Poems written by the Right Honorable William earl of Pembroke, lord steward of his Majesties houshold. Whereof many of which are answered by way of repartee, by Sr Benjamin Ruddier, knight. With several distinct poems, written by them occasionally, and apart.

BENJ. RƲDIER TO THE PRINCE At his Return from SPAIN.

SIR, such my fate was, that I had no store T'erect a goodly Pile before my doore; Nor were my Flagons tyr'd by being taught Their several stages up and down the Vault, Upon the great blest Day of your return, Wherein nothing at all was seen to mourn, Except it were the Heavens, and well they might, Fearing our triumphs should outshine their light: So open hearted men were, as 't'had been No point of faith to think excess a sin. The poor man trickt himself with wine that day, And did not fear to make his Landlord stay; The Tradesman shut his shop and did not care For the retailing his neglected ware; For well he knew there landed on the shore, A prize that him and all the Isle might store.

The In-land liver that could never find The east from west, but by a Church, nor wind In his lives compass ever yet did know, But that which to his Summer-fruit's a foe, Was better learnt; and now he knew by art What fill'd your sails, & what wind fill'd his heart: I that have sence of blessings cannot show In outward things, the joy that I do owe; And thanks to heaven for your safe return, Yet have a fire within them that do burn As bright as theirs, which never shall decay Till fate assign to me a further day.

R. Of deformity in a Man.

WHat if rude Nature hath less care exprest About thy shape, or wantonly in jest Compos'd thee? or maliciously in despight? Or lame with her left hand, or without light? Be but as bold, thou may'st as well find Grace, As one that hath the most corrected face, Or level'd trunck, whose neatness to beget A Taylor, and a Barbers virtue met Upon a Semster; for a woman's eye Seldom betrayes her heart to Cemetry:

But some ill-favour'd thought, that bears more sway To foulest hope, oft times prepares a way, Either that beauty fairest doth appear When some deformed obect's planted near: Or Sovereignty (at which they chiefly aim) Is then most absolute when men can claim Least favour, he who hopes, or strives t' approve His person, doth submit, and yeild to Love Upon conditions; but that man whose state, Himself consider'd, seems quite desperate, Stoops to all usage, and will live, or dye To serve, or suffer under tyranny. Some of these Reasons, or some els unknown, It may be more, or it may be none.

An Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke.

VNderneath this sable Herse, Lyes the subject of all Verse; Syan••y's Sister, Pembroke's Mother: Death, ere thou hast kill'd another, Learned, fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee. Marble Giles let no man raise To her Name for after-dayes; Some kind woman born as she, Reading this (like Niobe) Shall turn Marble, and become Both her Mourner, and her Tomb.

Sonnet. P.

BLind beauty! If it be a loss To loose so poor a man, As neither multiply nor cross good or bad fortune can; Then are you poorer then you were, for I am gotten free; Unwilling to acquaint your ear with what your eye might see. What needed words, when from mine eyes such sparks of Love flew out, That you might easily surmise his fires were there about. Though I forsook the beaten way, the path in which I trod, Such as know all Love's Countrey, say was nearer then the Road. The tongue did great exploits at first, so did the Canon too; But both those now have done their worst, and no such wonders do: As Engines of a naughty sort for Love to use in fight, After to make a loud report, then carry to the white▪ I was a Lanthorn all of Love, though of the closer kind,

Directing you which way to move, When it did others blind: And you might alwaies undescri'd have walkt from place to place; Had you not turn'd the shining side backwards upon your face: So since not want of light in me, but that ill govern'd light; Both made your self unapt to see, And taught the blinde their sight: Henceforth I'le close the Lanthorn quite, To expiate that sin; And seem without as dark as night, though bright as day within. Mark how you Eddie steales a way, From the rude stream into the Bay: There lockt up safe, she doth divorce Her waters from the Channels course, And scorns the torrent that did bring Her head-long from her native spring. Now doth she with her new Love play, Whilst he runs murmuring away. Mark how she courts the banks, whilst they As amorously their armes display T' embrace, and clip her silver waves; See how she strokes their sides, and craves An entrance there, which they deny; Whereat she frowns, threatning to fly Home to her stream, and 'gins to swim Backward, but from the Channells brim

Smiling returns into the Creek, With thousand dimples on her cheek. Be thou this Eddie, and I'le make My brest thy shore, where thou shalt take Secure repose, and never dream Of the quite forsaken stream; Let him to the wyld Ocean haste, There loose his Colour, name, and taste: Thou shalt save all, and safe from him Within these armes for ever swim.

Of Jealousie.

Qu. FRom whence was first this Fury hurl'd, This Jealousie ino the world? Came she from hel? No, there doth reign Eternall hatred with disdain; But she the daughter is of Love, Sister of beauty. Resp. Then above She must derive from the third sphere Her heavenly off-spring.

