University of Virginia Library

Iter Boreale.

Attempting somthing upon the Successful and Matchless March of the LORD GENERAL George Monck, From SCOTLAND to LONDON, in the Winter, 1659.

I.

The day is broke! Melpomene, be gone;
Hag of my Fancy, let me now alone:
Night-mare my Soul no more; Go take thy flight
Where Traitors Ghosts keep an eternal night;
Flee to Mount Caucasus, and bear thy part
With the black fowl that tears Prometheus heart
For his bold Sacriledg: Go fetch the groans
Of defunct Tyrants, with them croke thy Tones;
Go see Alecto with her flaming whip,
How she sinks Nol, and makes old Bradshaw skip:
Go make thy self away,—Thou shalt no more
Choak up my Standish with the blood and gore
Of English Tragedies: I now will chuse
The merriest of the nine to be my Muse:
And come what will, I'le scribble once again:
The brutish Sword hath cut the nobler Vein
Of racy Poetry. Our small-drink-times
Must be contented, and take up with Rhimes.
They'r sorry toyes from a poor Levites pack,
Whose Living and Assesments drink no Sack.
The Subject will excuse the Verse (I trow)
The Ven'son's fat, although the crust be dough.

II.

III.

Old Holofernes was no sooner laid,
Before the Idols Funeral Pomp was paid,
(Nor shall a penny ere be paid for me;
Let fools that trusted his true Mourners be.)
Richard the Fourth, just peeping out of Squire,
No fault so much, as th' old one was his Sire;
For men believ'd,—though all went in his Name,
Hee'd be but Tenant till the Landlord came:
When on a sudden (all amaz'd) we found
The seven years Babel tumbled to the ground;
And he, poor heart, (thanks to his cunning Kin)
Was soon in Querpo honest Dick agen.
Exit Protector.—What comes next? I trow,
Let the State-Huntsmen beat again.—So-ho,
Cries Lambert, Master of the Hounds,—Here sits
That lusty Puss, The Good Old Cause,—whose wits
Shew'd Oliver such sport; That, that (cries Vane)
Lets put her up, and run her once again:
She'l lead our Dogs and Followers up and down,
Whilst we match Families, and take the Crown.
Enter th' old Members: 'Twas the Month of May
These Maggots in the Rump began to play:
Wallingford Anglers (though they stunk) yet thought
They would make baits, by which Fish might be caught;
And so it prov'd, they soon by taxes made
More money than the Holland Fishing Trade.

IV.

Now broke in Egypts Plagues (all in a day)
And one more worse than theirs,—We must not pray
To be deliver'd:—Their scab'd folks were free
To scratch where it did itch;—So might not we.
That Meteor Cromwel, though he scar'd, gave light;
But we were now cover'd with horrid night:
Our Magistracy was (like Moses Rod)
Turn'd to a Serpent by the angry God.
Poor Citizens, when Trading would not do,
Made brick without straw, and were blasted too:
Struck with the botch of Taxes and Excise;
Servants (our very dust) were turn'd to Lice;
It was but turning Souldiers, and they need
Not work at all, but on their Masters feed.
Strange Catterpillars are our pleasant things;
And Frogs croakt in the Chambers of our Kings:
Black bloody veins did in the Rump prevail,
Like the Philistims Emrods in the Tayle.
Lightning, Hail, Fire, and Thunder Egypt had,
And England Guns, Shot, Powder, (thats as bad.)
And that Sea-Monster Lawson (if withstood)
Threatned to turn our Rivers into Blood.
And (Plague of all these Plagues) all these Plagues fell
Not on an Egypt, but our Israel.

V.

Sick (as her heart can hold) the Nation lies,
Filling each corner with her hideous cries:
Somtimes Rage (like a burning Fever) heats,
Anon Despair brings cold and clammy Sweats;
She cannot sleep; or if she doth she dreams
Of Rapes, Thefts, Burnings, Blood, and direful theams;
Tosses from side to side, then by and by
Her feet are laid there where the head did lie:
None can come to her but bold Empericks,
Who never meant to cure her but try tricks:
Those very Doctors who should give her ease,
(God help the Patient) was her worst disease.
Th' Italian Mountebank Vane tells her sure
Jesuits Powder will effect the Cure.
If grief but makes her swell, Martin and Nevil
Conclude it is a spice of the Kings-Evil.
Bleed her again, another cries;—And Scot
Saith he could cure her, if 'twas—you know what:
But giddy Harrington a whimsey found,
To make her head (like to his brains) run round:
Her old and wise Physitians, who before
Had well nigh cur'd her, came again to th' dore,
But were kept out, which made her cry the more,
Help, help, (dear Children) Oh! some pity take
On her who bore you! help for mercy sake!
Oh heart! Oh head! Oh back! Oh bones! I feel
They've poyson'd me with giving too much steel:
Oh give me that for which I long and cry!
Somthing that's Soveraign, or else I dye.

VI.

