The works of Mr. John Cleveland containing his poems, orations, epistles, collected into one volume, with the life of the author.

SECT. I. Containing Love-Poems.

Fuscara or the Bee Errant.

NAture's Confectioner the Bee, (Whose Suckets are moist Alchimy; The Still of his refining Mold Minting the Garden into Gold) Having rifled all the Fields Of what Dainties Flora yields. Ambitious now to take Excise Of a more fragrant Paradise, At my Fuscara's sleeve arriv'd, Where all delicious. Sweets are hiv'd. The Airy Free-booter distrains First on the Violet of her Veins,

Whose Tincture could it be more pure, His ravenous kiss had made it blewer. Here did he sit, and Essence quaff, Till her coý P•…•…lse had beat him off; That Pulse, which he that feels may know Whether the World's long liv'd, or no. The •…•…xt he pre•…•… on is her Palm, That Alm'ner of transpiring Balm; So soft, 'tis Air but once remov'd, Tender, as 'twere a Jelly glov'd. Here, while his canting Drone-pipe scan'd The my stick Figures of her hand, He tipples Palmestry, and dines On all her Fortune-telling Lines: He bathes in Bliss, and finds no odds Betwixt this Nectar and the Gods. He perches now upon her Wrist (A proper Hawk for such a Fist) Making that Flesh his Bill of Fare, Which hungry Canibals would spare; Where Lillies in a lovely brown Inoculate Carnation. Her 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Skin with Or so stream'd, As if the milky-way were cream'd; From hence he to the Wood bine bends That quivers at her fingers ends, That runs division on 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Tree, Like a thick-branching Pedigree; So 'tis not her the Bee devours, It is a pretty Maze of Flowers. It is the Rose that bleeds, when he Nibbles his nice Phlebotomy. About her finger he doth cling 〈◊〉〈◊〉 fashion of a Wedding Ring,

And bids his Comrades of the Swarm Crawl like a Bracelet 'bout her Arm. Thus when the hovering Publican Had suck'd the Toll of all her Span, (Tuning his draughts with drowsie Hums, As Danes Carouze by Kettle-drums) It was decreed (that Posie glean'd) The small Familiar should be wean'd. At this the Erran•…•…'s Courage quails; Yet aided by his native Sails, The bold Columbus still designs To find her undiscover'd Mines. To th' Indies of her Arm he flies, Fraught both with East and Western Prize, Which when he had in vain essay'd, (Arm'd like a Dapper Lancepresade With Spanish Pike) he broach'd a Pore, And so both made and heal'd the Sore: For as in Gummy Trees there's found A Salve to issue at the Wound; Of this her breach the like was true, Hence trickled out a Balsom too. But oh! What Wasp was't that could prove Ravilliac to my Queen of Love? The King of Bees now jealous grown, Lest her Beams should melt his Throne, And finding that his Tribute slacks, His Burgesses and State of Wax Turn'd to an Hospital; the Combs Built Rank and File; like Beadsen Rooms, And what they bleed but tart and sowre, Match'd with my Danae's golden showre, Live Honey all, the envious El•…•… Stung her, 'cause sweeter than himself.

Sweetness and she are so alli'd, The Bee committed Parricide,

The Senses Festival.

I Saw a Vision yesternight Enough to sate a Seeker's sight; I wish'd my self a Shaker there, And her quick Pants my trembling Sphere. It was a She so glittering bright, You'd think her Soul an Adamite; A Person of so rare a frame, Her Body might be lin'd with th'same. Beauty's chiefest Maid of Honour, You may break Lent with looking on her. Not the fair Abbess of the Skies, With all her Nunnery of eyes, Can shew me such a Glorious Prize.

And yet because 'tis more Renown To make a shadow shine, she's brown; A Brown for which Heaven would disband The Galaxie, and Stars be tann'd; Brown by Reflection, as her Eye Deals out the Summer's Livery. Old dormant Windows must confess Her Beams, their glimmering Spectacles, Struck with the Splendor of her face, Do th'office of a Burning-glass. Now where such radiant Lights have shown, No wonder if her Cheeks be grown Sun-burnt, with Lustre of her own.

My Sight took pay; but (thank my Charms) I now impale her in mine Arms; (Love's Compasses, confining you Good Angels, to a Circle too.) Is not the Universe strait lac'd, When I can clasp it in the Waste? My amorous Fold about thee hurl'd, With Drake I girdle in the World; I hoop the Firmament, and make This my Embrace the Zodiack. How could thy Center take my Sence, When Admiration doth commence At the extreme Circumference?

