Wit restor'd in several select poems not formerly publish't.
         Mennes, John, Sir, 1599-1671.
      
       
         
           1658
        
      
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             Wit restor'd in several select poems not formerly publish't.
             Mennes, John, Sir, 1599-1671.
          
           [2], 138, [5], 140-189 [i.e. 201] p.
           
             Printed for R. Pollard, N. Brooks, and T. Dring, and are to be sold at the Old Exchange, and in Fleetstreet,
             London :
             1658.
          
           
             In verse.
             Imperfect: pages stained with loss of print; pages 21-22 lacking.
             Reproduction of original in the Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Humorous poetry.
           Burlesques.
        
      
    
     
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               WIT
               RESTOR'D
               In
               severall
               Select
               POEMS
               Not
               formerly
               publish't
               .
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               for
               
                 R.
                 Pollard
                 ,
                 N.
                 Brooks
              
               ,
               and
               
                 T.
                 Dring
              
               ,
               and
               are
               to
               be
               sold
               at
               the
               Old
               Exchange
               ,
               and
               in
               Fleetstreet
               .
               1658.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               WIT
               RESTOR'D
               .
            
             
               
                 Mr.
                 Smith
                 ,
                 to
                 Captain
                 Mennis
                 then
                 commanding
                 a
                 Troop
                 of
                 Horse
                 in
                 the
                 North
                 ,
                 against
                 the
                 Scots
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WHy
                   what
                   (
                   a
                   good
                   year
                   )
                   means
                   my
                   Iohn
                   ?
                
                 
                   So
                   staunch
                   a
                   Muse
                   as
                   thine
                   ner'e
                   won
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   prize
                   ;
                   how
                   did
                   she
                   earne
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   bayes
                   she
                   brought
                   from
                   Epsom
                   Fearne
                   ?
                
                 
                   There
                   teem'd
                   she
                   freely
                   as
                   the
                   hipps
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Hermit
                   kist
                   with
                   trembling
                   lipps
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   can
                   she
                   be
                   thus
                   costive
                   now
                
                 
                   While
                   things
                   are
                   carried
                   (
                   heaven
                   knowes
                   how
                   )
                
                 
                   While
                   Church
                   and
                   State
                   with
                   fury
                   parch
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   zeal
                   as
                   mad
                   as
                   hare
                   in
                   March
                   ?
                
                 
                   While
                   birds
                   of
                   Amsterdam
                   do
                   flutter
                
                 
                   And
                   stick
                   as
                   close
                   as
                   bread
                   and
                   butter
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   straw
                   to
                   Jett
                   ,
                   or
                   burre
                   to
                   squall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   something
                   else
                   unto
                   a
                   wall
                   .
                
                 
                   Can
                   such
                   a
                   dreadfull
                   tempest
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   not
                   shake
                   the
                   North
                   and
                   thee
                   ?
                
                 
                   Where
                   is
                   thy
                   sense
                   ,
                   of
                   publike
                   feares
                   ?
                
                 
                   Wil
                   't
                   sit
                   unmov'd
                   as
                   Roman
                   Peeres
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Till
                   some
                   bold
                   Gaule
                   pluck
                   thee
                   by
                   th'beard
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   and
                   thy
                   Muse
                   (
                   I
                   think
                   )
                   are
                   sear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   I
                   have
                   heard
                   Divines
                   to
                   tell
                
                 
                   The
                   conscience
                   is
                   that
                   's
                   mark't
                   for
                   hell
                   .
                
                 
                   Ah
                   Noble
                   friend
                   ,
                   this
                   rough
                   ,
                   harsh
                   way
                
                 
                   May
                   pinch
                   where
                   I
                   intended
                   play
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   blame
                   me
                   not
                   ,
                   the
                   present
                   times
                
                 
                   So
                   serious
                   are
                   ,
                   that
                   even
                   my
                   Rymes
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   same
                   hurry
                   rapt
                   ,
                   are
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   Indeed
                   whether
                   I
                   will
                   or
                   no.
                
                 
                   And
                   otherwise
                   my
                   Numbers
                   flie
                
                 
                   Than
                   meant
                   ,
                   in
                   spight
                   of
                   Drollerie
                   :
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   good
                   to
                   end
                   when
                   words
                   do
                   nipp
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   out
                   of
                   their
                   harnesse
                   slipp
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   the
                   thing
                   which
                   men
                   mispend
                
                 
                   Call'd
                   Time
                   ,
                   as
                   precious
                   is
                   as
                   friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tak
                   't
                   not
                   unkindly
                   ,
                   I
                   professe
                
                 
                   None
                   loves
                   you
                   better
                   then
                   
                     I.
                     S.
                  
                
                 
                   From
                   London
                   where
                   the
                   snow
                   hath
                   bin
                
                 
                   As
                   white
                   as
                   milke
                   ,
                   and
                   high
                   as
                   shin
                
                 
                   From
                   Viscount
                   Conwaies
                   house
                   in
                   street
                
                 
                   Of
                   woman
                   Royall
                   ,
                   where
                   we
                   meet
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   day
                   too
                   cold
                   for
                   wine
                   and
                   Burrage
                
                 
                   The
                   fourth
                   precedent
                   to
                   Plum-porrage
                
                 
                   December
                   moneth
                   ,
                   and
                   yeare
                   of
                   grace
                
                 
                   Sixteene
                   hundred
                   and
                   forty
                   to
                   an
                   Ace
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   friend
                   of
                   mine
                   ,
                   Captaine
                   
                     Iohn
                     Mennis
                  
                
                 
                   At
                   town
                   of
                   York
                   that
                   now
                   and
                   then
                   is
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   you
                   misse
                   him
                   there
                   ,
                   go
                   look
                
                 
                   In
                   company
                   of
                   Hunkes
                   Sir
                   Fook
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   They
                   two
                   perhaps
                   may
                   have
                   a
                   pull
                
                 
                   At
                   
                     Selbie
                     ,
                     Beverley
                  
                   ,
                   or
                   Hull
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   you
                   'l
                   finde
                   him
                   at
                   his
                   quarter
                   ,
                
                 
                   Send
                   it
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   him
                
                 
                   Pay
                   the
                   Porter
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 same
                 ,
                 To
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   MY
                   doubtie
                   Squire
                   of
                   Kentissh
                   crew
                
                 
                   that
                   ha'st
                   read
                   stories
                   old
                   and
                   new
                
                 
                   prick
                   up
                   thine
                   eares
                   unto
                   a
                   tale
                
                 
                   that
                   will
                   un-nerve
                   and
                   make
                   thee
                   stale
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   thou
                   shalt
                   heare
                   how
                   manie
                   pears
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   parliament
                   hath
                   had
                   by
                   th'
                   eares
                   .
                
