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.

War.

The sulphurous breath of war. All destroying fury. Where drums and trumpets and loud canons talke, In an affrighting language. Neglected plowes want labouring hands, Janus gate stands ope. Death ha••h his plenteous harvest. The souldiers throng'd could scarcely wield at all Their killing hands, the slain could hardly fall. Supported so, the number did oppresse The dying people, and dead carcasses Encreast the slaughter falling heavily. On living bodies. Where stand the groves of spears. Three sisters spedy hands cannot suffice, For breaking threads, hath tyr'd the destmies. When now the horse came prancing nigh, The ground did shake, and clouds of dust did fly, As great as Thracian whirlewin is blow about, Ore the skies cover'd face, and darknesse wrought. Shrill cornets then began the aire to wound, Th' alarums beat, and all the trumpets sound, The noise and shout of souldlers pierce the sl••••e. Poor souldiers stand with fear of death dead struck. All hands are bath'd in blood. And with a purple stream the thirsty soyle Oreflow'd, where all besmear'd in blood there lies, A throng of carkasses, wose livelesse eyes Are clos'd with dust, and death. In a well ordered body stood Erected pikes, like a young leavelesse wood.

Where drums and trumpets give such fearful sounds, As they would shake the clouds unto the ground. Each body seem'd but as a sheath For his next neighbours sword. Where an ounce of honour, costs a pound of blood. Where dead and wounded, pave the bloody field, Strew'd with the slaughter'd carkasses. Where brandisht ensignes seem to brave the day. Where in one shrick another shriek is drown'd, And blood for blood incessantly doth call, From the wide mouth of many a gaping wound, Where drums and trumpets do awake the day, Muffled in mists. Where the blunted sword, Doth rather break than wound, Cloying the greedy jawes of death. The conquer'd field sown round with carkasses. There they fell, And made their clashing armour ring their knell. The crimson pathes of war pav'd all with corps, The bloody harvest where whole threaves of men, The reaping sword sythes down. Where men are drown'd in showers of darts Shafty, armed clouds. Steele-glistering spears the very fields affright, And all the camp seems fir'd with armour bright. Where towers, Prostrate themselves before the iron showers. Where is spent Many a cold December, with no tent, But such as earth and heaven makes. The rugged paths which those men tread, Which with a barbarous pride reckon the dead, And thence their glories number. Where runs the scarlet flood, Dogged war bristles his angry crest, And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace, Thousands like sacrifices in their trim, Unto the fire-eyed maid of smoaky war, All hot and bleeding do they offer up. And mailed Mars doth on his altar sit, Up to the ears in blood. The naked infants spitted on the pikes.

The wounded steeds Fret fetlock deepe in gore, and with wild rage, Yerk out their armed heeles at their dead masters, Killing them twice, and tread a quagmire made Of mangled brains. No blow is dealt, that leaves not death behind it: Where friends depart, and never bid farewell. Where dying mouths do gaspe forth purple breath. Blades imbrued In rivers sprung from hearts. Now horse to horse, and man is joyn'd to man, So strictly, that the souldiers scarcely can Their adversaries from their fellowes know. The grassie pavements stood, All moated over with a crimson flood: War that blood sucking cormorant, From batter'd caskes with every envious blow, The scatter'd plumes fly loosely here and there, Which in the aire doth seeme as drifts of snow, Which every light breath on his wings doth bear. The child of malice, and revengeful hate, That impious good, and good impiety. Warme their cold swords in blood of enemies. So thick their blowes, No wound one sword unto the other owes. War, whose angry feet shake towns and towers asunder. An iron cloud, heavens angry face doth hide. There stood A mount of bodies in a moat of blood. The dikes ore fill'd with slaughter, while the blood Of men and horses make one purple flood, As if in nature they had been the same, And from the wounds of slaughter'd Centaures came. Each one plies deaths fatal taske, the swords sad work. Pikes, bills and darts, seem'd as they stir'd or stood. A mooving forrest, or a standing wood. Drowning their swords in blood. Striking so thick, as if that every blow would fain have been foremost. Making the earth to groan under their furious burthens▪

The horses angry in their masters anger, with love and obedience, brought forth the effects of hate and resistance

and with winds of servitude, did, as if they affected glor,

The earth wont to bury the dead, is now it selfe buried with dea∣bodies.

In one place lay disinherited heads, dispossest of their natural seig∣niories, there lay armes, whose fingers yet mooved, as if they would feele for him that made them feele, and legs, which contrary to common reason, were made heavier by being discharg'd of their burthens.

Many first overthrown had the comfort to see their murtherers over run them to Charons ferry.

Where terrour was dect so bravely, that the eye,

With delight had scarce leisure to be afraid.

Where each sword makes spatious roome before it,

Like a wanton rich man, that throwes down his neighbours house, to make himself the better prospect.

The horses with open nostrills breath war, ere they can see an e∣nemy, and now up with one legge, then with another, seeming to complain of nature that she had made them any thing earthy.

Their swords like cannons, battering down the walls of their armour, making breaches almost in every place, for troops of wounds to enter.

The bloody armour seemed to blush, it had defended its master no better.

Making many windowes in their armour for death to come in at. Bleeding in such measure, as if they meant to lend Charon a flood, to ferry ore their departing souls.

The cannons spit their iron salutation▪ With bullets wrapt in fire, They make a shaking feavour in the walls. The sleeping stones By the compulsion of the ordinance Are raised from their fixed beds of lime. Now death lines his dead chaps with steele, The swords of souldiets are his fangs. The summer dust is laid with showres of blood. Tearing the clowdy cheeks of heaven, With roaring bellowes from the iron mouth Of loud voic't cannons. V. Dubartas The vocation. Ovid Mat. lib. 12, Centaures Lapithae. Virgil. 4. last books Aeneids. Lucan by May translated.