Now to the melting Kiss that sips The Jellyed Philtre of her Lips; So Sweet there is no Tongue can prays't, Till transubstantiate with a Taste, Inspir'd like Mahomet from above, By th'Billing of my Heavenly Dove. Love prints his Signets in her Smacks, Those ruddy drops of squeezing Wax, Which wheresoever she imparts, They're Privy-Seals to take up Hearts. Our mouths encountring at the Sport, My slippery Soul had quit the Fort, But that she stop'd the Sally-port.

Next to these Sweets, her Lips dispense (As Twin-conserves of Eloquence) The Sweet Perfume her Breath affords, Incorporating with her Words. No Rosary this Vot'ress needs, Her very Syllables are Beads.

No sooner 'twixt those Rubies born, But Jewels are in Ear•…•…ings worn. With what delight her Speech doth enter, It is a Kiss o'th'second Venter. And I dissolve at what I hear, As if another Rosamond were Couch'd in the Labyrinth of my ear.

Yet that's but a preludious Bliss, Two Souls Pickeering in a Kiss. Embraces do but draw the Line, 'Tis storming that must take her in. When Bodies joyn, and Victory hovers 'Twixt the equal fluttering Lovers, This is the Game; make stakes, my Dear! Heark, how the sprightly Chanticlere (That Baron Tell-clock of the Night) Sounds Boute-sel to Cupid's Knight. Then have at all, the Pass is got, For coming off, oh name it not! Who would not dye upon the spot?

To Julia to expedite her Promise.

SInce 'tis my Doom, Love's Undershrieve, Why this Reprieve? Why doth my She Advowson fly Incumbency?

Panting Expectance makes us prove The Anticks of benighted Love; And wither'd Mates when Wedlock joyns, They'r Hymen's Monkies, which he ties by th'Loins, To play alas! but at rebated Foins.

To sell thy self dost thou intend By Candle's-end, And hold the Contract thus in doubt Life's Taper out? Think but how soon the Market fails, Your Sex lives faster than the Males; As if to measure Ages span, The sober Iulian were th'Account of Man, Whilst you live by the fleet Gregorian.

Now since you bear a Date so short, Live double for't. How can thy Fortress ever stand, If't be not Man'd? The Siege so gains upon the Place, Thoul't find the Trenches in thy Face. Pity thy self then, if not me, And hold not out, lest like Ostend thou be, Nothing but Rubbish at Delivery.

The Candidates of Peter's Chair Must plead gray hair, And use the Simony of a Cough To help them off; But when I woo thus old and spent, I'll wed by Will and Testament. No; let us Love while crisp'd and curl'd; The greatest Honours on the aged hurl'd, Are but gay Fu•…•…lows for another World.

To morrow what thou tendrest me Is Legacy. Not one of all those ravenous hours But thee devours.

And though thou still recruited be, Like Pelops, with soft Ivory; Though thou consume but to renew, Yet Love, as Lord, doth claim a Heriot due; That's the best quick thing I can find of you.

I feel thou art consenting ripe By that soft gripe, And those regealing Crystal Spheres. I hold thy Tears Pledges of more distilling Sweets, Than the Bath that ushers in the Sheets. Else pious Iulia, Angel-wise, Moves the Bethesda of her trickling Eyes, To cure the Spittle-World of Maladies.

The Hecatomb to his Mistress.

BE dumb you Beggars of the rhyming Trade, Geld your loose Wits, and let your Muse be spade. Charge not the Parish with your bastard Phrase Of Balm, Elixir, both the India's, Of Shrine, Saint, Sacrifice, and Tuch as these, Expressions common as your Mistresses. Hence you Phantastick Postillers in Song, My Text defeats your Art, ties Nature's tongue, Scorns all her Tinsoyl'd Metaphors of Pelf, Illustrated by nothing but her self. As Spiders travel by their bowels spun Into a Thread, and when the Race is run, Wind up their Journey in a living Clew; So is it with my Poetry and you. From your own Essence must I first untwine, Then twist again each Panegyrick Line.