Ans. Neither there, From those immortal flames could she Draw her cold frozen pedigree.

Qu. If not in heaven, nor hell, where then Had she her birth?

An: I'th hearts of men: Beauty and Fear did her create Younger then Love, elder then Hate; Sister to both, by Beauties side To Love, by Fear to Hate ally'd:

Despair her issue is, whose race Of frightful issues, drowns the space Of the wide Earth, in a swolne flood Of wrath, revenge, spight, rage and blood.

Qu. Oh how can such a spurious Line Proceed from Parents so divine?

Ans. As streams which from the Christal spring Do sweet, and dear, their waters bring: Yet mingling with the brackish Main, Nor taste, nor colour they retain.

Qu. Yet Rivers 'twixt their own bancks flow Still fresh; Can Jealousie do so?

Ans. Yes; while she keeps the stedfast ground O hope, and fear, her equal bound: Hope sprung from favour, worth, or chance, Towards the fair Object doth advance; Whilst fear as watchful Centinel, Doth the invading foe repel; And Jealousie (thus mixt) doth prove The season, and the salt of Love. But when fear takes a larger scope, Stifling the child of Reason, Hope Then sitting in the usurped throne, She like a tyrant rules alone; As the wild Ocean unconfin'd, And raging as the Northern wind.

P. Sonnet.

LAdies flee from Loves sweet tale, Oaths steept in tears do oft prevail, Grief is infectious, and the air Inflam'd with sighs, will blast the Fair; Then stop your ears when Lovers cry, Least your self weeping with soft eye, Shall with a sorrowing tear repay That pitty which you cast away.

Young men flee when beauty darts Amorous glances at your hearts; A quick eye gives the surer aim, And Ladies lips have power to maim: Now in her lips, now in her eyes, Lap't in a kiss, or smile, Love lyes: Then flee betimes; for onely they Do conquer Love, that run away.

Sonnet.

FYe that men should so complain Of women for unkindness, And accuse them of disdain, when 'tis but their own blindness. For though at first they do seem coy, and use a faint denial; It is not fit they should enjoy, that can abide no tryal:

Constant Love is like to Fire, that being opprest, burns clearer, And women know when they retire, It makes true Love love dearer: How many favors should they miss, what wooing and protesting, Wer't not they use some art in this, and feed them with contesting.

Women therefore wisely seem at first the more disdainful, Because they think that men esteem that sweet, that's somewhat painful.

But henceforth learn, although they swear And vow they cannot love you, Do not believe them, never fear, 'Tis but their art to prove you.

P. SONG.

SAy pretty wanton, tell me why Thou canst not love so well as I; Sit thee down, and thou shalt see That I delight in none but thee.

Say pretty wanton, be not coy, For thou alone art all my joy: If a smile thou wilt not lend, Yet let thy gentle ears attend.

If thou stop those gentle ears, Then look upon these brinish tears; Which do force me still to cry, Pitty me now, or else I dye.

Fairest fair, my Love, my Jewel, Wilt thou never cease to grieve me? Look and pitty, be not cruel, Let thy love at length relieve me; Stay and hear my tongue's sad speaking, Words must keep my heart from breaking.

Long and deerly have I lov'd thee, Love by right should be rewarded: Words and Vows could never move thee, Tears and sighs were not regarded.

Oh let Love cause some relenting, Death succeeds thy not consenting.

P. A Sonnet.

SO glides a long the wanton Brook With gentle pace into the main, Courting the banks with amorous look, He never means to see again. And so does Fortune use to smile Upon the short liv'd favorite's face, Whose swelling hopes she doth beguile, And alwayes casts him in the race; And so doth the Fantastick boy, The god of the ill-manag'd flames, Who ne're kept word in promis'd joy To Lover, nor to to loving Dames: So all alike will constant prove, Both Fortune, running streams, and Love.

P. Of a fair Gentlewoman scarce Marriageable.

WHy should Passion lead thee blind, Cause thy Lydia proves unkind: She is too young to know delight, And is not plum'd for Cupid's flight: She cannot yet in heighth of pleasure, Pay her Love with equal measure; But like a Rose new blown, doth feed The Eye alone, but yeilds no Seed. She is yet but in her Spring, And bears no Fruit till Cupid bring A hotter season with his Fire, Which soon will ripen her desire: Autumn will shortly come and greet her, Making her taste and colour sweeter; And then her ripeness will be such, That she will fall e'ne with a touch.

P. A Paradox, that Beauty lyes not in Womens faces, but in their Lovers Eyes.

WHy should thy look requite so ill all other Eyes, Making them Pris'ners to thy will, Where alone thy Beauty lyes: When men's Eyes first look't upon thee, They bestowed thy Beauty on thee.

