Poems, and fancies written by the Right Honourable, the Lady Margaret Newcastle.

POEMS.

Of the Theam of Love.

O Love, how thou art tired out with Rblme! Thou art a Tree whereon all Poets climbe; And from thy branches every one takes some Of thy sweet fruit, which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 feeds upon. But now thy Tree is left so bare, and poor, That they can hardly gather one Plumb more.

The Elysium.

THe Brain is the Elysian fields; and here All Ghosts and Spirits in strong dreams appeare. In gloomy shades sleepy Lovers doe walke, Where soules do entertain themselves with talke. And Heroes their great actions do relate, Telling their Fortunes good, and their sad Fate; What chanc'd to them when they awak'd did live, Their World the light did great Apollo give; And what in life they could a pleasure call, Here in these Fields they passe their time withall. Where Memory, the Ferriman, doth bring New company, which through the Senses swim. The Boat Imagination's alwayes full, Which Charon roweth in the Region 〈◊〉〈◊〉, And in that Region is that River 〈◊〉〈◊〉, There some are dipt, then all things soon forgets. But this Elysium Poets happy call, Where Poets as great Gods do record all. The souls of those that they will choose for blisse, And their sweet number'd verse their pastport is,

But those that strive this happy place to seek, Is but to goe to bed, and fall asleep. Yet what a stir doe Poets make, when they By their wit Mercury those soules convey. But what, cannot the God-head Wit create. Whose Fancies are both Destiny, and Fate, And Fame the thread which long and short they spin, The World as Flax unto their Distaffe bring. This Distaffe spins fine canvas of conceit, Wherein the Sense is woven even, and strait. But if in knots, and snarles intangled be, The thread of Fame doth run unevenly: Those that care not to live in Poets verse, Let them lye dead upon Oblivions Hearse.

A Description of Shepherds, and Shepher∣desses.

THe Shepherdesses which great Flocks doe keep, Are dabl'd high with dew, following their Sheep, Milking their Ewes, their hands doe dirty make; For being wet, dirt from their Duggs doe take. The Sun doth scorch the skin, it yellow growes, Their eyes are red, lips dry with wind that blowes. Their Shepherds sit on mountains top, that's high, Yet on their feeding sheep doe cast an eye; Which to the mounts steep sides they hanging feed On short moyst grasse, not suffer'd to beare seed; Their feet though small, strong are their sinews string, Which make them fast to rocks & mountains cling: The while the Shepherds leggs hang dangling down, And sets his breech upon the hills high crown. Like to a tanned Hide, so was his skin, No melting heat, or numming cold gets in, And with a voyce that's harsh against his throat, He straines to sing, yet knowes not any Note: And yawning, lazie lyes upon his side, Or strait upon his back, with armes spred wide; Or snorting sleeps, and dreames of Joan their Maid,

Or of Hobgoblin wakes, as being afraid. Motion in their dull braines doth plow, and sow, Not Plant, and set, as skilfull Gardners doe. Or takes his Knife new ground, that half was broke, And whittles sticks to pin up his sheep-coat: Or cuts some holes in straw, to Pipe thereon Some tunes that pleaseth Joan his Love at home. Thus rustick Clownes are pleas'd to spend their times, And not as Poets faine, in Sonnets, Rhimes, Making great Kings and Princes Pastures keep, And beauteous Ladies driving flocks of sheep: Dancing 'bout May-poles in a rustick sort, When Ladies scorne to dance without a Court. For they their Loves would hate, if they should come With leather Jerkins, breeches made of Thrum, And Buskings made of Freeze that's course, and strong, With clouted Shooes, tyed with a leather thong. Those that are nicely bred, fine cloaths still love, A white hand sluttish seemes in dirty Glove.

A Shepherds imployment is too meane an Al∣legory for Noble Ladies.

