Ex otio negotium. Or, Martiall his epigrams translated. With sundry poems and fancies, / by R. Fletcher.

The Publique Faith.

STand off my Masters: Tis your pence a piece, Jason, Medea, and the golden Fleece; What side the line good Sir? Tigris? or Po? Lybia? Japan? Whisk? or Tradinktido? St. Kits? St. Omer? or St. Margaret's Bay? Presto begon? or come aloft? what way? Doublets? or Knap? the Cog? low Dice? or high? By all the hard names in the Letany, Bell, book and candle, and the Pope's great toe I conjuṙe thy account: Devil say no.

Nay since I must untruss, gallants look to't Keep ••our prodigious distance, forty foot, This is that Beast of eyes in th' Revelations, The Basilisk has twisted up three Nations. Ponteus Hixius doxius, full of tricks, The Lottery of the vulgar lunaticks. The Knapsack of the State, the thing you wish, Magog and Gog stewd in a Chaffendish. A bag of spoons and whistles, wherein men May whistle when they see their Plate agen.

Thus far his Infancy: His riper age Requires a more misterious folio page. Now that time speaks him perfect, and tis pitie To dandle him longer in a close Committee, The elf dares peep abroad, the pretty foole Can wag without a truckling standing-stoole; Revenge his Mother's in famy, and swear Hee's the fair off-spring of one half-score year; The Heir of the House and hopes, the cry And wonder of the People's misery. Tis true, while as a Puppie it could play For Thimbles, any thing to passe the day. But now the Cub can count, arithmatize, Clinck Masenello with the Duke of Guise; Sign•• for an Irish purchase, and traduce The Synod from their Doctrine to their Use. Give its Dam suck, and by a hidden way Drink up arreares a tergo mantica. An everlasting Bale, Hell in Trunk-hose, Uncased, the Divel's Don Quixot in prose. The Beast and the false Prophet twined to∣gether, The squint-eyed emblem of all sorts of wea∣ther. The refuse of that Chaos of the earth Able to give the world a second birth. Affrick avaunt: Thy trifling monsters glance But Sheeps▪eyed to this Penal Ignorance.

That all the prodigies brought forth before Are but Dame Natures blush left on the score. This strings the Bakers dozen, christens all The cross-legd hours of time since Adam's fall.

The publipue faith? why tis a word of kin. A Nephew that dares Cozen any sin. A term of Art, great Behemoth's younger Bro∣ther, Old Machiavel, and half a thousand other. Which when subscribed writes Legion, names on Truss, Abaddon, Belzebub, and Incubus. All the Ʋice Royes of darkness, every spell And Fiend wrap'd in a short Trissillable.

But I fore-stall the show. Enter and see, Salute the Door, your Exit shall be free. In brief tis calld Religions ease, or loss, For no one's sufferd here to beare his cross.

A Lenten Letany.

Composed for a confiding Brother, for the benefit and edification of the faithful Ones.

FRom villany dress'd in the doublet of zeal, Fom three Kingdoms bak'd in one com∣monweale, From a gleek of Lord Keepers of one poor Seal libera nos, &c.

From a Chancery-writ, and a whip and a bell, From a Justice of Peace that never could spell, From Colonel P. and the Ʋicar of Hell Libera nos, &c.

From Neat's feet without socks and three∣penny Pyes, From a new sprung light that will put out ones eyes, From Goldsmiths Hall, the Devil and Excize Libera nos, &c.

From two hours talk without one word of sense, From liberty still in the future tense, From a Parliament long-wasted conscience, Libera nos, &c.

From a Coppid crown-Tenent prickd up by a Brother, From damnable members and fits of the Mo∣ther, From eares like Oysters that grin at each o∣ther, Libera nos, &c.

From a Preacher in buff, and a quarter-staff steeple, From th' unlimited soveraign power of the People, From a Kingdom that crawls on its knees like a Creeple, Libera nos, &c.

From a vinegar Priest on a Crab-tree stock, From a foddering of prayer four hours by the Clock, From a holy Sister with a pittiful Smock. Libera nos, &c.

From a hunger-starv'd Sequestrators maw, From Revelations and Visions that never man saw, From Religion without either Gospel or Law, Libera nos, &c.

From the Nick and Froth of a penny pot∣house, From the Fidle and Cross, and a great Scotch-Louse, From Committees that chop up a man like a Mouse. Libera nos, &c.

From broken shins and the bloud of a Martyr▪ From the titles of Lords and Knights of the Garrer, From the teeth of Mad-dogs and a Country∣mans quarter. Libera nos, &c.

From the Publique Faith and an egg & butter, From the Irish purchases and all their clutter, From O mega's nose when he fettles to sputter, Libera nos, &c.

From the zeale of old Harry lock'd up with a Whore From waiting with plaints at the Parliament dore, From the death of a King without why or wherefore, Libera nos, &c.

From the French disease and the Puritane fry, From such as nere swear but devoutly can lye, From cutting of capers full three story high, Libera nos, &c.

From painted glass and Idolatrous cringes, From a Presbyters Oath that turnes upon hin∣ges, From Westminster Jews with Levitical fringes, Libera nos &c.

From all that is said, and a thousand times more, From a Saint and his charity to the Poor, From the plagues that are kept for a Rebel in store. Libera nos, &c.

The second part.

THat if it may please thee to assist Our Agitators and heir list, And Hemp them with a gentle twist▪ Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to suppose Our actions are as good as those That gull the people through the nose, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it my please thee here to enter And fix the rumbling of our center, For we live all at peradventure, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to unite The flesh and bones unto the sprite, Else faith and literature good night. Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee ô that wee May each man know his Pedigree, And save that plague of Heraldrie, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee in each Shire, Citties of refuge Lord to reare That failing Brethren may know where, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to abhor us, Or any such dear favour for us That thus have wrought thy peoples sorrows, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to embrace Our dayes of thanks and fasting face, For robing of thy holy place. Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to adjourn The day of judgment▪ least we burn, For lo it is not for our turn, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to admit A close Commitee there to sit, No devil to a humane wit, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to dispence A litle for convenience, Or let us play upon the sense, Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee to embalm The Saints in Robin wis••om's Psalm, And make them musical and calm. Quaesumus te, &c.

That it may please thee since tis doubt Satan cannot throw Satan out, Unite us and the Highland ••out. quaesumus te, &c.

A Hue and Cry after the Reformation.

WHen Temples lye like batter'd Quarrs, Rich in their ruin'd Sepulchers, When Saints forsake their painted glass To meet their worship as they pass,

When Altars grow luxurious with the dye Of humane bloud, Is this the floud Of Christianity? When Kings are cup-boarded likc cheese, Sights to be seen for pence a piece, When Dyadems like brokers tyre Are custom'd reliques set to hire When Soverainty and Scepters loose their names Stream'd into words Carv'd out by swords Are these refining flames? When subjects and Religion stir Like Meteors in the Metaphor, When zealous hinting and the yawn Excize our Miniver and Lawn▪ When blue digressions fill the troubled ayre And th' Pulpit's let To every Set That will usurp the chair? Call yee me this the night's farewel When our noon day's as darke as Hell? How can we less than term such lights Ecclesiastick Heteroclites? Bold sons of Adam when in fire you crawle Thus high to bee Perch'd on the tree Remember but the fall. Was it the glory of a King To make him great by suffering?

Was there no way to build God's House But rendring of it infamous? If this be then the merry ghostly trade? To work in gall? Pray take it all Good brother of the blade. Call it no more the Reformation According to the new translation, Why will you wrack the common brain With words of an unwonted strain? As plunder? or a phrase in senses cleft? When things more nigh May well supply And call it down right theft. Here all the School-men and Divines Consent, and swear the naked lines Want no expounding or contest, Or Bellarmine to breake a jest. Since then the Heroes of the pen with mee Nere scrue the sense With difference, We all agree agree.

A Committee.

CAst Knaves my Masters, fortune guide the chance, No packing I beseech you, no by-glance To mingle pairs, but fairly shake the bag, Cheats in their sphaeres like subtle spirits wag.

Or if you please the Cards run as they will, There is no choice in sin and doing ill. Then happy man by's dole, luck makes the ods, He acts most high that best out-dares the gods. These are that Raw-bon'd Herd of Pharoahs Kine Which eat up all your fatlings, yet look lean. These are the after-claps of bloudy showres Which like the Scots come for your gude and yours The gleaners of the field, where, if a man Escape the sword that milder frying-pan, He leaps into the fire, cramping clawes Of such can speak no English but the cause. Under that foggy term, that Inquisition, Y' are wrack'd at all adventures On suspition. No matter what's the crime, a good estate's Dilinquency enough to ground their hate. Nor shall calm innocence so scape, as not To be made guilty, or at least so thought. And if the spirit once inform, beware, The flesh and world but renegadoes are. Thus once concluded, out the Teazers run All in full cry and speed till Wat's undone. So that a poor Dilinqu••nt fleec'd and torn Seems like a man that's creeping through a horn. Findes a smooth entrance, wide and fit, but when Hee's squeez'd and forc'd up through the smaler end,

Hee looks as gaunt and prin, as he that spent A tedious twelve years in an eager Lent. Or bodyes at the Resurection are On wing, just rarifying into ayre. The Emblem of a man, the pitied Case And shape of some sad being once that was. The Type of flesh and bloud, the skeleton And superficies of a thing that's gone. The winter quarter of a life, the tinder And body of a corps squeez'd to a cinder When no more tortures can be thought upon Mercy shall flow into oblivion. Mercyful Hell! thy Judges are but three, Ours multiform, and in pluralitie. Thy calmer censures flow without recal, And in one doom soules see their final all. We travel with expectance: Suffrings here Are but the earnests of a second fear. Thy pains and plagues are infinite, tis true Ours are not only infinite but new. So that the dread of what's to come exceeds The anguish of that part already bleeds. This only difference swells twixt us and you, Hell has the kinder Devils of the two.

On the happy Memory of Alderman Hoyle that hang'd himself.

ALL ••aile fair fruit! may every crab-tre•• bear Such blosoms, and so lovely every year! Call yee me this the slip? marry 'tis well, Zacheus slip'd to Heaven, the Thief to Hell, But if the Saints thus give's the slip, tis need To look about us to preserve the breed. Th' are of the running game, and thus to post In nooses blancks the reckning with their Host. Here's more than Trussum cordum I suppose That knit this knot, guilt seldom singly goes. A wounded soule close coupled with the sense Of sin payes home its proper recompence.

But hark you Sir, if hast can grant the time? See you the danger yet what tis to climbe ••n Kings prerogatives? things beyond just When Law seems bribed to doom them must be truss'd. But ô I smell your plot strong through your hose, Twas but to cheat the Hang- man of your cloaths, Else your more active hands had fairly stay'd The leasure of a Psalm: Judas has pray'd. But later crimes cannot admit the pause, They run upon effects more than the cause.

Yet let me ask one question, why alone? One member of a corporation? Tis clear amongst Divines, bodys and souls As jointly active, so their judgment rowles Concordant in the sentence; why not so In earthly suffrings? States attended goe. But I perceive the knack: Old women say And bee't approv'd, each dog should have his day.

Hence sweep the Almanack: Lilly make room, And blanks enough for the new Saints to come, All in Red letters: as their faults have bin Scarlet, so limbe their Anniverse of sin. And to their childrens credits and their wives Be it still said they leap fair for their lives.

On Clarinda Praying.

AS when the early Lark, wak'd by th•• tears Of sweet Aurora blushing through the sphaers Mounts on her silver wings, and towres the skies To offer up her morning Sacrifice To her great Diety the Sun: and sings The Anthems of her joy to court the springs:

So here Clarinda rescued from the night Of soul-contracting slumber, takes her flight Into the azure heavens, and prevents The vulgar sullying of the elements By a most holy hast, and stoops to fly To the great Master of requests on high.

No sooner was she bended on her knees But lo a cloud of Angels simpathize, And strive to catch her prayers and convey Her sacred breathings ore the Milky-way. Pardon me (Reader) if I here aver That holy contestation bred by her Amongst those Hierarchies Caelestial Almost engaged them to a Second Fall. But such was the sweet plenty, such the floud Of her rich soul, each Angel had his load: Some charged with a sigh, some with a tear, Each one was busied though not burd'ned there.

Yet blessed Saint why why such streams of brine? Sure 'twas for others, for no sin of thine? Those christal beads perhaps dropt for my Or else in pious charity for the Times? Those sacred gales of grief sufficient bee crimes, To waft whole worlds into eternitie. No need of Sailes or Pilot there was here, They knew the channel to the heavenly eare, Only the officious Seraphims to woo A greater glory would be medling too

O had but Sodom found in her sad state So dear! so prevalent an advocate! The brimstone of her Judgments had not burn'd, But all her fire had into incense turn'd. Or had these Noah's drunken world forerun, The Ark had kept the woods, nor had the Sun Bin shut up: But the floud-gates of the deep Had lull'd themselves in a perpetual sleep.

Smell't you the Phaenix when she dying lyes Raising her issue from her obsequies? Embalm'd in her own ashes? so divine So pretious was the perfume of each line Sayl'd through the rubie Portal of her lips, And now ore the caelestial Ocean trips. Saw you a pearl clos'd in an amber womb? Glowing and sparkling through its courser tombe? So radiantly transparent shin'd her soul, Which she in Holy blasphemy term'd foul, And therefore challeng'd tears to wash that hue And stain of owned guilt she never knew. O Adam hadst thou liv'd thus long to bee Made happy in thy late posteritie? Thou mightst have seen that Innocence again Which thy too slippery hands could not re∣tain!

Thus thus she clasp'd her God with pious zeal, With melting Rhetorick, till he vow'd to heal The wounds in Sion: For in her there were No objects for the balm of one poor tear.

But least the general works of Providence Should ravish'd stop their courses in suspence: In pitty to the whole Creation, shee Grew silent, least their destiny should bee Scored on her harmless piety. O so Though yet with much regret she let him goe.

On Clarinda Singing.

AS when the Swan, that warbling Pro∣phetess Of her approaching death, begins to ghess The fatal minute near, summons up all The raptures of her soul to guild her fall, Wracking her throat into variety Of different Diapazon•• sweet as hie, Then sings her Fpicedium to that night Of darkness whence she never more takes flight.

So my Clarinda sporting with her rare Harmonious Organs fill'd the ravish'd Ayre With soul-transporting notes, as though she meant To breathe the world into astonishment. Had the bright Lady of the flouds bin by She had bin silently content to dy, Finding her self so rivall'd in each strain, But that Clarinda lives to sing again.

If ever Artist wrought so high a key To steal a man even from himself a way,

And winde him up to heaven in a dream Not knowing how, or when, or whence he came? So slipp'd my soul: But thanks dear Soveraign Thou pull'dst me safely down to thee again.

Had Thracian Orpheus with his feather'd Quire, And Rendezvouz of brute bin present here The wondring Bard had suffer'd with the rest, Winged amazement, or at least turn'd beast. So winningly did she dissolve the sense In thousand labyrinths of joy, from whence The captiv'd soul could no more hope to see Releasment than time in eternitie. But that that voyce exhaled it from its earth Proved merciful, and gave it second birth.

With holy reverence let me dare to say Angels thus cloathe their Halelujah. Thus Mercury to reach Jove's mayden prize Charm'd all the guards and rounds of Argus eyes. Thus Philomel to drown the chirping wood, Melts all her sugard forces to a floud. Thus heaven's high consort bless'd the break∣ing day When the sweet Baby in a manger lay. The Wisemen, had they heard this sacred strain, Had ventur'd to have offer'd once again, Though neither spice nor myrrh: What then I pray? Even moping gravely to have loss'd their way.

For that great constellation of her light Had sunck their lanthorn star in endless night. But yet how sweetly had they stray'd? when shee Makes it no less than heaven where ere she be?