When thy Colours first were seen By judging sight, Had men's Eyes prais'd Black or Green, Then thy Face had not been Bright: He that lov'd thee, then would find Thee as little fair as kind.

If all others had been blind, Fair had not been; None thy Red and White could find Fleeting, if thou wert unseen. To touch white Skins is not Divine, Ethiops Lips are soft as thine.

P. A Lover to his Mistris.

THe purest piece of Nature is my choice, this days breath, and to morrow's death, Have several dooms from her all-charming voice,

So beyond fair, that no glass can her flatter; so sweetly mild, that tongues defil'd, Dare not on her their envious stories scatter.

The witty forms of beauty that are shed in flaming streams, from Poets theams, Like shadows when her self appears, are fled. O let me live in th' heaven of her bright eye▪ Great Love, I'le be thy constant Votary.

Description of a wisht Mistris.

NOt that I wish my Mistris, Or more or less then what she is, Write I these lines; for 'tis too late, Rules to prescribe unto my fate.

But yet as tender stomacks call For some choice meats that bear not all; So a queazie Lover may impart What Mistris 'tis must take his heart.

First, I must have her richly sped With Natures blossoms, white and red; For flaming hearts will quickly dye, That have no fuel from the eye.

Yet this alone will never win, Except some treasure lye within; For where the spoyl's not worth the stay, Men raise the siege, and march away.

I'de have her wise enough to know When, and to whom a Grace to show; For she that doth at random chuse, She will her choice as soon refuse.

And yet methinks I'de have her mind T' a flowing curtesie inclin'd, And tender-hearted as a Mayd, Yet pitty onely when I pray'd.

And I could wish her true to be, (Mistake me not) I mean to me; She that loves me, and loves one more Wil love the Kingdom o're and o're.

And I would have her full of wit, So she know how to huswife it; But she whose insolence makes her dare To cry her wit, wil sell more ware.

Some other things delight will bring, As if she dance, or play, or sing; If hers be safe, what though her parts Catch ten thousand forreign hearts.

But let me see, should she be proud, A little pride must be allow'd: Each amorous Boy wil sport & prate Too freely, where he sees no state.

I car'd not much if I let down Sometimes a chiding or a frown; But if she wholly quench desire, 'Tis hard to kindle a new fire,

To smile, to toy, 'tis not amiss Sometimes to interpose a kiss, But do not cloy; Sweet things are good And pleasant, but are naught for food.

But stay! Nature hath over-writ my Art In her, to whom I offer up my heart: And Evening-Passengers shall sooner trace The wanton beams that dance on Thames smooth face; And find the track where once the foot did stray On the moist Sands, which tides have washt away; Then men shall know my heart, or find her spot, If a revolt of hers procure it not.

R, One that was a Suiter to a Gentlewoman more virtuous then fair, wrote these to a friend of his that dis∣liked her.

WHy slights thou her whom I approve, Thou art no Peer to try my Love, Nor canst discern where her form lies, Unless thou saw'st her with my eyes; Say she were foul, or blacker than The Night, or Sun-burnt Indian, Yet rated in my fancy, she Is so as she appears to me:

It is not Feature, nor a Face, That doth my free Election grace; Nor is my fancy onely led By a well temper'd white and red; Could I enamour'd be on those, The Lilly and the blushing Rose United in one stock, might be As dear unto my thoughts as she.

But I search farther, and do find A richer Treasure in her mind, Where something is so lasting fair, That Art nor Age cannot impair.

Hadst thou a Perspective so clear, That thou couldst view my object there; When thou her vertue shall espye, Then wonder and confess, that I Had cause to like her; & learn thence, To love by Judgement, not by sence.

The EPICURES Paradox.

NO, worldling, no; 'tis not thy Gold, Which thou dost use but to behold; Nor Fortune, Honor, nor long Lise, Nor large Possession, without strife, That makes thee happy, these things be But shadows of felicity. Give me a Virgin of Fifteen, Already voted to the Queen Of Lust and Lovers, whose soft Hair Fann'd with the breath of gentle Air, O▪respreads her shoulders like a Tent, And is her Veil and Ornament, whose tender touch would make the blood Wyld in the Aged, and the Good; Whose Kisses fastned to the mouth Of threescore years, and longer sloath, Renews the Age, and whose bright eye, Obscures those lesser lights of Skye; Whose snowy Breasts (if we may call That Snow which never melts at all) Make Jove invent a new disguise, In spight of Juno's Jealousies; Whose every part doth re-invite The old decayed Appetite; And in whose sweet embraces I Might melt my self to lust, and dye. This is true belief, and I confess There is no other happiness.

Opporiunity neglected.