Kind Cheshire heard;—And like some son that stood
Upon the Bank, straight jump'd into the flood,
Flings out his arms, & strikes som strokes to swim
Booth ventur'd first, and Middleton with him;
Stout Mackworth, Egerton, and thousands more,
Threw themselves in, and left the safer shore;
Massey (that famous Diver) and bold Brown
Forsook his Wharf,—resolving all to drown,
Or save a sinking Kingdom:—But, O sad!
Fearing to lose her prey, the Sea grew mad,
Rais'd all her billows, and resolv'd her waves,
Should quickly be the bold Adventurers graves.
Out Marches Lambert, like an Eastern Wind,
And with him all the mighty waters joyn'd.
The Loyal Swimmers bore up heads and breasts,
Scorning to think of Life or Interests;
They ply'd their Arms and Thighs, but all in vain;
The furious Main beat them to shore again;
At which the floating Island (looking back,
Spying her loyal Lovers gone to wrack)
Shriekt lowder then before,—and thus she cries,
“Can you be angry heavens, and frowning skies,
“Thus countenance rebellious Mutineers,
“Who, if they durst, would be about your ears?
“That I should sink, with Justice may accord,
“Who let my Pilot be thrown over-board;
“Yet 'twas not I (ye righteous Heavens do know)
“The Soldiers in me needs would have it so:
“And those who conjur'd up these storms themselves,
“And first engag'd me 'mongst these Rocks and Shelves
“Guilty of all my wo, have rais'd this weather,
“Fearing to come to Land, and chusing rather
“To sink me with themselves,—O cease to frown
“In tears (just Heavens!) behold! my self I drown:
“Let not these proud waves do't: Prevent my fears,
“And let them fall together by the ears.

VII.

Heav'n heard, and struck th' insulting army mad
Drunk with their Cheshire Triumphs, straight they had
New-Lights appear'd, and new Resolves they take,
A Single Person once again to make.
Who shall be he? Oh! Lambert, without rub,
The fittest Devil to be Belzebub.
He, the fierce Fiend, cast out o'th' House before,
Return'd, and threw the House now out of door:
A Legion then he rais'd of Armed Sprights,
Elves, Goblins, Faires, Quakers, and new Lights,
To be his under Devils, with this rest
He Soul and Body (Church and State) possest:
Who tho they fil'd all countries, towns, and rooms
Yet (like that Fiend that did frequent the Tombs)
Churches, and Sacred Grounds they haunted most,
No Chappel was at ease from some such Ghost.
The Priests ordain'd to exercise those Elves,
Were voted Devils, and cast out themselves:
Bible, or Alchoran, all's one to them,
Religion serves but for a stratagem:
The holy Charms these Adders did not heed,
Churches themselves did Sanctuary need.

VIII.

The Churches Patrimony and rich Store,
Alas! was swallow'd many years before:
Bishops and Deans we fed upon before,
They were the Ribs and Surloyns of the Whore:
Now let her Legs (the Priests go to the Pot,
(They have the Pope's eye in them) spare them not:
We have fat Benefices yet to eat,
(Bell, and our Dragon-Army must have meat:)
Let us devour her Limb-meal, great and small,
Tythe Calves, Geese, Pigs, the Petitoes and all:
A Vicaridg in Sippets, though it be
But small, will serve a squeamish Sectary.
Though Universities we can't endure,
There's no false Latine in their Lands (be sure.)
Give Oxford to our Horse, and let the Foot
Take Cambridge for their booty, and fall too't.
Christ-Church ile have (cries Vane;) Disbrow swops
At Trinity; Kings is for Berry's chops;
Kelsey, take Corpus Christi; All-Souls, Packer;
Grave Creed, St. Johns; New Colledg leave to Hacker;
Fleetwood cries, Weeping Maudlin shall be mine,
Her tears Ile drink instead of Muscadine:
The smaller Halls and Houses scarce are big
Enough to make one dish for Hasilrig;
We must be sure to stop his mouth, though wide,
Else all our fat will be i'th fire (they cry'd:
And when we have done these, we'l not be quiet,
Lordships and Landlords Rents shall be our diet.
Thus talk'd this jolly crew, but still mine Host
Lambert resolves that he will rule the Rost.

IX.

X.

Scotland (though poor and peevish) was content
To keep the Peace, and (O rare!) money lent;
But yet the blessing of their Kirk was more;
George had that too, and with this slender store
He and his Mirmidons advance:—Kind Heaven
Prepar'd a Frost to make their March more eaven
Easy and safe; it may be said, That year
Of th' High-ways Heaven it self was Overseer,
And made November ground as hard as May;
White as their Innocence, so was their Way:
The Clouds came down in Feather-beds, to greet
Him and his Army, and to kiss their feet.
The frost and foes both came and went together,
Both thaw'd away, & vanish'd God knows whither.
Whole Countries crowded in to see this friend,
Ready to cast their bodies down to mend
His Road to Westminster; and still they shout,
Lay hold of th' Rump, and pull the Monster out:
A new one, or a whole one (Good my Lord)
And to this cry the Island did accord,
The Eccho of the Irish hollow ground
Heard England, and her language did rebound.

XI.

Presto-Jack Lambert, and his Sprights are gone
To dance a Jig with's brother Oberon:
George made him, and his Cut-throats of our lives,
Swallow their swords as Juglers do their Knives.
And Carter Disborough to wish in vain,
He now were Waggoner to Charls his Wain.
The Conqueror is now come into th' South,
Whose warm Air is made hot by every mouth;
Breathing his welcome, and in spite of Scot,
Crying—The whole Child (Sir) divide it not:
The Rump begins to stink; Alas! (cry they)
W'have rais'd a Devil which we cannot lay.
I like him not—His Belly is so big,
There's a King in't, cryes furious Hasilrig,
Let's bribe Him (they cry all) Carve him a share
Of our stoln Venison.—Varlets forbear,
In vain you put your Lime twigs to his Hands
George Monck is for the King, not for his Lands,
When fair means would not do, next foul they try,
Vote him the City Scavenger, (they cry)
Send him to scowr their Streets.—Well, let it be;
Your Rumpship wants a scowring too, (thinks he)
That foul house where your Worships many year
Have laid your Tail, sure wants a Scavenger:
I smell your Fizzle, though it make no Crack,
You'ld mount me on the Cities galled Back,
In hope she'll cast her Rider: If I must
Upon some Office in the Town be thrust,
I'le be their Sword-bearer,—and to their Dagger
I'le joyn my Sword:—Nay, (good Rump) do not swagger,
The City feasts me, and as sure as Gun)
I'le mend all Englands Commons e're I've done.