O had you seen how the small birds did creep, And dance from bough to bough! then stand and peep Through the green lattice of the trees, to see The instrument of that rich harmonie! And how the active grass there carpeted Contended which should first thrust up its head, And wake th' enammel'd circle of the Bower To hasten forth each pretty drooping flower, That in a radiant Coronet they might meet To weave gay buskins for Clarinda's feet! T'would puzle a strong fancy here to prove Which did exceed their envy or their love. But I shall range no further in dispute, The way to speak her worth is to be mute. For when that voyce clos'd her angelick song, To paraphrase would prove a double wrong.

Platonique Love.

BEgon fantastick whimsey, hence begon. I slight thy dreams, I'me no Camelion.

Nor can I feed on Ayry smoaky blisses, Or bayt my strong desire with smiles and kis∣ses, Old Tantalus as well may surfet on The flying streames by contemplation. Give me a minute's heaven with my love, Where I may roule in pleasures far above The idle fancy of the soul's embrace, Where my swift hand may ravish all the grace Of beauties wardrop, where the longing Bride May feast her fill, yet nere be satisfied. Blaspheme not Love with any other name Than an enjoyment kindled from the flame Of panting brests, mix'd in a sweet desire Of somthing more than barely to admire. 'Though sighs and signes may make the pul∣ses beate, 'Action's the bellowes that preserve the heat. If all content were placed in the eye, And thoughts compriz'd the whole felicity? Pictures might court each other, & exchange Their white-lime looks, wo hard, and yet seem strange, 'No, Love requires a quick and home em∣brace. 'Nor can it dwell for ever on the face. 'What ever glories Nature's tender care 'Compiles to make a piece divinely rare, 'Th'are but the sweet allurements of the eye 'Fix'd on a stage to catch the standers by.

'Or like rich Signes exposed to open sight 'To tempt the Traveller to stay all night. Yield then (my chast Clarinda) once to see The sweet Maeander of Love's libertie. And seale thy thoughts a grant to understand The welcome pleasures of a wife well mann'd. For all the sweets mistaken in a kiss Are but the empty circumstance of this. So shall a full content wipe out the score Of all our sorrows that have pas••'d before. Not a sad sigh shall scape unsatisfied Which in its master's passion wept and dyed. But like a Sea made subject to our Oares Wee'le hoise up Saile and touch the wished Shoares.

A Sigh.

FLY thou pretty active part To the Mistris of my heart, Shew her how the tedious night Sadly wastes without delight, How my waking soule devides The silent day twixt ebbs and tides Of hope and feare: How Love in mee Knows no measure or degree. Tell her all my feigned dreames Of her enjoyment, which in gleames Of wished bliss I seem'd to see But waking prov'd a fallacie;

Contriv'd by death to kill a Swain More than half already slain. Tell her all my secret fears, What a length's in seaven years, And that my grief well understood Is worse by far than widdow-hood. How to see and not partake Is but dying for her sake. Tell her more than I dare say, Yet can think as well as they That feel the freedom of that heat Which I in contemplation beat. And let her know Love more delights In action than in appetites. Tell her burial and a wife Untouched, are both things without life. And that too many heats and cold Will make the best complexion old. And when poor beauty's past its prime The rest is but asleeping time. Tell her all those heights and graces Which are built in female faces Like the Orbes without their motions Are but glorious pittyed notions. And in short without deceit Love cannot for ever wait. Pray her, pray her quickly yield, Ʋenus joy's to loose the field,

And in fetter'd twines to lie Working through love's Misterie. Where in thousand winding wayes She can twist the lover's maze. Where with pleasing losse and pain Ladyes clip and to't again, Mixing fresh with flames half gone, Joyes first felt then thought upon. Tell her if she this deny Love only fed with ayre must dy. Ask her whether groans and charms Mid-night walks and folded armes Be all she meant when first she slew My silly heart at second view? And if a life be spent in wooing Where's the time reserv'd for doing? Now little sigh if she at last Chide and check thee with a cast Of angry looks, like one that comes To kindle love in sullen Tombes? Return to me my pretty dear, And I will hide thee in a tear.

Love's Farewell.

FOnd Love adiew, I loath thy tyranny. Strive now no more to kill me with an eye, Or that we call Thy pastime, but our thrall.

I see thy cruelty, and moan the dayes My fetter'd heart lay doting on thy praise. If an unconstant look be all the grace Attends the pleasure of thy wanton chase? I'me none of thine Nor will adore thy shrine. I prize the freedom of a single hour More than the sugar'd tortures of thy power. If floods of brinish tears be all thy drink? And the whol man confined to gaze & think? If groans and sighs Be still thy sacrifice? I'le rather quench the flames of my desire, Then at thine Altar languish and expire. No, I suppos'd thy guilded baytes to bee As reall blisses as they seem'd to mee▪ But now I finde They captivate the minde, And slave the soul to endlesse proofs of joy, Which in the end are pills but to destroy. Wound me no more: I'me tyred with daily dying, Refrain thy dull delayes and bitter trying Of my sad heart Slain by th•• dart If this be all my crop of hopes and fears? My love my God shall have, my sins my tears. Free me this once, and when I come to bee The pris'ner of a second miserie.

Bring all thy chains And wracks of horrid pains, I'le willingly embrace the dreadful chance, And court my death as a deliverance. Whisper no more there's faith in woman∣kinde, Or any fixed thought to strike me blinde. When each new face Their fickle vows unlace. And each strange object that attempts their eye, Bribes all their sense into variety. Give me a heart of such a sollid frame Breathes above changes, and is still the same. I like no wits That flow by antique fits. Nor such a whiffling love whos wandring fire Is guided by a weather-cock desire. Give me a Mistris whose diviner minde Speaks her descended of the heavenly kinde, Whose gloryes are No borrow'd tinsel ware, Let her be yce to all the world, but such As waxe to me that melts upon the touch. Call not that chastity that's proud disdain, Nor plead them honest that in shew refrain, Lust has that trick, And stews such Rhetorick, Only to raise the standard of their price, And steal a verteous paint by seeming nice.

No, I abhor those poor religious blindes, Which aime to sequester our eyes & mindes, Love has no mask, Nor can it frown or ask, But in a sweet consent moves every way With its dear object like the Sun and day. No, either love me still or not at all, I like no passions that can rise and fall, No humours please In this conceal'd disease, But if my Mistris strive to catch my will, The Lawrel is attain'd by standing still. Once more I tempt thy pitty (Dearest Love) And if these tears can no compassion move, I'le scorn thee more Than I have lov'd before. And stanck up the salt Conducts of mine eyes To watch thy shame, & weep mine obsequies.

Christmas Day; Or the Shutle of an inspired Weaver bolted against the Order of the Church for its Solemnity.

CHrist-mass? give me my beads: The word implies A plot, by its ingredients Beef and Pyes. A feast Apocryphal, a popish rite Kneaded in dough (beloved) in the night. The night (beloved) that's as much to say (By late translations) not in the day.

An annual dark-lanthorn Jubile, Catesby and Ʋaulx baked in conspiracie, The Hierarchie of Rome, the Triple Crown Confess'd in Triangles, then swallow'd down, With spanish Sack? The eighty eight Armado Newly presented in an Ovenado. O Calvin! now my Cause upon thee fixes, Were ere such dregs mix'd with Genevae sixes? The cloyster'd steaks with salt and pepper lye Like Nunnes with patches in a Monastrie. Prophaneness in a Conclave? nay much more Idolatrie in crust! Babylon's Whore Raked from the grave, and baked by han∣ches, then Serv'd up in coffins to unholy men Defiled with superstition, like the Gentiles Of old, that worship'd Onions▪ Roots and Len∣tiles! Did ever John of Leyden prophecy Of such an Antichrist as pudding-pye? Beloved tis a thing when it appears Enough to set the Saints all by the ears In solving of the text, a doubtfull sin Reformed Churches nere consented in.

But hold (my Brethren) while I preach and pray Me thinks the Manna melts and wasts away, I am a man as all you are, have read Of Peter's sheet, how he devoutly fed Without exception, therefore to dispence A little with the worm of conscience.

And bend unto the creature, I profess, Zeal and a Pye may joyn both in a mess. The dearest sons may erre, then why a sinner May I not eat? since HƲGH eat three to din∣ner?

Good Fryday.

WHat sable Cypress maskes the glorious Sun? Rivalls the world? and robs us of our Noon? What Ague cramps the earth? whereas time fled? Why groan the graves? is nature vanished? Or must y shrivell'd heavens in one dread fire Rowle up in flames? then languish and expire? Some horrid change approaches, some sad guise, Nature, or else the God of nature dyes? Here's more than man in this, more than man∣kinde, Death's in pursuance, or the world resign'd, No common passion strikes mine eye, no fate Less than the whole's extinction, or debate. Angels stand trembling and amaz'd, the sphears Cease their bless'd harmony, and turn all tears Wrapp'd in a dreadful hush! so highly more Is man's redemption than his birth before!

To raise a world from nothing, and divide Dull bodies from the thin and rarified Speaks God in every close: But to renew Those ruin'd attomes when confusion threw The whole into a lumpish mass again, This makes the lovely wonder soveraign.

To mould a man in clay, then quicken that Dead body with a soule cooperate, Argues a Reall Presence: But when sin Has soyl'd that heavenly stamp, and chain'd it in The fetters of damnation, to restore That life in death transcends the love before.

O then behold and see if ever pain Or anguish match'd that sorrow! when the slain Of God bleeds on the Cross? when heaven de∣scends In bloud, to make man & the heavens friends? Nay more, when man lay doom'd eternally, To answer his own wrath, even God could dye! And smile upon those Wounds, that Spear, that Grave, Which our rebellions merited and gave! This love exceeds all height: yet I confess 'Twas God that did it, how could it be less?

Easter Day.

HOw all the guard reliev'd? the Romans fled? Those Basilisks that seeing conquered?

Heaven back my faith! what glorious Ap••a∣rition Shines in the vault? what angel like condition Of Souldiers doe I see? surely my fear Trebles the object, tis the Gardiner. Flow out my tears: Th' have stollen the Lord away, Come view the place whereas his body lay▪ But yet behold the napkin, and the cloathes Wrapp'd by themselves! in vain you take your Oaths Hard hearted Jews. For ô hee's risen and gone Why stand you gazing? what d'yee dote upon? Peace be unto you. O now I hear his voyce, Run Peter that thy spirit may rejoyce. A greater Star than that out of the East Which led the Wise-men rises in my brest. See where he rides in tryumph! hell & death Dragg'd at his chariot wheells, the powers be∣neath Made groveling Captives, all their trophies bring Slaves to the lawrels of the glorious King. Nay sin and the dull grave make up the crowd Though base, yet all pris'ners at war allowd.

Ride on brave Prince of Souls, enlarge thy Tis thy own work alone to kill & raise, Dying to vanquish death and by thy fall bayes To be the Resurrection of us all.

Flow hither all believers, yee that sow In tears, and in a veile but darkly know,

Stretch hither the distrustfull hand and feel Th' impressions of the nails and barbed steel. But yet forbear, his word must be attended Touch me not, for I am not yet ascended. However feast your eyes, behold the Star Of Jacob, Israel's deliverer. This boon to begging Moses hee'd not give, But now frail man may See his God and live.

Here's extasie of joy enough, that when Our sins conspired with ungodly men To crucifie the Lord of life, and kill His innocency by our doing ill, He yet survives the gall of bitterness, Nor was his soul forsaken in distress, But having led Captivitie in chains He burst the bonds of death, and lives, and reigns, And this revives our souls there's yet agen A Monarchy beyond the reach of men.

Holy Thursday.

AS when the glorious Sun veil'd and dis∣guis'd (As by the shaddowes of the night surpris'd) Disrobes his sable dress, and reasumes The beauty of its splendor from the Tombes And vaults of darkness, mounts the dapled skyes And guilds the heavenly wardrop as he flyes:

So here the Majesty of God conceal'd Under a mortal mantle, unreveal'd Till the predestin'd day of its disclose, Sublim'd its earth, and in full lustre rose, Joy'd with the shouts of Angels, and the quire Of Cherubims made happyer to admire.

Me thinks I hear the arched sphears resound The Paeans of the Saints, and give them round The tyres of heaven, like claps of thunder rowl'd From pole to pole, and doubled as they fould. Such a diffusive glory, that we see Each Saint triumphant in his victorie.

But is he gone for ever from our eyes? Will he no more return? shall we not rise? Or must that cloud that closed him from our sight Stand a partition wal between the light Of his eternal day and our dull shades? O that's a horror kills as it invades!

No: There's a hope yet left, a sure record Of mercy undenyable, his Word. Nay more▪ his faithful Promise: I'le not leave You comfortless. And can the Lord deceive? See there his hand and seal: And if you please T••admit the voyce of Angels to encrease An Infant faith? As you have seen him goe So he shall come again: Believe it so. Rejoyce then (ô my soul) that as thou art Rescued from death, and glorified in part,

So thy Redeemer lives, and that hee's gone Hence to prepare thy heavenly mansion. And when the trembling hearts of them that slew And peirct his pretious body quake to view The terror of his glorious return, When time shall be no more, the heavens burn, Earth crumble into ashes, and the dead Wak'd by th' Archangles voice dissepulcred, And catchd up in the clouds, thy greater bliss Shall meet thy sweet Redeemer with a kiss, And with their eyes his glittering court sur∣vey In all the garb of that tryumphant day.

Yet so demean thy self in this his dear And pittied absence as if present here. That at his second comming, Sans all grudg He may return thy Saviour as thy Judge.

Whitsunday.

WHat strange noise strikes mine eare? what suddain sound? As though the rowling windes were all un∣bound And met at once, by one joynt fury hurld To overturn the hinges of the world? This Scaene fore▪runs some dreadfull Act to come, Some greater wonder issuing from the womb Of Providence than what has pass'd our eye? Sure there's no second Son of God to dye? Nor summons to the dead once more to rise And scare the bloudy City's Sacrifice?

Nor does the chearfull Sun dance through the sphears As though he meant to fetch his last carrears? Time's not so near its Exit? nor the fall And conflagration of this circled Ball?

But yet behold a fire! most contrary To its own nature posting from on high! Kindling a sad suspition, cleft in rayes As though design'd to catch all sorts of waies! Sure tis no wanton flame, such whifling Lights Quench with the night-mark of tempestuous nights, Not daring to attempt the daye's bright eye To judge their non-existent frippery. No, this descends more stayd, reach'd from a∣bove,

'O 'tis the very God of peace and love! But how so strange devided? can there bee Twelve parts like Tribes couch'd in the dietie? That it appears multipartite? in th' dress Of Cloven Tongues? what tongue can this ex∣press? Yet though it seems in Sections to appear Most like the soul 'Tis wholly every where. The Spirit's omnipresent, nor can bee Confin'd to number, measure, or degree. But why in fire? and such myrac'lous flame? Fix'd on a stay, yet not consume the same? Are men like Moses bush? can bodyes burn Insensible? and not to ashes turn?

The wonder's great! but not so deep as high. 'Nature must needs leave work, when God stands by.

Descend on me Great God! but in such fire May not consume, but kindle my desire. Descend on me in flames! but such as move Winged by th' inspiration of the Dove. Descend in Cloven Tongues! such as dispence No double meanings in a single sense.

Hence all you wilde pretenders, you that blaze Like Meteors lapp'd in zeal, and dance the maze Of non-conformity in antique fits, Yea even from your selves curss'd Hereticks; Light not your frighted censors here: no Qua∣ker, Frisker, Baboon, or Antinomian shaker Must fire his brand from hence, the Spirit claims No holder-forth that dwells on second aimes; But Comes t' reprove the worlds Judaick press Of Sin, of Judgment, and of Righteousness.

No strange fanatick spark that gaping flyes And leaves its Audience skared with extasies. No Skipper in divinity, no Hinter, No radled Cardinal, no dreaming minter Of words and faces, no Quire of the Brisle, No squib, no squeaker of the puny grisle Approach this glory: For the beauteous Sun Admits no maskers till the day be done. No Chymical St. Martins pass the Test Till the pure Oare's exild, or gone to rest.

