Epigrams of all sorts written by Richard Flecknoe.

EPIGRAMS Of all Sorts.

To a fair Lady, too confident of her Innocence.

POor Innocent Beauty how it pitties me! To see thee thus expos'd to Calumnie. Whilst men so vitious are, they won't allow That any can be fair and Vertuous now. In Saturn's reign perhaps it might suffice, When to be Innocent was to be wise, But now without the Serpent's wisdom too, The Innocence of the Dove will hardly do. Trust then no more to harmless Innocence, For you and Vertue, but a poor defence, For Innocence, but Vertue is unarm'd, The more you trust unto't, the more you'r harm'd.

To his Honourable Friend H. H.

I Grant you, Sir, I have a mind unfit For my low Fortune, and too high for it, But sure you'l grant tis better, have it so Than for high Fortune, t'have a mind too low. I'm none of these same Cringing things that stoops Just like a Tumbler when he vaults through hoops, Or Daw, or Magpie, when at fruit it pecks, Alternately their Tayls above their becks. If wealth ith vulgar way doth only lye For me, let low minds stoop for't min's too high Who ne'r thought any thing was truly wealth, That was below, or else without my self. Nor care I what the talking vulgar say For being not of their number, nor their way, They do but talk, and can't in judgment sit, Nor lyes it in their verge to judge of it. I put my self upon the only few That is the best and worthiest, such as you.

Who is the Richest and happiest man.

WHo cares for nothing that he cannot have And nothing others can deprive him of, With no disquiet of a guilty Breast To break his sleep, or to disturb his rest; In state and fortune neither Rich nor poor, But ha's enough and does desire no more,

And lives a life no Prince's smile nor frown Can either raise him up, nor throw him down, And neither hopes to rise, or fears to fall Is richest and the happiest man of all.

On an Avaritious person.

WHo wholly spends his Life in getting wealth, And to increase his store, consumes him∣self, Does no less Fool, than those to me appear, Who sell their Horse, to buy him Provender.

On certain Ladies, who said, they lik'd not our old Wits.

LAdies you like not our old wits, you say, And what new ones are those, you like, I pray? As Squibs and Crackers are to solid fire, So to the old, as th'new ones you admire. But tis the Nature of Green-sickness wits, As tis of your Green-sickness appetits, That in the Soul's, this in the Body's food, To like the bad, and to mislike the Good. And just as Heresie at first begun, With crying down the old Religion, So tis a kind of Heresie in you, To cry down old wits, and cry up the new. If so with your good leave, say what you will Of your new wits, I'm for the old ones still.

On the death of Charles Lord Gerard of Bromley.

WHo alive so far had been, He almost every Land had seen, And almost every thing did know, As man cou'd in this World below. At last his knowledge to improve, Is gone unto the World above. Where his knowledge is so much; And his Happiness is such, Twou'd Envy and not sorrow seem, In those too much shou'd grieve for him.

On Pen careless.

SLighted by all, Pen said; she did not care For others more, than others did for her, If so she's happy, for I do not see Any one lives more free from Care, than she.

On married Ministers.

IF both it'h Spiritual and Temporal warr, Your Wives but Baggages oth' Armies are, We well may say, your Ministers who marry, Whilst others fight, do with the Baggage tarry.

The Author of a Good Play not Acted, to the Author of an Ill one Acted.

THeir wit and Judgment's small, we well may say, By the acting or not acting, judge the Play, For tis not the act〈…〉〈…〉ightly understood But writing makes the Play or bad or Good; If Good, like mine, it is the Actors fault, And not the Writers, if they act it not, But if't be bad, like thine, then if they do, 'Tis both the Actors and the Writers too.

To Mis: Davies, on her Excellent dancing.