YEt was her Beauty as the blushing Rose, And greedy passionate was my desire, And Time, and Place, my reconciled Foes, Did with my wish, and her consent conspire: Why then o're-reachless of my Loves fruition, So eagerly pursu'd with rough intent, So dearly purchast with perform'd condition, Kept I my rude Virginity unspent? Did she not sweetly kiss? and sweetly sing? And sweetly play? and all to move my pleasure? And every dalliance use, and every thing, And shew my sullen Eyes her naked Treasure? All this she did, I wilfully forbore; And why? Because me thought she was an whore.

P. A Lover's Dedication of his Service to a Ʋertuous GENTLEWOMAN.

WHat I in Woman long have wisht to see, Rarest of thousands, I have found in thee; Goodness, with Beauty: O! that crowns ye all, That makes thee perfect and Celestial. Beauty hath time to wither, we know; But Goodness after death hath time to grow. Let then those Rarities in you remain, To shew that Earth from Heav'n so much can gain, That you a Pattern should to others be; But such as after-times shall never see. Believe (sweet Lady) that all this is true, And these few Lines belong to none but you.

P. Sonnet.

A Restless Lover I espy'd That went from place to place, Lay down & turn'd from side to side, And sometimes on his face. And when that Med'cines were appli'd In hope of intermission; As one that felt no ease, he cri'd, Has Cupid no Physician?

What do the Ladies with their looks, Their kisses, and their smiles? Can no Receits in those fair Books, Repair their former spoiles? But they complain as well as we, Their pains have no remission, And when both Sexes wounded be, Hath Cupid no Physician?

Have we such Palsies, and such pains, Such Feavers, and such fits,

No Quintessential Chimick Grains, No Esculapian wits; No Creature can (beneath the Sun) Prevail in opposition; And when all wonders can be done, Has Cupid no Physician?

Into what Poyson do they dip Their Arrows and their Darts, That touching but an Eye or Lip, The pain goes to our hearts. But now I see before I get Into their Inquisition, That Death had never Surgeon yet, Nor Cupid a Physician.

A Pastoral.

LOVER. P.

SHepherd, gentle Shepherd hark, As one that canst call rightest, Birds by their Name, Both wild and tame, And in their Notes delightest: What Voice is this, I prethee mark, with so much Musick in it? Too sweet methinks to be a Lark, too loud to be a Linnet?

Nightingales are more confus'd, And discant more at random, Whose warbling throats, (To hold out Notes) Their airy tunes abandon. Angels stoop not now adaies, Such Quirresters forsake us; Yet Syrens may Our Loves betray, And wretched Pris'ners make us; Yet they must use some other way,

Then singing to deprive us Of our poor lives, since such sweet lays As these would soon revive us.

SHEPHERD. R.

'Tis not Syren we discry, Nor Bird in Grove residing, Nor Angel's Voice, Although as choice, Fond Boy thou hear'st dividing; But one if either thou or I Should face to face resemble her, To any of these would blushing cry, Away, away Dissembler.

P. A stragling Lover reclaim'd.

TIll now I never did believe, A man could love for Vertue's sake, Nor thought the absence of one Love could grieve That man that freely might another take. But since mine Eyes betroth'd my heart to you, I find both true. Thy Innocence hath so my Love refin'd, I mourn thy Bodies absence for thy Mind.

Till now I never made an Oath, But with a purpose to forswear; For to be fixt upon one Face, were sloath, When every Ladies Eye is Cupid's Sphear: But if she merit Faith from every Breast, Who is the best Of Women-kind; how can I then be free To love another, having once lov'd thee.

Such is the great and happy power Of Goodness, that it can dilate It self, to make him vertuous in an hour, Who liv'd before perhaps a Reprobate.

But since on me those wonders thou hast done, In truth work on Upon thy self, thy Sex doth want that Grace, To love my Truth more then a better Face.

P. To a LADY weeping.

DRY those fair, those Christal Eyes, Which like growing Fountains rise, To drown their Banks; Griefs sullen Brooks, Would better flow from furrow'd looks: Thy lovely Face was never meant To be the Seat of Discontent: Then clear those watrish stars again, That else portend a lasting Rain, Least the Clouds which settle there, Prolong my Winter all the year; And thy Example others make, In Love with sorrow, for thy sake.

P. A Complement to his Mistris.

ASk me no more whither do stray The Golden Atoms of the Day; For in pure Love, Heavens did prepare This Powder to enrich your Hair.

Ask me no more whither doth hast The Nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat, She winters, and keeps warm her Note.

Ask me no more where Iove bestows (When June is past) the fading Rose; For in your Beauties Orient deep, All Flowers as in their Causes sleep.

Ask me no more where stars so bright, Do downward stoop in dark of Night; For in your Eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their Sphear.

Nor ask me whether East or West, The Phoenix builds her spiced Nest, For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

A Paradox in praise of a painted WOMAN.