Shine out bright God, dispel these smoaky foggs Of schisme and heresie that smears and clogs The chariot of thy Gospell, that truth may Break forth in its own glosse and proper ray. That the Blue-apron'd Crackers of the times. Those wilde-fire Rockets, whose ambition climbes To wound the world with broils, set all on fire, And sink a glorious Church through base desire, May dwindle to their bulks, and there indite Long small-drink Anthems of the Saints good night. While it contents the boyes to nod at last November and my L^d. Mayors day are past.

A short Ejaculation Ʋpon that truly worthy Patron of the Law S^r. John Bridgman K^t. and Lord Chief Justice of Chester and the Marshes of Wales deceased.

SHall all the Tribes of Israel thirty dayes Mourn for the death of Moses? and so raise Their doubled cryes to heaven, and bemoan The Light of Jacob in a Tomb unknown. And Bridgman set obscurely? can the Sun Withdraw its radiant splendor at high noon, And the whole world not stand amaz'd to see Their glory swallow'd in eternitie?

Can the bright soul of Justice mount the skyes And we not fear a Deluge from our eyes?

Such was thy sad departure, such thy flight Into the spangled heavens, that the night Of a more sad dispaire hath seiz'd our beams, And left us nothing but our brackish streams To offer at thy shrine: And in those showers We state the day, and steep the slow-pac'd hours.

Hence let the Law be canoniz'd no better Than a meer corps of words, a bare dead letter, In thee the life departed: In thy dust Lies raked the hand & sense of right and just.

What yet survives, or rather what presents It's seeming face cloath'd in thine ornaments, 'Tis but Elias Mantle (though unknown) Dropt to work wonder, but the Prophet's gon.

Piae Memoriae Doctiss. Reveren dissimique in Christo Patris, Johannis Prideaux quam novissimè Wigoriae Episcopi, harumque tristissimè lacrymarum Patroni nec nòn defuncti.

BƲsta struant alii, lacrymisque altare refun∣dant, Quorum tristitiâ fata pianda cadunt. Talia praecurant cineres monumenta pusilli, Queis melos & tumulum fama gemenda petit.

Hîc neque pyramidum, nec inertis monstra colossi Poscuntur, subito corruitura die. Gloria securi confidentissima Caeli Non vocat haec stellis astra minora suis. Sic tuus ascendit currus, dign••ssime Praesul, Terreni miserans futile honoris onus. Sed vae Zodiaco nostro, vae (Phaebe) trementi, Ortus enim patriae lux tenebraeque fuit. In te floruimus, tecum decerpimur omnes Et Pater & gnati: Mollitèr ossa cubent. Parva tegaṅt tenues & aperti funera fletus, Tanta ruunt superis damna silenda metu.

Obsequies On that right Reverend Father in God John Pri∣deaux late Bishop of Worcester deceased.

IF by the fall of Luminaries wee May safely ghuess the world's Catastrophe? The signes are all fulfill'd, the Tokens flown, (That scarce a man has any of his own) Only the Jewes conversion some doubt bred, But that's confuted now the Doctor's dead.

Great Atlas of Religion! since thy fate Proclaims our loss too soon, our tears too late, Where shall the bleeding Church a Champion To grasp with Heresie? Or to maintain Her conflict with the Devil? For the ods gain Runs bias'd six to four against the Gods. Hell lists amain, nay and th' engagement flies With wing'd Zeal through all the Sectaries,

That should she soundly into question fall, We were within a Ʋote of none at all. But can this hap upon a single death? Yes: For thou wert the treasure of our breath. That pious Arch whereon the building stood Which broke, the whole's devolv'd into a floud An inundation that ore-bears the banks And bounds of all religion: If some stancks Shew their emergent heads? Like Set••'s famed stone Th' are monuments of thy devotion gone! No wonder then the rambling Spirits stray In thee the body fell, and slipp'd away.

Hence '••is the Pulpit swells with exhala∣tions. Intricate nonsense travel'd from all Nations, Notions refined to doubts, & maxims squeez'd With tedious hick-ups till the sense growes freez'd. If ought shall chance to drop we may call good, Tis thy distinction makes it understood. Thy glorious Sun made ours a perfect day, Our influence took its being from thy ray. Thine was that Gedeon's fleece▪ when all stood dry, Pearl'd with caelestial dew showr'd from on high. But now thy night is come our shades are spread, And living here we move among the dead.

Perhaps an Ignis fatuus now and then Starts up in holes, stincks and goes out agen. Such Kicksee winsee flames shew but how dear Thy great Ligh••'s resurrection would be here. A Brother with five loaves and two smal fishes, A table-book of sighs, and looks, and wishes, Sta••tles religion more at one strong doubt, Than what they mean when as the candle's

But I profane thy ashes (gratious soul) Thy spirit flew too high to truss these foul out. Gnostick opinions. Thou desired'st to meet, Such tenents that dust stand upon their feet, And beard the Truth with as intens'd a zeal As Saints upon a fast night quilt a meal.

Rome never trembled till thy peircing eye Darted her through, and crush'd the mysterie. Thy Revelations made St. John's compleat, Babylon fell indeed, but 'twas thy sweat And oyle perform'd the work: to what we see Foretold in misty types, broke forth in thee.

Some shallow lines were drawn, and scon∣ces made By smatterers in the Arts, to drive a trade Of words between us, but that proved no more Than threats in cowing feathers to give ore. Thy fancy laid the Siedg that wrought her fall, Thy batteries commanded round the wall:

Not a poor loop-hole error could sneak by, No not the Abbess to the Friery, Though her disguise as close and subtly good As when she wore the Monk's hose for a hood. And if perhaps their French or Spanish wine Had fill'd them full of beads and Bellarmine, That they durst salley, or attempt a guard, O! how thy busy brain would beat & ward? Rally? and reinforce? rout? and relieve? Double reserves? And then an onset give Like marshall'd thunder back'd with flames of fire? Storms mixt with storms? Passion with globes of ire? Yet so well disciplin'd that judgment still Sway'd, and not rash Commissionated will. No, words in thee knew order, time, & place, The instant of a charge, or when to face; When to pursue advantage, where to halt, When to draw off, and where to re-assault. Such sure commands stream'd from thee, that 'twas one With thee to vanquish as to look upon. So that thy ruin'd Foes groveling confesse Thy conquests were their fate and happinesse.

Nor was it all thy business here to war With forreign forces: But thy active star Could course a home-bred mist, a native sin, And shew its guilt's degrees how, & wherein; Then sentence and expel it: Thus thy sun An everlastingstage in labour run;

So that its motion to the eye of man Waved still in a compleat Meridian.

But these a••e but fair comments of our loss, The glory of a Chruch now on the Cross: The transcript of that beauty once we had Whiles with the lustre of thy presence clad. But thou art gone (Brave Soul) & with thee all The gallantry of Arts Polemical. Nothing remains as ••r••mitive but talk, And that our Priests again in Leather walk. A Flying ministerie of horse and foot, Things that can start a text but nere come to't. Teazers of doctrines, which in long-fleev'd prose Run down a Sermon all upon the nose. These like dull glow-worms twinckle in the night, The frighted Land-skips of an absent light.

But thy rich flame's withdrawn, heaven caught thee hence, Thy glories were grown ripe for recompence: And therefore to prevent our weak essaies Th' art crown'd an Angel with caelesti••l Bayes. And there thy ravish'd Soul meets field and fire, Beauties enough to fill its strong desire. The contemplation of a present God, Perfections in the womb, the very road And Essensies of vertues as they bee Streming and mixing in Eternitie.

Whiles we possess our souls ••ut in a veyle, Live earth confined, catch heaven by retaile,

Such a dark-lanthorn age, such jealous dayes, Men tread on Snakes, sleep in Bataliaes, Walk like Confessors, hear, but must not say What •• bold world dares act, and what it may. Yet here all votes, Commons and Lords agree, The Crosier fell in Laud, the Church in thee.

On the death of his Royall Majesty Charles late King of England &c.

WHat went you out to see? a dying King? Nay more, I fear an Angel suffering. But what went you to see? A Prophet slain? Nay that and more, a martyrd Soveraign. Peace to that sacred dust! Great Sir our fears Have left us nothing but obedient tears To court your hearse; & in those pious flouds We live, the poor remainder of our goods. Accept us in these later obsequies The unplundred riches of our hearts and eyes, For in these faithful streams and emanations W' are subjects still beyond all Sequestrations. Here we cry more than Conquerours: malice Murder estates, but hearts will still obey. These as your glory's yet above the reach may Of such whose purple lines confusion preach.

And now (Dear Sir) vouchsafe us to admire With envey your arrival, and that Quire

Of Cherubims and Angels that supply'd Our duties at your tryumphs: where you ride With full caelestial Iôes, and Ovations Rich as the conquest of three ruin'd Nations.

But 'twas the heavenly plot that snath d you hence, To crown your soul with that magnificence And bounden rights of honor, that poor earth Could only wish and strangle in the birth. Such pitied emulation stop'd the blush Of our ambitious shame, non-suited us. For where souls act beyond mortallity Heaven only can performe that Jubilee.

We wrastle then no more, but bless your day And mourn the anguish of our sad delay: That since we cannot add, we yet stay here Fettred in clay: Yet longing to appear Spectators of your bliss, that being shown Once more, you may embrace us as your own. Where never envy shall devide us more, Nor Citty tumults, nor the worlds uproar. But an eternal hush, a quiet peace As without end, so still in the increase Shall lull humanity a sleep, and bring Us equal subjects to the heavenly King. Till when I'le turn Recusant, and forswear All Calvin, for there's Purgatory here.

An Epitaph.

STay Passenger: Behold and see The widdowed grave of Majestie. Why tremblest thou? Here's that will make Al•• but our stupid souls to shake.

Here lies entomb'd the sacred dust Of Peace and Piety, Right and Just. The bloud (O startest not thou to hear?) Of a King, 'twixt hope and fear Shedd, and hurried hence to bee The miracle of miserie.

Add the ills that Rome can boast. Shrift the world in every coast, Mix the fire of earth and seas With humane spleen and practises, To puny the records of time, By one grand Gygantick crime, Then swell it bigger till it squeeze The globe to crooked hams and knees, Here's that shall make it seem to bee But modest Christianitie.

The Lawgiver, amongst his own▪ Sentenc'd by a Law unknown. Voted Monarchy to death By the course Plebeian breath. The Soveraign of all command Suff'ring by a Common hand.

A Prince to make the o••ium more Offer'd at his very door. The head cut off, ô death to see't! In obedience to the feet. And that by Justice you must know, If you have faith to think it so. Wee'le stir no further then this sacred Clay, But let it slumber till the Judgment day. Of all the Kings on earth, 'tis not denyed, Here lies the first that for Religion died.

A Survey of the World.

THe World's a guilded trifle, and the state Of sublunary bliss adulterate. Fame but an empty sound▪ a painted noise, A wonder that nere looks beyond nine dayes. Honour the tennis-ball of fortune: Though Men wade to it in bloud and overthrow; Which like a box of dice uneven dance Sometimes 'tis one's, somtimes another's chance. Wealth but the hugg'd consumption of that heart That travailes Sea & Land for his own smart. Pleasure a courtly madness, a conceipt That smiles and tickles without worth or weight Whose scatter'd reck'ning when 'tis to be paid Is but repentance lavishly in-layd.

The world, fame, honour, wealth, & plea∣sure then Are the fair wrack and Gemonies of men.

Ask but thy Carnall heart if thou shouldst bee Sole Monarch of the worlds great familie, If with the Macedonian Youth there would Not be a corner still reserv'd that could Another earth contain? If so? What is That poor insatiate thing she may call bliss?

Question the loaden Gallantry asleep What profit now their Lawrels in the deep Of death's oblivion? What their Triumph was More than the moment it did prance & pass? If then applause move by the vulgar crye, Fame's but a glorious uncertainty.

Awake Sejanus, Strafford, Buckingham, Charge the fond favourites of greatest name, What faith is in a Prince's smile, what joy In th' high & Grand Concilio le Roy? Nay Caesar's self, that march'd his Honour▪s through The bowels of all Kingdoms, made them bow Low to the stirrop of his will and vote, What safety to their Master's life they brought? When in the Senate in his highest pride By two and thirty wounds he fell and dyed?

If Height be then most subjected to fate? 'Honour's the day-spring of a greater hate. Now ask the Grov'ling soul that makes his gold His Idol, his Diana, what a cold Account of happiness can here arise From that ingluvious surfet of his eys?

How the whole man's inslaved to a lean dearth Of all enjoyment for a little earth? How like Prometheus he doth still repair His growing heart to feed the Vultur care. Or like a Spider's envious designes Drawing the threds of death from her own loines. Tort'ring his entrails with thoughts of to morrow, To keep that masse with grief he gain'd with sorrow. If to the clincking pastime in his ears He add the Orphanes cries and widdows tears The musick's far from sweet, and if you sound him Truly, they leave him sadder than they found him. Now touch the Dallying Gallant, he that lyes Angling for babies in his Mistris eyes, Thinks there's no heaven like a bale of dyce Six Horses and a Coach with a device. A cast of Lacquyes, and a Lady-bird, An Oath in fashion, and a guilded Sword, Can smoak Tobacco with a face in frame, And speak perhaps a line of sense to th' same, Can sleep a Sabboath over in his bed, Or if his play book's there will stoop to read, Can kiss its hand, and congey a la mode, And when the night's approaching bolt abroad, Unless his Honour's worship's rent's not come; So he fals sick, and swears the Carrier home. Else if his rare devotion swell so high To waste an hour-glasse on divinity,

Tis but to make the church his stage, thereby To blaze the Taylor in his ribaldry. Ask but the Jay when his distress shall fall Like an arm'd man upon him, where are all The rose-buds of his youth? those atick toyes Wherein hee sported out his pretious dayes? What comfort he collects from Hawk or Hound? Or if amongst his looser hours, he found One of a thousand to redeem that time Perish'd and lost for ever in his prime? Or if he dream'd of an eternal bliss? Hee'le swear God damne him he nere thought of this. But like the Epicure ador'd the day That shin'd, rose up to eat, and drink, and play. Knows that his body was but dust, and dye It once must, so have mercy, and God b'wy.

Thus having traverss'd the fond world in brief, The lust of th' eyes, the flesh, and pride of life, Unbiass'd and impartially, we see Tis lighter in the scale than vanitie. What then remains? But that we stil should strive Not to be born to dye, but dye to live.

An old Man Courting a young Girle.

COme beauteous Nymph, canst thou em∣brace An aged, wise, majestick grace

To mingle with thy youthfull flames? And make thy glories stayd? The Dames Of looser gesture blush to see Thy Lillies cloth'd with gravitie? Thy happier choice? thy gentle Ʋine With a sober Elm entwine? Seal fair Nymph that lovely tye Shall speak thy honour loud and high.

Nym:

Cease Grandsire Lover, and forbear To court me with thy Sepulcher, Thy chill December and my May, Thy Evening and my Break of Day Can brook no mixture, no condition, But stand in perfect opposition. Nor can my active heart embrace A shivering Ague in love's chase. Only perhaps the luky tye May make thy forked fortune high.

Man:

If fretted roofs, and beds of down, And the wonder of the Town, Bended knees, and costly fare, Richest dainties without care, May temptatious motives bee Here they all attend on thee, And to raise thy blisse the more, Swell thy Truncks with pretious O••e, The glittering entrailes of the East To varnish and perfume thy Nest.

Nym.

I question not Sage Sir but shee That weds your grave obliquitie, Your Tizick, Rhewms, and Soldans face Shall meet with Fretted Roofs apace, I fancy not your bended knees Least bowing you can sprightly rise, Your gold too when you leave to woo Will quickly become Pretious too. And dainty Cates without delight, May glut the day but starve the night. For when thou boasts the Beds of bliss, The man, the man still wanting is.

Man.

Nay gentle Nymph think not my fire So quench'd, but that the strong desire Of love can wake it, and create New action to cooperate. The sparks of youth are not so gone, But I—ay marry that I can. Come smack mee then me pretty dear, Tast what a lively change is here. Why fly'st thou me?—

Nym.

