26. The Weather-cock.
I.
Z'Life I reach my sword, for in my rage,
In thousand bits I'le slash
The Gnatho••s that defile our age,
And break their bones to mash.
Those that will turn
Ere they will burn,
And slink at every slash.
Poems by Hugh Crompton, the son of Bacchus, and god-son of Apollo being a fardle of fancies, or a medley of musick, stewed in four ounces of the oyl of epigrams.
About this Item
- Title
- Poems by Hugh Crompton, the son of Bacchus, and god-son of Apollo being a fardle of fancies, or a medley of musick, stewed in four ounces of the oyl of epigrams.
- Author
- Crompton, Hugh, fl. 1657.
- Publication
- London :: Printed for E.C. for Tho. Alsop ...,
- 1657.
- Rights/Permissions
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- Link to this Item
-
http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A35069.0001.001
- Cite this Item
-
"Poems by Hugh Crompton, the son of Bacchus, and god-son of Apollo being a fardle of fancies, or a medley of musick, stewed in four ounces of the oyl of epigrams." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A35069.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 2, 2024.
Pages
Page 44
II.
Those that their Prince and Peers adore
For interest of their own:
Those, when their fortunes are blown ore,
Will vanish, and are gone.
And basely will,
Like swallowes, still
Seek out the warmest Zone.
III.
Those that have learned to divide
Their hearts and tongues in two;
That will abet on either side,
Serve both the false and true.
And you that can
Praise every man
That keeps a bribe for you.
VI.
If Caesar daign to smile on such,
No paradise so sweet:
But if he frowns and frowneth much,
Their fortune's under feet;
And then their bliss
And pleasure is
Lapt in a winding sheet.
V.
If Caesar prayes to Mahomet,
Then thou wilt be a Turk;
Or if Popes pardons he will get,
Thou'lt do the self-same work.
Page 45
Thus doth thy zeal
To his appeal,
And in his lap doth lurk.
IV.
Shall Caesars frown, or Caesars smile
Ring change in my devotion?
Or shall I pawn my faith a while
To amplifie my potion?
No, no I hate
To wheel with fate,
Or move with every motion.
VII.
Poor is his faith, and poor his friend,
And poorer his renown,
Whose joy and sorrow must depend
On Caesars smile or frown.
Such fabricks stand
On sliding sand,
And soon are tumbled down.
VIII.
'Tis you professe Religion right;
And hate to hear of evill;
Yet in the darkest caves you'l light
A candle to the Devill.
'Tis you whose paint
Sets forth a Saint,
Yet you are most uncivill.
IX.
'Tis you that act a double Scene;
Ye seem to be profound,
Page 46
To this or that side ye will lean,
And stand on any ground.
'Tis you (I swear)
That run with th' hare;
And follow with the hound.
X.
My resolution is a rock
Of steel, and doth disdain
To yeeld unto the proudest knock,
Inchantments are in vain.
I'le never prove
To fall in love
For fear or filthy gain.