                 
                   Comming
                   as
                   close
                   as
                   shirt
                   of
                   Nessus
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   privie
                   Councellors
                   (
                   god
                   blesse
                   us
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Judges
                   they
                   are
                   deep
                   in
                   bond
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fart
                   for
                   fear
                   they
                   shall
                   bee
                   Connd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Ren
                   of
                   Elte
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   prelate
                
                 
                   Of
                   Bath
                   and
                   Wells
                   have
                   had
                   a
                   pellat
                
                 
                   And
                   they
                   have
                   plac't
                   (
                   his
                   grace's
                   )
                   cod
                
                 
                   Under
                   the
                   lash
                   of
                   Maxwoll's
                   rod
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   am
                   told
                   the
                   Finch
                   is
                   warie
                
                 
                   And
                   fled
                   after
                   the
                   Secretarie
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   this
                   is
                   ,
                   that
                   men
                   may
                   see
                
                 
                   Others
                   can
                   runne
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   wee
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   hitherto
                   have
                   told
                   ,
                   dear
                   Captain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   prisons
                   that
                   our
                   peeres
                   are
                   clapt
                   in
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   all
                   I
                   wrote
                   was
                   like
                   a
                   groane
                
                 
                   Sadd
                   as
                   the
                   melanchollie
                   droane
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   Countrie
                   baggpipe
                   ,
                   now
                   I
                   sing
                
                 
                   Matter
                   as
                   chearfull
                   as
                   the
                   spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   wine
                   (
                   deare
                   freind
                   )
                   will
                   make
                   us
                   wanton
                
                 
                   Better
                   nere
                   drunck
                   by
                   Iohn
                   of
                   Gaunt
                   ,
                   one
                
                 
                   That
                   at
                   third
                   glasse
                   did
                   mount
                   his
                   Launce
                
                 
                   And
                   gott
                   a
                   boy
                   whose
                   sonne
                   got
                   Fraunce
                   :
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   the
                   reckoning
                   will
                   bee
                   more
                
                 
                   (
                   Humble
                   I
                   meane
                   )
                   then
                   heretofore
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   now
                   the
                   Alderman
                   hight
                   Abell
                
                 
                   Has
                   given
                   his
                   parchment
                   up
                   with
                   labell
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   no
                   more
                   purpose
                   is
                   his
                   pattent
                
                 
                   Then
                   that
                   the
                   fool
                   had
                   shitt
                   and
                   sate
                   in
                   't
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   may
                   wee
                   freely
                   laugh
                   ,
                   and
                   drink
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   overcharg'd
                   goe
                   pisse
                   i'
                   th
                   sinck
                
                 
                   Then
                   too
                   't
                   again
                   ,
                   beginne
                   a
                   health
                
                 
                   Of
                   twelve
                   goe-downes
                   to
                   th'Com-monwealth
                
                 
                   Then
                   mount
                   a
                   stall
                   ,
                   and
                   sleep
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                
                 
                   Wee
                   rise
                   againe
                   bee
                   nere
                   th'
                   worse
                   men
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   fitt's
                   my
                   freindshipp
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   mee
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   must
                   bee
                   sober
                   as
                   the
                   Bee
                
                 
                   That
                   often
                   sippes
                   ,
                   yet
                   doth
                   not
                   stray
                
                 
                   But
                   to
                   his
                   owne
                   hive
                   findes
                   the
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soe
                   shalt
                   thou
                   not
                   blush
                   to
                   acknowledge
                
                 
                   Him
                   that
                   was
                   once
                   of
                   
                   Lincolne-Colledge
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   of
                   Bromely
                   Hall
                   neere
                   Bow
                
                 
                   Look
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   'l
                   find
                   his
                   name
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   I.
                   Smith
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   From
                   spatious
                   lodgings
                   of
                   Lord
                   mine
                
                 
                   In
                   street
                   of
                   female
                   majesty
                   ,
                   past
                   nine
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   day
                   whereon
                   wee
                   whett
                   our
                   knives
                
                 
                   As
                   men
                   to
                   eat
                   even
                   for
                   their
                   lives
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   that
                   ha's
                   none
                   t
                   is
                   time
                   to
                   borrow
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Christmas
                   day
                   is
                   ee'ne
                   to
                   morrow
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 same
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   MY
                   note
                   which
                   cost
                   thee
                   pennies
                   Sixe
                
                 
                   (
                   It
                   seeme's
                   )
                   still
                   in
                   thy
                   stomack
                   stick
                   's
                
                 
                   O
                   had'st
                   thou
                   but
                   beheld
                   how
                   willing
                
                 
                   I
                   was
                   for
                   thine
                   to
                   pay
                   a
                   shilling
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   footeman
                   forth
                   the
                   money
                   layd
                
                 
                   Which
                   must
                   with
                   int'rest
                   bee
                   defrayd
                   )
                
                 
                   Hereafter
                   thou
                   wouldst
                   not
                   bee
                   nice
                
                 
                   For
                   everie
                   note
                   to
                   part
                   with
                   sice
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   journey
                   to
                   the
                   foe
                   with
                   Coyne
                
                 
                   Would
                   madded
                   have
                   a
                   saint
                   or
                   twayne
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   sillie
                   Bee
                   with
                   wearie
                   thighes
                
                 
                   Home
                   to
                   her
                   master's
                   storehouse
                   hie's
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whence
                   (
                   her
                   rich
                   fraught
                   unladed
                   )
                   shee
                
                 
                   Againe
                   returne's
                   an
                   emptie
                   Bee.
                
                 
                   I
                   joy
                   to
                   heare
                   thou
                   raign'st
                   in
                   place
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   defunct
                   Arch
                   bishop's
                   grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   thou
                   (
                   I
                   doubt
                   not
                   )
                   wilt
                   bee
                   grea'st
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   freind
                   for
                   prebendry
                   i
                   th'
                   fist
                   :
                
                 
                   Mee
                   thinkes
                   I
                   fancie
                   prester
                   Iames
                
                 
                   In
                   Cope
                   envellop't
                   without
                   seames
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   silke
                   and
                   golde
                   embroydred
                   ore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   brestplat
                   like
                   a
                   belt
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   Pedler
                   ha's
                   to
                   bear
                   his
                   pack
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Creeple
                   with
                   a
                   childe
                   at
                   's
                   back
                   .
                