—yce yce begon, Clasp me not with thy Frozen Zone. That pale aspect would best become The sad complexion of a Tombe. Think not thy Church-yard look shall moove My spring to be thy Winter's Stove If at the Resurrection wee Shall chance to marry, call on mee

By that time I perhaps may ghuess How to bathe and how to dress Thy weeping legs and simpathise With perish'd lungs and wopper eyes; And think thy touchy passion wit, Love disdain and flatter it; And 'midst this costive punishment Raise a politick content. But whiles the Solstice of my years Glories in its highest sphears, Deem not, I will daign to be The Vassal of infirmitie. The skreen of flegmatick old age, Decay'd Methusalem his page. No, give me lively pleasures, such Melt the fancy in the touch; Raise the appetite, and more, Satisfie it ore and ore. Then from the ashes of those fires Kindle fresh and new desires. So Cyprus be the Scaene: Above Venus and the God of love, Knitting true-love-knots in one Merry happy Union. Whiles their feath'red team appears Doves and Sparrows in their gears Flutt'ring ore the jovial-frie Sporting in love's Comaedie.

Man.

Hold hasty soul, beauty's a flower That may perish in an hour, No disease but can disgrace The trifling blossoms of a face, And nip the heights of those fond toyes That now are doted on with praise. The noon-glory of the Sun To the shades of night must come. May, for all her guilded prime Has its weak and withering time. Not a bud that owes its birth From the teeming-mother earth But excells the fading dress Of a womans loveliness. For when flowers vanish here They may spring another year. But frail beauty when 'tis gone Findes no resurrection. Scorn me then coy Nymph no more, Fly no higher, doe not soare, Those pretty rubies of thy lips Once must know a pale Eclipse. And that plump alluring skin Will be furrow'd deeply in. And those curled locks so bright Time will all besnow with white. Not a glory, not a glance, But must suffer change and chance. Then, though now you'l not contact With me in the marriage Act,

Yet perforce chuse, chuse you whether You and I shall Lye together.

An Epitaph on his deceased Friend.

HEre lies the ruin'd Cabinet Of a rich soul more highly set. The drosse and refuse of a minde Too glorious to be here confin'd. Earth for a while bespake his stay Only to bait and so away: So that what here he doted on Was meerly accommodation. Not that his active soul could bee At home, but in eternitie. Yet while he blest us with the rayes Of his short continued daies, Each minute had its weight of worth, Each pregnant hour some Star brought forth. So whiles he travell'd here beneath He liv'd, when others only breathe. For not a sand of time slip'd by Without its action sweet as high. So good, so peacable, so blest, Angels alone can speak the rest.

Mount Ida, or, Beauties Contest.

THree regent Goddesses they fell at odds, As they sat close in councel with the gods, Whose beauty did excel? And thence they crave A moderator of the strife to have, But least the partiall heavens could not decide The grudg, they stoop to Mortals to be try'd. Mantled in clouds then gently down they fall Upon Mount Ida to appease the brall, Where Priam's lovely Boy sporting did keep His Fathers lambes and snowy flocks of sheep, His lilly hand was soon ordain'd to bee The harmless Ʋmpire of the fond decree. To him, to him they gave the Golden Ball, O happy goddess upon whom it fall! But more unhappy Shepeard, was't not pittv Thou didst not send it at a close Committee? There, there thou hadst surpass'd what did be∣fall, Thou might'st have crowned One, yet pleased All. First then Imperious Juno did display Her coronet of glories to the Boy, And rang'd her stars up in an arched ring Of height and majesty most flourishing, Then wealth and honour at his foot did lay To be esteem'd the Lady of the day. Next Pallas that brave Heroina came, The thund'ring Queen of action, war & fame,

Dress'd in her glittering armes, wherewith she layes Worlds wast, & new ones from their dust can raise, These, these she tenders him, advanc'd to bee, With all the wreaths of wit and gall antrie. Last Venus breaks forth of her golden raies, With thousand Cupids crown'd, ten thousand Boyes, Sparkling through every quadrant of her eyes, Which made her beauty in full glory rise: Then smiling vow'd so to sublime his parts To make him the great Conquerour of hearts. Thus poor distracted Par••s all on fire Stood trembling deep in doubt what to desire, The sweet temptations pleaded hard for all, Each theatre of beauty seem'd to call For the bright prize: but he amazed hee Could not determine which, which, which was shee At last the Cyprian Girle so strook him bli••de In all the faculties of soul and minde, That he poor captiv'd wretch without delay Could not forbear his frailty to betray, But maugre honour, wisdom, all above▪ He ran & kiss'd & crown'd the Queen of Love. Pallas and Juno then in high disdain Took snuff and posted up to heaven again▪ As to a high Court of appeal, to bee Reveng'd on men for this indignitie.

'Hence then it happens that the Ball was lost ''Tis two to one but love is alwaies crost.

Ʋpon a Flye that flew into a Lady's eye, and there lay buried in a tear.

POor envious Soul! what couldst thou see ••n that bright Orb of puritie? That active globe? That twinkling sphear Of beauty to be medling there? Or didst thou foolishly mistake The glowing morn in that day-break? Or was't thy pride to mount so high Only to kisse the Sun and dye? Or didst thou think to rival all Don Phaethon and his great fall? And in a richer Sea of brine Drown Icarus again in thine? Twas bravely aim'd, and which is more Th' hast sunck the fable ore and ore. For in this single death of thee Th' hast banqurrupt all Antiquitie.

O had the fair Aegiptian Queen Thy glorious monument out seen, How had she spared what time forbids The needlesse tott'ring Pyramids! And in an emulative chafe Have begg'd thy shrine her Epitaph? Where, when her aged marble must Resigne her honour to the dust,

Thou mightst have canonized her Deceased Time's Executor?

To ripp up all the western bed Of spices where Sol layes his head, To squeeze the Phaenix and her Nest In one perfume that may write Best, Then blend the gall'rie of the skyes With her Seraglio of eyes, T' embalm a name, and raise a Tombe The miracle of all to come, Then, then compare it: Here's a Gemm A Pearl must shame and pitty them. An amber drop, distlled by The sparkling Limbeck of an eye, Shall dazle all the short essaies Of rubbish worth, and shallow praise.

We strive not then to prize that tear Since we have nought to poise it here. The world's too light. Hence, hence we cry The world, the world's not worth a Fly.

Obsequies To the memory of the truly Noble, right Valiant and right Honourable Spencer Earle of Nor∣thampton Slain at Hopton Field in Safford∣shire in the beginning of this Civill War.

VVHat? The whole world in silence? Not a tear In tune through all the speechless Hemisphaere?

Has grief so seiz'd and sear'd man-kinde in all The convoyes of Intellegence? No fall But those of Waters heard? No Elegies But such as whine through th' organs of our eyes? Can Pompey fall again? And no Pen say Here lies the Romane Liberty in clay? Or can his bloud Boe-die th' Egiptian Sand, And the black crime doe less than ••ann the land? And make the Region instead of a verse And tombe his sable Epitaph and Hearse?

So here Northampton that brave Heroe fell Tryumphant Roman thy pure paralell, The blush and glory of his Age: Who dyed In all points happy, but the Weak•••• side. Only to forreign parts he did not roam, The kinde Egiptians met him nearer home. Both, and such, Causes, that the world confess There's nought to plead against them but Success. Malignant Loyalty! a glorious fame And sin, for which God never found a name. Which had it scaped the Rubrick of these times Had still continued among Holy Crimes. A Text on which we finde no gloss at all But in the Alcorn of Gold-smiths Hall!

Now (Great Adolphus) give me leave to stir The ashes of thy Urne, and Sepulcher; And branch the flowers of the Sweadish glory As rivall'd to the life in our sad story: Yet not impaire thy plumes, by adding more To suit that splendor from a neighbour shore••

Nor deem thy honor less thus match'd to bee, If Compton dyed to grasping Victorie. An active soul in gallant fury hurl'd To club with all the worthies of the world. Blinde, envious, piping Fortune! what could bee The tottering ground of this thy trecherie? To stop the ballance of that brave Carrear Was both at once thy miracle and fear? Was't not a pannick dread surpriz'd thy soul Of being made servile to his high controul? Blush and confess poor Caitiff-godess! so Wee'le quit his in thy ••eall over-throw.

And De••th, thou worm! thou pale Assassi∣nate! Thou sneaking hireling of revenge and hate, Didst not thou feel an Earth-quake in thy bones? Such as rends Rocks and their foundations? No Tirtian shivering, but an Ague fit Which with a burning Feaver shall commit The world to ashes? when thou stolest creptst under That Helmet which durst dare Jove and his thunder

But since the bays he reacht at grew not here, Like a wise souldier, and a Cavalier, He left his coveteous enemie at bay, Rifling the carriage of his flesh and clay: While his rich soul pursued the greater game Of Honour to the skies, there fix'd his name.

I shall not therefore vex the Orbs to trace Thy sacred foot-steps in that hallow'd place. Nor start a feigned Star, and swear it thine, Then stretch the Constellation to thy line. Like a Welch Gentleman that tacks his kin To all Coats in the countrey he lives in. Nor yet, to raise thy Flaming Crest, shall I Knock for the wandring Planets in the sky: Perhaps some broken beauty of stale doubt, To comment on her face has hir'd them out▪

Let fame, & thy brave race thy Statue live, The world can never such another give. Whiles each soul sighes at the sad thought of thee There fell a Province of Nobilitie. A fall, had Zeal but husbanded its throat, That sunck the House of Lords, and saved the Vote. They only state mute Titles in their gears, He singly represented all the Peeres. One, had the enemy imployd their Smeck, Those Ring-worms of the Church, to beg a neck With Claudius, to metropolize all worth, Rome, & what ere the Suburbe world brought forth, In him the sword did glut its ravening eye, The rest that kick'd up were the smaler Frye. Sparks only of that fire in him deceas'd, Nyfles that crack'd and vanish'd north & west.

He lead the Royal war in such a dye, In that dire entrance of the Tragedy,

The sense (Great Charles) no longer to pro∣rogue, None but thy self could speak the Epilogue.

The London Lady.

GEntly my Muse! 'tis but a tender piece, A paradox of Fumes and Ambergreece. A cobweb-tinder at a touch takes fire, The tumbling wherligig of blinde desire. Vulcan's Pandora in a christal shrine, Or th' old Inn faced with a new painted signe. The spotted voyder of the Term: In short Chymical nature phisick'd into Art.

But hold rude Satyr, here's a Hector comes, A Cod-pe••ce Captain that with her shares sums, One claims a Joynture in her sins, the foile That puts her off, like the old man ere while That with a dagger Cloak, and ho-boy gapes And squeeks for company for the Jack an Apes. This is the feirce St. George, fo••e runs the wag∣gon, And, if occasion be, shall kill the Dragon. Don Mars the great assendant on the road When Thomass's teem begins to jog abroad. The hinter at each turn of Coven Garden, The Club pickearer, the robust Church warden Of Lincolne's Inn back corner, where he angles For Cloaks and Hats, and the smale gam een∣tangles

This is the Citty Ʋsher straid to enter The small drink countrey squires of the first venter,

And dubs them bach'lor-Knight of the black Jugg, Mans them into an oath, and the French shrugg, Makes them fine graduates in smock impu∣dence, And gelds them of their puny mothers sense. So that when two terms more, and forty pound Reads them acquainted all Gomorrha round, Down to their wondring friends at last they range, With breeding just enough to speak them strange, And drown a younger brother in a look Kick a poor Lacquey, and berogue the Cook, Top a small cry of Tennants that dare stir In no phrase now, but save your Worship Sir.

But to return: By this my Lady's up, Has swom the Ocean of the Cawdle Cup, Convers'd with every washing, every ground, And Fucus in the Cabinet's to be found, Has laid the fix'd complexion for the day, Her breech rings high Change and she must away.

Now down the Channel towards the Strand she glides, Flinging her nimble glances on both sides, Like the death-darting Cockatrice that slye Close Enginere that murders through the eye.

The first that's tickled with her rumbling wheels Is the old Statesman, that in slippers reels, He wire-drawes up his jawes, and snufs and grins, And sighing smacks, but for my aged shins, My Conclave of diseases, I would boord Your lofty Galley: Thus I serv'd my Lord—. But mum for that, his strength will scarce sup∣ply His back to the Belcone, so god b'wy.

By this she has survey'd the golden Globe, And finding no temptation to disrobe, To Durham New Old Stable on she packs, Where having wine'd and breath'd the what d' yee lacks, Rusled and bounced a turn or two in ire, She mounts the Coach like Phaethon all on fire, Fit for th' impressions of all sorts of evill, And whirles up tow'••ds the Lawyers and the Devill. There Ployden in his laced Ruff starch'd on edg Peeps like an Adder through a quickset hedg, And brings his stale demur to stop the course Of her proceedings with her yoak of horse; Then fals to handling of the case, and so Shews her the posture of her over-throw, But yet for all his Law and double Fees Shee'le bring him to joyn issue on his knees: And make him pay for expedition too, Thus the gray fox acts his green sins anew.

And well he scapes if all his Norman sense Can save the burning of his Evidence. But out at last shee's hudled in the dark, Man'd like a Lady Client by the Clerk. And so the nimble youngster at the parting Extorts a smack perhaps before the Carting.

Down Fleet-street next she rowls with pow∣derd crest, To spring clip'd-half-crowns in the Cuekow's nest For now the Heroes of the yard have shut Their shops, and loll upon their bulks to put The Ladyes to the squeek, if so perhaps Their mistris can spare them from their laps. Not far she waves and sailes before she clings With the young tribe for pendents, lace and rings, But there poor totterd Madam, though to late, She meets the topsi-turvey of her state, For the calm'd Boyes▪ ••aving ••ought left to pay, A•••• forced ••o pawn her, & so run away. On this the dreadful Drawer soon appears, Like her ill G••••••us about her ears, With a long bill of Items that affright Worse than a skull of Halberds in the night. For now the Jay's compell'd to untruss all The tackling upon tick from every stall, Each sharing Broker of her borrow'd dress Seems to doe pennance in her nakedness. For not a Lady of the noble game But is composed at least of all Long-lane:

An Animal together blow'd and made, And up'd of all the shreds of every Trade.

Thus purely now her self, homewards she packs, Exciz'd in all the Dialects of her knacks: Squeez'd to the utmost thred, and latest grain, Like Meteors toss'd to their first grit again.

A lane, a lane, she comes, summ'd down to nought, But shame and a thin under petticoat. But least I should pursue her to the quick, I pass: The chase lies now too near the nick

In pitty Satyr then thy lash let fall: He knowes her best that scans her not at all. And though thou seemst discourteous not to save her, No matter, when thou leav'st there's one will have her.

The Times.

TO speak in wet-shod eyes, and drowned looks, Sad broken accents, and a vein that brooks No spirit, life, or vigour, were to own The crush and tryumph of affliction; And creeping with Themistocles to bee The pale-faced pensioners of our enemie. No, 'tis the glory of the soul to rise By fals, and at re-bound to peirce the skies.

Like a brave Courser standing on the sand Of some high-working Fretum, views a land

Smiling with sweets upon the distant side, Garnish'd in all her gay imbroidred pride, woods, Larded with springs, and fring'd with curled Impatient, bounces, in the capring flouds, Big with a nobler fury than that stream a way Of shallow violence he meets in them; Thence arm'd with scorn & courage ploughs Through the impostum'd billows of the Sea; And makes the grumbling surges slaves to oar And waft him safely to the further shoar: Where landed, in a soveraign disdain He turns back, and surveys the foaming main, Whiles the subjected waters flowing reel Ambitious yet to wash the victor's heel.

In such a noble equipage should wee Embrace th' encounter of our miserie. Not like a field of corn, that hangs the head For every tempest, every petty dread▪ Crosses were the best Christians armes: and wee That hope a wished Canaan once to see Must not expect a carpet way alone Without a red-sea of affliction.

Then cast the dice: Let's foord old Rubicon, Caesar 'tis thine, man is but once undone. Tread softly though, least Scylla's ghost awake, And us in the roll of his Proscriptions take. Rome is revived, and the Triumvirate In the black Island are once more a state; The Citty tre mbles: Theres no third to shield If once Augustus to Antonius yield

Law shall not shelter Cicero, the robe The Senate: Proud success admits no probe Of Justice to correct or quare the fate That bears down all as illegitimate; For whatsoere it lists to over-throw, It either findes it, or else makes it so.

