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.

EPIGRAMS.

1. Humility.

I'Th' petty Fourm this Lady sits, Learns innocency more then wits: Reads duty-lectures to her sons; Bid her but go, and straight she rune. Poor she at all times, and all places, Waits (servant-like) upon the Graces. She owns her self most vile and base; Yet her descent's the Royall race.

2. The Misers musick.

CHink chink the coin cryes, and the musick pleases, It's like the dainty food that breeds diseases: 'Tis sweet and bitter, like the Siren charms, Lulls us to love first, then leaves us in harms.

3. The Blush.

SEest thou the tincture in her face? It is the servant to her grace, To intimate to thee there's nought That's vicious harbour'd in her thought, And doth from Cyprian boyes exempt her Dazling the foul lascivious tempter.

4. A Tayler.

THere was a Taylor once a dagger wore: He wore it once, and never wore it more. He would have drawn and run it at my Bitch, I, but his heart would not go thorough stitch.

5. To Nell.

FOnd, fickle, frantick fancy, full of folly; Thy mirth is turned into melancholly. Thou swear'st thou wilt be wiser, and wilt hate Thy former vices, but it is too late. The Steed is stoln, and now thou shut'st the dore; But lo, thou shouldst have lockt it heretofore.

6. On Jack.

JAck calls me rogue. My friend to me affords This sage advice, I pray lay hold on's words. Pish, pish, said I, 'tis better ten to one, To hold his ears, and let his words alone. Then by and by, (as it did well appear) I loos'd his words, and lug'd him by the ear.

7. A Sigh.

SIghing she smil'd, and smiling sigh't. She smil'd to see the thing she lik't, And sigh't because she could not get It fast into her cabbinet.

Had but her smiles a power, as well To draw, as do her sighs repell, She might be mistresse of the pray; But sighing she blowes all away.

8. Love.

THey say that love is alwaies blinde: I think (upon my soul) It is not true, because I finde He alwaies hits the hole.

9. Sim.

SIm sayes he's highly blest, because he looks Upon abundance of religious Books. 'Tis true, he does so; yet he keeps his sin; He looks upon them, but nere looks within.

10. Lucia.

SWeet Mistresse Lucia is a pretty thing: A Concubine that's worthy of a King: She is so full of beauty, and so fine, You'd think she were a spirit all divine.

I'd swear the same, too, and to th' world I'd tel't, But that in truth I know she may be felt.

11. A Token.

'TIs not of custome that my Present comes: Nor yet with flattering, to enhaunce the sums Of drossie lucre. Neither doth it move On legs, as though it came to buy your love: For that were too ignoble to prevail; Your love's a thing not to be set at sale. But hence it cometh, with supposed voyce, To speak for him, whose speech is somewhat nice; Whose tim'rous spirit hardly dares to shew The tenure of that love I bear to you. Hence then, accept it, only as a sign Of his affection, who in heart is thine.

12. A lock of Hair.

WHy should we do it upon such things as these? What is it they afford us that can please A love-sick passion? or asswage the pain Of a disorder'd and distempered brain? Has it a priviledge that's more then these? Only to say it is our Mistresses. Poor feeble prize, no author of content: What honour rises from an excrement?

I, but I finde a higher exposition: An Allegory, which on no condition, May be omitted for the good of either; It is a lock that locks two hearts together.

13. Loves gain.

LOve is a stock of money: and it's he That loves, that puts it out to usury. And 'tis the smile of Mistresses, (in jest) And wanton dalliance makes the interest. But wo is me, infatuate with pain: I finde my stock begets me little gain; For, whereas others (backney-like) get store, Mine brings me nil per centum, and no more.

14. Torio.

TOorio's in love, and greatly doth rejoyce, 'Cause he has lighted on so brave a choice: Yet with my curious eye I can discover In her, no beauty that may tice a lover. But I imagine why my Torio brags; She's precious not for beauty, but for bags.

15. Phorcus.

PHorcus, one morning (and that's rare) Upon his bent knees went to prayer: Pray'd for remission of his sins; And that same morning broke his shins. A sad mischance it was, therefore He vowes to God he'l pray no more.

16. To the Executioner.

JErvis the Hangman, when to him I quaffe, He cries, Your servant sir, it makes me laugh: But yet infaith I plainly tell thee Jervis, I love thee well, but I abhor thy service.

17. Thraso.

IN canting vessels, I have ever found The empty Hogshead yeelds the greatest sound. And hence it followes, that thy lofty strains Are but the symptomes of thy empty brains.

18. Gnatho.

GNatho (whose Muse is not so clear as common) Pins his Encomion on a Gentlewoman. He at the head begins, and thence doth greet Each member, till he comes unto the feet; Only the neck he scapes: I fain would know, Why on that part no verse he will bestow. I smell the plot, 'tis worthy of your laughter; He keeps the Neck-verse for himself hereafter.

19. Nell.

NEll's very sick, and to the Cooks will go; (Sure sicknesse cannot be repelled so) He fills the board with custard, and with pie: And bids her eat, but she cries, No, not I. She longs for rolls, and though it be a sin, She will have none but the cooks rolling-pin.

20. Pigmalion.

WHy does Pigmalion on his picture doat? And to the worship of the same devote His purest thought? Pigmalion, dost thou see More value in thy image then in thee? That thou shouldst buckle, and incline thy wit To leave thy self, and fall in love with it? Alas Pigmalion, thou art but an Ape, That for the substance dost adore the shape.

21. Momus.

MOmus perhaps thou't say I am unkinde, Because I do not write to thee my minde. I tell thee Momus, thou art grown so nought, That I cannot allow thee one good thought. Yet this my custome shall for ever be, When ere I want a fool, I'le send for thee.

The Conclusion: Or the Fornicator's farewell on his Death-bed.

I.

COme you fair eyes, that with inflamed lust I once beheld; See you my judgement, sad and just. For now (alas) I am compel'd To hang my head, as 'twere half dead, Ah me! to th' grave I must.

II.

And there my filthy carkasse must remain, Till the loud trump Ring heaven-knells throughout my brain, Giving new life to my dead lump: And re-inspires, with active fires, My empty pores again.

III.

Then weep one tear or two before I die, And must be gone. You can attest, as well as I, What cruell wrong to me y' have done. And now y' have kend my fatall end, Seek you the same to shun.

FINIS.