DEar Mis: delight of all the nobler sort; Pride of the Stage and darling of the Court, Who wou'd not think to see thee dance so light, Thou wer't all air? or else all soul and spirit? Or who'd not say to see thee only tread, Thy feet were feathers! others feet but lead? Athlanta well cou'd run, and Hermes flee, But none er'e mov'd more Gracefully, than thee; And Circes charm'd with wand and Magick lore, But none, like thee, er'e charm'd with Feet before. Thou Miracle! whom all men must admire To see thee move like air, and mount like fire.

Who er'e wou'd follow thee or come but nigh To thy perfection, must not dance but fly.

AEnigma. On the Name of a fair Lady.

HEr first name somwhat of Elizium has, Her second is (in a more mistick phrase) That colour which shews venerable Age, And does it'h morning a fair day presage; Unriddle now and tell whose name this is, Or forfeit a discretion, if you miss.

On Mrs. A. C. blushing when the King look'd on her.

SO Roses blush when lookt on by the Sun, As Cicilanna when the King looks on, And so of all fair Things, we nothing see More fair in Nature, than the Rose and she. If things take name from their Original, We well her blushes Royal ones may call; And if tha've lost the Royal purples stain, It in her cheeks may well be found again, Mean Time as Excellent matter best does fit An excellent Artisan to work on it, The King cou'd ne're have found a fitter place To look upon, than Cicilanna's face.

The dedication of his Book of Characters to his Majesty.

VOuchsafe Great Sire on these to cast your sight, Made chiefly for your Majesty's delight, By one ha's cast off all Ambition But pleasing and delighting you alone. Counting it, highest honour can befall To delight him, who's the delight of all.

On Madam Master.

OF Madam it may well be sed, That Madam ha's but little wit, Since Madam's Husband is her head, And Madam makes a Fool of it.

On Doctor Cornuto.

WHo so famous was of late, He was with finger pointed at, What cannot learning do and single state? Being married, he so famous grew As he was pointed at with two, What cannot learning and a wife now do?

To Clarissa.

ANd why Clarissa so much pains and care To gain repute of beautiful and fair? When without all this Care and all this pain, You have already what you strive to gain: Beauty and Truth need so small setting forth As all you add to't, takes but from its worth, And the Sun and you need far more Art to hide Your Glittering beams, than make them more e∣spy'd. All other Arts in you wou'd shew as poor As his shou'd seek to gil'd Gold Ingots or'e, And you'd appear, as vain in it, as they Shou'd go about to Blanch the milky way. No, no, you'r fair enough, leave unto those These petty Arts, whose Beauty's chiefly cloaths, So Politicks when th' Lyon's skin does fail, Do use to piece it with the Foxes Tail, But when th'ave Lyons skin enough, tis poor And beggarly, to add a piece to't mote

On those who sell their Liberty for a little Gain.

WHilst those for wealth do sell their Liber∣ty, Cal't Angling for the Golden Fish, for me, Loving my Liberty as I do, I look Upon't, as fishing with a Goldenhook.

To the truly Noble Lord.

EVen such a person, such a mind, as thine Brave Heroe, Emperours had in antient time, When choosing men for Empire only fit, The bravest mind and person carryed it. And now, although the Times be changed, we see, They make their Favourites still of such, as thee, Whom for their noble persons and their mind, They best and fittest for Imployment find. So howsoe're the World goes, thou at least Shalt always be the best, or nigh the best.

The Lives of the Patrons.

FIrst of all they never care Nor for Clock nor Calendar, Next they ne're desire to know How affairs ot'h World do go. Above all, they ne're resort To the busie Hall nor Court, Where poor men do nothing else But trouble others and themselves. All the business they look after, Only is their sport and Laughter, With a friend, and cheerful cup Merrily to dine and sup, Hear good Musick, see a Play, Thus they pass the Time away.

Of an Epicure.

HE's one, of nothing else does think, But only of Good cheer and drink, And never is in better mood Than when you talk of drink and food. Who for his palat and his gust Ha's quite forgot all other lust, And huggs a bottle, as he wou'd a Mistress, when the Wine is good. Who layes about him like a Gyant When he meets a morsel fryand. And so long does cram his Gut He's nothing else from head to foot▪ When you such an one do see For many a year ne're saw his knee, And now scarce sees at all, be sure That such an one's an Epicure.