Thus Tyranny's a stately Palace, where Ambition sweats to climbe and nustle there; But when 'tis enterd, what hopes then remain? There is no salliport to come out again. For mischief must rowl on, and gliding grow Like little rivulets that gently flow From their first bubling springs, but still in∣crease And swell their channel as they mend their pace; Till in a glorious tide of villany They over-run the bancks, and posting fly Like th' bellowing waves in tumults, till they can Display themselves in a full Ocean. And if blinde rage shall chance to miss its way Brings stock enough alone to make a Sea.

Thus treble treasons are secur'd & drownd By lowder crimes of deeper mouth and sound. And high attempts swallow a puny plot As Canons over-whelme the smaler shot. Whiles the deaf senseless world inur'd a while (Like the Catadupi at the fall of Nile) To the feirce tumbling wonder, think it none Thus custom hallows irreligion. And stroaks the patient beast till he admit The now-grown-light and necessary Bitt.

But whether doe I ramble? Gauled times Cannot endure a smart hand ore their crimes. Distracted age? What dialect or fashion Shall I assume? To passe the approbation Of thy censorious Synod; which now sit High Areopagites to destroy all wit?

I cannot say I say that I am one Of th' Church of Ely-house, or Abington, Nor of those pretious spirits that can deal The pomgranets of grace at every meal. No zealous Hemp-dresser yet dipp'd me in The Laver of adoption from my sin. But yet if inspiration, or a tale Of a long-wasted six hours length prevail▪ A smooth certificate from the sister-hood, Or to be termed holy before good, Religious malice, or a faith 'thout works Other then may proclaim us Jews or Turks. If these, these hint at any thing? Then, then Whoop my dispairing Hope come back agen. For since the inundation of grace, All honesty's under water, or in chase. But 'tis the old worlds dot age▪ thereupon We feed on dreams, imagination, Humours, and cross-graind passions which now reign In the decaying elements of the brain. Tis hard to coin new fancies, when there bee So few that launch out in discoverie. Nay Arts are so far from being cherished▪ There's scarce a Colledg but has lost its Head,

And almost all its Members: O sad wound! Where never an Arterie could be judged sound! To what a hight is Vice now towred? When we Dare not miscall it an Obliquitie? So confident, and carrying such an awe, That it subscribes it self no less than Law? If this be reformation then? The great Account pursued with so much bloud & sweat?

In what black lines shall our sad story bee Deliver'd over to posteritie? With what a dash and scar shall we be read? How has Dame Nature in us suffered? Who of all Centuries the first age are That sunck the World for want of due repair?

When first we issued out in cries and tears, (Those salt presages of our future years) He ad-long we dropt into a quiet calme, Times crownd with rosie garlands, spice and balme; Where first a glorious Church & mother came, Embrac'd us in her armes, gave us a name By which we live, and an indulgent brest Flowing with stream to an eternal rest. Thus ravish'd the poor Soul could not ghuesse even Which was more kinde to her yet, earth, or heaven. O•• rather wrapp'd in a pious doubt Of ••eaven, whether she were in or out.

N••xt the Great Father of our Countrey brings His blessing too, (even the Best of Kings)

Safe and well grownded Lawes to guard our peace, And nurse our vertues in their just increase; Like a pure spring from whom all graces come, Whose bounty made it double Christendom. Such and so sweet were those Halcyon Dayes That rose upon us in our Infant rayes; Such a composed State we breathed under, We only heard of Jove, nere felt his thunder▪ Terrours were then as strange, as love now grown, Wrong and revenge lived quietly at home. The sole contention that we understood Was a rare strife and war in doing good.

Now let's reflect upon our gratfulness, How we have added, or (ô) made it less, What are th' improvements? what our pro∣gresse, where Those handsom acts that say that some men were? He that to antient wreaths can bring no more From his own worth, dyes banq'rupt, on the score. For Father's Crests are crowned in the Son, And glory spreads by propagation. Now vertue shield me! where shall I begin? To what a labyrinth am I now slipp'd in? What shall we answer them? or what deny? What prove? Or rather whether shall we fly? When the poor widdow'd Church shall ask us where Are all her honours? & that filial care

We owed so sweet a Parent as the Spouse Of Christ, which here vouchsafed to own a house? Where are her Boanerges? & those rare Brave sons of consolation? Which did bear The Ark before our Israel, and dispence The heavenly Manna with such diligence? In them the prim'tive Motto's come to passe, Aut mortui sunt, aut docent literas. Bless'd Virgin we can only say we have Thy Prophets Tombes among us, and their grave. And here and there a man in colours paint That by thy ruines grew a mighty Saint.

Next Caesar some accounts are due to thee, But those in bloud already written bee. So lowd & lasting, in such monstruous shapes, So wide the never to be clos'd wound gapes; All ages yet to come with shivering shall Recite the fearful pres'dent of thy fall.

Hence we confute thy tenent Solomon, Ʋnder the Sun a new thing hath been done, A thing before all pattern, all pretence Of rule or coppy: Such a strange offence, Of such original extract, that it bears Date only from the Eden of our years.

Laconian Agis! we have read thy fate, The violence of the Spartan love and hate. How Pagans trembled at the thought of thee, And fled the horror of thy tragedie. Thyestes cruel feast, and how the Sun Shrunk in his golden beams that sight to shun.

The bosoms of all Kingdoms open lye, Plain and emergent to th' inquiring eye. But when we glance upon our native home, As the black Center to whom all points come, We rest amazed, and silently admire How far beyond all spleen ours did aspire. All that we dare assert is but a cry Of an exchanged peace for Liberty. A secret term by inspiration known, A mist that brooks no demonstration, Unless we dive into our purses, where We quickly finde Our Freedom purely dear.

But why exclaim you thus? may some men say, Against the times? when equal night and day Keep their just course? the seasons still the same? As sweet as when from the first hand they came? The influence of the Stars benigne and free, As at first Peep up in their infancie? Tis not those standing motions that devide The space of years, nor the swift hours that glide Those little particles of age, that come In thronging Items that make up the Summ, That's here intended: But our crying crimes▪ Our monsters that abominate the times. Tis we that make the Metonymie good By being bad. Which like a troubled floud Nothing produce but slimy mire and dirt, And impudence that makes shame malepert.

To travel further in these wounds that lye Rankling, though seeming closed, were to deny Rest to an ore-watch'd world, and force fresh tears From stench'd eyes, new alarum'd by old fears. Which if they thus shall heal & stop, they bee The first that ere were cur'd by Lethargie. This only Axiom from ill Times increase I gather, There's a time to hold ones peace.

The Model of the new Religion.

WHoop! Mr. Ʋickar in your flying frock! What news at Babel now? how stands the Cock? When wags the floud? no Ephimerides? Nought but conf••unding of the languages? No more of th' Saints arrival? or the chance Of three pipes two pence and an ordinance? How many Queere-religiōs? clear your throat,

May a man have a peny-worth? four a groat? Or doe the Iuncto leap at truss a fayle? Three Tenents clap while five hang on the tayle? No Querpo model? never a knack or wile? To preach for spoons & whistles? cross or pile? No hints of truth on foot? no sparks of grace? No late sprung light? to dance the wild-goose chase? No Spiritual Dragoons that take their flames From th' inspiration of the citty Dames? No crums of comfort to relieve our cry? No new dealt mince-meat of divinity?

Come let's project: By the great late Ec∣clipse We justly fear a famine of the lips.

For sprats are rose an Omer for a sowse, Which gripes the cōclave of the lower House. Let's therefore vote a close humiliation For opening the seal'd eyes of this blinde Na∣tion, That they may see confessingly and swear They have not seen at all this fourteen year. And for the splints and spavins too, tis said All the joints have the Riffcage, since the head Swelld so prodigious and exciz'd the parts From all allegiance, but in tears and hearts.

But zealous S^r. what say to a touch at praier? How Quops the spirit? In what garb or ayre? With Souse erect, or pendent, winks, or haws? Sniveling? or the extention of the jaws? Devotion has its mode: Dear Sir hold forth, Learning's a venture of the second worth. For since the people's rise and its sad fall We are inspir'd from much to none at all.

Brother adiue! I see y'are closely girt, A costive Dover gives the Saints the squirt. Hence (Reader) all our flying news contracts Like the State's Fleet from the Seas into acts. But where's the model all this while you'le say? 'Tis like the Reformation run away.

On Brittanicus his leap three story high, and his escape from London.

PAul from Damascus in a basket slides Craned by the faithfull Brethren down the sides

Of their embattel'd walls: Britanicus As loath to trust the Brethrens God with us. Slides too, but yet more desp'rate, and yet thrives In his descent, needs must the Devil drives. Their cause was both the same, & herein meet, Only their fall was not with equal feet, Which makes the case Iambick: Thus we see How much news falls short of Divinitie. Truth was their crying crime: One takes the night, Th' other th' advantage of the New sprung Light Mo mantle his escape: How different be The Pristin and the Modern Policie? Have Ages their Antipodes? Yet still Close in the Propagation of ill? Hence flowes this use and doctrine from the thump I last sustain'd (belov'd) Good wits may Jump.

Content.

FAir stranger! winged maid, where dost thou rest Thy snowy locks at noon? Or on what brest Of spices slumber ore the sullen night? Or waking whether dost thou take thy flight? Shall I goe seek some melanchollick grove? The silent theatre of dispair and love? There court the Bitterne and the Pelican Those Aiery Antipodes to the tents of man?

Or sitting by some pretty pratling spring Hear hoarse Nyctimene her dirges sing? Whiles the rough Satyres dance Corantoes too The chattring Sembriefs of her Woo hoo, hoo? Or shall I trace some ice-bound wildernesse Among the caverns of abstruse recess? Where never prying Sun, nor blushing Day Could steal a glimps, or intersqueeze a ray? If not within this solitary Cell, O whether must I post? Where dost thou dwel?

Shall I let loose the reins of blinde desire? And surfet every ravening sense? Give fire To any train? And tyre voluptuousnesse In all her soft varieties of excess? And make each day a history of sin? Drink the A la mort Sun down and up agen? Improve my crimes to such a roaring score, That when I dye, where others goe before In whining venial streams, and quarto pages, My flouds may rise in folio, sinck all ages? Or shall I bathe my selfe in widdows tears? And build my name in th' curse of them and theirs? Ship-wrack whole nature to craw out a purse With th' molten cinders of the universe? Belch nought but ruine? and the horrid cryes Of fire and sword? & swim in drowned eyes? Make lanes to crowns & scepters through th' heart's veins Of Justice, Law, Right, Church and Sove∣raigns?

No, no, I trace thee not in this dark way Of death, this scarlet streak'd Aceldama.

Shall I then to the house of mourning goe? Where the Salt-peeter Vuates over-flow With fresh supplies of grief? Fresh tides of brine? Or traverse the wide world in every line? Walk through the bowels of each realm and state Simpling for rules of policy to create Strang forms of government of new molds & wasts Like a french Kickshaw of a thousand tasts? Or shall I dive into the secrecy Of Nature? Where the most retir'd doth lye? O•• shall I waste the taper of my soul In scrutinies, where neither Northern-pole Nor Southern-constellation darts a light To constitute a latitude or height? Or shall I float into the watry pale Wan kingdom of the Moon? and there set sail For all the Orbs? and keep high holiday With th' Nectar-tipling-Gods in th'milky-way? Swell Bacchus tripes with a tun of lusty Sack? And lay the Plump Squire flat upon his back? O no, these revels are too short, too soure, Too sad, hugg'd and repented in an hour.

Shal I then plough the seas to forreign soils? And rake the pregnant Indies for hid spoyls? Or with the Anchorite abhor the eye Of heaven, and banish all society.

Live in, and out the world? and pass my dayes In treading out some strang misterious maze? Tast every humane sweet? lilly and rose? With all the sharp guard that about them grows? Climb wher dispair would tremble to set foot? Spring new impossibles and force way to't? Make the whole globe a shop of Chymistry To melt down all her attomes, and descry That small Iota, that last pittied grain Which the gull'd sons of men pursue in vain? Or shal I grasp those meteors, fame, & praise? Which breath by th'charity of the vulgar voice? Pile honour upon honour till it crack The Atlas of my pride, and break its back? Hold fancy, hold! for whether wilt thou bear My sun-burnt hope to loss? 'Tis, 'tis not here.

Soar then (My Soul) above the arched round Of these poor spangled blisses: Here's no ground To fix the sacred foot of pure Content, Her mansion's in a higher element.

Hast thou perceiv'd the sweetness of a groan? Or tried the wings of contemplation? Or hast thou found the balm of tears that press Like amber in the dregs of bitterness? Or hast thou felt that secret joy that flowes Against the tide of common over-throws? Or hast thou known the dawnings of a God Upon thee, when his love is shed abroad? Or hast thou heard the sacred harmonie Of a calm Conscience ecchoing in thee

▪A Requiem from above? A sealed peace Beyond the power of hell, sin, or decease? Or hast thou tasted that communion Between a reconciled God and Man? That holy intercourse? Those pretious smiles Dissolv'd in holy whisprings between whiles? Here, here's the steps lead to her bless'd a∣bode; Her chair of state is in the throne of God.

May Day.

COme Gallants, why so dull? What mud∣dy cloud Dwells on the eye-brows of the day? Why shroud Ye up your selves in the furl'd sayles of night, And tossing lye at Hull? Hark how delight Knocks with her silver wings at every sense? And great Apollo Laureal doth Commence? Up 'tis the golden Jubilee of the year, The Stars are all withdrawn from each glad Sphear Within the tyring-rooms of heaven, unlesse Some few that peep to spy our happinesse Whiles Phaebus tugging up Olympus craw Smoaks his bright Teem along on the Gram Paw Heark how the songsters of the shady plain Close up their Anthems in a melting strain! See where the glittring Nimphs whirl it away In Checkling Caravans as blyth as May;

And th' Christal sweating flowers droop their heads In blushing shame to call you slug-a beds. Waste but a glance upon Hide-park, and swear All Argus eyes are falln, and fixed there. The dapled lawns with Ladies shine & glow, Whiles bubling mounts with springs of Nectar flow; And each kinde Turtle sits and bills his Dove Dike Venus and Adonis lapp'd in love. Heark how Amyntas in melodious loud Shrill raptures tunes his horn-pipe! whiles a crowd Of snow-white milk-maids crownd with gar∣lands gay Trip it to the soft measure of his Lay. And fields with curds and cream like green∣cheese lye, This now or never is the Gallaxie. If the facetious Gods ere taken were With mortal beauties and disguis'd, 'tis here. See how they mix societies, and tosse The tumbling ball into a willing losse, That th' twining Ladyes on their necks might take The doubled kisses which they first did stake. Those pretty earnests of a maiden-head Those sugred seals of love, types of the bed, Which to confirm the sweet conveiance more They throng in thousand times ten thousand score

Such heavenly surfets, as they sporting lye, Thus catch they from each others lipp & eye. The game at best, the girls May rould must bee, Where Croyden and Mopsa, he and shee Each happy pair make one Hermophrodite, And tumbling bounce together, black & white, Where had you seen the chance, you had not known Whose shew had lovelier bin Madam's or Joan. Then crown the bowle let every conduit run Canary, till we lodg the reeling Sun. Tap every joy, let not a pearl be spilt, Till we have set the ringing world a tilt. And sacrifice Arabia Faelix in One bone fire, one incense offering. Tis Sack, tis Sack that drowns the thorny cares Which hedg the pillow, and abridg our years, The quickning Anima Mundi that creates Life in dejection, and out dares the Fates, Makes man look big on danger, and out swell The fury of that thrall that threatens Hell. Chirp round my Boyes: let each soul take its sipp, Who knows what fals between the cup and lip? What can a voluntary pale look bring Or a deep sigh to lessen suffering? Has mischief any piety or regard? The foyl of misery is a brest prepar'd.

