor;
Of shining Quarrys it has store.
Apollo makes, and then refines
Its unexhausted golden Mines,
Untill the Treasury runs o're.

231

Kings in mighty actions skill'd;
And their Exchequers fill'd,
Then fit they are
Vast stately Pyles to rear!
Yet Poets can more lasting Structures build.

Armida's Castle will make good the boast,
Founded on poor Tasso's cost.
Our rambling Braves advance
The empty gayeties of France:
And yet the Louvre is not equal seen,
To th' Pallace of our Fairy Queen
Spain's vast Escurial is o're-whelm'd with shame,
When we Sol's glorious Pallace name,
Whose beauties yet are in their prime,
Tho built by Ovid in Augustus time!
A Paper-building! but his Ink well temper'd all the Lime.
My Lord, I'm none of those,
Who are so vain to think
That Verse with all its Rhyming clink
Hides folly more than Prose.
Embroider'd Coats may make one brave;
But neither hide a Fool or Knave,
For gawdy trappings did expose
Esop's proud Ass born to contempt and blows.
And yet we must confess
Dull prose or Rustick dress
Conceals not ignorance nor makes it less.
Witness our worser times;
Paul's oratory suffer'd loss,
By many an idle Gloss:
As David's Poetry by Hopkin's Rhymes.

232

It matters not how we our thoughts reherse,
Whether in Prose or Verse.
So we transcribe but right and fair,
What Copies of our Minds declare.
Honest Intents
Make Love and Truth their choicest Ornaments.

In these last days
The Soul of Wit decays!
Weaker its Efforts are seen;
As is observed of the Poets Bayes;
They are less fruitful and less green.
'Tis the World's Dotage; and we grow
Less good, less healthy, and less witty too.
If Fate could any thing contrive
To cross this Rule that is too true;
This Theme would Poetry revive,
And make my Fancy brisk, and strong, and new.
Such as great Virgil, Lucan, Horace writ,
(Those Triumvirs of Wit!)
That triumph'd over Ignorance;
And by their Choice, not Chance,
An Empire rais'd; to which all Poets bow,
From their days, ev'n till now.
And never Rebel did against their Laws advance.

Their strengths of Thought were great;
Aided by cœlestial heat.
Their Brains were warm'd with praise,
Mecæna's Favours, and fresh Wreaths of Bayes.
Their Heads were heated Stills;
And Spirits dropt from Noses of their Quills.

233

But in these cooler days,
(And Winter Evenings, ah! are cold!)
The frosty humour of the Age benums
Our Brains, hence nothing flows but Rhewms;
Thin sickly Products of neglected Wit.
For now rewards of Gold
Are hard to get,
As that rare Stone that Chymists say produces it.
Who can avoid Despair and Rage,
To see
Cæsar, Mecænas, Poetry,
Confined to one Age?
The two choice Blessings from above,
Are Wit and Love.
Love gains all Empire, makes the World submit;
Wit is chief minister to govern it.
Yet both these mighty things decay,
And, if neglected, will not stay:
They bring all Blessings from above.
This, this, methinks, should great and rich men move.
Without Reward, farewel both Wit and Love.

But stay!
Before mine go away,
I'll give one struggle more.
If I expire,
My Theme can, like strong Cordials, restore
My wasting Wit,
And cherish it;
As Spirits numb'd recruit with fire.
Thus Priests when they did Oracles record;
Those Pow'rs inspir'd, which they themselves ador'd.

234

To the Reader of the following Poem.

Favour I shall not hawk to gain;
The Quarry is already ta'n.
For all that can be done or said,
I largely am before-hand paid.
The Fœtus thus is paid i'th' Womb
For all its Services to come.
My Duty then thou should'st not blame,
Nor that this Smoak attests my Flame.
Enthusiasts cannot Pleasures own,
Untill they make their Visions known.
St. Paul himself was not content
Till he had publish'd where he went.
Heav'ns glory to the World appears,
Printed in golden Characters.
This Subject ought to have been writ
From such a shining Alphabet
The Pen made of a pointed Ray,
Shook from the golden Wing of Day.
Yet shining Works upon dark ground
Will more apparently be found:
Eclipses so make Gazers run
To look upon the darkned Sun;
And yet behind the Cloud he's bright,
Ne're lessen'd in his proper Light.
However I the Story tell,
Since pleas'd I have, I have done well.
An Architect should chiefly try
To please the Owner's Mind and Eye,
But others only by the Bye.

