The tenth muse lately sprung up in America or severall poems, compiled with great variety of vvit and learning, full of delight. Wherein especially is contained a compleat discourse and description of the four elements, constitutions, ages of man, seasons of the year. Together with an exact epitomie of the four monarchies, viz. The Assyrian, Persian, Grecian, Roman. Also a dialogue between Old England and New, concerning the late troubles. With divers other pleasant and serious poems. By a gentlewoman in those parts.

Choler.

TO shew my great descent, and pedigree, Your selves would judge, but vain prolixity. It is acknowledged, from whence I came, It shal suffice, to tel you what I am: My self, and Mother, one as you shal see, But she in greater, I in lesse degree; We both once Masculines, the world doth know, Now Feminines (a while) for love we owe Unto your Sister-hood, which makes us tender Our noble selves, in a lesse noble Gender. Though under fire, we comprehend all heat, Yet man for Choler, is the proper seat. I in his heart erect my regal throne, Where Monarch-like I play, and sway alone, Yet many times, unto my great disgrace, One of your selves are my compeers, in place: Where if your rule once grow predominant, The man proves boyish, sottish, ignorant, But if ye yeeld sub-servient unto me, I make a man, a man i'th highest degree, Be he a Souldier, I more fence his heart Then Iron Corslet, 'gainst a sword or dart;

What makes him face his foe, without appal? To storme a Breach, or scale a City wal? In dangers to account himself more sure, Then timerous Hares, whom Castles doe immure? Have ye not heard of Worthies, Demi-gods? 'Twixt them and others, what ist makes the odds But valour, whence comes that? from none of you; Nay milk-sops, at such brunts you look but blew, Here's Sister Ruddy, worth the other two, That much wil talk, but little dares she do, Unlesse to court, and claw, and dice, and drink, And there she wil out-bid us all, I think; She loves a Fiddle, better then a Drum, A Chamber wel, in field she dares not come; She'l ride a Horse as bravely, as the best, And break a staffe, provided't be in jest, But shuns to look on wounds, and bloud that's spilt, She loves her sword, only because its gilt; Then here's our sad black Sister, worse then you, She'l neither say, she wil, nor wil she doe: But peevish, Male-content, musing she sits, And by misprisions, like to loose her wits; If great perswasions, cause her meet her foe; In her dul resolution, she's slow. To march her pace, to some is greater pain, Then by a quick encounter, to be slaine; But be she beaten, she'l not run away, She'l first advise, if't be not best to stay. But let's give, cold, white; Sister Flegme her right. So loving unto all, she scornes to fight. If any threaten her, she'l in a trice, Convert from water, to conjealed Ice;

Her teeth wil chatter, dead and wan's her face, And 'fore she be assaulted, quits the place, She dare, not challenge if I speake amisse; Nor hath she wit, or heat, to blush at this. Here's three of you, all sees now what you are, Then yeeld to me, preheminence in War. Again, who fits, for learning, science, Arts? Who rarifies the intellectuall parts? Whence flow fine spirits, and witty notions? Not from our dul slow Sisters motions: Nor sister Sanguine, from thy moderate heat, Poor spirits the Liver breeds, which is thy seat, What comes from thence, my heat refines the same, And through the arteries sends o're the frame, The vitall spirits they're call'd, and wel they may, For when they faile, man turnes unto his clay: The Animal I claime, as wel as these, The nerves should I not warm, soon would they freeze. But Flegme her self, is now provok'd at this, She thinks I never shot so farre amisse; The Brain she challenges, the Head's her seat, But know'ts a foolish brain, that wanteth heat; My absence proves, it plain, her wit then flyes Out at her nose, or melteth at her eyes; Oh, who would misse this influence of thine, To be distill'd a drop on every line! No, no, thou hast no spirits, thy company Wil feed a Dropsie, or a Timpany, The Palsie, Gout, or Cramp, or some such dolor, Thou wast not made for Souldier, or for Schollar; Of greasie paunch, and palled cheeks, go vaunt, But a good head from these are disonant;

But Melancholy, wouldst have this glory thine? Thou sayst, thy wits are stai'd, subtle and fine: Tis true, when I am midwife to thy birth; Thy self's as dul, as is thy mother Earth. Thou canst not claime, the Liver, Head nor Heart; Yet hast thy seat assign'd, a goodly part, The sinke of all us three, the hatefull spleen; Of that black region, Nature made thee Queen; Where paine and sore obstructions, thou dost work; Where envy, malice, thy companions lurke. If once thou'rt great, what followes thereupon? But bodies wasting, and destruction. So base thou art, that baser cannot be; The excrement, adustion of me. But I am weary to dilate thy shame; Nor is't my pleasure, thus to blur thy name: Onely to raise my honours to the Skyes, As objects best appear, by contraries. Thus arms, and arts I claim, and higher things; The Princely quality, befitting Kings. Whose Serene heads, I line with policies, They're held for Oracles, they are so wise. Their wrathfull looks are death, their words are laws; Their courage, friend, and foe, and subject awes, But one of you would make a worthy King: Like our fixt Henry, that same worthy thing. That when a Varlet, struck him o're the side, Forsooth you are to blame, he grave reply'd. Take choler from a Prince, what is he more, Then a dead Lyon? by beasts triumpht ore. Again, ye know, how I act every part: By th' influence I send still from the heart.

Its not your muscles, nerves, nor this nor that: Without my lively heat, do's ought thats flat. The spongy Lungs, I feed with frothy blood. They coole my heat, and so repay my good. Nay, th' stomach, magazeen to all the rest, Without my boiling heat cannot digest. And yet to make, my greatnesse far more great: What differences the Sex, but only heat? And one thing more to close with my narration. Of all that lives, I cause the propagation. I have been sparing, what I might have said, I love no boasting, that's but childrens trade: To what you now shal say, I wil attend, And to your weaknesse, gently condescend.