Hence then with folded armes, ecclipsed eyes, And low imprison'd groans, meek cowardise. Urge not with oars death that in full saile comes, Nor walk in forestal'd blacks to that dark tombs. But rather then th' eternal jaws shall gape, Gallop with Curtius down the gallant hap. Mean time here's that shall make our shackles light, And charm the dismal terrors walk by night, Tis this that chears the drooping soul▪ revives The benum'd captive c••āp'd in his cold gyves. Kingdoms and Cottages, the Mill and Throne Sack the Grand Leveller commands alone. Tis Sack that rocks the boyling brain to rest, Confirms the aged hams, and warms the brest Of gallantry to action, runs half share And mettal with the buff-fac'd Sons of war. Tis wit, 'is art, 'tis strength, 'tis all and more; Then looss the floud gates Georg, wee'le pay or score.

An Epig. to Doulus.

DOulus advanced upon a goodly Steed, Came mounting ore the plain in very deed, Wherat the people cring'd & bow'd the knee, In honour of my Lord's rich Liverie. Hence swell not Doulus, nor erect thy crest, Twas for the Goddess sake we capp'd the beast.

An Epig. on the people of England.

Sweating and chafing hot Ardelio cryes A Boat a Boat, else farwel all the prize. But having once set foot upon the deep Hotspur Ardelio fell fast a sleep. So we, on fire with zealous discontent, Call'd out a Parliament, a Parliament. Which being obtain'd at last, what did they doe? Even squeez the wool-packs, & lye snorting too.

Another.

Erittain a lovely Orchard seem'd to be Furnish'd with nature's choise varietie, Temptatious golden fruit of every sort, Th'Hesperian Garden fann'd from fein'd report, Great boyes and smal together in we brake, No matter what disdain'd Priapus spake, Up, up we lift the great Boyes in the trees, Hoping a common share to sympathize: But they no sooner there neglected streight The shoulders that so rais'd them to this height; And fell to stuffing of their own bags first, And as their treasure grew, so did their thirst. Whiles we in lean expectance gaping stand For one shake from their charitable hand.

But all in vain the dropsie of desire So scortch'd them, three Realms could not quench the fire. Be wise then in ynur Ale bold youths: for fear The Gardner catch us as Moss caught his Mare.

An Elegie Ʋpon my dear little friend M. I: F. Who dyed the same morning he was born. Decem. 10. 1654.

COme all yee widdowed Muses, & put on Your veils, and mourn in a full Helicon. Press every doleful string to bear a part In the sad harmonie of a broken heart. Bring all your sacred springs as sweet supplies To feed the swelling ocean of mine eyes.

Be dumb yee Sons of mirth, let not a joy Pry through the smalest crannie of the day: But let an awful silence seize the soul Of universal motion, whiles wee towl Love's passing Bell, and ring a loud to all Little Adonis and his mighty fall.

Malignant Heaven! can there be envy there Where never gall nor sequestration were? Is't possible that in so pure a shrine So consecrate, so holy, so divine As thy bless'd mansions, there can dwel a grain Or attome of black malice or disdain? That for to boast thy riches to poor men Could'st drop a pearl and snatch it up agen?

First scrue us to an Extasie of blisse Then dash us by an Antipe'ristasis? Punnish a moment's ravishing happiness With such a furious glut of sharp distress?

Could light & darkness be so twin'd toge∣ther In such close webs of bitter chang of weather, Just parted by a single subtile thred No sooner to be judg'd a live but dead? Could wit and fate no less a torment finde? Would th' hadst not bin so cruel, or so kinde!

Bless'd Babe! why could not thy friends ma∣ny tears Invite thine innocent stay for a few years? Or at the least why didst thou them bereave Of the short comfort of a longer leave? How can that drown the anguish of thy birth For joy a man was born upon the earth? When th' Midwife only could arrive to this To reach thee to thy first and latest kiss? How loaded with ingratitude didst thou part From thy twice travelling Mother in one smart? First pain'd for thy remiss and slow delay, Now thrown for thy abortive hast away?

But yet I wrangle not with heavens decree▪ Th' hast only posted ore that miserie, Through which we beat the hoof sad Seventy Years To the last Act of life, in hopes and fears, Midst a perverse world, and a shipwrack'd-age Of Truth and Worth, & draw late off the Stage.

To lay more weight or pressure upon thee Twere envy to thy suddain victorie. Thou only wak'dst into the world, and then Shut'st up in holy discontent agen. Thy chast unspoted soul just lighted on The floor and perch of our low Horison, But quickly finding the mistake, that here Was not her Center, nor her Hemisphaere, She made a point, and darted back most nice Like lightening to her element in a trice.

The Thracian Dranst which with joy interr Their Dead, and sport about their Sepulchre, But mourn still at their birth, to think upon Those choaking cares of earth are coming on, May here preach rules of piety to my grief, In bad times doubting what's best death or life Crown'd Saint indeed thou might'st have staid. A mournfull Student in our historie, Have read a world of sad looks in each page to bee And passage of a sore distracted age, And then discuss'd the causes how and why, Which to repeat renews th' extremity; So have entail'd thy guiltless tears to ours Now swel'd to flouds by long continued showers.

But thou hast wrought that haven in a breath, For which we sweat & tug our selves to death▪ Thou met'st no tempest of assault to stay Thy fleeting bark in full sail all the way.

Wee're clogd with thousand Remoraes, men of war That cross the rode, through which with ma∣ny a scar And foil we militant Christians doe cōmence, And at the last take heaven by violence.

Such was thy suddain how-dee & farewell, Such thy return the Angels scarce could tell Thy miss, But that thy feast was drawing on Of th' Son of God's high Genethliacon, Where all the holy Hosts appear to sing Solemn Te Deum's to the glorious King. Hence flowes thy sweet excuse of hast: Then since Our loss was thy enjoyment of thy Prince, The Annual attendance on his Day To fill the heavens with Haleluiah. Yet grant us so much of the court, to bee Envious a while at thy felicitie, That thou so young a favourite shouldst per∣take Those smiles for which we so much cringing make. And reach that height of honour in a glance, For which we toil through Law & Ordinance.

I chide thee then no longer Happy Soul, Farewel, farewel! since man cannot controule The hand of Providence. May thine ashes lye Soft, till I meet thee in eternity! Where we shal part no more, nor death devide My griefs and their sweet object, but a tide Of endlesse joy shall satisfaction make For this poor stream of brine shed for thy sake.

A short reflection on the creation of the World.

WHen as this circling Globe of Seas and Earth Snugg'd in her night-clothes, and had neither birth Nor motion, but a lumpish Caos stood, An immaterial mass of slimy mud, A confus'd pre- existent nothing, where Tis blasphemy to say as yet things were. The great Eternal Being thought it good His Spirit here should move upon the floud. Hence bloom'd the early and the infant light From out the swathe-bands of eternal night, Which now furl'd up in sooty curls gives back And place to Time to date its Almanack. Whiles Midwife-Nature fits the Vacuum For the conceal'd impressions yet to come. This glimmering splendor in its course begun Christ'ned three dayes before there was a Sun. Thus things with things in miz'd confusion hurl'd Lift up their eye-lids, & Thus wak'd the World.

Nor was it yet broad day to any sight, For time walk'd as it were by candle-light. The East had not yet guilded bin by those Bright sparks by which she now most Orient growes. When as the mutt'ring Elements took their place And Centers as their several nature was,

The active fire first clipp'd the azure Round, To which the grosser ayre became a bound, Each in his proper Orbe was stay'd and pent floud Environ'd bv a solid Firmament. This was the time when th' rendevouzing Disbodying from the earth upon heaps stood, And N••ptune ore that raging bulk of brine Advanc'd his Mace and ••cepter tridentine. Whiles the dry land peepp'd up out of the froth Like a short Common•• in a sea of brotn; Spangled with f••uits & flowers, herbs & grass, And this the teeming world's First up-rise was.

Not long this beauty had in twilight lay But God made lights to sunder night and day; And deck the checkred palace of the skyes With thousand Coronets of twinkling eyes Which by their rule & aspects in their spears, Should be for signes and seasons, month s and And now if ever there was harmony years. Amongst those blessed motions up on high, Twas in this instant, when in joynt consent They danc'd this mask about the Firmament, And plac'd that heavenly round which ore & ore Must be renew'd till time shall be no more. Next those rich bodyes of the Sun and Moon, Like the High Constables of the watch, for noon And night, drew forth in glory, whēce created Tis much more safe admired than debated.

Thus the Surveyors of the world took birth, And this was The good morrow of the Earth.

There wanted nothing now, trees, herbs, nor plants, Nor sweets, but a few wilde inhabitants, Fish and the reptile creature; winged Quires Of downy Organists for to tune their Lyres, And fill the breaking ayre with Rapsodies Of chirping emulation to the skies. Thus the self generative streams brought forth Th' Amphibious brood of water and of earth. The shady woods now range with ecchoing straines Of shrill melodious notes; whose pretty chains Tye up the ears of things in silent love As 'twere a glimpse of heaven dropt from a∣bove. Next came the silver harnass'd scaley fry Capring upon the deep, to give supply To every pretty winding brook, which now With tatling springs and living plenty flow. Thus Nature peep'd out in her morning dresse Though not arrived to a full readinesse.

And now the sixth day of God's labour dawnes, Whenas the blowing meads and tufted lawns Are stock'd with lowing beasts of every kinde, The bleating snowy sheep, & fruitful hinde, All creatures of all sorts for game and food, Which by the vote of heaven were very good. The little world and complement of all Was only absent, for whose sake they call

The Grand Consilio of the gods to make Man, which of earth and heaven should per∣take God's Image and the globe's Epitome Must in one structure both united bee. Hence then the low and lofty Steward came To head the Collonies, and gave things a name Even Adam that prime moving dust, that small And great Vicegerent of the God of all. Thus the world walk'd abroad rich as the sun, And God's work ended where Man's work be∣gun.

Now that we have survey'd this tumbling Ball How & whence made, take a short touch on al. And first of that great mercy, that prime cause From which all causes spring and take their Laws Twas meerly The eternal will & Love Of God reveal'd in time that did him move To raise an universe of beauty, where Was neither forme nor mediate matter there. And thence he fram'd not man first as the summ And supream piece of all that was to come, But brought him to a Furnish'd World, compleat In all proportions, bad him take and eate, Subdue and have dominion, raign, command, And supervize the wonders of his hand. The only homage he sought on his part Was but the service of an upright heart, A pure obedience and a station in That innocency which yet had known no sin.

But why in just six dayes God and no more Compleated up this building and this store May some men ask? Was it a type of the Fix'd Crisis of the world's Catastrophe? Which the old Rabbins of the Jews suppose After six thousand years shall have its close? When all flesh shall an endless Sabbath keep While sin and time & death are lull'd a sleep? I dare not fathom these deep misteries Conceal'd even from the very Angells eyes. As the beginning of all things hid lay In the Almighty bosom, where no ray Could pry into its purpose: So we now May gh••ess the end as undiscover'd, how Or when, lies lapp'd up in th' obscure decree And secret cabinet of the dietie. This only we dare say we know, as light Began, so fire shall be the world's good night. Thus having through this glorious week's work prest Where God left labour I presume to rest.

John chap. 18. ver. 36. My Kingdom is not of this World.

TRue blessed Saviour, true! thy Kingdom's not Of this world. For we cannot finde a spot Of thy Crown Land, where Geometrie may stay Her reeling compass to move any way

In demonstration of that circling Round That may define th' inclosure Holy ground: But since thy Church grew Stately & fell down, The lands are all confiscate from the Crown. Conntrey freez Elders have thy Flesh hooks bin To shrive the Levites Pot and all within. And never conscious of thy pious rule Leave poor Elias to th' charity of the foul. Or like the Indian Astomi, to smell His way to life, or live by miracle. Thus Sion's wasted, and thy Prophets slain: And Godlinesse hath proov'd the only Gain.

Math. chap. 11 ver. 28. Come unto me all yee that labour and are heavy laden &c.

MOst great and glorious God! how sweet, how free Is thy kinde invitation! but ay mee The clogs of sin So rein me in And black shame mix'd with guilt restrains my will From all designes but doing ill, So that I tremble to approach thy throne, And tread the Courts of the most Holy One. But yet thy Call's so powerfully good, So pressing, that 'tis death if once withstood. Nor is it less To tempt thy Holiness.

In this extream this streight what shall I doe? I'de come, but bee accepted too: But ô my loud-tongu'd sins so fill the ayre They'le bar up heaven against my cry & pray∣er. Yet wherfore should I doubt? 'Tis not the call Of Cherubims, or ought Angelical; Tis he, tis hee That in that extasie Of fear to sincking Peter reach'd his hand And snatch'd him from the grave to land; Jehovah, he that tryes the reines, and sees Our wounds and moanes, our deep infirmities. Shall I then with poor Adam strive to hide My nakedness with leavs? Or slip a side? O no, he spyes my way By night as by noon day: Darkness cannot exclude him, nor the shade Of Hell from what his hands have made; He knows our thoughts evē long before they were, And when those lips bid come, can there be fear? But ô 'tis said hee's a Consuming fire! But ô 'tis sure he now layes by his ire: He thunders out With trumpets shout No Judgment from mount Sinai: But a still Soft voice of love and free good will. He that appear'd then in a warlike dress, Seeks now the stray sheep in the Wilderness.

Put off thy terrors then Great God, and I Shall humbly prostrate at thy foot-stool lye; And there bemoan With many a groan And bitter tear my sinful sins to thee, To thee alone canst pardon mee. O shut not up thy mercy in disdain, Nor yet remember my old sins again! Impute not my youth's guilt unto my charge? But thou that offer'st Rest, set me at large Even from this death, And hell beneath That gapes with open jaws to swallow all That on thee doe neglect to call; And hardned in their sins thy spirit grieve By a contempt and wilful hate to live. But ere thou cōm'st bless'd God to pass me by First hide me from thy sin-abhorring eye, That I may stand Like Moses cover'd with thy hand Close in the cilft of Christ's wounds, in the dress And garment of his Righteousnesse, And on me through his satisfaction look, That on his score my sad transgressions took. Receive me then, but with that kinde regret The good old man his prodigal childe met, Who as't appears Devided betwixt joy and tears Ran and embrac'd, & kiss'd his drooping Son, In all points now undone,

But that rich treasure of a Father's love Which nere could be exhausted, nor remove. Such bowels of compassion Lord put on! Such pregnant yernings of affection! Then hear my cry, And heal my malady. Though I have sinn'd yet Christ hath satisfied. O Judg not, for 'tis he that dyed. But hear the voice of his still streaming gore Which calls to thee for mercy more & more. Prevent not then thy Angels joy in mee To see a sinner reconcil'd to thee! Nor let thy love So barren prove, Or loose its end for which thou sent'st it here, Even my salvation now so neer. What pleasure in my bloud Lord cā there be? Or will the chambers of death honour thee? Thy call is not a summons to the Bar Of Justice, but a throne where mercies are Like flowing balm To mitigate and calm The tumult of a rageing conscience; Whose pricking bitter ecchoing sense Holds out a flag of death, whose motto runs No hope, no peace, no such rebellious Sons. But Lord thy sweeter promise is the ground We lean & build upon; canst thou be found Lesse than thy self? A ship-destroying shelf?

No, though an Angel from thine Altar swear My sins unpardonable are, My crimes so great cannot forgiven bee, Yet Lord I come, yet Lord I trust in thee. O then accept my Heavy laden Soul Crush'd with the burden of her sins, so foul She dares not brook Once up to look; But drown'd in tears presumes to come on board, And for this once to take thy word; If I at last prove ship-wrack'd for my pain I'le never venture soul more so again.

A Sing-song on Clarinda's Wedding

NOw that Love's Holiday is come, And Madg the Maid hath swept the room And trimm'd her spit and pot, A wake my merry Muse, and sing The Revells, and that other thing That must not be forgot. As the gray morning dawn'd, tis sed Clarinda broke out of her bed Like Cynthia in her pride: Where all the Maiden Lights that were Compriz'd w ithin our Hemisphaere Attended at her side.

