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

ADDITIONS.

The Publick Faith.

STand off my Masters: 'Tis your pence a piece, Iason, Medea, and the golden Fleece; What side the line, good Sir? Tygris, or Po! Lybia? Iapan? Whisk? or Tradinktido? St. Kits! St. Omer; or St. Margaret's Bay? Presto begon? or come aloft? What way? Doublets? or Knap? The Cog? low Dice? or high? By all the hard names in the Litany, Bell, Book and Candle, and the Pope's great Toe I conjure thy account: Devil say no.

Nay since I must untruss, Gallants look too't Keep your prodigious distance forty foot, This is that Beast of Eyes in th' Revelations, The Pasi•…•…isk has twisted up three Nations. Ponteus Hixius Doxius, full of Tricks, The Lottery of the vulgar Lunaticks. The Knap-Sack of the State, the thing you wish, Magog and Gog stew'd in a Chaffingdish. A Bag of Spoons and Whistles, wherein men May whistle when they see their Plate agen.

Thus far his Infancy: His riper Age Requires a more mysterious folio Page. Now that time speaks him perfect, and 'tis pity To dandle him longer in a close Committee.

The elf dares peep abroad, the pretty fool Can wag without a truckling standing-stool; Revenge his Mother's Infamy, and swear, He's the fair Off-spring of one half-score year. The Heir of the House and Hopes, the cry And wonder of the People's Misery. 'Tis true, while as a Puppy it could play For Thimbles, any thing to pass the day; But now the Cub can count, arithmatize, Clinck Masenello with the Duke of Guise; Sign for an Irish Purchase, and traduce The Synod from their Doctrine to their Use; Give its Dam suck, and a hidden way Drink up arrears a tergo mantica. An Everlasting Bale, Hell in Trunk-hose, Uncased, the Devil's Don Quixot in Prose. The Beast and the false Prophet twin'd together, The squint-ey'd Emblem of all sorts of Weather. The refuse of that Chaos of the Earth, Able to give the World a second Birth. Africk avaunt! Thy trifling Monsters glance But Sheeps-eyed to this Penal Ignorance. That all the Prodigies brought forth before Are but Dame Natures blush left on the score. This strings the Bakers dozen, christens all The cross-leg'd hours of time since Adam's Fall.

The Publick Faith? Why 'tis a word of kin, A Nephew that dares Cousin any sin. A term of Art, great Behemoth's younger Brother, Old Machiavel, and half a thousand other. Which when subscrib'd writes Legion, names on truss, Abaddon, Beelzebub, and Incubus; All the Vice-Roys of Darkness, every Spell And Fiend wrap'd in a short Trissillable.

But I fore-stall the Show. Enter and see, Salute the Door, your Exit shall be free. In brief 'tis called Religions Ease, or Loss, For no one's suffered here to bear his Cross.

A Lenten Litany.

Composed for a confiding Brother, for the bene∣fit and edification of the faithful Ones.

FRom Villany drest in the doublet of Zeal, From three Kingdoms bak'd in one common-we•…•… From a gleek of Lord Keepers of one poor▪ Seal Libera nos, &c.

From a Chancery-Writ, and a Whip and a Bell, From a Justice of Peace that never could spell, From Collonel. 〈◊〉〈◊〉. and the Vicar of Hell Libera nos, &c.

From Neat's feet without socks & three▪penny Pyes, From a new-sprung light that will put out ones eyes, From Goldsmiths Hall, the Devil and Excise Libera nos, &c.

From two hours talk without one word of sense, From Liberty still in the future tense, From a Parliament long-wasted Conscience, Libera nos, &c.

From a Coppid Crown-Tenent prick'd up by a Bro∣ther •…•…rom damnable Members and fits of the Mother, •…•…rom Ears like Oysters that grin at each other, Libera nos, &c.

•…•…rom a Preacher in buff, and a quarter staff-Steeple, •…•…rom th'unlimited Soveraign Power of the People, •…•…rom a Kingdom that crawls on its knees like a Creeple, Libera nos, &c.

From a Vinegar Priest on a Crab-tree stock, From a foddering of Prayer four hours by the Clock, From a Holy Sister with a pittiful Smock, Libera nos, &c.

From a hunger starv'd Sequestrators maw, From Revelations and Visions that never man saw, From Religion without either Gospel or Law Libera nos, &c.

From the Nick and Froth of a Penny Pot-house, From the Fiddle and Cross, and a great Scotch Louse, From Committees that chop up a man like a Mouse, Libera nos, &c.

From broken Shins and the Bloud of a Martyr, From the Titles of Lords and Knights of the Garter, From the Teeth of mad-dogs and a Countrymans quarter Libera nos, &c.

From the Publick Faith and an Egg and Butter, From the Irish Purchases and all their Clutter, From Omega's Nose, when he settles to sputter, Libera nos, &c.

From the Zeal of old Harry lock'd up with a Whore, From waiting with plaints at the Parliament door, From the Death of a King without why or where∣fore Libera nos, &c.

From the French Disease and the Puritan fry, From such as ne'er swear but devoutly can lye, From cutting of Capers full three story high, Libera nos, &c.

From painted Glass and Idolatrous Cringes, From a Presbyters Oath that turns upon Hinges, From Westminster Iews with Levitical Fringes, Libera nos, &c.

From all that is said, and a thousand times more, From a Saint and his Charity to the poor, From the Plagues that are kept for a Rebel in store, Libera nos, &c.

The Second part.

THat if it please thee to assist Our Agitators and their List, And Hemp them with a gentle twist, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to suppose Our actions are as good as those That gull the People through the Nose, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee here to enter And fix the rumbling of our Center, For we live all at Peradventure, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to unite The Flesh and Bones unto the Sprite, Else Faith and Literature good night, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee O that we May each man know his Pedigree, And save that Plague of Heraldry, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee in each Shire, Cities of Refuge Lord to rear That failing Brethren may know where, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to abhor us, Or any such dear favour for us, That thus hath wrought thy Peoples Sorrows, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to embrace Our days of thanks and fasting face, For robbing of thy holy place, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to adjourn The day of Judgment, least we burn, For lo! It is not for our turn, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to admit A close Committee there to sit, No Devil to a humane wit! Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to dispence A little for convenience, Or let us play upon the sense, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to embalm The Saints in Robin Wisdom's Psalm, And make them musical and calm, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee since 'tis doubt, Satan cannot throw Satan out, Unite us and the High-land rout, Quaesumus te, &c.

A Hue and Cry after the Reformation.

VVHen Temples lye like batter'd Quarrs Rich in their ruin'd Sepulchers; When Saints forsake their painted Glass To meet their Worship as they pass; When Altars grow luxurious with the dye Of humane blood, Is this the Flood Of Christianity?

When Kings are cup-boarded like Cheese, Sights to be seen for pence a piece; When Diadems like brokers tire Are custom'd Reliques set to hire;

When Soveraignty and Scepters loose their Names, Stream'd into words, Carv'd out by Swords, Are these refining Flames?

When Subjects and Religion stir Like Meteors in the Metaphor; When zealous hinting and the yawn Excise our Miniver and Lawn, When blue digressions fill the troubled Air And th'Pulpit's let To every Set That will usurp the Chair:

Call ye me this the Night's Farewell When our Noon Day's as dark as Hell? How can we less then term such Lights Ecclesiastick Heteroclites? Bold Sons of Adam when in Fire you crawl Thus high to be Perch'd on the Tree, Remember but the Fall.

Was it the Glory of a King To make him great by Suffering? Was there no way to build God's House But rendring of it Infamous? If this be then the merry ghostly Trade? To work in Gall? Pray take it all Good Brother of the Blade.

Call it no more the Reformation According to the new Translation: Why will you wrack the common Brain With words of an unwonted Strain?

As Plunder? or a Phrase in Senses cleft; When things more nigh May well supply And call it down-right Theft.

Here all the School-men and Divines Consent, and swear the naked Lines Want no expounding or contest, Or Bellarmine to break a jest. Since then the Heroes of the Pen with me Nere scrue the Sense With difference, We all agree agree.

A Committee.

CAst Knaves my Masters, Fortune guide the chance No packing I beseech you, no by-glance To mingle Pairs, but fairly shake the Bag, Cheats in their Spheres like subtil spirits wag. Or if you please the Cards run as they will. There is no choice in sin and doing ill. Then happy Man by's dole, Luck makes the odds He acts most high that best out-dares the Gods. These are that Raw-bon'd Herd of Pharaoh's Kine Which eat up all your Fatlings, yet look lean: These are the after-claps of bloody Showers, Which, like the Scots, come for your gude and yours; The Gleaners of the Field, where, if a man Escape the Sword that milder Frying-pan, He leaps into the Fire, cramping the Claws Of such can speak no English but the Cause. Under that foggy term, that Inquisition, Y'are wrackt at all Adventures On Suspicion.

No matter what's the Crime, a good Estate's Delinquency enough to ground their hate. Nor shall calm Innocence so scape, as not To be made guilty, or at least so thought. And if the Spirit once inform, beware, The Flesh and World but Renegadoes are. Thus once concluded out the Teazers run, All in full Cry and Speed till Wat's undone. So that a poor Delinquent fleec'd and torn Seems like a Man that's creeping through a Horn, Find a smooth Entrance, wide and fit, but when Hee's squeez'd and forc'd up through the smaller end, He looks as gaunt and pin'd, as he that spent A tedious twelve years in an eager Lent, Or Bodies at the Resurrection are On Wing, just rarifying into Air. The Emblem of a Man, the pittied Case And shape of some sad Being once that was. The Type of Flesh and Bloud, the Skeleton And Superficies of a thing that's gone. The Winter quarter of a Life, the Tinder And Body of a Corps squeez'd to a Cinder; When no more Tortures can be thought upon, Mercy shall flow into Oblivion.

Merciful Hell! Thy Judges are but three, Ours multiform, and in Plurality! Thy calmer Censures flow without Recall, And in one Doom Souls see their Final all. We travel with expectance: Sufferings here Are but the Earnests of a second Fear. Thy Pains and Plagues are infinite; 'tis true Ours are not only Infinite but new. So that the Dread of what's to come exceeds The Anguish of that part already bleeds.

This only difference swells 'twixt us and you, Hell has the kinder Devils of the two.

On the happy Memory of Alderman Hoyle that hang'd himself.

ALL hail fair Fruit! may every Crab-tree bear Such Blossoms, and so lovely every year! Call ye me this the slip? 'Marry 'tis well, Zacheus slip'd to Heaven, the Thief to Hell: But if the Saints thus give's the slip, 'tis need To look about us to preserve the Breed. Th'are of the Running Game, and thus to post In Nooses, blanks the Reckning with their Host. Here's more than Trussum Cordum I suppose That knit this knot: Guilt seldom singly goes! A wounded Soul close coupled with the sence Of Sin, pays home its proper Recompence.

But hark you Sir, if haste can grant the time? See you the danger yet what 'tis to climb truss'd. In Kings Prerogatives? things beyond just, When Law seems brib'd to doom them, must be But O'I smell your Plot strong through your Hose, 'Twas but to cheat the Hang-man of your Cloaths; Else your more active Hands had fairly stay'd The leasure of a Psalm, Iudas has pray'd. But later Crimes cannot admit the Pause, They run upon Effects more than the Cause. Yet let me ask one Question, why alone? One Member of a Corporation? 'Tis clear amongst Divines, Bodies and Souls As joyntly active, so their Judgment rowls Concordant in the Sentence; why not so In Earthly Sufferings? States attended go.

But I perceive the knack: Old Women say And be't approv'd, each Dog should have his day.

Hence sweep the Almanack: Lilly make room, And blanks enough for the new Saints to come, All in Red Letters: as their Faults have bin Scarlet, so limb their Anniverse of Sin. And to their Childrens Credits and their Wives Be it still said, they leap fair for their lives.

Platonick Love.

BEgon fantastick Whimsey, hence begon! I slight thy Dreams, I'm no Camelion, Nor can I feed on Airy smoaky Blisses, Or bait my strong Desire with Smiles and Kisses. Old Tantalus as well may surfet on The flying Streams by Contemplation.

Give me a minutes Heaven with my Love, Where I may roul in Pleasure; far above The Idle Fancy of the Soul's Embrace: Where my swift hand may ravish all the Grace Of Beauties Wardrobe, where the longing Bride May feast her fill, yet ne'er be satisfied.

Blaspheme not Love with any other Name, Than an enjoyment kindled from the Flame Of panting Breasts mix'd in a sweet Desire Of something more than barely to admire. 'Though Sighs and Signs may make the Pulses beat, 'Action's the Bellows that preserve the Heat.

If all Content were placed in the Eye, And Thoughts compriz'd the whole Felicity?

Pictures might court each other and exchange Their white-lime Looks, woo hard, and yet seem strange: 'No! Love requires a quick and home Embrace, 'Nor can it dwell for ever on the Face.

'What ever Glories Nature's tender Care 'Compiles to make a peice divinely rare, 'Th'are but the sweet Allurements of the Eye, 'Fix'd on a Stage to catch the Standers by. 'Or like rich Signs exposed to open Sight 'To tempt the Traveller to stay all Night.

Yield then my (chast Clarinda) once to see The sweet Meander of Love's Liberty. And seal thy thoughts a Grant to understand The welcome Pleasure of a Wife well man'd. For all the Sweets, mistaken in a Kiss, Are but the empty Circumstance of this.

So shall a full Content wipe out the Score Of all our Sorrows that have pass'd before. Not a sad Sigh shall scape, unsatisfied Which in its Master's Passion wept and died. But like a Sea made subject to our Oares, Wee'l hoise up Sail and touch the wished Shoars.

Christmass Day; Or the Shuttle of an inspired Weaver, bolted against the Order of the Church for its Sc∣lemnity.

CHrist-m•…•… Give me my beads: The word implies A Plot, by its Ingredients Beef and Pyes! A Feast Apocryphal, a Popish Rite Kneaded in Dough (beloved) in the Night; The Night (beloved) that's as much to say (By late Translations) not in the Day. An annual Dark-lanthorn Iubile, Catesby and Vaux bak'd in Conspiracy. The Hierarchy of Rome, the Triple Crown Confess'd in Triangles then swallowed down, With Spanish Sack? The eighty eight Armado Newly presented in an Ovenado. O Calvin! now my Cause upon thee fixes, Were ere such dregs mix'd with Geneva sixes? The cloyster'd-Steaks with Salt and Pepper lie Like Nuns with patches in a Monastry. Prophaness in a Conclave? nay much more Idolatry in crust! Babylon's Whore Rak'd from the Grave, and bak'd by Hanches, then Serv'd up in Coffins to unholy Men Defil'd with Superstition like the Gentiles Of old, that worship'd Onions, Roots and Lentiles! Did ever Iohn of Leyden prophecy Of such an Antichrist as Pudding-pye?

Beloved 'tis a thing when it appears, Enough to set the Saints all by the Ears, In solving of the Text, a doubtful Sin Reformed Churches ne'er consented in.

But hold (my Brethren) while I preach and pray Methinks the Manna melts and wasts away. I am a man as all you are, have read Of Peter's Sheet, how he devoutly fed Without Exception; therefore to dispence A little with the Worm of Conscience And bend unto the Creature, I prof•…•… Zeal and a Pye may join both in a Mess. The dearest Sons may er•…•…, then why a Sinner May I not eat? Since Hugh eat three to Dinner?

Piae Memoriae

Doctiss. Reverendissimique in Christo Patris, Iohannis Prideaux quam-novissime Wigor∣nioe Episcopi, harumque tristissime lacrima∣rum Patroni nec non defuncti.

BUsta struant alii, l•…•…crymisque altare refundant, Quorum tristitia fata pianda cadu•…•…t. Talia praecurant cineres monumenta pusilli, Queis melos & tumu•…•…um fama gemenda perit. Hic neque pyramidum, nec inertis monstra colossi Poscuntur, subito corruitura die. Gloria securi confidentissima C•…•…li Non vocat haecstellis astra minora suis. Sic tuus ascendit currus, dignissime Praesul, Terreni miserans futile honoris onus.

Sed vae Zodiaco nostro, vae (Phoebe) trementi, Ortus enim patriae lux tenebraeque fuit. In te floruimus, tecum decerpimur omnes Et Pater & gnati: Molliter ossa cubent. Parva tegant tenues & aperti funera fletus, Tanta ruant superis damna silenda metu.

Obsequies.

On the Right Reverend Father in God, John Prideaux, late Bishop of Worcester deceased.

IF by the fall of Luminaries, we May safely guess the World's Catastrophe; The signs are all fulfill'd, the Token's flown, (That scarce a man has any of his own:) Only the Iews Conversion some doubt bred, But that's confuted now the Doctor's dead.

Great Atlas of Religion! Since thy fate Proclaims our loss too soon, our tears too late, Where shall the bleeding Church a Champion gain To grasp with Heresie? Or to maintain Her Conflict with the Devil? For the odds Runs biass'd six to four against the Gods. Hell lists amain, nay and th'Engagement flies With winged Zeal through all the Sectaries, That should she soundly into Question fall, We were within a Vote of none at all. But can this hap upon a single Death? Yes: For thou wert the Treasure of our Breath. That pious Arch whereon the building stood, Which broke, the whole's devolv'd into a Flood;

An Inundation that o'er-bears the banks And Bounds of all Religion: If some stancks Shew their emergent Heads? Like Seth's famed Stone Th'are Monuments of thy Devotion gone, No Wonder then the rambling Spirits stray, In thee the Body fell, and slipt away.

Hence 'tis the Pulpit swells with Exhalations, Intricate Non-sense travell'd from all Nations; Notions refin'd to doubts, and Maxims squeez'd, With tedious Hick-ups till the sense grows freez'd, If ought shall chance to drop we may call good, 'Tis thy distinction makes it understood. Thy glorious Sun made ours a perfect day, Our Influence took its Being from thy Ray. Thine was that Gideon's Fleece, when all stood dry, Pearl'd with Celestial Dew, showr'd from on high. But now thy Night is come, our Shades are spread, And living here we move among the Dead. Perhaps an Ignis fatuus now and then Starts up in holes, stinks and goes out agen. Such Kicksee Winsee Flames shew but how dear Thy great Light's Resurrection would be here. A Brother with five Loaves and two small Fishes, A Table-book of Sighs, and Looks, and Wishes, Startles Religion more at one strong doubt, Than what they mean when as the Candle's out. But I profane thy Ashes (gracious Soul!) Thy Spirit flew to high to truss these foul Gnostick Opinions. Thou desired'st to meet, Such Tenents that durst stand upon their Feet, And beard the Truth with as intens'd a Zeal, As Saints upon a fast Night quilt a Meal.

Rome never trembled till thy piercing Eye Darted her through, and crush'd the Mystery.

Thy Revelations made St. Iohn's compleat, Babylon fell indeed, but 'twas thy Sweat And Oyl perform'd the work to what we see, Foret old in misty Types, broke forth in thee.

Some shallow Lines were drawn, and s•…•…onces made By Smatterers in the Arts, to drive a Trade Of Words between us, but that prov'd no more Than threats in cowing Feathers to give ore. Thy Fancy laid the Siege that wrought her Fall, Thy Batteries commanded round the Wall: Not a poor loop-hole, Error could sneak by, No not the Abbess to the Friery; Though her Disguise as close and subtly good As when she wore the Monk's hose for a Hood. And if perhaps their French or Spanish Wine, Had fill'd them full of Beads and Bellarmine, That they durst sally, or attempt a Guard, O! How thy busie Brain would beat and ward! Rally! And reinforce! Rout! And relieve! Double reserves! And then an onset give Like marshal'd Thunder, back'd with Flames of Fire? Storms mixt with Storms? Passion with Globes of ire? Yet so well disciplin'd that Judgment still Sway'd and not rash Commissionated Will. No, Words in thee knew Order, Time, and Place, The instant of a Charge, or when to face: When to pursue advantage, where to halt, When to draw off, and where to reassault. Such sure Commands stream'd from thee, that 'twas one With thee to vanquish as to look upon: So that thy ruin'd Foes groveling confess, Thy Conquests were their Fate and Happiness.

Nor was it all thy Business hereto war, With forreign Forces: But thy active Star

Could course a home-bred Mist, a native Sin, And shew its Guilt's Degrees, how and wherein; Then sentence and expel it: Thus thy Sun An Everlasting Stage in labour run; So that its motion to the Eye of Man Waved still in a compleat Meridian.

But these are but fair Comments of our Loss, The Glory of a Church now on the Cross: The transcript of that Beauty once we had, Whilst with the Lustre of thy Presence clad: But thou art gone (Brave Soul) and with thee all The Gallantry of Arts Polemical. Nothing remains as Primitive but Talk, And that our Priests again in Leather walk. A Flying Ministry of Horse and Foot, Things that can start a Text but ne'er come to't. Teazers of Doctrines, which in long sleev'd Prose Run down a Sermon all upon the Nose. These like dull glow-worms twinckle in the Night, The frighted Land-skips of an absent Light. But thy rich Flame's withdrawn, Heaven caught thee hence, Thy Glories were grown ripe for Recompence: And therefore to prevent our weak Essays, Th'art crown'd an Angel with Coelestial Bays; And there thy ravish'd Soul meets Field and Fire, Beauties enough to fill its strong Desire, The Contemplation of a present God, Perfections in the Womb, the very Road And Essences of Vertues, as they be Streaming and mixing in Eternity.

Whiles we possess our Souls but in a Veil, Live Earth confin'd, catch Heaven by retail, Such a Dark-lanthorn Age, such jealous Days Men tread on Snakes, sleep in Batalias,

Walk like Confessors, hear but must not say What the bold World dares act, and what it may;

Yet here all Votes, Commons and Lords agree, The Crosier fell in Laud, the Church in thee.

On the death of his Royal Majesty Charles late King of England &c.

WHat went yout out to see, a dying King? Nay more, I fear an Angel suffering. But what went you to see? A Prophet slain? Nay that and more a martyr'd Soveraign. Peace to that sacred Dust! Great Si•…•… our Fears Have left us nothing but Obedient Tears To court your Hearse; and in those Pious Floods We live, the poor remainder of our Goods. Accept us in these latter Obsequies, The unplundred Riches of our Hearts and Eyes; For in these faithful Streams and Emanations, W'are Subjects still beyond all Sequestrations. Here we cry more than Conquerors: Malice may Murder Estates, but Hearts will still obey. These as your Glory's, yet above the reach Of such whose purple Lines confusion preach. And now (Dear Sir) vouchsafe us to admire With envy your arrival, and that Quire Of Cherubims and Angels that supply'd Our Duties at your Triumphs: Where you ride With full Caelestial Ioes, and Ovations Rich as the Conquest of three ruin'd Nations.

But 'twas the Heavenly Plot that snatch'd you hence, To crown your Soul with that Magnificence.

And bounden rites of Honour, that poor Earth Could only wish and strangle in the Birth. Such pittied Emulation stop'd the blush Of our Ambitious Shame, non-suited us. For where Souls act beyond Mortality, Heaven only can perform that Iubilee.

We wrestle then no more, but bless your day And mourn the Anguish of our sad delay: That since we cannot add, we yet stay here Fetter'd in Clay: Yet longing to appear Spectators of your Bliss, that being shown Once more, you may embrace us as your own; Where never Envy shall divide us more, Nor City-tumults, nor the Worlds uproar; But an Eternal Hush, a quiet Peace As without end, so still in the Increase, Shall lull Humanity asleep, and bring Us equal Subjects to the Heavenly King. Till when I'll turn Recusant, and forswear All Calvin, for there's Purgatory here.

An Epitaph.

STay Passenger: Behold and see The widdowed Grave of Majesty. Why tremblest thou? Here's that will make All but our stupid Souls to shake. Here lies entomb'd the Sacred Dust Of Peace and Piety, Right and Just. The Blood (O start'st not thou to hear?) Of a King, 'twixt hope and fear Shed, and hurried hence to be The Miracle of Misery.

Add the ills that Rome can boast, •…•…rift the World in every Coast, •…•…ix the Fire of Earth and Seas With humane Spleen and Practices, To puny the Records of time, By one grand Gygantick Crime; Then swell it bigger till it squeeze The Globe to crooked Hams and Knees, Here's that shall make it seem to be But modest Christianity.

The Law-giver, amongst his own, •…•…entenc'd by a Law unknown. •…•…oted Monarchy to Death By the course Plebeian Breath. The Soveraign of all Command •…•…uffering by a Common Hand. A Prince, to make the Odium more, Offer'd at his very door. The head cut off, O Death to see't! •…•…n Obedience to the Feet. And that by Iustice you must know, If you have Faith to think it so. Wee'l stir no further than this Sacred Clay, But let it slumber till the Iudgment Day. Of all the Kings on Earth, 'tis not denyed, Here lies the first that for Religion dyed.

A Survey of the World.

THe World's a guilded Trifle, and the State Of sublunary Bliss adulterate. Fame but an empty Sound, a painted noise, A Wonder that ne'er looks beyond nine Days.

Honour's the Tennis-Ball of Fortune: Though Men wade to it in Blood and Overthrow; Which like a Box of Dice uneven dance, Sometime 'tis one's, sometimes another's chance. Wealth but the hugg'd Consumption of that Heart, That travels Sea and Land for his own Smart. Pleasure à courtly Madness, a Conceit That smiles and tickles without Worth or Weight Whose scatter'd reck'ning, when 'tis to be paid Is but Repenance lavishly in-laid.

The World, Fame, Honour, Wealth and Pleasur then Are the fair Wrack and Gemonies of Men. Ask but thy Carnal Heart if thou shouldst be Sole Monarch of the Worlds great Family, If with the Macedonian Youth there would Not be a corner still reserv'd that could Another Earth contain? If so? What is That poor insatian thing she may call Bliss?

Question the loaden Gallantry asleep, What profit now their Lawrels in the deep Of Death's Oblivion? What their Triumph was More then the Moment it did prance and pass? If then applause move by the vulgar cry, Fame's but a Glorious Uncertainty.

Awake Sejanus, Strafford, Buckingham, Charge the fond Favourites of greatest Name, What Faith is in a Prince's Smile, what Joy In th'high and Grand Concilio le Roy? Nay •…•…sur's self, that march'd his Honours throu The Bowels of all Kingdoms, made them bow Low to the Sti•…•…up of his Will and Vote, What safety to their Master's Life they brought?

When in the Senate in his highest Pride By two and thirty Wounds he fell and dyed?

If Height be then most subjected to Fate; 'Honour's the Day-spring of a greater Hate. Now ask the Grov'ling Soul that makes his Gold His Idol, his Di•…•…a, what a cold Account of Happiness can here arise From that ingluvious Surfeit of his Eyes? How the whole Man's inslav'd to a lean Dearth Of all Enjoyment for a little Earth? How like Prometheus he doth still repair His growing Heart to feed the Vulture care. Or like a Spider's envious Designs, Drawing the threads of Death from her own Loyns. Tort'ring his Entrails with thoughts of to Morrow, To keep that Mass with grief, he gain'd with Sorrow. If to the clincking Pastime in his Ears He add the Orphans Cries and Widows Tears, The Musick's far from sweet, and if you found him, Truly, they leave him sadder than they found him.