235

Yet, Reader, if thou favour grant,
I'll cherish what I do not want.
It 'mongst my precious Stores I'll lay
For Refuge in a stormy day.
A Cloak in Summer is not vain,
Since Sun-shine days may end in Rain.

BELVOIR.

A Pindaric Poem, or a faint Draught of that stately Fabrick; with some short Characters of the Noble Founders, Owners, with their Alliances.

1679.

I must not be
A Schismatick in Poetry;
Conform I will, and follow th' mode;
My Pegasus shall amble in the beaten Road.
Thou, noble Lord, shalt be
Mecænas and Apollo too to me.
O that I could a Virgil be to thee!
Vouchsafe that I may chuse
Thy fair and vertuous Lady to my Muse.
And if at want of number some repine;
Rapt with Poetick Fury, I divine
Your Fervours shall not rest,
Till blest
With infant Muses to make up the Nine.
Let Belvoir be
Parnassus then to me.
At the foot of this bright Mountain,
Springs a sacred Fountain;

236

Whose spacious Veins continually run
With precious liquor, passing Helicon;
By which Jove's Nectar is out-done.
Each Butt's a pregnant Womb of Wit,
Where Poetry lies in the Embrio yet:
Oh, for the Butler now to midwife it!

Imperial Mount! we must allow
Another Crown, besides the Castle, to thy brow.
Thy beauty, strength, and state,
Are so incomparably great,
That Truth it self must tell,
'Tis pity, as it is impossible,
That thou shouldst yield to Fate.
It cannot then a Superstition be,
To say to thee,
Illustrious Belvoir, hail!
Thou Honour giv'st, and Title to a Vale
More pleasant, more rich, than that of Thessaly.

Those Stairs, by which we to the Castle mount,
We justly may account
Conductive to more Glory,
Than ever yet was read in Story;
Unless the Patriarel's Ladder step between;
And yet that only in a Dream was seen.
Look! how the neighb'ring Hill there swells with pride,
Because it found the Grace,
To have its place
Next to the Monarch-mountain's side.
With sev'ral Shades of Greens 'tis quilted o're,
And checker'd with delightful store

237

Of various Flowers,
The Off-springs of fresh April Showers.

Too much Irreverence would be seen,

The Hill on which the Castle stands.

To observe the Handmaid, & neglect the Queen.
The Atlas of our hope! whose Shoulders bear
A World of Beauties and of Glories too;
Or it more likely may appear
Olympus to our view.
Where Jove and Juno sit inthron'd;
With lesser Deities incompast round.
No Mountain ever nobler crown'd!
This Castle has more Blessings gain'd,
Than to be founded on a Hill of Sand;
On barren Rocks, whose Precipices fright
The Gazer from his wish'd delight.
Other mean Hills some despicable Turrets show,
Like Warts upon a Brow.
Some like Usurers are seen,
Tho homely cloath'd, yet richly clad within.
With Sand (plain Ruffet) clad,
Or, what's as bad,
A grass-green Vest, but so thred-bare,
That Earth (the naked skin o'th' Mountain) does appear.
Within 'tis true they may be rich and bright;
But, like the Sun at night,
Below our Hemisphere, their Beams are out of sight.

Our Atlas looks not shabbily and bare;
His Arms, Thighs, Legs, all cover'd are
With a rich mantle of eternal Green,
As in the other Paradise was seen.

238

Our Mountain's vast and brave;
With Nature's Architrave.
Cornice, and Freeze,
Of ever green and fruitful Trees;
Whose fruits intice
To hope, not lose a Paradise.
When Flora is i'th' midst of all her pride;
And all the Trees cloath'd on the Mountain side;
How pleasant 'tis to see them grow,
Each sort in an alternate row?
To see them imitate
The World's unequal fate?
Some Heads, than others feet, more low;
And yet they grow;
And sometimes are as useful and as fruitful too.
The Bayes and Lawrels on the Mountain's brow,
Make a most noble show.
With Conquerours, and Heroe's Wreaths 'tis crown'd,
As fits a Mountain above all renown'd.
Then on the top are seen
The lovely Walks, and stately Bowling green;
Even on the tops of Trees,
Like to the Gardens of Semiramis,
In her great Babylon,
No greater wonders could be shown.
Our Turrits too we can display;
As bright, and glorious as an Eastern day.
Glories! that never shadows know;
And look, with scorn, on Clouds below!
Our Mountain outwardly is fine;
Its Treasures through the top does shine.

