Wit restor'd in several select poems not formerly publish't.

WIT RESTOR'D.

Mr. Smith, to Captain Mennis then commanding a Troop of Horse in the North, against the Scots.

WHy what (a good year) means my Iohn? So staunch a Muse as thine ner'e won The Grecian prize; how did she earne? The bayes she brought from Epsom Fearne? There teem'd she freely as the hipps, The Hermit kist with trembling lipps. And can she be thus costive now While things are carried (heaven knowes how) While Church and State with fury parch, Or zeal as mad as hare in March? While birds of Amsterdam do flutter And stick as close as bread and butter: As straw to Jett, or burre to squall, Or something else unto a wall. Can such a dreadfull tempest be, And yet not shake the North and thee? Where is thy sense, of publike feares? Wil't sit unmov'd as Roman Peeres,

Till some bold Gaule pluck thee by th'beard, Thou and thy Muse (I think) are sear'd, As I have heard Divines to tell The conscience is that's mark't for hell. Ah Noble friend, this rough, harsh way May pinch where I intended play. But blame me not, the present times So serious are, that even my Rymes In the same hurry rapt, are so, Indeed whether I will or no. And otherwise my Numbers flie Than meant, in spight of Drollerie: Tis good to end when words do nipp And thus out of their harnesse slipp. Besides, the thing which men mispend Call'd Time, as precious is as friend, Tak't not unkindly, I professe None loves you better then I. S. From London where the snow hath bin As white as milke, and high as shin From Viscount Conwaies house in street Of woman Royall, where we meet: The day too cold for wine and Burrage The fourth precedent to Plum-porrage December moneth, and yeare of grace Sixteene hundred and forty to an Ace.

To friend of mine, Captaine Iohn Mennis At town of York that now and then is, Or if you misse him there, go look In company of Hunkes Sir Fook;

They two perhaps may have a pull At Selbie, Beverley, or Hull, Or else you'l finde him at his quarter, Send it, and let him Pay the Porter.

The same, To the same.

MY doubtie Squire of Kentissh crew that ha'st read stories old and new prick up thine eares unto a tale that will un-nerve and make thee stale: When thou shalt heare how manie pears, The parliament hath had by th' eares. Comming as close as shirt of Nessus, To privie Councellors (god blesse us) The Judges they are deep in bond, And fart for fear they shall bee Connd, The Ren of Elte, and the prelate Of Bath and Wells have had a pellat And they have plac't (his grace's) cod Under the lash of Maxwoll's rod, But I am told the Finch is warie And fled after the Secretarie, And all this is, that men may see Others can runne as well as wee. I hitherto have told, dear Captain, Of prisons that our peeres are clapt in:

And all I wrote was like a groane Sadd as the melanchollie droane. Of Countrie baggpipe, now I sing Matter as chearfull as the spring, Of wine (deare freind) will make us wanton Better nere drunck by Iohn of Gaunt, one That at third glasse did mount his Launce And gott a boy whose sonne got Fraunce: Besides, the reckoning will bee more (Humble I meane) then heretofore; For now the Alderman hight Abell Has given his parchment up with labell, To no more purpose is his pattent Then that the fool had shitt and sate in't: Now may wee freely laugh, and drink, And overcharg'd goe pisse i'th sinck Then too't again, beginne a health Of twelve goe-downes to th'Com-monwealth Then mount a stall, and sleep, and when Wee rise againe bee nere th' worse men: This fitt's my freindshipp, but not mee, I must bee sober as the Bee That often sippes, yet doth not stray But to his owne hive findes the way, Soe shalt thou not blush to acknowledge Him that was once of Lincolne-Colledge, But now of Bromely Hall neere Bow Look, and you'l find his name below.

I. Smith.

From spatious lodgings of Lord mine In street of female majesty, past nine; The day whereon wee whett our knives As men to eat even for their lives. He that ha's none tis time to borrow, For Christmas day is ee'ne to morrow.

The same, to the same.

MY note which cost thee pennies Sixe (It seeme's) still in thy stomack stick's O had'st thou but beheld how willing I was for thine to pay a shilling (For footeman forth the money layd Which must with int'rest bee defrayd) Hereafter thou wouldst not bee nice For everie note to part with sice. Thy journey to the foe with Coyne Would madded have a saint or twayne, So sillie Bee with wearie thighes Home to her master's storehouse hie's; Whence (her rich fraught unladed) shee Againe returne's an emptie Bee. I joy to heare thou raign'st in place Of the defunct Arch bishop's grace, For thou (I doubt not) wilt bee grea'st: By freind for prebendry ith' fist: Mee thinkes I fancie prester Iames In Cope envellop't without seames.

With silke and golde embroydred ore, And brestplat like a belt before: As Pedler ha's to bear his pack, Or Creeple with a childe at's back. Else when my Bettie dropp's away (That fourteen yeares hath been my Toy) Some one Il'e marrie that's thy Neece And Livings have with Bellie-peece, This some call Symonie oth'smock, Or Codpeece, that's against the Nock. The health you meant mee in the Quart I have, and partly thanke you for't, But yet I muse (as well I may) At pot so funish't, without pay, For at that time wee were told here You all were sixe weeks in arreare; Ha'st thou made merchandise, of Crop? Or solde some landes, lef't out oth' mapp? Or ha'st thou nimm'd from saddle bow A pistoll through thy troope, or so? Leaveing halfe-naked horses Crest Like Amazon with but one brest; Well, lett it goe: I thinke this geare Fitt to bee scann'd, but not too neare However, sure I should finde Iohn Thriftie, but yet an honest man, Yet tak heed in these pinching times And age so catching after crimes, It bee not given out how you quaf't Sugar, and eggs, in morning's draught;

I grudge thee not; for if I met Vulpone's potion, or could get Nectar, or else dissolv'd to dew Th'Elixir, which the gods n'ere knew: 'Twere thine, yea I would save the dropps For thee that fell besides thy chopps: But yet the needy state (I feare) May think much of thy costly cheare; The best is, if they barre thy maw From sodden drink, thou't have it raw: And reason good, the heavens defend, That thou should'st want, and I thy friend.

I. S.

From house of Viscount Conway, where Kenelme hath food, and Down's Count Lare, December moneth, day of St. Iohn That 'mongst th' Evangelists made one, Forty, (besides the sixteen hundred) We count yeares past since Fiend was foun∣dred, And this Bissextile, that, sans pumps, Frisk's, and is call'd the yeare that Jum'ps.

The same, to the same.

I must call from between thy thighs] Thy urine back into thine eyes, And make thee when my tale thou hear'st Channell thy cheekes with Launt rever'st; Thy Landladie that made thee broth When drugge made orifice to froath, That every fortnight shifted sheet To keep thy nest, and bodie sweet; That heard thee knock at peepe of day When boy snor'de that on pallat lay; Rose in her smock, and gave thee counsell To lift thy foot for feare of groundsell, That often warnd thee of the quart And praid (in vain) to turn thy heart, This Landladie in grave is pent Now shedd thy moysture, man of Kent: Two rings shee left, for thee tone, to' ther For Andrew that does call thee brother, This dries thy teares that were a brewing; Now li'st to newes of State ensuing. Iudge Littleton is made Lord Keeper. And feeds on chick and pigeon peeper, The kings Attourney Sr Iohn Bancks Succeds him, but may spare his thankes. Herbert is thought the meetest man To fill the place of Bancks Sr Iohn, London-Recorder thence doth jogge, In Herberts roome to trudge, and fogg:

And St Iohns one that's sharp and wittie Is made winde-instrument o'th'Citty. Thus tis in towne; but in the Camp There's one preferrd will make thee stamp, For Sr Iohn Berkly's Sergeant Maior To Willmott, let it not bread Jarre, Nor can the Viscount whom Iohn putts In trust, prevent it for his gutts More shalt thou know when tis more fitt, When thou and I in Tavern fitt; Till when, and ever, heaven thee send The wishes of thy constant freind,

I. S.

In street of Coleman from swanne Ally Where while I stay in towne, I shall lye In house of Mistresse Street, relict Of Robert, whom for mate shee pickt: And where, with eeles, and flounders fryde, And tongve of Neat that never lyed I filld my paunch, but when I belsh, It utter's language worse than welsh. Ianus the moneth that holdes us tack, One, with a face be hinde his back: Full sixteene hundred yeares wee score And fiftie, (bateing six, and fowr) And this leape-yeare wee count to bee, A yeare that come's but once in three.

The same, to the same.

THy wants wherewith thou long hast tug'd And been as sad as Bear that's lug'd, Thou'lt laugh at, when thou hear'st how odly Thy fellowes shift in Town ungodly. Commodities we took on trust, And promis'd Tradesmen payment just, To be return'd from Northern part, When treasure hence arriv'd in Cart. And, but till now of late, they crep From stair to stair, with trembling step; So modest, that they blush'd to name, For what they to our Chambers came. Impatient now, both young and old, Assault my fort with knuckle bold. And as in bed perplex'd I lie, I hear one say, The Cart's gone by. With that they all attempt my dore, With pulse more daring then before; And of their parcells make a •…•…inne Louder, then when they drew me in. Rouz'd with this rudenesse, first, I chop Upon some foreman of the shop; Take him by 'th'hand aside, and there I tell him wonders in his ear. So by degrees I send them jogging, Suppled with Ale, and language cogging. But newes of this makes Scrivener wary, And eight i'th hundred Don look awry

That we do stoop to sums as small, As children venture at Cock-all. And lives we lead, (I cry heaven mercy) Worse then a Troop that has the Farfie, While man that keeps the Ordinary, Will not believe, nor Landlord tarry. O happy Captain, that may'st houze In Quarter free, and uncheckt brouze On teeming hedge, when purse is light, Or on the wholsom Sallat bite: While we have nought, when mony fails, To bite upon, but our own nails; And they so short with often tewing, There's not much left to hold us chewing; Or if there were, 'twould onely whet Stomack, for what it could not get, And make more keen the appetite, Like tyring-bitt for Faulkner's Kyte. To mend my commons, clad in jerkin, On Friday last I rode to Berkin, Where lowring heavens with welcom saucst us As when the Fiends were sent for Faustus; Such claps of thunder, and such rain, That Poets will not stick to feign, The gods with too much Nectar sped, Their truckles drew, and piss'd a bed, And that they belsh'd from stomack musty Vapour, that made the weather gusty. Well, 'tis a sad condition, where A man must fast, or feed in fear.

I lately thee from North did call, Now stay, or else bring wherewithall, Unlesse thy credit here prove better, Than does thy friend's, that wrote this Lett•…•…

I. S.

Day tenth thrice told, the morning fair, The month still with a face to spare.

The same, to the same.

NO sooner I from supper rose, But Letter came, though not in prose, Which tells of fight, and Duell famous, Perform'd between a man and a mouse. An English Captain, and a Scot, The one disarm'd, the other not. It speaks moreover of some stirring, To make a Cov'nant new as Herring. Carr, and Mountrosse, and eke Argile: Well was that Nation term'd a Boyl, In breach of England, that doth stick, And vex the body Politick. But (whatsoe're be the pretence) Doubtlesse they strive about the pence; While English Trooper, like a Gull, Serves but to hold the Cow to th'Bull. Pray tell me, Iohn, did it not nettle Thee, and thy Myrmidons of Mettle,

To see the boy with country-lash, Drive on the jades that drew the cash? And by thy needy quarters go, Asking the way to Camp of fo? So Tantalus with hungry maw, And thirsty gullet, daily saw Water and fruit swim by his chaps, While he in vain at either snaps. Or else as Phoebus, when full fraught, And tipled with his mornings draught, Reels like a drunken Jackanapes, With bladder tight, o're soyl that gapes: And afterwards in corner odd, Perhaps lesse thirsty, empties codd. So fares it with my friends, (god wot) Whom treasure skips t'enrich the Scot. Leave then that wretched Climate, where Thy wants have rid thee like the Mare; And haste to Town, where thou shalt find Thy friend, that now hath newly din'd.

I. S.

•…•…ay twenty sixt, and when Iohn saies, •…•…aces about, the Month obays.

The same, to the same.

WHy how now friend, why com'st no•…•… hither? Hast thou not leave as light as feather? Here have I mark't a Butt of Sack Whose maiden-head shall welcome Iack, 'Against which when drawer advanc'd gimlet I suffer'd him not, but did him let. And yet thou comm'st not; Why dost pause And there continue, keeping Dawes? Does Hostesse stay thy steed perforce, For that which was not fault of Horse? Thou haste command of more then one, For I have seen at tail of Iohn, Full Palfreys sixty in array, (I mean upon the Muster-day) Or art thou entertain'd to give Physick to one, that else might live, Some aged Sir, whose wife is bent To change him for a Cock of Kent. Well, be it what it will, I'le swear, There's something in't, that thou stay'st there Howe're, let businesse, wine, or friendship, Draw thee from out that Northern endship. If none of those provoke thy straddle, Take pitty on my riming noddle, That restlesse runs with numbers fierce, And's troubled with a flux of verse.

On that condition I'le relate, Once more to Captain, newes of State: Judge Bartlet sitting on his stall, In Westminster, with's back to the wall, Was there surpriz'd, and grip'd by th'wrist By Maxwell, with his clouter fist; Who truss'd the Judge, and bore him hot, To the Sheriff's house, but plum'd him not; For there he set him down i'th Hall, And left him to them, robes and all. As when a pack of eager Hounds, Hunting full cry along the grounds, Take o're some common moor, that's fraught With old cast Jades, and good for nought: Who, conscious of their fates, do hale up Their thin short tails, and try to gallop, Get out o'th way for life and limme, Each fearing they are come for him. So far'd the Judges, such fears wrung'em, When Maxwell spent his mouth among 'em. Then come away, man, places stoop, Yet thou remainst in fortune's poop. If thou wert set to ride the Circuit, In Bartlet's room, how thou wouldst firk it. The art is, to forget acquaintance, And break a jest in giving Sentence, Which thou wilt learn, and then be quick With Sherif's, and thou hast the trick. These lessons con, and keep in store, From S that hath an I before.

From Bromely, where I ghuess by th' Mill-Dike That tis the Moneth sirnamed Fill-Dike Which govern's now, and I beleeve The day is Tom of Straffords Eve, Full sixteen hundred yeares (I hold) And fifty (bating five twice told) Expired are since yeare of grace I'th Almanack first shew'd his face: Or (which is nearer to our trade) Twelve score and two, since Guns were made.

The Gallants of the Times.

Supposed to be made by Mr. William Mur∣rey of His Majesties Bed-chamber.