                 
                   Else
                   when
                   my
                   Bettie
                   dropp's
                   away
                
                 
                   (
                   That
                   fourteen
                   yeares
                   hath
                   been
                   my
                   Toy
                   )
                
                 
                   Some
                   one
                   I
                   l'e
                   marrie
                   that
                   's
                   thy
                   Neece
                
                 
                   And
                   Livings
                   have
                   with
                   Bellie-peece
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   some
                   call
                   Symonie
                   oth'smock
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Codpeece
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   against
                   the
                   Nock
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   health
                   you
                   meant
                   mee
                   in
                   the
                   Quart
                
                 
                   I
                   have
                   ,
                   and
                   partly
                   thanke
                   you
                   for
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   yet
                   I
                   muse
                   (
                   as
                   well
                   I
                   may
                   )
                
                 
                   At
                   pot
                   so
                   funish't
                   ,
                   without
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   at
                   that
                   time
                   wee
                   were
                   told
                   here
                
                 
                   You
                   all
                   were
                   sixe
                   weeks
                   in
                   arreare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ha'st
                   thou
                   made
                   merchandise
                   ,
                   of
                   Crop
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   solde
                   some
                   landes
                   ,
                   lef't
                   out
                   o
                   th'
                   mapp
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   ha'st
                   thou
                   nimm'd
                   from
                   saddle
                   bow
                
                 
                   A
                   pistoll
                   through
                   thy
                   troope
                   ,
                   or
                   so
                   ?
                
                 
                   Leaveing
                   halfe-naked
                   horses
                   Crest
                
                 
                   Like
                   Amazon
                   with
                   but
                   one
                   brest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Well
                   ,
                   lett
                   it
                   goe
                   :
                   I
                   thinke
                   this
                   geare
                
                 
                   Fitt
                   to
                   bee
                   scann'd
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   too
                   neare
                
                 
                   However
                   ,
                   sure
                   I
                   should
                   finde
                   Iohn
                
                 
                   Thriftie
                   ,
                   but
                   yet
                   an
                   honest
                   man
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   tak
                   heed
                   in
                   these
                   pinching
                   times
                
                 
                   And
                   age
                   so
                   catching
                   after
                   crimes
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   bee
                   not
                   given
                   out
                   how
                   you
                   quaf't
                
                 
                   Sugar
                   ,
                   and
                   eggs
                   ,
                   in
                   morning's
                   draught
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   grudge
                   thee
                   not
                   ;
                   for
                   if
                   I
                   met
                
                 
                   Vulpone's
                   potion
                   ,
                   or
                   could
                   get
                
                 
                   Nectar
                   ,
                   or
                   else
                   dissolv'd
                   to
                   dew
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Elixir
                   ,
                   which
                   the
                   gods
                   n'ere
                   knew
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   were
                   thine
                   ,
                   yea
                   I
                   would
                   save
                   the
                   dropps
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   that
                   fell
                   besides
                   thy
                   chopps
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   yet
                   the
                   needy
                   state
                   (
                   I
                   feare
                   )
                
                 
                   May
                   think
                   much
                   of
                   thy
                   costly
                   cheare
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   best
                   is
                   ,
                   if
                   they
                   barre
                   thy
                   maw
                
                 
                   From
                   sodden
                   drink
                   ,
                   thou
                   't
                   have
                   it
                   raw
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   reason
                   good
                   ,
                   the
                   heavens
                   defend
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   thou
                   should'st
                   want
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   thy
                   friend
                   .
                
                 
                   I.
                   S.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   From
                   house
                   of
                   Viscount
                   Conway
                   ,
                   where
                
                 
                   Kenelme
                   hath
                   food
                   ,
                   and
                   Down's
                   Count
                   Lare
                   ,
                
                 
                   December
                   moneth
                   ,
                   day
                   of
                   St.
                   Iohn
                
                 
                   That
                   'mongst
                   th'
                   Evangelists
                   made
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forty
                   ,
                   (
                   besides
                   the
                   sixteen
                   hundred
                   )
                
                 
                   We
                   count
                   yeares
                   past
                   since
                   Fiend
                   was
                   foundred
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   Bissextile
                   ,
                   that
                   ,
                   sans
                   pumps
                   ,
                
                 
                   Frisk's
                   ,
                   and
                   is
                   call'd
                   the
                   yeare
                   that
                   Jum'ps
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 same
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   must
                   call
                   from
                   between
                   thy
                   thighs
                   ]
                
                 
                   Thy
                   urine
                   back
                   into
                   thine
                   eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   thee
                   when
                   my
                   tale
                   thou
                   hear'st
                
                 
                   Channell
                   thy
                   cheekes
                   with
                   Launt
                   rever'st
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Landladie
                   that
                   made
                   thee
                   broth
                
                 
                   When
                   drugge
                   made
                   orifice
                   to
                   froath
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   every
                   fortnight
                   shifted
                   sheet
                
                 
                   To
                   keep
                   thy
                   nest
                   ,
                   and
                   bodie
                   sweet
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   heard
                   thee
                   knock
                   at
                   peepe
                   of
                   day
                
                 
                   When
                   boy
                   snor'de
                   that
                   on
                   pallat
                   lay
                   ;
                
                 
                   Rose
                   in
                   her
                   smock
                   ,
                   and
                   gave
                   thee
                   counsell
                
                 
                   To
                   lift
                   thy
                   foot
                   for
                   feare
                   of
                   groundsell
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   often
                   warnd
                   thee
                   of
                   the
                   quart
                
                 
                   And
                   praid
                   (
                   in
                   vain
                   )
                   to
                   turn
                   thy
                   heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Landladie
                   in
                   grave
                   is
                   pent
                
                 
                   Now
                   shedd
                   thy
                   moysture
                   ,
                   man
                   of
                   Kent
                   :
                
                 
                   Two
                   rings
                   shee
                   left
                   ,
                   for
                   thee
                   tone
                   ,
                   to
                   '
                   ther
                
                 
                   For
                   Andrew
                   that
                   does
                   call
                   thee
                   brother
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   dries
                   thy
                   teares
                   that
                   were
                   a
                   brewing
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   li'st
                   to
                   newes
                   of
                   State
                   ensuing
                   .
                
                 
                   Iudge
                   Littleton
                   is
                   made
                   Lord
                   Keeper
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   feeds
                   on
                   chick
                   and
                   pigeon
                   peeper
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   kings
                   Attourney
                   
                     Sr
                     Iohn
                     Bancks
                  
                
                 
                   Succeds
                   him
                   ,
                   but
                   may
                   spare
                   his
                   thankes
                   .
                