Reach then a Soaring Quill that I may write, As with a Iacob's Staff to take her height. Suppose an Angel darting through the Air, Should there Encounter a religious Prayer Mounting to Heaven, that Intelligence Would for a Sunday-Suit thy Breath condense Into a Body. Let me crack a string, And venture higher. Were the Note I sing Above Heaven's Ela; should I then decline, And with a deep-mouth'd Gammut sound the Line From Pole to Pole, I could not reach her worth, Nor find an Epithet to shadow't forth. Metals may blazon common Beauties; she Makes Pearls and Planets humble Heraldry. As then a purer Substance is defin'd But by an heap of Negatives combin'd, Ask what a Spirit is, you'l hear them cry, It hath no Matter, no Mortality: So can I not describe how sweet, how fair, Only I say, she's not as others are: For what Perfection we to others grant, It is her sole Perfection to want. All other Forms seem, in respect of thee, The Almanack's mishap'd Anatomy: Where Aries head and face, Bull neck and throat, The Scorpion gives the Secrets, Knees the Goat; A Brief of Limbs foul as those beasts, or are Their name-sake Signs in their strange Character. As your Phylosophers to every Sense Marry its Object, yet with some dispense, And grant them a Polygamy with all, And these their common Sensibles they call: So is't with her, who, stinted unto none, Unites all Senses in each action.

The same Beam heats and lights, to see her well Is both to hear and see, and taste and smell: For can you want a Palate in your Eyes, When each of hers contains the beauteous prize, Venus's Apple? Can your Eyes want Nose, Seeing each Cheek buds forth a fragrant Rose? Or can your Sight be deaf to such a quick And well-tun'd Face, such moving Rhetorick? Doth not each Look a Flash of Lightning feel, Which spares the Body's sheath, yet melts the steel? Thy Soul must needs confess, or grant thy Sense Corrupted with the Object's Excellence. Sweet Magick, which can make five Senses lie Conjur'd within the Circle of an Eye! In whom since all the five are intermixt, Oh now that Scaliger would prove his sixt! Thou Man of mouth, that canst not name a She, Unless all Nature pay a Subsidy; Whose Language is a Tax, whose Musk-cat Verse Voids nought but Flowers for thy Muses Herse, Fitter than Celia's Looks, who in a trice Canst state the long disputed Paradice: And (what Divines hunt with so cold a scent) Canst in her Bosom find it resident; Now come aloft, come now, and breath a Vein, And give some vent unto thy daring strain. Say the Astrologer who spells the Stars, In that fair Alphabet reads Peace and Wars, Mistakes his Globe, and in her brighter eye Interprets Heaven's Physiognomy. Call her the Metaphysicks of her Sex, And say she tortures Wits, as Quartans vex Physicians; call her the squar'd Circle; say She is the very Rule of Algebra;

What e'er thou understand'st not say't of her, For that's the way to write her Character. Say this and more, and when thou hop'st to raise Thy Fancy so as to inclose her praise, Alas poor Gotham, with thy Cuckow-hedge! Hyperboles are here but Sacriledge. Then-roll up Muse what thou hast ravel'd out; Some Comments clear not, but increase the doubt. She that affords poor Mortals not a glance Of Knowledge, but is known by Ignorance. She that commits a Rape on every Sense, Whose Breath can countermand a Pestilence. She that can strike the best Invention dead, Till baffled Poetry hangs down the head. She, she it is that doth contain all Bliss, And makes the World but her Periphrasis.

The Antiplatonick.

FOr shame thou everlasting Wooer, Still saying Grace, and ne'er fall to her! Love that's in Contemplation plac'd, Is Venus drawn but to the waste. Unless your Flame confess its Gender, And your Parly cause Surrender, Y'are Salamanders of a cold Desire, That live untouch'd amidst the hottest fire.

What though she be a Dame of stone, The Widow of Pigmalion: An hard and unrelenting She, As the new-crusted Niobe; Or (what doth more of statue carry) A Nun of the Platonick Quarry?

Love melts the rigor which the Rocks have bred; A Flint will break upon a Feather-bed.

For shame you pretty Female Elves, Cease thus to candy up your selves; No more you Sectaries of the Game, No more of your calcining Flame. Women commence by Cupid's Dart, As a King hunting Dubs a Hart. Love's Votaries enthral each other's Soul, Till both of them live but upon Parole.

Virtue's no more in Womankind But the Green-sickness of the Mind. Philosophy (their new Delight) A kind of Charcoal Appetite. There is no Sophistry prevails, Where all-convincing Love assails; But the disputing Petticoat will warp, As Skilful Gamesters are to seek at sharp.