NOt kiss? by Love I must, and make impression As long as Cupid dares to hold his session Upon my flesh of blood, our kisses shall Out-minute time, and without number fall. Do not I know those Balls of blushing read, Which on thy Cheekes thus am'rously be spred; Thy sinewy neck, those veins upon thy brow, Which with their azure winckles sweetly bow; Are artsull borrowed, and no more thine own Then Chains which on saint Georges day are shown Are proper to the wearer; yet for this I Idol thee, and beg a luscious kiss: The Fucus, and Ceruse, which on thy face Thy cunning hand laies on to add new grace, Deceive me with such pleasing fraud, that I Find in thy Art what can in nature lye. Much like a Painter that upon some wall On which the splendent sun-beams use to fall; Paints with such art a guilded Butterfly, That silly maids with slow mov'd fingers try To catch it, and then blush at their mistake; Yet of this painted Fly much reckoning make: Such is our state, since that we look upon Is nought but colour, and proportion

Take me a face as full of fraud and lies As Gypsies, or your running Lotteries; That is more false, or more sophisticate Then are saints reliques, or a man of state; Yet such being glazed by the sleight of art Gaines admiration, wins in many a heart; Put case there be a difference in the mould, Yet may thy Venus be more choise, and hold A dearer treasure; oftentimes we see Rich Candian wines in woodden boles to be. The odoriferous Civet doth not lye Within the Musk-cats nose, or ear, or eye; But in a baser place, for prudent nature In drawing up of various formes and stature, Gives from the curious shop of her rich treasure To fair parts comeliness, to baser pleasure. The fairest flowers which in Spring do grow Are not so much for use, as for the shew; As Lillies, Hyacinth, and Gorgeous birth Of all py'd flowers which diaper the earth, Please more with their discoulored purple train, Then wholesome pot hearbs which for use remain. Shall I a gawdy speckled serpent kisse? Because the colour that he weares is his? A perfum'd Cordavant who will wear? For that his sent is borrow'd otherwhere. The robes and vestiments which grace us all Are not our own, but adventitial. Time rifles Natures Beauty, but slie Art Repairs by cunning this decaying part.

Fills here a wrinkle, and there purles a Vein, And with her cunning hand runs o're again The Breaches dented in the Arm of Time, And makes deformity to be no crime; As when great men are gript with sickness hand, Industrious Physick pregnantly doth stand To patch up foul Diseases, and doth strive To keep their tottering Carkasses alive: Beauty a candle is, which every puff Blows out, and leavs nought but a stinking snuffe To fill our Nostrills with this boldly think, Your cleerest candle yeilds the greatest stink; As your pure food, and choicest nutriment, Yeilds the most hot, and nose-strong excrement: Why hang we then on things so apt to vary, So fleeting, brittle, and so temporary? That agues, coughs, tooth-aches, and catarre, Slight touches of diseases, spoyle or marre: But when old age their beauty hath in chase, And ploughs up furrows in their own smooth face, Then they becom forsaken, and do show Like stately Abbies ruin'd long ago. Nature but gives the model and first draught Of fair Complexion, which by art is taught To speak it self a compleat form and birth, So stands a Copy to the shapes on earth. Love grants me then a reparable face, Which whilst that colours are, can want no grace. Pigmalions painted statues I could love, So it were warm, and soft, and could but move.

Sonnet. P.

NOw being caught in Cupid's Net, And no way forth that I can get; My heart being fixt, I cannot move, Where I settle, I must love: My Love must still with you remain, Although my hoping be in vain.

By Vows and Oaths now am I sure; But mis'ry my heart must endure: So fickle are the Female kind, Which troubleth much my grieved mind; Missing the Corps I should enjoy, Brings me to ruine and annoy.

But let them not then so false prove, But likewise join their Love for Love; Or else come Cupid with thy dart, And quickly pierce my wounded heart. Seeing with her I can't remain, Let me be rid out of my pain.

Being I am thus crost in Love, I needs must play the Turtle-Dove.

For seeing that I have lost my Mate, My Joy is turned into hate. Therefore abroad then must I flye, And seek me out a place to dye.

Well Captain, now thou hast my heart, For thy sake now sore doth it smart; With sobs and tears then do I cry, To think on thy false treachery. Thy sight to me ev'n now is death, Come gentle Cupid stop my breath,

P. On a Strawberry.

HOw like a Virgin, white and red, A young Rose party-coloured, Blusheth these Berries; or like the Sun, Whose dayes journey's new begun, Look here 'tis white, and on this side 'Tis like the Lilly in her pride, Or new-falne Snow, or like fresh May, Which was blown but yesterday; Both which Colours making one, Imitate perfection, Making it to seem as fair As a beauty past compere;

Or the Apple cast from Jove To those of the Hesperian Grove: Yet not jealous where it grows, Every where they march in rows; Fields, and Bancks, and Roots of trees Are often spangled o're with these; Which though good themselves, yet be The better by Community. Taken how it hangs the head Like a Virgin ravished; Bowing down, as if afraid, Like Daphne when she cri'd for aid; Or like Calisto, that had been Tempted by great Jove to sin, And seeing that Diana spy'd it, Strait held down the head to hide it. I would a Mistris just like thee, Thou pattern of humilitie; As fair, fresh, patient, and free Of any thing but Chastity; As silent, and which best would please, No less willing to encrease.