XII.

And so he did: One morning next his heart
He goes to Westminster, and play'd his part;
He vampt their boots (which Hewson ne'r could do)
With better leather, made them g'upright too.
The Restor'd Members (Cato-like, no doubt)
Did only enter that They might go out;
They did not mean within those Walls to dwell,
Nor did they like their Company so well:
Yet Heav'n so blest them, that in three weeks space
They gave both Church and State a better face;
They gave Booth, Massy, Brown, some kinder lots;
The last years Traytors, this years Patriots:
The Churches poor Remainder they made good,
And wash'd the Nations Hands of Royal Blood;
And that a Parliament (they did devise)
From its own ashes (Phænix-like) might rise;
This done, By Act and Deed that might not fail,
They past a Fine, and so cut off th' Entail.

XIII.

Let the Bells ring these Changes now from Bow
Down to the Country Candlesticks below;
Ringers, hands off; The Bells themselves will dance
In memory of their own deliverance.
Had not George shew'd his Metal, and said Nay,
Each Sectary had born the Bell away:
Down with them all, they'r Christned (cry'd that Crew)
Tye up their Clappers, and the Parsons too;
Turn them to Guns, or sell them to the Dutch.
Nay, hold, (quoth George) my Masters, that's too much
You will not leap o're Steeples thus, I hope
I'le save the Bells, but you may take the Rope.
Thus lay Religion panting for her life,
Like Isaac, bound under the bloody knife;
George held the falling Weapon, sav'd the Lamb:
Let Lamberts (in the Briars) be the Ram.
So lay the Royal Virgin (as 'tis told)
When brave S. George redeem'd her life, of old.
Oh that the Knaves that have consum'd our Land,
Had but permitted Wood enough to stand
To be his Bonfires;—Wee'd burn every stem,
And leave no more but Gallow-trees for them.

XIV.

March on, Great Heroe! as thou hast begun,
And crown our Happiness before th' ast done
We have another CHARLES to fetch from Spain,
Be thou the GEORGE to bring him back again:
Then shalt thou be (what was deny'd that Knight)
Thy Princes, and the Peoples Favorite.
There is no danger of the Winds at all,
Unless together by the Ears they fall,
Who shall the honour have to waft a King:
And they who gain it, while they work shall sing.
Methinks I see how those Triumphant Gales,
Proud of the great Enployment, swell the Sails:
The joyful Ship shall dance, the Sea shall laugh,
And loyal Fish their Masters health shall quaff:
See how the Dolphins croud and thrust their large
And scaly shoulders, to assist the Barge;
The peaceful Kingfishers are met together
About the Decks and prophesie calm weather;
Poor Crabs and Lobsters are gone down to creep,
And search for Pearls and Jewels in the deep;
And when they have the booty,—crawl before,
And leave them for his welcome to the Shore.

XV.

XVI.

One English George out-weighs alone (by odds)
A whole Committee of the Heathens Gods;
Pronounce but Monck, and (it is all his due)
He is our Mercury, Mars, and Neptune too.
Monck (what great Xerxes could not) prov'd the man
That with a word shackled the Ocean;
He shall command Neptune himself to bring
His Trident, and present it to our King.
Oh do it then, great Admiral:—Away,
Let him be here against St. George's day;
That Charls may wear His Dieu Et Mon Droit,
And Thou the Noble Garter'd Honi Soit.
And when thy Aged Corps shall yield to Fate,
God save that soul that sav'd our Church and State:
There thou shalt have a glorious Crown, I know,
Who Crown'dst our King and Kingdoms here below.
But who shall find a Pen fit for thy glory;
Or make Posterity believe thy Story?

THE TRAGEDY OF Mr. Christopher Love, Late Minister of the Gospel;

Acted upon TOWER-HILL, August 22. 1651.

UPON The much to be Lamented DEATH OF THE Reverend Mr. Vines.

Art thou gone too (thou great & gallant mind)
And must such Sneaks as I be left behind?
If thus our Horsemen and Commanders die,
What can the Infantry do then but fly?
Oh Divine Vines! tell us, why wouldst thou go,
Unless thou couldst have left thy Parts below?
If there's a Metempsuchosis indeed,
Tell us where we may find thee at our need?
Who hath thy Memory? thy Brain, thy Heart?
Whom didst thou leave thy Tongue? (for ev'ry part
Of thee can make a Man.) What if we find
(As I'l not swear this Age won't change her mind)
Prelacy (though her Lands are sold) revive?
Or Independency (who hopes to thrive,
No where suits Trump) should dare dispute at length?
Where hast thou left thy Presbyterian Strength,
With which thou got'st the Game in th' Isle of Wight,
Where the King cry'd that Vines was in the right?
When Essex dy'd (the Honour of our Nation)
Thou gav'st him a new life in thy Oration.
But when great Fairfax to his Fate shall yield,
Whom hast thou left—to fetch from Naseby-field
Th' Immortal Turf, and dress it with a Story,
That shall perpetuate his name and glory?
Where's thy rich Fancy (man?) To whom (beneath)
Didst thou thy lofty and high strain bequeath?
Tell us for thy own sake; for none but he
That hath thy Wit, can write thy Elegie.
Till he be found, let this suffice, which I
Leave on thy Stone:—Here lies the Ministry.