The Souldier, that Man of Iron, Whom Ribs of Horror all environ; That's strung with Wire instead of Veins, In whose Embraces you're in Chains; Let a Magnetick Girl appear, Straight he turns Cupid's Cuiraseer. Love storms his Lips, and takes the Fortress in, For all the bristled Turn-pike of his Chin.

Since Love's Artillery then checks The Breast-works of the firmest Sex: Come let us in affections riot; Th'are sickly Pleasures keep a diet.

Give me a Lover bold and free, Not Eunuch'd with Formality; Like an Embassador that beds a Queen, With the nice Caution of a Sword between.

Upon Phillis walking in a Morning before Sun-rising.

THe sluggish Morn as yet undrest, My Phillis brake from out her East, As if she'd made a match to run With Venus, usher to the Sun. The Trees, like Yeomen of the Guard (Serving her more for Pomp than Ward) Rank'd on each side, with Loyal Duty, Weav'd Branches to inclose her Beauty. The Plants, whose Luxury was lopp'd, Or Age with Crutches underpropp'd, (Whose wooden Carkases were grown To be but Coffins of their own) Revive, and at her general Dole Each receives his Ancient Soul. The winged Choristers began To chirp their Mattins, and the Fan Of whistling Winds like Organs play'd, Until their Voluntaries made The weakened Earth in Odors rise To be her Morning Sacrifice. The Flowers call'd out of their Beds, Start and raise up their drowsie Heads; And he that for their colour seeks May see it vaulting to her Cheeks: Where Roses mix; no Civil War Divides her York and Lancaster.

The Marygold (whose Courtier's face Ecchoes the Sun, and doth un•…•…ace Her at his rise, at his full stop Packs and shuts up her gaw•…•…y Shop) Mistakes her Cue, and doth display: Thus Phillis antedates the day. These Miracles had cramp'd the Sun, Who fearing that his Kingdom's won, Powders with Light his frizled Locks, To see what Saint his Lustre mocks. The trembling Leaves; through which he play'd, Dappling the Walk with light and shade, Like Lattice-windows give the Spye Room but to peep with half an eye; Lest her full Orb his sight should dim, And bid us all good •…•…ght in him; Till she should spend a gentle Ray, To force us a new fashion'd Day.

But what religious Palsie's this, Which make the Bows divest their bliss; And that they might her foot steps straw, Drop their Leaves with shivering awe? Phillis perceiv'd, and (lest her stay Should wed October unto May, And as her Beauty caus'd a Spring, Devotion might an Autumn bring) Withdrew her Beams, yet made no Night, But left the Sun her Curate •…•…ght.

To Mrs. K. T. who asked him why he was dumb, written calente Calamo.

STay, should I answer, Lady, then In vain would be your Question. Should I be dumb, why then again Your asking me would be in vain. Silence, nor Speech, on either hand, Can satisfie this strange demand. Yet since your Will throws me upon This wished Contradiction; I'll tell you how I did become So strangely, as you hear me, dumb. Ask but the chap-fallen Puritan, 'Tis Zeal that Tongue-tyes that good man; (For heat of Conscience all men hold Is th'only way to catch that Cold:) How should Love's Zealot then forbear To be your silenc'd Minister? Nay your Religion, which doth grant A Worship due to you my Saint, Yet counts it that Devotion wrong, That does it in the Vulgar Tongue. My ruder words would give offence To such an hallow'd Excellence; As th'English Dialect would vary The Goodness of an Ave Mary.

How can I speak that twice am check'd By this, and that Religious Sect? Still dumb, and in your Face I spy Still Cause, and still Divinity. As soon as blest with your Salute, My Manners taught me to be mute,

Lest I should cancel all the Bliss You sign'd with so divine a Kiss. The Lips you seal must needs consent Unto the Tongue's Imprisonment. My Tongue in hold, my Voice doth rise With a strange Ela to my eyes. Where it gets Bail, and in that sense Begins a new found Eloquence.

Oh listen with attentive sight To what my prating Eyes indite! Or, Lady, since 'tis in your choice To give, or to suspend my Voice, With the same Key set ope'the Door, Wherewith you lock'd it fast before. Kiss once again, and when you thus Have doubly been Miraculous: My Muse shall write with Handmaid Duty The Golden Legend of your Beauty

He whom his Dumbness now confines, Intends to speak the rest by Signs.