COme hither the maddest of all the Land, The Bear at the Bridge-foot this day must be baited Gallants flock thither on every hand Waggswantonly minded, & merry conceited Ther's Wentworth, and Willmott, and Weston an•…•… Cav•…•… If these are not mad boys, who the devil•…•… would you have▪ To drink to Will Murray, they all doe agre•…•… And every one crys, To mee, boys, to mee!

A great Burgandine for Will Murray's sake George Symonds, he vows the first course to take: When Stradling a Graecian dogg let fly, Who took the Bea•…•… by the nose immediatly; To see them so forward Hugh Pollard did smile Who had an old Curr of Canary Oyl, And held up his head that George Goring might see, Who then cryed aloud, To mee, boys to mee!

Tis pleasure to drink among these men For they have witt and valour good store, They all can handle a sword and a pen Can court a lady and tickle a whore, And in the middle of all their wine, Discourse of Plato, and Arretine. And when the health coms fall-down on their knees, And hee that wants, cry, to me boys to mee

Cornwallais was set in an upper room With halfe a duzzen smal witts of his size▪ He sent twice or thrice to have him come down, But they would admitt him in no manner wise Though, in a full bowle of Rhenishhe swear, Hee'd never tell more, when woemen were there, But they all cry'd alou'd his tongue is too free He is not company for such as wee.

The Answer,

By Mr. Peter Apsley.

THough Marray be, undoubtedlie, His countrey's cheifest wit; And none but those converse with him Are held companions fitt: Yett I do know som Holland blades Shall vie witth him for it, hey downe, ho downe Hay downe downe derry dery downe! Thinke not all praises due, For some that buff do weare Can whore and rore and sweare And drink and talke and fight as well as you.

Your Wentworth and your Weston Your Stradling and your Tred, I know they are as joviall boys As ever Taverne bred And can somtimes like souldiers live A weeke without a bedd, hey doune &c.

George Generall of Guenifrieds He is a joviall Lad; Though his Heart and Fortunes disagree Oft times to make him sad: Yet give him but a flout or two And strait you'l swear hees mad: Hey downe, &c.

There's Sydenham Crofts and Kelligrew Must not be left behind And that old smooth-fac'd Epicure They call him Harry Wind For if you do discourse with him Such company you'l finde: hey downe, &c.

There's little Geofrey Peeters, As good as any of those If hee'd leave his preventing way Of abusing his great nose Hee s witt and Poett good enough That hee can pawne his cloathes: hey downe, &c.

There is a joviall Parson Who to these men doth preach: On the week days he does learn of them, And on Sundays does them teach. Of books and of good company Hee takes his share of each, hey down ho down, Hey down down dery dery down! Thinke not all prayses due For if he did not weare A gowne hee'd roare and sweare And drink and talke and fight as well as you.

The Bursse of Reformation.

WE wil go no more to the old Exchang, Theres no good ware at all: Their bodkins and their thimbles too Went long since to Guild-hall. But we will to the new Exchange Where all things are in fashion And we will have it hence forth call'd The Burse of reformation. Come lads and lasses, what do you lack Here is weare of all prizes Here's long & short; heres wide & straight; Here are things of all sizes.

Madam, you may fitt your selfe With all sorts of good pinns, Sirs, here is jett and here is hayre, Gold and cornelian rings, Here is an english conny furr, Rushia hath no such stuff, Which for to keep your fingers warme, Excells your sables muffe. come ladds, &c.

Pray you Madam sitt, ile shew good ware For crowding nere fear that, Against a stall or on a stool Youl nere hurt a crevatt.

Heers childrens bawbles and mens too, To play with for delight. Heer's round-heads when turn'd every way At length will stand upright. Come ladds, &c.

Heer's dice, and boxes if you please To play at in and inn, Heers hornes for brows, & browes for hornes, Which never will be seen. Heer is a sett of kettle pinns With bowle at them to rowle: And if you like such trundling sport Here is my ladyes hole. Come ladds, &c.

Heer's shaddow ribbon'd of all sorts, As various as your mind, And heer's a Wind-mill like your selfe Will turne with every wind. And heer's a church of the same stuff Cutt out in the new fashion, Hard by's a priest stands twice a day Will serve your congregation. Come ladds, &c.

Heer are som presbyterian things, Falne lately out of fashion, •…•…ecause we hear that Prester Iohn Doth circumcize his nation.

And heer are independant knacks, Rais'd with his spirits humor. And heer's cheap ware was sequestred, For a malignant tumor. Come ladds, &c.

Heer patches are of every cut, For pimples and for scarrs, Here's all the wandring planett signes, And som oth' fixed starrs, Already gum'd to make them stick, They need no other sky, Nor starrs for Lilly for to vow To tell your fortunes by, Come ladds, &c.

To eject Powder in your hayre, Here is a pritty puff; Would for clis•…•…er case serve too, Were it fil'd with such stuffe. Madam, here are Pistachie nutts, Strengthening O•…•…ingo roots; And heea's a preserv'd Apricock With the stones pendant too't. Com Lads, &c.

Here are Perriwiggs will fit all Hayres, False beards for adisguise; I can help lasses which are bare In all parts, as their thighs. If you'l engage well, here you may Take up sine Holland Smocks.

We have all things that women want Except Italian Locks. Come Ladds, &c.

Here are hot Boyes have backs like bulls, At first sight can leap lasles; And bearded Ladds hold out like Goats: And here are some like Asses. Here are Gallants can out-do Your Usher or your Page; You need not go to Ludgate more Till threescore yeares of age. Come Ladds, &c.

Madam, here is a Politicus Was Pragmaticus of late, And here is an Elentichus That Fallacies doth prate: Here is the Intelligencer too, See how 'bout him they throng▪ Whilst Melanchollicus alone Walks here to make this song. Com Ladds, &c.

Then lett's no more to the Old Exchange There's no good ware at all, Their Bodkins, and their Thimbles too, Went long since to Guild-Hall. But we will to the New Exchange Where all things are in Fashion,

And vve vvill have it henceforth call'd, The Burse of Reformation. Come Ladds, & Lasses, vvhat do you lack? Here is vvare of all prizes; Here's long and short, here's vvide and straight, here are things of all sizes.

The Answer.

WE will go no more to the new Ex∣change Their Credit's like to fall, Their Money and their Loyalty Is gone to Goldsmith's Hall. But we will keep our Old Exchange, VVhere wealth is still in Fashion, Gold Chaines and Ruffes shalt beare the Bell, For all your Reformation. Look on our VValls and Pillars too You'l find us much the sounder: Sir Thomas Gresham stands upright But Crook-back was your founder.

There you have poynts and pinns and rings, With such like toyes as those, There Patches Gloves and Ribons gay, And O our money goes. But when a Fammily is sunck, And Titles are a fading,

Some Merchant's daughter setts you up, Thus great ones lives by trading. Look, &c.

Marke the Nobility throughout, Moderne and Antient too, You'l see what power the Citty had And how much it could do. Not many houses you'l observe Of honour true or seeming, But have received from the Burse Creation or redeeming. Look, &c.

Our wonted meetings are at twelve, VVhich all the world approves, But you keep off till candle-time, To make your secret Loves. Then you come flocking in a maine Like birds of the same feather, Or beasts repayring to the Arke Uncleane and cleane together. Look, &c,

Wee strike a bargaine on the Exchange, But make it good else where, And your procedings are alike Though not so good I fear. For your commodities are naught, How ever you may prize them,

Then corners and darke holes are sought, The better to disguize them, Looke, &c.

We walke ore cellars richly fill'd; With spices of each kind, You have a Taverne underneath, And so you'r undermin'd. If such a building long endure All sober men may wonder, When giddy and light heads prevaile, Both above ground and under. Look, &c.

Wee have an Office, to ensure Our shipps and goods at sea: No tempest, rock, or pyrat, can Deprive us of that plea. But if your Ladies spring a leake Or boarded be and taken; Who shall secure your Capitoll And save your heads from aking! Look, &c.

Then wee'l go no more to the new Eexchange Their credit's like to fall, Their money and their loyalty, Is gone to Gold-smiths hall. But wee will keep our old exchange, Where wealth is still in fashion,

Gold chaines and ruffs shall bear the bell, For all your reformation. Look on our walls and pillars too, You'l finde us much the sounder: Sir Thomas Gresham stands upright, But Crook-back was your founder.

On S. W. S. and L. P.

Shee that admires her servant's face, His stature, limbs, or haire, Does not conceive the moderne waies Of Ladies, wise and faire. Hee's but short, Care not for't, There be tall ones enough, Though his head Bee all redd, Let his coyne bee so too.

What though his nose turne in and out With passage wide and large, Not much unlike a rainy spout, His humors to discharge, Though his back, Weare a pack Tis a toy among friends,

So by hook, Or by crook, We may compasse our ends.

'Tis not your witt nor language charme, That takes a femall eare A paire of pendants worth a farme Are held more welcom there. You abuse Your poor muse, When you write us fine fancies; For no love Can improve Without suppers or daunces.

God dam-mee is a good conceit, If they who sweare present us; For that's your only taking baite Words nere can circumvent us. There belongs More then songs To a necklace or gown, When your plays And essays May be had for a crown.

The Tytre-Tues, or A Mock-Songe

to the tune of Chive-Chase.

By Mr George Chambers.

TWo madcaps were commited late, For treason, as some say; It was the wisdom of the State, Admire it all you may. Brave Andrew Windsor was the prince George Chambers favorite. These two bred this unknowne offence I wo'd they had bine be—

They call themselves the Tytere-tues And wore a blew Rib—bin, And when a drie, would not refuse, To drink—O fearefull sinn! The Councell, which is thought most wise, Did sett so long upon't, That they grew wearie, and did rise, And could make nothing on't.

But still, the common people cri'd, This must not be forgot; Some had for smaller matters di'd They'd don—wee know not what: Hang'd, drawne, and quarter'd, must they be, So Law doth sett it downe, It's punishment for papistrie That are of high renowne.

My Lord of Canterburie's grace This treason brought ot light El's had it bin a pitious case But that his power and might Had queld their pride which swell'd to high; For which the child ungot May with him live e'ne till hee die As silie sheepe that rott.

Let Papist frowne what need wee care Hee lives above their reach: And will his silver Mitre weare Though now forgot to preach. If hee were but hehind mee now, And should this ballad heare; Sure he'd revenge with bended bow And I die like a Deere.

A Northern Ballet.

THere dwelt a man in faire Westmerland Ionne Armestrong men did him call, He had nither lands nor rents coming in, Yet he kept eight score men in his hall.

He had Horse and Harness for them all, Goodly Steeds were all milke white, O the golden bands an about their necks; And their weapons they were all alike.

Newes then was brought unto the King, That there was sicke a won as hee, That lived syke a bold out-Law And robbed all the north country.

The King he writt an a letter then A letter which was large and long, He signed it with his owne hand, And he promised to doe him no wrong;

When this letter came Ionne untill His heart it was as blyth as birds on the tree, Never was I sent for before any King My father, my Grandfather, nor none but mee.

And if wee goe the King before, I wolud we went most orderly, Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak Laced with silver laces three.

Every won of you shall have his velvett coat Laced with sillver lace so white, O the golden bands an about your neck's Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke.

By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock Towards Edenburough gon was hee And with him all his eight score men, Good lord it was a goodly sight for to see,

When Ionne came befower the King He fell downe on his knee, O pardon my Soveraine Leige, he said O pardon my eight score men and mee.

Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong For thy eight score men not thee For to morrow morning by ten of the clock, Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow tree.

But Ionne looke'd over his left shoulder Good Lord what a grevious look looked hee; Saying asking grace of a graceles face, Why there is none for you nor me.

But Ionne had a bright sword by his side, And it was made of the mettle so Free, That had not the king stept his foot aside He had smitten his head from his faire bodde.

Saying, fight on my merry men all, And see that none of you be taine, For rather then men shall say we were hange'd Let them report how we were slaine.

Then god wott faire Eddenburrough rose And so besett poore Ionne rounde That fowerscore and tenn of Ionnes best men Lay gasping all upon the ground.

Then like a mad man Ionne laide about, And like a mad man then fought hee, Untill a falce Scot came Ionne behinde, And runn him through the faire boddee.

Saying, Fight on my merry men all, And see that none of you be taine, For I will stand by and bleed but a while, And then will I come and fight againe.

Newes then was brought to young Ionne Armestrong, As he stood by his nurses knee, Who vowed if er'e he live'd for to be a man, Oth' the treacherous Scots reveng'd hee'dbe.

By Mr. Richard Barnslay.

FAme told mee, Lady, your fayr hands would make A willow garland for me; O forsake That dismall office, it do's not agree With those sweet looks, that fair aspect in thee. Fayrest of women, canst thou bee my friend? And with thine owne hand hasten on my end? If I must loose thee, let mee loose thee so As not to bee my utter overthrow.

Time lessons sorrow, we endure our crosses, And happier fortunes may redeem our losses, But if I wear one branch of that sad tree, I shall remember it eternally, What prize I lost; and then in some sad grove Of discontent, where fearfull ghosts doe rove Of the forsaken lovers, there I'le bee And only they shall keep mee company. Untill these eyes, in some unpollish'd cave Running like fountaines, weare mee forth a grave, And then I'le dye, yet first I will curse thee Damned, unlucky, fruitlesse willow-tree Still mayest thou withered stand, mayst nev'r bee seen Clad in sweet summers pride, may'st nev'r grow greene; May every bryer, and every bramble bee, Like a full Cedar, or huge Oake to thee: And when some cankerd axe shall hewe thee down, Come never neerer citty, house or towne, But bee thou burnd, yet never mayst thou bee A christmas block for joviall company. But bee thou placed neare some ugly •…•…itch To burne some murderer, or damned witch.

Cast away Willow, Lady, then, and th•…•…se, Dog-tree, or hemlock, or the mornfull yewes Torne from some church-yard side, the cursed thorne

Or else the weed, which still before it's borne Nine times the devill sees; if you command Ile weare them all, compos'd by your fayre hand So that you'l grant mee, that I may goe free From the sad branches of the willowe tree.

Ad Johannuelem Leporem, Lepi∣dissimum, Carmen Heroicum.

I Sing the furious battails of the Sphaeres Acted in eight and twenty fathom deep, And from that a 1.1 time, reckon so many yeares You'l find b 1.2 Endimion fell fast asleep.

