The works of Mr. John Cleveland containing his poems, orations, epistles, collected into one volume, with the life of the author.
Cleveland, John, 1613-1658.
Page  272

To Prince Rupert.

O that I could but vote my self a Poet!
Or had the Legislative knack to do it!
Or, like the Doctors Militant, could get
Dub'd at Adventures Verser Banneret!
Or had I Cacus Trick to make my Rhimes
Their own Antipodes, and track the Times:
Faces about, says the Remonstrant Spirit;
Allegiance is Malignant, Treason Merit:
Huttington-colt, that pos'd the Sage Recorder,
Might be a Sturgeon now, and pass by Order:
Had I but Elsing's Gift (that splay-mouth'd Brother)
That declares one way, and yet means another:
Could I but write a-squint; then (Sir) long since
You had been sung, A Great and Glorious Prince.
I had observ'd the Language of the Days;
Blasphem'd you; and then Periwigg'd the Phrase
With Humble Service, and such other Fustian,
Bells which ring backward in this great Combustion
I had revil'd you; and without Offence,
The Literal, and Equitable Sence
Would make it good: When all fails, that will do't:
Sure that Distinction cleft the Devil's Foot.
This were my Dialect, would your Highness please
To read me but with Hebrew Spectacles;
Interpret Counter, what is Cross rehears'd:
Libells are Commendations, when revers'd.
Just as an Optick Glass contracts the Sight
At one end, but when turn'd doth multip'y't.
But you're enchanted, Sir; you're doubly free
From the great Guns, and squibbing Poetry:
Page  273 Whom neither Bilbo, nor Invention pierces,
Proof even' gainst th' Artillery of Verses.
Strange! That the Muses cannot wound your Mail;
If not their Art, yet let their Sex prevail.
At that known Leaguer, where the Bonny Besses
Supplyed the Bow-strings with their twisted tresses,
Your Spells could ne'er have fenc'd you; every Arrow
Had launc'd your noble Breast, & drunk the Marrow:
For beauty, like white Powder makes no Noise;
And yet the silent Hypocrite destroys.
Then use the Nuns of Helicon with pity,
Lest Wharton tell his Gossips of the City,
That you kill Women too, nay Maids; and such
Their General wants Militia to touch.
Impotent Essex! Is it not a Shame
Our Common-wealth like to a Turkish Dame,
Should have an Eunuch-Guardian? May she be
Ravish'd by Charles, rather than sav'd by thee.
But why, my Muse, like a Green-Sickness Girl,
Feed'st thou on Coals and dirt? a Gelding-Earl
Gives no more Relish to thy Female Palate,
Then to that Ass did once the Thistle Sallate.
Then quit the barren Theme; and all at once
Thou and thy Sisters like bright Amazons,
Give RUPERT an Alarum, RUPERT! One
Whose Name is Wits Superfaetation.
Makes Fancy, like Eternity's round Womb,
•…nite all Valour; present, past, to come.
He, who the old Philosophy controuls,
That voted down Plurality of Souls.
He breaths a grand Committee; all that were
The Wonders of their Age, constellate here.
And as the Elder Sisters, Growth and Sence
Souls paramount themselves) in Man commence
Page  274 But Faculties of Reasons Queen; no more
Are they to him, who were compleat before.
Ingredients of his Vertue thread the Beads
Of Caesar's Acts, great Pompey's and the Sweeds:
And 'tis a Bracelet fit for Rupert's Hand,
By which that vast Triumvirate is span'd.
Here, here is Palmestry; here you may read
How long the world shall live, and when't shall bleed.
Whatever Man winds up, that RUPERT hath:
For Nature rais'd him of the Publick Faith,
Pandora's Brother, to make up whose Store,
The Gods were fain to run upon the Score.
Such was the Painters Brieve for Venus Face;
Item an Eye from Iane, a Lip from Grace.
Let Isaac and his Cit'z. flea off the Plate
That tips their Antlets for the Calf of State;
Let the Zeal-twangling Nose, that wants a Ridge,
Snuffling devoutly, drop his Silver Bridge:
Yes; and the Gossips Spoon augment the Summ,
Although poor Caleb lose his Christendom:
Rupert out weighs that in his Sterling-self,
Which their Self-wants pays in commuting Pelf.
Pardon, great Sir; for that Ignoble Crew
Gains, when made bankrupt, in the Scales with you.