A Fair Nymph scorning a Black Boy courting her.

Nymph.

STand off, and let me take the Air, Why should the smoke pursue the fair?

Boy.

My Face is smoke, thence may be guest What Flames within have scorch'd my breast.

Nymph.

Thy flaming Love I cannot view, For the dark Lanthorn of thy Hue.

Boy.

And yet this Lanthorn keeps Love's Taper Surer than your's that's of white Paper. What ever Midnight can be here, The Moon-shine of your Face will clear.

Nymph.

My Moon of an Eclipse is 'fraid; If thou should'st interpose thy Shade.

Boy.

Yet one thing, Sweet-heart, I will ask, Take me for a new fashion'd Mask.

Nymph.

Done: but my Bargain shall be this, I'll throw my Mask off when I kiss.

Boy

Our curl'd Embraces shall delight To checker Limbs with black and white.

Nymph.

Thy Ink, my Paper, make me guess Our Nuptial-bed will prove a Press; And in our Sports, if any come, They'l read a wanton Epigram.

Boy.

Why should my Black thy Love impair? Let the dark Shop commend the Ware; Or if thy Love from black forbears, I'll strive to wash it off with Tears.

Nymph.

Spare fruitless Tears, since thou must needs Still wear about thy mourning Weeds. Tears can no more affection win, Than wash thy Aethiopian Skin.

A Young Man to an Old Woman courting him.

PEace Beldam Eve, surcease thy Suit, There's no Temptation in such Fruit. No rotten Medlars, whilst there be Whole Orchards in Virginity. Thy Stock is too much out of Date For tender Plants t'inoculate. A Match with thee the Bridegroom fears Would be thought Incest in his years; Which when compar'd to thine become Odd Money to thy Grandam Sum.

Can Wedlock know so great a Curse, As putting Husbands out to Nurse? How Pond and Rivers would mistake, And cry new Almanacks for our sake? Time sure hath wheel'd about his Year, December meeting Ianiveer. Th' Aegyptian Serpent figures Time, And strip'd, returns into his Prime. If my Affection thou wouldst win, First cast thy Hieroglyphick Skin. My Modern Lips know not, alack! The old Religion of thy Smack. I count that Primitive Embrace, As out of Fashion, as thy Face; And yet so long 'tis since thy fall, Thy Fornication's Classical. Our Sports will differ, thou must play Lero, and I Alphonso way. I'm no Translator, have no vein To turn a Woman young again; Unless you'l grant the Taylor's due, To see the Fore-bodies he new. I love to wear Cloths that are flush, Not prefacing old Rags with Plush, Like Aldermen or Under-shrieves With Canvas Backs, and Velvet Sleeves: And just such Discord there would be Betwixt thy Skeleton and me. Do study Salve and Triacle, ply Your Tenant's Leg, or his sore Eye. Thus Matrons purchase Credit, thank, Six penny-worth of Mountebank: Or chew thy Cud on some Delight, That thou didst taste in Eighty eight;

Oh be but Bed-rid once, and then Thoul't dream thy youthful Sins agen: But if thou needs wilt be my Spouse, First hearken and attend my Vows. When Aetna's fires shall undergo The Penance of the Alpes in Snow; When Sol at one blast of his Horn Posts from the Crab to Capricorn; When the Heavens shuffle all in one, The Torrid with the Frozen Zone; When all these Contradictions meet, Then, Sybil, thou and I will greet: For all these Similies do hold In my young Heat, and thy dull Cold. Then, if a Fever be so good A Pimp as to inflame thy Blood, Hymen shall twist thee and thy Page, The distinct Tropicks of Man's Age,

Well, Madam Time, be ever bald, I'll not thy Perriwig be call'd: I'll never be 'stead of a Lover, An aged Chronicle's new Cover.

Upon an Hermaphrodite.

SIr, or Madam, choose you whether, Nature twists you both together, And makes thy Soul two Garbs consess, Both Petticoat and Breeches Dress: Thus we chastise the God of Wine With Water that is Feminine, Until the cooler Nymph abate His Wrath, and so concorporate.

