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.

The four Seasons of the Yeare.

Spring.

ANother Four i've yet for to bring on, Of four times four, the last quaternian; The Winter, Summer, Autumne, and the Spring, In season all these Seasons I shal bring; Sweet Spring, like man in his minority, At present claim'd, and had priority, With smiling Sun-shine face, and garments green, She gently thus began, like some fair Queen; Three months there are allotted to my share, March, April, May, of all the rest most faire; The tenth o'th' first Sol into Aries enters, And bids defiance to all tedious Winters: And now makes glad those blinded Northern wights, Who for some months have seen out starry lights, Crosses the Line, and equals night and day, Stil adds to th' last, til after pleasant May; Now goes the Plow-man to his merry toyl, For to unloose his Winter-locked soyl; The Seeds-man now doth lavish out his Grain, In hope, the more he casts, the more to gain; The Gardner, now superfluous branches l••ps, And Poles erects, for his green clambering Hops; Now digs, then sows, his hearbs, his flowers, and ••oots, And carefully manures his trees of fruits.

The Pleiades, their influence now give, And all that seem'd as dead, afresh do live. The croaking Frogs, whom nipping Winter kild, Like Birds, now chirp, and hop about the field, The Nitingale, the Black-bird, and the Thrush, Now tune their layes, on sprays of every bush; The wanton frisking Kids, and soft fleec'd Lambs, Now jump, and play, before their feeding Dams, The tender tops of budding Grasse they crop, They joy in what they have, but more in hope, For though the Frost hath lost his binding power, Yet many a fleece of Snow, and stormy showre, Doth darken Sols bright face, makes us remember The pinching Nor-west cold, of fierce December. My second month is April, green, and fair, Of longer dayes, and a more temperate air; The Sun now keeps his posting residence In Taurus Signe, yet hasteth straight from thence; For though in's running progresse he doth take Twelve houses of the oblique Zodiack, Yet never minute stil was known to stand, But only once at Joshua's strange command; This is the month whose fruitfull showers produces All Plants, and Flowers, for all delights, and uses; The Pear, the Plumbs, and Apple-tree now flourish, And Grasse growes long, the tender Lambs to nourish; The Primrose pale, and azure Violet, Among the verduous Grasse hath Nature set, That when the Sun (on's love) the earth doth shine, These might as Lace, set out her Garments fine; The fearful Bird, his little house now builds, In trees, and wals, in cities, and in fields,

The outside strong, the inside warme and near. A natural Artificer compleate. The clocking hen, her chipping brood now leads, With wings, and beak, defends them from the gleads. My next, and last, is pleasant fruitfull May, Wherein the earth, is clad in rich aray: The sun now enters, loving Geminie, And heats us with, the glances of his eye, Our Winter rayment, makes us lay aside, Least by his fervor, we be terrifi'd, All flowers before the sun-beames now discloses, Except the double Pinks, and matchlesse Roses. Now swarmes the busie buzzing hony Bee. Whose praise deserves a page, from more then me. The cleanly huswives D••ry, now's ith' prime,, Her shelves, and Firkins fill'd for winter time. The Meads with Cowslip, Hony-suckl's dight, One hangs his head, the other stands upright: But both rejoyce, at th'heavens clear smiling face, More at her showers, which water them a space. For fruits, my season yeelds, the early Cherry, The hasty Pease, and wholesome red Strawberry, More solid fruits, require a longer time. Each season, hath his fruit, so hath each clime. Each man his owne peculiar excellence, But none in all that hath preheminence. Some subject, shallow braines, much matter yeelds, Sometime a theame that's large, proves barren fields. Melodious Spring, with thy short pittance flye, In this harsh strain, I find no melody, Yet above all, this priviledge is th••ne, Thy dayes stil lengthen, without least decline.

Summer.