On the Play, of she wou'd, if she cou'd, To the Duke of N.

TO tell you what I think of Etridg Play Since you command this, I will only say, Th'as sparks of wit, as much as you'd desire, But sparks alone, as far from solid fire. In former dayes none ever went away But with a glowing bosom from a Play,

VVith somwhat they had heard or seen, so fir'd You'd think they were Celestially inspir'd. ••ow you have only a few light conceits ••ike squibs and crackers, neither warms nor heats, But cause at best a little gigling laughter VVhich quickly past, makes you but colder after. ••o hard tis now for any one to write VVith Iohnson's fire, or Fletcher's flame and spirit. Much less Inimitable Shakspear's way Promethean-like to animate a Play.

On our late Prolouge and Epilouge.

AS Horse-coursers their Horses set to sale With Ribands on their foreheads and their tail, So most ot'h Poets wit lyes now a days It'h Prolouge and the Epilouge of their Plays.

On the Poetess.

TWas wonder knowing the Poet they shou'd press, And run so far to see his Poetess, But 'twas no wonder seeing it, at last They prest and ran away from it, as fast.

Epitaph on the same.

UNder this Stage together with Queen Bess, Deeply intomb'd here lies the Poetess,

Tis fit such Plays for obsequies shou'd have Actors for Mourners, and the Stage for Grave.

Question On a Lady's letting Bloud.

OF this just mixture and equalitie Of water and bloud what shou'd the Reason be? The Reasons clear, forced to part with her Each drop of bloud for grief did shed a Tear.

On the Lady Rockingham's Nursing her Children her self.

HOw like to Charity this Lady stands With one Child sucking, t'other in her hands VVhilst bounteous Nature Mother of us all, Of her fair Breasts is not more Liberal. Those Parents, but half Mothers are at best Who whilst they give their wombs, deny their breast And none true Mothers are, but such as you Who when th'ave brought them forth, do Nurse them too. Mirrour of Mothers! In whom all may see By what you are, what they themselves shou'd be, Ready, like Pelicans for Childrens good, To give their very lives and vital bloud. And if that milk be only bloud turn'd white You shew your self great Strafford's daughter right,

Both alike ready for the Kingdom's good, You for to give your milk, as he his bloud.

On Simple.

SImple kept much ado, and much offence He took for saying, he scarce had common sense, Till saying, he had, and very Common too, He was well pleas'd, and made no more ado.

In Execration of small Beer.

NOw pox and plague to boot on this same small- Beer, we may well the Devils Julip call, distil'd i'th Limbeck of some Lap-land witch With North winds bellows blowing in her breech, Or stale of some old Hagg ot'h Marshes, who Than water never better Liquor knew. A penitential drink for none by right But those it'h' morning who were drunk or'e night. Sure 'twas the poison, (as we well may think) They gave Condemned Socrates to drink, Or that the Macedonian drunk, so cold As nothing but an Asses hoof cou'd hold. They were deceiv'd it was not Niobe's moan, But drinking small-beer turn'd her unto stone. And that which since Infallibly ha's made Our Charity so cold, and the world so bad.

If then Divines wou'd mend it, let them preach Gainst small-beer only, and no Doctrine teach But drinking wine, and then we soon should see All in Religion easily wou'd agree. This were a study worthy of the pains Of breaking both their own and others brains, This were a Doctrine worthy of their heat, And furious beating the pulpit, till they sweat.

In the Small pox.

THou greatest Enemy that Beauty ha's, The very Goth and Vandal of a face, On which thou mak'st as bad or worser work Than does thy fellow Meazels upon Pork, What Execration can be enough For one like thee is long since all curse-proof? For shou'd we bid the Plague on thee, that curse Thou Anticipas't already, for tha'rt worse, Or great Pox on thee, we shou'd Curse, but ill, Since thou'rt more great in being the small Pox sti•••• Be still thy self then, but for ever be Banisht all fair and gentle Company To live with Beasts, as Horses, Doggs and Swin•• Or Divel's, old Companions of thine.

