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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,
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