Now touch the Dallying Gallant, he that lies Angling for Babies in his Mistris's Eyes, Thinks there's no Heaven like a Bale of Dice Six Horses and a Coach with a device: A cast of Lackeys, and a Lady-bird, An Oath in fashion, and a guilded Sword: Can smoak Tobacco with a Face in Frame, And speak perhaps a Line of Sense to th'same: Can sleep a Sabboth over in his Bed, Or if his Play book's there, will stoop to read, Can kiss its Hand, and congé a la mode, And when the Night's approaching bolt abroad, Unless his Honour's Worship's Rent's not come; So he falls sick, and swears the Carrier home.

Else if his rare Devotion swell so high To waste an Hour-glass on Divinity, 'Tis but to make the Church his Stage, thereby To blaze the Taylor in his Ribaldry. Ask but the Iay when his distress shall fall Like an arm'd Man upon him, where are all The Rose-buds of his Youth? Those antick Toys Wherein he sported out his precious Days? What comfort he collects from Hawk or Hound? Or if amongst his looser Hours, he found One of a thousand to redeem that time Perish'd and lost forever in his Prime? Or if he dream'd of an Eternal Bliss? Hee'l swear God damn him he ne'er thought of this. But like the Epicure ador'd the day That shin'd, rose up to eat, and drink and play. Knows that his Body was but Dust, and dye It once must, so have Mercy, and God b'wy.

Thus having travers'd the fond World in brief, The Lust of the Eyes, the Flesh, and Pride of Life. Unbiass'd and impartially, we see 'Tis lighter in the Scale than Vanity.

What then remains? But that we still should strive Not to be born to dye, but dye to live.

An Old Man courting a young Girl.

COme Beauteous Nymph, canst thou embrace An Aged, Wise Majestick Grace? To mingle with thy youthful Flames, And made thy Glories stay'd? the Dames Of looser Gesture blush to see Thy Lillies cloth'd with Gravity?

Thy happier choice? Thy gentle Vine With a sober Elm entwine? Seal fair Nymph that lovely Tye Shall speak thy Honour loud and high.

Nym.

Cease Grandsire Lover, and forbear To court me with thy Sepulchre; Thy chill December and my May, Thy Evening and my Break of Day Can brook no Mixture, no Condition, But stand in perfect Opposition. Nor can my active heart embrace 〈◊〉〈◊〉 shivering Ague in Love's Chase. Only perhaps the lucky tye •…•…ay make thy forked Fortune high.

Man.

If fretted Roofs and Beds of Down, •…•…nd the Wonder of the Town, •…•…nded Knees, and costly Fare, •…•…ichest Dainties without Care, May Temptations Motives be Here they all attend on thee; •…•…nd to raise thy Bliss the more, •…•…ell thy Trunks with precious Ore, •…•…he glittering Entrails of the East •…•…o varnish and perfume thy Nest.

Nym.

I question not, Sage Sir, but she •…•…hat weds your grave Obliquity, •…•…our Pthisick, Rheums, and Soldans Face •…•…all meet with Fretted Roofs apace. •…•…ancy not your bended Knees •…•…st bowing you can sprighly rise; •…•…ur Gold too when you leave to woo Will quickly become Precious too. •…•…d dainty Cates without Delight, •…•…ay glut the Day but starve the Night.

For when thou boasts the Beds of Bliss, The Man, the Man, still wanting is.

Man.

Nay, gentle Nymph, think not my Fire So quench'd, but that the strong Desire Of Love can wake it and create New Action to cooperate. The Sparks of Youth are not so gone, But I—ay marry that I can. Come smack me then my pretty Dear, Tast what a lively Change is here. Why fly'st thou me?——

Nym.

———yce yce begone, Clasp me not with thy Frozen Zone. That pale Aspect would best become The sad Complexion of a Tomb. Think not thy Church-yard Look shall move My Spring to be thy Winter's Stove. If at the Resurrection we Shall chance to marry, call on me; By that time I perhaps may guess How to bath and how to dress Thy weeping Legs, and simpathize With perish'd Lungs and wopper Eyes, And think thy touchy Passion Wit, Love disdain and flatter it; And 'midst this costive Punishment Raise a politick Content. But whiles the Solstice of my years Glories in its highest Sphears, Deem not, I will daign to be The Vassal of Infirmity, The Skreen of flegmatick old Age, Decay'd Methusalem his Page.

No! Give me lively Pleasures, such Melt the Fancy in the touch; Raise the Appetite and more, Satisfie it o'er and o'er. Then from the Ashes of those Fires Kindle fresh and new Desires. So Cyprus be the Scoene: Above Venus and the God of Love, Knitting true-love knots in one Merry happy Union. Whiles their feather'd team appears Doves and Sparrows in their Gears, Flutt'ring o'er the jovial-fry, Sporting in Love's Comedy.

Man.

Hold hasty Soul, Beauty's a Flower That may perish in an Hour; No Disease but can disgrace The trifling Blossoms of a Face, And nip the heights of those fond Toys, That now are doted on with Praise. The Noon-glory of the Sun To the Shades of Night must come. May, for all her gilded Prime, Has its weak and withering time. Not a Bud that ows its Birth, From the teeming-mother Earth, But excels the fading dress Of a Womans Loveliness. For when Flowers vanish here, They may spring another Year. But frail Beauty, when 'tis gone, Finds no Resurrection. Scorn me then, coy Nymph, no more, Fly no higher, do not sore.

Those pretty Rubies of thy Lips Once must know a pale Eclipse. And that plump alluring Skin Will be furrow'd deeply in. And those curled Locks so bright Time will all besnow with white. Not a Glory, not a Glance, But must suffer Change and Chance. Then, though now you'll not contract With me in the Marriage Act, Yet perforce chuse, chuse you whether, You and I shall Lye together.

An Epitaph on his deceased Friend.

HEre lies the ruin'd Cabinet Of a rich Soul more highly set. The Dross and Refuse of a Mind, Too glorious to be here confin'd. Earth for a while bespake his stay, Only to bait and so away: So that what here he doted on Was meerly Accommodation. Not that his active Soul could be At home, but in Eternity. Yet while he blest us with the Rays Of his short continued Days, Each minute had its Weight of Worth, Each pregnant Hour some Star brought forth. So whiles he travell'd here beneath, He liv'd, when others only breath. For not a Sand of time slip'd by Without its Action sweet as high:

So good, so peaceable, so blest, Angels alone can speak the rest.

Mount Ida, or, Beauties Contest.

THree regent Goddesses they fell at odds, As they sat close in Council with the Gods, Whose Beauty did excel! And thence they crave A Moderator of the Strife to have: But lest the partial Heavens could not decide The grudg, they stoop to Mortals to be try'd.

Mantled in Clouds then gently down they fall Upon Mount Ida to appease the Brall, Where Priam's lovely Boy sporting did keep His Fathers Lambs and snowy Flocks of Sheep, His lilly Hand was soon ordain'd to be The harmless Umpire of the fond Decree.

To him, to him, they gave the Golden Ball, O happy Goddess upon whom it fall! But more unhappy Shepherd, was't not pity Thou didst not send it at a close Committee? There, there thou hadst surpass'd what did befall, Thou might'st have crowned One, yet pleased All.

First then Imperious Iuno did display Her Coronet of Glories to the Boy, And rang'd her Stars up in an arched Ring Of Height and Majesty most flourishing; Then Wealth and Honour at his Foot did lay To be esteem'd the Lady of the Day.

Next Pallas that brave Heroina came, The thund'ring Queen of Action, War and Fame, Dress'd in her glitt'ring Arms, wherewith she lays Worlds wast, and new ones from their Dust can raise: These, these she tenders him, advanc'd to be, With all the Wreaths of Wit and Gallantry.

Last Venus breaks forth of her Golden Rays, With thousand Cupids crown'd, ten thousand Boys, Sparkling through every Quadrant of her Eyes, Which made her Beauty in full Glory rise: Then smiling vow'd so to sublime his Parts, To make him the great Conqueror of Hearts.

Thus poor distracted Paris all on Fire, Stood trembling deep in doubt what to desire; The sweet Temptations pleaded hard for all, Each Theatre of •…•…eanty seem'd to call For the bright Prize: But he amazed, he Could not determine which, which which was she.

At last the Cyprian Girl so struck him blind In all the Faculties of Soul and Mind, That he poor captiv'd Wretch without delay Could not forbear his frailty to •…•…etray, But 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Honour. Wisdom, all above He ran and kiss'd and crown'd the Queen of Love.

Pallas and Iuno then in high disdain Took Snuff, and posted up to Heaven again, As to a high Court of Appeal, to be Reveng'd on Men for this Indignity. "Hence then it happens that the Ball was lost, "'Tis two to one but Love is always crost.

Upon a Fly that flew into a Lady's Eye, and there lay buried in a Tear.

POor envious Soul! what couldst thou see In that bright Orb of Purity? That active Globe? That twinkling Sphere Of Beauty to be medling there? Or didst thou foolishly mistake The glowing Morn in that Day break? Or was't thy Pride to mount so high Only to kiss the Sun and dye? Or didst thou think to rival all, Don Phaeton and his great Fall? And in a richer Sea of Briue Drown Icarus again in thine? 'Twas bravely aim'd, and which is more Th'hast sunk the Fable o'er and o'er. For in this single Death of thee Th'hast bankrupt all Antiquity.

O had the fair Aegyptian Queen Thy glorious Monument once seen, How had she spar'd what time forbids, The needless tott'ring Pyramids! And in an emulative Chafe Have begg'd thy Shrine her Epitaph? Where, when her Aged Marble must Resign her Honour to the Dust, Thou mightst have canonized her Deceased Time's Executor?

To rip up all the Western Bed Of Spices where Sol lays his Head, To squeeze the Phoenix and her Nest In one Perfume that may write Best;

Then blend the Gall'ry of the Skies With her Seraglio of Eyes, T'embalm a Name, and raise a Tomb, The Miracle of all to come; Then, then, compare it: Here's a Gemm A Pearl must shame and pity them. An Amber drop distilled by The sparkling Limbeck of an eye, Shall dazle all the short Essays Of rubbish Worth and shallow Praise.

We strive not then to prize that Tear, Since we have nought to poise it here. The World's too light. Hence, hence we cry The World, the World's not worth a Fly.

Obsequies

To the Memory of the truly Noble, right Va∣liant, and right Honourable, Spencer Earl of Northampton, slain at Hopton Field in Staffordshire, in the Beginning of the Civil War.

WHat! The whole World in Silence? Not a Tear In tune through all the speechless Hemisphere? Has Grief so seiz'd and fear'd Man-kind in all The Convoys of Intelligence? No Fall But those of Waters heard? No Elegies But such as whine through th'Organs of our Eyes? Can Pompey fall again? And no Pen say Here lies the Roman Liberey in Clay?

Or can his Bloud Bow-die th'Egyptian Sand, And the black Crimes does less then tann the Land? And make the Region instead of a Verse, And tomb his sable Epitaph and Herse?

So here Northampton that brave Hero fell, Triumphant Roman thy pure Parallel, The Blush and Glory of his Age: Who dyed In all Points happy, but the Weaker side. Only to foreign parts he did not roam, The kind Egyptians met him nearer home. Both, and such, Causes, that the World confess, There's nought to plead against them but Success▪ Malignant Loyalty! A glorious Fame And Sin, for which God never found a Name. Which had it scaped the Rubrick of these times Had still continu'd among Holy Crimes. A Text on which we find no Gloss at all, But in the Alcoran of Gold-smiths Hall!

Now (Great Adolphus) give me leave to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 The Ashes of thy Urn, and Sepulc•…•…re; And branch the Flowers of the Swedish Glory, As rivall'd to the Life in our sad Story; Yet not impair thy Plumes, by adding more To suit that Splendor from a Neighbour Shore; Nor deem thy Honour less thus match'd to be, If Compton dyed to grasping Victory. An active Soul in Gallant F•…•…y hurl'd, To club with all the Worthies of the World. Blind, Envious, piping Fortune! What could be The tottering Ground of this thy Treachery? To stop the Ballance of that brave Carrear, Was both at once thy Miracle and Fear? Was't not a pannick Dread surpriz'd thy Soul, Of being made servile to his high Controul?

Blush and confess poor Cai•…•… goddess! So Wee'l quit his in thy real Overthrow.

And Death, thon Worm! Thou pale Assassinate! Thou sneaking Hireling of Revenge and Hate, Didst not thou feel an Earth-quake in thy Bones▪ Such as rends Rocks and their Foundations? No T•…•…tian shivering, but an Ag•…•… fit Which with a burning Feaver shall commit The World to Ashes? When thou stol'st crept'st under That Helmet which durst dare Iove and his Thunder.

But since the Bays he reacht at grew not here, Like a wise Souldier and a Cavalier, He left his covetous Enemy at Bay, Rifling the Carriage of his Flesh and Clay: While his rich Soul pursued the greater Game Of Honour to the Skies, there fi•…•…'d his Name. I shall not therefore vex the O•…•… to trace Thy Sacred Foot-steps in that hallow'd Place; No•…•… start a feigned Star, and swear it thine, Then stretch the Constellation to thy Line, Like a Welch Gentleman that tacks hi•…•… Kin To all Coat•…•… in the Country he lives in. Nor yet, to raise thy Flaming Crest, shall I Knock for the wandring Planets in the Sky. Perhaps some broken Beauty of sta•…•…e Doubt, To comment on her Face has hir'd them out.

Let Fame, and thy brave Race thy Statue live, The World can never such another give. Whiles each Soul sighs at the is•…•…d thought of thee,

There fell a Province of Nobility. A Fall, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Zeal but husbanded its Throat, That sunk the House of Lords, and sav'd the Vote. They only State m•…•…e Titles in their Gears, He singly represented all the Peers.

One, had the Enemy imploy'd their Smeck, •…•…hose Ring-worms of the Church, to beg a Neck With Claudius, to metropolize all Worth, •…•…ome, and what e'er the Suburb-world brought forth, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 him the Sword did glut its ravening Eye, •…•…he rest that kick'd up were the smaller Fry. •…•…parks only of that Fire in him deceas'd, •…•…yfles that crack'd and vanish'd North and West.

He led the Royal War in such a Dye, •…•…n that dire Entrance of the Tragedy, The Sense (Great Charles) no longer to prorogue, •…•…one but thy self could speak the Epilogue.

The London Lady.

GEntly my Muse! 'tis but a tender Piece, A Paradox of Fumes and Ambergreece. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Cobweb-tinder at a touch takes Fire, The tumbling Whirligig of blind Desire. •…•…ulcan's Pandora in a Crystal Shrine, Or th'old Inn fac'd with a new painted Sign. The spotted Voyder of the Term: In short, Chymical Nature physick'd into Art.

But hold rude Satyr, here's a Hector comes, A Cod-piece Captain that with her shares Sums: One claims a Joynture in her Sins, the Foil That puts her off, like the Old Man ere while: That with a Dagger-Cloak, and ho-boy gapes And squeeks for Company for the Iack-an-Apes. This is the fierce St. George, foreruns the Wagon▪ And, if occasion be, shall kill the Dragon. Don Mars the great Ascendant on the Road, When Thomas's teem begins to jog abroad.

The hinter at each turn of Covent Garden, The C•…•…-Pickeerer, the robust Church warden Of Lincoln's Inn back-corner, where he angles For Cloaks and Hats, and the small Game entangles This is the City Usher stray'd to enter The small Drink Country Squires of the first venter And dubs them batch'lor-Knight of the black Jugg Mans them into an Oath, and the French Shrugg, Make's them fine Graduates in Smock-impudence, And gelds them of their Puny Mothers Sence. So that when two Terms more, and forty Pound Reads them acquainted all Gomorrha round, Down to their wondring Friends at last they range, With breeding just enough to speak them strange, And drown a younger Brother in a Look, Kick a poor Lacquey, and berogue the Cook; Top a small Cry of Tenants that dare stir In no Phrase now, but save your Worship Sir.

But to return: By this my Lady's up, Has swum the Ocean of the Cawdle-Cup, Convers'd with every washing, every Ground, And Fucus in the Cabinet's to be found. Has laid the fix'd Complexion for the Day, Ber Breech rings High Change, and she must away.

Now down the Channel towards the Strand the glides, Flinging her •…•…mble Glances on both sides, Like the Death-darting Cockatrice (that slye Close Engineer) that murders through the Eye. The first that's tickled with her rumbling Wheels Is the old Statesman, that in Slippers reels, He wire draws up his Jaws, and snuffs and gri•…•…s, And sighing smacks, but for my Aged Shins, My Con•…•…ve of Diseases, I would boord Your lofty Gally: Thus I serv'd my Lord—

But mum for that, his strength will scarce supply His Back to the Balcona, so God b'wy. By this she has survey'd the golden Globe, And finding no Temptation to disrobe, To Durham New Old Stable on she packs, Where having winc'd and breath'd the what'd ye lacks, •…•…usled and bounced a turn or two in Ire, •…•…he mounts the Coach like Phaeton all on Fire, •…•…it for th'Impressions of all sorts of Evil, •…•…nd whirls up tow'rds the Lawyers and the Devil. There Ployden in his laced Ruff starch'd on Edg •…•…eeps like an Adder through a quick-set Hedge, And brings his stale Demur to stop the Course Of her Proceedings with her Yoak of Horse; Then falls to handling of the Case, and so •…•…hews her the Posture of her Over-throw; But yet for all his Law and double Fees Shee'l bring him to joyn Issue on his Knees; And make him pay for Expedition too: Thus the gray Fox acts his green Sins anew. And well he scapes if all his Norman Sense Can save the burning of his Evidence. But out at last shee's huddled in the dark, Man'd like a Lady-Client by the Clerk And so the nimble Youngster at the parting Extorts a Smack perhaps before the Carting.

Down Fleet-street next she rowls with powdred Crest, •…•…o spring clip'd-half-crowns in the Cuckow's Nest. For now the Heroes of the Yard have shut Their Shops, and loll upon their Bulks to put The Ladies to the Squeek, if so perhaps Their Mistresses can spare them from their Laps. •…•…ot far she waves and sails before she clings With the young Tribe for Pendants, Lace, and Rings;

But there poor totter'd Madam, though too late, She meets the Topsie-turvey of her State; For the ca•…•…n'd Boys, having nought left to pay. Are forc'd to pawn her, and so run away. On this the dreadful Drawer soon appears, Like her ill Genius about her Ears, With a long Bill of Items that affright. Worse than a Skull of Halberds in the Night. For now the Jay's compell'd to untru•…•…s all The tackling upon tick from every Stall; Each sharing Broker of her borrow'd Dress Seems to do Penance in her Nakedness. For not a Lady of the noble Game, But is compos'd at least of all Long-Lane: An Animal together blow'd and made, And up'd of all the Shreds of every Trade.

Thus purely now her self, homewards she packs, Exciz'd in all the Dialects of her knacks: Squeez'd to the utmost Thread, and latest Grain, Like Meteors toss'd to their first grit again.

A Lane, a Lane, she comes, summ'd down to nought, But Shame and a thin-under Petticoat. But lest I should pursue her to the quick, I pass: The Chase lies now too near the Nick.

In pity Satyr then thy Lash let fall: He knows her best that scans her not at all.

And though thou seem'st discourteous not to save her, No matter; when thou leav'st there's one will have her▪

The Times.

TO speak in wet-shod Eyes, and drowned Looks, Sad broken Accents, and a Vein that brooks No Spirit, Life, or Vigour, were to own The Crush and Triumph of Affliction; And creeping with Themistocles to be The pale-fac'd Pensioners of our Enemy. No, 'tis the Glory of the Soul to rise By Falls, and at rebound to pierce the Skies.

Like a brave Courser standing on the Sand Of some high-working Fretum; views a Land Smiling with Sweets upon the distant side, Garnish'd in all her gay embroider'd Pride, Larded with Springs, and fring'd with curled Woods, Impatient, bounces in the cap ring Floods, Big with a nobler Fury than that Stream Of shallow Violence he meets in them; Thence arm'd with Scorn & Courage ploughs away Through the impostum'd Billows of the Sea; And makes the grumbling Surges Slaves to Oar, And waft him safely to the further Shoar: Where landed in a Soveraign Disdain He turns back, and surveys the foaming Main, Whiles the subjected Waters flowing reel, Ambitious yet to wash the Victor's Heel.

In such a Noble Equipage should we Embrace th'Encounter of our Misery. Not like a Fie•…•… of Corn, that hangs the Head For every Tempest, every petty Dread. Crosses were the best Christians Arms: And we That hope a wished Canaan once to see,

Must not expect a Carpet-way alone Without a Red-sea of Affliction. Then cast the Dice: Let's foord old Rubicon, Caesar 'tis thine, Man is but once undone. Tread softly though, lest Scylla's Ghost awake, And us i'th'Roll of his Proscriptions take. Rome is revived, and the Triumvirate In the black Island are once more a State; The City trembles: There's no third to shield If once Augustus to Antonius yield, Law shall not shelter Cicero, the Robe The Senate: Proud Success admits no Probe Of Justice to correct or square the Fate, That bears down all as illegitimate; For whatsoe'er it lists to overthrow, It either finds it, or else makes it so.

Thus Tyranny's a stately Palace, where Ambition sweats to climb and nustle there; But when 'tis enter'd, what Hopes then remain? There is no Sallyport to come out again. For Mischief must rowl on, and gliding grow, Like little Rivulets that gently flow From their first bubling Springs, but still increase And swell their Channel as they mend their Pace; Till in a Glorious Tide of Villany They over-run the Banks, and posting fly Like th'bellowing Waves in Tumults, till they can Display themselves in a full Ocean. And if blind Rage shall chance to miss its Way, Brings Stock enough alone to make a Sea.

Thus treble Treasons are secur'd •…•…d drown'd By lowder Crys of deeper Mouth and Sound. And high Attempts swallow a puny Plot, As Canons overwhelm the smaller Shot.

Whiles the deaf sensless World inur'd a while (Like the Catadupi at the Fall of Mile) To the fierce tumbling Wonder, think it none; Thus Custom hallows Irreligion! And strokes the patient Beast till he admit The now-grown-light and necessary Bit.

But whether do I ramble? Gauled Times Cannot indure a smart Hand o'er their Crimes. Distracted Age? What Dialect or Fashion Shall I assume? To pass the Approbation Of thy censorious Synod; which now sit High Areopagites to destroy all Wit?

I cannot say, I say, that I am one Of th'Church of Ely-house, or Abington, Nor of those precious Spirits that can deal The Pomegranates of Grace at every Meal. No zealous Hemp-dresser yet dipp'd me in The Laver of Adoption from my Sin. But yet if Inspiration, or a Tale Of a long-wasted six Hours length prevail, A smooth Certificate from the Sister-hood, Or to be term'd Holy before Good, Religious Malice, or a Faith 'thout Works Others then may proclaim us Iews or Turks: If these, these hint at any thing, Then, then Whoop! my dispairing Hope come back agen: For since the Inundation of Grace, All Honesty's under Water, or in Chase. But 'tis the Old Worlds Dotage, thereupon We feed on Dreams Imagination, Humours, and cross-gain'd Passions, which now reign 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the decaying Elements of the Brain. •…•…is hard to coin new Fancies, when there be So few that launch out in Discovery.

Nay Arts are so far from being cherished, There's scarce a Colledge but has lost its Head, And almost all its Members: O sad Wound! Where never an Artery could be judged sound! To what a Height is Vice now towred? When we Dare not miscall it an Obliquity? So confident, and carrying such an aw, That it subscribes it self no less than Law? If this be Reformation then? The great Account pursued with so much Bloud and Sweat?

In what Black Lines shall our sad Story be Deliver'd over to Posterity? With what a Dash and Scar shall we be read? How has Dame Nature in us suffered? Who of all Centuries the first Age are That sunk the World for want of due Repair?

When first we issued out in Cries and Tears, (Those salt Presages of our future years) Head-long we dropt into a quiet Calm, Times crown'd with rosie Garlands, Spice and Balm; Where first a Glorious Church and Mother came, Embrac'd us in her Arms, gave us a Name By which we live, and an indulgent Breast Flowing with Stream to an Eternal Rest. Thus ravish'd, the poor Soul could not guess even, Which was more kind to her yet, Earth, or Heaven. Or rather wrapped in a pious Doubt Of Heaven, whether she were in or out.

Next the Great Father of our Country brings His Blessing too, (even the Best of Kings) Safe and well-grounded Laws to guard our Peace, And nurse our Virtues in their just Increase; Like a pure Spring from whom all Graces come, Whose Bounty made it double Christendom.

Such and so sweet were those Halcyon Days That rose upon us in our Infant Rays; Such a composed State we breathed under, We only heard of Iove, ne'er felt his Thunder. Terrors were then as strange, as Love now grown, Wrong and Revenge lived quietly at home. The sole Contention that we understood, Was a rare Strife and War in doing good.

Now let's reflect upon our Gratefulness. How we have added, or (O!) made it less, What are th'Improvements? what our Progress? where Those handsom Acts that say that some men were? He that to ancient Wreaths can bring no more From his own Worth, dyes bankrupt on the Score. For Fathers Crests are crowned in the Son, And Glory spreads by Propagation. Now Virtue shield me! Where shall I begin? To what a Labyrinth am I now slipp'd in, What shall we answer them? Or what deny? What prove? Or rather whether shall we fly? When the poor widdow'd Church shall ask us where Are all her Honours? and that filial Care We ow'd so sweet a Parent as the Spouse Of Christ, which here vouchsaf'd to own a House? Where are her Boanerges? And those rare Brave Sons of Consolation? Which did bear The Ark before our Israel, and dispence The Heavenly Manna with such Diligence? In them the prim'tive Motto's come to pass, Aut mortui sunt, aut docent literas. Bless'd Virgin! we can only say we have Thy Prophets Tombs among us, and their Grave. And here and there a Man in Colours paint, That by thy Ruins grew a mighty Saint.

Next Caesar some Accounts are due to thee, But those in Blood already written be. So loud and lasting, in such monstrous Shapes, So wide the never-to-be-clos'd Wound gapes; All Ages yet to come with shivering shall Recite the fearful President of thy Fall.

Hence we confute thy Tenent Solomon, Under the Sun a new thing hath been done; A thing before all Pattern, all Pretence Of Rule or Copy: Such a strange Offence Of such Original Extract, that it bears Date only from the Eden of our Years.

Laconian Agis! We have read thy Fate, The Violence of the Spartan Love and Hate. How Pagans trembled at the thought of thee, And fled the Horrour of thy Tragedy; Thyestes cruel Feast, and how the Sun Shrunk in his Golden Beams that Sight to shun. The Bosoms of all Kingdoms open lye, Plain and emergent to th'inquiring Eye. But when we glance upon our Native Home, As the black Center to whom all Points come, We rest amazed, and silently admire How far beyond all Spleen ours did aspire. All that we dare assert is but a Cry Of an exchanged Peace for Liberty. A secret Term by Inspiration known, A Mist that brooks no Demonstration; Unless we dive into our Purses, where We quickly find Our Freedom purely dear.

But why exclaim you thus? May some Men say, Against the times? When equal Night and Day Keep their just Course? The Seasons still the same? As sweet as when from the first Hand they came?