TO cover Noble Lovers in Shepherds weeds, Of high descent, too humble thoughts it breeds: Like Gods, when they to Men descend down low, Take off the reverence, and respect we owe. Then make such persons like faire Nymphs to be, Who're cloath'd with beauty, bred with modesty: Their tresses long hang on their shoulders white, Which when they move, doe give the Gods delight. Their Quiver, Hearts of men, which fast are ty'd, And 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of quick flying eyes beside. Buskings, that's buckl'd close with plates of gold, Which from base wayes their legs with strength doe hold. Men, Champions, Knights, which Honour high doe prize, Above the tempting of alluring eyes, That seeke to kill, or at the least to binde, All evil Passions in a wandring minde.

To take those Castles kept by scandals strong, That have by errours been inchanted long, Destroying monstrous Vice, which Vertues eate, These Lovers worthy are of praises great. So will high Fame aloud those praises sing, Cupid those Lovers shall to Hymen bring, At Honours Altar joyne both hearts and hands, The Gods will seale those Matrimoniall bands.

Between Shame and Dishonour.

DIshonour in the house of Shame doth dwell, The way is broad, and open is as Hell: Yet Porter have, which Basenesse some doe call, And Idlenesse, as usher of the Hall. The house with dark forgetfulnesse is hung, And round about Ingratitude is flung: Boldnesse for Windowes, which out-face the Light, Dissembling as Curtaines drawne with spight: VVith Covetousnesse all gilded are the roofes, The Weather-cock Inconstancy still moves: Pillars of Obstinacies as firmly stands, Carved with Perjury by cunning hands. And Lust on beds of Luxury doe lye, VVhere Chamberlaines of Jealousies out-spy: Gardens of riot, where the wanton walkes, Lascivious Arbours where Obscenenesse talks: Store-houses of Theft ill gotten goods lyes in, A secret doore bolted with a false pin: Bake-house ill Consciences mould, and make False hearts as Oven hot, those hard doe bake: Brew-houses, where ill designes are tunned up, VVith their light Graines, false Measures, and corrupt: Cellars of Drunkennesse, barrels, stomacks made, And mouthes for Taps, where spue for drink out-wades: Kitchens of slander, where good names they burne, Spits of revenge, on which ill deeds doe turne: The Slaughter-roome of horrid Murder built, A Knife of Cruelty, by which bloud is spilt:

In Matrimonial bonds dishonour's linkt With Infamy, which is as black as inke.

The Temple of Honour.

HOnours brave Temple is built both high and wide, VVhose walls are of clear glasse on every side; VVhere actions of all sorts are perfect seen, VVhere Truth as Priest approves, which worthy'st been; And on the Altar of the world them layes, And offers them with sacrificing praise. VVhich offerings are so clean without a speck,* 1.1 As Honours God-head cannot them reject. As pious Tears, with thoughts most chaste and pure, And patient minds afflictions to indure; Wise-mens brains, which bring things to good effect, A helping hand without a bribe suspect; A tongue, which Truth in Eloquence doth dresse, And Lippes, which worthy praises do expresse; Eyes that pry out, and spie examples good, Feet that in wayes of mischiefe never stood; Haire from heads, that shav'd for holy vow, Which as a witnesse, blessing gods allow. Breasts, from whence proceed all good desires, Which lock up secrets, if that need requires; And hearts, from whence clear springs of love do rise, Where loyall courage in the bottome lyes. Besides here's spleen's, which never malice bore, And shoulders, with distressed burthens wore. An humble knee, that bows to ruling powers, And hands of Bounty, which on misery showers. Kings Crowns, which rul'd with Justice, Love, and Peace, VVhose power serv'd, from slavery to release. Here speculations from much Musing grow, Which Reasons proof, and Times experience shew. Witty inventions, which men profit bring, Inspiring verse, which Poets to gods sing; White innocence, as Girdles Virgins wear, That onely Hymen from their waste doth tear: And Hymens Torches, which burn bright and clear;

Shew, jealousie and falshood nere came neere. Garlands of Laureil, which keep ever green, Which for the best of Poets Crownes have been: The Olive branch, which embleame is of peace, There offer'd is for the worlds good increase: Mirtle for Lovers constant, which are true, Then for Misfortunes lay the bitter Rue: Sighs, which from deep compassion do flow out, And faiths, which never knew to make a doubt. Thus offer'd all, with gratefull Hearts in rankes, Whereon was sprinckled the essence of thankes. Brought was the fire of Love, which burnt all 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Holy-water, the penitentiall Tear: The Priests, which were the Cardinall Vertues foure, Those Ceremonies executed o're. In grave procession honour high 〈◊〉〈◊〉 raise, And with their Anthems sweet did sing her praise.