TO THE MEMORY OF Mr. Jeremy Whitaker,

Powerful in Prayer and Preaching, Pious in Life, Patient in Sickness, &c.

Nay, now forbear; for pity sake give o're,
You that would make the Clergy none, or poor:
We are made miserable enough this year,
That we have lost our Reverend Whitaker;
Loss above Deans and Chapters! had but he
Liv'd still and preach'd: Ziba take all (for me.)
Nay I believe had sacrilegious hands
Finger'd our poor remains of Tithes and Lands,
Whil'st he surviv'd they had but pray'd in vain,
Whitaker would have pray'd them back again,
As Luther did a young mans Soul repeal,
Giv'n to the Devil under Hand and Seal,
A Chariot and an Horseman we have lost,
In whose each single Pray'r incamp'd an Host.
How have I heard him on some solemn Day,
When doubtful War could make all London pray)
Mount up to Heav'n with armed cries and tears,
And rout, as far as York, the Cavaliers!
Have you not seen an early-rising Lark
Spring from her Turf, making the Sun her mark,
Shooting her self aloft, yet higher, higher,
Till she had sung her self into Heaven's Quire?
Thus would he rise in Pray'r, and in a trice
His Soul become a Bird of Paradise:
And if our faint Devotions Prayers be,
What can we call his less than Extasie?

On his Preaching.

If with the Almighty he prevailed so,
Wonder not that he Wonders wrought below:
The Son of Consolation and of Thunder
Met both in him, in others are asunder.
He was (like Luke) Physitian of both kinds,
Wrought Cures upon Mens Bodies & their Minds,
The Falling-sickness of Apostacy,
Dropsie of Drunkenness, Prides Tympany,
The Meagrim of Opinions, new or old,
Palsie of Unbelief, Charities cold,
Lusts burning Fever, Angers Calenture,
The Collick in the Conscience he could cure:
Set the souls broken bones; by holy Art
He hath dissolv'd the Stone in many a Heart,
Harder than that he dy'd of—O come in,
Ye multitudes whom he hath heal'd of sin,
And thereby made his Debtors—Pay him now
Some of those tears which he laid out for you;
Interest-tears, I mean; for should you all
Weep over him both Use and Principal,
'Twould wash away the Stone (which covers him)
And make his Coffin (like an Ark) to swim.
Now wipe thine eyes (my Muse) & stop thy Verse
(Thy Ink can only serve to black his Hearse,)
Yet (stay) i'll drop one Tear, sigh one sigh more,
'Tis this, although my Poetry be poor
O what a mighty Prophet should I be,
Had this Elijah's Mantle faln to me!
Oh might I live his Life! I'd be content
His sore Diseases too should me torment:
And if his Patience could mine become,
I would not be afraid of Martyrdom.

UPON THE DEATH OF So many Reverend Ministers of late.

Still we do find, Black cloth wears out the first;
And fruits that are the choicest keep the worst.
Such men? So many? and they die so fast?
They'r precious (death) oh do not make such waste.
Scarce have we dry'd our eyes for loss of one,
But in comes tidings that another's gone.
Oh that I had my former Tears agen,
(All but those few laid out upon my sin,)
Had I an Helicon in either Eye,
I have occasion now to verse them dry.
Triumph (licentious Age) lift up thy Song,
Presbytery sha'nt trouble you ere long;
Those that tormented you before your day,
Are now apace removing out o'th' way.
Yea, rather tremble (England) stand agast,
To see thy glorious Lamps go out so fast;
When Death (like Sampson) thus lays hold upon
The Pillars of the Church,—The Building's gone.
When we do see so many Stars to fall,
Surely, it boads the World's great Funeral.
London, look too't, and think what Heav'n is doing
Thy Flames are coming when thy Lots are going,
Well may we all fear God intendeth-Wars,
When he commands home his Embassadors.
That Venerable Synod, which of late
Was made the Object of Mens Scorn and Hate,
(For want of Copes and Mitres, not of Graces)
Are now call'd up (with Moses) and their Faces
When they return, shall shine; God sees it fit,
Such an Assembly should in Glory sit.
The learned Twisse went first, (it was his right)
Then holy Palmer, Borroughs, Love, Gouge, White,
Hill, Whitaker, grave Gataker, and Strong,
Pern, Marshal, Robinson, all gone along.
I have not nam'd them half: their only strife
Hath been (of late) who should first part with Life.
Those few who yet survive, sick of this Age,
Long to have done their parts, and leave the Stage.
Our English Luther, Vines, (whose Death I weep)
Stole away (and said nothing) in a Sleep:
Sweet (like a Swan) he preach'd that day he went,
And for his Cordial took a Sacrament:
Had it but been suspected—he would die,
His People sure had stop'd him with their Cry.
My blear-ey'd Muse ('tis tears have made her so)
Must wash his Marble too, before she go.

AN ELOGY UPON THE Earl of Essex HIS FUNERAL.