239

It is an everlasting East,
Where a bright Sun has built her nest.
Rich Vale! thy fruitfulness exceeds all sense;
Blest with a double influence.
Thou must with plenty flow;
Inricht by one bright Sun above, and this below.

Who ever views in starry Night,
The heav'nly Champaign fair and wide;
With cloudy furrows plow'd on every side,
And sown with glitt'ring seeds of light.
If he survey the fruitful field,
And shining Crop around,
To tell how many Bushels it may yield;
Numberless they will be found,
Hee'll find th' attempt more vain
Than to tell Sands, or drops o'th' Ocean.
For whilst, through searching Tube he pries,
To count the many golden Eyes,
That grace great Juno's azure Trayn;
(For Poets of her Bird did stories feign,
Those thousand Eyes were Stars, her Ground the Skies
The more he looks, the more the number multiplies.
So Belvoir's wonders to display,
Is to count Attomes on a Sun-shine day;
Less numerous than they.
The glorious Sun at Noon,
When in his flaming Throne he stands;
You may as soon
Scrape up his shining Treasures, that are hurld
About the World,
And hold 'em in your hand.

240

His vast Revenues, make not poor
The Country, but increase its store:
So Vapours paid to th' Sun from every ground,
Purst in a Cloud; when th' Season's fit
To open it;
Then down the Liquid Silver pours
In fruitful showers;
And payes with interest the fields around.
Here you may see
The ancient English Hospitality;
Where all their Neighbours seem o'th Family.
Here, like the Patriarch's feasts,
Half of the World are Guests.
And so proportion'd is the care,
An equal plenty they prepare;
The Table's loaded o're with choicest meats;
And beautifi'd with delicates;
Impoverish'd is the Sea, the Earth, the Air.

Look at that stately, and yet easie pride
O'th' spatious Stair-case, light as day;
Yet easie to ascend, as down to slide.
Blest fate! if erring mortals may
Find Heavn's High-way,
But half so wide!
None then can miss
The road to bliss;
Since both the left side, and the right,
Surely does guide, and kindly does invite
To Paradise.
Wherever now I cast mine Eye,
Such lively Pictures I espy;
Methinks, the old Wifes tale is not a Lye.

241

This seems the Gyant's Castle, where
He seiz'd on all that did appear;
And being cruel, being strong,
His living Guests upon the Walls he hung.
Observe those costly Hangings there;
How lively in their colours they appear:
The Spring is in the Chambers all the year!
The Gardens above Stairs are seen;
The Lillies, Roses, Violets and Grass,
Flourishing in their native place,
Are not so white, so red, so blew, so green.
Those Images i'th' Tapestry then note,
There's Bignal got upon his Nag,

Servants Names.

Sir Charles, Tantarra, Bentley, Crag,
Has each a Persian Coat.
See the rich Furniture in all the Rooms!
Floors spread with Carpits, weav'd in Turky Looms!
Beds soft, and costly, they may vye
With those whereon luxurious Asian Princes lye!
And yet, most noble Lord, we find
They do not captivate thy mind,
So much as please thine Eye.
In each place Miracles abound!
Rich Parian Quarries are in Chimney Pieces found.
Belvoir! thou must the Worlds chief wonder be;
Since Nature is turn'd up-side down for thee.
The lofty Firr stoops down thy Floors to frame:
And tho laborious Miners cry,
That Lead does at the Center lye;
Thy lofty Roof is cover'd with the same.

242

Now we are thither got, come let us try,
If ever any Eye,
A nobler, or a richer Prospect, did espy.
If hither the great Owner move,
He need not envy Jove;
Since all's his own, that does beneath him lye.
Nor is the Metaphor too bold!
For, Reader, if thou didst behold
All his great things; thou wouldst confess
All Metaphors went less
Than these great truths, which stretch'd Hyperboles can but express.
Mind there the Valleys richly drest
With Ceres favours blest.
That spatious Corn-field there behold;
Look how the Wind ruffles its Ears!
Methinks it now appears
Rouling with Waves, like to a Sea of Gold.
Now let us Westward try,
Where we those thick curl'd Heads of Oaks espy,
Under whose shades are pleasant Groves;
Where if this rude degenerate Age,
Were not debauch'd with lustful rage?
Shepherds and Nymphs might exercise their loves.
Amidst these Groves, is sometimes seen
The Castle's and the Woods fair Queen.
Who when (i'th' Spring) she does there ride,
(The Spring's, and Nature's pride.)
Diana, and her Nymphs, are quite out-vy'd.
Hark! hark! what noise is that?
Some Hunts-man winding a Recheat.
Look how th' affrighted Herd (like to the rest
O'th' World forsake a Friend distrest!

