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.

Autumne.

OF Autumne months, September is the prime, Now day and night are equal in each clime; The tenth of this, Sol riseth in the Line, And doth in poyzing Libra this month shine. The Vintage now is ripe, the Grapes are prest, Whose lively liquor oft is curst, and blest; For nought's so good, but it may be abused, But its a precious juyce, when wel it's used.

The Raisins now in clusters dryed be, The Orange, Lemon, Dangle on the tree; The Figge is ripe, the Pomgranet also, And Apples now their yellow sides do show; Of Medlar, Quince, of Warden, and of Peach, The season's now at hand, of all, and each; Sure at this time, Time first of all began, And in this month was made apostate man; For then in Eden was not only seen Boughs full of leaves, or fruits, but raw, and green, Or withered stocks, all dry, and dead, But trees with goodly fruits replenished; Which shewes, nor Summer, Winter, nor the Spring, Great Adam was of Paradice made King. October is my next, we heare in this, The Northern Winter blasts begin to hisse; In Scorpio resideth now the Sun, And his declining heat is almost done. The fruitful trees, all withered now do stand, Whose yellow saplesse leaves by winds are fann'd: Which notes, when youth, and strength, have past their prime, Decrepit age must also have its time; The sap doth slily creep towards the earth, There rests, untill the Sun give it a birth: So doth Old Age stil tend unto his Grave, Where also he, his Winter time must have; But when the Son of Righteousnesse drawes nigh, His dead old stock, again shall mount on high. November is my last, for time doth haste, We now of Winters sharpnesse 'gin to taste; This month's the Sun in Sagitarius, So farre remote, his glances warm not us;

Almost at shortest is the shortned day, The Northern Pole beholdeth not one ray. Now Green-land, Groen-land, Lap-land, Fin-land, see No Sun, to lighten their obscurity; Poor wretches, that in total darknesse lye, With minds more dark, then is the darkned sky; This month is timber for all uses fell'd, When cold, the sap to th' roots hath low'st repell'd; Beef, Brawn, and Pork, are now in great'st request, And solid'st meats, our stomachs can digest; This time warm cloaths, ful diet, and good fires, Our pinched flesh, and empty panch requires: Old cold, dry age, and earth, Autumne resembles, And melancholy, which most of all dissembles. I must be short, and short's, the shortned day, What Winter hath to tel, now let him say.