To Sir K. D. Recommending a Memorial to him in Italy, during our Troubles here.

I Must beg of you, Sir, nay, what is more, Tis a Disease so Infectious to be poor, Must beg, you'd beg for me, which whilst I do, What is't but even to make you beggar too? But povety being as honourable now As 'twas when Cincinnatus held the plough, Senators sow'd and reapt, and who had been In Car of Triumph, fetcht the Harvest in. Whilst mightiest Peers do want, nay, what is worse Even greatest Princes live on others purse, And very Kings themselves are Beggars made No shame for any, Sir, to be ot'h' Trade.

On the Riches of the Barbados to Col. Henry Drax.

HOw rich Barbados is, and how much worth, We well may see by Sugars, it brings forth, Of all the rest, the Richest Merchandize. And if by th' patern, we may judge ot'h' piece, How Rich it is in men, we well may see By bringing forth brave Drax such men as thee.

Of the difference of Travellers.

AS Bees and Spiders by their different powe•• Suck Hony and poison from the self-same flowe•• So there no less a difference doth appear Betwixt the wise and foolish Traveller, VVhilst t'one makes wise Election of the best Of every thing he sees, and leavs the rest: T'other as foolishly does only choose The worst of things, and better still refuse, T'one brings their Vertues home, t'other agen Their Vices, only brings along with him.

On a Hector, beaten and dragg'd through the Streets by the Watch and Constable.

STill to be dragg'd! still to be beaten thus! Hector, thy name (I fear) is ominous, And thou for fighting didst but ill provide, To take thy name thus from the beaten side. To have every watch like Band of Mirmidons, Beat thee with Halberts down, and break thy bone•• And every petty Constable thou meets Achylles-like to drag thee through the streets. Poor Hector, when thou'rt beaten blind and lam•• I hope thou'lt learn to take another name.

Somwhat to Mr. I. A. On his Excellent Poem of Nothing.

OF nothing, nothing's made they say, but show By what tha'st writ, disprov'st that saying now, And prov'st thy self maker of Poems right, Can'st out of Nothing bring such ones to light, VVhich I (as Creatures, him who does create) Only on somwhat dully imitate. Mean time at least say all they can agin it, I hope they needs must say there's somwhat in it. Or granting it, as good as Nothing be The greater honour still, for it and me.

A Rural Dialogue.

Cho.

ONce a Nimph and Shepherd meeting, Never past there such a Greeting, Nor was heard 'twixt such a pair Plainer dealing, than was there. He scorns VVomen, and she men, He slights her, she him agen. VVords with words wer'e overthwarted Thus they meet, and greet, and parted.

Shep.

He who never takes a VVife, Lives a most Contented Life.

Nim.

She, her whole Contentment looses VVho a Husband ever chooses.

Shep.

I of VVomen know too much, Er'e to care for any such.

Nim.

I of men too much do know To care where er'e you do or no.

Shep.

Since y'are so resolv'd, farewell, Look, you lead not Apes in Hell.

Nim.

Better lead Apes thither, than Thither to be led by men.

Shep.

Be rul'd, and do, but as they bid you. They to Paradise wou'd lead you,

Nim.

To Fools Paradise; tis true, VVou'd they, but be rul'd by you.

Cho.

Thus they parted as they met, Hard to say, who best did get, Or of Love was least afraid, VVhen being parted, either said

Ambo.

Love, what Fools, thou mak'st of men, When th'are in thy power! but when From thy power they once are free, Love, what a Fool men make of thee!

To story, of the meeting of Love and Death.

LOve and Death ot'h' way once meeting, Having past a friendly greeting, Sleep their weary Eye-lids closing, Lay them down themselves reposing.