243

There, there, the hunted Buck does go
So swift, that Swallows fly more slow.
The Hounds now follow!
Listen to their Cry;
The Hunts-men ride, and hollow!
If you trust either Ear or Eye;
Their ecchoing Mouths fright Thunder back,
The swifter Steeds out-ride the Rack
Of gliding Clouds, when Tempests vex the Sky.
Admire this gallant place!
Surrounded with a large, and noble Chase!
The Deer, altho at liberty, here stay;
And, in mere gratitude ne'r go astray.
'Tis princely, and but seldom found
Such Herds to breed; And after feed
Then hunt, and kill;
And all this still.
Ne'r out of his own ground.
Thrushes and Black-Birds in his Bushes bred
And only with his Berries fed:
Out of his vast Demesnes they cannot fly;
They hop upon his Ground, they hover in his Sky:
They were in his Dominions bred, and there must dye.
And what is more!
It has the blessings of an inward store.
Not as some Beauties are;
Foolish, and fair,
And (what is scandal now) as poor
Remotest treasures come
To make it fit for the great Owners home.
Vessels in China made,
That in th' improving Soil were laid;

244

By Artists, in the Golden age well known,
As the rich workmanship will own.
Skreens, and Cabinets here shine,
That from Japan were brought;
Such as Europæan Arts cannot design;
Nor with its choicest treasures can be bought.
Unless Columbus's traffick hold:
Who Lead, and Iron, truckt for Gold;
Or where a Bead of Glass was found
Fit value for a Diamond.
Such Cost and Furnitures as these
May make the Stranger-Reader ghess
That I must either feign;
Or 'tis a place for Kings, to entertain
Their courted Princesses.

In its own ruines 'twas interr'd of late
By violence, and hate
Of Rebels, and conspiring Fate.
No mortal force so strong could prove,
One Stone from its foundation to remove,
'Till Bombards came;
Whose thunder and whose flame
Equall'd, if not excell'd th' Artillery of Jove.
Besieg'd by thousands it at last did yield
As tho 'twas requisit,
No fewer hands should ruine it,
Than did it build.
In its own rubbish thus it lay:
Until its noble Dame
Design'd its frame;
And rais'd a Body out of its own Clay.

245

The mighty Infant grew!
Until it was a wonder, and delight
To Passengers, nay, to the very Builders view;
And did command at once, and please the sight.
The Legs, and Thighs, of massy Columns made;
The Sinews of tough Lime all interlaid;
Its ribbs, and bones
Of strong, well-polisht Stones;
And then its lofty head
(Near neighbour to the Skies,)
Was cover'd with a Cap of Lead;
Of Chrystal were its Eyes!
In twenty years this great Colossus to its height did rise.

Leave we to celebrate the Case.
Let us the Diamond adore;
For so was Rutland's Countess! nay, and more,
The very Soul of this great place.
Of humane things see the event!
As't was the Glory, so the Monument
Of the great Foundress; who might be
Divested of mortality,
Before, from her own Horeb, she to Heav'n went.
Tho Souls immortal are,
Yet as their Bodies do decay,
The faculties o'th' Soul are at a stay,
And in th' infirmities o'th' Body share.
A large, and vigorous Body, asks a Soul
Of equal strength;
Or else it will consume at length;
Because it can't th' unequal bulk controul.

246

So having rais'd this glorious Frame;
Thy noble Mother knew its bulk, and fame,
Requir'd a spirit suitable, to actuate the same.
For now hers look'd more high;
Having done two such mighty things on Earth,
To raise this Pyle, and give thee birth,
Her next great thing was t'obtain Eternity.
Yet left thee in a state,
At once both to oblige the World, and Fate;
If thou wilt her example imitate,
Thou the succeeding Age must bless
With a young Lord, as she with thee did this:
The noble Name of Mannors to perpetuate.
How great a fate on thee depends;
And glorious Causes must have glorious ends.
Thy fair Consort may,
With reason, all our expectations pay;
And we may hopeful of such blessings be;
Nay more, may claim a certainty
From such a one as her, and such a one as thee.

