The English Parnassus, or, A helpe to English poesie containing a collection of all rhyming monosyllables, the choicest epithets, and phrases : with some general forms upon all occasions, subjects, and theams, alphabeticaly digested : together with a short institution to English poesie, by way of a preface / by Joshua Poole.

Labour in vain. v. Impossible.

To number sands and drink the Ocean d••y. To wash the brick, or the scorcht Aethiop. To sow their seed upon the plashie shore. To roll the restlesse stone of Sisyphus, And cast in water to th'unbottom'd tub. To teach the crab go forward. To make a bucket of a five. Make thornes bear figs, and make the thistles stoope, Prest with her grapie clusters. Make fire and water meet without contention, And seek to reconcile antipathies. Go tutour stocks, preach to the sencel••sse stones. Go and sheare wool from the dull affes back. From the smooth bladders go and pull the haires. Go boyle a stone, and plough the barren shore, Or throw thy seed upon the mooving wave. W••ite on the water, go and cut the fire. Build on the sand, and teach the stones to swim. Go hunt the winds, seek to revive the dead, Sing to the deaf, or the ••egardlesse shores. Teach eagles how to fly, Dolphins to swim, Dig through the Isthmus, prattle to the stones. Go glue the b••oken shell, spin spiders webs. F••ght with the Gods, teach asses for the race. Go tie a knot on Dolphins slippery tayles, And think to bake thy loaves in a cold oven. Go feed a whetstone till thou makst it fat. K••••k against pricks, and strive against the stream.

That since she clean forgot her former note. His fear the stout asp could not then dissemble. Which since that time is ever seen to tremble, The stars for pity drop down from their sphears, And Cynthia in gloomy vale of night Inshrowds the pale beams of her borrowed light. Then envy slept, and waking wept, And cruelty it selfe sate almost crying. There's not in all The stock of sorrow any charme can call Death sooner up. For misick in the breath Of thunder, and a sweetnesse even in death It brings with it, if you with this compare All the loud noises that torment the aire. Able to move, And justifie compassion in the brest Of unrelenting Stoicks. Fit object for the weeping ey••. If time will not allow His death-prevented eyes to weep enough, Then let his dying language recommend Whats left to his posterity to end. Let such as shall rehearse This story, howle like Irish at an hearse. Which who so hears, It makes the eyes pay ransome for the ears.