Love whom divers cares molested, Cou'd not sleep, but whilst Death rested, All in hast away he posts him, But his haste full dearly costs him. For it chanc'd that going to sleeping, They had given their Darts in keeping, Unto Night, who Error's Mother Blindly knowing, not t'one from t'other. Gave Love, Death's and ne're perceiv'd it, VVhilst as blindly Love receiv'd it. Since which Time their Darts confounding: Love now kills instead of wounding. Death our hearts with sweetness filling, Gently wounds instead of killing.

Epithalamium, Or a Nuptial Song for the marriage of the Lord Brackley with the Lady Eliza∣beth Cranfield.

THe fairest Flower of Cranfield's race, And noblest branch of Egerton, Accompanied with every Grace, By Hymen now are joyn'd in one.

Go happy youth, and tast a bed The pleasures fair Eliza. yields, By far surpassing all that's sed Ot'h pleasures of the Elizian fields.

And fair Eliza. be'nt afraid O'th' bug-bears of a married life, Those Fears which haunt you now a Maid, VVill vanish soon, when y'are a VVife.

And when y'are once a Mother grown, Such Joy they in their place shall leave, Can ne're be exprost by human Tongue, Nor human heart can e're conceive!

To George Duke of Albermarle.

IF others have their honours well deserv'd, Who nobly have their King and Country serv'd▪ None ever yet deserv'd them more, than you, Who have not only serv'd, but sav'd them too.

In Recommending the Acting of a Play out of the French, unto his Majesty.

Most Royal Sir,

THis Play wo'nt Court the Actors, and much less To any others humbly make address. 'Twas made for you, and has the Ambition To owe its Acting unto you alone. All other Courtship and address is poor, Tis pure Moliere, I need to say no more.

Prologue. For the Revival of his Damoiselles, a-la-mode.

THis Play of ours just like some Vest or Jupe, Worn twice or thrice, was carefully laid up, And after a little while it so had lain, Is now brought forth, as good as new again. For having the Honour of our Master's sight, And happiness of giving him delight. Our Author thought his business was done, But great part of our business is to come. He only looks after the pleasure of it, But we must look as well, unto our profit. He car'd but for an Audience or two, But if we cou'd, wee'd every day have new. And to conclude, he had his end agen, In pleasing those, who only saw it then, But we must please you now, or wee'd be sorry, Since only for that end w'ave kept it for ye.

On Sir Critick.

WHilst thou on every one so fast dost spend Thy Judgment as twou'd never have an end, Prithee take heed thou spend it not so fast, To leave thy self no Judgment at the last.

On the same.

TIs but a Cruel sport for men to go To th' Theater, as to Bear-bayting they do,

And Bandog-like to fall upon the Play, Worry the Poet, and then go away, As they some great and mighty Act had done, When every day, Dogs do as great an one.

On the Play of Periocles Prince of Tyre.

ARs longa, vita brevis, as they say, But who Inverst that saying, made this Play.

On the Dutchess of Newcastles Closet.

VVHat place is this! looks like some sa∣cred Cell, Where holy Hermits antiently did dwell. And never left Importunating Heaven, Till some great Blessing unto Earth was given? Is this a Lady's Closet, it can't be? For nothing here of vanity we see, Nothing of Curiosity, or pride As most of Lady's Closets have beside. Scarcely a Glass or Mirrour in't you find, Excepting Books, the Mirrours of the mind. Nor is't a Library, but only as she Makes each place where she comes, a Library. Here she's in Rapture, here in Extasie, With studying high and deep Philosophy. Here those cleer lights descend into her mind, Which by reflexion in her Books we find.

And those high Notions and Idea's too, Which, but her self, no Woman ever knew. Whence she's her Sex's Ornament, and Grace, And Glory of her Time, hail Sacred place! To which the World in after-Times shall come, As unto Homer's shrine, or Virgil's Tomb, Honouring the Walls, in which she made abode, The air she breath'd, and ground on which she trod. So Fame rewards the Arts, and so agen The Arts reward all those who honour them, Whilst who in any other hopes do trust, Shall after Death lye in forgotten dust.

