Parnassus biceps. Or Severall choice pieces of poetry, composed by the best wits that were in both the universities before their dissolution. With an epistle in the behalfe of those now doubly secluded and sequestred Members, by one who himselfe is none.

Ʋpon some pieces of work in York House.

VIew this large Gallery faced with mats and say, Is it not purer then Joves milky way? Which should he know, mortals might justly fear He would forsake his Heaven and sojourne here. Here on a River rides a silver swan, Vailing her swelling sailes, and hath began Her merry will, and left Meander dry, Rather intending in this place to dye. So curious is the work, the art so sweet, That men stand back lest they should wet their feet. Here's Joseph and his Brethren, he in state Enthroned in a Chaire, his dream his fate. His brethren they stand bare, and though the board Be dumb, each posture of them call him Lord. Joseph conceals his tears with hard restraint, Which would gush out should they not spoile the paint.

Under a tree whose arms were wide displayed And broidered with blossomes, Venus layed Her naked body, which when men espy, Modesty 'gins to check the saucy eye, They steal a look; but why? lest she, they say; Seeing them look should rise and run away. Well doth the Sun refuse his face to shew, Blushing to see so faire a face below: Which had Pigmalion seen so truely faire, He would have married streight and sav'd his prayer. For life, which was the others only bliss He beg'd of Venus, art hath given this. Divert your eye from this seducing sight, And see the Dear & Heardgrooms harmeles fight, One gasping lies, where with consenting strife, The Painter and the poorman tug for life. Well may you say that see his hanging head, The Pictures lively, though the man be dead. Open the door and let my eyes come in, A place that would entice a Saint to sin; Almost too dear for man to tread upon, A floor all diaperd with Marble stone, Feet touch our feet. This mystery beguiles Philosophy of many thousand wiles. Nay to encrease the miracle; with ease We here become our own Antipodes. What ruder age did think the best of all, 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 hangs on every wall, Quite hung with it, where every eye may see Not more what we doe seem then what we be.

The glasse so steals us from us that you'd swear That we the shadow that the substance were, Which doth not take impression but doth give. Here might Narcissus see himselfe and live; Nor for the pleasure of one fading houre, Eternally be damn'd into a flower.