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.

Melancholy.

HE that with two assaylents hath to do, Had need be armed wel, and active too, Especially when freindship is pretended: That blow's most deadly, where it is intended; Though Choler rage, and raile, i'le not do so, The tongue's no weapon to assault a foe, But sith we fight with words, we might be kind, To spare our selves, and beat the whistling winde.

Faire rosie Sister, so might'st thou scape free, I'le flatter for a time, as thou did'st me, But when the first offenders I have laid, Thy soothing girds shal fully be repaid; But Choler, be thou cool'd, or cha••'d, i'le venter, And in contentions lists, now justly enter. Thy boasted valour stoutly's been repell'd, If not as yet, by me, thou shalt be quell'd: What mov'd thee thus to villifie my name? Not past all reason, but in truth all shame: Thy fiery spirit shal bear away this prize, To play such furious pranks I am too wise; If in a Souldier rashnesse be so precious, Know, in a General its most pernicious. Nature doth teach, to sheild the head from harm, The blow that's aim'd thereat is latch'd by th'arm, When in Battalia my foes I face, I then command, proud Choler stand thy place, To use thy sword, thy courage, and thy Art, For to defend my self, thy better part; This warinesse count not for cowardise, He is not truly valiant that's not wise; It's no lesse glory to defend a town, Then by assault to gain one, not our own. And if Marcellus bold, be call'd Romes sword, Wise Fabius is her buckler: all accord. And if thy haste, my slownesse should not temper, 'Twere but a mad, irregular distemper; Enough of that, by our Sister heretofore, I'le come to that which wounds me somewhat more: Of Learning, and of Policie, thou would'st bereave me, But's not thy ignorance shal thus deceive me.

What greater Clerke, or polititian lives? Then he whose brain a touch my humour gives. What is too hot, my coldnesse doth abate; What's diffluent, I do consolidate. If I be partial judg'd, or thought to erre, The melancholy Snake shal it aver. Those cold dry heads, more subrilly doth yeild, Then all the huge beasts of the fertile field. Thirdly, thou dost confine me to the spleen, As of that only part I was the Queen: Let me as wel make thy precincts, the gal; To prison thee within that bladder smal. Reduce the man to's principles, then see If I have not more part, then al ye three: What is without, within, of theirs, or thine. Yet time and age, shal soon declare it mine. When death doth seize the man, your stock is lost, When you poor bankrupts prove, then have I most. You'l say, here none shal ere disturbe my right; You high born (from that lump) then take your flight Then who's mans friend, when life and all forsakes? His mother (mine) him to her wombe retakes, Thus he is ours, his portion is the grave. But whilst he lives, Ile shew what part I have. And first, the firme dry bones, I justly claim: The strong foundation of the stately frame. Likewise the useful spleen, though not the best, Yet is a bowel cal'd wel as the rest. The Liver, Stomach, owes it thanks of right. The first it draines, o'th' last quicks appetite, Laughter (though thou savst malice) flowes from hence, These two in one cannot have residence.

But thou most grosly do'st mistake, to thinke The Spleen for al you three, was made a sinke. Of al the rest, thou'st nothing there to do; But if thou hast, that malice comes from you. Again, you often touch my swarthy hew, That black is black, and I am black, tis true; But yet more comely far, I dare avow, Then is thy torrid nose, or brasen brow. But that which shewes how high thy spight is bent, In charging me, to be thy excrement. Thy loathsome imputation I desie; So plain a slander needeth no reply. When by thy heat, thou'st bak'd thy selfe to crust, Thou do'st assume my name, wel be it just; This transmutation is, but not excretion, Thou wants Philosophy, and yet discretion. Now by your leave, Ile let your greatnesse see; What officer thou art to al us three. The Kitchin Drudge, the cleanser of the sinks, That casts out all that man or eates, or drinks. Thy bittering quality, stil irretates, Til filth and thee, nature exhonorates. If any doubt this truth, whence this should come; Show them thy passage to th' Duodenum. If there thou'rt stopt, to th' Liver thou turn'st in, And so with jaundise, Safferns al the skin. No further time ile spend, in confutations, I trust I've clear'd your slandrous imputations. I now speake unto al, no more to one; Pray hear, admire, and learn instruction. My vertues yours surpasse, without compare: The first, my constancy, that jewel rate.

Choler's too rash, this golden gift to hold. And Sanguine is more fickle many fold. Here, there, her restlesse thoughts do ever flye; Constant in nothing, but inconstancy, And what Flegme is, we know, likewise her mother, Unstable is the one, so is the other. With me is noble patience also found, Impatient Choler loveth not the sound. VVhat Sanguine is, she doth not heed, nor care. Now up, now down, transported like the Aire. Flegm's patient, because her nature's tame. But I by vertue, do acquire the same. My temperance, chastity, is eminent, But these with you, are seldome resident. Now could I stain my ruddy sisters face, With purple dye, to shew but her disgrace. But I rather with silence, vaile her shame; Then cause her blush, while I dilate the same. Nor are ye free, from this inormity, Although she beare the greatest obloquie. My prudence, judgement, now I might reveale, But wisdome 'tis, my wisdom to conceale. Unto diseases not inclin'd as ye: Nor cold, nor hot, Ague, nor Plurisie; Nor Cough, nor Quinsie, nor the burning Feavor. I rarely feel to act his fierce indeavour. My sicknesse cheifly in conceit doth lye, What I imagine, that's my malady. Strange Chymera's are in my phantasie, And things that never were, nor shal I see. Talke I love not, reason lyes not in length. Nor multitude of words, argues our strength;

I've done, pray Sister Flegme proceed in course, We shal expect much sound, but little force.