                 
                   Herbert
                   is
                   thought
                   the
                   meetest
                   man
                
                 
                   To
                   fill
                   the
                   place
                   of
                   Bancks
                   Sr
                   Iohn
                   ,
                
                 
                   London-Recorder
                   thence
                   doth
                   jogge
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Herberts
                   roome
                   to
                   trudge
                   ,
                   and
                   fogg
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   St
                   Iohns
                   one
                   that
                   's
                   sharp
                   and
                   wittie
                
                 
                   Is
                   made
                   winde-instrument
                   o'th'Citty
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   t
                   is
                   in
                   towne
                   ;
                   but
                   in
                   the
                   Camp
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   one
                   preferrd
                   will
                   make
                   thee
                   stamp
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   
                     Sr
                     Iohn
                  
                   Berkly's
                   Sergeant
                   Maior
                
                 
                   To
                   Willmott
                   ,
                   let
                   it
                   not
                   bread
                   Jarre
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   the
                   Viscount
                   whom
                   Iohn
                   putts
                
                 
                   In
                   trust
                   ,
                   prevent
                   it
                   for
                   his
                   gutts
                
                 
                   More
                   shalt
                   thou
                   know
                   when
                   t
                   is
                   more
                   fitt
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   thou
                   and
                   I
                   in
                   Tavern
                   fitt
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   when
                   ,
                   and
                   ever
                   ,
                   heaven
                   thee
                   send
                
                 
                   The
                   wishes
                   of
                   thy
                   constant
                   freind
                   ,
                
                 
                   I.
                   S.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   street
                   of
                   Coleman
                   from
                   swanne
                   Ally
                
                 
                   Where
                   while
                   I
                   stay
                   in
                   towne
                   ,
                   I
                   shall
                   lye
                
                 
                   In
                   house
                   of
                   Mistresse
                   Street
                   ,
                   relict
                
                 
                   Of
                   Robert
                   ,
                   whom
                   for
                   mate
                   shee
                   pickt
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   ,
                   with
                   eeles
                   ,
                   and
                   flounders
                   fryde
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tongve
                   of
                   Neat
                   that
                   never
                   lyed
                
                 
                   I
                   filld
                   my
                   paunch
                   ,
                   but
                   when
                   I
                   belsh
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   utter's
                   language
                   worse
                   than
                   welsh
                   .
                
                 
                   Ianus
                   the
                   moneth
                   that
                   holdes
                   us
                   tack
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   face
                   be
                   hinde
                   his
                   back
                   :
                
                 
                   Full
                   sixteene
                   hundred
                   yeares
                   wee
                   score
                
                 
                   And
                   fiftie
                   ,
                   (
                   bateing
                   six
                   ,
                   and
                   fowr
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   leape-yeare
                   wee
                   count
                   to
                   bee
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   yeare
                   that
                   come's
                   but
                   once
                   in
                   three
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 same
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THy
                   wants
                   wherewith
                   thou
                   long
                   hast
                   tug'd
                
                 
                   And
                   been
                   as
                   sad
                   as
                   Bear
                   that
                   's
                   lug'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   'lt
                   laugh
                   at
                   ,
                   when
                   thou
                   hear'st
                   how
                   odly
                
                 
                   Thy
                   fellowes
                   shift
                   in
                   Town
                   ungodly
                   .
                
                 
                   Commodities
                   we
                   took
                   on
                   trust
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   promis'd
                   Tradesmen
                   payment
                   just
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   return'd
                   from
                   Northern
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   treasure
                   hence
                   arriv'd
                   in
                   Cart.
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   but
                   till
                   now
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                   they
                   crep
                
                 
                   From
                   stair
                   to
                   stair
                   ,
                   with
                   trembling
                   step
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   modest
                   ,
                   that
                   they
                   blush'd
                   to
                   name
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   what
                   they
                   to
                   our
                   Chambers
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   Impatient
                   now
                   ,
                   both
                   young
                   and
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   Assault
                   my
                   fort
                   with
                   knuckle
                   bold
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   in
                   bed
                   perplex'd
                   I
                   lie
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   hear
                   one
                   say
                   ,
                   The
                   Cart's
                   gone
                   by
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   that
                   they
                   all
                   attempt
                   my
                   dore
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   pulse
                   more
                   daring
                   then
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   of
                   their
                   parcells
                   make
                   a
                   ●…inne
                
                 
                   Louder
                   ,
                   then
                   when
                   they
                   drew
                   me
                   in
                   .
                
                 
                   Rouz'd
                   with
                   this
                   rudenesse
                   ,
                   first
                   ,
                   I
                   chop
                
                 
                   Upon
                   some
                   foreman
                   of
                   the
                   shop
                   ;
                
                 
                   Take
                   him
                   by
                   '
                   th'
                   hand
                   aside
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                
                 
                   I
                   tell
                   him
                   wonders
                   in
                   his
                   ear
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   by
                   degrees
                   I
                   send
                   them
                   jogging
                   ,
                
                 
                   Suppled
                   with
                   Ale
                   ,
                   and
                   language
                   cogging
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   newes
                   of
                   this
                   makes
                   Scrivener
                   wary
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   eight
                   i'
                   th
                   hundred
                   Don
                   look
                   awry
                
                 
                 
                   That
                   we
                   do
                   stoop
                   to
                   sums
                   as
                   small
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   children
                   venture
                   at
                   Cock-all
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   lives
                   we
                   lead
                   ,
                   (
                   I
                   cry
                   heaven
                   mercy
                   )
                
                 
                   Worse
                   then
                   a
                   Troop
                   that
                   has
                   the
                   Farfie
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   man
                   that
                   keeps
                   the
                   Ordinary
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   not
                   believe
                   ,
                   nor
                   Landlord
                   tarry
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   happy
                   Captain
                   ,
                   that
                   may'st
                   houze
                
                 
                   In
                   Quarter
                   free
                   ,
                   and
                   uncheckt
                   brouze
                
                 
                   On
                   teeming
                   hedge
                   ,
                   when
                   purse
                   is
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   on
                   the
                   wholsom
                   Sallat
                   bite
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   we
                   have
                   nought
                   ,
                   when
                   mony
                   fails
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   bite
                   upon
                   ,
                   but
                   our
                   own
                   nails
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   they
                   so
                   short
                   with
                   often
                   tewing
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   not
                   much
                   left
                   to
                   hold
                   us
                   chewing
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   there
                   were
                   ,
                   't
                   would
                   onely
                   whet
                