To Mr. Henry Jermin on occasion of some demanding, why he had no higher Titles.

STill Noble, Gallant, Generous and brave! What more of Titles wou'd these people have? Or what can they imagine more to express How great thou art, that wou'd not make thee less? He, who is proud of other Titles, is Proud of a thing, that's Fortun's, none of his, A thing, that's but the Title-page ot'h Book, On which your Ignorant Vulgar only look, Or garnishment of dishes, not to eat, But only▪better to set off the meat. Thou envy'st none their honours, but woud'st be Sorry they shou'd deserve them more, than thee. And 'twere in thee, but vain Ambition, To seek by other Titles to be known.

When Harry Iermin's name alone affords As great and loud a sound as any Lords. Be still Thy self then, and let others be High as they list in place, what's that to thee? Their worth's without, but Thine is all within, And man tis fills the place, but worth fills him. The Title of a worthy person's more Than all the rest the World does so adore. And there's no Office we may greater call, Than doing of Good offices to all. This is Thy Office, these Thy Titles are, Let who'se will take the rest, thou dost not care.

In one who standered a fair and vertuous Lady.

THou Enemy of all that's fair and bright, As fowls of darkness are unto the Light. Monster of Monsters! Basilick of spite, Who kill'st with Tongue, as t'other does with sight. Slanderer of Ladies, and of them the best, Th'ast done an Art which all men must detest. Beauty's a thing Divine, and he that wou'd Wrong that, wou'd wrong Divinity, if he cou'd. Whence th'art not only highly injurious, But impious too, in slandring of her thus. Who takes our wealth, does but as Robbers do, Who takes our Farms, robbs us and kills us too. And's worse, than he who does another slay, He takes but Life, thou life of life away.

The Soul of honour, and with poisnous breath, Woud'st if thou coud'st, even kill them after death. But I mistake, it is no infamy To be calumniated by such as thee. Thou rather praisest her against thy will, As he who cur'd by chance, whom he wou'd kill. For 'tis the same thing, rightly understood, To be disprais'd by th' bad, as prais'd by th' good.

On Mistress Stuart.

STuart, a Royal name that springs From Race of Calidonian Kings. Whose Vertuous mind and Beauteous Frame, Adds honour to that Royal name. What praises can I worthy find, To celebtate thy Form and mind? The greatest power that is on earth, Is given to Princes by their Birth. But there's no power in Earth nor Heaven, More great, than what's to Beauty given. Thât makes not only men relent, When unto Rage and Fury bent, But Lyons tame, and Tygers mild, All fierceness from their breasts exil'd. Such wonders yet cou'd ne're be done By beauties force and power alone, Without the power and force to boot, O•• excellent goodness added to't.

For just, as Jewels we behold, More brightly shine, when set in Gold, So Beauty shines far brighter yet In Goodness, and in Vertue set. Continue then but what you are, So Excellently Good, and Fair, Let Princes by their birth-rights sway, You'l have a power, as great as they.

On Mistress Stuarts dancing in Whitehall, all shining with Iewels.

SO Citherea in th' Olympick Hall, And rest oth' Starrs dance their Celestial Ball, As Stuart with the rest ot'h Nimphs does here, The brightest Glories of the British sphere. Who wou'd not think her Heaven, to see her, thus All shine with Starry Jewels as she does? Or somwhat more than Heaven, to see her Eyes Out-shine the Starry Jewels of the Skies? Only their splendor's so exceeding bright, Th' Excess confounds and blinds us with the sight, Just as the Sun, who's bright to that degree, Nothing is more, nothing less seen, than he. Mean time the rapid motion of the Sphears, Is not so sweet and ravishing, as hers, Nor is't the Harmony makes her dance, but she In dancing, 'tis that makes the Harmony. Next to divinest Cinthia, Queen of Light, Never was seen a Nimph more fair and bright.

Nor ever shall mongst all her Starry Train Though those in Heaven shou'd all come down again.