Little need is there to boast
Of Rarities, brought from the Indian Coast.
Japan and China, though they be
The Cabinets o'th' Asian Treasury;
We need not thither roam;
We have more precious Stores at home.
Boughton, thou canst prove this true
Boughton! the seat of noble Mountague!
The spreading Tree
Of whose illustrious Pedegree,

247

Boasts as from Eden it transplanted were;
Whether you regard the Root,
Or shining Fruit
That it did bear.
From Sals'bury's great Montacute it came!
Of whom no further need be said;
Under Fifth Henry's Ensigns he was bred;
And at whose dreadful name,
A Marshal'd Army once of French-men fled.
Nor could less expected be
From Third Edwards Progeny.
Third Edward! that in Cressy Vale,
First made the Golden Lillies pale,
To make a deeper red.
At last, those streams of Honour ran
To Boughton's Mountague, as to the Ocean.
Too large to be confined there,
It overflow'd the Banks: that noble blood
Swell'd like a Silver-streaming Flood;
Until it did begin,
Two Earldoms more, to circle in;
Of Sandwich, and of Manchester.
Manchester shall not imploy my Song:
The Truth I will not, nor the Muses wrong,
But both will purchase fame,
By Sandwiche's ennobled name.
Sandwich! our Nation's Phœnix! that expir'd
In flames; in his rich Nest was fir'd.
None ever greater dy'd!
He the Dutch-Navy, with one Ship, defi'd.
He stood the mark of the whole War!
Until our Navy were secur'd from fear.

248

Then from his Ship did Smoke and flames arise!
What nobler fame
Can add to Mountagu's great Name,
Than to fall England's Boast, and Sacrifice?

What mighty hopes might needs ensue
From Mannors and from Mountague?
Mannors,! a noble Bud! so richly set
By all advantages of Fate;
It was thought worthy to inoculate
With a rich Branch of Great Plantaginet.
Swell'd was this hopeful Bud,
With the red Roses blood,
Strain'd through Fourth Edward's Veins!
What remains,
To make it more renown'd?
With France, and Englands Arms tis crown'd!
Who better can such great Atchievements bear,
Than their great Issue, which do spring
By both sides, from a King
Related both to York and Lancaster?
Sev'n streams from this rich Fountain issu'd forth:
Sev'n Daughters hence deriv'd their birth:
Like the sev'n Planets that inrich the Earth.

Muse! thou that noble Dame hast crown'd with Bayes,
That did this princely Fabrick raise.
The Theme will rich requitals give,
If thou so long as she shall live.
Inroll'd in Fame's Records, then thou wilt last
'Till Time be past:
Till Death
Shall stop the Worlds last breath;

249

Till all its wind be gone
And vanish in the tempest of a groan.
Thou now must sing another Name,
That can perfume the breath of Fame.
That can command all praise,
And with eternal verdure bless thy Bayes.
Whose merits like her Eyes do shine
Whose Beauty's, like her Soul, Divine,
'Tis, happy Lord, thy matchless Katharine!
So much cœlestial fire
Shines in her Eyes, as may inspire
A narrower Soul than mine,
To be Prophetick and Divine.
Hence I declare, none ever was or is,
Nor shall be more inricht with bliss,
Than she, and Thou, and thine.
Were not my Theme another thing;
Oh! how would I her beauties sing?
Ere long,
That glorious Subject shall imploy my Song.
Till when the Reader may,
By these faint glimpses ghess at day.
But ah! it is not meet,
Thy Lady should lie in so course a sheet!

Each motion has a grace;
Her Presence charms at once, and does amaze.
Eyes heav'nly bright;
Where Joy, and Love are gilt with Light.
Complexion such,
As Art could never touch:
Nor Nature yet has shown,
But here alone.

250

As Lillies white, dew-drencht as soon as born;
And clear as Blushes of the rising morn.
Fresh as when Peaches first their blooms disclose,
Sweet as the Bud, new brought to bed o'th' Rose.
And yet—Who would believe this curious Cabinet,
Than Chrystal clearer, and more rich than Gold,
Is scarcely fit for th' Jewel, that it does infold?