                 
                   Stomack
                   ,
                   for
                   what
                   it
                   could
                   not
                   get
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   more
                   keen
                   the
                   appetite
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   tyring-bitt
                   for
                   Faulkner's
                   Kyte
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   mend
                   my
                   commons
                   ,
                   clad
                   in
                   jerkin
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   Friday
                   last
                   I
                   rode
                   to
                   Berkin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   lowring
                   heavens
                   with
                   welcom
                   saucst
                   us
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   the
                   Fiends
                   were
                   sent
                   for
                   Faustus
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   claps
                   of
                   thunder
                   ,
                   and
                   such
                   rain
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Poets
                   will
                   not
                   stick
                   to
                   feign
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   gods
                   with
                   too
                   much
                   Nectar
                   sped
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   truckles
                   drew
                   ,
                   and
                   piss'd
                   a
                   bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   they
                   belsh'd
                   from
                   stomack
                   musty
                
                 
                   Vapour
                   ,
                   that
                   made
                   the
                   weather
                   gusty
                   .
                
                 
                   Well
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   a
                   sad
                   condition
                   ,
                   where
                
                 
                   A
                   man
                   must
                   fast
                   ,
                   or
                   feed
                   in
                   fear
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   lately
                   thee
                   from
                   North
                   did
                   call
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   stay
                   ,
                   or
                   else
                   bring
                   wherewithall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unlesse
                   thy
                   credit
                   here
                   prove
                   better
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   does
                   thy
                   friend's
                   ,
                   that
                   wrote
                   this
                   Lett●…
                
                 
                   I.
                   S.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Day
                   tenth
                   thrice
                   told
                   ,
                   the
                   morning
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   month
                   still
                   with
                   a
                   face
                   to
                   spare
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 same
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   NO
                   sooner
                   I
                   from
                   supper
                   rose
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Letter
                   came
                   ,
                   though
                   not
                   in
                   prose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   tells
                   of
                   fight
                   ,
                   and
                   Duell
                   famous
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perform'd
                   between
                   a
                   man
                   and
                   a
                   mouse
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   English
                   Captain
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Scot
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   one
                   disarm'd
                   ,
                   the
                   other
                   not
                   .
                
                 
                   It
                   speaks
                   moreover
                   of
                   some
                   stirring
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   a
                   Cov'nant
                   new
                   as
                   Herring
                   .
                
                 
                   Carr
                   ,
                   and
                   Mountrosse
                   ,
                   and
                   eke
                   Argile
                   :
                
                 
                   Well
                   was
                   that
                   Nation
                   term'd
                   a
                   Boyl
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   breach
                   of
                   England
                   ,
                   that
                   doth
                   stick
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   vex
                   the
                   body
                   Politick
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   (
                   whatsoe're
                   be
                   the
                   pretence
                   )
                
                 
                   Doubtlesse
                   they
                   strive
                   about
                   the
                   pence
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   English
                   Trooper
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   Gull
                   ,
                
                 
                   Serves
                   but
                   to
                   hold
                   the
                   Cow
                   to
                   th'Bull
                   .
                
                 
                   Pray
                   tell
                   me
                   ,
                   Iohn
                   ,
                   did
                   it
                   not
                   nettle
                
                 
                   Thee
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Myrmidons
                   of
                   Mettle
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   see
                   the
                   boy
                   with
                   country-lash
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drive
                   on
                   the
                   jades
                   that
                   drew
                   the
                   cash
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   thy
                   needy
                   quarters
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Asking
                   the
                   way
                   to
                   Camp
                   of
                   fo
                   ?
                
                 
                   So
                   Tantalus
                   with
                   hungry
                   maw
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thirsty
                   gullet
                   ,
                   daily
                   saw
                
                 
                   Water
                   and
                   fruit
                   swim
                   by
                   his
                   chaps
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   he
                   in
                   vain
                   at
                   either
                   snaps
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   as
                   Phoebus
                   ,
                   when
                   full
                   fraught
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tipled
                   with
                   his
                   mornings
                   draught
                   ,
                
                 
                   Reels
                   like
                   a
                   drunken
                   Jackanapes
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   bladder
                   tight
                   ,
                   o're
                   soyl
                   that
                   gapes
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   afterwards
                   in
                   corner
                   odd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   lesse
                   thirsty
                   ,
                   empties
                   codd
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   fares
                   it
                   with
                   my
                   friends
                   ,
                   (
                   god
                   wot
                   )
                
                 
                   Whom
                   treasure
                   skips
                   t'
                   enrich
                   the
                   Scot.
                
                 
                   Leave
                   then
                   that
                   wretched
                   Climate
                   ,
                   where
                
                 
                   Thy
                   wants
                   have
                   rid
                   thee
                   like
                   the
                   Mare
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   haste
                   to
                   Town
                   ,
                   where
                   thou
                   shalt
                   find
                
                 
                   Thy
                   friend
                   ,
                   that
                   now
                   hath
                   newly
                   din'd
                   .
                
                 
                   I.
                   S.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   ●…ay
                   twenty
                   sixt
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   Iohn
                   saies
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     ●…aces
                     about
                  
                   ,
                   the
                   Month
                   obays
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 same
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WHy
                   how
                   now
                   friend
                   ,
                   why
                   com'st
                   no●…
                   hither
                   ?
                
                 
                   Hast
                   thou
                   not
                   leave
                   as
                   light
                   as
                   feather
                   ?
                
                 
                   Here
                   have
                   I
                   mark't
                   a
                   Butt
                   of
                   Sack
                
                 
                   Whose
                   maiden-head
                   shall
                   welcome
                   Iack
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   Against
                   which
                   when
                   drawer
                   advanc'd
                   gimlet
                
                 
                   I
                   suffer'd
                   him
                   not
                   ,
                   but
                   did
                   him
                   let
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   thou
                   comm'st
                   not
                   ;
                   Why
                   dost
                   pause
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   continue
                   ,
                   keeping
                   Dawes
                   ?
                
                 
                   Does
                   Hostesse
                   stay
                   thy
                   steed
                   perforce
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   that
                   which
                   was
                   not
                   fault
                   of
                   Horse
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thou
                   haste
                   command
                   of
                   more
                   then
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   have
                   seen
                   at
                   tail
                   of
                   Iohn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Full
                   Palfreys
                   sixty
                   in
                   array
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   I
                   mean
                   upon
                   the
                   Muster-day
                   )
                
                 
                   Or
                   art
                   thou
                   entertain'd
                   to
                   give
                
                 
                   Physick
                   to
                   one
                   ,
                   that
                   else
                   might
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   aged
                   Sir
                   ,
                   whose
                   wife
                   is
                   bent
                
                 
                   To
                   change
                   him
                   for
                   a
                   Cock
                   of
                   Kent
                   .
                