Fame.

THen on her wings doth Fame those Actions bear Which flye about, and carry'hem every where. Sometime she overloaded is with all, And then some downe into Oblivion fall. But those that would to Fames high Temple go, Must first great Honours Temple quite passe through.

The Temple of Fame.

THis Temple is divided in two parts, Some open lye, others obscure as hearts. Some light as day, others as darke as night, By times obscurity worn out of sight. The outward rooms all glorious to the eye, In which Fames image placed is on high. Where all the windows are Triangulars cut, VVhere from one face a million of faces put: And builded is in squares, just like a Cube, VVhich way to double hard is in dispute. VVherein the Ecchoes do like balls rebound, From every corner, making a great sound.

The walls are hung with chapiters all of gold, In Letters great all actions there are told. The Temple doore is of prospective Glasse, Through which a small beame of our eye can passe. That makes truth there so difficult to know, As for the bright Moone, a new world to show. The Steeple, or Pillars, of Goose-quils built, And plastered over with white paper guilt: The painting thereof with Inke black as jet, In severall workes and figures like a Net. This Steeple high is, and not very light, As a faire Evening is 'twixt day, and night. Five Tongues, the five Bells through the world do ring, And to each severall eare much newes doe bring. The Philosophers Tongue doth give a deep sound, But the Historians is no better found: The Oratours Tongue doth make a great noyse, Grammarians sound harsh, as if it had flawes: The small Bell, a Poets tongue, changes oft, Whose motion is quick, smooth, even, and soft. The ropes they hung by, we could not well see, For they were long small threads of Vain-glory. But yet when they did ring, made a sweet chime, Especially when the Poet he did rhime. The Belfrey man, a Printer by his skill, That, if he pleases, may ring when he will. When Priest to Mattens, or to Vespers goe, To the High Altar they bow downe low. This Altar, whereon they offer unto Fame, Is made of braines, armes, and hearts without blame: On which lyes Wisdome, Wit, Strength, Courage, Love, Offer'd as sacrifices to Fame above: Vertues, Arts, Sciences, as Priest here stands, But Fortune Prioresse all these commands. Incense of noble deeds to Fame she sends, Nothing is offer'd, but what she recommends. For Fortune brings more into Fames high Court, Then all their vertues with their great 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

Fames Library within the Temples.

FAmes Library, where old Records are plac'd, What acts not here unto oblivion cast. There stands the skelves of Time, where books do lye, Which books are tyed by chaines Of destiny. The Master of this place they Favour call, Where Care the door-keeper, doth lock up all: Yet not so fast, but Bribery in steals, Partialities, cousenage truths not reveals. But Bribery through all the world takes place, And offerings as a bribe in heaven findes grace. Then let not men disdaine a bribe to take, Since gods doe blessing give for a bribes sake.

The Fairy Queen.

THe Fairy Queens large Kingdome got by birth, Is in the circled center of the Earth, Where there are many springs, and running streams, Whose waves do glister by the Queens bright beams. Which makes them murmure as they passe away, Because by running round they cannot stay. For they do evermore, * 1.2 just like the Sun, As constantly in their long race they run: And as the Sun gives heat to make things spring, So water moyslure gives to every thing. Thus these two Elements give life to all, Creating every thing on Earths round ball. And all along this liquid source that flows, Stand Mirtle trees, and banks where flowers grows. 'Tis true, there are no Birds to sing sweet notes, But there are winds that whistle like birds throats; Whose sounds, and notes by variation oft, Make better Musicke then the Spheares aloft, Nor any beasts are there of cruell nature, But a slow, sost worm, a gentle creature, Who fears no hungry birds to pick them out, Safely they graspe the tender twigs about.