And are there all the Rites that must be done
Thrice Noble ESSEX, Englands Champion?
Some Men, some Walls, some Horses put in black
With the Throng scrambling for Sweet-meats and Sack;
A gawdy Herald, and a Velvet Hearse,
A tattar'd Anagram with grievous Verse,
And a sad Sermon to conclude withall,
Shall this be stil'd great ESSEX's Funeral?
Niggardly Nation, be asham'd of th' odds,
Less Valour among Heathen made men gods:
Should such a General have dy'd in Rome,
He must have had an Altar, not a Tomb;
And there, in stead of youthful Elegies,
Grave Senators had offer'd Sacrifice
To Divine Devereux: O for a Vote,
(Ye Lords and Commons, ye are bound to do't)
A Vote, that who is seen to smile this year,
A Vote, that who so brings not in a Tear,
Shall be adjudg'd Malignant: It were wise
T'erect an Office in the Peoples eyes,
For issuing forth a constant sum of Tears,
There's no way else to pay him his Arrears:
And when w'have drein'd this Ages eyes quite dry,
Let him be wept the next in History;
Which if Posterity shall dare to doubt,
Then Glosters whisp'ring Walls shall speak him out:
And so his Funeral shall not be done,
Till he return i'th' Resurrection.

To the Father of a very vertuous Virgin, Deceased; who desired an obscure Person to make an Elegy, &c.

Sir, Be advis'd; She's not your Daughter now,
But a crown'd Saint in Heav'ns great Court, & you
Must take heed what you offer to her Shrine;
You'l be profane, if that be not Divine.
Sternhold (who kill'd the Psalms, and David too
In Meeter and good meaning) did not do
More violence to Heav'n, than you to her,
If, whil'st you think't a kindness, you shall blur
Her Honour with my Ink: 'tis a disgrace
To set black Spots upon a glorious Face.
Disdain will burst her Coffin (sure) to have
Such dirty Feet as mine stand on her Grave.
Besides, 'tis niggardly to weep in Verse,
Tears without measure best become her Hearse,
The talking Book is shallow, still we see
Great Sorrows, like deep Rivers, silent be.
Were I Apollo's Priest indeed, and fit
To send a Poem up in flames of Wit,
Yet i'm but one; Sir, to her Altar's due
Whole Hecatombs of Verse, and Poets too.
Go search St. Pauls-Church-yard, imploy choice eyes
To scan all Epitaphs and Elegies;
All the rich Fancies, sacred Raptures, all
The Pearly drops which ever yet did fall
On spotless Virgins Tombs: then make your claim
Print and devote them to your Daughters name.
Those vast Hyperboles, those lofty Notes,
Which crackt the Muses Voices, rent their throats
Offended scrup'lous Readers, made them think
Poetry only strong Lines, and strong Drink,
Allayed by her merit, soon will be
Reduc'd to sober Truth, and Modesty,
But stay, this counsel is but simple stuff,
(Englands Divine) Reynolds hath done enough:
His Sermon is her Monument in print,
And hath more Honour than all Poems in't.
That doth not only speak her Saint, and more,
Can make him one too, who but reads it o're.
Reynolds records her Saint, and you may hope
That's more than canonizing by a Pope.

IN MEMORY Of Mris E. T.

Who dyed April 7. 1659.

It was the Spring, and Flowers were in contest,
Whose smels should first reach Heav'n, and please it best;
Then did Eliza's sweetness so surpass
All Rival Virgins, that she sent for was.
'Twas April when she dy'd; no Month so fit
For Heav'n to be a mourner in, as it.
'Twas Easter too; that time did Death devise
Best for this Lamb to be a Sacrifice.
It was the Spring; The way 'twixt Heav'n & Earth
Was sweetned for her passage, by the Birth
Of early Flowers, which burst their Mothers womb,
Resolv'd to live and die upon her Tomb.
It was the Spring; Between the Earth and Sky,
To please her Soul as it was passing by,
Birds fill'd the Air with Anthems, every nest
Was on the Wing, to chaunt her to her Rest:
Not a Pen-feathered Lark, who ne'r try'd Wing,
Nor Throat; but ventur'd then to fly, and sing:
Following the Saint towards Heav'n, whose entrance there
Dampt them, and chang'd their Notes. Then pensive Air
Dissolv'd to tears, which spoil'd the feather'd Train
And sunk them to their nests with grief again.
Mean time, me thought, I saw at Heav'ns fair Gate
The glorious Vigins meet, and kiss their Mate.
They stood a while her Beauty to admire
Then led her to her place in their own Quire:
Which seem'd to be defective, untill she
Added her Sweetness to their Harmony.
As Meddals scatter'd when some Prince goes by,
So lay the Stars that night about the Sky.
The Milky Way too, (since she past it o're)
Methinks looks whiter than it was before.

AN EPITAPH Upon E. T.

Reader, didst thou but know what sacred Dust
Thou tread'st upon, thou'dst judg thy self unjust
Shouldst thou neglect a showr of tears to pay,
To wash the Sin of thy own Feet away.
That Actor in the Play, who looking down
When he should cry, O Heav'n,—was thought a Clown,
And guilty of a Solœcism—might have
Applause for such an Action o're this Grave.
Here lies a piece of Heav'n, and Heav'n one day
Will send the best in Heav'n to fetch't away.
Truth is, this Lovely Virgin from her Birth
Became a constant strife 'twixt Heav'n and Earth:
Both claim'd her, pleaded for her; either cry'd,
The Child is mine; at length they did divide:
Heav'n took her Soul; The Earth her Corps did seize,
Yet not in Fee, she only holds by Lease;
With this Proviso—when the Judge shall call,
Earth shall give up her share, and Heav'n have all

UPON The Learned Works of the Reverend DIVINE Ed. Reynolds, D. D.