And now assist me O ye c 1.3 Musiques nine That tell the Orbs in order as they sight,

And thou dread d 1.4 Atlas with thine eyes so fine, Smile on me now that first begin to write.

e 1.5 Pompey that once was Tapster of New-Inne, And fought with f 1.6 Caesar on th' g 1.7 AEma∣thian plaines, First with his dreadfull g 1.8 Myrmidons came in And let them blood in the Hepatick veines.

But then an Antelope in Sable blew, Clad like the h 1.9 Prince of Aurange in his Cloke, Studded with Satyres, on his Army drew, And presently i 1.10 Pheanders Army broke.

k 1.11 Philip, for hardiness sirnamed Chub, In Beauty equall to fork-bearing l 1.12 Bacchus, Made such a thrust at m 1.13 Phaebe, with his Club, That made the n 1.14 Parthians cry, she will be∣cack us.

VVhich heard, the Delphick Oracle drew nigh, To wipe faire Phaebe, if ought were amiss, But o 1.15 Heliotrope, a little crafty spye, Cry'd clouts were needless, for she did but piss

A subtle Gloworme lying in a hedge And heard the story of sweet cheek't p 1.16 Ap∣pollo, Snarch'd from bright q 1.17 Styropes his Antick sledge

And to the butter'd Flownders cry'd out, r 1.18 Holla.

Holla you pamper'd Jades, quoth he, look here, And mounting straight upon a Lobsters thigh An English man inflam'd with s 1.19 double Beere, Swore nev'r to t 1.20 drink to Man, a Woman by.

By this time grew the conflict to be u 1.21 hot, Boots against boots 'gainst x 1.22 Sandals, Sandals, fly.

Many poor thirsty men went to the pot, Feathers lopt off, spurrs every where did lie. Caetera de•…•…iderantur.

Bagnall's Ballet, supplied of what was left out in Musarum Deliciae.

A Ballet, a ballet! let every Poet, A ballett make with speed: And he that has wit, now let him shew it; For never was greater need: And I that never made ballett before; Will make one now, though I never make more. Oh Women, monstrous women, What do you meane to doe!

It is their pride and strange attire, Which binds me to this taske; Which King, and Court, did much admire, At the last Christmas maske, But by your entertainment then, You should have smal cause to come there agen. Oh Women, &c.

You cannot bee contented to go, As did the women of old; But you are all for pride and show, As they were for weather and cold, O Women, women! fie, fie, fie, I wonder you are not ashamed. O Women, &c.

Where is the decency becom; Which your fore-mothers had? With Gowns of Cloth, and Capps of Thrum, They went full meanly cladd. But you must jett it in silkes and gold; Your pride, though in winter, is never a cold. O Women, &c.

Your faces trick'd and painted bee, Your breasts all open bare: So farr that a man may almost see Unto your Lady ware: And in the church, to tell you true, Men cannot serve God for looking on you, O Women, &c.

And at the Devills shopps you buy, A dresse of powdered hayre, On which your feathers flaunt and fly, But i'de wish you have a care, Lest Lucifer's selfe who is not prouder Do one day dresse up your haire with a powder. O Women, &c.

And many thereare of those that go Attyr'd from head to heele, That them from men you cannot know Unlesse you do them feele, But oh for shame though they have none, Tis better believe, and let them alone, O Women, &c.

Both round and short they cut their hayre Whose length should women grace, Loose like themselves, their hatts they weare. And when they come in place, Where courtshipp and complements must bee, They do it like men with cappe and knee. O Women, &c.

They at their sides against our laws, With little punyards go, Which surely is, (I thinke) because, They love mens weapons so; Or else it is they'le stobb all men, That do refuse to stabb them agen. O Women, &c,

Doublets like to men they weare, As if they ment to flout us, Trust round with poynts and ribbons fayre, But I pray letts look about us; For since the doublett so well doth fitt 'um, They will have the breeches; and if they can get 'um. O Women, &c.

Nor do they care what a wise man saith, Or preachers in their defame. But jeer and hold him an asse; but I faith They'd blush if they had any shame: For citty and countrey do both deride 'um And our King, God blesse him, cannot abide 'um. O Women, &c.

And when the mask was at the court, Before the King to be showne, They got upon seats to see the sport, But soon they were pull'd down; And many were thrust out of dores, Their coats well cudgel'd, & they cal'd whores. O King, Relligious King, Godsave thy Majestie.

And so with prayers to God on high, To grant his highnesse peace, Wee hope we shall finde remedie To make this mischiefe cease: Since he in Court has tane so good order, The citty leave to the Maior and Recorder, O King, Relligious King, God blesse thy majestie.

And women all whom this concerns, Though you offended bee; And now in foule and rayling tearms Do swagger and scold at mee;

I tell you, if you mend not your waies The devil will fetch you all, one of these days, Oh Women monstrous Women! What do you mean to do?

Mr. Smith, to Sir John Mennis, up∣on the surrender of Conway Castle

by the Ar, BY.

ANd how? and how? hast thou cry'd quit∣tance With Mountaine, Bishop, and his Brittaines Who after all his changes, had Yet one trick more, to make John mad? Hadst thou, for this, charge of the Keyes Old as the Castle? and the payes Of Men unborne? that never took A name, but from thy Muster-Book? Hast thou been honour'd with the knee Of the Time-aged-Porter? Hee Who after reverence, humbly sate Below the Salt, and munch'd his Sprat, And after all this to be vex't Past sufferance, by a Man o'th 'Text! Well! now thou'rt come in sight of Pauls, Hast thou compounded for thy Coales And swallowed glib in hope to thrive, The Covenant, and Oath Negative

With hand lift up, like those that are Indicted for less crimes at Barre? Beleeve me, friend, it is a Burden Worse then a close-stoole with a Turd in. Yet if from Brittish rocks th' hast brought A heard of Goats, or Runts, or ought That Country yeilds; Flannel, Carnoggins, Store of Me•…•…eglin in thy waggons; Less needst thou dwindle to appeare Man At Goldsmiths-Hall before the Chaire-man: Or if th'ast plundered Pedlars-pack And truss'd it on thy knightly back, Rich in Box-whistles, combs in cases, Tape white and blue, points, inkle, laces, 'T may satisfye those hungry Kings; They'l hang •…•…ee else in thine own strings.

And now I call to mind the tale, How mounted in thy nights of ale Thou rod'st home duely to thy Den On back of resty Cittizen, Still pressing as the cattle grew Weary, at every stage, a new: Some thorough-pac'd, and sure of foot Some tripping, with string-halt to boot, Now 'tis their time, and thou art ore- Ridden by them, thou roadst before. So have I seen the flyes in Summer, Yellow as was the neighbouring scummer, With shambling thighs, each other back By turns, and traverse o're the rack. Ah! worthy friend, it makes me mad

To count the dayes, that we have had; When we might freely meet and drink And each man speak what he did think. Now every step we doubt, and word As men to passe some unknown for'd. As Patridges devide their way When stoop'd at by the Birds of prey, And dare not from their coverts peep Till night's come on, and all's asleep, Then from their severall brakes they hast, And call together to repast. So frighted by these buzzards, flye Our scattered friends, and sculking lye Till cover'd in the night, they chant And call each other to the hant,

Some trusty Taverne, where in bowles They drown their feares, & chirp pooresouls, What sad plight are we in? what pickles? That we must drink in conventicles? Search all the Centuries, there's none Like this fell Persecution; But when Time sorts, do but but command, At noon I'le meet thee, here's my hand.

I. S.

Dated, From house of Knight, in Nympton-Regis, Where one drinks, and another pledges, I meane at meales, the day is Jack, The 15 of the month that's black, Forty eight yeares, and sixteen hundred Since that of Grace, away are squandred,

And since Parliament begon (I hope you'l not forget that Iohn) Nothing remaines, but that I say, Good morrow; that's the time o'th day.

An answer to a Letter from Sr. John Mennis, wherein he •…•…eeres him for falling so quickly to the use of the Directory.

FRiend, thou dost lash me with a story, A long one too, of Directory; When thou alone deserves the Birch That broughtst the bondage on the Church. Didst thou not treat for Bristow Citty And yeld it up? the more's the pitty. And saw'st thou not, how right or wrong The common prayer-book went along? Didst thou not scourse, as if inchanted, For Articles Sir Thomas granted, And barter, as an Author saith, The Articles o'th' Christian faith? And now the Directory jos•…•…les Christ out o'th' Church, and his Apostles; And tears down the commnion-rayles That Men may take it on their tayles. Imagine freind, Bochus the King, Engraven on Sylla's Signet ring, Delivering up into his hands Fugurth, and with him all his Lands,

Whom Sylla tooke and sent to Rome There to abide the Senate's doome,

In the same posture, I suppose, Iohn standing in's doublet and hose, Delivering up, amidst the throng, The common-prayer and wisedom's song To hands of Fairfax to be sent A sacrifice to the Parliament: Thou litle thoughtst what geare began Wrap't in that Treaty, Bus•…•… Iohn, There lurk'd the fire, that turn'd to cinder The Church; her ornaments to tinder. There bound up in that Treaty lyes The fate of all our Christmas pyes, Our holy-dayes there went to wrack Our Wakes were layd upon their back; Our Gossips spoones away were lurch'd Our feasts and fees for woemen church'd, All this and more ascribe we might To thee at Bristow, wretched knight, Yet thou upbraidst, and raylst in rime On me, for that, which was thy crime, So froward Children in the Sun, Amid' their sports some shrewd turne donne The faulty youth begins to prate, And layes it on his harmlesse mate,

Dated From Nympton where the Cyder smiles And Iames has horse as lame as Gyles

The fourth of May; and dost thou heare, 'Tis as I take it, the eighth yeare Since Portugall by Duke Braganza Was cut from Spaine without a hand-saw.

I. S.

Mr. Smith's taking a Purge.

IN morne when Phoebus peep't through crevis, Bold as our Brittish Guy or Bevis I powder took, and by his beams Befreinded, made a draught for Ieames. Long had it not in stomack been But from each part, came powd•…•…ing in Of uncouth gear such pregnant store That gutt 'gan grumble, nock runne ore. Have yee beheld with eager haste The trewant Citts when scene is past, (As if they meant their ribs to burst While each beares up to get our first) Cloy up the doore, till passage small Into one body rammes 'em all, And then in steed of men and witt Delivers up a lumpe of citt. With no lesse furie in a throng Away these tachie humors flung,

And downwards in a rage they drew To ramble, and bid nock adieu: But when they came to portall nastie Bumme was so straite, and they so hastie, That many a worthy pellett must Into one Booming shott bee thrust, At rumbling noyse the mastive growl•…•…s The f•…•…ighted mice forsake their holes, And Souldiers to my window come Invited thither by my drum, Tire'd with this hideous coyle behinde Nocke layd a b•…•…ut him hard for winde, Hee chaf'd, and fom'd, as buck embo'st, And painted like a •…•…oad that's tost. At length he gaind a litle tyme, And cleard his Organ from the slime; Palewas his look, (for to be blunt), Arse could not sett a good face on't. But yet hee strove with visage wan To vent himselfe; and thus began. Oh dismall Dose! oh cursed geere! Will all thy body runne out here? Will vaynes, and sinnews, flesh, and bone Be gadding, and leave nock alone? Is it decreed, oh crewell fates! So Mindus at her citty gates As was suspected there about Some time or other might runne out, A Divell sure bak•…•…t, and stale Was grated in my posset-ale,

Or else 'twas powder of the bones Of some foote souldier dead for the nonce, For all the way he travailes North Through stomack, belly, and so forth. Some what he seizes in each towne, And take's it with him as his owne; Well, what so ere thou wer't, be sure Thy vengeance 'ile no more indure, Nor shall the head or stomack put More then is fitting into gutt. Why could not nostrells, eyes, or eare, By milde expences vent you there? Or vomitt, by a neerer way, Discharge what in the stomak lay? Or i'st not justice they that pas'd The pleasure, should the bitter taste? Can you accuse mee? ever came Ought in by me did body blame? Unlesse your keeping ope my doore Drew wind, to make the fabrick roare; I was contented once a day While you were temperate, to obay, But he is cur'st that's forc't to stand All the day long with hose in hand. Nor was the spincter muscle put At every turne to ope and shut, But there to stand, and notice take Who pass'd, and when, and for whose sake. Therefore bee warn'd keepe better dyet That all of us may live at quiett.

Or ile sto•…•…p up the abuse'd course And send up fumes will make you worse And you (as Mayerne doth) they say Divert the vent another way, Then spight of physick, in a word, I'le make your pal•…•…e tast a tourd, And when you belch I'le turne the sent To perfect smell of fundament.

The Miller and the King's Daughter,

By Mr. Smith.

There were two Sisters they went a playing, With a hie downe, downe, a downe-a- To see their fathers ships come sayling in With a hy downe, downe, a downe-o-

And when they came unto the sea-bry•…•…, With, &c, The elder did push the younger in; With, &c.

O Sister, O Sister, take me by the gow•…•…e, With, &c, And drawe me up upon the dry ground. With, &c.

O Sister, O Sister, that may not bee, With, &c.

Till salt and oatmeale grow both of a tree; With, &c.

Somtymes she sanke, Somtymes she swam, With, &c. Untill she came unto the mil-dam; With, &c.

The miller runne hastily downe the cliffe, With &c, And up he be took her withou•…•…en her lif•…•…, With, &c.

What did he doe with her brest bone? With, &c. He made him a viall to play thereupon, With, &c.

What did he doe with her fingers so small? With, &c. He made him peggs to his Violl withall; With, &c.

What did he doe with her nose-ridge? With, &c. Unto his Violl he made him a bridge, With, &c.

What did he do with her Veynes so blewe? with, &c.

He made him strings to his Viole thereto; with, &c.

What did he doe with her eyes so bright? with, &c. Upon his Violl he playd at first sight; with, &c.

What did he doe with her tongue soe rough? with, &c. Unto the violl it spake enough; with, &c.

What did he doe with her two shinnes? with, &c. Unto the violl they danc't Moll Syms; with, &c.

Then bespake the treble string, with, &c. O yonder is my father the King; with, &c.

Then bespake the second string, with &c. O yonder sitts my mother the Queen: with, &c.

And then bespake the stringes all three; with, &c.

O yonder is my sister that drowned mee. with, &c.

Now pay the miller for his payne, with, &c. And let him bee gone in the divels name. with, &c.

Mr. Smith, to Tom Pollard, and Mr. Mering.