Wise Providence ordained Fate,
(Fate! the Vicegerent here below;)
For Rutland to provide a Mate,
Fitting in birth, in fruitfulness, in show?
And such a one they did create,
Whose blood from honourable fountains flow.
From noble Campdens, and great Lindsey's Veins,
Her inward Scarlet shew,
Shall be preserv'd, whilst Time remains,
In a Succession great, and blest, and true.
Noel! that with the Norman Heroe came;
And aided his victorious claim;
Thence gaining, and bestowing fame.
'Ere since,—Great actions did convince
That Loyalty waits on the name.
True to the Crown, when up or down.
Exulting in this noble pride,
One, in the Conquerours service, got renown;
And one i'th' Service of the greater Martyr dy'd.

Than Lyndsey's Bertye what can greater be;
True Off-spring of great Vere and Willoughby?
Valour and Loyalty attend each Name;
Pretending equal claim
Fruitful in Generals is their fate,
Or in great Officers of State;

251

And must this praise command;
The Berties ready are to bring
One of their House, to serve their King;
With a Battoon, or a White-staff in hand.

Here let Pindar pardon me,
If it can be a fault;
Among such warlike company,
To make a Soldier's halt.

Upon the Right Honourable R. Earl of Lyndsey, General under King Charls I. at Edge-Hill (great Grand-father to the present Countess of Rutland) and Mountague Lord Willoughby, his Son, bestriding him, when fall'n in the Battel.

Glory! thou brightest of alluring things;
That add'st a Lustre to the Crowns of Kings;
A shining Vest, by Heroes only worn,
More rich than that which gilds a Summers Morn.
In this Attire illustrious Lindsey stands
In Keynton-fields before the Royal Bands:
Thus did the glorious Michael (arm'd with Light)
'Gainst Lucifer, and his damn'd Legions, fight.
That Act (tho great) a lesser Wonder brought;
A Mortal, like the immortal Warriour, fought,
Not much less Honour here great Lindsey gain'd;
Charles to obey, his Army to command.
'Tis true, he dyd; but conquer'd tho before:
That Northern Mars (Gustavus) did no more.
Whose lesser Fate th' advantage him deny'd
To have a noble Witness how he dy'd:
Two Armies Lindsey may for Witness call;
And crusht his Foes, like Sampson, in his Fall.
Nay, more than this! he had the brave Content,
To see his Honours Heir, and Ornament,
How (Cocles like) an Army he defi'd;
And his fall'n Father bravely did bestride;

252

As, by that well-built Arch, he had some hope,
That Noble-ancient-falling Pyle to prop.
A Posture suited both those Heroes well;
Thus Clytus stood, thus Alexander fell!
Too true! he fell before the Fight was done;
His Conduct tho and brave Example won:
So Light is borrow'd from the setting Sun.
Those charming Beauties, Victory and Fame,
Courted his Favour with an equal flame.
With Grief distracted, when our Hero dy'd,
Each lay her down, and hugg'd his bleeding side.
Where ever since, fix'd by his powerful Charms,
They are Supporters to his noble Arms.

I now must claim the Reader's Vote,
After this Prospect, nothing's worthy note;
Unless it be
Great Lord, thy Piety;
Who not content, this stately Pyle
(The boast and glory of the Isle)
Should reach the Clouds, as tho it vies
Its shining Beauties with the Skies.
And yet Heavens Gate, the House of God,
(Wherein his Oracles make their abode)
Should have so mean a show,
And then the Castle be more low;
As Heaven did downward grow.
Nothing reserved to thy care,
But to adorn, and to enlarge
The House of Prayer.
Thrice happy thou! who hadst so blest a charge!
Altho the Glory and the worldly Fame
Are due to th' Founders Name;
The Crown and Blessing fell thy better share.
Stately ought the place to be
Where a Princess is inthron'd;
And who can justlier be a Princess own'd
Than that cœlestial Maid Divinity?

253

Here, noble Lord, is only known
A Beauty greater than thine own.
Here thine with Reverence attends;
And every day rich Off'rings does bequeath;
Fragrant Incense of her breath;
Which form'd in Prayers, to Heav'n she sends.
By paying Heav'n its Honours due,
Fair Lady Heav'n will honour you;
Increasing your renown;
And on your head will set
(More glorious far than Rutland's Coronet)
An everlasting Crown.