Reader, who e're thou art, here thou maist find
Within these Works, a rare, rich, glorious mind
Of Golden Precepts, which, alike, do shew
What's thy D stemper how to cure it too:
Do pains oppress thy Body? Sorrow Mind?
Draw near to God, Pray'r will acceptance find;
And then no doubt, he'll grant, thy Bodies Grief
May bring thy sinking soul some small Relief.
Do Passions over-top thy will? beware,
Virtue consists not in so high a Sphere:
If thou the Golden Medium wilt find,
Shun thou too high, and too too low a mind.
Pleasures are gilded Nothings, which like bubbles fly,
Swoln big with Emptiness so burst and die.
Do darkest times of ignorance draw near?
The rather view these weighty Lines: nor fear,
Nor wonder much at this resplendent Light:
Diamonds shine brightest in the darkest night.
The Merchant-man sold all he had, to buy
The rich, rare, Gospel Jewel: O then why
Art thou so backward, since that thou mayst make
This Gem thine own, yea, at a cheaper rate?
The foolish Virgins, when their Lord of Light
Past by, their lights were out: So that eternal night
Was their reward, and just, for they that deem
Pains cost of greater worth, shall ne'r be seen
Within his Courts, who is great, good, and just.
Is Folly thus repaid? Reader, we must
Look that it ne'r be said of thee or I,
That our Neglect should cause our light to die.

Another.

Look wishly (friend) thou seldom seest such men
Heav'n drops such Jewels down but now and then,
One in an Age, or Nation: oh 'tis rare,
Two Reynoldses should fall to Englands share!
Could Rome but shew one such, and this were He,
His Picture could not scape Idolatry:
Whom Papists (not with Superstitious Fire)
Would dare t' adore, we justly may admire.

Aliud.

Learning, whose Forces did dispersed lie
(Of late alarm'd by the Enemy)
Calling a Councel, did resolve at length,
To chuse one General over all her strength:
Divinity (who had the choice) did Name
Reynolds? All Voices center'd in the same:
Now here he stands and heads such Books as bear
Truth in their Van, and Triumph in their Rear.

AN EPITAPH For a Godly Mans Tomb.

Here lies a piece of Christ, a Star in Dust;
A Vein of Gold, a China Dish that must
Be us'd in Heav'n, when God shall Feast the Just.

AN EPITAPH For a Wicked Mans Tomb.

Here lies the Carkase of a cursed Sinner,
Doom'd to be Roasted, for the Devil's Dinner.

[From a kind Hand there came t' enrich a place]

From a kind Hand there came t' enrich a place
In my poor Study,—the rare Works and Face
Of Learned Reverend Reynolds—I receive
The Book with joy—but no Gift (by your leave)
And for the Book, and for my self, I vow
I ne'r had Piece could make me Preach till now:
I'll pay for't (Sir) And—(which I ne'r shall do)
When I can write such—you shall print them too.
Mean time I prophesie, this Volume will
Make both your Rose and Crown to flourish still.

Alas poor Scholar,
VVhither wilt thou go?

OR
Strange Alterations which at this time be,
There's many did think they never should see.

THE Norfolk and Wisbich.

COCK-FIGHT.