But wot you then with much a doe They dress'd the Bride from top to toe And brought her from her chamber. Deck'd in her robes and garments gay More sumptuous than the live-long-day Or Stars enshrin'd in Amber. The sparkling bullose of her eyes Like two ecclipsed Suns did rise Beneath her christal brow. To shew like those strange accidents Some suddain changable events Were like to hap below. Her cheeks bestreak'd with white and red Like pretty tell-tales of the bed Presag'd the blustring night With his encricling armes and shade Resolv'd to swallow and invade And skreen her virgin light. Her lips those threds of scarlet dye, Wherein Love's charmes and quiver lye, Legions of sweets did crown; Which smilingly did seem to say O crop me, crop me whiles you may, A non th' are not mine own.

Her Breasts those melting Alps of snow On whose fair hills in open shew The God of Love lay napping; Like swelling Buts of lively Wine Upon their ivory stells did shine To wait the lucky tapping. Her waste that slender type of man Was but a small and single span▪ Yet I dare safely swear He that whole thousands has in fee Would forfeit all, so he might bee Lord of the Mannor there. But now before I passe the line Pray Reader give me leave to dine, And pause here in the midle; The Bridegroom and the Parson knock, With all the Hymeneall flock, The Plum-cake and the Fidle. When as the Priest Clarinda sees, He stared as't had bin half his fees To gaze upon her face: And if the spirit did not move His continence was far above Each sinner in the place.

With mickle stir he joyn'd their hands, And hamp'red them in marriage bands As fast as fast might bee, Where still me thinks, me thinks I hear That secret sigh in every eare, Once love remember mee! Which done the Cook he knock'd amain And up the dishes in a train Come smoaking two and two▪ With that they wip'd their mouths and sate, Some fell to quaffing, some to prate, Ay marry and welcome too In pay'••s they thus impal'd the meat Roger and Marget, and Thomas and Kate, Rafe and Bess, Andrew and Maudlin, And Valentine eke with Sybell so sweet, Whose cheeks on each side of her snuffers did meet As round and as plump as a codling. When at the last they had fetched their freez, And mired their stomacks quite up to y^• knees In claret for and good chear, Then, then began the merry din, For as it was thought they were all on the pin, O what kissing and clipping was there!

But as luck would have it the Parson said grace, And to frisking & dancing they shuffled apace, Each Lad took his Lass by the fist, And when he had squeez'd her, and gaum'd, her untill The fat of her face ran down like a mill He toll'd for the rest of the grist. In sweat and in dust having wasted the day, They enter'd upon the last act of the play, The Bride to her bed was convey'd, Where knee deep each hand fell downe to the ground And in seeking the Garter much pleasure was found, 'Twould have made a man's arm have stray'd This clutter ore Clarinda lay Half bedded, like the peeping day Behind Olimpus cap; Whiles at her head each twittring Girle The fatal stocking quick did whirle To know the lucky hap. The Bridegroom in at last did rustle, All dissap-pointed in the bustle The Maidens had shav'd his breeches; But let him not complain, tis well In such a storm, I can you tell He save'd his other stitches.

And now he bounc'd into the bed, Even just as if a man had said Fair Lady have at all; Where twisted, at the hug they lay, Like Venus and the sprightly Boy, O who would fear the fall? Thus both with love's sweet tapers fired, And thousand balmy kisses tyred, They could nor wait the rest, But out the folk and candles fled, And to't they went; but what they did There lyes the cream of the jest.

On the much to be lamented Death of that gallant Antiquary and great Master both of Law and Learning, John Selden Esquire.

Epicedium Elegiacum.

THus sets th' Olimpian Regent of the day Laden with honour; after a full survey Of the deep works of nature, to return With greater lustre from his watery urne. Thus leans the aged Cedar to the rage Of tempests, which the grove for many an age Hath grac'd, yet yields to be trāspālted thence T' adorn the nobler Palace of his Prince. Thus droops the world, after a smiling May And June of pride into a withering day,

And hoary winter season, to appear More lovely in the buds of a fresh year. Then boast not Time in the eclipsed light Of Selden's lower orbes, whiles the high flight Of his enthroned Soul looks down on thee With scorn, as an ungrateful enemie. For in his death thou sport'st with thy own dust, Whiles with his ashes thy poor glories rust. Mention no more thy Acts of old, nor those Grand ruines rich in thy proud overthrowes; In him th' hast lost thy Titles and thy name, Who dyed the Register of time and fame. He was that brave Recorder of the world, When age & mischief had conspir'd & hurl'd Vast kingdōs into shatter'd heaps; who could Redeem them from their vaults of dust and mould. Then raise a monument of honour to That restor'd life, w^ch death could nere undoe. Such was the fal of this Tenth worthy then, This Magazine of earth and heaven, and men, He, whereas others to their ashes creep, (Those common elements of all that sleep;) Dissolv'd like some huge Vatican from on high Whose every limbe became a Library. As therefore in the works of Nature they Which are most ripe are neerest to decay: So here this neighbouring Pyramid on th' sky Drew neerest heaven when furthest from the eye. And now thy Mare Clausum's true indeed, The rode's block'd up to th' many reined steed,

Which to each point of the world's compasse reels, And tacks her glad discoveries to her keels. Let then the travelling Mariner in the deep Of the Reserves of reason goe to sleep; Since the grave Pole-star of the groaping sky Has suffer'd ship-wrack in mortallity.

He that would praise thee well through all thy parts Must ransack all the languages and arts▪ Drain nature to th' last scruple to discry How far thou went'st in her Anatomy. Then climbe from orbe to orbe, & gather there The pure Elixar of each star and sphear, Which in thy life did club their influence With thy rich flames as one Intelligence; Then raise a blazing comet to thy name, As a devoted Taper to thy Fame, To live the pitied shadow of that day And glorious Noon which with thee drew a∣way.

When Common People dye, 'tis but a sight Whose grief and dole's digested in a night. But when such brawny sinews of a state As thee break loose; 'tis like a clock whose weight Being slipp'd a side all motion's at a stand: Such sorrows doe not wet but Drown a land.

Could we with that brave Macedonian Spark Offer whole towns and kingdoms to the Ark Of a lost friend now floating in our eyes, And make more worlds in this grief sympa∣thize,

T'were but due thanks for that high sove∣raignty Ore many nations we enjoy'd in thee To languish any longer at thy shrine, Melting the sacred sisters into brine In a salt Hecatomb of tears, 'twould bee But a weak, faint and pale discoverie Of those few artires of life they have Since the last mortal stab giv'n in thy Grave.

Such was the publick universal wound That the whole bod' of Law & learning found In thy preposterous and most sad decease, There's none can probe the grief, or state that case. In short, we lost so many Tongues in thee There's scarce one left to mourn thine obse∣quie. Those shallow issues which now from us rise Steal through the speechless conduits of our eyes, Which turning Water Poets tumble forth Insilent eloquence to bemoan thy worth. Such deep impressions has thy farewel left In every bosom, every secret cleft Of each particular soul, instead of verse We live thy doleful Epitaph and Hearse. And what the mournful Prophet sigh'd of old Seems now broke forth, as of these times fore∣told. Each face shall gather blackness, for in thee Thus gone, w' are shut up in obscuritie. Such borrowed dependance had our light Upon thy sun, thy evening was our night.

But since there's no perfection here, thy glass To become gold indeed translated was.

Thy furnish'd soul being fill'd with all that could Be here extracted from the grosser mould Of earth's Idea, in a brave disdain Drew to its proper Center, that vast Main Of truth and knowledg▪ great Jehovah, hee That's all in all to all eternitie. Where now I leave thee 'midst a glorious throng Of Saints; but hope to see thee ere't be long.

Ʋpon the death of John Selden Esquire.

NOw thou art dead, Ʋnequall'd Sir, thy fall Confounds no less than England's fune∣rall; For when the soul departs that gave her breath, We are but loathed carkases in thy death. Thus Pompey's Trunck found on the Egyptian sand Rome streight pronounc'd her time was at a stand. So whē a fair ag'd Oak doth downward move We count not one Tree's loss, but the whole Grove. As ayre and water when once useless grown One by too much drouth, one b▪infection, The Citty and Kingdom both deplore that loss: And we entitle't one man's private cross. O that Pythagoras doctrine might obtain, (Old souls to inform new bodyes hast again) Th••n would the world less sense of sorrow have, Nought but to life a back-door were thy Grave!

And like the Phoenix dy'dst in balmy spice, That thēce thou might'st into new glories rise.

But this we hope not for, & 'tis thy praise Alone & Salomon's, (None such in your dayes.) Learned Maimonides hence improv'd his fame, That none since Moses, such a Moses came. Joseph's perfections had out-shin'd far more, If Julius Scaliger had not writ before. Thou like Melchizedeck knewst no peer nor Rich only with thy own true estimate. Witness those matchless volumes that can tell mate, The world how vast a soul did in thee dwell. So fraught with such a Mine of knowledg, we Might think thee well a living Librarie.

Not like our Time-enthusiasts, who disclose In scurrile Pens, that they can rave in prose, And in such narrow hoops the conscience pent, As man nere durst, nor God for laws ere meant. Nay souls of men with such high reins keep in, That to be reasonable is counted sin. No, in such season'd Judgment flowd thy Pen, We thence might learn what temper became men. Thou nor to Sects, nor to parties writt'st (& tis But just to point thee singular in this.) But wiht unwearied pain dispenc'd thy store, What all past ages thought and said before.

Arabians, Persians, Hebrews, Greeks and all The Sun in'ts circuit dines or sups withall Thee in their several Idioms court, and bring Their common-wealths of learning to their King As tribute. Selden hadst thou flourished than When Jew and Greek, Creet and Arabian What each in varied Dialects said, could tell, Thy acquir'd pains had lam'd the miracle.

Thy fruitful Tongues might far as day have run, To language Countreis to the posting Sun: The western Climes might have bin told by thee All that the Indian voic'd, Antiquitie. Nor is that all, for numerous speech affords, Without good conduct, but a Mart of words. A bunch of keyes men prize not wealth, but letts, Where skill comes short t' unlock the cabinets. A magazine of sounds in most we see Serve but to stuss and perfect Pedantrie. Thy copiousness of Tongues findes matter hence, It lets in matter that conveyes new sense. And rat'st thy painted words embroideries, But as they usher strange discoveries. That East Idolatry yet had lurk'd 'tis ods But for thy subject of the Syrian gods. The world had still in ignorance bin held How great she was, had Selden not reveal'd

Those pompous Attributes, Titles of renown Which King, Prince, Emperor challeng'd as their own. Earles & Marquesses, Dukes & all degrees Hence found them boundes fix'd for prece∣dencies. A structure so elaborate it would ask Europe's joynt labour to out-goe the task. The Law of Nations 'mongst the Hebrews taught, And Nature's dictates where could we have sought But from that labour'd Piece is publish'd forth To leave the world a Legacy of thy worth. I name not others thy choice rarities, The Hebrew Priests, defence of British Seas, Arundles marbles, and the Hebrew wife, Thy Sanhedrims Tripartite, Edmer's life, With other choice which I not reckon here, Least so the hidden embers I should stir Of rancor gone in some, who measure test Not by their judgment, but their interst. Such as wit-bound themselves can faintly spare To stab with censures, other choicest care. Such suburb-wits their shackled judgments binde To reach the bark, and dwell upon the rinde. When 'twas thy excellence to pursue y^e chase, Till there was left to scruple no more place. So long Alcides thought his work unsped, As he to Hydra left or tayle or head.

Thy Plummet sinks into the depe stsound, Still plunging onward till it finde the ground. What worn inscriptions didst from dust re∣lieve? And from time's shipwrack didst restore to live? Custom, or Manners, Ensigne, Form, or Rite▪ What is't thy teeming brain not brought to light? Now thou hast travell'd through the world's wide coast, And left no creek, nor path, nor Seas uncrost, And nature's utmost boundaries hast known, Twas time thou tookst the period of ••hine own. That so thy wakeful soul dismantled hence Might meet fresh objects for Intelligence The Grecian Heroe thus when he went through As far as bounds, wish'd he had more to doe. So through feirce seas the angry keel is hurl'd To look out passage to another world. J. Ʋ. M. A. J. C. Oxon.

Ʋpon the incomparable Learned John Selden.

TWere wrong to thy great name on thee to write, Who like the Sun shines best with thy own light. Clocks that are made to imitate the Sun Seldom run right and true in motion▪ With heaven's great torch; whose course is re∣gular▪ And tells us our best acts erroneous are.

Our praise, when best impov'd, is at this stay As our faint twilight's to the bright mid-day. All we can speak comes so far short of thee As doth of nature our Philosophie. In thine own sphear thrice glorious star then shine; S••nce all our light is but a beam from thine.

The spotless ray originally springs From the great mass of light, more splendor brings▪ Than when through ayre's dark Medium it re∣flects, Where not so pure a beam the sun projects. So the first shade some glasses doe present More vigor hath than to the next is lent. Thus Pictures from their excellence doe fal The further off from their Originall.

Ʋpon the death of John Selden.

PRaise that is worthy thee who would re∣hearse Must dare beyond the skill of art, or verse. Twere sawciness here least flattery for to use, Where to the nine the ayd of a tenth Muse Is all too little to proclaime thy worth, Who art no comet blazing seldom forth, But a new Star, us mortals for to tell Thou wert from heaven sent a miracle. Since then none may presume to reach thy fire, We may be thought no trespassers to admire.

Thus when we view stars that are far above Tis no crime such (if not to catch) to love. Let others speak thy richness by whole sale Twill us suffice to mention by retayle. Twas but the least among thy lasting pains To purge our Laws from errors, & the stains That long had dwelt on them to wash away, By Duried Fleta's resurrection day. Time's ruind monuments, records out of date And rolls which ages past expos'd to fate, Thou with such wondrous artifice didst re∣vive; Twas not recovery, but new life didst give. As if those caracters year'd to dust and death Hadst re-instated with new soul and breath. And though on living men tis seldom seen That men contemporarie pass a due esteem▪ But when the carkass is dissolv'd to dust Envy gives then what to the dead is just▪ Yet was it said of Selden, none beside, That he was stamp'd authentick ere he dy'd▪ For tis Truth's voice, at Bar when thou stoods•• Thy self was cited for Authority.

I want both pen and utterance to declare by How great a Master shin'st, how singular In the deep insight of the Common Laws, There's n'one make scruple to give thee the Bayes. And when 'midst throng of business did a rise Some sturdy doubts, unfathom'd misteri••s.

Unto the Hive Statists would soon repair, Who best of Statists didst deserve the chair. Laws that were forreign were so much thy own, They were not more unto their natives known. Civil and Canon knew'st all Kingdoms ore, Yea all that ages past did know before. As if the Sun and thou tri'd Masterie, Whether more Countries did, or Kingdoms see; Joynt tenants of the world, for both have gone Thy daily circle, both annual have run, Phaebus aim'd not more secrecies to know Than our great Selden made his Title to. More I could say the grandiure of your praise Swels like a torrent on, nor can I raise A Mound against it. Let this Eulogie Serve for inscription then, that were each eye Turn'd to a Sun the round world to survey We should despair to finde, Selden like thee; Like Caesar's Amphitheatre never was Is an Hyperbole that Poets pass. But we shall keep on modest bounds of fame, To say like thee nere sprung there such a frame.

Degenerate Love and Choyce.

MAd Heretick forbear to say or swear That there is such a Meteor as love here.

Tis true; when Adam in that perf••ct state Of life, first went on wooing for a Mate, Twas pure affection that his soul did catch And love conjoin'd with God made the best match. Vertue, not portion was the aim he sought, For Eve had scarce a smock t' her back tis thought. But when once Love and Adam were exil'd Eden, Love soard to heaven, and man grew wilde. And as his knowledg and that nobler light He first received, were musled up in night, Then Avarice and ambition seiz'd the heart And faculties depraved in every part▪ Hence 'twas he tugg'd and travell'd to restore That bless'd eternity he lost before. As though when he fell mortal, God had hid The Tree of life in earth, which he forbid. Hence, hence he grip'd at lands, and moths, & And a large name deep written in that dust.