The Influence of the Stars benign and free, As at first Peep up in their Infancy? 'Tis not those standing Motions that divide The space of Years, nor the swift Hours that glide, Those little Particles of Age, that come In thronging Items that make up the Summ, That's here intended: But our crying Crimes, Our Monsters that abominates the Times. 'Tis we that make the Metonymy good By being bad, which like a troubled Flood Nothing produce but slimy Mire and Dirt, And Impudence that makes Shame malepert. To travel further in these Wounds that lye Rankling, though seeming clos'd, were to deny Rest to an o'erwatch'd World, and force fresh Tears From stench'd Eyes, now alarum'd by old Fears. Which if they thus shall heal and stop, they be The first that e'er were cur'd by Lethargy.

This only Axiom from ill Times encrease I gather, There's a time to hold ones Peace.

The Model of new Religion.

WHoop! Mr. Uicar in your flying Frock? What News at Babel now? how stands the Cock! When wags the Flood? No Ephimerides? Nought but confounding of the Languages? No more of th'Saints Arrival? Or the Chance Of three Pipes two Pence and an Ordinance? How many Queer-religions? Clear your Throat,

May a man have a Peny-worth? Four a Groat? Or do the Iuncto leap at truss-a-fail? Three Tenents clap while five hang on the Tail?

No Querpo model? Never a knack or wile? To preach for Spoons and Whistles? Cross or Pile? No hints of Truth on Foot? no Sparks of Grace? No late sprung Light? to dance the wild-goose Chase? No Spiritual Dragoons that take their Flames From th'inspiration of the City Dames? No Crumbs of Comfort to relieve our Cry? No new dealt Mince-meat of Divinity?

Come let's project: By the great late Eclipse We justly fear a Famine of the Lips. For Sprats are rose an Omer for a Souse, Which gripes the Conclave of the lower House. Let's therefore vote a close Humiliation, For op•…•…ning the seal'd Eyes of this blind Nation; That they may see confessingly and swear, They have not seen at all this Fourteen Year. And for the Splints and Spavings too, 'tis said All the Joints have the Riffcage, since the Head Swell'd so prodigious, and exciz'd the Parts From all Allegiance but in Tears and Hearts.

But zealous Sir, what say to a touch at Prayer? How Quops the Spirit? In what Garb or Air? With Souse erect, or Pendent, Winks, or Haws? Sniveling? Or the extention of the Jaws? Devotion has its mode: Dear Sir hold forth; Learning's a Venture of the second Worth. For since the People's Rise and its sad Fall, We are inspir'd from much to none at all.

Brother adieu! I see y'are closely girt, A costive Dover gives the Saints the Squirt. Hence (Reader) all our flying News contracts, Like the State's Fleet from the Seas into Acts;

But where's the Model all this while you'll say, 'Tis like the Reformation, run away.

On Britannicus his leap three Story high, and his escape from London.

PAul from Damascus in a Basket slides, Cran'd by the Faithful Brethren down the sides Of their embattell'd Walls, Britannicus, As loath to trust the Brethrens God with us, Slides too, but yet more desp'rate, and yet thrives In his descent; needs must! The Devil drives. Their Cause was both the same, and herein meet, Only their Fall was not with equal Feet, Which makes the Case Iambick: Thus we see How much News falls short of Divinity. Truth was their crying Crime: One takes the night, Th'other th'advantage of the New-sprung Light To mantle his escape: How different be The Pristine and the Modern Policy? Have Ages their Antipodes? Yet still Close in the Propagation of ill: Hence flows this Use and Doctrine from the thump I last sustain'd (belov'd) Good Wits may jump.

Content.

FAir Stranger! Winged Maid, where dost thou rest Thy snowy Locks at Noon? Or on what Breast Of Spices slumber o'er the sullen Night? Or waking whither dost thou take thy Flight? Shall I go seek some melancholick Grove? The silent Theatre of Despair and Love? There court the Bittern and the Pelican, Those Airy Antipodes to the Tents of Man?

Or sitting by some pretty pratling Spring Hear hoarse Nyctimine her Dirges sing? Whiles the rough Satyrs dance Corantoes too The chattring Sembriefs of her Woo hoo, hoo? Or shall I trace some Ice-bound Wilderness Among the Caverns of abstruse Recess? Where never prying Sun, nor blushing Day Could steal a Glimps, or intersqueeze a Ray?

If not within this solitary Cell, O whether must I post? Where dost thou dwell?

Shall I let loose the Reins of blind Desire? And surfeit every ravening Sence? Give Fire To any Train? And tire Voluptuousness In all her soft Varieties of Excess? And make each Day a History of Sin? Drink the A la mort Sun down and up agen! Improve my Crimes to such a roaring Score, That when I dye, where others go before In whining venial Streams, and Quarto Pages, My Floods may rise in Folio, sink all Ages? O•…•… shall I bath my self in Widows Tears? And build my Name in th'Curse of them and theirs? Ship-wrack whole Nature to craw out a Purse With th'molten Cinders of the Universe? Belch nought but Ruin? And the horrid Crys Of Fire and Sword? And swim in drowned Eyes? Make Lanes to Crowns and Scepters through th' Heart's Veins Of Justice, Law, Right, Church and Soveraigns? No, no, I trace thee not in this dark way Of Death, this Scarlet-streak'd Aceldama.

Shall I then to the House of Mourning goe? Where the Salt-peter Vuates over-flow

With fresh Supplies of Grief? Fresh Tides of Brine? Or traverse the wide World in every Line? Walk through the Bowels of each Realm and State Simpling for Rules of Policy, to create Strange Forms of Government of new Mold, & wasts Like a French Kickshaw of a thousand Tasts? Or shall I dive into the Secrecy Of Nature? Where the most retir'd doth lie? Or shall I waste the Taper of my Soul In Scrutinies; where neither Northern-pole Nor Southern-constellation darts a Light To constitute a Latitude or Height? Or shall I float into the watry Pale Wan Kingdom of the Moon? And there set sail For all the Orbs? And keep high Holy-day With th'Nectar-tipling-Gods in th'milky-way? Swell Bacchus tripes with a Tun of lusty Sack? And lay the Plump Squire flat upon his Back? O no, these Revels are too short, too sour, Too sad, hugg'd and repented in an Hour.

Shall I then plough the Seas to forreign Soils? And rake the pregnant Indies for hid Spoils? Or with the Anchorite abhor the Eye Of Heaven, and banish all Society? Live in, and out the World? And pass my Days In treading out some strange mysterious Maze; Taste every Humane Sweet? Lilly and Rose? With all the sharp Guard that about them grows? Climb where Despair would tremble to set Foot, Spring new Impossibles and force Way to't? Make the whole Globe a Shop of Chymistry To melt down all her Atomes, and descry That small Iota, that last pittied Grain Which the gull'd Sons of Men pursue in vain?

Or shall I grasp those Meteors, Fame, and Praise Which Breath by th'Charity of the vulgar Voice? Pile Honour upon Honourt till it crack, The Atlas of my Pride, and break its back? Hold Fancy, hold! For whither wilt thou bear My Sun-burnt hope to Loss? 'Tis, 'tis not here,

Soar then (My Soul) above the arched Round Of these poor spangled Blisses: Here's no Ground To fix the Sacred Foot of pure Content, Her Mansion's in a higher Element.

Hast thou perceiv'd the Sweetness of a Groak? Or try'd the Wings of Contemplation? Or hast thou found the Balm of Tears, that press Like Amber in the Dregs of Bitterness? Or hast thou felt that secret Joy that flows, Against the Tide of common Ove-throws? Or hast thou known the Dawnings of a God Upon thee, when his Love is shed abroad? Or hast thou heard the Sacred Harmony Of a calm Conscience, e•…•…choing in thee A Requiem from above? A sealed Peace Beyond the Power of Hell, Sin or Decease? Or hast thou tasted that Communion Between a reconciled God and Man? That Holy Intercourse? Those precious Smiles Dissolv'd in Holy whisp'rings between whiles?

Here, here's the Steps lead to her bless'd Abode; Her Chair of State is in the Throne of God.

May Day.

COme Gallants, why so dull? What muddy Cloud Dwells on th'eye-brows of the day? Why shroud Ye up your selves in the furl'd Sails of Night, And tossing lye at Hull? Hark how Delight Knocks with her silver Wings at every Sense? And Great Apollo Laureat doth Commence?

Up! 'tis the golden Iubilee of the Year, The Stars are all withdrawn from each glad Sphear, Within the tyring-rooms of Heaven, unless Some few that peep to spy our Happiness. Whiles Phoebus tugging up Olympus craw, Smoaks his bright Teem along on the Grand Paw.

Hark how the Songsters of the shady Plain, Close up their Anthems in a melting Strain! See where the glittring Nymphs whirl it away In Checkling Caravans as blyth as May; And th'Christal-sweating Flowers droop their heads In blushing Shame to call you Slug-a-beds.

Wast but a Glance upon Hide-park, and swear All Argus Eyes are fall'n, and fixed there. The dapled Lawns with Ladies shine and glow, Whiles bubling Mounts with Springs of Nectar flow; And each kind Turtle sits and bills his Dove Like Venus and Adonis lapp'd in Love.

Hark how Amyntas in melodious loud Shrill Raptures tunes his Horn-pipe! whiles a Croud

Of Snow-white-milk-maids crown'd with Garlan•…•… ga•…•… Trip it to the soft Measure of his Lay. And Fields with Curds and Cream like green-chee•…•… li•…•… This now or never is the Gallaxie.

If the facetious Gods e'er taken were With Mortal Beauties and disguis'd, 'tis here. See how they mix Societies, and toss The tumbling Ball into a willing Loss, That th'twining Ladies on their Necks might take The doubled Kisses which they first did stake.

Those pretty Earnests of a Maiden-head, Those sugred Seals of Love, Types of the Bed, Which to confirm the sweet Conveyance more They throng in thousand times ten thousand Score. Such Heavenly Surfeits, as they sporting lye, Thus catch they from each others Lip and Eye.

The Game at best, the Girls May-rold must be, Where Croyden and M•…•…sa, he and she Each happy Pair make one Hermaphrodite, And tumbling bounce together, black and white; Where had you seen the Chance, you had not known Whose Shew had lovelier been Madam's or Ioan.

Then crown the Bowl, let every Conduit run Canary, till we lodge the reeling Sun. Tap every Joy, let not a Pearl be spilt, Till we have set the ringing World a Tilt. A sacrifice Arabia Foelix in One bone fire, one Incense Offering.

'Tis Sack, 'tis Sack, that drowns the thorny Cares, Which hedge the Pillow, and abridge our Years,

The quickning Anima mundi that creates Life in Dejection, and outdares the Fates, Makes Man look big on danger, and out-swell The Fury of that Thrall that threatens Hell.

Chirp round my Boys: Let each Soul take its sip, Who knows what falls between the Cup and Lip? What can a voluntary pale-Look bring Or a deep Sigh to lessen Suffering? Has Mischief any pity or regard? The foil of Misery is a Breast prepar'd.

Hence then with folded Arms, eclipsed Eyes, And low imprison'd Groans, meek Cowardise. Urge not with Oars Death that in full Sail comes, Nor walk in fore-stall'd Blacks to the dark Tombs: But rather than th'Eternal Jaws shall gape, Gallop with Curtius down the Gallant hap.

Mean time here's that shall make our Shackles light, And charm the dismal Terrors walk by Night; Tis this that chears the drooping Soul, revives The benum'd Captive crampt in his cold Gives. Kingdoms and Cottages, the Mill and Throne Sack the Grand Leveller commands alone.

Tis Sack that rocks the boyling Brain to rest, Confirms the Aged Hams, and warms the Breast Of Gallantry to Action, runs half-share And Metal with the buff-fac'd Sons of War. 'Tis Wit, 'Tis Art, 'tis Strength, 'tis all and more; Then lose the Flood-gates George, wee'll pay or score.

An Epig. to Doulus.

DOulus advanc'd upon a goodly Steed, Came mounting o'er the Plain in very Dee•…•… Whereat the People cring'd and bow'd the Knee, In Honour of my Lord's rich Livery. Hence swell not Doulus, nor erect thy Crest, 'Twas for the Goddess sake we capp'd the Beast.

An Epig. on the People of England.

Sweating and chafing hot Ardelio crys A Boat a Boat, else farewel all the Prize. But having once set Foot upon the Deep, Hot-spur Ardelio fell fast asleep. So we, on Fire with zealous Discontent, Call'd out a Parliament, a Parliament; Which being obtain'd at last, what did they do? Even squeeze the Wool-packs, and lye snorting too

Another.

Brittain a lovely Orchard seem'd to be, Furnish'd with Natures choice Variety, Temptations golden Fruit of every sort, Th'Hesperian Garden fann'd from feign'd Report: Great Boys and small together in we brake, No matter what disdain'd Priapu•…•… spake: Up, up, we lift the Great Boys in the Trees, Hoping a common Share to simpathize: But they no sooner there neglected streight The Shoulders that so rais'd them to this Height;

And fell to stuffing of their own Bags first, •…•…nd as their Treasure grew, so did their Thirst. Whiles we in lean Expectance gaping stand, •…•…or one Shake from their charitable Hand. •…•…ut all in vain, the Dropsie of Desire. •…•…o scorch'd them, three Realms could not quench the Fire. •…•…e wise then in your Ale, bold Youths, for fear The Gardner catch us as Moss caught his Mare.

A Sing-song on Clarinda's Wedding.

NOw that Love's Holyday is come, And Madg the Maid hath swept the Room And trimm'd her Spit and Pot,

Awake my merry Muse, and sing The Revells, and that other thing That must not be forgot.

As the gray Morning dawn'd, 'tis sed Clarinda broke out of her Bed Like Cynthia in her Pride:

Where all the Maiden-Lights that were Compriz'd within our Hemisphere Attended at her side.

But wot you then, with much ado They dress'd the Bride from top to toe And brought her from her Chamber,

Deck'd in her Robes and Garments gay, More sumptuous than the live-long-day, Or Stars enshrin'd in Amber.

The sparkling Bullies of her Eyes Tike two eclipsed Suns did rise Beneath her Crystal Brow

To shew like those strange Accidents Some sudden changeable. Events Were like to hap below.

Her Cheeks bestreak'd with white and red, Like pretty Tell-tales of the Bed Presag'd the blust'ring Night;

With his encircling Arms and Shade Resolv'd to swallow and invade And skreen her Virgin Light.

Her Lips, those Threads of Scarlet dye, Wherein Love's Charms and Quiver lye, Legions of Sweets did crown;

Which smilingly did seem to say O crop me, crop me, whiles you may, Anon th'are not mine own.

Her Breast those melting Alps of Snow On whose fair Hills in open Show The God of Love lay napping;

Like swelling Buts of lively Wine Upon their Ivory Stells did shine To wait the lucky Tapping.

Her Waste, that slender Type of Man, Was but a small and single Span, Yet I dare safely swear,

He that whole Thousands has in Fee Would forfeit all, so he might be Lord of the Mannor there.

But now before I pass the Line, Pray Reader give me leave to dine, And pause here in the Middle;

The Bridegroom and the Parson knock, With all the Hymeneal Flock, The Plum-cake and the Fiddle.

When as the Priest Clarinda sees, He star'd as't had been half his Fees To gaze upon her Face:

And if the Spirit did not move, His Continence was far above Each Sinner in the Place.

With mickle Stir he joyn'd their Hands, •…•…d hamper'd them in Marriage Bands, As fast as fast might be.

Where still methinks, methinks I hear That secret Sigh in every Ear, Once Love remember me!

Which done the Cook he knock'd amain, •…•…nd up the Dishes in a Train Come smoaking two and two;

With that they wip'd their Mouths and sate, •…•…ome fell to quaffing, some to prate, Ay marry and welcome too.

In Pray'rs they thus impall'd the Meat Roger and Marget, and Thomas and Kate, Rafe and Bess, Andrew and Maudlin,

And Valentine eke with Sybill so sweet, Whose Cheeks on each side of her Snuffers did mee•…•… As round and as plump as a Codlin•…•…

When at the last they had fetched their Freeze, And mired their Stomacks quite up to the Knees In Claret for and Good Chear

Then, then began the merry Din, For as it were thought they were all'on the Pin, O what kissing and clipping was there

But as Luck would have it the Parson said Grace, And to frisking and dancing they shuffled apace, Each Lad took his Lass by the Fist,

And when he had squeez'd her, and gaum'd her unti•…•… The Fat of her Face ran down like a Mill, He toll'd for the rest of the Grist▪

In Sweat and in Dust having wasted the Day, They enter'd upon the Last Act of the Play; The Bride to her Bed was convey'd

Where knee-deep each hand fell down to the Ground, And in seeking the Garter much pleasure was found, 'Twould have made a Man's Arm have stray'd▪

This Clutter o'er Clarinda lay Half bedded, like the peeping Day Behind Olympus Cap

Whiles at her Head each twitt'ring Girl The fatal Stocking quick did whirl To know the lucky Hap.

The Bridegroom in at last did rustle, All disappointed in the Bustle, The Maidens had shav'd his Breeches;

But let him not complain, 'tis well In such a Storm, I can you tell He sav'd his other Stitches.

And now he bounc'd into the Bed, Even just as if a Man had sed Fair Lady have at all;

Where twisted at the Hug they lay, Like Venus and the sprightly Boy, O who would fear the Fall?

Thus both with Love's sweet Tapers fired, And thousand balmy Kisses tyred, They could not wait the Rest;

But out the Folk and Candles fled, And to't they went, but what they did, There lies the Cream o'th'Jest.

The Myrtle-Grove.

JUst as the reeling Sun came sliding down Among the Moors, and Tethys in a Gown Of Sea-green Watchet setled to embrace Her great Apollo from his circled Race, And the streak'd Heavens did themselves digest Into a larger Iris, to invest

And canopy th'Illustrious lovely Pair In a Diaphanous Robe of costly Air:

Clarinda rose amidst the Myrtle-Grove, Like the Queen-mother of the Stars above. But that Clarinda's was no borrow'd Light; Nor could it, where she was bedeem'd a Night. Such was the Natural Glories she put on, Thew ow'd no Being to Reflection. While the inspir'd Musicians of the Wood, Ravish'd at the new Day, powr'd out a Flood Of quavering Melody in honyed Strains, To court the glittering Deity of the Plains. Those pretty flow'ry Beds of Sweets, that now Had clos'd their Heads up in an Amber Dew Of Tears, to mourn the drowsie Sun's Good Night, Warm'd with a nobler Ardour sprung up-right, And threw the Mantles of dull Sleep aside In a display'd and Meritorious Pride, To strew with rich Perfumes her balmy Way, Which grew more Fragrant by her active Ray.

Thus sweetly woo'd Clarinda laid her down On a curl'd Quilt of Roses, fondly grown Proud of their own Oppression, whiles they may Kiss the dear Burden which upon them lay. Then skreen'd with Harmony, she stretch'd along Upon her Damask Couch, where a bright Throng Of Graces hover'd o'er the Firmament Of her pure Orbs drawn to a full Extent. Whiles a soft Gale of wanton Wind that blew Did sport her willing Glories into view. But I, poor dazled I, not daring here T'attempt the Splendor of each naked Sphere, Stood peeping through the Opticks of the Shade, Which to my Sight a kind Reflection made.

Her Eyes half shut up in their Christal Case, Stood twinkling Centinels upon her Face; Or else to take the Prospect of those Fields Of Beauty which that flowing Tempe yields. Her coral Lips ten thousand Smiles enthron'd, Like clustred Grapes which for a Vintage groan'd. The Ivory Palace of her stately Neck Cloth'd with Majestick Aw, did seem to check The looser Pastime of her gamesome Hair, Which in wild Rings ran trick about the Air. Her Amourous Breasts swell'd to a lovely Rise Of dripping Plenty, a twinn'd Paradise Of Milk and Honey, exhal'd my roving Eye •…•…nto a Soul-ensnaring Extasie. And had I not recoil'd without Delay 〈◊〉〈◊〉 there had wandred in the Milky Way. Her Belly like the Ace of Clubs so white, So black, the strutting Pillow of Delight, So fired the catching Tinder of my Sense, That I no longer Student could commence, But streight weigh'd Anchor and tack'd up the Sail To the main-yard, waiting a stiffer Gale To pass me through those ticklish Streights of Man, •…•…nto the full Mediterranean. At last I plung'd into th'Elysian Charms, Fast clasp'd by th'arched Zodiack of her Arms: Those closer Clings of Love, where I partaked Strong Hopes of Bliss; but so, O so I waked!

To my honoured Friend. Mr. T. C. that asked me how I liked his Mistress being an old Widdow.

BUt prethee first how long hast bin Lost in this sad Estate of Sin? That the mild Gout, or Pox, or worse Serves not to expiate thy Curse? Some Pestilence else may be thought upon, And not such absolute Damnation. Are Rocks and Halters grown so dear That there's no perishing but here? Do no Committee yet survive Those cheaper Gregories of Men alive? If thou wilt needs to Sea, O must it be In an old Galliasse of sixty three; A Snail-crawl'd Bottom? A gray Bark That stood at Font for Noah's Ark? Whose wrinckled Poop in Figures furl'd Describes her Travels round the World? A Nut which when thou'st crack'd and fumbled o'er Thou'lt find the Squirrel has been there before? Then raise the Siege from falling on That old dismantled Garrison. Rash Lover speak what Pleasure hath Thy Spring in such an Aftermath! Who, were she to the best Advantage spread, Is but the dull Husk of a Maiden-head. How canst thou then delight the Sense In Beauty's Preterperfect-tence? And dote upon that Free-stone Face Which wears but the Records of Grace?

Whose antick Monast'ry brags but a Chest Of venerable Reliques at the best? O can there such a Famine be Of piping-hot Virginity, That thou art forc'd to slur and cheat Thy Stomach with the broken Meat? Why he that wooes a Widdow does no more Then court that Quagmire where one sunk before. Fie, prize not then those Arras Looks, Sullied and thumb'd like Town-hall Books! I like thy Fancy well to have Its Misery so near its Grave. And 'tis a General Shift that most men use, But yet 'tis tedious waiting Dead Men Shoes. If'twere thy Plot I do confess For to make Mummie of her Grease, Or swop her to the Paper Mill, This were extracting good from ill. But if thou wedst on any worse Condition, Thou'lt prove Delinquent for thy Superstition. But prethee hold, let me advise, Perhaps shee's rich and seems a Prize, New calk'd, new rigg'd, a stately Friggot; But yet she's tap'd at lower Spiggot. Yet if no Med'cine for thy Grief be found, There's small odds Tom 'twixt being hang'd or drown'd.

The Engagement stated.

BEgon Expositor: The Text is plain No Church, no Lord, no Law, no Soveraign. Away with Mental Reservations, and Senses of Oaths in Files out-vy the Strand.

Here's Hell truss'd in a Thimble, in a Breath, Dares face the Hazard of the second Death. The Saints are grown Laconians, and can twist Perjury up in Pills like Leyden grist.

But hold, precise Deponents: Though the Heat Of Zeal in Cataracts digests such Meat, My Cold Concoction shrinks, and my Advance Drives slowly to approach your Ordinance. The Sign's in Cancer, and the Zodiack turns Leonick, roll'd in Curls while Terra burns. What though your Fancies are sublim'd to reach Those fatal Reins? Success and Will can teach But rash Divinity. A sad Renown Where one Man fell to see a Million drown. When neither Arts nor Arms can serve to fight, And wrest a Title from its Law and Right, Must Malice piece the Trangum? and make clear The Scruple? Else we will resolve to swear? Nay out-swear all that we have sworn before; And make good lesser Crimes by acting more And more sublime? This, this extends the Line And shames the puny Soul of Cataline. On this Account all these whose Fortune's crost And want Estates, may turn Knights of the Post. Vaux we out-vy'd thee, since thy Plot fell lame, We found a closer Cellar for the same; Piling the fatal Powder in our Mouths, Which in an Oath discharg'd blew up the House. Maugre Mounteagle, Asps not throughly slain, Their Poison in an Age may live again.

Good Demas cuff your Bear, then let us see The Mystery of your Iniquity. May a Man course a Cur? And freely box The Question? Or the formal Paradox?

But as in Physick, so in this Device This quirk of Policy the Point is nice. For he that in this Model means to thrive, Must first subscribe to the Preparative; Like Witches compact counter-march his Faith, And soak up all what ere the Spirit saith; Then seal and sign. Scylla threw three Bars short, He had a Sword indeed, but no Text for't. Old Rome lament thy Infancy in Sin, We perfect what thou trembled'st to begin, Blush then to see thy self out-done. But all The World may grieve epidemical. Heaven frowns indeed. But what makes Hell enraged, Sweet Pluto be at Peace, we have engaged.

Praelegenda to the succeeding Poem, viz. The Wife-hater.

1. Why Women were made.

VVOman in the Beginning (as 'tis said) To be an Help to Man was chiefly made: Then ought not Women much to be commended, Who answer th'end for which they were intended? Women were made to help Men, so they do, Some unto Sorrow, Grief, Diseases too; Others do their kind Husbands help to spend Their whole Estates; thus answer they their End. Some help men unto more than they were born To have (I mean) Actoeons Head and Horn.

2. Of what Woman was made.

Crooked-condition'd Nature made her, when She form'd her of the crookedst Parts in Men: Nature first fram'd her of a Mans Rib, she Then can't chuse but a cross-grain'd Creature be. And ever since (it may not be deny'd) Poor Man hath Subject been t'a Stich i'th'side. Yet some there are who in a grateful Mind, Would soundly rib their Husbands, could they find A good tough Cudgel, and make this their Answer. They but restore what Eve stole from their Grandsire: And 'tis a Reason too (as't hath been try'd) A bad Wife sits so close to her Husbands side.

3. What they committed so soon as they were made.

No sooner made, but she runs into all Mischief her self, then causeth Man to fall: And now that Judgment on their Sex is doubled, They'r with a two-fold Falling-Sickness troubled.

4. To what they are now likened.

Women in Love and Lust compared be Unto a Pumice-Stone, for that we see Is full of Holes; so they when once in Love Most hollow-hearted to their Servants prove; In Love they like it are, 'cause they dissemble, But when they lust most, they it most resemble.

Play with a lustful Girl, and you shall see, How like unto the Pumice-stone she'll be, Which Way soe'er you do her troul, You'll find against you still an open Hole.

Vituperium Uxoris: or the Wife-hater.

1.

HE that intends to take a Wife, I'll tell him what a kind of Life He must be sure to lead; If shee's a young and tender Heart, Not documented in Loves Art, Much teaching she will need.

2.

For where there is no Path, one may Be tir'd before he find the Way, Nay, when he's at his Treasure; The Gap perhaps will prove so streight, That he for Entrance long may wait, And make a Toil of's Pleasure.

3.

Or if one old, and past her doing, He will the Chamber-maid be wooing, To buy her Ware the cheaper; But if he chuse one most Formose, Ripe for't, shee'll prove libidinous, Argus himself sha'nt keep her.

4.