Go you tame Gallants, you that have a Name,
And would accounted be Cocks of the Game;
That have brave Spurs to shew for't, and can crow,
And count all Dunghil-breed, that cannot show
Such painted plumes as yours; which think't no vice
With Cock-like lust to tread your Cockatrice;
Though Peacocks, Weathercocks, Woodcocks you be,
If y'are not Fighting Cocks, y'are not for me.
I of two feathered Combatants will write;
And he that means to th' life to express their Fight,
[OMITTED] his Ink the blood which they did spill,
[OMITTED] their dying Wings must take his quill.
No [OMITTED] were the doubtful People set,
The Match made up, and all that would had bet;
But straight the skilful Judges of the Play
Brought forth their sharp-heel'd Warriors; & they
Were both in Linnen Bags, as if 'twere meet
Before they dy'd, to have their Winding-sheet.
Into the Pit they'r brought, and being there
Upon the Stage, the Norfolk Chanticleer
Looks stoutly at his ne'r-before-seen Foe,
And like a Challenger began to crow,
And clap his Wings, as if he would display
His Warlike colours, which were black and gray.
Mean time the wary Wisbich walks and breathes
His active Body, and in fury wreaths
His comely Crest; and often looking down,
He beats his angry Beak upon the ground.
This done, they meet, not like that coward Breed
Of Æsope's these can better fight then feed:
They scorn the Dunghil; 'tis their only prize
To dig for Pearls within each others Eyes.
They fought so nimbly, that 'twas hard to know,
To th' skilful, whether they did fight or no;
If that the blood which dy'd the fatal floor,
Had not born witness of't. Yet fought they more,
As if each wound were but a Spur to prick
Their fury forward. Lightnings not more quick
Or red, then were their Eyes: 'Twas hard to know
Whether 'twas blood, or anger made them so.
I'm sure they had been out, had they not stood
More safe, being walled in each others blood.
Thus they vy'd blows; but yet, alas, at length,
Although their courage were ful tri'd, their strength
And blood began to ebb. You that have seen
A Watry Combat on the Sea, between
Two angry-roaring-boiling Billows, how
They march, and meet, and dash their curled brow;
Swelling like graves, as though they did intend
T'intomb each other, ere the quarrel end;
But when the wind is down, and blustring weather,
They are made friends, & sweetly run together;
May think these Champions such: their bloodgrows low
And they which leap'd but now, now scarce can go
For having left th' advantage of the Heel,
Drunk with each others blood, they only reel;
And yet they would fain fight: they came so near,
Methought they meant into each others ear
To whisper wounds; and when they could not rise
They lay and look'd blows int' each others eyes.
But now the Tragick part! After this fit,
When Norfolk Cock had got the best of it,
And Wisbich lay a dying, so that none,
Though sober, but might venture seven to one,
Contracting, like a dying Taper, all
His strength, intending with the blow to fall,
He struggles up, and having taken wind,
Ventures a blow, and strikes the other blind.
And now poor Norfolk, having lost his Eyes,
Fights guided only by Antipathies:
With him, alas! the Proverb is not true,
The blows his Eyes ne'r saw, his heart must rue.
At last, by chance, he stumbling on his Foe,
Not having any strength to give a blow,
He falls upon him with his wounded Head,
And makes his Conquerors wings his Featherbed.
His friends ran in, and being very chary,
Sent in all haste to call a Pothecary:
But all in vain, his body did so blister,
That 'twas not capable of any Clyster.
Physick's in vain, and 'twill not him restore;
Alas poor Cock, he was let blood before
Then finding himself weak, op'ning his Bill,
He calls a Scrivener, and thus makes his Will;
Imp. First of all, let never be forgot,
My Body freely I bequeath to th' Pot,
Decently to be boyl'd; and for its Tomb,
Let it be buried in some hungry Womb,
Item, For Executors I'll have none,
But he that on my side laid seven to one;
And, like a Gentleman that he may live,
To him, and to his Heirs, my Comb I give,
Together with my Brains, that all may know,
That oftentimes his Brains did use to crow.
Item, For Comfort of those Weaker ones
Whose wives complain of, let them have my Stones
For Ladies that are light, it is my Will,
My Feathers make a Fan. And for my Bill;
I'll give a Taylor: But 'faith 'tis so short,
I am afraid, he'll rather curse me for't.
And for that worthy Doctor's sake, who meant
To give me a Clyster, let my Rump be sent.
Lastly, because I find my self decay,
I yield, and give to Wisbich Cock the day.

UPON THE DEATH OF Dennis Bond, Esq;

Who died four Dayes before the LORD PROTECTOR.

Now whil'st Whitehall wears black, and men do fear
'Tis Treason any Colour else to wear;
Whilst Mourners, like a flock of Crows, resort
To the great Lion's Carcase, at the Court;
Whilst the sad Members of the Tother House
(That Mountain wch last year brought forth a Mouse)
Lament his Fall, who Madam'd all their Wives,
And Thurloe wishes he had had nine Lives;
Whilst some lament, he dy'd without an Ax,
And fear the Funeral will cost Tax;
Whilst cunning Scotland counterfeits a Groan,
And Ireland cudgell'd into her Alone;
Whilst England puts her Finger in her Eye,
And Welchmen use their Leeks to make them cry;
Whilst Grief doth chime All-in, and every Tribe
Eycleped, Mayor and Aldermen, subscribe
(Or make their Marks at least) how ful of Sadness
That Oliver is dead, and eke of gladness
That Richard reigns! though the Slaves lie, I fear,
For their old Gowns are lin'd with Cavalier:
Whilst the sad Poetasters of the times
Plaister the Hearse with miserable Rhymes,
And I, poor Man, might mend my Fortune too,
As sure as ever Lord Hewson mended Shoo,
If I could baste my Muse, and make her go:
I, by that great Ghosts leave, am well content
To wait upon a meaner Monument;
Yet fit to stand by this, if not above,
As having, though less Pomp, yet no less Love;
'Tis Dennis Bond, that true bred English Squire,
Whose worth, if my rude Fancy should aspire
To reach the Sinews; just, pious, valiant wise,
Able for Counsel or for Enterprize;
Fit to set Cato Copies, if alive,
Able to make a Bankrupt Nation thrive;
Th' Alchimy of whose single Judgement could
Convert a Leaden Councel into Gold.
Atlas of State! oh! if King Charls that's gone,
In stead of Digby and old Cottington,
Had had one Dennis; he had stood till now,
And kept the Crown fast on his Royal Brow.
Cromwel could not out-live him; so our State
In one week lost their Pilot, and his Mate:
And though he dy'd in's Bed, 'tis not deny'd;
Yet was his Head struck off when Dennis dy'd.
Adieu, brave Bond! My aged Muse shall burn
Her with'red Lawrel at thy sacred Urn.
Live thine own Monument, and scorn a Stone;
Marbles themselves have flaws, thy Name has none
That plat of Earth which grasps thee in her womb,
Proud of such Treasure, swells into a Tomb.
When the next Parliament together come,
And miss their Western Patriot from his room,
Despairing that their Meeting will not speed,
Grief will dissolve them, no Protector need.

Upon some Bottles of Sack and Claret, laid in Sand, and covered with a Sheet.

