Epigrams of all sorts, made at divers times on several occasions by Richard Flecknoe.

On the Dutchess of Newcastles Closset.

WHat place is this? looks like some sacred Cell Where ancient Hermits formerly did dwell! And never ceast importunating Heaven, Till some great blessing unto Earth was given? Is this a Ladies Closset? 't cannot be, For nothing here of vanity we see, Nothing of curiosity, nor pride, As most of Ladies Clossets have beside. Scarcely a Glass, or Mirror in't you finde, Excepting Books the Mirrors of the minde. Nor is't a Library, but onely as she Makes each place where she comes a Library. Here she's in rapture, herein extasie, With studying high, and deep Philosophy: Here those cleer lights descend into her minde, Which by reflection in her Books you finde:

And those high Notions, and Idea's too, Which but her self, no Ladies ever knew. Whence she's the chiefest Ornament and Grace O'th' times, and of her Sex. Hayle sacred place, To which the world in after-times shall come As unto Homers Shrine, or Virgils Tomb; Honouring the Walls wherein she made aboad, The air she breath'd, & ground whereon she trod. So Fame rewards the Arts, and so agen The Arts reward all those who honour them; Whilst those in any other things do trust, Shall after death lye in forgotten dust.