For when these things are neatly drest, They'll entertain each wanton Guest, Nor for your Honour care;

If any give their Pride a Fall, Th'have learn'd a trick to bear withal So you their Charges bear.

5.

Or if you chance to play your Game With a dull, fat, gross, heavy Dame, Your Riches to encrease, Alas! She will but jear you for't, Bid you to find out better Sport, Lie with a Pot of Grease,

6.

If Meager—be thy Delight, She'll conquer in venereal Fight, And waste thee to the Bones. Such kind of Girls, like to your Mill, The more you give, more crave they will, Or else they'll grind the Stones,

7.

If black, 'tis odds she's div'lish proud, If short, Xantippe like, too loud, If long, she'll lazie be; Foolish (the Proverb says) if fair, If wise and comely, Danger's there, Lest she do cuckold thee.

8.

If she bring store of Money, such Are like to domineer too much, Prove Mrs, no good Wife; And when they cannot keep you under, They'll fill the House with scolding Thunder, What worse than such a Life?

9.

But if her Dowry only be Beauty, farewell Felicity, Thy Fortunes cast away; Thou must be sure to satisfie her In Belly, and in Back-desire, To labour Night and Day.

10.

And rather than her Pride give o'er, She'll turn perhaps an honoured Whore, And thoul't Actoeon'd be; Whilest like Actoeon thou maist weep, To think thou forced art to keep, Such as devour thee.

11.

If being Noble thou dost wed A servile Creature basely bred, Thy Family it defaces; If being mean, one nobly born, She'll swear to exalt a Courtlike Horn, Thy low Descent it Graces.

12.

If one Tongue be too much for any, Then he who takes a Wife with many, Knows not what may betide him; She whom he did for Learning honour, To scold by Book will take upon her, Rhetorically chide him.

13.

If both her Parents living are, To please them you must take great care, Or spoil your future Fortune;

But if departed th'are this Life, You must be parent to your Wife, And Father all, be certai•…•…▪

14.

If bravely drest, fair-fac'd and witty, Shee'll oft be gadding to the City, Nor can you say her nay. She'll tell you (if you her deny) Since Women have Terms she knows not why, But they still keep them may.

15.

If you make choice of Country Ware, Of being Cuckold, there's less Fear, But stupid Honesty May teach her how to sleep all Night, And take a great deal more Delight, To milk the Cows than thee.

16.

Concoction makes their Blood agree Too near, where's Consanguinity; Then let no Kin be chosen▪ He loseth once Part of his Treasure, Who thus confineth all his Pleasure, To th'Arms of a first Cozen.

17.

He'll never have her at Command, Who takes a Wife at second Hand, Then chuse no widdow'd Mother: The first Cut of that Bit you love, If others had, why main't you prove But Taster to another?

18.

Besides, if she bring Children many, 'Tis like by thee she'll not have any, But prove a barren Doe; Or if by them, she ne'er had one, By thee 'tis likely she'll have none, Whilst thou for Weak-back goe.

19.

For there where other Gard'ners have been sowing Their Seed, but ne'er could find it growing, You must expect so too; And where the Terra incognita 'So'er plow'd, you must it fallow lay, And still for Weak-back go.

20.

Then trust not to a Maiden Face, Nor Confidence in Widdows place, Those weaker Vessels may Spring-leak, or split against a Rock, And when your Fames wrapt in a Smock, 'Tis easily cast away.

21.

Yet be she fair, foul, short, or tall, You for a time may love them all, Call them your Soul, your Life, And one by one them undermine, As Courtizan, or Concubine, But never as married Wife.

He who considers this, may end the Strife, Confess no Trouble like unto a Wife.

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:

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

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,

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,

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.

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.

An Elegy upon Mr. John Cleveland.

PRime Wits are prun'd the First; this may appear By that high-valued Piece interred here; Whose Laureat Genius rapt with Sacred Skill Prov'd his Extraction from Pernassus Hill; Whose Fame, like Pallas Flame, shone in each Clime, Crowning his Fancy royally Divine. Rich in Elixar'd Measures, and in all That could breath Sense in Airs Emphatical. Pure Love his Native Influence; A Lot Given him from Heav'n; No People save the Scot But did affect him:—These had lov'd Him too, Had he school'd Baseness with a smoother Brow; But his refined Temper scorn'd t'ingage His Pen to Time, or Humour any Age.

Compleat in all that might true Honour gain Only an Enemy to Withers Strain:

Holding it still the Prodigy of Time To Canonize a Poet for a Rhyme.

Free in Fruition of himself: Content, In what dis-relish'd Servile Sp'rits, Restraint.

Now some will say, His Uolume was too small, To rear an Hermian Arch or Escural, To his dilated Fame:—O do not put These frivolous Objections! Homers Nut Inclos'd a living Iliad. 'Tis not much Perpetuates our Memory, but such As can act Wonders: And apply a Cure To States surprized with a Calenture? And with their Quill, beyond all Chymick Art, Purge the Corruptions of a State-sick Heart By rare Phlebotomy:—This Art was His, Which made his Name so precious as it is Such was the Practice of a Golden Time To spare the Person, but to taxe the Crime. Age is not summ'd by Years but Hours; as Times, So 〈◊〉〈◊〉 are ballanc'd not by Leaf but Lines. Clitus affirm'd, and bound it with an Oath, That Celsus Poems were meer Food for th'Moth. And for those Manuscrips which Mevius writ, They might be styl'd the Surquedry of Wit.

Look home; and weigh the Fancies of these Days And you'l conclude, they merit equal Praise. A Title or a Frontispiece in Plate. Drawn from a Person of Desertless State, Lures Legions of Admirers.—Wits must want That holds a Distance with the Sycophant. Timists be only Thrivers: But a Brain That's freely Generous scorns Servile Gain.

Such was this pure Pernassian, whose clear Nature To gain a World could never brook to flatter.

Poize this Imparallel; and you will find A Mine of Treasures in a Matchless Mind. "No more! The Name of Cleveland speaks to me "A living Annal, dying Elegy.

Upon the pittiful Elegy writ lately on him; modestly taxed and freely vindicated, by the canded Censure of an indeared Bro∣ther.

SInce thy Remove form Earth, there came to me, A Funeral Elegy addrest to thee: Elegiacks made gracious by thy Name, But too short-lung'd to parallel thy Fame. Laurel and Bays were the Subjects of his Pen, Whose muddy Muse deserved none of them. A sublimated Style bereft of Sense, Is like a Brain-strapt Justice on a Bench, Whose Tones are Thunder, Fury and Command, But in a Dialect none understand. Thy Native Fancy was no Lucian Dream, Deriv'd from th'Chrystal Rills of Hypocrene: Thy free-born Genius did it self express Iu Phidias Colours without forreign Dress. Much like the Damask Rose but newly blown, And blusheth in no tincture but her own.

Such was thy Posie; which th'Albion State May envy or admire, scarce imitate. In purest Odes Bards should thy Loss bemoan, And in surviving Measures, or in none.

For these who want Art to Imbellish Worth, Wrong them whom they endeavour to set forth.

"Sic perit Ingenium, Genii ni pignora vitam

"Perpetuam statuant, & Monumenta struant. "Aurea sic docilem coluerunt Secula vatem, "Ordine Pieridum commemorando parem.

Auson.

An Elegy in Memory of Mr: John Cleveland.

SOon as a Verse with Feet as swift as Thought, The Stabbing News of Clevelands Death had brought To sad Parnassus, the distracted Nine First in a dismal Shriek their Voices joyn: Which the forkt-Hill did eccho twice, and then Each Eye seem'd chang'd into an Hippocrene; As if like Niobe 'twere their Intent To weep themselves into his Monument: Nor did their Grief exceed their Loss; his Quill More Love and Honour gain'd to th'Muses Skill. Then all those Modern Factions of Wit, Such as 'gainst Gondibert, or for him writ; And such, whom their Rhymes so much do affect To be esteem'd o'th'Court or Colledge Sect; Whose Lines with Clevelands, such Proportion hold, As the New-Court, and Colledges, with th'Old: How lofty was his Strain, yet clear and even, The Center of•…•…s Conceptions was Heaven: 'Twas not his Muses toyl, but ease to soar, He writ so high, cause he could write no lower; And though the World in English Poetry, No Monarch knew so absolute as He;

Yet did he ne'er Excise the Natives; nor Made Forreign Mines unto his Mint bring Oar. He, his own Treasure was; and as no Quill Was Guide to his, so shall his Verse be still Un-imitated by the best; and free From meaner Poets Petty-larceny: That Plagiary that can filch but one Conceipt from Him, and keep the Theft unknown, At Noon from Phaebus, may by the same Sleight Steal Beams and make'em pass for his own Light.

W. W.

An Elegy, offered to the Memory of that Im∣comparable Son of Apollo, Mr. John Cleveland.

GRief the Souls Sables, in my Bosom lies A true Close-mourner at thy Obsequies, Whilst Tears in Floods from my o'er-charg'd Eyes ran With Grief to drown the little World of man. He that survives this Loss, may justly say, His Soul doth Pennance in a Sheet of Clay; And rather welcome Death, than patient sit To solemnize the Funeral of Wit.

The Painter Agamemnon's Face did screen, Drawing the Sacrifice of Iphygene, To shew his grieved Looks as well as Heart, Did far transcend the humble reach of Art; So when all's said, that can be said, we find There's nothing said, to what he left behind.

But his all searching Soul scorning to be Confin'd to th'limits of Mortality;

Shook off its clog of Flesh, that pond'rous Mass, His Spirit freer than his Country was; For Fate his Life might circumscribe and bound, But in his Circle Wit, no end is found. His Wit, Oh Miracle! (For who is he Dares name his Wit without an Extasie?) That Wit which was to several Tenants let, In him as in their proper Landlord met; For what in other petty Sparks was found, In him's contracted as one Diamond: His Rays ne'er darkned, but with Lustre wun, He with his Eagle-eyes out-star'd the Sun: He was a Fountain, whose pure Stream did grow Unbounded, never us'd to ebb, but flow, As ever new, still streaming fresh Delights, And never so low drawn, as to run Whites; For in Discourse his Wit did never rest, When others were aground with one dry Jest: Nor did his meagre Looks proclaim that he Did pine in study for his Poetry, Like such pale Apparition's Ghost-like Elves, That fatten Paper, and yet starve themselves, Whose Pireskean Pictures seem to be Diseas'd, with time decay'd Antiquity; Though for his strongest Lines in Verse and Prose He travell'd hard, yet he no Flesh did lose: In others what comparatively's found, In him superlatively did abound: No Vice the Anger of his Pen could slip, Who did whole Nations to Repentance whip. His honest Soul in Consultation sate, Unmasking Vices, both of Church and State. It was not Power, but Justice made him write, No Ends could May-like, turn him Parasite.

The Cause by Candles-end he did not rate, When others Pens did Truth assassinate: •…•…y danger heightned, and made nobly fierce, •…•…or was his Prose less biting than his Verse. •…•…is Rebel Scot, was not a smarter Satyr, •…•…han his Diurnal, and Diurnal-maker: •…•…e made the Devil blacker; drest in white, •…•…oving the Zealot the worst Hypocrite; •…•…lling the Vail from the Reformers Face, •…•…e left the Rebel to supply his place. •…•…e that affirm'd ('gainst Sense) Snow Black to be Might prove it by this Amphybology: Things are not what they seem, we may suppress •…•…ome Crimes, and raise the Devils Holiness. The Presbyterian he did un-nest, With the whole Kennel o'th'two-footed Beast, •…•…ed with the Bishops and the Clergies Blood, Right Canabals that made the Church their Food. The Senate Sir Iohns Appetite did prove, And paid him part of his Arrears in Love. The barbarous Scots are stigmatiz'd by him, •…•…or their Rebellion, our Apostate Pim; •…•…ay, the just Fury of his Pen had thrown The Nation too into Oblivion, Had not the fam'd Montross puts Anger by, Rais'd th'Highlands higher in their Loyalty; And Rupertissimus, consecrated Wars, By giving Smec so many hideous Scars.

I. M.

An Elegy on Mr. Cleveland, and his Verse on Smectymnuus.

POor Dablers all bemir'd, that spur their Lank Pegasus, from Shoulder to the Flank, When Weather-beaten in a Shower of Sack, Jogg still as things bejaded ride in black, Who t'reach the Muses Seat, lash and put on, But fall short, and draw Bit at Trumpington: See with what Pangs they labour, and produce A still-born Poem, and then hug their Muse. Others like Chymists thrive, who fain would wi•…•… By Force what God and Nature ne'er put in, Yet these bear Name and Voice: The smallest Boa•…•… Appears if in the narrow Thames it float, But vanisheth away in the vast Main, Which was before the Rivers Soveraign: Such was the Fate of my weak Streams, that ra•…•… To drown themselves in th'unbound Ocean, And lose their Name in His, to whom the Nine Bow down, and render up their Sacred Shrine. We poor Retainers angle for a thin Fancy, his like a Drag-Net sweeps all in; And as Gold-drivers that makes Spangles rare, Do beat the yielding Metal into Air: As Generals in War their Strength contrive, To make three Troops of Men seem more than five; We practice frugal Wit, and play't at length, In sleek and smoother Numbers without Strength, His like the swift sure Ship is firmly built, Of deepest Bottom, and most stately gilt, If Number wants there, as in ruins, th'Face Though rough betrays the Treasure of the place.

We strugling, Words into their Fetters frame, •…•…s Printers use to fit and joyn the same. His large Commands have all in Power to chuse, •…•…nd 'tis the greatest Labour to refuse: We seldom shoot to make some Glimpse of Day, •…•…is thick as Atomes in the Sun-shine play; •…•…nd therefore (Sir) just is the Accusation •…•…ou're charg'd with, this strong Accumulation •…•…bverts the Fundamentals, 'tis your Crime •…•…' upbraid the State-Poeticks of this time With Wit so insolent, though Phoebus be The Pleader, our Notes ne'er shall set you free, •…•…or Smec 'tis sure the Conquest all is mine. •…•…ee how the Vipers through the Amber shine, •…•…nd bravely carv'd, as Indians joy to see Themselves so cut, although in Imag'ry. •…•…nd tell me when Domitian slew the Fly, Did he deserve the Laurel Victory? •…•…ad brawny Hercules the Hydra slain, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much beneath his Strength, wer't not a Stain To all his former Labours, and a Brand, •…•…ch as to melt with Distaff in his Hand? •…•…was Smec's Ambition (Sir) thus to stand high, •…•…nd be conspicuous, though o'th Pillory. Then as you love Religion surcease, •…•…or now the Knaves begin themselves to please. •…•…nce they'r vouchsaf'd the Pen, the monstrous Fry •…•…ike Serpents with fair Speckles strike the Eye. •…•…e seen a Toad by curious Art so drest, •…•…adies have hugg'd the Venom in their Breast: •…•…orbear hereafter, Vice, to paint so well, •…•…ch Draughts may hap t'enlarge the Pow'r of Hell. •…•…nce writ by Ben, inspir'd by lusty Wine, We love Sejanus and bold Cataline.

The Elegy made upon Mr. John Cleveland▪ Death cry'd i'th'Streets, he being then in good Disposition of Health.

HE whom the Muses have forbid to dye Durst Ignorance (Arts Enemy) bely, To rhyme him dead? She as well might say, That he like other Men was common Clay; Or that his Soul had nothing in it higher, Than poor Promethean Poets, meer stol'n Fire. But when His shall disrobe it self, it shall be sed, He's gone to sleep alone in Fames high Bed, B'ing both the Nations, and the Muses Wonder, Where all Poeticks else may truckle under; For 'tis impossible Him to entomb, For whose Fam'd Name all Brittains Isles want roo•…•…

I. Parry.

News from Newcastle: Or, Newcastle Coa•…•…∣pit.

ENgland's a perfect World, hath Indies too, Correct your Maps, Newcastle is Peru! Let the Haughty Spaniard triumph till 'tis told, Our sooty Minerals purifie his Gold: This will sublime, and hatch the abortive Oar, When the Sun tires, and Stars can do no more. No Mines are currant, unrefin'd and gross, Coals make the Sterling, Nature but the Dross. For Mettals, Bacchus like, two Births approve, Heaven heats the Semele, and ours the Iove.

Thus Art doth polish Nature, 'tis the Trade, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 every Madam, hath her Chamber-maid. Who'd dote on Gold, a thing so strange and odd, •…•…is most contemptible when made a God. •…•…ll Sin and Mischief hence have rise and swell, One India more would make another Hell. Our Mines are Innocent, nor will the North Tempt poor Mortality with too much Worth: They'r not so precious, rich enough to fire 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Lover, yet make none Idolater. The moderate Value of our guiltless Oar, Makes no Man Atheist, nor no Woman Whore. Yet why should hallow'd Vestals sacred Shrine, Deserve more Honour than a flaming Mine? These pregnant Wombs of Heat would fitter be Than a few Embers for a Deity. Had he our Pits, the Persian would admire No Sun, but warm's Devotion at our Fire: He'd leave the trotting Whipster, and prefer Our profound Vulcan'bove that Wagoner. For wants he heat? Or Light or would have Store Or both? 'Tis here: And what can Suns give more? Nay, what's the Sun, but in a different Name, A Coal-pit rampant, or a Mine on Flame? Then let this Truth reciprocally run, The Sun's Heaven's Coalery, and Coals our Sun: A Sun that scorcheth not, lockt up i'th'Deep, The Lyons chain'd, the Bandog is asleep. That Tyrant Fire, which uncontroul'd doth rage Here's calm and husht, like Bajazet i'th'Cage; For in each Coal-pit there doth couchant dwell, A muzzled Aetna, or an innocent Hell. Kindle the Cloud, you'll Lightning then descry, Then will a Day break from the gloomy Sky:

Then you'll unbottom, though December blow, And sweat i'th'midst of Isicles and Snow; The Dog-days then at Christmas. Thus is all The Year made Iune, and Equinoctial. If Heat offends, our Pits affords us Shade: Thus Summer's Winter, Winter's Summer made What need we baths? What need we bower, or grove A Coal-pit's both a Ventiduct and Stove. Such Pits and Caves were Palaces of old, Poor Inns (God wot) yet in an Age of Gold; And what would now be thought a strange Design, To build a House was then to undermine: People liv'd under Ground, and happy Dwellers, Whose jovial Habitations were all Cellars: These primitive Times were Innocent, for then Man who turn'd after Fox, made but his Den.

But see a Fleet of Vitals trim and fine, To court the rich Infanta of our Mine, Hundreds of Grim Leanders do confront, For this lov'd Hero, the loud Hellespont. 'Tis an Armado Royal doth engage For some new Hellen, with this Equipage: Prepared too, should we their Addresses bar, To force this Mistress with a ten years War; But that our Mine's a common Good, a Joy, Made not to ruin, but enrich our Troy. But oh! These bring it with them, and conspire To pawn that Idol for our Smoke and Fire. Silver's but Ballast, this they bring on Shore, That they may treasure up our better Oar: For this they venture Rocks and Storms, defie All the Extremity of Sea and Sky. For the glad Purchase of this precious Mold, Cowards dare Pyrats, Misers part with Gold;

Hence is it when the doubtful Ship sets forth, The naving Needle still directs it North, And Nature's secret Wonder to attest, Our Indies Worth discards both East and West For Tine: Not only Fire commends this Spring, A Coal-pit is a Mine of every thing. We sink a Jack of all Trades, shop and sound, An inverse Burse, an Exchange under Ground. This Proteus Earth converts to what you'll ha't, Now you may wear't to Silk, now com't to Plate, And what's a Metamorphosis more dear, Dissolve it, and 'twill turn to London Beer; For whatsoe'er that gaudy City boast, Each Month doth drive to our attractive Coast. We shall exhaust their Chamber, and devour Their Treasure of Guild-Hall, and Minto'th'Tower. Our Staiths their mortgag'd Streets will soon deride, Blazon their Cornhill-stella, share Cheapside: Thus shall our Coal-pits Charity and Pity, At distance undermine and fire the City. Should we exact, they'd pawn their Wives, and treat, To swop those Coolers, for our Soveraign Heat. Bove Kisses and Embraces Fire controuls, No Venus heightens like a Peck of Coals. Medea was the Drug of some old Sire, And Aesons Bath a lusty Sea-coal Fire. Chimneys are old Mens Mistresses, their Inns, A modern Dalliance with their meazled Shins. To all Defects a Coal-heap gives a Cure, Gives Youth to Age and Raiment to the Poor. Pride first wore Cloths, Nature disdains Attire, •…•…he made us Naked, 'cause she gave us Fire. •…•…ull Wharfs are Wardrobes, and the Taylors Charm Belongs to th'Collier, he must keep us warm.

The Quilted Alderman in all's Array, Finds but cold Comfort in a frosty Day; Girt, wrapt, and muffled, yet with all this Stir, Scarce warm, when smother'd in his drowsie Fur: Not Proof against keen Winters Batteries, Should he himself wear all's own Liveries, But Chil-blain under silver Spurs bewails, And in embroidered Buck-skins blows his Nails. Rich Meadows and full Crops are elsewhere found, We can reap Harvest from our barren Ground. The bald parcht Hills that circumscribe our Tine, Are no less pregnant in their hungry Mine. Their unfledg'd Tops so well content our Pallats, We envy none their Nose-gays and their Sallats. A gay rank Soil like a Young Gallant grows, And spends it self that it may wear fine Cloths, Whilst all its Worth is to its Back confin'd, Our Wear's plain Out-side, but is richly lin'd. Winters above, 'tis Summer underneath, A trusty Morglay in a rusty Sheath. As precious Sables sometimes interlace A wretched Serge or Grogane Cassock Case: Rocks own no Spring, are pregnant with noShow'rs, Chrystals and Gems are there instead of Flowers. Instead of Roses, Beds of Rubies sweet, And Emeraulds recompence the Violet. Dame Nature, not like other Madams, wears (Where she is bare) Pearls in her Breasts and Ears. What though our Fields present a naked Sight, A Paradise should be an Adamite? The Northern Lad his bonny Lass throws do•…•…, And gives her a black Bag for a green Gown.

On the Inundation of the River Trent: The Scene Mascham and Holm, two opposite Villages on the River side near Newark.

WHen Heirs and Widows hoard up fresh supplies, Bottle up Tears wrung from St. Swithins Eyes, And the Hydropick Planets empty all Their Experiments into their Urinal, With Levies of Auxilliaries, sent From lesser Rivers to rendezvouz in Trent: It makes an Insurrection, and to pillage, Quarters its Rebel-Forces in each Village. All objects, the Inundation spreads so far, (Like the Eye) but aggregates of Waters are. In this Deucalion. Wrack let me intreat Parnassus for to be my Ararat, And pump a while before the Flood be gone, What? So much Water, and no Helicon? Swans sing and dye, so Poets Floods inspire, These glib Hydriaclicks, Water is their Fire. Come Neighbours, let's condole what will betide us, Mascham and Holm, or Cestus and Abidos, The jealous River now no more will pander, Between our Heroes and the lov'd Leander. Help! Xerxes! Help! Now Hellespont disdains Its Fetters; see, it's loose, and we in Chains, Took Prisoners, and our Durance such will be, When Land appears, a Goal-delivery. Newgate or Woodstreet's not a closer Stay, Rocks but immure them there, and us the Sea. And what's the Difference pray? Resolve us what Betwixt a Counter—and a Water-Rat?

We must confess confin'd to Boats and Waves. There's No Captivity to Gally-Slaves. And though we hear no Storms nor Billows roar, We cannot stir unless we tugg at Oar. Our Scene's translated, Fate will have it so, We live in Venice now or Mexico. Or Amsterdam, our Parlors so in pickle, Enough to make those in't a Conventicle. Petty wrackt Strangers, tost we know not whither Holm! Holm in England! Oh Sirs shew us thither Yet sure 'tis England still, no other Nation Can shew so much Land under Sequestration. All's swallow'd up and drown'd, our Fifths, and all, Something sweeps worse than Habber dashers-Hall A guilty Tap-house feels the Floods Assault, (Murder will out) and it had drown'd much Mault, Must now it self be duckt by this just Tide, Because it stood so nigh the Water-side. See the tenth Wave into the House is tost, And dubs a Captain Otter of mine Host, Who with a File of bowzing Comrades there, Resolve still not to leave their Dover Peer: Thus fixt, they drink until their Noses shine, A Constellation in this Watry Sign, Which they Aquarius call; for by Degrees Each Man perceives himself took up to th'Knees, Yet still they and the Flood do Brimmers vye, At last it sobs, and thus they drink him dry: But these the spongy-Leeches of the Town, Amphibious were, good Drinkers cannot drown: We puny Dablers are as ill beset, We whose unliquor'd Hides will turn no wet, The Floods a Tenant too, until't retreats, Great Rooms are Oceans, and the lesser Streights.

Tongues are confounded in a various Stile, Our Computation runs by th'League, not Mile. How soon the Earth dissolv'd, so soon that some, That journeyed out, will make a Voyage Home. They go aboard their Dwellings, and embark; Houses are Ships, and Newark's a Noah's Ark. The Cook mistakes his floating Seigniories For Sound, and so takes Impost in his Fees. Some truck for Rumps and Kidneys, he and's Spouse Call them the Farmers of the Custom-house; Now Bedfellows do one another greet I'th' Saylors Phrase, Vere, vere, more Sheet. Women are Syrens, for the wise Man wears, When they strike up their Ela's, wax in's Ears, Whose Fate is yet peculiar in this Flood, To scape the Water and retain the Mud. The inseparable Scum is so increast, Another Flood will not make all clean Beast, Yet still their Scene and their Complexion's right, (Place them but where they paint the Devil white) Our Townsmen, since of Floods, they must turn Skippers, Will change their Religion too, and so turn Dippers. Now they dispute, and no small Doubts propound, Some say the Meadows swim, some say they•…•… drown'd; And 'tis disputed whether yea or no, They are Ground Chambers still that overflow. Their Hay is gone, and some the Question start, How't could be fetcht away without a Cart? But these submit to the rest of Learned Team, Who strong'st conclude, it went away with Stream. At last it is observ'd by all the Sages, Who e'er set it on Work, they pay the Wages:

One Hotspur storms and swears that he and's Faction Will sue the Flood, Trespass will •…•…ear a•…•… Action, Then thought on's Lanlord, whom he fears hath sent His Water-Bayli•…•… thus to drive for Rent. Haycocks to Sea are driven, where they'l muster, And make of Scylla Isles another Cluster, Prize Till vampt with more such Wracks, they grow a For some Columbus new Discoveries. The Stakes stand firm, though batter'd all the while, These Pyramids are Proof against this Nile, And might like Egypts Piles enjoy a Prime, Wer't but for fiercer Teeth than those of Time. What neither Floods nor Age can, Beasts will tear; Our Beasts now starved lean, like Pharoahs are. Strange Skeletons, for all the time of Flood, They nothing had to chew but their own Cud; And since alas! no work for Sy•…•…he or Sickle, (Poor Cattle) all their Commons are in Pickle. This sure must needs produce a Chap-faln Pallat, When without Meat they only feed on S•…•…llat; But these we prize, for most are sail'd away, Who knows but to stock Hispaniola. One Herd and's Flock in one kind Hill found Mercy, Like Li•…•…burn (and his Wool) in the Isle of Iersey. A Barber's close, yet all would counter-bail, Steept till the Corn grew Mault, and Water Ale. Had we the Gotham Policy and Luck to Hedge in the Water, as they did the Cuckow, But oh! it soon retreats, and the Ebb is more Disastrous to us than the Flood before. The Fifth day lands us, Shews each Man his Ground, But so much Slime, we can't see Ground for Ground. The Flood's a single Tyrant, Bogs allow No scape: Water and Earth both vex us now,

Till the Sun our Low-Countries purge, and then Out-drink a Dutch-man draining of a Fen: Till then our Trent is Acharon, we dwell I'th'Stygian Lake, the Netherlands are Hell. Rivers are Nymphs they say, something's the matter Then sure with ours she cannot hold her Water, Unless the Gossip, (th'Room's so on a Float) Went drunk to Bed, and spilt her Chamber-pot: Howe'er, since we're deliver'd let there be, From this Flood too another Epoche.