P. on VENNS and ADONIS.

VEnus that fair loving Queen, Was sporting in the fairest Green, There fair Adonis did she see, As he was sleeping by a tree; Swift as thought to him she hies, When she pursues, then still he flies; O stay, stay, stay, sweet Boy quoth she, And come sit down, down, down by me: O stay, said she, my onely joy; Then in her arms she clipt the Boy. To speak, said she, let pitty move; But he said, No, I cannot love. Yet still she mov'd him for a kiss, Sweet, scant not that which plenty is. Into his arms her self she flung, But he cry'd, Fye, I am too young. Her Robes as fair, as fair might be, The Goddess pluckt above her Knee; In her fair twine she held him fast, And made him yeild to love at last: Was ever Lady thus disgrac't? Art thou a God, and yet shame, fac't?

Then blushing, down his head he hung, And still cry'd, Fye, I am too young: Though he was young, yet stubborn. hearted, Away he flung, and so they parted. Her Rosie Cheek, fair Lady than, With sorrow looked pale and wan. Now for thy sake, wild Boy, quoth she, Lov's God is blind, and still shall be. Then sigh she did, with many a groan, And still sate weeping all alone.

R, APOSIE for a Neck-Lace.

LO, on my Neck whilst this I bind, For to hang him that steals my mind; Unless he hang alive in Chains, I hang and dye in lingring pains. Those threads enjoy a double grace, Both by the Gemm, and by the place.

P. For an EARRING.

TIs vain to add a Ring or Gemm, Your Ear it self out-passeth them; When idle Words are passing here, I warn, and pull you by the Ear, This Silken Chain stands waiting here For Golden Tongues to tye on there. Here silence twine their locks, you see, Now tell me which the softer be.

P. SONG.

COme saddest thoughts possess my heart, And in my grief come bear a part; Let all my words be turn'd to groans, Those sounds do best befit my moans; Each breath I take a sigh must be To make up sorrows harmony: Mine eyes once glutted with delight, Are now eclipsed from that sight, From whose pure light and influence I borrowed both life and sence: Whilst then I draw this tedious breath, I shall but lead a liveing death: In sable weedes I'le cloathed be, And put on sorrowes livery; Then to some desart will I go, The fittest place to harbor wo; Where Owls and Ravens horrid cries Shall Eccho forth my miseries: My meat shall be of troubled cares, My drink shall be of brinish tears; My house shall be of the dark Cell, Where no house is, there will I dwell;

The hardest rock shall be my bed Whereon to rest my troubled head; In stead of man's society, Wild beasts shall keep me company; I will converse without all fear With Lyon, Tiger, Woolf, or Bear; No Musick but their roaring cries Each night shall close my wretched eies; Death's living Tomb thus will I be, And living dye continually. To Birds and VVorms I'le it expose, That on my body when I dye They may engrave this Elegie: No solemn burial will I crave, My Cell shall be my Tomb and Grave; And ere I breath my last thereon, I'le write this sad Inscription; Here lies inclosed in this Tomb, He that indur'd Loves Martyrdom.

Amintas. P.

CLoris sate, and sitting slept, Sleeping figh'd, and sighing wept; Sate, slept, and sigh'd, & wept again For Ami tas that was slain: Oh! had you seen his face, said she; How fair, how full of Majesty. And there she stopt, And there she cry'd, Amintas, Amintas, And so she dy'd.

Sonnet. P.

GO Soul, the Bodies Guest, Upon a thankless Errand; Fear not to teach the best, The truth shall be thy warrant. Go since thou must needs dye, And tell them all they lye.

Say to the Court it glows, and shines like rotten wood; Say to the Church it shows what's good, but doth not good If Court and Church reply Then give them all the lye.

Tell Protestants they live acting but others actions, Not lov'd unless they give; not strong but by their factions. It Protestants reply, Give Protestants the lye.

Tell men of high Condition, that rule affairs of State, Their purpose is ambition, their practice onely hate: And if they once reply, Then give them all the lye.

Tell Wit it wants Devotion, tell Love it is bur Lust; Tell time it is but motion, tell Flesh it is but Dust, And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lye.

Tell those that brave it most, They beg for more by spending,

And in their greatest cost, seek nothing but commending, And if they once reply, Then give them all the lye.