There Mountains are of pure resined gold, And Rocks of Diamonds perfect to behold; Whose brightnesse is a Sun to all about, Which glory makes Apollo's beams keep out. Quarries of Rubles, Saphirs there are store, Christals, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 many more. There polisht pillars naturally appeare, VVhere twining vines are clustred all the yeare. The Axle-tree whereon the Earth turnes round, Is one great 〈◊〉〈◊〉, by opinion found. And the two ends, which called are the Poles, Are pointed Diamonds, the Antartick holds, And Artick; which about the world is rowl'd, Are rings of pure, refined, perfect gold. Which makes the Sun so seldome there appear, For fear those rings should melt, if he came near. And as a wheele the Elements are found In even Layes, and often turnings round. For first the sire in circle, as the spoake, And then the water, for aire is the smoak Begot of both; for fire doth water boyle, That causes clouds, or smoak which is the oyle. This smoaky childe sometimes is good, then bad, According to the nourishment it had. The outward 〈◊〉〈◊〉, as the Earth suppose, Which is the surface where all plenty flows. Yet the Earth is not the cause of turning, But the siery spoak; not fear of burning The Axle-tree, for that grows hard with heat, And by its quicknesse turns the wheel, though great, Unlesse by outward weight it selfe presse down, Raising the bottome, bowing down the Crown. Yet why this while am I so long of proving, But to shew how this Earth still is moving. And the heavens, as wheels, do turn likewise, As we do daily see before our eyes. To make the Proverb good in its due turn, That all the world on wheels doth yeerly run. And by the turn such blasts of wind doe blow,

As we may think like Windmils they do go. But winds are made by Vulcans bellows sure, Which makes the Earth such Collicks to endure. For he, a Smith set at the sorge below, Ordained is the Center-fire to blow. But Venus laughs to thinke what horns he wears, Though on his shoulders halfe the Earth he bears, Nature her mettal makes him hammer out, All that she sends through Mines the world about. For he's th' old-man that doth i'th Center dwell, She Proserpine, that's thought the Queen of hell. Yet Venus is a Tinkers wife, we see, Not a goddesse, as she was thought to be; When all the world to her did offerings bring, And her high praise in prose, and verse did sing: And Priests in orders, on her Altars tend, And to her Image all the wise heads bend. But to vain wayes that men did go, To worship gods they do not know. Tis true, her sonne's a prettyLad, And is a Foot-boy to Queen Mab; Which makes fires, and sets up lights, And keeps the door for Carpet Knights. For when the Queen is gone to sleep, Then revel-rout the Court doth keep. Yet heretosore men striv'd to prove, That Cupid was the god of love. But if that men could to the Center go, They soon would see that it were nothing so.

Here Nature nurses, and sends them season, All things abroad, as she seeth reason. When she commands, all things do her obey, Unlesse her countermand some things do stay. For she stayes life, when drugs are well apply'd, And healing balmes to deadly wounds beside. There Mab is Queen of all, by Natures will, And by her favour she doth govern still. Happy 〈◊〉〈◊〉, that is in Natures grace; For young she's alwayes, being in this place.

But leaving here, let's see the sport, That's acted in the Fairy Court.

The Pastime, and Recreation of the Queen of Fairies in Fairy-land, the Center of the Earth.

WHere this Queen Mab, and all her Fairy fry, Are dancing on a pleasant mole-bill high; With fine small stram-pipes sweet Musicks pleasure, By which they do keep just time and measure. All hand in hand, a round, a round, They dance upon this Fairy ground. And when the Queen leaves off to dance, She calls for all her Attendants, Her to wait on unto a Bower, Where she doth sit under a flower, To shade her from the Moon-shine bright, Where Gnats do sing for her delight. Some high, some low, some Tenour strain, Making a Consort very plain. The whilst the Bat doth flye about, To keep in order all the rout; And with her wings she strikes them hard, Because no noise there should be heard. She on a dewy leafe doth bathe, And as she sits, the lease doth wave. There, like a new-fallen flake of snow, Doth her white limbes in beauty shew. Her garments faire her maid, put on, Made of the pure light from the Sun; From whence such colours she inshades, In every object she invades. Then to her dinner she goes stroight, Where every one in order wait; And on a Mushroom there is 〈◊〉〈◊〉 A cover fine of Spiders web. And for her stood a Thistle-down, And for her cup an Acorns crown; Wherein strong Nectar there is fill'd,