For Sleep.

REturn Grief's Antidote, soft Sleep return, Why do'st thy blithe Embrace adjourn? Once more this Garrison of Sense surround, It's wild Exorbitances Pound; Lock the Cinque-Ports, the Centinels arraign, Make Fractions in the Royal-Train.

2.

Sleep! The Souls Charter, Bodies Writ of Ease. Reasons Reprieve, Fancies Release; The Senses Non-term, Life's serenest Shore; A smooth-fac't Death, thick candied o'er: Catastrophe of Care, Time's balmy Close, The Muses Eden and Repose.

3.

Sleep! The Days Centre, Nights Meridian, Bright Meteor in the Sphere of Man; A Grand Dictator in the Womb of Death, Whilst the still returning Breath Sails through Fears, Tears, and Joysat once, With quick Reciprocations

4.

Sleep! The firm cement of unravel'd Hours, Night usher'd with Ambrosial Show'rs;

Days Phylactery with her Spangles crown'd, Fancy snatch'd up at first Rebound: Fancies Exchequer, Natures younger Son, Times other Iubilee begun.

5.

Sleep! The Worlds Evensong, Natures Anthem, bor•…•… Between the Lips of Night and Morn; Heaven in a Mask, Sunday's Parhelion, Preface to th' Resurrection. Nepent he kissing out the wheeling Light; Darkness emparadiz'd: Good Night.

Against Sleep.

BE gone Joy's Lethargy, pale Fiend, be gone, Why this dull Fascination? No more Life's Cittadel invade, no more, Ravish its Sallies o'er and o'er; Gag the Broad Gates, the Court of Guard Esso•…•…, At these disjoynted thoughts rejoyn.

2.

Sleep! The Souls Wardship, but the Bodies Goal, Reason's Assassine, Fancies Bail; The Senses Curfew, Life and Loyal Breath Min•…•…'t small, and blended into Death: Joys Explicite, unfathom'd Gu•…•…f of time, The Muses Fence, and frozen Clime.

3.

Sleep! The Night's Winter, Shadow of a Dream, A dark Fog rampant, Horror's Theme; Free Denizon of Darkness, Blisses Wane, An untrim'd Chaos, Beauties Bane; Youth's Sepulchre, a Parallel to Age, A Negro fills Life's second Page.

4.

Sleep! The Days Colon, many Hours of Bliss Lost in a wide •…•…arenthesis:

Life in an Extasie, bound Hand and Foot, Spirits entomb'd, and Time to boot: The Trump of Solitude, a sprightly Flame, Smother'd in Sables and made lame.

5.

Sleep! The Worlds Limbo, Nature's Discord Day, Because a Mourner hurl'd away; Hell pav'd with Down, a Purgatory skreen'd, Death's Counterpane mixed with a Fiend; Half time eclipst, and tinctured Black as Sorrow, Light dungeon'd, manacled: Good Morrow.

On a little Gentleman profoundly Learned.

MAkes Nature Maps? Since that in thee Sh'has drawn an University: Or strives she in so small a piece, To sum the Arts and Sciences? Once she writ only Text-hand, when She scribled Gyants, and no Men: But now in her decrepit Years She dashes Dwarfs in Characters, And makes one single Farthing bear The Creed, Commandments, and Lords Prayer: Would she turn Art and imitate Monte-rigos flying Gnat? Would she the Golden Legend shut Within the Cloyster of a Nut? Or else a Musket-Bullet rear Into a vast and mighty Spear? Or pen an Eagle in the Caul Of a slender Nightingale? Or shews the Pigmies can create Not too little but too great:

How comes it that she thus converts So small a Totum, and great Parts? Strives she now to turn awry The quick Scent of Philosophy? How so little matter can So monstrous big a Form contain? What shall we call (it would be known) This Gyant and this Dwarf in one? His Age is blaz'd in silver Hairs, His Limbs still cry out want of Years. So small a Body in a Cage, May chuse a spacious Hermitage. So great a Soul doth fret and fume At th'narrow World for want of Room. Strange Conjunction! Here is grown A Mole-hill and the Alps in one. In th'self same Action we may call Nature both Thrist and Prodigal.

On an Ugly Woman.

AS Scriveners sometimes take Delight to see Their basest Writing, Nature has in thee Essay'd how much she can transgress at once Appelles Draughts; Durers Proportions; And for to make a Jest, and try a Wit, Has not (a Woman) in thy Forehead writ; But scribl'd so, and gone so far about, Indagine would never smell thee out; But might exclaim, here only Riddles be, And Heteroclites in Physiognomy: But as the mystick Hebrew backward lies, And Algebra's, guest 'by Absurdities,

So must we spell thee; for who would suppose That globous piece of Wanescot were a Nose, That crookt et-caetera's were Wrinkles, and Five Napiers Bones glew'd to a Wrist, and Hand; Egyptian Antiquaries might survey Here Hieroglyphicks, time hath worn away: And wonder at an English Face, more odd And antick, than was e'er a Memphian God; Eras'd with more strange Letters than might scare A raw and unexperienc'd Conjurer. And tawny Africk Blush, to see her fry Of Monsters in one Skin so kennel'd lie. Thou mayst without a Guard her Deserts pass, When Savages but look upon thy Face: Were but some Pict now living, he would soon Deem thee a Fragment of his Nation; And wiser Ethiopians infer From thee, that Sable's not the only Fair; Thou Privative of Beauty, whose one Eye Doth question Metaphysicks Verity; Whose many cross Aspects may prove anon Foulness more than a meer Negation. Blast one Place still, and never dare t'escape Abroad out of thy Mother Darkness Lap, Left that thou make the World afraid, and be Even hated by thy Nurse Deformity.

To the King recovered from a Fit of Sickness.

Most Gracious Sir,

NOw that you are recover'd, and are seen, Neither to fright the Ladies, nor the Queen; That you to Chappel come, and take the Air, Makes that a Verse, which was before my Prayer:

For Sir, as we had lost you, or your Fate, Not Sickness, had been told us, all of late. So truly mourn'd, that we did only lack One to begin, and put us all in Black. The Court, as quite dissolv'd, did sadly tell, White-Hall was only where the King is well. Nor griev'd the People less, the Commons Eyes, Free as their Loyal Hearts, wept Subsidies, And in this publick Wee some went so far, To think the Danger did deserve a Star, Which though 'twere short: As but to show, You would like one of us a Sickness know, And that you could be mortal and to prove, By Tryal of their Grief your Subjects Love, Would keep your Bed, or Chamber, yet our •…•…ear Made that short time we saw you not, a Year; So did we Reason mindless, and to gain Your quick Recov'ry, striv'd to share your Pain; Nay, such an Interest had we in your Health, That in you sick'ned Church and Commonwealth. Alas! to miss you was enough to bring An Anarchy, but that your Life was King More than your Scepter, and though you refrain'd To come among us, yet your Actions reign'd; They were our Pattern still, and we from thence, Did in your Absence chuse our Rule and Prince. And liv'd by your Example, which will stay, And govern here, when you are turn'd to Clay. For what is he, that ever heard or saw Your Conversation, and not thought it Law? Such a clear Temper, of so wise and sweet A Majesty, where Power and Goodness meet In just proportions; such Religious Care To practice what you bid, as if to wear

The Crown or Robe were not enough to free The Prince from that which Subjects ought to be. Lastly (for all your Graces to rehearse, Is fitter for a Story, than my Verse:) Such a high Reverence do your Vertues win, They teach without, and govern us within, And so enlarge your Kingdoms, when they see Our Minds more than our Bodies bend the Knee. And though before you we stand only bare; These make your Presence to be every where.

Upon the Birth of the Duke of York.

MAke big the Bonfires, for in this one Son, The Queen's delivered of a Nation, She hath brought forth a People, now we may Confess our doubted Life, and boldly say, This Prince compleats our Joy, because he can Already make the Prince of Wales a Man, And so confute the Nurse, when he shall see Himself in him past his Minority. Good morrow, Babe, welcome into that Air, Which thou confirmestiours, which now we dare Bequeath to our late Nephews that shall see It always English in the Prince and thee, And never know the doubtful Scepter stand In Expectation of a chosen Hand; Nor Danger of an armed, that may bar The Crown from falling perpendicular, And so cross Nature. For I must confess, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wish the Prince such lasting Happiness, And do commend to Providence this Work, That the State may not need a Duke of York.

And think a g•…•… and protected Heir, Enough to silence any •…•…odest Prayer: Yet since the wiser Heavens do conceive A way to bless Posterity, to leave So much of Charles to them as they shall see Drawn to the Life in so much Imag'ry, And durst not trust a Chronicle, but wou'd Derive his Virtues only in his Blood, And thinking them too vast for one, did try To coyn a Partner to his Legacy: May Heaven proceed to keep him, may he shine To mock the Poorness of the Indian Mine, And scorn the Fleet, having a Treasure far Above the Winds reach, or the Hollander. So may he puzzle Statesman, and put down All Reck'•…•…mgs of Revenues to the Crown, And alter the Kings Rents, for his two Sons Must go for twenty Thousańd Millions; And so make Charles the jealous World ally, Thus grown too potent for an Enemy; All those must study Leagues now, that had rather Seem rich in any Title than of Father: But may he •…•…ill be dreadful so, and be To these abroad fear'd as a Deity, At home lov'd as a Father, whilst he thus To them is Terror, a Shield to us.

On Parsons the great Porter.

SIr, or Great Grandsire, whose vast Bulk may 〈◊〉〈◊〉 A Burying-place for all your Pedigree: Thou moving Colosse, for whose goodly Face, The Rhy•…•…e can hardly make a Looking-glass;

What piles of Victuals hadst thou need to chew, Ten Woods or Morrets Throats were not enow; Dwarf was he, whose Wife's Bracelets fit his Thum•…•… It would not on thy little Finger come. If Iove in getting Hercules spent three Nights, he might be Fifteen in getting thee. What Name or Title suits thy Greatness, thou, Aldiboronifuscorphornio? When Gyants war'd with Iove, hadst thou bin one, Where other Oaks, thou wouldst have Mountains thrown; Wert thou but sick, what help could e'er be wrought, Unless Physicians posted down thy Throat? Wert thou to dye and Xerxes living, he Would not pare Athos for to cover thee; Wert thou t'enbalm, the Surgeons needs must scale Thy Body, as when Labourers dig a Whale. Great Sir, a People kneaded up in one, Wee'll weigh thee by Ship-Burdens, not by th' Stone: What Tempests might thou raise, what Whirlwinds when Thou breath'st, thou great Leviathan of Men: Bend but thy Eye a Country-man would swear, A Regiment of Spaniards quarter'd there; Smooth but thy Brow they'l say, there were a Plain, T'act York and Lancaster once o'er again! That Pocket-pistol of the Queens might be Thy Pocket-pistol, sans Hyperbole: Abstain from Garrisons, since thou may'st eat The Turks, or Moguls Titles at a Bit. Plant some new Land, which ne'er will empty be, If she enjoy her Savages in thee: Get from amongst us, since we only can Appear like Sculls marcht o'er by Tamberlain.

On his going by Water, by the Parliament-house:

OH the sad Fate of unsuccessful Sin! You see those Heads without, there's wors•…•… within.

Upon coming into a Chamber called Parnassus, where the Gentry Arms (were depicted) of Norfolk and Suffolk, in Norwich.

HEre Gallants find their Arms, and so it's meet, But where they find their Arms, they lose their▪ Feet.

Against ALE.

THou Juice of Lethe! O thou dull Inhospitable Drink of Hull, Not to be drunk, but in the Devils Scull; Depriver of those solid Joys, Which Sack creates: Author of Noise Among the roaring Punks and Dammy-Boys: On thy Account the Watch do sleep, When they our Nightly Peace should keep, Then Rogues and Cut-purses in at Windows creep.

2.

The Jug-broke Pate doth owe to thee Its bloody Line and Pedigree, Now Murther, and anon the Gallow-tree: A Poet once did lick thy Juice, But oh! How his benummed Juyce Was mir'd in Non-sense, and in State abuse.

A Souldier once that would have pickt Strife with the Devil, thy dull Broth had lickt, That Night this Renown'd Turdibank was kickt.

3.

The other Night the Meal-man Will, Did lap so largely of thy Swill, Next Morn he let a Fart blew down his Mill: That Lover was in pretty Case, That trimm'd thee with a Ginger-race, And after belched in his Mistress Face. More of thy Vertues I could tell, But that to speak of thee's half Hell, Then take my Curse by Candle, Book, and Bell.

4.

May Bards that drink thee, write a small, Insubstanc'd Line pedantical, •…•…nsinewy, aenigmatical; Saltless and galless be thy Curse, Numberless, rugged, empty, worse Than the poor Poets empty Belly, Purse. May he that brews thee wear a Nose Richer than the Lord Mayor's Cloths, The Sattin Clerry, or the Velvet Rose.

5.

May he that draws thee likewise wear Carbuncle from Ear to Ear, That Thatch and Linnen may stand off and fear; •…•…ay some old Hag-witch get astride. •…•…hy Bung, as if she meant to ride, •…•…n purpose for to lance thy yeasty Side: •…•…ay others be as sick as I, •…•…hat tope thee next; then down and dye •…•…or Ale, a Funeral-trap for Wasp, or Fly.

The Old Gill.

IF you will be still Then tell you I will Of a lovely old Gill, Dwelt under a Hill: Her Locks are like Sage That's well worn with Age, And her Visage would swage A stout Mans Courage.

2.

Teeth yellow as Box, Clean out with the Pox, Her Breath smells like Lox, Or unwiped Nocks. She hath a devilish Grin, Long Hairs on her Chin, To the foul-footed Fin She's nearly a kin.

3.

She hath a beetle Brow, Deep Furrows enow She's ey'd like a Sow, Flat nos'd like a Cow▪ Lips swarthy and dun, A Mouth like a Gun, And her tattle doth run As swift as the Sun.

4.

On her Back stands a Hill, You may place a Windmill, And the Farts of her Gill Will make the Sails trill.

Her Neck is much like The foul Swines in the dike; Against Crab-lice and Tyke; A blew Pin is her Pike.

5.

Within this Ano There dwells an Hurricano, And the Rift of her Plano Vomits Smoke like Vulcano; But a Pox of her Twist, It is always bepist, And the Devil's in his List, That to her Mill brings Grist.

6

'Ware the dint of her Dirt, She will give you a Flirt, She has always the Squirt, She is loose and ungirt; Want of Wine makes her pant Till she fizzle and rant, And the hole in her Grant, Is as deep as &c.

7.

Yea, as deep as a Well, A Furnace or Kell, A bottomless Cell, Some think it is Hell. But I have spoken my Fill Of my lovely old Gill; And 'tis taken so ill, I'll lay down my Quill.

To the Queen upon the Birth of one of her Children.

THat Children are like Olive-branches, we Took for a Figure, now 'twas Prophesie. Your Births, great Queen, have made a new Account, Who bring not forth some Olives, but the Mount; And we, who wisht your Table half Way round Beset with them, do now behold it crown'd. Were there no other Court, or Nobles, yet The King, we see, can his own Court beget: Nay, in the first Worlds Age, he that could do Like him, was Father of his Country too. When in that Dearth of Subjects, Kings were fain First to beget their Kingdoms, and then reign, When their own Off-spring were their People; and One Family both fill'd, and made the Land. But I speak Treason, to say Princes Blood Can e'er run into People, 'tis a Flood Ev'n in the Fountain: Small Streams lose their Name; Such Births, like th'Ocean are still the same. No Number makes them private, we may call Not all one Nation, but Nations all. For as l've seen the Ark drawn like the Womb Of the four Empires, and the World to come, Out of whose Midst hath sprung a mystick Tree, With every Branch a Genealogy, Not of some House, but of the World, this Bough For Europe, that for Africk we allow: And all the other smaller Twigs there seen Have stood for Isles, or Countrys: So, great Queen, From you, as from the Ark, nothing can be Born less than Kingdoms, or a Monarchy.

Your pains are all Imperial, and your Throws Can bring forth nought that is not Great; yet those For Daughters still have thus more publick been, That you by them to Christendom lie in; Your Sons may make us safe, but we the while Must be a World divided, still an Isle, We shall be now o'th'Continent; this Sex Will makes't all one to conquer, or annex, To be ally'd, will bring, what some in vain Hope for by th'Sword, an universal Reign; Which yet we may despair of, since we see Europe to match yours, will want Progeny.

To Cloris, a Rapture.

COme Iulia, Come! Let's once disbody, what, Straight Matter ties to this, and not to that? We'l disingage, our bloodless Form shall fly Beyond the reach of Earth, where ne'er an Eye That peeps through Spectacles of Flesh, shall know Where we intend, or what we mean to do. •…•…rom all Contagion of Flesh remov'd, Wee'l sit in Judgment, on those Pairs that lov'd •…•…n old and latter times, then will we tear Their Chaplets that did act by slavish Fear, Who cherisht causeless Griefs, and did deny •…•…upids Prerogative by Doubt; or Tye; •…•…ut they that mov'd by Confidence, and clos'd •…•…one refining Flame, and never los'd Their thoughts on Earth, but bravely did aspire •…•…nto their proper Element of Fire, To these wee'l judge that Happiness to be The Witnesses of our Felicity.

Thus wee'l like Angels move, nor will we bind In Words the copious Language of our Mind, Such as we know not to conceive, much less, Without destroying in their Birth, express: Thus will we live, and ('t may be) cast an Eye How far Elysium doth beneath us lye▪ What need we cane, though milky Currents run Amongst the silken Meadows, though the Sun Doth still preserve by's ever walking Ray A never discontinued Spring, or Day. That Sun, though all its heat be to it brought, Cannot exhale the Vapour of a Thought. No, no, my Goddess, yet will thou and I, Devested of all Flesh, so folded lie, That ne'er a bodyed Nothing shall perceive How we unite, how we together cleave; Nor think this while our feather'd Minutes may Fall under Measure, Time it self can stay T'attend our Pleasures, for what else would be But tedious Durance in Eternity?

An Elegy upon Ben. Johnson.

AS when the Vestall Hearth went out, no Fire, Less Holy than that Flame that did expire, Could kindle it again: So at thy Fall Our Wits, Great B•…•…n, are too Apocryphal To celebrate thy Loss, since 'tis too much To write thy Epitaph, and not be such. What thou wert, like th'hard Oracles of old, Without an Extas•…•…e cannot be told. We must be 〈◊〉〈◊〉 first, thou must infuse Thy self into us both the Theme and Muse:

Else, (though we all conspir'd to make thy Herse Our Works) so that't had been but one great Verse; Though the Priest had translated for that time The Liturgy, and buried thee in Rhyme; So that in Meeter we had heard it said, Poetick Dust is to Poetick laid: And though that Dust being Shake-spear's; thou might'st have Not his Room, but the Poet for thy Grave; So that as thou didst Prince of Numbers dye, And live, so thou mightest in Numbers lie; 'Twere frail Solemnity; Verses on thee, And not like thine, would but kind Libels be. And we (not speaking thy whole Worth) should raise Worse Blots than they that envied thy Praise. Indeed thou needst us not, since above all Invention, thou wert thine own Funeral. Hereafter, when Time hath fed on thy Tomb, Th'Inscription worn out, and the Marble dumb, So that 'twould pose a Critick to restore Half Words, and Words expir'd so long before; When they maim'd Statue hath a Sentenc'd Face, And Looks that are the Horror of the Place; That 'twill be Learnings and Antiquity, And ask a Selden to say, this was thee: Thou'lt have a whole Name still, nor needst thou fear That will be ruin'd, or lose Nose, or Hair. Let others write so thin, that they can't be Authors till rotten; no Posterity Can add to thy Works; th'had their full growth then, When first born, and came Aged from thy Pen; Whilst living thou enjoyd'st the Fame and Sense Of all that time gives, but the Reverence: When th'art of Homers years, no Man will say Thy Poems are less worthy, but more gray.

'Tis Bastard Poetry, and o'th'false Blood, Which can't without Succession be good, Things that will always last, do thus agree With things Eternal; th'at once perfect be. Scorn then their Censures, who gave out, thy Wit As long upon a Comedy did sit, As Elephants bring forth; and that by Blots And Mendings, took more time than Fortune plots▪ That such thy Draught was, and so great thy Thirst, That all thy Plays were drawn at th'Mermaid first, That the Kings yearly but wore, and his Wine Hath more Right than thou to thy Cataline. Let such Men keep a Diet, let their Wit Be rackt, and while they write, suffer a Fit; When th'have felt Tortures without Pain the Gout Such, as with less, the State draws Treason out; Though they should the Length of Consumptions lie Sick of their Verse, and of their Poem dye; 'Twould not be thy worst Scene, but would at last Confirm their Boastings, and shew made in haste. He that writes well writes quick, since the Rule's true, Nothing is slowly done, that's always new; So when thy Fox had ten times acted been, Each Day was first, but that 'twas cheaper seen; And so thy Alchymist plaid o'er and o'er, Was new o'th'Stage. when 'twas not at the Door. We like the Actors did repeat, the Pit The first time saw, the next conceiv'd thy Wit, Which was cast in such Forms, such Rules, such Arts, That but to some not half thy Acts were Parts, Since of some silken Judgments we may say, They fill'd a Box two hours, but saw no Play; So that th'unlearned lost their Money, and Scholars sav'd only, that could understand:

Thy Scene was free from Monsters, no hard Plot Call'd down a God t'unty th'unlikely Knot. The Stage was still a Stage, two Entrances Were not two Parts o'th'World disjoyn'd by th' Seas: Thine were Land-Tragedies, no Prince was found To swim a whole Scene out, then o'th'Stage drown'd. Pitcht Fields, as Red-bull Wars, still felt thy Doom, Thou laidst no Sieges to the Musick Room; Nor wouldst allow to thy best Comedies, Humors that should above the People rise: Yet was thy Language and thy Stile so high, Thy Sock to th'Ancle, Buskin reach to th'Thigh; And both so chaste, so 'bove Dramatick clean, That we both safely saw, and liv'd thy Scene; No foul loose Line did prostitute thy Wit, Thou wrot'st thy Comedies, didst not commit. We did the Vice arraign'd, not tempting hear, And were made Judges, not bad Parts by th'Ear; For thou even Sin didst in such Words array, That some who came bad Parts, went out good Play; Which ended not with th'Epilogue, the Age Still acted, which grew Innocent from th'Stage. 'Tis true thou hadst some Sharpness, but thy Salt Serv'd but with Pleasure to reform the Fault. Men were laugh'd into Vertue, and none more Hated Fool acted, then were such before; So did they sting not Blood, but Humours draw, So much did Satyr more correct than Law. Which was not Nature in thee as some call, Thy Teeth, who say thy Wit lay in thy Gall, That thou didst quarrel first, and then in spight Didst 'gainst a Person of such Vices write, That't was Revenge, not Truth, that on thy Stage Carlo was not presented but thy Rage.

And that when thou in Company wert met, Thy Meat took Notes, and thy Discourse was Net. We know thy free Vein had this Innocence, To spare the Party, and to brand th'Offence, And the just Indignation thou wert in these Did not expose but shift his Tricks and Gir, Thou mightst have us'd th'old Comick Freedom, Might have seen themselves plaid, like Socrates, Like Cleon Mammon might the Knight have been, If as Greek Authors, thou hadst turn'd Greek Spleen, And hadst not chosen rather to translate Their Learning into English, not their Rate; Indeed this last, if thou hadst been bereft Of thy Humanity, might be call'd Theft, The other was not, whatsoe'er was strange, Or borrowed, in thee did grow thine by th'Change. Who without Latin helps hadst been as rare As Beaumont, Fletcher, or as Shake-spear were, And like them, from thy Native Stock couldst say, Poets and Kings are not born every Day.

An Epitaph.

STay, Gentle Reader, and shed o'er Those sacred Ashes one Tear more. These sad Accents cloathed in black, Mourn him whom Church and State do lack, And this weeping Marble Stone Doth invite a parting Groan. Here lies within this stony Shade Natures Darling, whom she made Her fairest Model, her brief Story, In him heaping all her Glory.

Here lies one whom times of Old, Among their Wonders had inroll'd, Whose set Beams might well aspire, Kindled by Poetick Fire, Unto a starry Light, and there For a Grave adorn a Sphere; One so Valiantly strong, He fear'd to do any wrong. Learnings Glory, who alone Was fit to write on his own Stone; Here Tongues lie speechless, to be dumb Is our best Epicedium.

Upon Wood of Kent.

SIr, much good do't ye, were your Table but Pye-crust or Cheese, you might your Stomach shut After your slice of Beef, what dare you try Your Force on an Ell-square of Pudding-pye? Perhaps 't may be a Tast, three such as you Unbreakfasted, might serve Seraglio. When Hannibal scal'd th' Alps hadst thou bin there Thy Beef had drunk up all his Vinegar; Well mightst thou be of Guard to Henry th'Eight, Since thou canst, like a Pidgeon, eat thy Weight: Full wise was Nature that would not bestow These Tusks of thine into a double Row; What Womb could e'er contain thee, thou canst shut A Pond of Aviary in a Gut. Had not thy Mother born thee toothless, thou Hadst eaten, Viper-like, a Passage through; Had he that wish'd the Cranes long Neck to eat, Put in thy Stomach too, 't had been compleat.

Thou Noahs Ark, dead Sea, thou Golgotha, Monsters beyond all Men of Africa! Beasts prey on Beasts, Fishes to Fishes fall, Great Birds feed on the lesser, thou on all: Hath there been no Mistake, why may't not be, When Curtius leapt the Gulf, 'twas into thee. Now we'l believe that Man of Chica could Make Pills of Arrows, and the Boy that would Chew only Stones; nor can we think it vain, That Doranetho eat up th'Neighbouring Plain. Poor Chrysicthon, that could only feast On one poor Girl, in several Dishes drest; Thou hast devour'd as many Sheep, as may Cloath all the Pastures in Arcadia; Yet, O how temperate, that ne'er goes on So far as to approach Repletion. Thou breathing Cauldron, whose digestive heat Might boyl the whole Provision of the Fleet; Say Grace as long as Meals, and if thou please, Breakfast with Islands, and drink Healths with Seas.

On Christ-Church Windows.