Tell Age it daily wasteth, tell Honour how it alters, Tell Beauty how she blasteth, tell favour that she falters: And as they do reply, Give every one the lye.

Tell Wit how it wrangles, in tricks and points of niceness; Tell Wisdom she entangles her self in others wiseness; And as they do reply, So give them all the lye.

Tell Physick of her boldness, tell Skill it is perversion, Tell Charity of her coldness, tell Law it is contention; And if they do reply, Then give them all the lye.

Tell Fortune of her blindness, tell Nature of decay; Tell Friendship of unkindness,

tell Justice of delay, And if they do reply, Then give them all the lye.

P. On a Fountain.

THE Dolphins trifling each on others side, For joy lept up, and gazing there abide: And whereas other Waters fish do bring, Lo here from Fishes do the Waters spring; Who think 'tis more glorious to give, Then to receive the Juice by which they live; And by this Milk-white Bason learn they may, That pure hands you should bring, or bear away: For which each Bason wants no Furniture, Each Dolphin wailing, makes his Mouth an Ewre. You're welcome then, you well may understand, When Fish themselves give Water to your hand.

To a Friend. P.

LIke to a hand which hath been us'd to play One Lesson long, still runs the usual way, And waits not what the Hearers bids it strike, But doth presume by Custom this will like. So run my thoughts, which are so perfect grown, So well acquainted with my passion, That now they dare prevent me with their hast, And ere I think to sigh, my sigh is past; 'Tis past, and flown to you; for you alone Are all the Objects that I think upon. And did not you supply my soul with thought, For want of action they would muse of nought: What though our absent hands may not infold Real ••mbraces; yet we firmly hold Each other in Possession; thus we see The Lord enjoys his Lands where'ere be. If Kings possest no more then where they sate, How were theirs greater then a mean Estate? This makes me firmly yours, you firmly mine, That something more then bodies us combine.

P. On his Mistress.

KEep on your Mask, and hide your Eye, For with beholding you I dye: Your fatal Beauty, Gorgon-like, Dead with astonishment will strike: Your piercing Eyes, if them I see, Are worse then Basilisks to me: Shut from my sight those Hills of Snow, Their melting Vallies do not show; Those Azure pathes lead to despair, O! vex me not, forbear, forbear: For whilst I thus in torments dwell, The sight of Heav'n is worse then Hell. Your dainty Voice, and warbling-breath, Sounds like a Sentence past for death; Your dandling Tresses are become, Like Instruments of Final Doom, O! if an Angel torture so When Life is done, where shall I go.

P. In praise of his Mistris IRONICE.

MY Mistris hath a precious Eye, But that alas, it looks awry; And like the Silver is her Hair, But it is Nitty every where; And for a Brow, as black as Jet, But it is greasie all with swet: As for her Nose, O dainty Bill! But it is ever dropping still: And for her Lips, both fair & smooth, But slavers like a Landress Booth; And not a Tooth within her head, But like a Pearl unpolished: As for her Tongue, without compare, It never talks but out of square. And for her Chin, O pretty chap, But that it hath a woolly Nap! As for her Neck, both fair and white, But carries not the head aright. And for her Brests, both full and soft, But that it hath been milcht too oft. As for her belly, and her back, Acquainted how to bear a pack.

And for the best, that is untold, Alas, it hath been bought and sold. As for her Thighs, good flesh and fat, But rough and furred like a Cat. And for her Feet, and for her Toes, If that you do not stop your Nose, The scent will teach your patience, She is all sweet, Sir-reverence.

Translated out of FRENCH.

LOVE the great Workman, a new World hath made, The Earth's my Faith, w^th steddy firmness Crown'd; The Earth's of the Universe for Centre laid, So is my Faith of this fair World the Ground.

If any motion of a jealous War Shakes my heart's Faith, and lead it into error, 'Tis as when Winds that in the Earth pris'ned are, Make Earthquakes that affect the earth with terror.

My tears are th' Ocean; for to draw them dry, Were no less work then to suck up the Sea: The storms that raise these billows in mine eye, Are (dear) the fears of you not loving me.

The Sea is salt, although his Waters be Assembled Rivers first, and sweet enough;

Much Salter are my tears, and far to me, Sweeter their Sources since they spring from you.

The Air's my will, that in its own Power free, Restless about my Faith hath his repair. The Winds are like desires that rage in me, And move my will, as the Wind moves the Air.

The Fire invisible, that this Air unfolds, Is the dear Flame wherein for you I languish; And as no Lye that subtil Fire beholds, So from the whole world hidden is my anguish.

The Moon is Hope, which still doth wax and wane, Borrowing the Light it hath, from you alone; When the Moon's clouded, 'tis then when in vain My thoughts erre after you, and cause my moan.