That from sweet flowers is distill'd. Flyes of all sorts both fat, and good, Partridge, Snipes, Quailes, and Poult, her food. 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Larks, Cocks, or any kinde, Both wilde, and tame, you may there finde. Amelets made of Ants-egs new, Of these high meats she eats but few. Her milk comes from the Dormouse udder, Making fresh Cheese, Creame, and Butter. This milk doth make many a fine knack, When they fresh Ants-egs therein crack. Both Pudding, Custards, and Seed-cake, As her skill'd Cook knows how to make. To sweeten them, the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 doth bring Pure honey, gathered by her sting: But for her guard serves grosser meat, On stall-fed Dormouse they do cat. When din'd, she calls to take the aire, In Coach, which is a Nutshel faire: Lin'd soft it is, and rich within, Made of a glistering Adders skin. And there six Crickets draw her fast, And she a journey takes in haste; Or else two serves to pase a round, And trample on the Fairy ground. To hawke sometimes she takes delight, Which is a Hornet swift for flight; Whose horns do serve for Talons strong, To gripe the Partridge Flye among. But if she will a hunting go, Then she the Lizzard makes the Doe. They are so swift, and fleet in chase, As her slow Coach can never pase. Then on Grashopper doth she ride, Who gallops far in forrest wide. Her Bow is of a willow branch, To shoot the Lizzard on the haunch. Her arrow sharp, much like a blade Of a Rosemary leafe is made.

Then home shee's called by the Cock, Who gives her warning what's a Clock. And when the Moon doth hide her head, Their day is done, so goeth to bed. Meteors do serve, when they are bright, As Torches do, to give her light. Glow-worms for candles are light up, Set on her table, while she sup. And in her chamber they are plac'd, Not fearing how the Tallow wast. But women, that inconstant are by kind, Can never in one place content their mind. For she her Charriot cals, and will away, To upper Earth, impatient is of stay.

The Pastime of the Queen of Fairies, when she comes upon the Earth out of the Center.

THis lovely sweet, and beauteous Fairy Queen, Begins to rise, when Vespers star is seen. For she is kin unto the god of Night, So to Diana, and the stars so bright. And so to all the rest in some degrees, Yet not so neer relation as to these. As for Apollo, she disclaims him quite, And swears she nere will come within his light. For they fell out about some foolish toy, Where ever since in him she takes no joy. She faith, he alwayes doth more harm then good, If that his malice were true understood. For he brings dearths by parching up the ground, And sucks up waters, that none can be found. He makes poor man in feav'rish plagues to lye, His arrows hot, both man and beast do dye. So that to him she never wil come neare, But hates to see, when that his beams appear. This makes the Cock her notice give, they say, That when he rises, she may goe her way. And makes the Owle her favorite to be,

Because Apollo's face she hates to see. Owles sleep all day, yet hollow in the night, Make acclamations that they'r out of sight. So doth the Glow-worm all day hide her head, But lights her taper-taile, when hee's a bed, To wait upon the fairest Fairy Queen, Whilst she is sporting on the meady green. Her pastime onely is when she's on earth, To pinch the Sluts, which make Hobgoblin mirth: Or changes children while the nurses sleep, Making the father rich, whose child they keep. This Hobgoblin is the Queen of Fairies fool, Turning himselfe to Horse, Cow, Tree, or Stool; Or any thing to crosse by harmlesse play, As leading Travellers out of their way, Or kick downe Payls of Milk, cause Cheese not turn, Or hinder Butter's coming in the Churne: Which makes the Farmers wife to scold, and fret, That she the Cheese, and Butter cannot get. Then holds he up the Hens Rumps, as they say, Because their Eggs too soon they should not lay. The good Wife sad, squats down upon a chaire, Not at all thinking it was Hob the Faire: Where frowning sits; then Hob gives her the slip, And downe she falls, whereby she hurts her hip. And many prankes, which Hob playes on our stage, With his companion Tom Thumb, the Queenes Page; Who doth like peice of fat in pudding lye, There almost chokes the Eater, going awry. And when he's down, the Guts, their wind blowes out, Putting the standers by into a rout. Thus shames the Eater with a foule disgrace, That never after dare he shew his face. Besides, in many places puts himselfe, As Baggs, Budgets, being a little Elfe, To make his bearers start away with feare, To thinke that any thing alive is there. In this, the Queen of Fairies takes delight, In summers even, and in winters night;