MY hearty commendations first remem∣bred To Tom, & Robbin tall men, and well timberd Hoping of both your welfares, and your blisse Such as my selfe enjoy'd when I wrote this; These are to let you understand and know, That love will creepe there where it cannot go And that each morning I doe drink your healths After our Generalls, & the Commonwealths; For nothing is more fatall then disorder Especially now Lesly's on the Border; That done we gather into Rankes and files, That a farre off we look like greeat wood piles; And then we practise over all our knacks With as much ease as men make Almanacks,

Size all our bulletts to a dram, we hate To kill a foe with waste unto the State, And for our carriage heere, it hath been such Declar't I cannot, but Ile give a touch: Here is noe outrage done, not one that Robbs Perhaps you think it strange Tom, so does Nobbs But tis as true as steele, for on my word; Their worst is drinking Ale, browne as their sword. But harke the fiendes are come close to Carlile, Lidsdale is cope't with Rebell-Scotts the while To u•…•… they send for helpe, the postboy skudds; And scoures his pallfrie in his propper Sudds, More I could write deare friends, but bad's the weather And time's as precious as you both to gether. But take not this unkindely; I professe There's no man more your servant then

I S.

New castle where the drouth has been That makes grasse short, and gelding thin: Iuly the fifth I wrote this letter One thousand six hunderd, & somewhat better

Upon Iohn Felton's hanging in Chaines at Ports-mouth, for killing the Duke of Buckingham.

HEre uninterd suspends (though not to save Surviving friends the expences of a grave Fel•…•…on's dead earth, which to the world must bee His own sad monument, his Elegye As large as fame, but whither bad o•…•… good I say not, by himself 'twas writ in blood For with his body thus entomb'd in ayre Arch't o're with Heaven, set with thousand faire And glorious Diamond-starrs; a Sepulcher Which time can never ruinate, and where Th'impartiall worme (which is not brib'd to spare Princes when wrapt in Marble) cannot share His flesh (which oft the charitable skyes Embalme with teares doing those obsequies Belong to men) shall last till pittying foul Contend to reach his body to his Soule.

To Felton in the Tower.

ENjoy thy bondage; make thy prison know, Thou hast a liberty thou canst not owe To such base punishment; keep't intire, since Nothing but guilt shackles they conscience.

I dare not tempt thy valiant blood to whey •…•…n feebling it with pitty, nor dare pray Thine act may mercy finde, lest thy great story 〈◊〉〈◊〉 something of its miracle and glory. I wish thy merit studied cruelty, Short vengance befreinds thy memory For I would have posterity to heare He that can bravely die can bravely beare. Torture seemes great unto a cowards eye 'Tis no great thing to suffer, less t•…•… dye. Should all the clowds fall out, & in that strife Lightning and thunder send •…•…o take my life, I should applaud the wisedome of my fate That knew to value me at such a rate As at my fall to trouble •…•…ll the skie, Emptying it self upon me Joves full Armoty; Thy soul before was straightned, thank thy doome To show her vertue she hath larger Roome, Yet sure if every artery were broke Thou wouldst finde strength for such another stroke. And now I leave thee unto death and fame Which lives to shake ambition at thy name, And (if it were no sin) the Court by it Should hourely sweare before a favorite. Farwell, for thy beame sake we shall not send Henceforth Commanders that wil foes defend Nor will it ever our just Monarch please To keep an Admirall to loose the Seas.

Farwell, undaunted stand, and joy to be Of publique sorrow the Epitome, Let the Duke's name suffer, and crowne thy thrall All we in him did suffer; thou for all. And I dare boldly write, as thou darst dye, Stout Felton, Englands ransome, here doth lye.

To the Duke of Buckingham.

THe King loves you, you him; both love the same, You love the King, he you, both Buck-in-game Of sport the King loves game, of game the Buck Of all men you, why you? Why see your luck.

To the Same.

SOme say, the Duke was vertuous, gratious, good, And Felton basely did, to spill his bloud. If it be so, what did he then amiss, In sending him the sooner to his bliss? All deaths seem pleasant to a good-man's Eye And bad men onely are afraid to dye; Chang'd he this Kingdome to possess a better, Then is the Duke become Iohn Felton's debter.

The Lawyer.

LAwyers themselves up hold the Common weale, They punish such as do offend and steale; They free with subtill art the innocent, From any danger, losse, or punishment, They can, but will not, keep the world in awe By mis-expounded and distorted lawe; Alwayes they have great store of charity, And love they want, not keeping amitye.

The Clients Transcription of the same Copy, having experienced the contrary.

LAwyers themselves uphold the Common∣weale They punish such as do offend and steale. They free with subtill art the innocent, From any danger, losse, or punishment; They can, but will not keep, the world in awe By mis-expounded and distorted lawe Allwayes they have, great store of charity And love they want, not keeping amitye.

The reverend Canvase.

SO lowd a lye on Sunday rung, So thicke a troupe, so grave a thrung, Assembled in a Church, to laugh, At nothing? pardon heavens; when halfe Had Gods marke on them? none so good To satisfie the hungry croud; With holsome doctrine; none so hardy With an howers talke to quitt the tardy? All silent brethren, and yet none Can speake by inspiration? Dares none so conscious of his merit, Or presuming on the sperit, With an edifying greeting Gratulate this zealous meeting? Is this a day or place (O sin!) For such to have a canvse in? Lord! how we sat like Queene Candace's Eunuch, reading each other faces! Expecting when some Philips heire Would come to ascend the sacred chaire. Whilst cousning Miles the bell still knockt T' increase the number of the mockt? But in conclusion all the cittie Was bidden to a nunc dimitte, And yet found no man to supply The office of dumbe Zacharie In our dismission, till wee tiring The bell and pullpit both conspiring,

Deprived of sound, and vesture told us The tenor onely preacht that calld us;

A non sequitur, by Dr. Corbett.

MArke how the Lanterns clowd mine eyes See where a moone drake ginnes to rise Sat•…•…rne craules much like an Ir•…•…n Catt, To see the naked moone in a slippshott hatt, Thunder thumping toad stooles crock the pots To see the Meremaids tumble Leather catt-a-mountaines shake their heeles To heare the gosh-hawke grumble The rustie threed, Begins to bleed, And cobwebs elbows itches The putrid skyes Eat mulsacke pies Backed up in logicke brecehes Munday trenchers make good hay The Lobster weares no dagger Meale-Mouth'd shee-peacockes powle the starres And make the lowbell •…•…agger Blew Crocodiles foame in the toe Blind meal-bagges do follow the doe A ribb of apple braine spice Will follow the Lancasheire dice Harke how the chime of Plu•…•…oes pispot cracks, To see the rainbowes wheele g•…•…nne, made of flax.

On Oxford Schollers going to Woodstock to heare Dr. Corbet preach before the King.

THe King, and the Court Desirous of sport, At woodstock six dayes did lye Thither came the Doctors With their velvet sleev'd Proctors, And the rest of the learned frie. Some faces did shine More withale then with wine; So that each man there was thought And judged by theire hue (As it was then true). They were better fed then taught. A number beside With their wenches did ride (For Schollers you know are kind) And riding before Leand back evermore To kisse their wenches behind. A number on foot Without cloak, or boot And yet to the Court they wou'd Which was for to show How farr they wou'd go To doe his Majesty good, The reverend Deane With his ruff, starched clean

Did preach before the King A Ring there was spide In his band-string tyde Was not this a pritty thing? The Ring without doubt Was the thing put him out: So oft hee forgot what was next That all that were there Did thinke, and dare sweare, Hee handled it more then his Text.

Horat. 34. Carm. od 10. ad. Ligurium.

TIs true (proud boy) thy beauty may pre∣sume Thank Venus for't but when thy cheekes shall plume, When manly downe shall shade thy Childish pride And when thy locks (which dangle on each side Of thy white shoulders) shall no more remain; When thy vermilion cheeks (which do disdain, The glorious colour of the purple rose) Begin to fade, and Ligarinas loose His lovely face, being rudely stuck with haires Hard hearted boy) then wilt thou say with teares

(When looking for thy faire self in a glass Thou findest another there) Ah me! alas! What do I now perceive? why had not I? These thoughts when I was lovely smooth? or why? To these my thoughts which I now entertaine Doe not my Cheeks grow flik & young again?

To his Mistris.

I'le tell you whence the rose did first grow red And whence the lillie whitenesse borrowed You blush't and then the rose with red was dight. The lillie kist your hands and so came white Before that time the rose was but a staine The lillie nought but palenesse did containe You have the native colour; these they die And onely flourish in your livery.

Upon a Cobler.

COme hither, read (my gentle freind) And here behold a Coblers End, Long in length his life had gone But that he had no Last so long. O mighty death whose darts can kill. The man that made him soules at will.

On the death of the Lord Treasurer.

IMmodest death, that would not once confer Dispose or part with our Lord Treasurer! Had he beene thee, or of thy fatall tribe, He would have spar'd thy life, and tane a bribe, He that so often had with gold and wit, Perverted law and allmost conjur'd it. He that could lengthen causes, and was able To starve a suitor at the councill-table At last not having Evidence to show Was faine (perforce) to take a deadly blow.

The lover's Melancholy.

HEnce, hence, all you vaine delights As short as are the nights Wherin you spend your folly! Ther's nought in this life sweet, If men were wise to •…•…ee't But only melancholly. Wellcome folded armes, and fixed eyes, A fight that pea•…•…cing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound, Fountaines-heades and pathless groves Places which pale passion loves. Moone-light walkes when all the fowles Are warmely hous'd, save Bats and owls;

A midnight knell, a parting groane, These are the sounds wee feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley Ther's nothing truly sweet, but melancholly;

The answer, by Dr. Stroad.

REturne my joyes and hither bring A tounge not made to speake, but sing; A joll ye splene, an inward feast, A causelesse laugh without a jest; A face which gladnesse doth annoint, An arme for joy flung out of joynt; A spritefull gate that leaves no print, And make a •…•…eather of a flint: A heart that's lighter then the ayre An eye still dancing in its sphere. Strong which mirth nothing shall controul A body nimbler then a soul: Free wandring thoughts not tied to muse Which thinking all things, nothing chuse; Which ere wee see them come, are gone, These, life it selfe doth feed upon. Then take no care but only to be jolly, To be more wretched then we must, is folly.

A Blush.

STay hasty blood! where canst thou seek So blest a place as in her cheek? How can'st thou from the place retire VVhere beauty doth command desire? But if thou canst not stay, then show; Downe to her painting papps below Flow like a deluge from her breast VVhere Venus Swannes have built their nest, And so take glory to disteine The azure of each swelling vaine; Thence run thou boyling through each part Till thou hast warm'd her frozen heart; But if from love she would retire Then martyr her with gentle fire And having search't each secret place Fly back againe into her face; VVhere blessed live in changing those VVhite lillyes to a Ruddy rose:

To his Mistris.

Last when I saw thee, thou didst sweetly play The gentle theife, and stolst my heart away, Render't again or else give me thine owne In change, for two for thee (when I have none) Too many are, else I must say, Thou art A sweet facd creature with a double heart.

On Christ-church windowe, and Magd•…•…len Colledge wall.

YEe men of Galilee why gaze yee so On Mandlins necessary print, as though T'had bin enough for that pure virgin's sonne That was incarnate, dyed, & rose, to have done Those heavenly acts, that ransom'd al from hell And yet no visible effigies tell The eye, the manner how. Ye misconceive VVho think these sacred mysteryes must leave Impression onely in the soul; how then Shall those that bear more shape than mind of men, (Unlesse their outward sense informe them) know VVhat accidents their Saviour long ago Sustain'd? each wise man sees 'tis not the fate Of every ideot to be literate. And who can then forbid (ye Lay) to look And read those things without or line or book. Besides (if modestye may judge) what ist But a supply to each Evangelist? Long may the learned study, peace and scratch Before the forme of th' mainger, or the cratch Wherein Babe Christ was layd be understood. Each bungling joyner now may ken what wood The stall was made of where the long eared steed

And his associate Oxe did stand and feed. Each practis'd oastler knowes their meat, can say There is their provender, this is their hay. Yee now may learne the naked shepherds hew The stripling boy, and him it'h cap of blew, As perfectly as it had seene the clownes Each day a sunning on the jewish downes; 'Tis strange the dogg's not there, perhapps the Curr VVas left behind, for feare of noise or stirre: But veiw the venerable face whereon The horne and candle cast reflection, Observe it well if ere you chance to meet In paradise, you'le know't as soon as see't, Tis reverent Iosephs portraiture, see how▪ The very image seemes to cringe and bow, Marke well his beard, his eyes, his nose, if ought Be mist, tis yours, and not the painters fault. Then lead your eyes unto the beauteous one Who nere knew man, yet mother to a sonne. Doth not her face more fully speake her heart And joy, than text or comment can impart? But oh how little like her selfe when shee VVhose upcast, downe cast lookes, behold the tree? That fatall tree whereon the Lord of breath Expos'd himselfe to th'tyranny of death; VVas ever sorow so set forth? and yet To make the quire of heavinesse compleat,

The lov'd disciple bears his part, and so Doth that brave lasse that clips the Crosse below. Consult allauthors, English Greek & Lattin, You nere saw truer greife or finer sattin. Foule fall the bird whose undiscerning mute Presumes to turpifye so rich a suite; T'was very strange they durst so boldly greeve When those untutor'd hacksters of the Shreeve Close by sat armed Cap-a-pee with speares, And swords, and glittering helmets, or'e their eares Bestriding fiery steeds so markt so made Bucephalu's himselfe was but a jade Compar'd to these, why? who would be but vext To see such pal•…•…ryes here, and none it'h text? Next let your eyes and thoughts be fixt upon The sad-sad story of the passion; See how from side, from feet, from hands as yet The crimson blood trills down, you'l sweare twere wet; Were Thomas here himselfe, he would not linger But sooner trust his eyes then erst his finger. Mark how death's sable cloud doth over-spread His lips, his cheeks, his eyes, his sacred head. Behold death drawn to th'life, as if that hee Thus wrackt and stretch't upon th' accursed tree,

Had been of purpose nayld to th' crosse to try The Painters cunning hand, more than to dye. He left him dead, but twas not in the power Of grave, or hell to keep him, there one houre Beyond his own determination. Three dayes are past, and Ionah's type is done He walkes, and in full glory leaps from tombe: As Lazarus from th' earths insatiate wombe, But not to dye againe: meane while the guard Who vigilantly slept, soon as they heard Deaths prisoner, and their's so strangely rise Start up with frighted hearts and gastly eyes. They stare and muse, and sweare, the heardsmen talke Strange things, but nere till now saw dead men walke: Do but take notice how the rascalls look As if some prodigie had thunderstrook The villaines hearts, or some strange power had showne Medufae's head, and turnd them all to stone. Sure small perswasion would have made the Elves For feare of further paines to hang themselves: And blame them not, the Lord was now cal∣cin'd Bright as the Sun, his body so refin'd That not the sawcinesse of mortall eye Could stare upon such lustre and not dye. His glorifi'd humanity can stay

No more on earth, heaven calls, he must away; Yet ere he part hee'le take his leave, th'eleven, Attend, and see him ravisht into heaven. Their eyes (untill an interposing cloud Did interdict accesse of sight, and shrowd His godlike countenance from mortall ken) Still waite upon th'ascending Lord; but when Distance had snat cht him from their view, they lift Their hands to th' skie, as if they made some shift To draw him down againe, such was their love Thei•…•…e scarse assent to his ascent above. Where once more, note, the text supplyed which tells Th'Apostles were spectators and none else But count byth' pole you'l find th' eleven in∣creast Their troops amount to five or sixe at least. Were Luke alive, hee'd thank the painters wit, Who saw his oversight and mended it. Let's yeeld to reason then, let him that lists Dispute the number of th' Evangelists; If Judgement ever please this thing to lift Or Greenbury or none must be the fift I've done, bur first Ile pray, hayle holy cloth And live in spight of rottennesse or moth. Nor time nor vermine ere shall dare to be Corruptors of so much Divinitie; But men of Galilee why do ye gaze, On that which may delight, but not amaze?