Thus the blinde sons of men, as real heirs rust, Of his corruptions, drew their father's cares And guilt in with their first breath, which sub∣lime And are intens'd in the decayes of time. Thus matches took the High Cross, and of old That golden age became an age of gold. Hagling relations did their issues joyn, Not to make Good, but to exalt the Line;

And horse-course of their children at a rate Ordain'd by them, not by the hands of fate. And therefore Phillip's Asse laden with Oar Shallsooner take Olynthe, than of yore Those royal Macedonians, whose high parts Lost their esteem against such sordid hearts.

If the fine thing with fancies ribboned, And the gay tuft of feathers on his head, (That perfect emblem of its empty brain) Come rumbling with a Coach & dagled train Of snaphāce-vouchers; can just smack its hād, And call to read the catalogue of his land; Run, hold & keep: For this, this, this is hee, That storms, & takes & routs where ere he be. To this Diana streight the Ephesians bow: Or; squeez the wax; no matter where, nor how▪ So the revenue & the joynture's great; Tis never queston'd whether by Escheat, Theft, or Disseisin, or the Orphan's tears It were extorted and grew basely theirs. But like the Israelites in the Devil's behalf. Forsake God to adore the goodly Calf.

Then for that pretty trifle, that sweet fool, Just wean'd from's bread & butter & the school; Cracknuts & Hobbihorse, & the quaint Jackdaw, To wear a thing with a plush Scabberd—law; Whose Father's low-roof'd late-hatch'd Scut∣cheon can Scarce speak him Saped into a gentlemam.

Though at his great expence his armes took Last circuit from y^• Herauld's poor estate. Like a feirce Countrey Ale-house that renues date His Licence every Sessions, and so brewes.

But this swayes not the ballance: He has it That's Vertue, Gallantry, & Worth, and Wit, All truss'd up in a bag, and more yet to't, For he that buye•• him has the Pigg to boot.

And though he cannot speak sense, let it goe, He offers at it, or else means it so. His worship's will was good. If he incline To any vice, as Swearing, Whores, or Wine; Tis Courage, Youth's fling, or a merry Cup, Such imperfections soon are sodred up. If otherwise a clown; tis modestie. Or simply lavish, tis good nature. Wee Have vizards of all sizes, small or large, If's greatness please but to be at the charge▪

Thus Riches which were made man's slave to bee, Have robb'd him of his native soveraigntie. And captive beauties, like fair Barks long lost, Are put to sale by th' Candle, who gives most. Whiles Love and Honour languish at the door, Most glorious pittied fancies, prais'd and poor. But here yee groveling Muck-worms, yee that build Like Ants in Mole-hills; & tye field to field;

Which varying God's decree, by joyning hands, Instead of marrying Children, wed your lands. Tis true, you may pretend a busied care In the advance and Tilting of an Heir: And plausibly too; were the structure layd Upon a noble bottom; humble, stayd, Religious grace and worth met & combin'd With th' active vigour of a gallant minde; This were a pure cōnexion, sweet with good, A heightning and refining of the bloud. But the hog-trough wordlings from these measures flirt, They love a great name though it's made of dirt; To which the children are th' forc'd Seals and Signes Of ship-wrack'd free-will in their Fathers loins. The liberty of choice is quite flung by With a Proviso of new property. That primitive capacity of love Which the all-seeing diety from a bove Had plac'd in the sweet cabinet of the brest Is now expuls'd by man, and dispossest. Upon which breach Lust made an enterance there W^ch spreads its wide infection every where.

Come Worlding let me undeceive thee now. If man's grand welfare hangs upon the plough; Or if there be eternity in pelf And earth, that is as mortal as thy self;

Then thou hast grasp'd to purpose. But if not, The end of wealth's mistaken in thy plot. Where much is given, much required shal bee. Not what was left to thy posterity; Or the by-issues of thy younger years; But how & when thou stop'dst the widdowes tears With timely charity; and reliev'dst the poor With ready morsels frost-bound at thy door. These are the works & friends shall follow thee, The ••est shall live thy shame or infamie.

Nor would I have thy off-spring cast away Upon each roving wit, that shall essay Thy hopeful lovely viands, with pretence Of some blinde far-hence-travell'd eminence. Nor that unrighteous Mammon swels thy chest And thee, let looss on every stragling guest. But there's a mean in judgment, a mid course, A difference betwixt a Man and's Horse. A fair distinction, were not we too nice, To moderate disdain and Market price. Forestal not then the world, but let all live▪ Some come to sell by weight, & some to give, Love never measur'd by the Acre stood, If we ••oll fairly, then the bargain's good.

A Dialogue between two water Nymphs Thamesis and Sabrina.

THa.

Ho! all yee sister-streams that go∣vern'd be. By great Diana's watry diety.

Yee silver Nymphs that gliding sport and play, And kis your flowry bancks, and flowing stray In lofty murmurs, ô come sit you here, And lend my swelling grief a voice or tear.

Sab.

What poor afflicted Soul with mourn∣ful cries And sobs awakes my long benighted eyes? What hapless maid of her first love bereav'd Bemoans her friend in death's black armes re∣ceived? Perhaps some pining Votress in the dark Bedews a Lover's tombe with tears; hark! hark!

Tha.

Ah me forlorn! ah me forsaken maid! Where is my lovelines and honour strayd? Those glories dwelt upon me? & those swans That sung my name beyond proud Ganges sands, And fill'd both Indies with the wide renown Of my spread fame? Now tost now tumbled down?

Sab.

I thought my crimson streams had bu∣ried all The bitter land-flouds of a Kingdoms thrall. But lo! a louder eccho living is, A floud of yet continued miseries. A tide of wo at last has found a tongue To bear a sad part in my doleful song: Speak wretched Maid, whence art?—

Tha.

—tis I, tis I, Poor Thamesis out of my ruines cry,

Gravell'd with sorrow and scortch'd up with heat Of war, struck deaf with drums, who was the seat Of peace and plenty, now the rouling map Of violence and tyranous mishap.

Sab.

Alas fair Princess! were there left in mee A Creek reserv'd from grief to pitty thee, With what swift hast should I divert the course Of my salt waves to mixt their scatter'd force With that vast body of thy tears? And close My springs with thine to make a sea of woes?

Tha.

Can there be such a monster that dares own It's small undoing when my mischief's shown? O can there be proportion 'twixt the drops Of private ills, and the full plenteous crops And buckets of mine anguish? O forbear! I drank those showers whereof thy storms skirts were.

Sab.

We grant (Great Lady of the Isles) that thy Tumultuous tumours were that pluresie That caus'd the opening of our veins. Thy head Distemper'd, we grew soon imbodied In the same gulf and ocean of thy pain, Languishing rivulets of thee the maine. But if the surges of thy bosom have Digg'd for thy beauty an untimely grave: If thy rash waters have so run thee in The winding gyres and streights of suffering;

Thank thy Augean filthiness for these, Thy Hydra which hath slain thy Hercules.

Tha.

Tis true Sabrina I have acted right The fable of that Horse; who needs would fight The Hart: But finding streight himself to bee Too weak for his Pallizadoed enemie; He begs the man to ride him, and became His slave, to gain an empty victor's name.

Sab.

No, rather I suppose th' hast verefi'd The story of the Frogs, that to Jove cry'd To have a King. He heard their praiers tis said And flung them down a Beam to be their head. But they dislik'd with peace, again did call, On which he sent a Stork that eat them all. So thou that kick'st at quiet kings, hast gain'd A conquest, w^ch now rides thee double rein'd. Thou, thou that shrunk'st at puny Subsidies Art eas'd at length with Taxes and Excize; Hast only chang'd the names of things▪ y^• Hague For Amsterdam, the Meazles for the Plague.

Tha.

Crush not Sabrina now my smarting sores, But let the offring of my crumbled Towers, And rubbish Palaces appease thy feirce Censure: For lo I speak but in my hearse. This issue of my breath's a parting groan: Add not affliction to affliction.

Sab.

Nor has that burden lighted all on thee Alone sweet Nymph, but Humber, Trent & Dee,

Medway, and my poor channel had their share In th' crimson streams of a most bloudy war. If by the shore the Publick Father dy'd Twas not long since the Son here slipp'd a side? Sav'd by a miracle of Providence, The finger of the Gods, that caught him hence From out the jaws of death, to make him more Than that fight gain'd could seal him con∣querour. But least I lessen thy deserts, ô take The glory of our ruine for thy sake.

Tha.

Twas I indeed was that main spring of all That set the judgments moving, w^ch did fall, And in each quarter of the land did roam, But now again are justly travell'd home Through my own bowels. O my pride and purse Were both at once the Countrie's & my curse. Fulness of bread, & wantoness, that brat Of sweet abused peace, in me begat A nicety of palate, a desire Of novelties, and set••ing all on fire, Which flame once kindled, I was forc'd to be and well The Fuel of my own calamitie.

Sab.

And rightly, since thou wast the wombe From whence those Spirits rose, to be their Hell. The high throne of that many headed Beast Popular Soveraignty: A snaky nest And Synagogue of Asps, which share the sweat Of three tame Nations tyed up from their meat.

Tha.

What thē Sabrina rests yet to be done? But that we shun with shame and fly the sun, Suffring a willing winter to congeal Our drops to christal, which wee'le mildly deal In softer showers of pious tears again Till we have purg'd a scarlet Kingdoms stain.

The Myrtle Grove.

JUst as the reeling Sun came sliding down Among the Moors and Tethys in a Gown Of sea-green watcher fettled to embrace Her great Apollo from his circled race, And the streak'd heavens did themselves digest Into a larger Iris, to invest And cano pie th'illustrious lovely pair In a Diaphanous Robe of costly ayre:

Clarinda rose amidst the Myrtle Grove, Like the Queen-mother of the stars above. But that Clarinda's was no borrow'd Light, Nor could it, where she was be deemd a night. Such was the natural glories she put on They ow'd no being to reflection. Whiles the inspir'd Musicians of the wood, Ravish'd at the new day, powr'd out a floud Of quavering melody in honied strains To court the glittering Diety of the plains. Those pretty flow'ry beds of sweets that now Had clos'd their heads up in an amber dew

Of tears, to mourn the drowsy Sun's good night, Warm'd with a nobler ardor sprung up right▪ And threw the mantles of dull sleep aside In a displaid and meritorious pride, To strew with rich perfumes her balmy way, Which grew more fragrant by her active ray.

Thus sweetly woo'd Clarinda laid her down On a cur••'d quilt of roses, fondly grown Proud of their own oppression, whiles they may Kiss the dear burden w^ch upon them lay. Then skreen'd with harmony, she stretch'd a long Upon her Damask Couch, where a bright throng Of Graces hover'd ore the firmament Of her pure orbs drawn to a full extent. Whiles a soft gale of wanton wind that blew Did sport her willing glories into view. But I poor dazled I, not daring here T' attempt the splendor of each naked sphear, Stood peeping through the Opticks of the shade, Which to my sight a kind reflection made. Her eyes half shut up in their christal case Stood twinckling Centinels upon her face; Or else to take the prospect of those fields Of beauty which that flowing Tempe yields. Her coral lips ten thousand smiles enthron'd, Like clustred grapes which for a vintage groan'd.

The Ivory palace of her stately neck Cloth'd with majestick aw, did seem to check The looser pastime of her gamesome hair, Which in wilde rings ran trick about the ayre. Her amorous brests swell'd to a lovely rise Of dripping plenty a twinn'd Paradise Of milk and honey, exhal'd my roving eye Into a soul-ensnaring extasie. And had I not recoil'd without delay I there had wandred in the milky way▪ Her belly like the Ace of Clubs, so white, So black, the struting pillow of delight, So fired the catching tinder of my s••nse, That I no longer Student could commence, But streight weigh'd anchor & tack'd up the sail To the main yard, waiting a stiffer gale To pass me through those ticklish streights of Man Into the full Mediterranean. At last I plung'd into th' Elysian charms, Fast claspp'd b•• th' arched Zodiack of her arms Those closer clings of love, where I pertaked Strong hopes of bliss; but so, ô so I waked!

To my honoured friend Mr. T. C. that ask'd mee how I liked his Mistris being an old widdow.

BUt prethee first how long hast bin Lost in this sad estate of sin? That the milde Gout, or Pox, or worse Serves not to expiate thy curse?

Some Pestilence else may be thou ght upon, And not such absolute damnation. Are rocks and halters grown so dear That there's no perishing but here? Doe no Committee yet survive Those cheaper Gregories of men alive? If thou wilt needs to Sea, ô must it bee In an old Gall••asse of sixty three? A snail-crawl'd botom? A gray Bark That stood at Font for Noah's Ark? Whose wrinkled Poop in figures furl'd Describes he•• travels round the world? A Nut, w^ch whē th' hast crack'd & fumbled ore Thou'lt finde the Squiril has bin there before? Then raise the Siedge from falling on▪ That old dismantled garrison. Rash Lover speak what pleasure hath Thy Spring in such an Aftermath? Who, were she to the best advantage spread, Is but the dull husk of a maiden head. How canst thou then delight the sense In beautie's preterperfectense? And dote upon that free-stone face Which wears but the records of grace? Whose antick Monast'ry brags but a Chest Of venerable Reliques at the best? O can there such a famine bee Of piping hot virginitie, That thou art forc'd to slur and cheat Thy stomack with the broken meat?

Why he that wooes a Widdow does no more Then court that Quagmire where one sunk be∣fore. Fie▪ prize not then those Arras Looks Sullied and thumb'd like Town-hall Books! I like thy fancy well to have Its misery so near its Grave. And tis a general shrift that most men use, But yet tis tedious waiting dead mens shoes. If 'twere thy plot I do confess For to make Mummee of her grease, Or swop her to the Paper Mill, This were extracting good from ill. But if thou wed'st on any worse condition, Thou'lt prove Delinquent for thy Superstition. But prethee hold, let me advise, Perhaps shee's rich and seems a prize, New chalk'd▪ new rigg'd, a stately Friggot, But yet she's tapp'd at lower spiggot. Yet if no med'cine for thy grief be found, There's smal ods Tom 'twixt being hang'd or drown'd.

The Engagement Stated.

BEgon Expositor: The Text is plain No Church, no Lord, no Law, no Soveraign. Away with mental reservations, and Senses of Oaths in files out-vy the Strand. Here's hell truss'd in a thimble, in a brea••h, Dares face the hazard of the second death. The Saints are grown Laconians, and can twist Perjury up in pils like Leyden grist,

But hold precize Deponents: Though the heat Of Zeal in Cataracts digests such meat, My cold concoction shrinks, and my advance Drives slowly to approach your Ordinance. The signe's in Cancer, and the Zodiack turns Leonick, rowl'd in curls while Terra burns. What though your fancies are sublim'd to reach Those fatal reins? Success and will can teach But rash divinity. A sad renown Where one man fell to see a million drown. When neither Arts nor Arms can serve to fight And rest a Title from its law and right, Must malice piece the Trangum? & make clear The scruple? Else we will resolve to swear? Nay out swear all that we have sworn before And make good lesser crimes by acting more,

And more sublime? This, this extends the Line And shames the puny soul of Cataline. On this account all those whose fortune's crost, And want estates, may turn Knights of the Post. Vaulx we out vy'd thee, since thy plot fell lame, We found a closer Cellar for the same, Piling the fatall Powder in our mouths Which in an Oath discharg'd blew up the House. Maugre Mounteagle, asps not throughly slain Their poison in an age may live again.

Good Demas cuff your Bear, then let us see The mistery of your iniquitie. May a man course a cur? And freely box The Question? Or the formal paradox? But as in Phisick so in this device This querk of policy the point is nice. For he that in this model means to thrive, Must first subscribe to the preparative. Like Witches compacts counter-march his faith, And soak up all what ere the Spirit saith: Then seal and sign. Scylla threw three bars short, He had a sword indeed, but no Text for't.

Old Rome lament thy infancy in sin, We perfect what thou trembled'st to begin Blush then to see thy self out done. But all The world may grieve tis epidemical. Heaven frownes indeed. But what makes hell enraged? Sweet Pluto be at peace, we have Engaged.