                 
                   Well
                   ,
                   be
                   it
                   what
                   it
                   will
                   ,
                   I
                   'le
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   something
                   in
                   't
                   ,
                   that
                   thou
                   stay'st
                   there
                
                 
                   Howe're
                   ,
                   let
                   businesse
                   ,
                   wine
                   ,
                   or
                   friendship
                   ,
                
                 
                   Draw
                   thee
                   from
                   out
                   that
                   Northern
                   endship
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   none
                   of
                   those
                   provoke
                   thy
                   straddle
                   ,
                
                 
                   Take
                   pitty
                   on
                   my
                   riming
                   noddle
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   restlesse
                   runs
                   with
                   numbers
                   fierce
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   's
                   troubled
                   with
                   a
                   flux
                   of
                   verse
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   On
                   that
                   condition
                   I
                   'le
                   relate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   to
                   Captain
                   ,
                   newes
                   of
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   Judge
                   Bartlet
                   sitting
                   on
                   his
                   stall
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Westminster
                   ,
                   with
                   's
                   back
                   to
                   the
                   wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   there
                   surpriz'd
                   ,
                   and
                   grip'd
                   by
                   th'wrist
                
                 
                   By
                   Maxwell
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   clouter
                   fist
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   truss'd
                   the
                   Judge
                   ,
                   and
                   bore
                   him
                   hot
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   Sheriff's
                   house
                   ,
                   but
                   plum'd
                   him
                   not
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   there
                   he
                   set
                   him
                   down
                   i'
                   th
                   Hall
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   left
                   him
                   to
                   them
                   ,
                   robes
                   and
                   all
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   a
                   pack
                   of
                   eager
                   Hounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hunting
                   full
                   cry
                   along
                   the
                   grounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Take
                   o're
                   some
                   common
                   moor
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   fraught
                
                 
                   With
                   old
                   cast
                   Jades
                   ,
                   and
                   good
                   for
                   nought
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   conscious
                   of
                   their
                   fates
                   ,
                   do
                   hale
                   up
                
                 
                   Their
                   thin
                   short
                   tails
                   ,
                   and
                   try
                   to
                   gallop
                   ,
                
                 
                   Get
                   out
                   o'
                   th
                   way
                   for
                   life
                   and
                   limme
                   ,
                
                 
                   Each
                   fearing
                   they
                   are
                   come
                   for
                   him
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   far'd
                   the
                   Judges
                   ,
                   such
                   fears
                   wrung'em
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Maxwell
                   spent
                   his
                   mouth
                   among
                   '
                   em
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   come
                   away
                   ,
                   man
                   ,
                   places
                   stoop
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   thou
                   remainst
                   in
                   fortune's
                   poop
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   thou
                   wert
                   set
                   to
                   ride
                   the
                   Circuit
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   
                   Bartlet's
                   room
                   ,
                   how
                   thou
                   wouldst
                   firk
                   it
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   art
                   is
                   ,
                   to
                   forget
                   acquaintance
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   break
                   a
                   jest
                   in
                   giving
                   Sentence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   thou
                   wilt
                   learn
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   be
                   quick
                
                 
                   With
                   Sherif's
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                   hast
                   the
                   trick
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   lessons
                   con
                   ,
                   and
                   keep
                   in
                   store
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   S
                   that
                   hath
                   an
                   I
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   From
                   Bromely
                   ,
                   where
                   I
                   ghuess
                   by
                   th'
                   Mill-Dike
                
                 
                   That
                   t
                   is
                   the
                   Moneth
                   sirnamed
                   Fill-Dike
                
                 
                   Which
                   govern's
                   now
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   beleeve
                
                 
                   The
                   day
                   is
                   Tom
                   of
                   Straffords
                   Eve
                   ,
                
                 
                   Full
                   sixteen
                   hundred
                   yeares
                   (
                   I
                   hold
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   fifty
                   (
                   bating
                   five
                   twice
                   told
                   )
                
                 
                   Expired
                   are
                   since
                   yeare
                   of
                   grace
                
                 
                   I'
                   th
                   Almanack
                   first
                   shew'd
                   his
                   face
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   (
                   which
                   is
                   nearer
                   to
                   our
                   trade
                   )
                
                 
                   Twelve
                   score
                   and
                   two
                   ,
                   since
                   Guns
                   were
                   made
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Gallants
                 of
                 the
                 Times
                 .
              
               
                 Supposed
                 to
                 be
                 made
                 by
                 
                   Mr.
                   William
                   Murrey
                
                 of
                 His
                 Majesties
                 Bed-chamber
                 .
              
               
                 
                   COme
                   hither
                   the
                   maddest
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bear
                   at
                   the
                   Bridge-foot
                   this
                   day
                   must
                   be
                   baited
                
                 
                   Gallants
                   flock
                   thither
                   on
                   every
                   hand
                
                 
                   Waggswantonly
                   minded
                   ,
                   &
                   merry
                   conceited
                
                 
                   Ther
                   's
                   Wentworth
                   ,
                   and
                   Willmott
                   ,
                   and
                   Weston
                   an●…
                   Cav●…
                
                 
                   If
                   these
                   are
                   not
                   mad
                   boys
                   ,
                   who
                   the
                   devil●…
                   would
                   you
                   have
                   ▪
                
                 
                   To
                   drink
                   to
                   
                     Will
                     Murray
                  
                   ,
                   they
                   all
                   doe
                   agre●…
                
                 
                   And
                   every
                   one
                   crys
                   ,
                   
                     To
                     mee
                     ,
                     boys
                     ,
                     to
                     mee
                     !
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   A
                   great
                   Burgandine
                   for
                   
                     Will
                     Murray's
                  
                   sake
                
                 
                   
                     George
                     Symonds
                  
                   ,
                   he
                   vows
                   the
                   first
                   course
                   to
                   take
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   Stradling
                   a
                   Graecian
                   dogg
                   let
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   took
                   the
                   Bea●…
                   by
                   the
                   nose
                   immediatly
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   them
                   so
                   forward
                   
                     Hugh
                     Pollard
                  
                   did
                   smile
                
                 
                   Who
                   had
                   an
                   old
                   Curr
                   of
                   Canary
                   Oyl
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   held
                   up
                   his
                   head
                   that
                   
                     George
                     Goring
                  
                   might
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   then
                   cryed
                   aloud
                   ,
                   
