Clievelandi Vindiciæ, or, Clieveland's genuine poems, orations, epistles, &c. purged from the many false and spurious ones which had usurped his name, and from innumerable errours and corruptions in the true copies : to which are added many never printed before, with an account of the author's life.

The Authour to his Hermaphrodite made after Mr. Randolph's Death, yet inserted into his Poems.

PRoblem of Sexes! Must thou likewise be As disputable in thy Pedigree? Thou Twins in one, in whom Dame Nature tries To throw less than Aums Ace upon two Dice. Wer't thou serv'd up two in one Dish, the rather To split thy Sire into a double Father? True; the World's Scales are even, what the Main In one place gets, another quits again. Nature lost one by thee, and therefore must Slice one in two to keep her number just. Plurality of Livings is thy State, And therefore mine must be Impropriate: For since the Child is mine, and yet the Claim Is intercepted by another's Name, Never did Steeple carry double truer, His is the Donative, and mine the Cure. Then say, my Muse, (and without more Dispute) Who 'tis that Fame doth superinstitute. The Theb••n Wittal, when he once descries Iove is his Rival, falls to Sacrifice.

That Name hath tipp'd his Horns; see on his Knees A health to Hans-in-kelder Hercules: Nay Sublunary Cuckolds are content To entertain their Fate with Complement; And shall not he be proud whom Randolph daigns To quarter with his Muse both Arms and Brains? Gramercie Gossip; I rejoyce to see Th' hast got a Leap of such a Barbary. Talk not of Horns, Horns are the Poet's Crest; For since the Muses left their former Nest To found a Nunnery in Randolph's Quill, Cuckold Parnassus is a Forked Hill. But stay, I've wak'd his D••st, his Marble stirs, And brings the Worms for his Compurgators. Can Ghost have natural Sons? Say Og▪ is't meet Penance bear Date after the Winding-sheet? Were it a Phenyx (as the double kind May seem to prove, being there's two combin'd) I would disclaim my Right, and that it were The Lawful Issue of his Ashes swear. But was he dead? Did not his Soul translate Her self into a Shop of lesser rate; Or break up House, like an expensive Lord, That gives his Purse a Sob, and lives at Board? Let old Pythagoras but play the Pimp, And still there's hopes 'tmay prove his Bastard Imp.

But I'm prophane; for grant the World had one With whom he might contract an Union; They two were one, yet like an Eagle spread, Ith' Body joyn'd, but parted in the Head. For you, my Brat, that pose the Porph'ry Chair, Pope Iohn, or Ioan, or whatsoe're you are, You are a Nephew, grieve not at your state; For all the World is Illegitimate. Man cannot get a Man, unless the Sun Club to the Act of Generation. The Sun and Man get Man, thus Tom and I Are the joynt Fathers of my Poetry; For since, blest Shade, thy Verse is Male, but mine Oth' weaker Sex, a Phancy Feminine; We'l part the Child, and yet commit no slaughter, So shall it be thy Son, and yet my Daughter.