That's left for us; let any wise man bend His eyes towards our orientall end Hee'•…•…e blesse himselfe indeed, grow wise; with∣all Approaching take the window for a wall And then conclude that Wadehams perspective Nor Lincolnes stately types can long survive; They'le break for envie (spight of wise) to find Us to transcend themselves so farre behind; But Ile not prayse our own, 'tis far more fit To leave the talke to some fine Maud'lin wit, Who may enroule in some well languish•…•…t staine As we their walls, so they our lights againe Only I feare they will, (least we surpasse) Pull down their hall to build up Eastern glass.

An Elegie.

WHy faire vow-breaker, have thy sinnes thought fit That I be curst example of thy wit As well as scornes? (bad womn) have not I Deserv'd as much as quiet misery? Be wise and trouble not my suffering fit For every sin I have repentance yet, Except for loving thee; do not thou presse My easie madnesse to a wickednesse As high as that, least I be driven so As far from heaven as thou art, which I know

Is not thy ayme, for thou hast sin'd to be In place, as in affection, farre from me. Am I thy freind or kinsman? have I ought That is familiar with thee bettring thought A dreame and some few letters too, yet lye Neglected records of my injury. I know no itch my silent sorrowes moves: To begg a bridall kisse or paire of gloves These are the lighter dutyes which they seek Whose sleepe is sound & constant as the week Is in her nights, who never met the chaunce Of love amisse, but in a dreameing traunce And wak't to gladnesse; t'is not so with me My night and day are twins in misery. These spend-thrift eyes have beene prepar'd with feares To keep a solemne revelling in teares; Hadst thou beene silent I had known the shame Of that dayes union by my greife, not fame. Priva'te as sorrowes lodging had I dwelt Follow'd with my dispaire and never felt Anger except for livinge hadst thou bin Content with my undoinge 'Tis a sinn My love cannot forgive there to upbraid Awret chednesse which thou thy selfe hast made▪ Heaven knowes I sufferd, and I sufferd so That by me twas as infallible to know How passive man is, fate knew not a curse Except thy new contempt to make mee worse And that thou gav'st when I so low was brought

I knew not if I liv'd but yet I thought, And counted sighs and teares, as if to scann The aire and water would make up a man. Hadst thou not broake the peace of my decay Ere this I thinke •…•…'de wept some sinns away, Being diseas'd, diseas'd past mine owne cure Thou wouldst needs kill which made mee to indure My patience: why (Ioyes murdresse) wouldst thou prove VVhether that bee as passive as my love? Had woman such a way as shee can give To man deniall, as of love to live? VVhy then th' abhored reason meers me; why Successless lovers doe so quickly dye, So be it with mee, but if any curse First can be fastned on thee which is worse Then thy unwept for vow-breach may it come As my greife heavye; may the tedious summe Of thy great sinns stand sentinell to keep Repentance from thy thoughts reach. May thy Sleep Be broken as my hopes, 'bove all may •…•…e Thou choosest husband ripe to jealousye. And find it true, to tell thee; may the theames On which thy sleepe doth paraphrase in dreames Bee my sad wrongs: and when some other shall (VVhom chance hath made with mee a∣pocryphall In loveing storyes) search an instance forth To curse his Mistris for her little worth,

May thy name meet him, under whom must be The Common place of womans perjury. May heaven make all this: and if thou pray May heaven esteeme as that thou didst that day Of thy last promises, I've said, be free This pennance done, then my dayes destinye By thee is antedated. But three sighs Must first pay my admission to the skyes. One for my madness, loving woman so That I could think her true; the next ile throw For wounded lovers, that i'le breath a new; The third shall pray my curses may prove true.

In imitation of Sir Philip Sydnie's Encomium of Mopsa.

ASsist mee Love, and Lov's, great Queen of Paphos Inspire my muse with straines more rich then Saphos! Approach you Heliconiau lasses, even Chaste Erato, Thalie and th' other seaven. Direct my quill whilst I her praises caroll out Whose paralle's not found in all the world about In lovelinesse sh' excells (and 'tis no wonder) Those brave Cicilian, forgers of Joves thunder, For chastity Im'e sure her equall none is Not Venus selfe that lov'd the faire Adonis.

Medea's not more mild, who as the talk is Made Iason steale the golden fleece from Cholchos. For modest silence, I dare say shee'l fit ye Wherein shee's not an ace behind Zantippe, But Oh! the comely graces of her feature Great Plutoes Cour affords not such a creature, Her golden tresses far surpasse Megaera's In compassing her lofty forehead, whereas No frown nor wrinckle ere appeares to fright ye But still more calme than smooth fac'd Am∣phirité. Beneath those vaulted cells are fixt those tor∣ches From whence proceeds that flame so fiercely siorches. Between both which her precious nose is pla∣ced, With fairest pearles and rubies rich encased. Next comes her heavenly mouth whose sweet composure Falls not within expressions, limmits, no sure. This even unto her precious eares doth guide us, Which makes her full as faire as great King Mydas. She's smooth as Pan, her skin (which you'le admire) is Like purest gold, more glorious far then Iris,

And to close up this Magazin of pleasures She most exactly treads god-Vulcans measures This is my Mistris Character, and if in These lines her name you misse; 'tis faire Befs Griffin.

A Scholler that sold his Cussion.

TOm I commend thy care of all I know, That souldst this Cushion for a pipe of To— Now art thou like though not to studdy more Yet ten times harder then thou didst before.

On the death of Cut. Cobler.

DEath and an honest Cobler fell at bate And finding him worne out, would needs translate; He was a trusty so'le, and time had bin He would well liquord go through thick and thin. Death put a trick upon him, and what was't? The Cobler call'd for All, death brought his last; 'Twas not uprightly done to cut his thread, That mended more and more till he was dead:

But since hee's gone, 'tis all that can be said, Honest Gut-Cobler here is underlayd.

A Letter to Ben. Johnson.

DIe Iohnson, crosse not our Religion so As to be thought immortall; let us know Thou art no God; thy works make us mistake Thy person, and thy great creations make Us I doll thee, and cause we see thee do Eternall things, think thee eternall too, Restore us to our faith and dye, thy doome Will do as much good as the fall of Rome: 'Twill crush an heresie, we ne're must hope For truth till thou be gon, thou and the Pope. And though we may be certaine in thy fall To lose both wit and judgement, braines and all, Thou Sack, nor Love, nor Time recover us Better be fooles then superstitious. Dye! to what end should we thee now adore There is not Schollership to live to more, Our language is refin'd: professors doubt Their Greek and Hebrew both shall be put out And we that Latin studied have so long Shall now dispute & write in Iohnsons tongue, Nay, courtiers yeeld, & every beautious wench Had rather speak thy English then her French.

But for thy matter fancy stands agast Wondering to see her strength thus best at last. Invention stops her course and bids the world Look for no more; she hath already hurld Her treasure all on one, thou hast out-done So much our wit and expectation, That were it not for thee, we scarse had known Nature her selfe could ere so farre have gon. Dye! seemes it not enough thy verse's date Is endlesse; but thine own prolonged fate Must equall it; for shame engross not age But now (the fith act ended) leave the stage. And let us clap, we know the Stars that do Give others one sife, give a laureat two. But thou, if thus thy body long survives, Hast two eternities, and not two lives. Die for thine own sake, seest thou not thy praise Is shortned onely by this length of daies. Men may talk this, and that, to part the strife, My tenet is, thou hast no fault but life. Old Authors do speed best, me-thinks thy warm breath Casts a thick mist betwixt thy worth, which death Would quickly dissipate. If thou wouldst have Thy Bayes to flourish, plant them on thy grave. Gold now is drosse, and Oracles are stuffe

With us, for why? Thou art not low enough. We still look under thee. Stoop, and submit Thy glory to the meanest of our wit. The Rhodsan Colossus, ere it fell, Could not be scan'd and measured, half so well. Lie levell to our view, so shall we see, Our third and richest University. Art's length, Art's heighth, Art's depth, can ne're be found, Till thou art prostrate, stretch'd upon the ground. Learning no farther then thy life extends, With thee began all Arts, with thee it ends.

On a young Lady, and her Knight.

A Vertuous Lady sitting in a muse, (As fair and vertuous, Ladies often use,) With elbow leant upon one knee so hard, The other distant from it half a yard. Her Knight, to quip her by a secret token, Said, Wife, arise, your Cabinet stands open. She rising, blush'd, and smilingly did say, Lock it then, if you please, you keep the key.

On a Welch-man's devotion.

THe way to make a Welch-man thirst for blisse, And daily say his prayers on his knees, Is, to perswade him, that most certain 'tis, The Moon is made of nothing but green cheese: Then he'l desire nought else, nor greater boon, Then plac'd in heaven, to feed upon the Moon.

On a Maid's Legge.

FAir Betty us'd to tuck her coats up high, That men her foot and leg might soon espy. Thou hast a pretty legg, (saith one) fair Duck. Yea, two, (saith she) or else I have ill luck. They're two indeed, they're twins, I think, quoth he, They are, and yet they are not, Sir, said she; They're birth was both at once, I dare be sworn And yet between them both a man was born.

To his Sister.

LOving sister, every line Of your last Letter, was so fine, With the best mettall, that the grain, Of Scriveners pin-dust had been vain. The touch of gold did sure instill Some vertue, more than did your quill. And since you write no cleanly hand, Your tokens make me understand. Mine eyes have here a remedy, Whereby to read more easily. I do but jest; Your love alone, Is my interpretation, My words I will recall, and swear, I know your hand is wondrous fair.

On the death of Hobson, the Cambridge-Carrier.

HEre Hobson lies, amongst his many bet∣ters, A man not learned, yet of many Letters; The Schollers well can justifie as much, Who have receiv'd them from his pregnant pouch.

His carriage is well known, oft hath he gone An Embassie, 'twixt father and the son. In Cambridge few (in good time be it spoken) But will remember him by some good token. From thence to London rode he day by day, Till death benighting him, he lost his way. Nor wonder is it, that he thus is gone, Since most men know, he long was drawing on. His Team was of the best, nor could he have Them mir'd in any ground, but in the grave; And there he sticks indeed, still like to stand, Untill some Angell lend his helping hand. So rests in peace the ever toiling Swain, And supream Waggoner, next Charls his wain.

Another on the same.

HEre lieth one, who did most truely prove, That he could never die, whilst he could move. So hung his destiny, never to rot, Whilst he could but jogg on, and keep his trot. Made of Sphear mettall, never to decay, Untill his resolution made of stay. Time numbers motion, yet without a crime, 'Gainst old truth, motion numbered out his time.

And like some Engine mov'd, with wheeles and weight, His principles once ceas'd, he ended streight. Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath. For had his doings lasted as they were He had been an immortall Carrier.

Another.

HEre lies old Hobson! Death hath his desire, And here (alasse) hath left him in the mire; Or else the waies being foul, twenty to one, He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. 'Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known, Death was half glad that he had got him down. For he hath any time this ten years full, Dog'dd him 'twixt Cambridge and the London-Bull. And surely death could never have prevail'd, Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd. But lately finding him so long at home, And thinking now his journey's end was come; And that he had tane up his latest Inne, Death in the likenesse of a Chamberlin,

Shew'd him his room, where he must lodge that night, Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light. If any ask for him, it shall be sed, Hobson has supt, and newly gon to bed.

Fr. Clark, Porter of St. Johns, To the President.

HElp Silvanus, help god Pan, To shew my love to this kinde man, Who out of's love and nature good, Hath well encreas'd my store of wood. And whilest he the same peruses, Wood-Nymphs help instead of Muses. Oh thou that sitst at St. Iohns helm, I humbly thank thee for my Elme; Or if it chance an Oak to prove, With heart of Oak I thank your love. This Tree (to leave all Ovid's fables) Shall be the Tree of Predicables. Or if you like not that opinion, The kindred Tree of great Iustinian. Thus finer Wits may run upon't, But I do mean to make fire on't: By which I'le sit and sing, in spight of wealth, And drink in Lambs-wool to your Wor∣ship's health.

An Epitaph.

HEre underneath this stone doth lie, That worthy Knight, brave Sir Iohn Drie; At whose funerall there was no weeping, He dy'd before Christmas, to save house-kee∣ping.

A Wife.

A Lusty young Wife, that of late was sped, With all the pleasures of a marriage-bed, Oft a grave Doctor ask'd, whether's more right For Venus sports, the morning or the night. The good old man reply'd, as he thought meet, The morn's more wholsom, but the night more sweet. Nay then (said she) since we have time and leasure, We'l to't each morn for health, each night for pleasure.

The constant man.

HE that with frownes is not dejected, Nor with soothing smiles erected;

Nor at the baits of pleasure biteth, He whom no thoughts nor crosse affrighteth But, center to himself, controleth, Change and fortune when she rouleth. Who when the silent night begins, Makes even reckoning with his sinns: Who not deferreth till to morrow, To wipe out his black scores of sorrow. Who sets hell-pains at six and seven, And feareth not the fall of heaven. But's full resolv'd without denyall, To yield his life to any tryall; Making his death his meditation, And longing for his transmigration. This is the constant man, who never From himself, nor God doth sever.

To his Mistris.

COme let's hug and kisse each other, Sacrificing to Love's mother: These are duties which she loves, More then thousand milky Doves Fresh bleeding on her altars. We Will not use our piety In such slaughters. Cruelty Is no devotion, nor can I Believe, that she can pleasure take In blood, unlesse for Mars his sake.