                     To
                     mee
                     ,
                     boys
                     to
                     mee
                     !
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   T
                   is
                   pleasure
                   to
                   drink
                   among
                   these
                   men
                
                 
                   For
                   they
                   have
                   witt
                   and
                   valour
                   good
                   store
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   all
                   can
                   handle
                   a
                   sword
                   and
                   a
                   pen
                
                 
                   Can
                   court
                   a
                   lady
                   and
                   tickle
                   a
                   whore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   middle
                   of
                   all
                   their
                   wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Discourse
                   of
                   Plato
                   ,
                   and
                   Arretine
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   health
                   coms
                   fall-down
                   on
                   their
                   knees
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hee
                   that
                   wants
                   ,
                   cry
                   ,
                   
                     to
                     me
                     boys
                     to
                     mee
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   Cornwallais
                   was
                   set
                   in
                   an
                   upper
                   room
                
                 
                   With
                   halfe
                   a
                   duzzen
                   smal
                   witts
                   of
                   his
                   size
                   ▪
                
                 
                   He
                   sent
                   twice
                   or
                   thrice
                   to
                   have
                   him
                   come
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   they
                   would
                   admitt
                   him
                   in
                   no
                   manner
                   wise
                
                 
                   Though
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   full
                   bowle
                   of
                   Rhenishhe
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hee
                   'd
                   never
                   tell
                   more
                   ,
                   when
                   woemen
                   were
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   they
                   all
                   cry'd
                   alou'd
                   his
                   tongue
                   is
                   too
                   free
                
                 
                   He
                   is
                   not
                   company
                   for
                   such
                   as
                   wee
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Answer
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Mr.
                 Peter
                 Apsley
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THough
                   Marray
                   be
                   ,
                   undoubtedlie
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   countrey's
                   cheifest
                   wit
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   none
                   but
                   those
                   converse
                   with
                   him
                
                 
                   Are
                   held
                   companions
                   fitt
                   :
                
                 
                   Yett
                   I
                   do
                   know
                   som
                   Holland
                   blades
                
                 
                   Shall
                   vie
                   witth
                   him
                   for
                   it
                   ,
                   hey
                   downe
                   ,
                   ho
                   downe
                
                 
                   Hay
                   downe
                   downe
                   derry
                   dery
                   downe
                   !
                
                 
                   Thinke
                   not
                   all
                   praises
                   due
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   some
                   that
                   buff
                   do
                   weare
                
                 
                   Can
                   whore
                   and
                   rore
                   and
                   sweare
                
                 
                   And
                   drink
                   and
                   talke
                   and
                   fight
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   you
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Your
                   Wentworth
                   and
                   your
                   Weston
                
                 
                   Your
                   Stradling
                   and
                   your
                   Tred
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   know
                   they
                   are
                   as
                   joviall
                   boys
                
                 
                   As
                   ever
                   Taverne
                   bred
                
                 
                   And
                   can
                   somtimes
                   like
                   souldiers
                   live
                
                 
                   A
                   weeke
                   without
                   a
                   bedd
                   ,
                   hey
                   doune
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   George
                   Generall
                   of
                   Guenifrieds
                
                 
                   He
                   is
                   a
                   joviall
                   Lad
                   ;
                
                 
                   Though
                   his
                   Heart
                   and
                   Fortunes
                   disagree
                
                 
                   Oft
                   times
                   to
                   make
                   him
                   sad
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   give
                   him
                   but
                   a
                   flout
                   or
                   two
                
                 
                   And
                   strait
                   you
                   'l
                   swear
                   hee
                   s
                   mad
                   :
                   Hey
                   downe
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   There
                   's
                   
                     Sydenham
                     Crofts
                  
                   and
                   Kelligrew
                
                 
                   Must
                   not
                   be
                   left
                   behind
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   old
                   smooth-fac'd
                   Epicure
                
                 
                   They
                   call
                   him
                   
                     Harry
                     Wind
                  
                
                 
                   For
                   if
                   you
                   do
                   discourse
                   with
                   him
                
                 
                   Such
                   company
                   you
                   'l
                   finde
                   :
                   hey
                   downe
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   There
                   's
                   little
                   
                     Geofrey
                     Peeters
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   good
                   as
                   any
                   of
                   those
                
                 
                   If
                   hee
                   'd
                   leave
                   his
                   preventing
                   way
                
                 
                   Of
                   abusing
                   his
                   great
                   nose
                
                 
                   Hee
                   s
                   witt
                   and
                   Poett
                   good
                   enough
                
                 
                   That
                   hee
                   can
                   pawne
                   his
                   cloathes
                   :
                   hey
                   downe
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   There
                   is
                   a
                   joviall
                   Parson
                
                 
                   Who
                   to
                   these
                   men
                   doth
                   preach
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   week
                   days
                   he
                   does
                   learn
                   of
                   them
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   Sundays
                   does
                   them
                   teach
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   books
                   and
                   of
                   good
                   company
                
                 
                   Hee
                   takes
                   his
                   share
                   of
                   each
                   ,
                   hey
                   down
                   ho
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hey
                   down
                   down
                   dery
                   dery
                   down
                   !
                
                 
                   Thinke
                   not
                   all
                   prayses
                   due
                
                 
                   For
                   if
                   he
                   did
                   not
                   weare
                
                 
                   A
                   gowne
                   hee
                   'd
                   roare
                   and
                   sweare
                
                 
                   And
                   drink
                   and
                   talke
                   and
                   fight
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   you
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Bursse
                 of
                 Reformation
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WE
                   wil
                   go
                   no
                   more
                   to
                   the
                   old
                   Exchang
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   no
                   good
                   ware
                   at
                   all
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   bodkins
                   and
                   their
                   thimbles
                   too
                
                 
                   Went
                   long
                   since
                   to
                   Guild-hall
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   we
                   will
                   to
                   the
                   new
                   Exchange
                
                 
                   Where
                   all
                   things
                   are
                   in
                   fashion
                
                 
                   And
                   we
                   will
                   have
                   it
                   hence
                   forth
                   call'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Burse
                   of
                   reformation
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   lads
                   and
                   lasses
                   ,
                   what
                   do
                   you
                   lack
                
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   weare
                   of
                   all
                   prizes
                
                 
                   Here
                   's
                   long
                   &
                   short
                   ;
                   here
                   's
                   wide
                   &
                   straight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   are
                   things
                   of
                   all
                   sizes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Madam
                   ,
                   you
                   may
                   fitt
                   your selfe
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   sorts
                   of
                   good
                   pinns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sirs
                   ,
                   here
                   is
                   jett
                   and
                   here
                   is
                   hayre
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gold
                   and
                   cornelian
                   rings
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   an
                   english
                   conny
                   furr
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rushia
                   hath
                   no
                   such
                   stuff
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   for
                   to
                   keep
                   your
                   fingers
                   warme
                   ,
                
                 
                   Excells
                   your
                   sables
                   muffe
                   .
                