WHen Spring had done, then Summer must begin, With melted tauny face, and garments thinne. Resembling choler, fite and middle-age; As Spring did aire, blood, youth in's equipage. Wiping her sweat from off her brow, that ran, VVith haire all wet, she puffing thus began. Bright June, July, and August, hot are mine, Ith' first, Sol doth in crabed Cancer shine. His progresse to the North; now's fully done, And retrograde, now is my burning Sun. VVho to his Southward tropick still is bent, Yet doth his parching heat the more augment, The reason why, because his flames so faire, Hath formerly much heat, the earth and aire. Like as an oven, that long time hath been heat. Whose vehemency, at length doth grow so great, That if you do, remove her burning store, She's for a time as fervent as before. Now go those frolick swaines, the shepheard lad, To wash their thick cloath'd flocks, with pipes ful glad. In the coole streames they labour with delight, Rubbing their dirty coates, till they look white. Whose fleece when purely spun, and deeply dy'd, With robes thereof, Kings have been dignifi'd. 'Mongst all ye shepheards, never but one man, Was like th••t noble, brave Archadian. Yet hath your life, made Kings the same envy, Though you rep••se on grasse under the skye.

Carelesse of worldly wealth, you sit and pipe, Whilst they're imbroyl'd in Wars, and troubles ripe; Which made great Bajazet cry out in's woes, Oh! happy Shepheard, which had not to lose. Orthobulus, nor yet Sebastia great, But whist'leth to thy Flock in cold, and heat, Viewing the Sun by day, the Moon by night, Endimions, Diana's dear delight; This Month the Roses are distill'd in Glasses, Whose fragrant scent, all made-perfume surpasses; The Cherry, Goos-berry, is now i'th prime, And for all sorts of Pease this is the time. July my next, the hot'st in all the year, The Sun in Leo now hath his carrear, Whose flaming breath doth melt us from afar, Increased by the Star Canicular; This month from Julius Caesar took the name, By Romans celebrated to his fame. Now go the Mowers to their slashing toyl, The Medows of their burden to dispoyl; With weary stroaks, they take all in their way, Bearing the burning heat of the long day; The Forks, and Rakes do follow them amain, Which makes the aged fields look young again, The groaning Carts to bear away this prise. To Barns, and Stacks, where it for Fodder lyes. My next, and last, is August, fiery hot, For yet the South-ward Sun abateth not; This month he keeps with Virgo for a space, The dryed earth is parched by his face. August, of great Augustus took its name, Romes second Emperour of peaceful fame;

With Sickles now, the painful Reapers go, The ruffling tresse of terra for to moe, And bundles up in sheaves the weighty Wheat, Which after Manchet's made, for Kings to eat; The Barley, and the Rye, should first had place, Although their Bread have not so white a face. The Carter leads all home, with whistling voyce, He plow'd with pain, but reaping doth rejoyce; His sweat, his toyl, his careful, wakeful nights, His fruitful crop, abundantly requites. Now's ripe the Pear, Pear-plumbe, and Apricock, The Prince of Plumbs, whose stone is hard as Rock. The Summer's short, the beauteous Autumne hastes, To shake his fruit, of most delicious tastes; Like good Old Age, whose younger juycie roots, Hath stil ascended up in goodly Fruits, Until his head be gray, and strength be gone, Yet then appears the worthy deeds he 'ath done: To feed his boughes, exhausted hath his sap, Then drops his Fruits into the Eaters lap.

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.

Winter.

COld, moist, young, flegmy Winter now doth lye In Swadling clouts, like new-born infancy, Bound up with Frosts, and fur••'d with Haiss, and Snows, And like an Infant, stil he taller growes. December is the first, and now the Sun To th' Southward tropick his swift race hath run; This month he's hous'd in horned Capricorn, From thence he 'gins to length the shortned morn, Through Christendome, with great festivity Now's held, a Guest, (but blest) Nativity. Cold frozen January next comes in, Chilling the blood, and shrinking up the skin.

In Aquarias, now keeps the loved Sun, And North-ward his unwearied race doth run; The day much longer then it was before, The cold not lessened, but augmented more. Now toes, and eares, and fingers often freeze, And Travellers sometimes their noses leese. Moyst snowie February is my last, I care not how the Winter time doth haste; In Pisces now the golden Sun doth shine, And North-ward stil approaches to the Line; The Rivers now do ope, and Snows do melt, And some warm glances from the Sun are felt, Which is increased by the lengthened day, Until by's heat he drives all cold away.

My Subjects bare, my Brains are bad, Or better Lines you should have had; The first fell in so naturally, I could not tell how to passe't by: The last, though bad, I could not mend, Accept therefore of what is penn'd, And all the faults which you shall spy, Shall at your feet for pardon cry.

Your dutifull Daughter. A. B.