Enter, and see this Tomb (Sirs) do not fear
No Spirits, but of Wine, will fright you here:
Weep o're this Tomb, your Sorrows here may have
Wine for their sweet Companions in the Grave.
A dozen Shakespears here interr'd do lie;
Two dozen Johnsons full of Poetry.
Did not the Mother Hogshead, from whose womb
These Babes sprang forth, burst when she saw this Tomb,
And swell with grief? Did not the Butler sink,
To see himself turn Sexton to his Drink?
'Twere commendable Sacriledge, no doubt,
Could I come at your Grave, to steal you out:
Howe'er, from this thy anxious Grave I will
Some virtuous Ashes take, wherewith I'll fill
The Glass I preach by; for I must be just,
There lies Divinity within thy Dust.
Unhappy Grape, could not one pressing do,
But now alive you must be buryed too?
Sleep on, but scorn to die, immortal Liquer:
The burying of thee thus will make thee quicker:
Mean while thy Friends prayloud, that thou maist hive
A speedy Resurrection from the Grave,

AN ESSAY Upon the late VICTORY obtained by His Royal Highness the Duke of York,

Against the DUTCH, upon June 3. 1665. By the Author of Iter Boreale.

To the KING.

Great Sir, Belov'd of God and Man, admit
My Loyal zeal to run before my Wit.
This is my Pens miscarriage, not a Birth;
Her haste hath made her bring blind Puppies forth,
My aims in this attempt, are to provoke,
And kindle flames more Noble by my smoak;
My wisp of straw may set great Wood on Fire,
And my weak Breath Your Organs may inspire.
Amongst those Flags y'have taken from the Dutch,
Command your Denham to hang up his Crutch,
He is a man both of his Hands and Feet,
And with great numbers can your Navy meet,
His quicker Eye Your Conquest can survey;
His Hand, York's Temples Crown with flourishing Bay
Waller (great Poet and true Prophet too)
Whose curious Pencil in Rich Colours drew
The Type of this grand Triumph for your view,
(The Fishers (like their Herrings) bleeding new)
With the same hand shal give the World the Sights
Of what it must expect when England Fights.
That Son and Heir of Pindars Muse and Fame,
Your modest Cowley, with Your breath will flame,
And make those Belgick Beasts, who live aspire
To fall your Sacrifice in his pure Fire.
He shall proclaim Our JAMES great Neptune's Wonder,
And, like a Jove, Fighting in Clouds and Thunder.

THE GRATEFUL NON-CONFORMIST:

OR, Return of Thanks to Sir J. B. Knight who sent the Author Ten CROWNS 1665.

A POEM UPON THE Imprisonment OF MR. CALAMY In NEWGATE.

Now Sir, you find our sufferitgs do agree,
One Bishop clapt up you, another me:
But oh! the difference too is very great,
You are allow'd to walk, to drink and eat,
I want them all, and never a penny get.
And though you be debarr'd your liberty,
Yet all your Visitors I hope are free,
Good Men, good Women, and good Angels come
And make your Prison better then your home.
Now may it be so till your foes repent
They gave you such a rich Imprisonment.
May for the greater comfort of your lives,
Your lying in be better then your Wives.
May you a thousand friendly papers see,
And none prove empty, except this from me.
And if you stay may I come keep your door,
Then farewel Parsonage, I shall ne'r be poor.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. CALAMY,

Not known to the Author of a long time after. Anno 1667.

The EPITAPH.

Here a poor Minister of Christ doth lie,
Who did INDEED a Bishoprick deny.
When his Lord comes, then, then the World shall see
Such humble Ones, the rising-Men shall be.
How many Saints whom he had sent before,
Shouted to see him enter Heavens door:
There his blest Soul beholds the face of God,
While we below groan out our Ichabod.
Under his burned-Church his Body lies,
But shall it self a glorious Temple rise:
May his kind flock when a new Church they make,
Call it St. Edmundsbury for his sake.

THE Loyal-Nonconformist;

OR An Account what he dare swear and what he dare not swear.

THE RECANTATION Of A Penitent Proteus;

OR, The Changling.

THE PORING DOCTOR,

OR The Gross mistake of a Reverend Son of the Church, in bowing at the name of Judas at St. Pauls, November 5. 1663.

THE FAIR QUARREL.

By way of Letter, Between Mr. Wanley, a Son of the Church; and Dr. Wilde, a Nonconformist.

[1.]

Mr. Nathan Wanley to Dr. Wild, who was laid aside for Nonconformity.

So the bright Taper useless burns
To private and recluded Urns.
So Pearls themselves to shels confine,
And Gems in the Seas bottom shine,
As thou my WILD while thou dost lye
Huddled up in thy privacy,
And only now and then dost send
A Letter to thy private Friend;
Take once again thy Lyre, and so
Let thy selected Numbers flow,
As when thy solemn Muse did prove
To sing the Funeral of Love;
Or, as when with the Trump of fame
Thou didst sound forth great George's name,
In such a strain, as might it be,
Did speak thy self as great as he.
For while great Cowley seeks the shade,
And Denham's noble Wit's mislaid;
When Davnant's weary Quill lies by,
And yeelds no more of Lumbardy;
While the sweet Virgin Muses be
By Wild led int' a Nunnerie;
While thus Apollo's Priests retire,
The Females do begin t' aspire,
Pretending they have found a flaw
In great Apollo's Salique Law;
These grasp at Lawrel, only due
To such as I have nam'd, and you.

Dr. Wild to the Ingenious Mr. Wanley.

2.

Mr. Wanley to Dr. Wild.

Dr. Wild to Mr. Wanley.