And when that She is weary of these playes, She takes her Coach, and goeth on her wayes, Unto her Paradise, the Center deep, Which is the Store-house rich of Nature sweet.

Her descending downe.

THe stately Pallace in which the Queen dwels, Whose fabrick is built of Hodmandod shels, The hangings thereof a Rain-bow that's thin, VVhich seemes wondrous fine, if one enter in, The Chambers are made of Amber that's cleare, VVhich gives a sweet smell, if fire be neare: Her Bed a Cherry-stone, carved throughout, And with a Butter-flyes wing hung about: Her Sheets are made of a Doves eyes skin, Her Pillow a Violet bud laid therein: The large doores are cut of transparent Glasse, VVhere the Queen may be seen, as she doth passe. The doores are locked fast with silver pins, The Queen's asleep, and now our day begins. Her time in pleasure passes thus away, And shall doe so, until the worlds last day.

The VVindy Gyants.

THe foure chiefe Winds are Gyants, long in length, As broad are set, and wondrous great in strength. These Gyants have Heads (as it doth appeare) More then the Months, or Seasons of the yeare. And some say more then days, and all the nights, That they are numberlesse, and infinites.

The first foure Heads are largest of them all, The twelve are next, the thirty two but small; The rest so little, and their breath so weake, Their mouthes so narrow, cannot heare them speake. These Gyants are so lustfull, and so wilde, As they doe force to get the Earth with childe; And big she swels until the time of birth,

Her bowels stretcht, high belly'd is the earth; Then doth she groane with grievous paines, and shake; Untill she's brought a bed with her Earth-quake. This Child of Wind doth 〈◊〉〈◊〉 all it meets, Rends Rocksand Mountains, like to Paper sheets: It swallows Cities, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 〈◊〉〈◊〉 〈◊〉〈◊〉 〈◊〉〈◊〉, It threatens Jove, and makes the gods to feare.

And the cold North wind, his 〈◊〉〈◊〉 dry, and strong, Pulling up Oakes, then layes them all along. In fetters of hard Ice bindes Rivers fast, Imprisons Fishes in the Ocean vast: Plowes up the Seas, and Haile for seed in flings, Where crops of over-flowes the Tide in brings. He drives the Clouds in troops, which makes them 〈◊〉〈◊〉, And blowes, to put the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 out of the Sun.

The Southern Wind, who is as 〈◊〉〈◊〉 as he, And to the Sun as great an 〈◊〉〈◊〉; Raising an Army of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Clouds, and Mists, Which with them thinks 〈◊〉〈◊〉 〈◊〉〈◊〉 just as he lists, Throwing up waters to quench out his Light, Flings in his face black Clouds, to hide his sight. But the hot Sun cannot endure this scorne, And back in showres of raine doth them 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

The Westerne wind, without ambitious ends, Doth what he can to joyne, and make them friends; For he is of a nature sweet, and milde, And not so head-strong, rough, nor rude, nor wide. He's soft to touch, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to each 〈◊〉〈◊〉, His voyce sounds sweet, and small, and very cleare; And makes hot love to young fresh buds that springs; They give him sweets, which he through Aire them flings; Not from dislike, but to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 them 〈◊〉〈◊〉, As Pictures doe, for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that are faire.

But O, the Easterne Wind is full of spight, Diseases brings, which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 doebite; He blasts young buds, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 within the 〈◊〉〈◊〉,

He rots the Sheep, to men he brings the Plague: He is an enemy, and of Nature ill, The world would poyson, if he had his will.

VVitches of Lapland.