As he, who in his Character of Light
Stil'd it Gods Shadow, made it far more bright
By an Eclipse so glorious; (Light is dim,
And a black Nothing, when compar'd to him)
So 'tis Illustrious to be Ruperts Foil,
And a just Trophey to be made his Spoil.
I'll pin my Faith on the Diurnals Sleeve
Hereafter, and the Guild-Hall Creed believe:
The Conquests which the Common-Council hears,
With their wide list'ning Mouths from the great
Peers,
Page  275 That ran away in Triumph: Such a Foe
Can make them Victors in their Overthrow.
Where Providence and Valour meet in one,
Courage so pois'd with Circumspection,
That he revives the Quarrel once again
Of the Souls Throne, whether in Heart or Brain;
And leaves it a drawn Match: Whose Fervour can
Hatch him, whom Nature poach'd but half a Man.
His Trumpet, like the Angel's at the last,
Makes the Soul rise by a miraculous Blast.
'Twas the Mount Athos carv'd in Shape of Man
(As't was defin'd by th' Macedonian)
Whose right Hand should a populous Land contain,
The left should be a Channel to the Main:
His Spirit might inform th' Amphibious Figure;
Yet straight-lac'd Sweats for a Dominion bigger:
The Terror of whose Name can out of seven,
(Like Falstaffe's Buckram-men) may fly eleven.
Thus some grow rich by breaking; Vipers thus
By being slain are made more numerous.
No wonder they'l confess, no Loss of Men;
For Rupert knocks'em til they gig agen.
They fear the Giblets of his Train, they fear
Even his Dog, that foun-legg'd Cavalier:
He that devours the Scraps, which Lunsford makes,
Whose Picture feeds upon a Child in Stakes:
Who name but Charles, he comes aloft for him,
But holds up his Malignant Leg at Pym.
'Gainst whom they've several Articles in Souse;
First, that he barks against the Sense o'th'House.
Resolv'd Delinquent, to the Tower straight;
Either to th' Lyons, or the Bishop's Grate.
Next, for his Ceremonious Wag o'th'Tail:
But there the Sisterhood will be his Bail,
Page  276 At least the Countess will, Lust's Amsterdam,
That lets in all Religious of the Game.
Thirdly, he smells Intelligence, that's better,
And cheaper too, then Pym's from his own Letter:
Who's doubly pay'd (Fortune or we the blinder?)
For making Plots, and then for Fox the Finder.
Lastly, he is a Devil without doubt;
For when he would lie down, he wheels about;
Makes Circles, and is couchant in a Ring;
And therefore score up one for conjuring.
What canst thou say, thou Wretch? O Quarter, Quarter!
I'm but an Instrument, a meer St. Arthur.
If I must hang, O let not our Fates vary,
Whose Office 'tis alike to fetch, and carry.
No hopes of a Reprieve, the Mutinous Stir
That strung the Jesuit will dispatch a Cur.
Were I a Devil as the Rebel fears,
I see the House would try me by my Peers.
There Iowler, there! Ah Iowler? 'st? 'tis nought
Whate'er the Accusers cry, they're at a Fault;
And Glyn, and Maynard have no more to say,
Then when the Glorious Strafford stood at Bay.
Thus Labells but annex'd to him we see,
Enjoy a Copy-hold of Victory.
St. Peters Shadow heal'd, Ruperts is such,
'Twould find St. Peters Work, yet wound as much.
He gags their Guns, defeats there dire Intent,
The Canons do but lisp and Complement.
Sure Iove descended in a leaden Shower
To get this Perseus: Hence the fatal Power
Of Shot is strangled: Bullets thus allied,
Fear to commit an Act of Parricide.
Go on brave Prince, and make the World confess
Thou art the greater World, and that the less.
Page  277 Scatter th'accumulative King; untruss
That five-fold Fiend, the States SMECTYMNUUS;
Who place Religion in their Vellum-ears;
As in their Phylacters the Jews did theirs.
England's a Paradise, (and a modest Word)
Since guarded by a Cherub's flaming Sword.
Your Name can scare an Athiest to his Prayers;
And cure the Chin-cough better then the Bears.
Old Sybil charms the Tooth-ake with you: Nurse
Makes you still Children, nay and the pond'rous curse
The Clowns salute with, is deriv'd from you;
(Now RUPERT take thee, Rogue; how dost thou do?)
In fine, the Name of Rupert thunders so,
Kimbolton's but a rumbling Wheel-barrow.