Philosophicall fancies. Written by the Right Honourable, the Lady Newcastle.

AN ELEGY.

HER Corps was borne to Church on gray Goose wing, Her Sheet was Paper white to lap her in. And Cotten dyed with Inke, her covering black, With Letters for her Scutcheons print in that. Fancies bound up with Verse, a Garland made, And at the head, upon her Hearse was laid. And Numbers ten did beare her to the Grave, The Muses nine a Monument her gave.

I Heare that my First Booke was thought to be none of mine owne Fancies; onely, I owne it with my Name. If any thinke my Booke so well writ, as that I had not the Wit to do it, truely I am glad, for my Wits sake, if I have any that is thought so well of; although Mistrust lies betwixt me, and it; and if it be so little Wit in it, as they mistrust it was not mine; I am glad they thinke me to have so much, as I could not write so foolish. And truely sor any Friend of mine, as I have none so cowardly, that dare not defend their Honour, so I have none so foolish, as to be affear'd, or a∣sham'd to owne their owne Writings. And truely I am so honest, as not to steale anothers Work, and give it my owne Name: nor so vaine-glorious, as to straine to build up a Fame upon the ground of another mans Wit.

But be it bad, or good, it is my owne, Unlesse in Printing tis a Changeling grown. Which sure I have no reason for to doubt, It hath the same mark, when I put it out. But be it faire, or brown, or black, or wilde, I still must own it, 'cause it is my Childe. And should my Neighbours say, tis a dull block, Tis honestly begot, of harmlesse Stock. By Motion in my Braine twas form'd, and bred, By my industrious Study it was fed. And by my busie Pen was cloathd, though plain The Garments be, yet are they without stain. But be it nere so plain, not rich, and gay, Phantasticall tis drest, the World will say. The World thinks all is fine, that's in the Fashion, Though it be old, if fashion'd with Tran∣slation.

They nere consider what becomes them best, But think all Fooles, that are not Courtly drest. O Nature, Nature, why dost thou cre∣ate So many Fooles, and so few wife didst make? Good Nature, move their braine another way, And then as Beasts as Beasts, perchance they may.

LOrd how the World delight to tell a Lye! As if they thought they sav'd a Soule thereby. More lyes they tell, then they will Pray∣ers say, And run about to vent them every way. Some bragging lyes, and then he tells how free The Ladies were, when he's in Compa∣ny. Or else what such a Lord did say to him, And so what answer he return'd to them. Or any Action which great Fame hath won, Then he saies streight, twas by his coun∣sell done. When any Wit, that comes abroad in print, Then he sayes strait he had a finger in't: How he did rectifie, and mend the same, Or else he wrote it all, or gav't a Name. Thus in the World thousands of lyes are told, Which none, but Fooles, their words for truth will hold.

But in the World there are more Fooles then wise, Which makes them passe for Truth, when all are Lyes.

J Begun a Booke about three yeares since, which I intend to name the Worlds Ollio, and when I come into Flaunders where those Papers are, I will, if God give me live, and health, finish it, and send it forth in Print. I imagine all those that have read my former Books, wil say, that I have writ enough, unless they were bet∣ter: but say what you will, it pleaseth me, and since my Delights are harm∣lesse, I will satisfie my Humour.

For had my Braine as many Fan∣cies in't, To fill the World, would put them all in Print. No matter whether they be well exprest, My will is done, and that please Woman best.