Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

Satyre I.

AWay thou fondling motley humorist, Leave mee, and in this standing woodden chest, Consorted with these few bookes, let me lye In prison, and here be coffin'd, when I dye; Here are Gods conduits; grave Divines, and here Natures Secretary, the Philosopher. And jolly Statesmen, which teach how to tie The sinewes of a cities mistique bodie; Here gathering Chroniclers, and by them stand Giddie fantastique Poëts of each land. Shall I leave all this constant company, And follow headlong, wild uncertaine thee? First sweare by thy best love in earnest (If thou which lov'st all, canst love any best) Thou wilt not leave mee in the middle street, Though some more spruce companion thou dost meet, Not though a Captaine do come in thy way Bright parcell gilt, with forty dead mens pay, Not though a briske perfum'd piert Courtier Deigne with a nod, thy courtesie to answer. Nor come a velvet Justice with a long Great traine of blew coats, twelve, or fourteen strong,

Wilt thou grin or fawne on him, or prepare A speech to Court his beautious sonne and heire? For better or worse take mee, or leave mee: To take, and leave mee is adultery. Oh monstrous, superstitious puritan, Of refin'd manners, yet ceremoniall man, That when thou meet'st one, with enquiring eyes; Dost search, and like a needy broker prize The silke, and gold he weares, and to that rate So high or low, dost raise thy formall hate: That wilt consort none, untill thou have knowne What lands hee hath in hope, or of his owne, As though all thy companions should make thee Jointures, and marry thy deare company. Why should'st thou that dost not onely approve, But in ranke it chie lust, desire, and love The nakednesse and barrennesse to enjoy, of thy plumpe muddy whore, or prostitute boy Hate vertue, though shee be naked, and bare, At birth, and death, our bodies naked are; And till our Soules be unapparrelled Of bodies, they from blisse are banished. Mans first blest state was naked, when by sinne Hee lost that, yet hee was cloath'd but in beasts skin, And in this course attire, which I now weare With God, and with the Muses I conferre. But since thou like a contrite penitent, Charitably warm'd of thy sinnes, dost repent These vanities, and giddinesses, loe I shut my chamber doore, and come, lets goe,

But sooner may a cheape whore, who hath beene Worne by as many severall men in sinne, As are black feathers, or musk-colour hose, Name her childs right true father, 'mongst all those: Sooner may one guesse, who shall beare away The infant of London, Heire to an India, And sooner may a gulling weather Spie By drawing forth heavens Sceanes tell certainly What fashioned hats, or ruffes, or suits next yeare Our subtile wittied antique youths will weare; Then thou, when thou depart'st from mee, can show Whither, why, when, or with whom thou wouldst go. But how shall I be pardon'd my offence That thus have sinn'd against my conscience. Now we are in the street; He first of all Improvidently proud, creepes to the wall, And so imprisoned, and hem'd in by mee Sells for a little state high libertie, Yet though he cannot skip forth now to greet Every fine silken painted foole we meet, He then to him with amorous smiles allures, And grins, smacks, shrugs, and such an itch endures, As prentises, or schoole boyes which doe know Of some gay sport abroad, yet dare not goe. And as fidlers stop lowest, at highest sound, So to the most brave, stoopt hee nigh'st the ground. But to a grave man, he doth move no more Then the wise politique horse would heretofore, Now leaps he upright, Joggs me, & cryes, Do you see Yonder well favoured youth; Which? Oh, 'tis hee

That dances so divinely; Oh, said I, Stand still, must you dance here for company? Hee droopt, wee went, till one (which did excell Th'Indians, in drinking his Tobacco well) Met us, they talk'd; I whispered, let us goe, 'T may be you smell him not, truely I doe; He heares not mee, but, on the other side A many-coloured Peacock having spide, Leaves him and mee; I for my lost sheep stay; He followes, overtakes, goes on the way, Saying, him whom I last left, s'all repute For his device, in hansoming a sute, To judge of lace, pinke, panes, print, cut, and plight, Of all the Court, to have the best conceit; Our dull Comedians want him, let him goe; But Oh, God strengthen thee, why stoop'st thou so? Why, he hath travailed long? no, but to me Which understand none, he doth seeme to be Perfect French, and Italian; I replyed, So is the Poxe; He answered not, but spy'd More men of sort, of parts, and qualities; At last his Love he in a windowe spies, And like light dew exhal'd, he flings from mee Violently ravish'd to his liberty; Many were there, he could command no more; Hee quarrell'd, fought, bled; and turn'd out of dore Directly came to mee hanging the head, And constantly a while must keepe his bed.