LApland is the place from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 all Winds come, From Witches, not from Caves, as doe think some. For they the Aire doe draw into high Hills, And beat them out againe by certaine Mills: Then sack it up, and sell it out for gaine To Mariners, which traffick on the maine.

Of the Sunne, and the Earth.

THrough Earth's 〈◊〉〈◊〉 holes her sweat doth passe, Which is the Dew that lyes upon the Grasse: VVhere (like a Lover kinde) the Sun wipes clean, That her faire face may to the Light be seen; And for her sake that water he esteemes, Threading those drops upon his silver beames, Like ropes of Pearle; he drawes them to his sphere, Turning those drops to Chrystall when they're there. Yet, what he gathers, cannot he keep all, But downe againe some of those drops doe fall: When turning back upon her head they run, He clouds his browes, as if he had ill done. But Lovers thinke they alwayes doe 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Although those showres her refreshment is. VVhen she by sweat exhausted growes, and dry, The Sun the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Clouds 〈◊〉〈◊〉 squeeze in sky; Or 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he takes some of his sharpest beames, To break the Clouds, from whence poure Chrystall streams. Then Earth doth drink too much, yet doth not reele; She cannot dizzy be, though sicknesse feele.

Of a Garden.

AGarden is, some Paradise doe call, The place is alwayes th' 〈◊〉〈◊〉: Ecchoes there are most artificiall made,

And cooling Grottoes, from the heat to shade. The azure sky is alwaies bright, and cleare; No grosse thick vapours in the Clouds appeare. There many Stars doe comfort the sad night, The fixt with twinckling, with the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 give light. No noyse is heard, but what the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 delights; No fruites are there, but what the taste invites. Up through the Nose bruis'd Flowers fume the braine, As Honey-dew in balmy showres raine. Various colours, by Nature intermixt, Direct the eyes, as no one thing can fix. Here Atomes small on Sun-beames dance all day, While Zephyrus sweet doth on the aire play: Which Musick from Apollo beares the praise, And Orpheus at the sound his Harp downe layes. Apollo yeelds, and not contends with spight, Presenting Zephyrus with twelve houres of light: And night, though sad, in quiet pleasure takes, With silence listens when he Musick makes. And when day comes, with griefe descends down low, That she no longer must heare Zephyrus blow: And with her Mantle black her selfe inshrouds, Which is imbroyder'd all of Stars in clouds. Here are intermixing walkes of pleasure, Grasse, Sand, short, broad, and all sorts of measure. Some shaded, fit for Lovers musing thought Of Loves Idea, when the mind's full fraught. The walkes are firme, and hard, as Marble are, Yet soft as Downe, by Grasse that groweth there, Where Daisies grow as 〈◊〉〈◊〉, in a night, Mix'd white, and yellow, green, to please the sight. At Dawning day the dew all over-spreads, In little drops upon those Daisies heads: As thick as Stars are set in heaven high, So Daisies on the earth as close doe lye. Here Emerauld bankes, from whence fine flowers spring, Whose sents and colours various pleasure bring. Primroses, Couslips, Violets, 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Roses, Honey-suckles, and white 〈◊〉〈◊〉, 〈◊〉〈◊〉-flowers, Pinks, and Marigolds besides,