YOu that profane our Windows with a Tongue Set like some Clock, on purpose to go wrong; Who when you were at Service, sigh'd because You heard the Organs Musick, not the Daws; Pitying our solemn State, shaking your Head, To see not Ruins from the Floor to th'Lead: To whose pure Nose our Cedar gave Offence, Crying, It smelt of Papists Frankincense; Who walking on our Marbles, scoffing said, Whose Bodies are under these Tombstones laid?

Counting our Tapers Works of Darkness, and Choosing to see Priests in blew Aprons stand, Rather than in rich Copes, which shew the Art Of Sisera's Prey, embroider'd in each Part: Then when you saw the Altars Bason, said, Why's not the Ewer on the Cup-board laid? Thinking our very Bibles too profane, 'Cause you ne'er bought such Covers in Duck-lane. Loathing all Decency, as if you'ld have Altars as foul, and homely as a Grave. Had you one spark of Reason, you would find Your selves like Idols, to have Eyes, yet blind; 'Tis only some base Niggard, Heresie, To think Religion loves Deformity. Glory did never yet make God the less, Neither can Beauty defile Holiness. What's more Magnificent than Heav'n, yet where Is there more Love and Piety than there? My Heart doth wish (were't possible) to see Pauls built with precious Stones and Porphyry; To have our Halls and Galleries outshine Altars in Beauty, is to deck our Swine With Orient Pearl, whilst the deserving Quire Of God and Angels wallow in the Mire. Our decent Copes only Distinction keep, That you may know the Shepherd from the Sheep. As gaudy Letters in the Rubrick show, How you may Holy-days from Lay-days know; Remember Aarons Robe, and you will say, Ladies at Masque are not so rich as they. Then are th'Priests Words like Thunder-claps, when he Is Lightning-like ray'd down with Majesty; May every Temple shine like those at Nile, And still be free from Rat or Crocodile:

But you will urge, both Priest and Church should b•…•… The solemn Partners of Humility. Do not some boast of Rags? Cynicks deride The pomp of Kings, but with a greater Pride. Meekness consists not in the Cloths, but Heart; Nature may be Vain glorious well as Art: We may as lowly before God appear, D•…•…est with a Glorious Pearl, as with a Tear. In his High Presence, where the Stars and Sun Do but eclipse, there's no Ambition. You dare admit gay Paint upon a Wall, Why then in Glass that's held Apocryphal? Our Bodies Temples are, look in the Eye, The Window, and you needs must Pictures spy; Moses and Aaron, and the Kings Arms are Daub'd in the Church, when you the Wardens were, Yet you ne'er fin'd for Papist: Shall we say Banbury is turn'd Rome, because we may See th' Holy Lamb and Christopher? Nay more, The Altar-stone set at the Tavern Door? Why can't the Ox then in th'Nativity, Be imag'd forth, but Papists Bulls are nigh? Our Pictures to no other end is made, Than is your Time and's Bill, your Death, and's Spade. To us they're but Memonto's which present Christs Birth, except his Word and Sacrament. If't were a Sin to set up Imag'ry, To get a Child were flat Idolatry. The Models of our Buildings would be thus, Directions to our Houses, Ruins to us: Hath not each Creature which hath daily Breath, Something which resembles Heaven or Earth? Suppose some Ignorant Heathen once did bow To Images, may not we see them now?

Should we love Darkness, and abhor the Sun, 'Cause Persians gave it Adoration? And plant no Orchards, because Apples first Made Adam and his lineal Race acqurst? Though Wine for Bacc•…•…us, Bread for Ceres went, Yet both are used in the Sacrament; What then if these were Popish Reliques? Few Windows are elsewhere old, but these are new, And so exceed the former, that the Face Of these come short of th'outside of our Glass: Colours are here mix'd, so that Rain-bows be (Compar'd) but Clouds without variety. Art here is Natures Envy, this is he, Not Paracelsus, but by Chymistry Can make a Man from Ashes, if not Dust, Producing Off-springs of his Mind, not Lust. See how he makes his Maker, and doth draw All that is meant i'th'Gospel, or i'th'Law. Looking upon the Resurrection, Methoughts I saw the blessed Vision, Where not his Face is meerly drawn, but Mind, Which not with Paint, but Oyl of Gladness shin'd: But when I view'd the next Pane, where we have The God of Life transported to his Grave, Light then is dark, all things so dull and dead, As if that part o'th'Window had been Lead. Ionas his Whale did so Mens Eyes befool, That they have begg'd him th'Anatomy School. That he saw Ships at Oxford one did swear, Though Isis yet will Barges hardly bear: Another soon as he the Trees espy'd, Thought him i'th'Garden on the other side. See in what State (though on an Ass) Christ went, This shews more Glorious than the Parliament.

Then in what awe Moses his Rod doth keep The Seas, as if the Frost had glaz'd the Deep; The raging Waves are to themselves a Bound, Some cry, help, help, or Horse and Man are drown'd. Shadows do every where for Substance pass, You'd think the Sands were in an Hour-glass. You that do live with Surgeons, have you seen A Spring of Blood forc'd from a swelling Vein? So from a touch of Moses Rod doth jump A Cataract, The Rock is made a Pump: At sight of whose O'er-flowings many get Themselves away for fear of being wet. Here you behold a sprightly Lady stand, To have her Frame drawn by a Painters Hand: Such lively Look and Presence, such a Dress King Pharoahs Daughters Image doth express; Look well upon her Gown, and you will swear, The Needle, not the Pencil hath been there. At sight of her, some Gallants do dispute, Whether i'th'Church it's lawful to salute? Next Iacob kneeling, where his Kid-skin's such, As it may well cozen old Isaac's Touch. A Shepherd see'ng how Thorns went round about, Abrahams Ram, would needs have helpt it out: Behold the Dove descending to inspire Th'Apostle's Heads with cloven Tongues of Fire, And in a Superficies there you'l see The gross Dimensions of Profundity. 'Tis hard to judge which is best built, and higher The Arch roof in the Window, or the Quire. All Beasts, as in the Ark, are lively done, Nay, you may see the Shadow of the Sun: Upon a Landskip if you look a while You'l think the Prospect at least forty Mile.

There's none needs now go travel, we may see •…•…t Home Ierusalem and Nineveh, •…•…nd Sodom now in Flames: One Glance will dart •…•…arther than Lynce with Galilaeus Art. •…•…eeing Elijahs Chariot, we fear There is some fiery Prodigy in the Air: When Christ to purge his Temple, holds his Whip, •…•…ow nimbly Hucksters with their Baskets skip. •…•…t. Peters Fishes are so lively wrought, •…•…ome cheapen them, and ask when they were caught. •…•…ere's Motions painted too: Chariots soo fast •…•…un, that they're never gone, though always past. •…•…he Angels with their Lutes are done so true, We do not only look, but hearken too, •…•…s if their Sounds were painted: Thus the Wit •…•…'th'Pencil hath drawn more than there can sit. •…•…hus (as in Archimedes Sphere) you may 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a small Glass, the Universe survey: •…•…ch various Shapes are too i'th'Imag'ry, •…•…s Age and Sex may their own Features see; •…•…t if the Window cannot shew your Face, •…•…ook under Feet, the Marble is your Glass; •…•…hich too, for more then Ornament, is there, •…•…he Stones may learn your Eyes to shed a Tear. •…•…hey never work upon the Conscience; •…•…hey cannot make us kneel, we are not such, •…•…s think there's Balsom in the Kiss, or Touch, •…•…hat were gross Superstition we know; •…•…here's no more Power in them than the Pope's Toe. •…•…he Saints themselves for us can do no good, •…•…uch less their Pictures drawn in Glass or Wood. •…•…hey cannot seal, but since they signifie, •…•…hey may be worthy of a Cast o'th'Eye;

Although no Worship, that is due alone, Not to the Carpenter's, but God's own Son; Obedience to Blocks deserves the Rod, The Lord may well be then a jealous God. Why should not Statues now be due to Paul, As to the Caesars of the Capitol? How many Images of great Heirs, which Had nothing but the Diu of being rich, Shine in our Temples? Kneeling always there, Where, when they were alive, they scarce appear; Yet shall Christs Sepulchre have ne'er a Tomb? Shall every Saint have a Iohn Baptists Doom? No Limb of Mary stand? Must we forget Christs Cross, as soon as past the Alphabet? Shall not their Heads have Room i'th' Window, who Founded our Church and our Religion too? We know that God's a Spirit, we consess We cannot comprehend his Name, much less Can a small Glass his Nature: But since he Vouchsaf'd to suffer his Humanity; Why may not we (only to put's in Mind Of's Godhead) have his Manhood thus enshrin'd? Is our Kings Person less esteem'd, because We need him in our Coins as well as Laws?

Do what we can, whether we think, or paint All Gods Expressions are but weak and faint; Yet Spots in Globes must not be blotted the no•…•…, That cannot shew the World's Magnificence. Nor is it fit we should the Skill controul, Because the Artist cannot draw the Soul. Cease then your Railings and your dull Complaints To pull down Galleries, and set up Saints Is no Impiety: now we may well Say that our Church is truly Visible:

Those that before our Glass Scaffolds prefer Would turn our Temple to a Theater, Windows are Pulpits now; though unlearn'd, one May read this Bibles new Edition. Instead of here and there a Verse adorn'd Round with a Lace of Paint, fit to be scorn'd Even by vulgar Eyes, each Pane presents Whole Chapters with both Comment and Contents. The cloudy Mysteries of the Gospel here Transparent as the Chrystal do appear. 'Tis not to see things darkly through a Glass, Here you may see our Saviour Face to Face; And whereas Feasts come seldom, here's descry'd A constant Christmass, Easter, Whisuntide: Let the Deaf hither come, no matter though Faiths Sense be lost, we a new Way can show; Here we can teach them to believe by th'Eye; These silenc'd Ministers do edifie: The Scriptures Rays contracted in a Glass, Like Emblems do with greater Vertue pass. Look in the Book of Martyrs, and you'l see More by the Pictures than the History. That Price for things in Colours oft we give, Which we'd not take to have them while they live. Such is the Power of painting that it makes A loving Sympathy 'twixt Men and Snakes. Hence then Paul's Doctrine may seem more Divine, As Amber though a Glass doth clearer shine: Words pass away, as soon as Head-ach gone, We read in Books what here we dwell upon. Thus, then there's no more Fault in Imag'ry Than there's in the Practice of Piety; Both edifie: What is in Letters there, •…•…s writ in plainer Hieroglyphicks here;

"Tis not a new Religion we have chose, 'Tis the same Body, but in better Cloaths: You'l say they make us gaze when we should pray, And that our Thoughts do on the Figures stray: If so, you may conclude us Beasts: What they Have for their Object, is to us the Way. Did any e'er use Prospective to see No farther than the Glass? or can there be Such lazy Travellers so giv'n to Sin, As that they'l take their Dwelling at the Inn? A Christians Sight rests in Divinity, Signs are but Spectacles to help Faiths Eye. God is the Center; Dwelling on these Words, My Muse a Sabbath to my Brain affords; If their nice Wits more solemn Proof exact, Know, this was meant a Poem, not a Tract.

The Anti-Platonick.

FOnd Love, what dost thou mean To court an idle Folly, Platonick Love is nothing else But meerly Melancholly; 'Tis active Love that makes us jolly.

2.

To dote upon a Face, Or court a sparkling Eye, Or to esteem a dimpled Cheek Compleat Felicity; 'Tis to betray ones Liberty.

3.

Then pray be not so fond, Think you that Women can Rest satisfi'd with Complement,

The frothy Part of Man? No, no, they hate a Puritan.

4.

They care not for your Sight, Nor your erected Eyes, They hate to hear a Man complain, Alas! He dies, he dies; Believ't they love a closer Prize.

5.

Then venture to embrace, 'Tis but a Smack or two: I'm confident no Woman lives, But sometimes she will do; The Fault lies not in her, but you.

A sad Suit in a Petitionary Poem, sent by a Poor Scholar to his Patron.

WOnder not why these Lines come to your Hand The naked Truth you soon shall understand. I have a Suit to you, that you would be So kind as send another Suit to me: The Spring appears, and now Beasts, Birds, and Bees, The fruitful Fields, gay Gardens, and tall Trees Are covered, all things that do creep or fly, Are putting their Apparel on, but I. Time hath impair'd my Breeches, they shew, Sir, Like the Scotch Flags that hang in Westminster. Round about London the Hedges and the Ditches, As they catch Wool, wear Fragments of my Britches. My Patches dangle on my tattered Trouses, Like Hens and Chickens which hang up in Houses;

And having crackt out the contracting Stitches, They look rather like Petticoats than Britches; So that my Doublet pin'd, makes me appear Not like a Man but a Loose-wastcoateer. The Women call'd me Woman, till the Fools Spy'd their Mistake thorough my Pocket Holes. My Waste-band's wasted, and my Doublet looks Like him that wears it, quite off o'the Hooks. My Eyes are out, and all my Button-moulds Drop like ripe Hazel-nuts out of their Hulls. The Suburbs of my Jacket are so gone, I have not left a Skirt to sit upon. My Doublet Canvas be'n worn out behind, I put a Poem there to keep out Wind. Two sly Knaves follow'd me, and one or both, Like Boys in Horn-books, read it through the Cloth. My Belly-pieces are so fat, they will If toasted, serve for Belly-pieces still. Last Shrove-tide my Fore-skirt, as I'm a Sinner, Fell in the Batter, and was fry'd for Dinner. And when the Wench saw how my Jaws did knock it it, She would have made a Pancake of my Pocket. That which I call a Shirt, looks like a Clout Which some unhappy Gibbet had worn out. Sir, as I am a live Man, and a Scholar, This very Spring will purge away my Choler. My Weeds so plough'd and harrow'd, that I know, Unless I can get new, 'tis time to •…•…ow. About my Neck, as you may understand, By the Dimidium's a right falling Band. I wear a pair of Cuffs withal, and they Look like those torn which Men snatch in a Fray. I had a Cirdle too when I was drest, Which was long since, but now (ungi•…•… unbles•…•…)

Instead of wearing powd'red Hair, my Chief Invention is to get me powd'red Beef. My Hat's so full of Holes, I can't devise A Way how I should pluck it o'er my Eyes: My Shoes and I in one Condition roul, And both appear as if we had no Soul: My Stocking-calves, the best of all my Stock, Are paradiz'd as naked as my Nock. I'm like a Clock my self, which if fair Weather Should separate, no Art can put together: My Books are ran away from off my Shelf, I cannot quote my Author, nor my self; For like Sir Wills Heroick Verse they be, Heaven knows, all in the Land of Lombardy. That Land of Ignorance, and full of Ills, Where Scholars Teeth are their own Paper-mills. Sir, I am piec'd like Cottages with Thatch, The old and new do sum up one grand Patch: Then pray Sir, quickly send me some Redress, Lest my Suit falls, as a Cloud vanishes: For it is now by most Mens Approbation, The next Degree unto Annihilation: Sir, to be brief, 'tis a confused Rude Rag, that admits of no Similitude; There's no Imagination that can strike it, 'Tis so like nothing, that there's nothing like it.

The poor Cavalier, in Memory of his old Suit.

THough thou hast lasted 'bove a thousand Days, Till thou art ag'd and grey through adverse ways; Yet Malice in its Highest, dare pronounce, No other, but that thou wert Scarlet once.

As in fair Beauties innocently dead, Their very Paleness hath a Tinct of Red, Under thy gray, discernably thin Streams Lies, like to shipwrack Strawberries in Cream. I know 'tis vain to boast what thou hast been, Yet thou wert red, when bloody Votes were green. E'er ripe Rebellion had a full-age Power, To commit Laud, and Gourney to the Tower: E're middle-sighted Judgment understood, That 'twas 'gainst Sense o'th'Houses to be good. It is no humble Honour of thy Fate, To follow in thy Sufferings, those of State: I have observ'd since Lesley's coming in, Thou hast been still declining with the King, Spite Fairfax, and the Scots did all agree, To take our Sleep from us, thy Nap from thee. But to declare thee in the State concern'd, When Pomfret was relieved, then thou wert turn'd. Prove thou didst wear new Buttons on thy Breast, When baffle'd Waller did retreat from th'West: When taken Leicester rais'd our Thoughts & Speech, Then wert thou reinforced in the Breech. Thanks to my Tops and Care, which though it meet, To rob my Legs to keep thee on thy Feet. Nay, may I want Belief, if when the Report Of lost Bridgewater first arriv'd at Court, Each Whisper did not rend thee: I could tell Still by new Holes, how our Disasters fell. At Langport when the West was well ago, (A sad Mischance) thy Rear miscarry'd too, And by a strong Intelligence the same time, Thy Hooks and Buttons sprung with Sherburns Mine. Now Peace be with thy Dust, whilst I do mourn, And Loyally Industrious close thy Urn;

For the next motion to a Calm in th'Air, Will thy poor Extants into peices tear: And as the Wind when th'winged Nation pays Their feather'd Tribute, send it several Ways; One Fragment would into Bridge-water fall, In Sherburn one, in several Garrisons all, And th'Insolent Rebels at that Sight be won, To think our Thread of Life like thine be done. No quondam Suit, I'l keep thee from their Claws, Rotten as th'art, thou shalt be sound for th'Cause. Rather than to our Prejudice be disperst, Thou shalt make Iack-of-lents and Babies first: Bait Fishes Hooks to couzen Mackrels Lips, Because they keep the Seas with Rebels Ships: Make good a Field of Pease against Jack daw, Reduce revolting Turkies into Awe; And every part of thee shall be employ'd To serve against Rebellion and Pride. And as the pious Ancients use to rear Tombs to the Bodies, which they know not where To find, to thee pure Shade of Shades (for in This mortal life no Ghost could be more thin) This Monumental Paper I do vow, And thank God I've another Habit now.

To the Queen.

Great Queen,

VVHom Tumults lessen not, whose Womb, we see, Keeps the same Method still, the same Decree; And midst the brandisht Swords, and Trumpets voice Brings forth a Prince, a Conquest to that Noise.

We greet the Courage of your Births; and spy Your Consorts Spirit dancing in your Eye. Valour he shrouds in Armour, you in Vail; You wrapt in Tiffany, and he in Mail.

The fairest Bloom might since the Seasons low'r, Lose all its Scent and turn a common Flow'r: A Storm might blast the Beauty of that Brow, And the fresh Rose shrink from its Glory now: But there the constant Flower in Tempests gay, As in the silent Whispers of the Day, Can thrive in Blasts, and alike fruitful be, When Charles in Steel, or Charles in Robes you see. You smile a Mother, when the just King stands, Or with a Show'r, or Thunder in his Hands.

Thus you alone, seated above all Jars, Turn Noise to Tunes, and Lightning into Stars.

An Elegy on Ben. Johnson.

POet of Princes, Prince of Poets (we, If to Apollo, well may pray to thee.) Give Glow-worms leave to peep, who till thy Night Could not be seen, we darken'd were with Light; For Stars t'appear after the Fall o'th'Sun, Is at the least modest Presumption. I've seen a great Lamp lighted by the small Spark of a Flint found in a Field, or Wall; Our inner Verse faintly may shadow forth A dull Reflection of thy Glorious Worth, And like a Statue homely fashion'd, raise Some Trophies to thy Mem'ry, though not Praise. Those shallow Sirs, who want sharp sight to look On the Majestick-Splendor of thy Book,

That rather chuse to hear an Archy prate, Then the full Sense of a learn'd Laureate; May, when they see thy Name thus plainly writ, Admire the Solemn Measure of thy Wit; And like thy Works beyond a gaudy Show Of Boards and Canvase, wrought by Inigo. Ploughmen, who puzzled are with Figures, come By Tallies to the Reckoning of a Sum, And Milk-sop Heirs, which from their Mothers Lap Scarce travell'd, know far Countrys by a Map. Shakespear may make Griefs, merry Beaumonts Stile Ravish and melt Anger into a Smile; In Winter Nights, or after Meals, they be, I must confess very good Company; But thou exact'st our best Hours Industry, We may read them, we ought to study thee; Thy Scene's are Precepts, every Verse doth give Counsel, and teach us, not to laugh, but live You that with tow'ring Thoughts presume so high (Swell'd with a vain Ambitious Tympany) To dream on Scepters, whose brave Mischief calls The Blood of Kings to their last Funerals. Learn from Sejanus his high Fall, to prove To thy dread Sovereign a sacred Love; Let him suggest a Reverend Fear to thee, And may his Tragedy thy Lecture be. Learn the compendious Age of slippery Power, That's built on Blood, and may one little Hour Teach thy bold Rashness, that it is not safe, To build a Kingdom on a Caesar's Grave. Thy Plays were whipt and libell'd, only cause They'r good, and savour of our Kingdoms Laws. Histrio-masticks (Lightning-like) doth wound Those things alone that solid are and sound.

Thus guilty Men hate Justice, so a Glass Is sometimes broke for shewing a foul Face. There's none that wish thee Rods, instead of Bays, But such whose very Hate adds to thy Praise. Let Scriblers (that write Post and versifie With no more Leasure than we cast a Dye) Spur on their Pegasus and proudly cry, This Verse I made i'th'twinkling of an Eye; Thou could'st have done so, hadst thou thought it fit, But 'twas the Wisdom of thy Muse to sit And weigh each Syllable, suffering nought to pass, But what could be no better than it was. Those that keep pompous State, ne'er go in haste; Thou went'st before them all, though not so fast; While their poor Cob-web-stuff finds as quick Fate, As Birth, and sells like Alm'nacks out of Date. The marbled Glory of thy labour'd Rhyme Shall live beyond the Calender of time, Who will their Meteors 'bove the Sun advance; Thine are the Works of Judgment, theirs of Chance. How this whole Kingdom's in thy Debt, we have From others Perriwigs and Paint, to save Our ruin'd Sculls, and Faces; but to thee We owe our Tongues, and Fancies Remedy. Thy Poems make us Poets, we may lack (Reading thy Book) stol'n Sentences and Sack. He that can but one Speech of thine reherse, Whether he will or no, must make a Verse. Thus Trees give Fruit, the Kernels of that Fruit Do bring forth Trees, which in more Branches shoot. Our Canting English of it self alone, I had almost said a Confusion, Is now all Harmony; what we did say Before was tuning only, this is Play.

Strangers who cannot reach thy Sense, will throng To hear us speak the Accents of thy Tongue, As unto Birds that sing: If't be so good When heard alone, what is't when understood! Thou shalt be read as Classick Authors; and As Greek and Latine taught in every Land. The cringing Monsieur shall thy Language vent, When he would melt his Wench with Complement. Using thy Phrases, he may have his Wish, Of a coy Nun, without an angry Pish. And yet in all thy Poems there is shown Such Chastity, that every Line's a Zone. Rome will confess that thou mak'st Caesar talk In greater State and Pomp than he could walk. Cataline's Tongue is the true Edge of Swords, We now not only feel, but hear thy Words; Who Tully in thy Idiom understands, Will swear that his Orations are Commands: But that which could with richer Language dress The highest Sense, cannot thy Words express. Had I thy own Invention which affords Words above Action, Matter above Words, To crown thy Merits, I should only be Sumptuously poor, low in Hyperbole.

Another on Ben. Johnson.

WHo first reform'd our Stage with justest Laws, And was the first best Judge in his own Cause, Who (when his Actors trembled for Applause) Could (with a Noble Confidence) prefer His own, by Right, to a noble Theater; From Principles, which he knew could not err.

Who to his Fable did his Person fit, With all the Properties of Art and Wit, And above all that could be acted, writ. Who Publick Follies did to Covert drive, Which he again could cunningly retrive, Leaving them no Ground to rest on and thrive. Here Iohnson lies, whom had I nam'd before, In that one Word alone I had paid more, Than can be now, when Plenty makes me poor.

To his Mistress.

COme (dearest Iulia) thou and I Will knit us in so strict a Tye, As shall with greater Power ingage, Than feeble Charms of Marriage; We will be Friends, our Thoughts shall go, Without Impeachment, to and fro; The same desires shall elevate Our mingled Souls, the self-same Hate Shall cause Aversion, we will hear One sympathizing Hope and Fear; And for to move more close, we •…•…rame Our Triumphs and our Tears the same: Yet will we ne'er so grosly dare, As our Ignobler selves to share; Let Men desire like those above, Spiritual Forms wee'l only love; And teach the ruder World to shame; When Heat increaseth to a Flame: Love's like a Landskip, which doth stand, Smooth at a distance, rough at Hand.

A Sight of the Ruins of St. Pauls.

HOmers vast Iliads found so small a Cell, They reclus'd were to th'Cloyster of a Shell; There Fate attends, there Ruin, Pauls must be Unto it self both Urn and Elegy. But must the Marble from thy Carcase rent, Thy Glory once, now turn thy Monument? Can there no Sheet, nor Sear-cloth be allow'd, But thy own Lead to be thy Funeral-shroud? Since by their publick Vote this was thy Doom, Thou and Religion are to have one Tomb, And wrapt up in a heap of Ruins, lie Intomb'd i'th'Center of an Anarchy. Must thou thy self, thy crumbled self interr And to thy self, be thy own Sepulchre? Nay, must thy Ruins too, in stead of Verse, Hang like dull Pendants on thy scatter'd Herse? Sure when the Eastern Monarchs shook away The narrow Circumscription of their Clay, 'Twas thought contracted Mankind did expire, And mix its Ashes with their Funeral Fire.

Such Hecatombs of dying Tribes became Unto their Urns both Hecatomb and Flame;

So now, the unhallow'd Breath of Storms, have thrown This Pile into a rude Confusion; And from its Aged Head fierce Zeal hath torn That Reverend Pomp which there so long was worn; That now its Face appears like whither'd Care, Or wilder than the Looks of Fevers are. All other Churches, which like lesser Rays, Darted their Light, from this Sun's Nobler Blaze,

Did into Order, and fair Figure fall, As Transcripts drawn from this Original; Lest this sad Heap its Funeral-rite should lack, Each wears its Ruins like to solemn Black: But if this will not serve, the Dust of those Which slumber in their Silence and Repose Of their cold Urns, will like an Earthquake swell, And break the gloomy Cloyster of each Cell, That treasures up their drowsie Clay, and make All the Convulsed Limbs of London shake, So long until it drop one Heap, and be At once its Mourner, Tomb, and Obsequy.

A Relation of a Quaker, that to the shame of his Profession, attempted to bugger a Mare near Colchester.

ALl in the Land of Essex Near Colchester the Zealous, On the side of a Bank, Was play'd such a Prank, As would make a Stone-horse jealous. Help Woodcock, Fox, and Nailor For Brother Green's a Stallion, Now alas what Hope, Of converting the Pope, When a Quaker turns Italian. Unto our whole Profession, A scandal 'twil be counted, When 'tis talkt with Disdain Amongst the profane, How Brother Green was mounted.