No: Let us to Cythera's Queen, Burn for sacrifice our green, And tender youth, with those divine Flames, which thine eyes begot of mine. And lest the while our zeal catch cold, In warm embraces we'l enfold Each other, to produce a heat. Thus pleasing her, we pleasure get. Then let's kisse and hugg each other, Sacrificing to Lov's mother.

Swearing.

IN elder times, an antient custom was, In weighty matters to swear by the Masse. And when the Mass was down, as all men note, Then swore they by the crosse of the grey Groat. And when the crosse was likewise held in scorn, Then faith and troth was all the oath was sworn. But when they had out-worn both faith and troth, Then, Dam my soul, became a common oath. So custom kept decorum in gradation: Mass, cross, faith, troth out-sworn, then came damnation.

On a good Legg and Foot.

IF Hercules tall stature might be guess'd But by his thumb, the Index of the rest, In due proportion, the best rule that I Would chuse, to measure Venus beauty by, Should be her leg and foot: Why gaze we so On th'upper parts, as proud to look below, (In chusing Wives) when 'tis too often known, The colours of their face are not their own. As for their legs, whether they mince or stride, Those native compasses are seldom wide Oftelling truth. The round and slender foot, Is a prov'd token of a secret note, Of hidden parts, and well this way may lead, Unto the closet of a mayden-head. Here emblems of our youth, we Roses tie; And here the Garter, love's dear mystery. For want of beauty here, the Peacock's pride, Let's fall her train, and fearing to bespy'd, Shuts up her painted witnesses, to let Those eyes from view, which are but coun∣terfeit. Who looks not if this part be good or evill, May meet with cloven feet, and match the de∣vill. For this did make the difference between

The more unhallowed creatures, and the clean. Well may you judge her other parts are light, Her thoughts are wry that doth not tread a∣right. But then ther's true perfection, when we see, Those parts more absolute which hidden be. Nature ne're lent a fair foundation, For an unworthy frame to rest thereon. Let others view the top, and limbs through∣out, The deeper knowledge is to know the root. In viewing of the face, the weakest know What beauty is, the learned look more low: And in the feet the other parts descry, As in a pool the Moon we use to spy. Pardon, sweet-heart, the pride of my desire, If but to kisse your toe it should aspire.

Upon the view of his Mistresse face in a Glasse.

AH cruel Glasse•…•… didst thou not see, Chloris alone too hard for me? Perceiv'dst thou not her charming sight, Did ravish mine in cruell fight? But then another she must frame, Whose single forces well might tame

A lovers heart; no humane one, Is proof against her force alone. Yet did I venture, though struck mute, The beauteous vision to salute. But that like aire in figur'd charms, Deceiv'd the ambush of my arms. 'Twas some wise Angel her shape took, That so he might more heavenly look. I her old captive, now do yield Her shaddowed self another field: By such odds overcome, to die, Is no dishonoured victory.

On Bond the Userer.

HEre lyes a Bond under this tombe, Seald and deliver'd to, god knows whom.

To the Duke of Buckingham.

WHen I can pay my Parents, or my King' For life, or peace, or any dearer thing, Then, dearest Lord, expect my debt to you Shall be as truly paid, as it is due. But as no other price or recompence Serves them, but love, and my obedience. So nothing payes my Lord, but whats above The reach of hands, his vertue, and my love.

For when as goodness doth so overflowe, The conscience binds not to restore but owe, Requitall were presumpt•…•…n, and you may, Call mee ungratefull, when I strive to pay. Nor with this morall lesson do I shift Like one that meant to save a better g•…•…ift. Like very poor or connterfeit poor men, Who to preserve their Turky or their hen Do offer up themselves. No, I have sent (A kind of guift, will last by being spent) Thanks-starling, farr above the bullion rate Of horses, hangings, jewells, coyne, or plate. Oh you that should in choosing of your owne, Know a true Diamond from a Bristow stone, You that do know they are not allwayes best In their intent, that lowdest do portest But that a prayer from the Convocation, Is better than the Commons protestation, Trust them that at your feet their lives will lay And know no arts but to performe and pray Whilst they that buy perferment without praying Begin with bribes, and finish with betraying.

The Gentlemans verses before he Killed himselfe.

HAst Night unto thy Center, are thy winges Rul'd by the course of dull clockt plum∣metings?

If so, mount on my thoughts, & wee'le exceed All time that's past t'gain midnight with ou•…•… speed The day more favourable hasted on And by its death sent mee instruction To make thy darknesse tombe my life, let then Thy wonted houres seize on the eyes of men Make them imagine by their sleepe, what I Must truly act, let each starr veyle his Eye With masques of mourninge clowdes: me∣thinkes the owles Prodigious summons strike me, and she houles My Epicedium, with whose tragick quill Ile pencill in this map my haplesse ill. Caus'd first by her, whose fowle apostacy In love for ever brand her; and when I Am dead, deare paper (my minds heire) convey This epitaph unto her veiwe, and pray Her to inscribe it on my tombe. Here lyes One murthered by a womans perjuryes Who from the time, she scorn'd him, scorn'd to live No rivall shall him of his death deprive.

A Song in commendation of Musicke.

WHen whispering straines doe softly steale With creeping passion through the heart And when at every touch wee feel Our pulses beat and beare a part When threads can make A hart string quake Philosophy Can scarce denye The soule consists of harmony.

When unto heavenly joyes we feigne What ere the soul affecteth most Which only thus we can explaine By musick of the winged host. Whose layes wee thinke Make starrs to winke Philosophy Cannot deny Our soule consists of harmony. O lull mee, lull mee, charminge ayr My senses rockt with wonder sweet Like snow on wooll, thy fallings are Soft, like a spirit, are thy feet Greife who need feare That hath an eare Downe let him lye

And slumbring dye And change his soule for harmony.

A Dialogue betwixt Cupid and a Country-Swaine.

AS Cupid tooke his bow and bolt Some birding-sport to find; He lightt upon a shepheards swaine That was some good mans hinde.

Swa.

Well met faire Boy, what sport abroad It is a goodly day: The birds will sitt this frosty morne You cannot choose but slay. Gods-ouches look, your eyes are out You will not bird I trow: Alas goe home or else I thinke The birds will laugh at you.

Cup.

Why man thou dost deceave thy selfe Or else my mother lyes Who sayd that though that I were blind My arrowes yet had eyes.

Swa.

Why then thy mother is a voole And thou art but an elfe, To let thy arrowes to have eyes And goe with out thy selfe,

Cup.

Not, so Sir Swaine, but hold thy prate, If I do take a shaft

Ile make thee know what I can do (At this the young Swain laught:) Then angry Cupid drew his bow

Swa.

For Gods sake kill mee not.

Cup.

Ile make thy lither liver ake

Swa.

Nay Ide be loth of that. The singing arrow hit the marke And pierc'd his silly soule You might see by his hollow eyes Where love had made a hole. And so the Swain went bleeding home, To stay it was no boot: And found that he could see to hit, That could not see to shoot.

Sighes.

O Tell mee, tell, thou god of winde In all thy cavernes canst thou find A vapor, flame, a gale or blast Like to a sigh which love doth cast? Can any whirle-wind in thy vault Plough up Earths breath with like assault. Goe Wind and blow then where thou please Yea breathlesse leave mee to my ease.

If thou bee'st wind, O then refrain From wracking me whilst I complain;

If thou bee'st wind, then leight thou art And yet how heavy is my heart? If thou bee'st wind, then purge thy way Let care, that cloggs thy force, obey, Goe wind and blowe, &c.

These blasts of sighing raised are By th'influence of my bright starre; The AEolus from whence they came Is love that straines to blow the same: The angry Sway of whose behest Makes hearth and bellowes of one brest. Go wind and blowe, &c.

Know t'is a wind that longs to blow Upon my Saint where ere she goe, And stealing through her fanne it beares Soft errands to her lipps and eares, And then perhaps a passage makes Downe to the heart when breath she takes. Goe wind and blow, &c.

Yea gentle gale, try it againe, Oh do not passe from me in vaine; Go mingle with her soul divine Engendring spirits like to mine: Yea take my soul along with thee To work a stronger Sympathy. Goe wind and blow, &c.

My soul before the grosser part Thus to her heaven should depart, And when my body cannot lie On wings of wind, she soone shall flye; Though not one soul our bodies joyne, Our bodies shall our soules combine. Goe wind and blow thou where thou please, Yea breathlesse leave me to my ease.

Weomen.

WEomen are borne in Wilsheire, Brought up in Cumberland. Lead their lives in Bedfordsheire Bring their husbands to Buckingame And dye in Shrewsbury.

On a dissemble•…•….

COuld any show where Pl•…•…es people dwell Whose head stand in their brests, who cannot tell, A smoothinge lye, because their open heart And lipps are joyned so neere. I would depart As quicke as thought, and there forget the wrongs Which I have sufferd by deceitfull tongues. I would depart, where soules departed bee

Which being freed from clowdy flesh, can see Each other so immediately, so cleare, That none need tongues to speak nor eares to heare: Were tongues intended to expresse the soul And can wee better do with none at all? Where words first made our meanings to re∣veale? And as they us'd our meaning to conceale; The ayre by which we breathe, will that turne fogg? Or breath turne mist; will that become a Clogg Which should unload the mind? fall wee upon Another Babells Sub-confusion? And in the selfe same language must wee find, A diverse faction of the wordes and mind? Dull as I am, that hug such empty aire, And never markt the deeds, (a phrase more faire More trusty and univocall) joyne well, Three or foure actions wee may quickly spell A hollow heart; if these no sight will lend, Read the whole sentence and observe the end. I wil not waite so long: the guilty man (On whom I ground my speech) no longer can Delude my sense, nor can the gracefull art Of kind dissembling, button up his heart. His well-spoke wrongs, are such as hurtful •…•…ords Writ in a comely hand, or bloody swords, Sheathd up in velvet, if he draw on mee My armour proof is incredulity.

To a Freind.

LIke as the hand which hath bin usd to play One lesson long, still runs the usuall way: And waites not what the •…•…earers bid it strike, But doth presume by custome this will like. So run my thoughts which are so perfect grown, So well acquainted with my passion; That now they do prevent mee with their haste And ere I think to sigh, my sigh is past; Is past and flown to you, for you alone Are all the object that I think upon; And did not you supply my soul with thought For want of action it to none were brought. What though our absent armes may not enfold Reall embraces; yet wee firmly hold Each other in possession; thus wee see The Lord enjoyes his Lands where e're he be. If Knights possest no more then where they sate What were they greater then a meaner state? This makes mee firmly yours, you firmly myne That something more than bodies us combine.

A Poeticall Poem, by Mr. Stephen Locket to Mistrisse Bess Sarney.

TO my Bess Sarney, quintessence of beauty, I Steven Locket do present my duty.

In rythem daigne goddess to accept my verses, I wis with worse wise men have wip't their A— O thou which able art to take to taske all (Pox! what will rythme to that?) oh, I'me a raskall, But I'me turnd poet late, and for thy credit, Have pend this poem, prethee tak't and read it. Thou needs not be asham'd of't, for it raises Trophyes as high as maypoles to thy prayses. But first in order it thy head doth handle That's more orbicular than a quadrangle. On top of which doth grow a Turst of tresses Winter her selfe, rayd in her hoary dresses Of frost, lookes not more lovely; thy browes truly Have larger furrowes, than a feild ploughed newly. Thy eyes, ha eyes (Zounds I'am so full of clin∣ches) Are not sunck in thy head above sixe inches; From which distraining gently, there doth streame Rivers of whey, mixed with curdled creame. Straight as a Rams horne is thy nose, more marrow Lyes in thy nostrills, than would fill a barrow. And at your lip to mak't more ornamentall, Hangs down a jewell of S—Orientall. The bright gold & thy face are of one colour,

But if compar'd with thine, that is the duller. Thy lips are white as tallow, never man did Buss sweeter things, (sure they are sugar∣candid.) Thy teeth more comely than two dirty rakes are, Thy breath is stronger than a douzen j•…•…kes are. A fa•…•…t for all perfumes, a turd for roses Smell men but thee, they wish them selves all n•…•…ses. Thy voyce as sweet, as musicall, as fine is, As any phlegmy Hagg's, that ninty nine is. And when thou speakst, (as if th'had bin the wonder Of women kind) thy tongu's as still as thun∣der But oh thy shoulders large; 'tis six to seven, Should Atla's faile, but thou wouldst beare up heaven. Thou dost excell, I warrant thee for a button, Hercules and Cacus too, that stole mutton. About the wast, there thou art three times ful∣ler, Then was the Wadham G•…•…ragantuan Buller. Thy buttock and thy fashion are so all one, That I'de a swore thou hadst a Fardingall on Thy leggs are Badg•…•…t like, and goe as even, As do Iambick verses or I Steven, And now I'm come unto thy feet, where I do Prostrate my selfe, with reverence to thy shoo,

Which for antiquity ne're a jot behind is. Tom Coriats, that travell'd both the Indies. For thy sweet sake, I will go down to Pluto, And in thy quarrel beat him black & blew too; And lest Sr Cerberus should be too lusty, I have a loafe will hold him play, 'tis crusty. I'le bring the Dev'll back with me in a snaffle, For in that kind I scorne to take a baffle. And so I take my leave; prithee sweet Thum∣kin, Hold up thy coats, that I may kisse thy bumkin.

Thanks for a welcome.

FOr your good looks, and for your Claret For often bidding, Do not spare it; For tossing glasses to the top, And after sucking of a drop, When scarce a drop was left behind, Or what doth nickname wine e'vn wind: For healthfull mirth and lusty Sherry, Such as made grave old Cato merry; Such are our thanks that you may have In bloud the Claret that you gave. And in your service shall be spent The spirits which your Sack hath lent.

To Phillis.

FYe on this Courtly life, full of displeasure Where neither frownes nor smiles keepe any measure, But every passion governs in extremes, True love and faith from hence falshod doth banish: And vowes of friendship here like vapours vanish, Loyalty's counted but a dreame, Inconstant favours like rivers gliding, Truth is despis'd Whilst flatterie's priz'd, Poore vertue here hath no certaine abi∣ding. Then let's no longer stay, my fairest Phillis, But let us fly from hence where so much ill is; Into some some desert place there to abide True love shall go with us and faith unfained Pure thoughts, embraces chaste, and vowes un∣stain'd. Vertue her selfe shall ever be our guide, In Cottage poore where neither frowning fortune, Nor change of fate Can once abate, Our sweet content, or peace at all im∣portune.