Why stay we longer? let's remove.
Since nothing now appears to th' Eye,
More great, more noble, or more high,
Unless the Palace of Æthereal Jove.
Homeward then Muse, and Northward turn thine Eyes;
To see that lofty Spyre of Botsford rise;
Under whose sacred Roof does rest
More precious Dust, than e're was drest
With costly odours of the East.
Under a nobler Pyramid
Egyptian Monarchs ne're were hid.
Those wonders of the World, did never hold
Heaps of purer Mold;
Than what these Monuments infold.
Not one attom of this Clay
Is soil'd with any base Allay.
Whilst animated here the Bodies stood,
They kneaded were with pure, and noble blood;
Not vitiated with stains,
That now pollute some Veins.
Here's golden Sand that once inricht the Flood.

Lo! where the precious Relicks lye;
Ostentuous Ensigns of Mortality!

254

Reposited with cost and care;
Like China-ware,
To be rais'd up more shining, and more fair.
How great and stately are the Tombs?
For noble Guests, it's fit to have such noble Rooms.
And tis but just, that so great state
Attend their Fate;
Who liv'd in Palaces, when dead
In Palaces are buried.
Nor is this all!
If you will look on that Historic Wall,
You'l into admiration fall:
That we no Chronicles of those times need,
If we but these Inscriptions read.
Each Epitaph's a spatious page,
And tells the great remarks of its own age.
The noble Acts of all these worthies here,
With Englands acts, so complicated were;
As each was the Intelligence to Brittain's Sphear.
Most fit Records, such glorious Names to hold;
Whose Leaves are Marble, and whose Ink is Gold!

There is no fitter place to bid Farewel,
Than in this blessed Cell;
Where free from vexing cares,
Thy noble Ancestors, thou, and thine Heirs,
Can only dwell.
With my great Theme inspir'd,
And with Poetick fury fir'd,
Another Prophecy I frame:
None of thine here shall come,
As none yet hither came;
'Till they made up the total sum
Of Honour, and of Fame.
And only with the World shall end thine Honour, and thy Name.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

A Modest Account of the too-certain Reasons that afforded time for the following Trifles. 1779.

The ROYALIST.

Upon Creswick Dean of St. J. C. C—ordering Verses for the Victory at Worcester.

The Royal MARTYR.

Upon the Martyrdom of that Glorious Prince Charles the First, King of Great Britain, &c. Who died Jan. 30. 1648.

The GOWN.

Upon Sir Ward, borrowing my Gown.

MODEST WORTH.

Upon the Death of Mr. R. Winterburn, B. D.

The Royal MOURNER.

Upon the Princess Elizabeth's Death.

The Good BISHOP.

To Mr. T.S. The Tooth-ach cur'd.

The BEADES-MAN.

The SEAL.

The PROMISE.

Forc'd ABSENCE.

The SHOWER.

The Short ENJOYMENT.

The CONVEYANCE.

The FROST.

The SHRYNE.

Upon seeing her in a Scarlet-Velvet-Mantle.

The KISS.

The SCANDAL.

Upon Mrs. K. C. raising one.

The Vertues of CANARY. [_] Tune Isaac's Balls.

The DELUGE.

Upon the Death of R. Sanderson Esq; by the Eruption of a Vein.

The RECOVERY.

The POET.

Upon that incomparable Enthusiast Mr. Jo. Cleveland.

DISCREET LOVE.

The Resolute COURTIER.

Right COURTSHIP.

The PLAGIARY.

Upon S. C. a Presbyterian Minister, and Captain, stealing 48 Lines from Crashaw's Poems to patch up an Elegy for Mr. F. P.

The OLD MAN.

An Epitaph upon my Gr. Mr. T. S.

The MOURNER.

Upon the Death of my dear Father, Mr. W. S.

Wit's EPICEDIUM.

Epitaph upon Mr. J. Cleveland.

The DIVINE.

Upon Dr. Huit's Death by Cromwel.

The ADAMITE.

Upon the loss of a Ladies Linnens; all her Shifts and Cloaths being stollen.

The ARCH-TRAITOR.

Upon the Death of Oliver Cromwell.

The APPARITION.

Upon Cromwel's burying (by Ireton) in Westminster Abby.

— Fame then reply'd —

The ABSENCE.

The PEEK of Tenariff.

An Hystorick Poem.

Upon the blessed Restauration of his Sacred Majesty Charles the Second, &c.

The PREFACE.

The Restauration and Welcome. 1660. An Historical Poem upon the Return of King Charles the Second.

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The SOULDIER.

BEAUTY'S ENEMY.

Upon the Death of M. Princess of Orange, by the Small Pox.

THE GENTLEMAN.

THE INVITATION.

The Vertues of CANARY.
[_]

Tune Isaac's Balls.