Sit on the bank, inrich'd with Natures pride. On other bankes grow Simples, which are good For Medicines, well applyed, and understood. There Trees doe grow, that proper are, and tall, Their 〈◊〉〈◊〉 is smooth, and bodies sound withall; Whose spreading tops are full, and ever green, As Nazarites heads, where Rasor hath not been: And curled leaves, which bowing branches beare, By warmth are fed; for winter nere comes there. There Fruits delicious to the taste doe grow, Where with delight the sense doth over-flow: And Arched Arbours, where sweet Birds doe sing, Whose bollow rooses doe make each Eccho ring. Prospects which Trees, and Clouds by mixing shewes, Joyn'd by the eye, one perfect peece it grows. Here Fountaines are, where trilling drops down run, Which sparkes do twinckle like fixt Stars, or Sun: And through each severall spout such noyse it makes, As Bird in spring, when he his pleasure takes. Some chirping Sparrow, and the singing Lark, Or 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Nightingale in evening dark; And whistling Black bird, with the pleasant Thrush, Linnet, Bul-finch, which sing in every bush. No weeds are here, nor wither'd leaves, and dry, But ever green, and pleasant to the eye. No Frost, to nip the tender buds in birth, Nor winter snow to fall on this sweet earth. For here the Spring is alwayes in her prime, Because this place is underneath the Line: The Day, and Night, equall, by turnes keep watch, That theevish time should nothing from them catch. And every Muse a severall walke injoyes, The sad in shades, the light with sports imployes. Censuring Satyrs, they in corners lurke; Yet, as their Gard'ners, they with Art do work, To cut and 〈◊〉〈◊〉, to sow, ingraft, and fet, Gather fruits, flowers, what each Muse thinkes fit: And Nymphs, as Hand-maids, their attendance give; Which, for reward, their fames by Muses live.

Of an Oake in a Grove.

A Shady Grove, trees grew in equall space, Which seem'd to be a consecrated place. Through spreading boughs, their quivering light broke in, Much like to Glasse, or Christall shiver'd thin: Those peices small on a green Carpet strew'd, So in this wood, the light all broken shew'd. But this disturbed light the Grove did grace, As sadnesse doth a faire and beauteous face. And in the midst an ancient Oake stood there,* 1.3 Which heretofore did many Offerings beare; Where all the branches round with reliques hung, To shew what cures the Gods for men had done: And for rewards, long life the Gods did give Unto this Oake, that aged he must live. His younger yeares, when Acornes he did beare, No Dandriffe, Mosse, but fresh green leaves grew there. There curled hung his shoulders, broad they spread, His crown was thick, and bushy was his head, His stature tall, full breasted, broad, and big, His body round, and strait was every twig. But youth, and beauty, which are shadowes thin, Doe fade away, as if they ne're had been. For all his fresh green leaves, and smooth moyst rine, Are quite worne off, and now grown bald with time. His armes so strong, which grappl'd with the winds, His barke so thick, as skin, his body binds; Where he all times and seasons firme could stand, And many a blust'ring storme he over-came. Yet now so weake and feeble he doth grow, That every blast is apt him downe to throw. His branches all are fear'd, his bark grown gray, Most of his rine with time is peel'd away. The liquid sap, which from the root did rise, (Where every thirsty bough it did suffice) Is all drunke up, there is no moysture left, The root is rotten, and his body's cleft.

Thus Time doth ruine, brings all to decay, Though to the Gods doth still devoutly pray: For this old Oake was sacred to high Jove, Which was the King of all the Gods above. But Gods, when they created all at first, They did ordaine all should returne to dust.

Of a wrought Carpet, presented to the view of working Ladies.

THe Spring doth spin fine grasse green silk, of which To weave a Carpet (like the Persian rich) And all about the borders there are spread Clusters of Grapes mix'd green, blew, white, and red; And in the mid'st the Gods in sundry shapes, Are curious wrought, divulging all their Rapes, And all the ground with Flowers there are strow'd, As if by Nature they were set, so grow'd. Those Figures all like Sculpture doe beare out, To lye on Flats many will make a doubt. The Dark and Light so intermix'd are laid, For shady Groves that Priest devoutly pray'd. The fruits so hung, as did invite the tasle, And small Birds picking seen to make a waste. The ground was wrought like threads drawne from the Sun, Which shin'd so blasing like to a fir'd Gun. This peice the patterne is of Artfull skil, Art, Imitator is of Nature still.

A Man to his Mistresse.

ODoe not grieve, Deare Heart, nor shed a teare, Since in your eyes my life doth stil keep there And in your countenance my death I finde, And buried in your melancholly mind. But in your smiles I'me glorifi'd to rise, And in your love you me eternalize: Thus by your favour I a God become, And by your hate I doe a Devil turne.

Notes

• * 1.1

  The Offerings.
• * 1.2

  The waters run in circulations.
• * 1.3

  It was a cu∣stome in anci∣ent time to hang their offerings on trees.