The Sun's your Eye (the fairest Light we see) Fair Sun of Love, light and life of our hours; For if the other Sun the world's light be, What Lover but derives his Light from yours.

The Summer is your smile that quickens me, Winter, my fears, benumming all my powers; But what boot's fear, if my Loves Autumn be, As void of fruit, as was his Spring of flowers.

P. A DREAM.

WHen as the cheerful Light was over-spread With misty darkness, and the Sun was fled Unto the Western Island; who to rest, It call'd from toylsome labour man and beast. Methought within a shady blooming Grove, VVhere I was walking sad, perplext with Love: Not far I spy'd a Damsel passing fair, VVhich might for Beauty with the Nymphs com∣pare: She laid her down upon the Grass to rest Her tyr'd Limbs, with weariness opprest: Her pretty Fingers there I did behold, How cunningly her Tresses did unfold; I saw her Lilly Arm, her tender thigh, Her little waste, yet durst I not come nigh For fear she should descry me by her light Of horned Luna, which even then in sight VVas seen to come from old Endymions Bed, Scarce 'woke, still shaking of his drowsie head. I lay down still, at length I did espye Her eyes with sleep fast shut, then presently I rouz'd my spirits without fear of shame; And to the place whereas I lay, she came.

How fitly there her Legs abroad she laid, Betwixt, Dame Natures Privity bewrai'd It self; how fit she lay for to be prest: Still was I chearful, till at length possest With more inflaming Lust, I softly fell Upon her Body; Judge you that can tell The rest: So having finisht without pain, From whence I came, I did return again.

P. To a Lady residing at the Court.

EAch greedy hand doth catch and pluck the flowr When none regards the stock it grows upon. Each Nature loves the fruit still to devour, But leaves the Tree to fall, or stand alone: Then this advice fair Cteature take from me, Let none pluck fruit, unless he take the Tree.

Believe no Vows, nor much-protesting-men, Credit no Oaths, nor no bewailing Song; Let Courtiers swear, forswear, and swear agen, Their hearts lye ten Regions from their Tongue: And when with Oaths thy heart is made to tremble, Believe them least, for then they most dissemble.

No; Let not Caesar's self corrupt thy heart, Nor fond Ambition scale thy modesty;

Say to the King, Thou onely constant art, He cannot pardon thine impurity: For if with one, with thousands thou'lt turn Whore; Break Ice in one place, and it cracks in more.

APOLLO'S Oath.

VVHen Phebus first did Daphne love, And could no way her fancy move, He crav'd the Cause: the Cause, quoth shee, Is, I have vow'd Virginity. Then Phebus raging, swore, and said, Past Fifteen none should die a Maid.

If Maidens then perchance are sped Ere they can scarcely dress their head, Yet pardon them, for they are loath To make Apollo break his Oath; And better it is a Child were born, Then that a God should be forsworn.

Yet silly they, when all is done, Complain our wits their hearts have won; When 'tis for fear that they should bee Like Daphne, turn'd into a Tree: And who her self would so abuse, To be a Tree, if shee could chuse.

P. ASONG.

DRaw not too near, Unless you drop a tear On the Stone Where I groan, And will weep Untill the eternal sleep Shall charm my wearied eies. Cloris lies here Embalm'd with many a tear, Which the Swain From the Plain Here hath paid, And many a Vestal Maid Hath mourn'd her Obsequies; Their snowy breasts they tear, And rent their golden hair; Casting cries To celestial Deities, To return Her beauty from the Urn, To remain Unparallel'd on earth again, When streight a sound From the ground

Piercing the Air; Cried, shee's dead, Her soul is fled Unto a place more rare. You Spirits that do keep The dust of those that sleep Under ground, Hear the sound Of a Swain, That folds his arms all in vain To the Ashes he adores; For pity do not fright Him wandring in the night, When he laves Virgins graves From his eies, Contributing sad laments Unto their memories; And when my name is read In number of the Dead, Some one may In charity repay My soul the tribute that I gave; And howl some Requiem on my grave, Then weep no more, weep no more, Souls rest from care; Since she is dead, Her soul is fled Unto a place more rare.

A Prognostication upon Cards and Dice.

BEfore the sixth day of the next New-year Strange wonders in this Kingdom shall appear; Four Kings shall be assembled in this Isle, Where they shall raise great tumults for a while; Many men then shall have an end of crosses, And many likewise shall sustein great losses: Many that are now joiful, and full glad, Shall at that time be sorrowful and sad: Full many a Christians heart shall quake for fear, The dreadful sound of Trump when he shall hear. Dead Bones then shall be tumbled up and down In every City, and in every Town; By day and night this tumult shall not cease, Until a Herald shall proclaim a Peace; A Herald strange, whose like was never born, Whose mouth is flesh, and very beard is horn.

FINIS.