There will we drive our flocks from hills and vallies, And whilst they feeding are, wee'l sit & dally; And thy sweet voyce to sing birds shall invite Whilst I with roses, violets, and lillies Will flowry garlands make to crown my Phil∣lis. Or numbred verses to thy praise indite And when the Sun is Westwardly decli∣ning, Our flocks and we, Will home wards flee And rest our selves untill the Suns next shining.

Women.

ONce I must confesse I loved And expected love againe, But so often as I proved My expectance was in vaine.

Women joy to be attempted, And do glory when they see Themselves from loves force exempted, And that men captived bee.

If they love, they can conceale it, And dissemble when they please, When as men will straight reveale it And make known their hearts disease.

Men must beg and crave their favour, Making many an idle vow; Whilst they froward in behaviour, Faine would yeild, but know not how.

Sweet stolne-sport to them is gratefull, And in heart they wish to have it; Yet they do account it hatefull Upon any termes to crave it.

But would men not goe about it But leave off at all to woe, Ere they would be long without it, They would beg and crave it too.

The World.

WHether men do laugh or weep, Whether they doe wake or sleep, Whether they feele heat or cold, Whether they be young or old; There is underneath the Sun Nothing in true earnest done.

All our pride is but a jest, None are worst and none are best; Greife and joy, and hope and feare, Play their pageants every where; Vaine opinion all doth sway And the world is but a play. Powers above in clouds doth sit, Marking our poore apish wit, That so lamely without state, Their high glory imitate. No ill can be felt but paine, And that happy men disdaine.

On his absent Mistresse.

ABsence, heare thou my protestation Against thy strength, Distance and length; Do what thou canst for alteration: For hearts where love's refin'd Are absent joyn'd, by tyme combin'd.

Who loves but where the Graces be, His mind hath found Affectious ground Beyond time place mortality, That heart that cannot varie, Absence is present tyme doth carry.

By absence this good meane I gaine That I can catch her, Where none can watch her, In some close corner of my brain, There I embrace her, and there kisse her And so enjoy her, and so misse her.

The Constant Lover.

I Know as well as you, shee is not faire, Nor hath she sparkling eyes or curled haire; Nor can shee brag of vertue or of truth, Or any thing about her save her youth. Shee is woman too, and to no End I know, I verses write and letters send: And nought I doe can to compassion move her Al this I know, yet cannot choose but love her. Yet am not blind as you and others bee; Who think and sweare they littile Cupid see Play in their Mistris eyes, and that there dwell Roses on cheekes, and that her brest excell The whitest snow, as if that love were built On fading red and white' the bodies quilt. And that I cannot love unless I tell Wherein or on what part my love doth dwell. Vaine Hereticks you bee, for I love more Then ever any did that told wherefore: Then trouble mee no more, nor tell mee why, Tis! because shee is shee, and I am I:

The Irish Beggar.

I Pray you save poore Irish knave, A hone a hone Round about the towne throughout Is poore Shone gone, Master to find, Loving and kinde But Shone to his mind's Neare the neere, Poore Shone can find none heere Which makes him cry for feare, A hone a hone.

Sh•…•…n being poore, his feet being sore, For which heele no more Trot about, To find Master out, He had radir go without And cry a hone, I was so curst that I was forc't A hone a hone.

To goe bare foot and strips to boot And no shooes, none, None English could I speake, My mind for to breake, And many laught to heare the moane I made, I like a tyred jade, That had no worke or trade, Cryed, a hone a hone.

In stead of breakfast, Was faine runn a pace To gett more stomach to my hungry throate, And when for freind I sought, They calld me all to nought, A hone a hone.

For Ladyes sake some pitty take; A hone a hone. I serv'd a lasse where was no masse No faith none; Oft was I beat 'cause Ide not eat, On frydayes, beefe and meat, Twice a day, And when I went to pray, Tooke holy bead away; A hone a hone.

Make Church to go Whether will or no Ile dye, or I doe so, Grace a Christ, Poor Shone loves Popish Preist, Good Catholick thou seest. A hone a hone.

Answer.

I prithee Shone make no more mone For thy Mr lost. I doe intend something to spend,, On Catholicks thus Crost. Take this small guift, And with it make a shift; And bee not thou bereft of thy minde, All though hee be unkind; To leave thee thus behind To cry a hone.

Buy thee some beere, And then some good cheere, There's nought for thee too deare; What ere ensue Be constant still and true, Thy country do not rue Nor cry a hone.

Shone Good shentry men that do intend To helpe poore Shone at's need Mine patron •…•…eer hath given mee beere And meat whereon to feed, Yea and money too And so I hope that you, VVill do as he did do for my reliefe, To ease my paine and greife; Ile eat no powdred beefe; VVhat ere ensue

Ile keep my fast As in times past, And all my prayers and vowes I will renew Cause friends I find but few, Poore Shone will still prove true, And so adieu.

A Question.

I aske thee whence those ashes were Which shrine themselves in plaits of haire? Unknown to me, sure each morne dyes. A Phoenix for a sacrifice.

I aske whence are those aires that flye From birds in sweetest harmony? Unknown to me, but sure the choice Of accents ecchoed from her voice.

I aske thee whence those active fires Take light which glide through burnisht aire? Unknown to me, unlesse there flyes A flash of lightning from her eyes.

I aske thee whence those ruddy bloomes Pierce on her cheekes on scarlet gownes? Unknowne to me? Sure that which flyes From fading roses, her cheek dyes.

Ile ask thee of the lilly, whence It gaind that type of innocence? Unknowne to me, sure natures deck•…•… Was ravish'd from her snowie necke.

The Reply.

ASke me no more, whither do stray The golden atomes of the day; For in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders, to enrich your haire.

Aske me no more whither doth haste The nightingal when summer's past; For in your sweet devided throat She winters, and keepes warme her noate.

Aske me no more where those starres light VVhich downewards stoop in dead of night; For in your eyes they sett; and there Fixed become, as in their spheare.

Aske me no more where Iove bestowes, When Iune is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties Orient deep, All flowers as in their bedds do sleep.

Aske me no more if East or West, The Phoenix builds her spiced nest; For unto you at last she flyes, And in your fragrant bosome dyes.

The Mock-Song.

I Tell you true, whereon doth light The dusky shade of banisht night, For in just vengeance heavens allow It still should shine upon your brow.

I tell you true where men may seek The sound which once the owle did shreek, For in your false deviding throat It lyes, and death is in its noate.

I tell you true whither do passe The siniling look out of a glasse; It leapes into your face, for there A falser shadow doth appeare.

Ile tell you true whither are blowne The airy wheeles of Thistle down, They fly into your mind, whose care Is to be light as thistles are.

I tell you true within what nest The stranger Cuckoe's eggs do rest, It is your bosome which can keepe Nor him, nor him, where one should sleepe.

The Moderatix.

ILe tell you where another sun That setts, as riseing it begun. It is my selfe who keepes one spheare And were the same if men so were.

What need I tell, that life and death, May passe in sentence from one breath; So issue from my equall heart Both love and scorn for mens desert.

Ile tell you in what heavenly hell An Angell and a friend may dwell: It is myne eye whose glassy book Sends back the gazers divers look.

Ile tell you in a divers scale One weight can up and downewards hale: You call me thistle, you a rose; I neither am, yet both of those.

Ile tell you where both frost and fire In peace of common feat conspire;

My frozen brest that flint is like, Yet yeilds a fire if you will strike.

Then you that love, and you that loath. With one aspect I answer both; For round about me glowes a fire, Can melt and harden grosse desire.

The affirmative answer.

OH no, heaven saw mens fancyes stray To idolize but dust and clay; That embleme gave that they might see, Your beautye's date but dust must bee.

No Philomel when summers gon Hasts to the wood her rape to moane; (Unwilling hers) a shamd to see Your (unlike hers) unchastity.

Oh no, those starrs flye but the sight Of what you act in dead of night, A shamd themselves should Pandars prove In your unsatiate beastly love.

Oh no, that rose when Iune is past Lookes pale as with a poysonous blast; And such your beauty, when as time Like winter shall oretake your prime.

Oh no the Phoenix shuns the place, And feares the lustfull fires t'embrace, Of your hot brest and barren wombe, As death or some perpetuall tombe.

A discourse between a Poet and a Painter.

Poet.

PAinter, I p•…•…ithee pencill to the life The woman thou wouldst willingly call wife, Fashion her from the head unto the heel, So perfect that but gazing thou mayst feel Pigmaleons passion: colour her faire haire, Like amber, or to something else more rare, Temper a white shall passe Pyrenean snow, To raise her temples, and on it bestow Such artificiall azure, that the Eye, May make the heart beleeve the ma•…•…ble skye, To perfect her had melted in soft raines, Lending a blew to brauuch her swelling veines, Then Painter, to come lower, her sweet chin, I would have small and white, not much trench'd in; Nor alltogether plain, but such an one The nicest thought may judge equall to none. Her nose I would have comely, not too high, Though men call it, in Physiognomy,

A type of honour; nor too low▪ f•…•…r then They I say, sh•…•…'s known (God knowes) how many men; Nor broad, nor flat, that's the hard favour'd mould: Nor thin, nor sharp, for then they'le call her scold. Apparrell it in such a speaking grace, That men may read Majesty in her face. Her lipps a paire of blushing twinnes so red, Nice fancy may depart away full fed. But, Painter, when thou com•…•…st unto her eye, There let thy Pencill play; there cunningly Expresse thy selfe, for as at feasts▪ so here The dainties I keep last to crown the cheer. Make her eye Love•…•… •…•…veet argument, a look That may discourse▪ make it a well w•…•…it book, Whereas in faire set 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of art, Men there may read the story of her heart. Whiter than white, if you would po•…•…rtray ought, Display her neck cure as the purest thought. To make her gratious give her a broad brest Topt with two milkie mountains; down her chest. Between those hills let Loves sweet vally lye, The pleasing thraldome of a Love-sick eye. Still, Painter, to fall lower paint her waste Straight as the Cedar, or the Norway Mast, To take a modest step, let men but guesse By her neat foot a hidden handsomnesse.

Thus, Paint•…•…r, I would have her in each part, Remaine unmatcht by nature or by art. Canst thou doe this?

Pa•…•…nter.

—Yes Sir, Ile draw a feature, You shall conclude that art hath out-done nature, The Pencill Sir, shall force you to confesse, It can more lively than your pen expresse.

Poet.

That by this then let me find, To this body draw a mind; O Painter, to your pencill fall, And draw me something rationall: Give her thoughts, serious, secure, Holy, chaste, religious, pure. From vertue never known to start, Make her an understanding heart. Seat the Graces in her mind, A well taught truth, a faith refin'd From doubts and jelousies; and give Unto her heart a hope may live Longer then time, untill it be Perfected by Eternity. Give her an honest loving mind, Neither too coy, nor yet too kind: But let her equall thoughts so raise her, Loose thoughts may f•…•…are, and the chast praise her. Then, Painter, next observe this rule, A principle in Apelles Schoole;

Leave not too much space between Her tongue and heart, 'tis seldome seen That such tell truth; but let there be, Between them both a sympathy: For she whose tongue and heart keep even In every syllable, courts heaven: If otherwise, this maxim know, False above's not true below. Thus mind and body let her be all over, A golden text bound in a golden cover. Canst thou doe this?

Painter.

—But Sir, 'Is't your intent I should draw her in both parts excellent?

Poet.

It is.

Paint.

Then in plain words, not in dark sense to lurk, Find you the woman; and 'Ile fall to work.

To B. R. for her Bracelets.

TIs not (Deare Love) that Amber twist Which circles round thy captive wrist, Can have the power to make me more Your pris'ner then I was before. Though I that bracelet dearer hold, Than Misers would a chaine of gold. Yet this but tyes my outward part, Heart-strings alone can tye my heart.

'Tis not that soft and silken 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Your hands did unto mine bequeath; Can bind with halfe so powerfull charmes, As the Embraces of your armes; Although not iron bands (my faire) Can bind more fiercely than your •…•…aire. Yet that will chaine me most will be, Your heart in True Love's-knot to me.

Tis not those beams, your haires, nor all Your glorious out-side doth me thrall; Although your lookes have force enough To make the stateliest Tyrants bow: Nor any angell could deny, Your person his idolatry. Yet I do not so much adore The temple, but the goddesse more.

If then my soul you would confine To prison, tye your heart to mine; Your noble vertues, constant love, The only powerfull chaines will prove; To bind me ever, such as those The hands of death shall ne're unloose. Untill I such a prisoner be No liberty can make me free.

On Tom Holland and Nell Cotton.

A Light young man lay with a lighter woman, And did request their things might bee in common; And gave her (when her good will he had got∣ten, A yard of Holland for an ell of Cotton.

A We lchman.

JEnkin a welchman having suites in law Journying to London chance to steal a Cow; For which (pox on her luck as ere man saw) VVas burnt with in the fist, her know not how. Being ask'd how well the case did with him stand Wee's have her now (quoth Ienkin) in her hand.

A Woman that scratcht her Husband.

A VVoman lately fiercely did assail Her husband with sharp speech, but sharper nail; On that stood by and saw her, to her sed Why do you use him so? he is your head. He is my head (quoth she) indeed tis true, I do but scratch my head, and so may you.

A Mistris.

HEr for a Mistris, would I faine enjoy, That hangs the lipp and pouts for every toy: Speakes like a wag, is bold, dares boldly stand And bid love welcome with a wanton hand. Laughs lowd, and for one blow will give you three And when shee's stabbd, will fall a kissing me. If shee be modest wise and chast of life, Hang her shee's good for nothing but a wife.

One fighting with his wife.

MEg and her husband Tom, not long agoe, VVere at it close, exchanging blow for blow. Both being eager, both of a stout heart, Endured many a bang ere they would part. Peter lookt on & would not stint the strife, He's curst (quoth he) that parteth man and wife.

Ambition.

THe whistling windes me-thinkes do wit∣nesse this, No greif so great as to have liv'd in blisse.

Then only this poore plain song will I sing. I was not borne, nor shall I dye a King. To leape at honour is a daungerous case, See but the gudgeons they will bite a pace. Untill the fatall hook be swallowed downe, Wherewith ambition angles for a crowne: Then be content and let the baite passe by, He hath enough that lives contentedly. But if thou must advancement have, then see This is the way thou must advanced be. True temporizing is the meanes to climbe There is no musick without keeping time.

Upon a Gardiner.