Adam, till his Rib was lost, Had the Sexes thus ingrost. When Providence our Sire did cleave, And out of Adam carved Eve: Then did Man 'bout Wedlock treat, To make his Body up compleat. Thus Matrimony speaks but thee In a Grave Solemnity: For Man and Wife make but one right Canonical Hermaphrodite. Ravel thy Body, and I find In every Limb a double kind. Who would not think that Head a pair, That breeds such Faction in the Hair? One half so churlish in the Touch, That rather than endure so much, I would my tender Limbs apparel With Regulus his nailed Barrel: But the other half so small, And so amourous withal, That Cupid thinks each Hair doth grow A String for his invisible Bow. When I look Babies in thine Eyes, Here Venus, there Adonis lies; And though thy Beauty be high Noon, Thy Orb contains both Sun and Moon. How many melting Kisses skip, 'Twixt thy Male and Female Lip? 'Twixt thy upper brush of Hair, And thy neather Beard's despair? When thou speak'st (I would not wrong Thy Sweetness with a double Tongue, But) in every single Sound A perfect Dialogue is found.

Thy Breasts distinguish one another, This the Sister, that the Brother. When thou joyn'st Hands my Ear still fancies The Nuptial Sound, I Iohn take Frances. Feel but the difference soft and rough, This a Gantlet, that a Muff. Had sly Ulysses at the Sack Of Troy brought thee his Pedler's Pack, And Weapons too to know Achilles From King Lycomedes, Phillis His Plot had fail'd; this hand would feel The Needle, that the Warlike Steel. When Musick doth thy pace advance, Thy right Leg takes the left to dance: Nor is't a Galliard danc'd by one, But a mixt Dance, though all alone. Thus every Het'roclite apart Changes Gender, but thy Heart; Nay those which Modesty can mean, But dare not speak, are Epicene. That Gamester needs must overcome, That can play both with Tib and Tom.

Thus did Nature's Mintage vary, Coyning thee a Philip and Mary.

The Author to his Hermaphrodite made af∣ter Mr. Randolph's Death, yet inserted into his Poems.

PRoblem of Sexes! Must thou likewise be As disputable in thy Pedegree? Thou Twins in one, in whom Dame Nature tries To throw less than Aums Ace upon two Dice.

Wer't thou serv'd up two in one Dish, the rather To split thy Sire into a double Father? True; the World's Scales are even, what the Main In one place gets, another quits again. Nature lost one by thee, and therefore must Slice one in two to keep her number just. Plurality of Livings is thy State, And therefore mine must be Impropriate: For since the Child is mine, and yet the Claim Is intercepted by another's Name; Never did Steeple carry double truer, His is the Donative, and mine the Cure. Then say, my Muse, (and without more Dispute) Who 'tis that Fame doth super institute. The Theban Wittal, when he once descrys Iove is his Rival, falls to Sacrifice. That Name hath tipp'd his Horns; see on his Knees A Health to Hans in •…•…elder Hercules: Nay Sublunary 〈◊〉〈◊〉 are content To entertain their 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with Complement; And shall not he be proud whom Randolph daigns To quarter with his Muse, both Arms and Brains? Gramercie Gossip; I rejoyce to see Th'hast got a Leap of such a Barbary. Talk not of Horns, Horns are the Poet's Crest; For since the Muses left their former Nest, To found a Nunnery in Randolph's Quill, Cuckold Parnassus is a Forked Hill. But stay, I've wak'd his Dust, his Marble stirs, And brings the Worms for his Compurgators. Can Ghost have natural Sons? Say Og, is't meet Penance bear Date after the Winding-sheet? Were it a Phaenix (as the double kind May seem to prove, being there's two combin'd,)

I would disclaim my Right, and that it were The Lawful Issue of his Ashes swear. But was he dead? Did not his Soul translate Her self into a Shop of lesser rate; Or break up House, like an expensive Lord, That gives his Purse a Sob, and lives at Board? Let old Pythagoras but play the Pimp, And still there's hopes't may prove his Bastard Imp. But I'm prophane; for grant the World had one With whom he might contract an Union; They two were one, yet like an Eagle spread, I'th'Body joyn'd, but parted in the Head.

For you, my Brat, that pose the Porph'ry Chair, Pope Iohn, or Ioan, or whatsoe'er you are, You are a Nephew, grieve not at your State; For all the World is Illegitimate. Man cannot get a Man, unless the Sun Club to the Act of Generation. The Sun and Man get Man, thus Tom and I Are the joynt Fathers of my Poetry; For since, blest Shade, thy Verse is Male, but mine O'th' weaker Sex, a Phancy Feminine; We'll part the Child, and yet commit no Slaughter, So shall it be thy Son, and yet my Daughter.