On Mistress Stuarts Marriage with the Duke of Richmond.

THe brightest Nimph of all Diana's Train, For whom so many sigh'd, and sigh'd in vain, She who so oft had others Captive made And who so oft or'e others triumph'd had. Is Venus Captive now her self, and led In Triumph to the Noble Richmond's bed. Nor is it strange to see about her fly As many Cupids as are Starrs i'th' Sky, As many Graces as are Sands i'th' Sea, Nor yet as many Venus's as they; But to behold so many Vertues throng About a Nimph so Beautiful and young, Is strange indeed to admiration! And Joy and Gladness too of every one. But now whilst so much Joy and Gladness is, To see how mighty Iove does frown at this, Is stranger yet! and does too clearly prove, Th'are neer to-Thunder, who are neer to Iove. Oh may he think amongst his milder thoughts, How God-like ▪tis to pardon Mortals faults, And how of all the rest, the faults of Love Least move the Anger of the Gods above.

Of Friends and Foes.

JUst as a Friend and Foe shou'd go about To paint Antigonus, whose one Eye was out. Which at half Face, either to shew or hide, T'one turns his blind, t'other his better side. So betwixt Friends and Foes men are exprest, By halfs set forth, whilst they conceal the rest.

No man's so bad, as Foes depaint him wou'd, No man, as Friends wou'd make him, half so good.

To Lilly drawing the Countess of Castle∣mains Picture.

STay daring man, and ne'r presume to draw Her Picture, till thou maist such colours get, As Xerxes and Apelles never saw, Nor er'e were known by any Painter yet.

Till from all Beauties thou extract'st the Grace. And from the Sun, the Beams, that gil'd the Skies, Never presume to draw her beauteous face, Nor paint the Radiant brightness of her Eyes.

In vain the whilst thou dost the labour take, Since none can set her forth to her desert; She who's above all, nature er'e did make, much more's above all, can be made by Art.

Yet been't discourag'd, since who er'e does see't, At least with Admiration must confess It has an air for charming and for sweet, Much more, than others though than her's much less.

So those bold Gyants, who wou'd scale the Sky, Although they in their high attempt did fall, This comfort had they, mounted yet more high Than those who never strove to climb at all.

Comfort thee then, and think it no disgrace, From that great height a little to decline, Since all must grant the Reason of it was Her too great Excellence, and no want of Thine.

On a fair and vertuous Lady's embracing a Religious Life.

A Gentle Shepherdess as er'e did tread Upon the Plains, whereon her flocks were fed, Inspir'd by him who all good thoughts inspires, Felt in her breast, till then unfelt desires, To tast Heavens pleasures, since the Earth had none, A Soul in longing, long cou'd feed upon. But changing one, aweary of the first, She found the latter pleasure still, the worst. And so went still deluded in her mind, Seeking for that which she cou'd never find. This Infant thought with pious care she fed, And with Religious Education bred.

Giving it now an aspiration, Or wish for that blest Life to feed upon, And now a sigh, and now a Tear agen, Never to have known that blessedness, till then. Avoiding carefully those Rocks and Shelves, On which so many Souls had wrackt themselves, Those two extremes on which so many fall, To undertake too much, or nought at all, For 'tis with new-born Children of desire, As 'tis with sparks you kindle unto fire, Starv'd with too little fuel 'twill not light, Opprest with too much, 'tis extinguisht quite, And now she's all a fire, happiness be Fair Virgin to thy blest desires, and thee, So full, so high, so great a happiness, As nothing can be more that is not less, Nothing beyond, but down the Hill again, And all Addition rather loss than gain. By glad Experience maist thou find all store Of hearts contentment thou expect'st, and more, And learn that Magick of Religion there, Makes every thing quite contrary appear, To you than unto us, Rich poverty Triumphant sufferance, brave Humility. Soft hardness, hardness difficulties slight, Sweet bitterness, and heaviest burthens light. Ease in your labour, pleasure in your pain, A Heaven on Earth, and all things else but vain.