COuld he forget his death? that every houre Was emblem'd to it by the fading flowre: Should he not mind his end? yes needshe must, That still was conversant'mongst bedds of dust. Then let no on yon in an handchercher Tempt your sad eyes unto a needlesse feare; If he that thinkes on death well lives & dyes, The gardner sure is gon to paradise.

On his first Love.

MY first love whom all beautyes did ado•…•… Fireing my heart, supprest it with her scorn. And since like tynder in my heart it lyes By every sparkle made a sacrifice. Each wanton eye now kindleth my desire And that is free to all which was entire. For now my wandring thoughts are not con∣fin'd Unto one woman, but to woman-kind. This for her shape I love, that for her face, This for her gesture, or som other grace: And somtimes when I none of these can find I chuse her by the kernell not the rinde. And so do hope though my cheife hope is gone To find in many what I lost in one. And like to merchants which have some great losse Trade by retayle which cannot do in grosse. She is in fault, which caus'd me first to stray Needs must he wander, who hath lost his way▪ Guiltlesse I am, she did the change provoke, Which made that charcole which at first was ok•…•… For as a looking glasse to the aspect, Whilst it was whole doth but one face reflect; But crac•…•… or broak in peeces, there is shown•…•… Many lesse faces, where was first but one. So-love unto my heart did first preferre Her image, and there planted none but her:

But when twas crackt & martyrd by her scorne Many lesse faces in her seat were borne, Thus like to tinder I am prone to catch Each falling sparkle, fit for any match.

To his Mistris.

I Will not doe sacrifice To thy face, or to thy eyes Nor unto thy lilly palme Nor thy breath that wounding balme: But the part To which my heart In vowes is sealed, Is that mine Of blisse divine Which is concealed. Whats the golden fruit to me So I may not shake the tree? What's that golden architecture If I may not touch the nectar? Bare enjoying all the rest Is but like a golden feast, Which at need, Can never feed Our love sick-wishes Let me eate, Substantiall meat, Not view the dishes.

To his letter.

FLy paper, kisse those hands Whence I am bard of late: She quickly will unloose thy bands, O wish me thine estate.

Appeare unto her eyes Though they do burne to fumes: For happy is the sacrifice, Which heaven-fire consumes.

Yet ev'n with this depart With a soft dying breath, Whisper the truths into her heart, And take them on thy death.

Tell her thou canst not now New oathes or give or take, Or to repeat the former vow Wee did each other make.

Say thou cam'st to complain But not of love, nor her But on my fortune being faine Thus absent to conferre.

When thou hast offer'd this Perhaps then for thy payne, She will inpart to thee a kisse And read the ore againe.

Perhaps when form my sake, Her lipps have made thee blest, That so embalmd •…•…hee, she will make Thy grave within her brest.

Oh never then desire To rise from such a roome: Who would not leave his life t'aspire In death to such a tombe.

And in these joyes excesse, Melt, languish, faint, and dye▪ For might I have so good accesse To her, ev'n so would I.

An Epitaph upon Hurry the Taylor.

WIthin this tombe is honest Hurry layd, Who in good fashion liv'd, good fashion dy'd. T'is strange that death so soon cut off his thread Som say his end not full done, he was dead.

But here the knot is, and I thus it scann He took a yard, whose due was but a spann. How er•…•… hee's happy, and I know full well He's now in heaven since here he had his hell.

Scylla toothlesse.

SCylla is toouthlesse; yet when she was young, She had both tooth enough, and too much tongue: What should I now of toothlesse Scylla say? But that her tongue hath worne her teeth away.

AVicar.

AN honest Vicar riding by the way, Not knowing better how to spend the day Did sing unto himself Genevaes psalmes; A blind man hearing him straight askt an almes To whom (quoth he) with coine I cannot part, But god bless thee good man with all my heart, O said the man the greater is my losse, When such as you do blesse without a crosse.

On a Ribband.

THis silken wreath that circles-in my arms Is but an emblem of your mystick charmes; Wherewith the magick of your beauty binds My Captive soule, and round about it winds;

Time may weare out these soft weak bands, but those: Strong chaines of brasse fate shall not discom∣pose This holy relique may preserve my wrist, But my whole frame by th'other doth subsist: To that my prayers and sacrifice, to this I only pay a superstitious kisse. This but the idoll, that the deity; Religion there is due, here ceremony. That I receive by faith, this but in trust; Here I may •…•…ender duty, ther•…•… I must: This other like a layman I may bear But I become loves preist when that I weare; This moves like ayre, that as the center stands, That knot your vertue •…•…yes, this but your hands. That nature fram'd, but this is made by art This makes my arme your prisoner, that my heart.

To a Gentlewoman, desiring a copie of Verses.

FAire Madam, cast those Diamonds away, What need their torchlight in so bright a day: These show within your beauties glorious noon

No more than spangles fixed in the moon: Such jewells then the truest lustre beare When they hang dangling in an Aethiop's eare But placed neere a beauty, thats so bright Like starres in day-time they are lost from sight In this you do your sex a great abuse, These are not pretious stemmes for womens use. Nature to men hath better jewells sent, Which serve for active use not ornament. Then let us make exchange, since that those be Fitter for you, and these more fit for me.

On Dr. Corbett's Marriage.

COme all yee Muses and rejoyce, At our Apolloes happy choice. Phoebus has conquer'd Cupids charme, Fair Daphne f•…•…yes into his arme. If Daphne be a tree, then marke, Apollo is become the barke. If Daphne be a branch of bay, He weares her for a crowne to day: O happy bridegrome which dost wed Thy selfe unto a virgins bed. Let thy love burne with hot desire, She l•…•…kes no oyle to feed the fire. You know not poore Pigmaleons lot Nor have you a meere idoll got.

You no Ixion, you no proud Iuno makes imbrace a cloud. Looke how pure Dianaes skin Appeares as it is shadow'd in A crystall streame; or looke what grace, Shines in fair Venus lovely face; Whilst She Adonis courts and woes Such beautyes, yea and more than those, Sparkle in her; see but her soul, And you will judge those beautyes foul. Her rarest beautye is within, She's fairest where she is not seen; Now her perfection's character You have approv'd and chosen her. Oh precious she! at this wedding, The jewell weares the marriage ring. Her understanding's deep, like the Venetian Duke you wedd the sea, A sea deep, bottomelesse, profound, And which none but your selfe may sound. Blind Cupid shot not this love-dart, Your reason chose, and not your heart; You knew her little, and when her Apron was but a muckender, VVhen that same Corrall which doth deck Her lippes, she wore about her neck: You courted her, you woed her not Out of a window; shee was got, And borne your wife; it may be se'd, Her cradle was her marriadge bed.

The ring too was layd up for it Untill her finger was growne fit; You once gave her to play withall A babie, and I hope you shall This day your auncient guift renew, So she will do the same for you: In Virgin wax imprint upon Her brest your owne impression, You may (there is no treason in't,) Coine sterling, now you have a mint. You now are stronger than before, Your side hath in it on ribb more. Before she was a kin to me Only in soul and amity. But now wee are, since shee your bride, In soul and bodye both allyde. T'is this hath made me lesse to doe, And I in one can honour two. This match a riddle may be styld, Two mothers now have but on child; Yet need we not a Salomon Each mother here enjoyes her owne▪ Many there are I know have try'd, To make her their owne lovely bride; But it is Alexanders lot, To cut in twaine the Gordian knot: Claudia to prove that she was chast, Tyed but a girdle to her wast; And drew a ship to Rome by land But now the world may understand;

Here is a Claudia to faire bride, Thy spotlesse innocence is tryed, None but thy girdle could have led, Our Corbet to a marriage bed. Come all ye muses and rejoyce, At this your nursling's happy choyce: Come Flora straw the bridemayds bed And with a garden crowne her head, Or if thy flowers be to seek, Come gather roses at her cheek. Come Hymen light thy torches, let Thy bed with tapers be beset. And if there be no fire by, Come light thy taper at her eye, In that bright eye there dwells a starre, And wisemen by it guided are. In those delicious eyes there be, Two little balls of ivory; How happy is he then that may With these two dainty balls goe play, Let not a teare drop from that eye Unlesse for very joy to cry. O let your joy continue; may A whole age be your wedding day. O happy virgin, it is true, That your deare spouse embraceth you. Then you from heaven are not farre, But sure in Abrahams bosome are, Come all ye muses and rejoyce At our Apollo's happy choice.

Mart. Epigr. 59 lib: 5.

THoul't mend to morrow, thus thou still tell'st me Faine would I know but this, when that will be? Where might a man that bliss-full morning finde, In vast Armenia, or in urmost Inde? This morning comes as slow as Platoes yeare, What might this morning cost (for sure tis deare?) Thoul't mend to morrow: Now's too late; I say He's only wise that mended yesterday.

In Richardum quendam, Divitem, Avarum.

DEvising on a time what name I might Best give unto a dry illiberall chuffe, After long search on his owne name I light, Nay then (said I) No more, I have enough; His name and nature do full well agree For's name is Rich and hard; and so is he.

In Thomam quendam Catharum.

THomas the puritan, cannot abide The name of Christmas, Candlemas, or such

But calls them ever Christide, Candletide, At all to name the masse (forsooth) to much: Thomas by this your rule the sacred font In Baptism must be-wash your limmes againe, And a new name you must receive upon't For superstitious Thomas youl disdaine. Then might I be your god•…•…e, or his guide, Instead of Thomas you shall have Tom-tyde.

Epilogus Incerti Authoris.

LIke to the mowing tone of unspoke speeches, Or like two lobsters clad in logick breeches; Or like the gray fleece of a crimson catt, Or like a moone-calfe in a slippshoo hatt; Or like the shaddow when the sunne is gone, Or like a thought, that nev'r was thought upon, Even such is man who never was begotten, Untill his children were both dead and rotten.

Like to the fiery touch-hole of a cabbage, Or like a crablowse with his bag and baggage. Or like the guilt reflection of the winde, Or like th' abortive issue borne behind, Or like the four square circle of a ring, Or like high downe a ding a ding a ding.

Even such is man who breathlesse without doubt Spake to small purpose when his tongue was out.

Like the fresh colours of a withered Rose Or like a running verse that's writ in prose. Or like the umbles of a tynder box, Or like a sound man, troubled with the pox. Or like to hobbnayles coyn'd in single pence, Lest they should lose their preterperfect∣tence Ev'n such is man who dyed, and yet did laugh, To read these strong lines for his Epitaph.

Notes

• a 1.1

  There began the Utopian accompt of years, Mor: Lib. 1. circa finem.
• b 1.2

  Endimion was a handsome young Welshman, whom one Luce Moone lov'd for his sweet breath; and would never hang off his lips: but he not caring for her, eat a bundance of toasted cheese, purposely to make his breath unsavory; upon which, the lest him presently, and ever since 'tis proverbially spoken [as inconstant as Luce Moone.] The Uatican coppy of Hesiod, reades her name, Mohun, but contractedly it is Moone. Hesiod. lib. 4. tom. 3.
• c 1.3

  For all the Orbes make Musick in their motion, Berosus de sphaera. lib. 3.
• d 1.4

  Atlas was a Porter in Mauritania, and because by reason of his strength, he bore burthens of stupendious weight, the Poëts sain'd, that he carried the Heavens on his shoulders. Cicero. de nat. Deorum. lib. 7.
• e 1.5

  There were two others of these names, Aldermen of Rome. Tit. Liu. hist. lib. 28.
• f 1.6

  AEmathia, is a very faire Common in Northampton∣shire, Strabo. lib. 321.
• g 1.7

  These Myrmidons were Cornish-men, and sent by Bladud, sometimes King of this Realme, to ayd Pompey. Caesar de bello. civili. lib. 14.
• g 1.8

  These Myrmidons were Cornish-men, and sent by Bladud, sometimes King of this Realme, to ayd Pompey. Caesar de bello. civili. lib. 14.
• h 1.9

  It seemes not to be meant by Count Henry, but his brother Maurice, by comparing his picture to the thing here spoken of. Iansen, de praed. lib. 22.
• i 1.10

  Pheander was so modest, that he was called the Maiden Knight; and yet so valiant, that a •…•…rench Cava•…•…eer wrote his life, and called his Book, Pheandir the Mailen Knight. Hon. d'Vrsec. Tom. 45.
• k 1.11

  This seemes not to be that King, that was Son of Amintas, and King of Macedon; but one who it seems was very lascivious: for I suspect there is some obscaene conceit in that word Club in the third verse following besides, marke his violence.
• l 1.12

  Bacchus, was a drunken yeoman of the Guard to Queen Elizabeth, and a great Archer; so that it seemes the Authour mistooke his halbert, for a forke.
• m 1.13

  This was Long-Megg of Westminster, who after this conflict with Phillip, followed him in all his warres. Iustinian. lib. 35.
• n 1.14

  These were Lancashire-men, and sent by King Gorbadug (for this war seemes to have been in the time of the Heptarchy in England) to the aide of Caesar. Caesar. lib. citat. prope finem.
• o 1.15

  And therefore, the herb into which he was tur∣ned, was called Turnsole. Ovid. Metam. lib. 25.
• p 1.16

  Appollo, was Caesars Page, and a Monomatapan by birth, whose name by inversion was Ollopa: which in the old language of that Country, signifies as much as faire youth: but, Euphoniae Gratia, called Apollo, Gor. Bec. lib. 46.
• q 1.17

  Styropes, was a lame Smiths-man dwelling in S. Iohns-street; but how he was called Bright, I know not, except it were by reason of the Luster of his eyes.
• r 1.18

  Holla, mistaken for Apollo.
• s 1.19

  Cervisia (apud Medicos, vinum hordeaceum) potus est Anglis longè charissimus; Inventum Ferrarij Londi∣nensis, Cui nomen Smuggo, Polydor. Virgil, de Invent. rerum. lib. 2.
• t 1.20

  Impp. Germaniae, antiquitus sol•…•…bant, •…•…aris temporibus, adire Basingstochium; ubi, de more, Iusjurandum solenne praestabant, de non viro propinando, praesente muliere: Hic Mos, jamdudum apud Anglos, pene vim legis obtinuit; quippe gens illa, longe humanissima morem istum, in hodiernum usque diem, magna Curiositate, pari Comitate conjuncta, usurpant. Pancirol—utriusque imperij. lib. 6. cap. 5.
• u 1.21

  It seemes this was a great battail, both by the furie of it, & the aydes of each side; but hereof read more, in Cornel. Tacit. lib. de moribus German.
• x 1.22

  This is in imitation of Lucan—Signis Signa, & pila—&c. Pharsali•…•…. lib. 1. in principio.