And in the Good time of Christmas, Which though the Saints have damn'd all, Yet when did they hear Of a damn'd Cavalier, Ere plaid such a Christmas Gambal. Had thy Flesh, O Green, been pamper'd With any Creature unhallow'd; Hadst thou sweetned thy Gumbs With Pottage of Plumbs, Or profane minc'd Pye hadst swallow'd: Roll'd up in wanton Swines Flesh, The Fiend might have crept into thee, Then Fulness of Gut Might have made thee Rut, And the Devil so have rid through thee. But alas! he had been feasted With a Spiritual Collation By our frugal Mayor, Who can dine with a Prayer And sup with an Exhortation. 'Twas meer Impulse of Spirit, Though he us'd the Weapon carnal, Filly foal, quoth he, My Bride, thou shalt be: Now how this is Lawful, learn all. For if no Respect of Persons Be due 'mongst the Sons of Adam, In a large Extent, Then it may be meant That a Mare's as good as a Madam. Then without more Ceremony Nor Bonnet vail'd, nor kist her, He took her by Force For better for worse, And he us'd her like a Sister.

Now when in such a Saddle A Saint will needs be riding, Though I dare not say 'Tis a falling away, May there not be some Back-•…•…iding? No surely, quoth Iames Nailor, 'Twas but an Insurrection Of the Carnal Part, For a Quaker in Heart Can never lose Perfection. For so our Matters teach us, The Intent being well directed, Though the Devil trapan The Adamical Man, The Saints stand uninfected; But yet a Pagan Jury Still judges what's intended, Then say what we can, Brother Greens outward Man I fear will be suspended. And our Adopted Sister Will find no better Quarter, But when him we enroul For a Saint, Filly Foal Shall pass at least for a Martyr. Now Rome that spiritual Sodom, No longer is thy Debtor, O Colchester now Who's Sodom, but thou, Even according to the Letter? Help Woodoock Fox, and Nailor For Brother Green's a Stallion Now alas what Hope Of converting the Pope, When a Quaker turns Italian

Upon a Talkative Woman.

PEace Beldam Ugly, thoul't not find M'Ears Bottles for enchanted Wind; That Breath of thine can only raise New Storms, and discompose the Seas. It may (assisted by thy Clatter) A Pigmaean Army scatter; Or move, without the smallest Strain, Loretto's Chappel once again, And blow St. Goodrick while he prays, And knows not what it is he says. And help false Latin with a Hem, From Finkley to Ierusalem; Or in th'Pacifick Sea supply The Wind that Nature doth deny. What, dost thou think I can retain All this, and spout it out again? As a surcharged Whale doth spew Old Rivers to receive in new: Thou art deceiv'd, even Aeol's Cave, That can all other Blasts receive, Would be too small to let in thine: How then these narrow Ears of mine? Defect of Organs may with me pass, By Chance to pillorize an Ass; Yet should I shake his Ears, they'd be Not long enough to heark to thee. Yet if thou hast a Mind to hear, How high thy Voices Merits are; Go serve the States, thoul't useful come, And have the Pay of every Drum;

Or trudge to Utretcht, there out-run Dame Scuermans Score of Tongues with one. But pray be still, for I do swear, No Torment's like that of the Ear. O let me when I chance to dye In Vulcan's Anvil buried lie, Rather than hear thy Tongue once knell, That Tom a Lincoln and Bow-bell.

The Second part of the Scots Apostacy.

GO helpless Virgins, teach some calmer Breast To sing a Poean at a Marriage-feast; Inspire some pewling Lover, or with some Sad Friend weep forth an Epicedium. To these you may be welcom, but God wot, You have not Gaul enough to name a Scot.

I must invoke the Furies to awake My Rage, and impeach Letter with a Snake; Help, help good Enyo, thou who dost delight In Blood and Slaughter, fill my Veins with spight, Prompt thou my dull Invention, and disperse Some potent Venom through my Basilick-verse; That so my Breath may blast them, and each Word Do Execution like the Halls-man's Sword. Were my Tongue forkt, and dipped like my Mind, In Poison, though I left the Sting behind, Scots, you should feel it, you my Scorpion Rhimes Should reach, though Justice cannot reach your Crimes. How my Flesh trembles! O you cursed Brood Of Cain and Iudas-fatted with the Blood

Of Innocents, how long will Heaven permit Your devilish Art, or you to practise it? Sleeps the Eternal Justice, or forbears Only for want of Executioners? 'Tis so you have escap'd, because no Curse Can be so great, but you deserve a worse. Your Sins have sav'd you, pray you take them home 'Tis more than Innocence could do by some; Yet you have got a strange Prerogative, That which condemns you, makes you now alive; And though belike the Hang-man he can draw No Blood, but what is forfeited by Law; Yet 'tis no humble Honour that you deign Observant of these Partians Discipline. Who dare affirm that Scots did never yet, Before their Thievery, did earn their Meat: Thus hopefully brought up, at length you got A Way how to out-go the Powder-plot; For had that Practice undiscover'd stood, Some bad had likewise perisht with the good: But you, right •…•…mps of Satan, only bent Your Malice to betray the Innocent, Making the Jews your Pattern, letting pass Sentence on Christ, and sparing Barabbas. Nor could the meaner Rank of Men suffice Your Treachery, thence Profit none could rise; For what you had you'd seem to have forgot The devilish Maxims of Iscariot, The Grand Professor of your Doctrine, you, As he sold his, have sold your Master too. May be you thought like Iosephs Brethren, thus By selling him to make him Glorious: Hell take your Craft, 'twas Iudas taught you this, How to betray your Master with a Kiss;

This is a Sin could not be pattern'd by The worst Examples of fell Tyranny. When as incensed Cataline, whose •…•…ath Breathed it, prescrib'd the City nought but Death: When in his proud Conceit Rome seem'd to burn, And did all really drop into his 〈◊〉〈◊〉. The ravisht Virgins •…•…am, beastly Desire Was quencht with Blood, to quench that Goddess Fire; Yet her Impious Thoughts did not prevail So far, to set the Senators to Sale I must commend your plain Fore-fathers way, Who weary of their Prince did only •…•…ay His Person, and then streight did 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a new, They never murthered the Title too; Yet were they counted Traitors in those times, But oh! What Disproportions in your Crimes, Their Hate was finite dying in his Fall, They kill'd; yours I•…•…te; and strikes at all Not only endangering your Princes Health, But even murthering Majesty it self. They oft gave Money to be rid of one, But you take Money, that you might have none; And yet Religion must become the Veil To cover your Eno•…•…es withal. When Truth can witness that you never knew, More of Religion than the Name comes to. Oh monstrous times! more 〈◊〉〈◊〉, who force Heavens fairest Child to be Sins Stalking-horse! Could not the sacred Name of King re•…•…am You Avarice from such Impious Gain. No, were the Name of so much Worth to you, The Name had been made Mercenary too; For to such bold Attempters, as dare •…•…ame A sensless Idol of the saving Name

Of Iesus: 'Twere an easie thing To make a Tyrant of the Name of King; And so with the same Colour Brute once sent The very Title into Banishment. You Bruits may do the like, and make a Room At least of this, though nothing else at Home. A cruel, faithless Nation, never true, But to your selves; I should think Cowards too, But that I see you dare in fresh Deeds sport After this C•…•…me, and fear no Vengeance for't.

The Definition of a Protector.

VVHat's a Protector? He's a stately Thing, That Apes it in the Non-age of a King. A Tragick Actor, Caesar in a Clown, He's a brass Farthing stamped with a Crown. A Bladder blown, with other Breaths pu•…•…t full, Not the Perillus, but Perillus Bull. Aesops proud Ass veil'd in the Lyons Skin, An outward Saint lin'd with a Devil within. An Eccho whence the Royal Sound doth come, But just as a Barrel-head, sounds like a Drum. Fantastick Image of the Royal Head, The Brewers, with the Kings Arms, quartered: He is a counterfeited Piece, that shows Charles his Effigies with a Copper Nose. In fine, he's one we must Protector call, From whom the King of Kings protect us all.

PROTECTOR. Anagram. O Portet C. R.

Upon the new Invention of flying with Chymi∣cal Magick, with a Description of his Castle of Comfort.

TEll us no more of Icarus, Of Hypogryph, or Pegasus Or of Menippus Journeyings With Eagles, and with Vultures Wings; Nor of the Ganza's, which did soon Transport Don Diego to the Moon. These are Inventions old and stale, The dull Effects of muddy Ale; For we have got a newer Trick, Sir, Which far out does the fam'd Elixir. Give us a Man in Bulk as vast, As th'Tun at Heidelburg i'th'waste, Or greater if it well may be Than Garagantu's two or three, We'l so calcine him, that he shall Even become Aerial▪ Give us an Hostess fat and dull, With Guts at least a Dung ca•…•…t full, Whose Corps appears in outward Show, Just like a Lump of leaven'd Dough, We can by Spirits and by Art Evaporate her carnal Part. And make her mount the Welkin blew, A Way that never any knew.

About the middle of Long-Aker, (If I be not a great Mistaker) A noble high built Castle stands, Which far and near the Coast commands:

A Lion Couchant guards the Door, Which though he gapes, yet doth not roar, And though his Teeth may chance to fright you, Yet you may enter, he'l not bite you. Here, here springs that Celestial Fount, Which makes both Souls and Bodies mount. The great Commander of this Fort, Tells you in Earnest, not in Sport. That heretofore his total Weight Was full three Hundred, sans deceit; But since he in this Place did fix, 'Tis but two Hundred thirty six, Quickly he could put off this Load; But finding yet that his Abode Unto the World is necessary, He is content a while to tarry. But when dull Mortals shall begin, By their Ingratitude and Sin To fright him hence, then in a trice He'l fly away by this Device. Have you not seen i'th'Month of May, An Egg by Force of Phoebus Ray Drawn from the Earth, fill'd with a few Collected drops of Morning-dew? Can Dew do this and shall not we Believe more Volatility To be in Spirit sublimate? Yes that we will, in spight of Fate. Besides, the Stones which Mongi•…•…el Disgorges from the Mouth of Hell, Are so calcin'd, that at their Fall, They'l not in Water sink at all. Can Aetna's Flames do thus to Stones? And do we think that Flesh and Bones

May not by a more subtil Fire, Be raised to Perfection higher? If Bodies all composed be Of Sulphur, Salt, and Mercury, Easie it is by Chymick Skill To make the fix'd Salt volatil; Which being done, for Company The other will together fly. This is the Way, and only this, Whoever hits it, cannot miss.

Come then Ingenious Souls, that may By this Discovery find a Way To seek new Worlds about the Sphears, And pull Endymion by the Ears. Let France and Spain enjoy their Wine, We have a Liquor more Divine, Which by the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Approbation Is call'd A Cup of Consolation. This, this will make you mount the Skies, Like nimble-winged Mercuries, For who the Operation feels Of this, hath Wings in's Head and Heels.

The Coachman of St. James's.

THe whip again? Away, 'tis too absurd, That thou shouldst lash with Whip-cord now, but Sword. I'm pleas'd to fantly how the glad Compact Of Hackney-Coachmen s•…•…ear at the l•…•…st Act. Hark how the scoffing Concourse hence derives The Proverb, needs most go when th'Devil drives.

Yonder a Whipster crys, 'tis a plain Case, He turn'd us out, to put himself i'th'place; But God-a-mercy Horses once, for ye Stood to't, and turn'd him out, as well as we. Another, not behind them with his Mocks, Crys out, Sir, faith you were in the wrong Box, He did presume to rule, because forsooth Ha's been a Horse Commander from his Youth; But he must know there's Difference in the Reins Of Horses fed with Oats, and sed with Grains. I wonder at his Frollick, for be sure Four pamper'd Coach-horses can sling a Brewer; But Pride will have a Fall, such the Worlds course is, He that can rule three Realms, can't guide four Horses. See him that trampled thousands in their Gore, Dismounted by a Party, but of four. But we have done with't, and we may him call, In's driving Iehu, Phaeton in's fall: I would to God for these three Kingdoms sake, His Neck, and not the Whip had given the Crack.

On Black Eyes.

IN Faith, 'tis true, I am in Love, 'Tis your black Eyes have made me so, My Resolutions they remove, And former Niceness overthrow.

2.

Those glowing Char-coals set on Fire A Heart, that former Flames did shun, Who as Heretick unto Desire Now's judg'd to suffer Matryrdom.

3.

But Beauty, since it is thy Fate, At distance thus to wound so sure, Thy Vertues I will imitate, And see if Distance prove a Cure.

4.

Then farewel Mistress, farewel Love, Those lately entertain'd Desires, Wise Men can from that Plague remove; Farewel black Eyes, and farewel Fires.

5.

If ever I my Heart acquit Of those dull Flames, I'l bid a Pox On all black Eyes, and swear they'r fit For nothing but a Tinder-box.

In Nuptias Principis Auranchii & D. Mar•…•…e filiae Regis Angliae.

FAma Refert nostris terras haesisse batâunas, Atque unum quondam gentibus esse solum; Oceanumque, duas qui nunc interluit Oras, Fluctibus haud semper disseouisse suis. Migrat in historiam fuer at quae fabula, taedis, Oceanusque tuo jam tandem pulsus amore est; Et cedunt flammis, pontus & unda tuis; Dùm populus populi procus est, passusque sagittas Nubentis simili principis igne calet, Et tua dum nostras sociant sponsalia dextras; Connubii tandem faeder a nomen habent. Non sponsam, Fateor, paribus natalibus aequas, Nec similes thalamos fers similesve choras; Nec te tam magnis jactaso Regibus ortum, Nec stirpem decorant Regnater-ampla tuam: Haud tamen accedis minor; est pro sanguine virtus, Quodque illi Foelix, dat tibi forte genus. Par Sceptris Patris Gladius, tibi stemmate bellis

Auxit, & antiquis Regibus aequa dedit. Par tua Regali victrix domus, hinc quoque nobis Majorum factis Imperialis aedes. Et licet in dotem sponsae non porrigis Indos, Sed plures conjux ferret Iberus opes; Sallus & in thalamos Rueret magis aureus, & te Ex arcâ vincat Natio multa suâ: Tu tamen in dotem patris clara armae ministrans Ferrato in Gremium ditior Imbre ruis; Amplior & sors est Indis, ad ferre triumphos, Et par possesso victus Iberus adest. Cujus ad ereptum, plus est quòd nasceris, Aurum, Quàm natum; Gemina est India capta, tua. Fersque polococtum, dives sub utroque metallum; Et cadit in fiscum sol, oriturque, tuum; Dùm toties tibi vectat opes Hispania victas; Cedit & in sensus annua praeda tuos. Nasceris, & puerum gens spoliate timet, Aetatique metus nutrit, versatque coaevos; Atque annis fingit damna futura tuis. Anticipatque tuos, Infantia laeta, triumphos, Dum tenero fortis Spira•…•… in ore Pater. Qui sua bella, tuo cernet, sed mollia, vultu; Misceturque tuis Marte cupido genis. Hic gemina oppositis vibrantur vulnera telis, Currit ad haec conjux, hostis & illa fugit.

Upon the Marriage of the young Prince of O∣range with the Lady Mary.

VVE are no longer Island, speedily Cement these Hands, Priest; these our Isth∣mus be, Nor does the Sea divide us, but's become Our Wedding Ring, Type of our Union.

Yet Wedding's a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 private Stile, for this Not a plain 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Match, but a •…•…ague is; A League that shall incorporate these two Nations, and that third which shall spring from you▪ Make haste then, and prevent your Years, we all Long till we may the Belgian, Cousin call. While thus you couple young, you seem to be Espous'd; not by Consent, but Sympathy. And like the Vine and Elm secure from Strife Embrace as horn, not as made Man and Wife. And you may like the Vine too multiply, That he, who shall summ up your Progeny, May be perswaded that you did bring forth Not Twins, but Clusters; while their Native Worth Antedates, breeding, and your Issues are Each Babe a sucking Hero, Infant Star. But why do I these needless Fancies vent? Your Marriage is an Act of Parliament. The State's your Priest, your People too, whose▪ You voted thus, thus sign'd, think you to be Not wedded but enacted, and do since Acknowledge you are now both Law and Prince.

Another upon the same.

'TIs vain to wish them Joys; nor is it meet Verses should pray, changing to knees their feet, This were thy Cry, God help you, to a Saint, Can Fulness fail, or Glorious Bodies faint? Votes are for meaner Wed-locks; where there is Some Doubt or Hazard of a lasting Bliss; But now such Labour's equally unwise, As is the Priest's that prays for Deities;

Blessings are proper to this Union, As heat to Fire, or Light is to the Sun; Nor is't a Wonder, for the Prince did woo Not Birth, Age, Beauty, but Religion too: Here Faith and Reason courts, this Match doth prove Wisdom in Youth, and Policy in Love. Some Bridegrooms (like the Days) all Nations try And cheapen every Toy before they buy. When one is only Worthy, and worth all Those that were Rivals for the golden Ball, He could not look on more, without Offence; A Thirst of Choice had thwarted Providence. The Theban Hearth could not divide these Flames, Which burnt through all the Seas, 'twixt Rbine and Thames. Nor were their Hearts link'd by the Painters Hand, Or Legates Voice, such Bonds are Ropes of Sand; They their own Counsel, happier Steps have trod, Who not salute the Image, but the God. Should he have had a Speaker, who (tho young) Carries an ord'red Babel in his Tongue? Or should her Beauty in faint Colours lie, When there's no Tablet worthy but his Eye? This Sun and Moon may safely joyn their Lips, Who by their Nearness banish all Eclipse. Their Flames and Flow'rs (stoln Kisses like) do make Equal Amends, and at once give and take. Here are such emulous Beauties, that some do Think them united in one Body too. So that our Eyes see double, as a Face; Though single in the Flesh, is two i'th'Glass, And 't must be so, unless that's now confest, Which once was Soloecism, that both are best.

And each is all; which large Perfections are Beyond our Hopes and Faiths as well as Prayer: Thus then, here's nothing wanting, yet we may, Although not for them, to them humbly pray. Grant then Illustrious Prince (for we do vow To know no Nuptial Deity but you) Grant us our Boon, although your abler parts Make this a truer Marriage of the Arts; Yet throw your Euclid by, and only look To th'Propositions of your living Book, And you'l conclude Truth doth more clearly lie There, than i'th'Maxims of Philosophy. Measure o'er all her Limbs, and you will see No such Proportions in Geometry; Instead of Heavens rude Globes, survey her Eyes, There lurks no Snake, or Scorpion in those Skies. You'l there find richer Sphears, and blushing tell How in those Points Angels, like you, do dwell. Since she to day made you a Number, try Part of one Art alone to multiply; Think of no Tacticks, but of those which are Read in the martial'd Orders of her Hair. Though you with Victory have Armies led, 'Twas not so great a Triumph as to wed, Such Fetters will encrease your Liberty; Count not these Bonds amongst your Armory. Thus Prisons prove strong Forts, and Foes are slain The second time, now by a Captive Chain.

And you (most gracious Lady, who alone Are all the Goddesses we call upon) Wear not too many Pearls, unless it be Upon a day of sad Humility. When you keep Masks, or celebrate a Feast, If you'd be Rich or Glorious, come undrest.

Gems do but hide Sparks of a brighter hew; Those that are Stars to some, are Clouds to you; Think of no Jewel, but the Union That which the Priest, not Ladies did put on, And then you'l find true Lustre; Eyes are dim, And weary with the Light, but not of him; When you have made his Arms your Seat, be't known, Tis to debase your self, to sit i th'Throne.

An Epitaph on Ben. Johnson.

THe Muses fairest Light in no dark time, The Wonder of a Learned Age; the Line Which none can pass, the most proportion'd Wit To Nature, the best Judge of what was fit: The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest Pen; The Voice most eccho'd by consenting Men; The Soul which answer'd best to all, well said By others, and which most requital made: •…•…un'd to the highest Key of ancient Rome, •…•…eturning all her Musick with his own: 〈◊〉〈◊〉 whom with Nature, Study claim'd a Part, Yet who unto himself ow'd all this Art: Here lies Ben. Iohnson, every Age will look With Sorrow here, with Wonder on his Book.

On one that was deprived of his Testicles.

THou Neuter Gender! Whom a Gown Can make a Woman, Breeches none: Created one thing, made another, Not a Sister, scarce a Brother:

Jack of both sides, that may bear, Or a Distaff, or a Spear, If thy Fortune thither call, Be the Grand Seignors General; Or if thou fancy not that Trade, Turn th'Sultana's Chamber-maid; A Medal where grim Mars turn right, Proves a smiling Aphtodite; How doth Nature quibble, either He, or she, Boy, Girl, or neither. Thou may'st serve great Iove, instead Of Hebe both and Ganymed: A Face both stern and mild, Cheeks bare, That still do only promise Hair. Old Cybele the first in all This humane predicamental Scale, Why should she chuse her Priests to be Such Individuums as ye? Such Insecta's, added on To Creatures by Substraction; In whom Nature claims no part, Ye only being Words of Art.

To his Mistress.

WHat Mystery is this? That I should find My Blood, in kissing you, to stay behind 'Twas not for want of Colour, that requir'd My Blood for Paint: no Dye could be desir'd On that fair Cheek, where Scarlet were a Spot, And where the Juice of Lillies but a Blot: If at the Presence of a Murtherer, The Wound will bleed, and tell the Cause is there

A touch will do much more; even so my Heart, When secretly it felt your killing Dart, Shew'd it in Blood, which yet doth more complain Because it cannot be so toucht again. This wounded Heart, to shew its Love most true, Sent forth a drop, and wrote its Mind to you: Was ever Paper half so white as this? Or wax so yielding to the printed Kiss? Or seal so strong? No Letter e'er was writ, That could the Authors Mind so truly fit: For though my self to forreign Countrys fly, My Blood desires to keep you Company. Here I could spill it all, thus I can free My Enemy from Blood, though slain I be; But slain I cannot be, nor meet with ill, Since, but to you, I have no Blood to spill.

The Puritan.

VVIth Face and Fashion to be known, For one of sure Election, With Eyes all white, and many a Groan, With Neck aside to draw in Tone, With Harp in's Nose, or he is none. See a new Teacher of the Town, O the Town, O the Towns new Teacher. With Pate cut shorter than the Brow, With little Ruff starch'd you know how, With Cloak like Paul no Cape I trow. With Surplice none; but lately now, With Hands to thump, no Knees to bow. See a new Teacher, &c.

With coz'ning Cough, and hollow Cheek, To get new Gatherings every Week, With Paltery Change of and to eke, With some small Hebrew, and no Greek, To find out Words, when stuff's to seek. See a new Teacher, &c.

With Shop-board Breeding, and Intrusion, With some Outlandish Institution, With Ursin's Catechism to muse on, With Systems Method for Confusion, With Grounds strong laid of meer Illusion. See a new Teacher, &c.

With Rites indifferent all damned, And made unlawful, if commanded, Good Works of Popery down-banded, And Moral Laws from him estranged, Except the Sabbath still unchanged. See a new Teacher, &c.

With Speech unthought, quick Revelation, With boldness in Predestination, With threats of absolute Damnation, For Yea and Nay hath some Salvation, For his own Tribe, not every Nation. See a new Teacher, &c.

With after License cost a Crown, When Bishop new had put him down, With Tricks call'd Repetition, And Doctrine newly brought to Town, Of teaching Men to hang and drown. See a new Teacher, &c.

With Flesh-provision to keep Lent, With Shelves of Sweet-meats often spent, Which new Maid bought, old Lady sent, Though to be sav'd a poor Present; Yet Legacies assure the Event. See a new Teacher, &c.

With Troops expecting him at th' Door, That would hear Sermons, and no more; With noting Tools, and Sighs great store, With Bibles great to turn them o'er, While he wrests Places by the Score. See a new Teacher, &c.

With running Text, the Nam'd forsaken, With For and But, both by Sense shaken, Cheap Doctrines forc'd, wild Uses taken, Both sometimes one, by Mark mistaken, With any thing to any shapen. See a new Teacher, &c.

With new-wrought Caps, against the Canon, For taking Cold, though sure he have none; A Sermons End, where he began one, A new Hour long, when's Glass had run one, New Use, new Points, new Notes to stand on. See a new Teacher &c.

The Flight.

My Lelia stay, And run not thus like a young Roe away, No Enemy Pursues thee (foolish Girl) 'tis only I, I'll keep off Harms, If thoul't be pleas'd to garrison mine Arms; What, dost thou fear I'll turn a Traytor? May these Roses here To Paleness shread, And Lillies stand disguized in new Red, If that I lay A Snare, wherein thou wouldst not gladly stay. See, see the Sun Does slowly to his Azure Lodging run, Come, sit but here, And presently he'l quit our Hemisphere; So still, among Lovers, time is too short, or else to long; Here will we spin Legends for them that have Loves Martyrs bin; Here on this Plain, We'l talk Naroissus to a Flower again: Come here, and chose On which of these proud Plats thou wouldst repose: Here may'st thou shame The rusty Violets with the crimson Flame Of either Cheek, And Primroses, white as thy Fingers seek; Nay thou may'st prove, That Mans most Noble Passion is to love.

To a Lady that wrought a Story of the Bible in Needle-work.

COuld we judge here, most vertuous Madam, then Your Needle might receive Praise from our Pen: But this our Want bereaves it of that part, Whil'st to admire and thank is all our Art. The Work deserves a Shrine: I should rehearse Its Glory in a Story not in Verse. Colours are mixed so subt'ly, that thereby The Strength of Art doth take and cheat the Eye: At once a thousand we can gaze upon, But are deceiv'd by their Transition. What Touches is the same, Beam takes from Beam; The next still like, yet diff'ring in the Extream. Here runs this Tract, whither we see that tends, But cannot say, Here this, or there that ends; Thus, while they creep insensibly we doubt, Whether the one pours not the other out. Faces so quick and lively, that we may Fear, if we turn our Backs, they'l steal away. Postures of Grief so true, that we may swear Your artful Finger have wrought Passion there: View we the Manger and the Babe, we thence Believe the very Threads have Innocence; Then on the Cross, such Love, such Grief we find, As 'twere the Transcript of our Saviours Mind: Each Parcel so expressive, each so fit, That the whole seems not so much wrought as writ: 'Tis Sacred Text all, we may quote, and thence, Extract what may be pass'd in our Defence. Blest Mother of the Church, be in the List Reason'd with four, a She-Evangelist.

Nor can the Stile be Prophanation, when The Needle may convert more than the Pen; When Faith may come by Seeing, and each Leaf, Rightly perus'd, prove Gospel to the Deaf: Had not that Helen haply found the Cross, By this your Work you had repair'd that Loss. Tell me not of Penelope, we do See a Web here more chast and sacred too. Where are ye now, O Women, ye that sow Temptations, lab'ring to express the Bow Of the blind Archer? Ye that rarely set To please your Loves, a Venus in a Net? Turn your Skill hither, then we shall, no Doubt, See the Kings Daughter Glorious too without. Women sow'd only Fig-leaves hitherto; Eves Nakedness is only cloath'd by you.

To the King.

THe Prince hath now an Equal, and may see A Fellow to his Sports, as great as he: Nor need he lessen Birth, or fall from State, Or he depos'd to an Associate; Or else to fit Companions to his Play, Need lay your Scepter or your Crown away. And now you may behold Sir, by your side, Your Royal self grown more, and multiply'd; And those past Years, before and since your Reign, May in your Children see liv'd o'er again; Who are your Emblems; and though none be free From Fate, yet you in them Immortal be; And whil'st we may preserve your Living thus, When e'er you dye, you not depart from us;

Your Sons will keep most of you from the Grave, So, though we change, we no new King shall have. You only will be varied; as a Grain Lost in a Harvest, more returns again. And though perchance we cannot say like those, Who are Heirs to their Fathers Eyes or Nose, Report his Look, and are so justly fac't Like him, as if they were not born but cast, That all these Signs we in the Princes find, Yet sure, there is more likeness in their Mind; Which you convey'd them through their Mother, who Even thus did travel with your Vertues too, Which to descend to our dull Sense and Earth, Comes to us in their shapes, and suffer Birth, And be your Off-spring, who when Chronicle Is all we have, and Annals only tell Your Deeds and Actions, and when Men shall look And see the Prince and Duke do all the Book, And live your Royal Story, and that all Which you did well, was but prophetical; Will not be thought as your Posterity, But you in them will your Successor be.

To the Queen, upon the Birth of her first Daughter.

AFter the Prince's Birth, admired Queen, Had you prov'd barren, you had fruitful been; And in one Heir born to his Fathers Place And Royal Mind, had brought us forth a Race; But we, who thought we wisht enough to see A Prince of Wales, have now a Progeny; And you being perfect now, have learnt the Way To be with Child as oft as we can pray.

So that henceforth, we need no Altars vex With empty Vows, being heard in either Sex: Nor have we all our Kingdoms Incense try'd So many Years, only to be deny'd. We no Desires but thankful Off'rings bring, That bearing many, you prefer the King, And to us yet have but one Daughter shown; Who else had been the Original alone, Without a Copy: For the Shapes we see In Tables of you but bright Errors be; Nor could we hope Art could beget an Heir To that sweet Form, unless your self did bear Your Pourtraiture, and in a Daughter shew, That of your self, which yet no Painter drew; Who with his subtle Hand, and wisest Skill, Hath hitherto but striv'd to draw you ill; And when he takes his Pencil from your Look, Finds Colours make you but a Piece mistook, And so paints Treason, nor would have Pretence To scape, but that he limns a fair Pretence: But in the Princess you are writ so plain And true, that in her you were born again. And when we see you both together plac't, You are your Daughter, only grown in haste. In both we may the self-same Graces see, But that they yet in her but Infant be, Not Woman Beauties; nor will we despair The Prince and Duke of York have equal Share In your Perfection, which, though they divide, Make them both Prince enough by th'Mothers side: Whose Composition is so clear and good, That we can see Discourses in your Blood, And understand your Body, so refin'd, That of you might be born a Soul or Mind.

O may you still be fruitful, and begin Henceforth to make our Year by lying in. May we have store of Princes, and they live Till Heraulds doubt what Titles they should give. To this, may you be young still, and no other Signs of more Age found in you, but a Mother.

Upon one that preacht in a Cloak.

SAw you the Cloak at Church to day, The long-worn short Cloak lin'd with Say? What had the Man no Gown to wear? Or was this sent him from the Mayor? Or is't the Cloak which Nixon brought To trim the Tub, where Golledge taught? Or can this best conceal his Lips, And shew Communion sitting Hips? Or was the Cloak St. Pauls? If so, With it he found the Parchments too; Yes, verily, for he hath been With mine Host Gaius, at the new Inn. A Gown (God bless us) trails o'th'Floor, Like th'Petticoat o'th'Scarlet Whore, Whose large stiff Plates, he dare confide, Are Ribs from Antichrists own side: A mourning Cope if it look to th'East, Is the black Surplice of the Beast.

A Song of SACK.

COme let us drink away the time, A Pox upon this pelting Rhime, When Wine runs high, Wit's in the Prime: Drink and stout Drinkers, are true Joys, Odd Sonnets and such little Toys, Are Exercises fit for Boys.

2.

The whining Lover that doth place His Fancy on a painted Face, And wasts his Substance in the Chase Would ne'er in Melancholy pine; Had he Affections so Divine, As once to fall in Love with Wine.

3.

Then to our Liquor let us sit, Wine makes the Soul for Action fit, Who drinks most Wine, hath the most Wit: The Gods themselves do Revels keep, And in pure Nectar tipple deep, When sloathful Mortals are asleep▪

4.

They fudled me for Recreation, In Water, which by all Relation Did cause Deucalions Inundation; The Spangle Globe had it almost. Their Cups were with Salt-Water do'st, The Sun-burnt Center was the Toast.

5.

The Gods then let us imitate, Secure from carping Care and Fate; Wine, Wit, and Courage both create: In Wine Apollo always chose His darkest Oracles to disclose, 'Twas Wine gave him his Ruby-nose.

6.

Who dare's not drink, 's a wretched Wight, Nor do I think that Man dares fight All Day, that dares not drink all Night: Come fill my Cup untill it swim With Foam, that overlooks the Brim. Who drinks the deepest? Here's to him.

7.

Sobriety and Study breeds Suspicion in our Acts and Deeds, The down-right Drunkard no Man heeds: Give me but Sack, Tobacco store, A drunken Friend, a little Whore; Provide me these, I'll ask no more.

A Time-Sonnet.

NOw that our Holy Wars are done Between the Father and the Son; And since we have by Righteous Fate, Distrest a Monarch and his Mate, And forc'd their Heirs flee into France, To weep out their Inheritance: Let's set open all our Packs, That contain ten thousand Racks, Cast on the Shore of the Red Sea, Of Naseby and of Newbery. If then you will come provided with Gold, We dwell close by Hell, where we'l sell What you will, that is ill For Charity waxeth cold.

2.

Hast thou done Murther, or Blood spilt; We can soon get another Name, That will keep thee from all Blame; But be it still provided thus, That thou hast once been one of us; Gold is the God that shall pardon the Guilt: For we have What shall save Thee from th'Grave; Since the Law We can awe, Although a famous Prince's Blood were spilt.

3.

If a Church thou hast bereft Of its Plate, 'tis Holy Theft. Or for Zeal sake, if thou bee'st Prompted on to be a Thief; Gold is a sure prevailing Advocate. Then come, bring a Sum, Law is dumb, And submits to our Wits; For it's Policy guides a State.

The Parliament.

MOst Gracious and Omnipotent, And Everlasting Parliament, Whose Power and Majesty Is greater, than all Kings by odds; And to account you less then Gods, Must needs be Blasphemy.

2.

Moses and Aaron ne'er did do More Wonder, than are wrought by you

For Englands Israel; But though the Red Sea we have past, If you to Canaan bring's at last, Is't not a Miracle?

3.

In six Years space you have done more, Than all the Parliaments before; You have quite done the Work. The King, the Cavaller, and Pope, You have o'erthrown, and next we hope You will confound the Turk.

4.

By you we have Deliverance, From the Design of Spain and France, Ormond, Montross, the Danes; You aided by our Brethren Scots, Defeated have Malignant Plots, And brought your Sword to Cain's.

5.

What wholesom Laws have you ordain'd? Whereby our Property's maintain'd 'Gainst those would us undo; So that our Fortunes and our Lives, Nay, what is dearer, our own Wives, Are wholly kept by you.

6.

Oh! What a flourishing Church and State Have we enjoy'd e'er since you sate With a Glorious King (God save him:) Have you now made his Majesty, Had he the Grace but to comply, And do as you would have him?

7.

Your Directory how to pray By th'Spirit, shews the perfect Way. In Zeal you have abolisht The Dagon of the Common-prayer, And next we see you will take Care, That Churches be demolisht.

8.

A Multitude in every Trade Of painful Preachers you have made Learned, by Revelation: Cambridge and Oxford made poor Preachers, Each Shop affordeth better Teachers, O Blessed Reformation!

9.

Your Godly Wisdom hath found out The true Religion, without Doubt; For sure among so many, We have five Hundred at the least, Is not the Gospel much increast? All must be pure, if any.

10.

Could you have done more piously, Than sell Church-Lands the King. to buy, And stop the Cities Plenty? Paying the Scots-Church-Militant, That the new Gospel helpt to plant, God knows they are Poor Saints.

11.

Because th'Apostles Creed is lame, Th'Assembly doth a better frame, Which saves us all with Ease; Provided still we have the Grace To believe th'House in the first Place, Be our Works what they please.

12.

'Tis strange your Power and Holiness, Can't the Irish Devil dispossess, His End is very stout; But though you do so often pray, And every Month keep Fasting-day, You cannot cast them out.

On the May-Pole.

THe Mighty Zeal which thou hast late put on, Neither by Prophet, nor by Prophets Son As yet prevented, doth transport me so Beyond my self, that though I ne'er could go Far in a Verse, and have all Rhimes defi'd, Since Hopkins and good Thomas Sternhold dy'd; Except it were the little Pains I took, To please Good People in a Prayer Book That I set forth, or so; yet must I raise My Spirits for thee, who shall in thy Praise Gird up her Loyns, and furiously run All kind of Feet, but Satans cloven one. Such is thy Zeal, so well thou dost express it, That wer't not like a Charm I'd said, God bless it. I needs must say it is a spiritual thing, To rail against the Bishop and the King: But these are private Quarrels, this doth fall Within the Compass of the General; Whether it be a Pole painted, or wrought Far otherwise then from the Wood 'twas brought, Whose Head the Idol-makers Hand doth crop, Where a profane Bird tow'ring on the top, Looks like the Calf in Horeb, at whose Root The unyoakt Youth doth exercise his Foot:

Or whether it preserves its Boughs befriended By Neighbouring Bushes, and by them attended. How canst thou chuse but seeing it, complain That Baal's worship'd in the Groves again? Tell me how curst an egging with a Sting. Of Lust, do these unwily Dances bring: The simple Wretches say they mean no harm, They do'nt indeed, but yet these Actions warm Our purer Bloud the more: For Satan thus Tempts us the more that are more Righteous. Oft hath a Brother most sincerely gone Stifled with Zeal and Contemplation, Where lighting on the Place where such Repair, He views the Nymph, and is clean out in's Prayer. Oft hath a Sister grounded in a Truth, Seeing the jolly Carriage of the Youth, Been tempted to the Way that's broad and bad, And wer't not for our private Pleasures, had Renounc'd her little Ruff and goggle Eye, And quit her self of the Fraternity. What is the Mirth, what is the Melody That sets them in this Gentiles Vanity? When in our Synagogues we rail at Sin, And tell Men of the Faults that they are in; With Hand and Voice so following our Theams, That we put out the Sides-men in their Dreams, Sounds not the Pulpit then which we belabor Better, and holier then doth a Tabor? Yet such is Unregenerate Mans Folly, He loves the wicked Noise, and hates the Holy. If the Sius sweet Enticing, and the Blood Which now begins to boyl, have thought it good To challenge Liberty and Recreation; Let it be done in Holy Contemplation.

Brother and Sister in the Field may walk, Beginning of the Holy Word to talk, Of David and Uriah's lovely Wife, Of Thamar and her lustful Brothers Strife: Then underneath the Hedge that is the next, They may sit down, and so act out the Text: Nor do we want (how e'er we live Austere) In Winter Sabbath Nights some lusty Chear, And though the Pastor's Grace which oft doth hold Half an Hour long, make the Provision cold; We can be merry thinking ne'er the worse, To mend the Matter at the second Course: Chapters are read, and Hymns are sweetly sung, Joyntly commanded by the Nose and Tongue; Then on the Word we diversly dilate, Wrangling indeed for Heat of Zeal, not Hate. When at the length an unappeased Doubt Fiercely comes in, and then the Lights go out; Darkness thus makes our Peace, and we contain Our fiery Spirits till we meet again: Till then no Voice is heard, no Tongue do's go, Unless a tender Sister shriek, or so. Such should be our Delights, grave and demure, Not so abominable and impure As those thou seek'st to hinder, but I fear Satan will be too strong, his Kingdom's there: Few are the Righteous, nor do I know How this Idol here shall overthrow, Sin our sincerest Patron is deceast, The Number of the Righteous is decreast; But we do hope these times will on, and breed A Faction mighty for us, for indeed We labour all, and every Sister joins To have Regenerate Babes spring from our Loyns.

Besides what many carefully have done, To get the unrighteous Man a Righteous Son. Then stoutly on, let not thy Flocks range lewdly, In their old Vanities, thou Lamp of Beaudly; One thing I pray thee, do not so much thirst After Idolatries last fall, but first Follow thy Suit more close, let it not go, Till it be thine as thou wouldst hav't, for so Thy Successors upon the same entail, Hereafter may take up the Whit-sun-Ale.

To the Queen.

Most Gracious Queen,

IF Poets could be born, as oft as you Bring Princes forth, something might then be new; Th'Alembicks of the Womb and Brain run cross, Elixars they'r more common than our Dross. Your fair and beautiful Soil pure Manna breeds, When our dull Mud is barren too in Weeds: Though then you here find nothing fresh but Names, This Verse being writ for Charles and that for Iames; Yet may they now (like sacred Reliques) be Lov'd and embrac'd for their Antiquity. Your former Teeming taught the costive Earth, And barren Wives the Fashion of a Birth; But now (as if your wise Fertility, An Extract were of all State-policy) You give Example unto Men, and teach Loyalty more than our Divines can reach.

You that do practise base Exactions, and Rail at the needful Taxes of our Land, Thinking your Money better spent upon A Coach or Feast, or some new Fashion,

Of devout Rebels, the Non-ships which be Walls that imprison us to Liberty, Like those Athenian Grandees, who to see The costly Madness of one Tragedy, Could scatter large Supplies, although 'twas known, This want made them Spectators of their own. Learn Homage now from Majesty, the Queen Her self hath here the best of Subjects been; She pays large Tribute, that it may appear, Safety, like Heaven, is never bought too dear. I've read of Roman Matrons, who did drown Their Richest Jewels, to preserve their Town; Stopping the Gulf with Pearls, which grac'd their Ears, They rather chuse no Ornaments than Fears. And those brave Dames of Carthage were content To shave their dangling Tresses, which they lent For Cordage then, and glory'd they could see What once was Pride, turn'd now to Subsidy: Baldness was Beauty there, nor did they care So they could bend their Bows, to lose their Hair. But you (Great Queen) contrive your Countrys good, Not from your Locks Expence, but from your Blood. Each parcel of the Duke, bright as his Eyes, Proves you give Jewels of a wealthier Prize: Who, for a General Safety, wish to be Blest with the Pangs of your high Agony. Whilst the dull Lees of Man scarce deign to give Poor common Service, that themselves may live.

Upon Tom of Christ-Church.

THou that by Ruin do'st repair, And by Destruction art a Founder: Whose Art doth tell us what Men are, Who by Corruption shall rise sounder: In this fierce Fires intensive Heat, Remember this is Tom the Great. And Cyclops think at every Stroke, Which with thy Sledge his Side shall wound, That then some Statute thou hast broke, Which long depended on his Sound; And that our Colledge-Gates did cry, They were not shut since Tom did dye. Think what a Scourge 'tis to the City, To drink and swear by Carfax Bell, Which bellowing without Tune, or Pity, The Nights and Days divides not well; But the poor Tradesman must give o'er His Ale at Eight, or sit till four. We in all haste drink off our Wine, As if we never should drink more: So that the Reck'ning after nine Is larger now than that before. Release this Tongue, which er'st could say, Home Scholars; Drawer, what's to pay: So thou of Order shalt be Founder, Making a Ruler for the People, One that shalt ring thy Praises Wonder, Than th'other Six Bells in the Steeple: Wherefore think, when Tom is running, Our Manners wait upon thy Cunning.

Then let him raised be from Ground, The same in Number, Weight, and Sound, So may thy Conscience rule thy Gain, Or would thy Theft might be thy Bane.

On a Burning-Glass.

STrange Chymistry! Can Dust and Sand produce So pure a Body, and diaphanous? Strange kind of Courtship! That the Amorous Sun, T'embrace a Min'ral, twists his Rays in one; Talk of the Heavens mockt, by a Sphere, alas! The Sun it self's here in a Piece of Glass: Let Magnets draw base Iron, this alone Can to her Icy Bosom win the Sun. Witches may cheat us of his Light a while, But this can him even of himself beguile: In Heaven he staggers to both Tropicks, here He keeps fixt Residence all times o'th'Year: Here's a perpetual Solstice, here he lies, Not on a Bed of Water, but of Ice; How well by this himself abridge, he might Redeem the Scythians from their lingring Night. How well by this Glass Proxy might he roul Beyond the Ecliptick, and warm either Pole; Had but Prometheus been so wise, h'had ne'er Scal'd Heaven to light his Torch, but lighted here. Had Archimedes once but known this Use, H'had burnt Marcellus from proud Syrdcuse: Had Vesta's Maids of Honour this but seen, Their Ladies Fire had ne'er extinguisht been: Hells Engines might have finisht their Design Of Powder (but that Heaven did countermine)

Had they but thought of this; th'Egyptians may Well hatch their Eggs without the Midwife Clay; Why do not puling Lovers this devise, For a fit Emblem of their Mistress Eyes? They call them Diamonds, and say th'have been Reduc'd by them, to Ashes all within; But they'l assume't, and ever hence 'twill pass, A Mistress Eye is but Loves Burning-Glass.

Upon Sheriff Sanbourn.

FIe, Schollars, fie; have you such thirsty Souls, To swell, quaff and carouse in Sandbourn's Bouls? Tell me, mad Youngsters, what do you believe, It cost good Sandbourn nothing to be Shrieve, To spend so many Beeves, so many Weathers, Maintaining so many Caps, so many Feathers? Again, Is Malt so cheap this pinching Year, That you should make such Havock of his Beer? I hear you are so many that you make Most of his Men turn Tapsters, for your sake; And that when he even on the Bench doth sit, You snatcht the Meat from off the hungry Spit; You keep such Hurly-burly, that it passes, Ingurgitating sometimes whole half Glasses, And some of you (Forsooth) are grown so fine Or else so sawcy, as to call for Wine; As if the Sheriff had put such Men in trust, As durst draw out more Wine than needs they must: In Faith, In Faith, it is not well, my Masters, Nor fit, that you should be the Sheriffs Tasters; It were enough, you being such Gourmandisers, To make the Sheriffs, henceforth, turn arrant Misers;

Remove th'Assize, to Oxfords foul Disgrace, To Henly on the Thames, or some such Place. He never had complained had it been A petty Firkin, or a Kilderkin: But when a Barrel daily is drawn out, My Masters, then it's time to look about. Is this a Lie, trow ye? I tell you, No, My Lord High-Chancellor was informed so. And oh! What would not all the Bread in Town Suffice, to drink the Sheriffs Liquor down? But he in Hampers must it from hence bring, Oh most prodigious, and most monstrous thing! Upon so many Loaves of Home-made Bread, How long might he and his two Men have fed? He would, no doubt, the Poor they should be fed With the sweet Morsels of his broken Bread; But when that they poor Souls for Bread did call, Answer was made, The Scholars eat up all. And when for broken Beer they crav'd a Cup, Answer was made, the Scholars drunk it up; And thus, I know not how they chang'd the Name But did the Deed, and Long-tail bore the blame.

Not to travel.

VVHat need I travel, since I may More choicer Wonders here survey? What need I Tyre for Purple seek, When I may find it in a Cheek? Or sack the Eastern Shores, there lies More precious Diamonds in her Eyes? What need I dig Peru for Oar, When every Hair of her yields more? Or toyl for Gums in India, Since she can breath more rich than they?

Or ransack Africk, there will be On either Hand more Ivory? But look within all Vertues that Each Nation would appropriate, And with the Glory of them rest, Are in this Map at large exprest; That, who would travel, here might know The little World in Folio.

The Schismatick.

ONce I a curious Eye did fix To observe the Tricks Of the Schismaticks of the Times; Viewing which of them spoke the merriest Theme, And best would befit my Rhimes; Arminians I found solid, Socinian were stolid, But the Papist for Learning doth stickle, Ha, ha, ha, Rotundus, Rotundus, 'tis you that my Spleen doth tickle.

2.

Next to tell you must not be forgot, How I did trot With a great Zealot, to a Lecture, Where I a Tub did view, Hung with an Apron blew 'Twas the Preacher's I conjecture: His Use and Doctrine too, Was of no better Hue, Though taught with a tone most mickle, Ha, ha, ha, &c.

3.

He talkt among other pretty things, That the Book of Kings Small Comfort brings

To the Godly; Besides he had some Grudges Against the Book of Iudges, And talkt of Leviticus odly. But Wisdom most of all He held Apochryphal, Great Bell and the Dragon like Michael, His Preaching, like himself, was but fickle, Ha, ha, ha, &c.

5.

'Gainst Humane Learning he next inveighs, And he boldly says, It is that which decays Inspiration. Those that Preferment merit, Are not like to wear it, In hopes of Reformation; Cut Bishops down in haste, And Cathedrals as fast, As Corn that is fit for the Sickle, Ha, ha, ha, &c.

5.

I heard of one did touch, He did tell as much, Of one that would not crouch At Communion; Who thrusting up his Hand Never made a Stand, Till he came where her f—had Union; She without all Terror, Thought it no Error, But did laugh, till the Tears down did trickle, Ha, ha, ha, Rotundus, Rotundus, 'tis you that my Spleen doth tickle.

A Sermon.

HEarken I beseech you, with Fear and Reve∣rence to these Words, as you may perhaps find them written in the Apocrypha, the Chapter and Verse you may find out at your Leisure; the Words to my best Remembrance are these, A Car∣penter took his Ax, and hewed the Root of the Tree, which because it brought not forth good Fruit, it was instantly thrown into the Fire. Beloved, instantly is certainly, the Axe instrumentally hewing, orderly struck against the Root, effectually of the Tree, particularly of that Tree, impartially because it brought not forth; put all together, my Beloved, because it brought not forth good Fruit, instantly, effectually, particularly, instrumentally, orderly, proportionally, impartially, it is inevitably and fatally to be cast irresistably into the Fire Ever∣lastingly, and so of these, and of all these, as the time shall permit; but the Glass it out, and so am I.

A Zealous Discourse between the Person of the Parish, and Tabitha.

Parson,

HAil Sister to your snowy Breast The Word permitteth us to jeast, Now Sermon's done, nor should you be Stiff-necked to the Ministry, As you may read it more at large In Dod's Commandments, or my Charge Last Sabbath in my Catechism; Wherein we prove they make a Schism,

Who do deny us in the Night To strengthen you by Candle-light; And truly might my Reasons be But wav'd according to the Grand Committee For Reformation I would prove, That we out of sincere Love Our devout Spouses Room might take Each Sabbath for Repetition Sake: And verily of late 'tis se'd, More Eyes have opened from the Bed Than from the Pulpit, and we there Can sooner teach you how to bear.

Tabitha.

In Truth I know not what to say, Replies this zealous Tabitha, But on those Nights I you assure, Our Husbands are too, too impure; And clog our Consciences too high With Seed that doth not fructifie, As you may read. Ruth, where's my Book? It is in Matthew, Mark, Iohn, or Luke. But would it not a scandal be Unto the New Presbytery?

Parson.

No: For all things must be done, You know, for Edification; Which is no more in English, than The building up of Faithful Woman.

Tab.

But hold, do these same Words proceed From the Beast's Language then indeed? Sure the Scotch or Geneva Print Hath no such Rags of Babel in't. Nay fie, Good Sir, what do you mean? In troth your Hand is too obscene; Evil Requests must be deny'd, Let go, my Placket's on my side;

Why look you now; I pray be calm, The Spirit moves to sing a Psalm. The Hymn. The Post, that came from Banbury, Riding in a Blew Rocket, He swore he saw, when Lunsford fell, A Childs Arm in his Pocket.

Parson.

I think I hear your Husband pray, Listen hark! so; and then why may Not a Sister, or a Brother Engender Grace in one another?

Tab.

You preacht against it, Sir.

Par.

I, so I must, Where it is only done for Lust; But I protest 'tis Zeal indeed, To propagate the Holy Seed, That moves me.

Tab.

And indeed said she, I feel that self same Prick of Zeal in me, As it were thrusting me on still, Therefore, Good Sir, ev'n do what you will. Why look you now; what Hurt's in this, I'll feal it with a Holy Kiss. And e'er your Husband say Amen, I'll do this great Work twice agen.

Tabitha.

Sir, make haste to rise, 'Tis for my Evening Exercise; It will be Supper time I doubt, E'er I shall read my Chapter out. Besides alas! Oh! How do I Forget my Practice of Piety.

Pray rectifie my Gorget, smooth my Whisk, that our zealous Conflict may not be discerned by the Reprobate, the Children of Wrath, Firebrands of Hell, and Heirs to Destruction.

On O. P. sick.

YIeld Periwig'd Impostor, yield to Fate, Religious Whisler, Mountebank of Fate, Down to the low'st Abyss, the blackest Shade That Night dares own, that so the Earth (thou'st made Loathsom by thousand Barbarisms) may be Deliver'd from Heavens Vengeance, and from thee. The reeking Steam of thy fresh Villanies Would spot the Stars, and menstruate the Skies. Force them to break the League they've made with Men And with a Flood rinse the foul World agen. Thy Bays are tarnish'd with thy Cruelties, Rebellions, Sacriledge, and Perjuries. Descend, descend, thou vailed Devil, fall Thou subtle Blood-sucker, thou Cannibal: Thy Arts are catching, cozen Satan too, Thou hast a trick more than he ever knew; He ne'er was Atheist yet, perswade him to't, The Schismaticks will back thee Horse and Foot.

An Answer to the Storm.

'TIs well he's gone, (O had he never been) Hurry'd in Storms, loud as his crying Sin; The Pines and Oaks fell prostrate at his Urn, That with his Fame his—〈◊〉〈◊〉 Winds pluck up Roots, and fixed Cedars move, Roaring for Vengeance to the Heavens above; From Theft, like his great Romulus did grow, And such a Wind did at his Ruin blow.

Strange that the lofty Trees themselves should fell Without the Axe, so Orpheus went to Hell; At whose Descent the stoutest Rocks were cleft, And the whole Wood its wonted Station left; In Battle Hercules wore the Lions Skin, But our fierce Nero wore the Beast within, Whose Heart was brutish more than Face or Eyes, And in the Shape of Man was in Disguise: Where ever Men, where ever Pillage lyes, Like ravenous Vultures, our wing'd Navy flys, Under the Tropick we are understood, And bring home Rapine through a Purple Flood. New Circulations found, our Blood is hurl'd As round the lesser to the greater World.

In civil Broils he did us first engage, And made three Kingdoms subject to his Rage: One fatal Stroke slew Justice, and the Cause Of Truth, Religion, and our sacred Laws. So fell Achilles by the Trojan Band, Though he still fought with Heaven its self in's hand. Nor would Domestick Spoil confine his Mind, No Limits to his Fury but Mankind. The Brittish Youth, in Forreign Coasts are sent Towns to destroy, but more to Banishment; Who since they cannot in this Isle abide, Are confin'd Prisoners to the World beside; No Wonder then if we no Tears allow To him that gave us Wars and Ruin too. Tyrants, that lov'd him, griev'd, concern'd to see There must be Punish•…•…ent for Cruelty. Nature her self rejoyced at his Death, And on the Waters sung with such a Breath, As made the Sea dance higher than before, While her glad Waves came dancing to the Shore.

FINIS