                 
                   come
                   ladds
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Pray
                   you
                   Madam
                   sitt
                   ,
                   I
                   le
                   shew
                   good
                   ware
                
                 
                   For
                   crowding
                   nere
                   fear
                   that
                   ,
                
                 
                   Against
                   a
                   stall
                   or
                   on
                   a
                   stool
                
                 
                   You
                   l
                   nere
                   hurt
                   a
                   crevatt
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Heer
                   's
                   childrens
                   bawbles
                   and
                   mens
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   play
                   with
                   for
                   delight
                   .
                
                 
                   Heer
                   's
                   round-heads
                   when
                   turn'd
                   every
                   way
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   will
                   stand
                   upright
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   ladds
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Heer
                   's
                   dice
                   ,
                   and
                   boxes
                   if
                   you
                   please
                
                 
                   To
                   play
                   at
                   in
                   and
                   inn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Heer
                   's
                   hornes
                   for
                   brows
                   ,
                   &
                   browes
                   for
                   hornes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   never
                   will
                   be
                   seen
                   .
                
                 
                   Heer
                   is
                   a
                   sett
                   of
                   kettle
                   pinns
                
                 
                   With
                   bowle
                   at
                   them
                   to
                   rowle
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   you
                   like
                   such
                   trundling
                   sport
                
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   my
                   ladyes
                   hole
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   ladds
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Heer
                   's
                   shaddow
                   ribbon'd
                   of
                   all
                   sorts
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   various
                   as
                   your
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   heer
                   's
                   a
                   Wind-mill
                   like
                   your selfe
                
                 
                   Will
                   turne
                   with
                   every
                   wind
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   heer
                   's
                   a
                   church
                   of
                   the
                   same
                   stuff
                
                 
                   Cutt
                   out
                   in
                   the
                   new
                   fashion
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hard
                   by
                   's
                   a
                   priest
                   stands
                   twice
                   a
                   day
                
                 
                   Will
                   serve
                   your
                   congregation
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   ladds
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Heer
                   are
                   som
                   presbyterian
                   things
                   ,
                
                 
                   Falne
                   lately
                   out
                   of
                   fashion
                   ,
                
                 
                   ●…ecause
                   we
                   hear
                   that
                   
                     Prester
                     Iohn
                  
                
                 
                   Doth
                   circumcize
                   his
                   nation
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   heer
                   are
                   independant
                   knacks
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   with
                   his
                   spirits
                   humor
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   heer
                   's
                   cheap
                   ware
                   was
                   sequestred
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   a
                   malignant
                   tumor
                   .
                   Come
                   ladds
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Heer
                   patches
                   are
                   of
                   every
                   cut
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   pimples
                   and
                   for
                   scarrs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   's
                   all
                   the
                   wandring
                   planett
                   signes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   som
                   o
                   th'
                   fixed
                   starrs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Already
                   gum'd
                   to
                   make
                   them
                   stick
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   need
                   no
                   other
                   sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   starrs
                   for
                   Lilly
                   for
                   to
                   vow
                
                 
                   To
                   tell
                   your
                   fortunes
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   Come
                   ladds
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   eject
                   Powder
                   in
                   your
                   hayre
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   a
                   pritty
                   puff
                   ;
                
                 
                   Would
                   for
                   clis●…er
                   case
                   serve
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   it
                   fil'd
                   with
                   such
                   stuffe
                   .
                
                 
                   Madam
                   ,
                   here
                   are
                   Pistachie
                   nutts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strengthening
                   O●…ingo
                   roots
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   heea's
                   a
                   preserv'd
                   Apricock
                
                 
                   With
                   the
                   stones
                   pendant
                   too
                   't
                   .
                
                 
                   Com
                   Lads
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Here
                   are
                   Perriwiggs
                   will
                   fit
                   all
                   Hayres
                   ,
                
                 
                   False
                   beards
                   for
                   adisguise
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   can
                   help
                   lasses
                   which
                   are
                   bare
                
                 
                   In
                   all
                   parts
                   ,
                   as
                   their
                   thighs
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   'l
                   engage
                   well
                   ,
                   here
                   you
                   may
                
                 
                   Take
                   up
                   sine
                   Holland
                   Smocks
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   We
                   have
                   all
                   things
                   that
                   women
                   want
                
                 
                   Except
                   Italian
                   Locks
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   Ladds
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Here
                   are
                   hot
                   Boyes
                   have
                   backs
                   like
                   bulls
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   first
                   sight
                   can
                   leap
                   lasles
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bearded
                   Ladds
                   hold
                   out
                   like
                   Goats
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   are
                   some
                   like
                   Asses
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   are
                   Gallants
                   can
                   out-do
                
                 
                   Your
                   Usher
                   or
                   your
                   Page
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   need
                   not
                   go
                   to
                   Ludgate
                   more
                
                 
                   Till
                   threescore
                   yeares
                   of
                   age
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   Ladds
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Madam
                   ,
                   here
                   is
                   a
                   Politicus
                
                 
                   Was
                   Pragmaticus
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   is
                   an
                   Elentichus
                
                 
                   That
                   Fallacies
                   doth
                   prate
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   the
                   Intelligencer
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   See
                   how
                   'bout
                   him
                   they
                   throng
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   Melanchollicus
                   alone
                
                 
                   Walks
                   here
                   to
                   make
                   this
                   song
                   .
                
                 
                   Com
                   Ladds
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   lett
                   's
                   no
                   more
                   to
                   the
                   Old
                   Exchange
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   no
                   good
                   ware
                   at
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Bodkins
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Thimbles
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Went
                   long
                   since
                   to
                   Guild-Hall
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   we
                   will
                   to
                   the
                   New
                   Exchange
                
                 
                   Where
                   all
                   things
                   are
                   in
                   Fashion
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   vve
                   vvill
                   have
                   it
                   henceforth
                   call'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Burse
                   of
                   Reformation
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   Ladds
                   ,
                   &
                   Lasses
                   ,
                   vvhat
                   do
                   you
                   lack
                   ?
                
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   vvare
                   of
                   all
                   prizes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   's
                   long
                   and
                   short
                   ,
                   here
                   's
                   vvide
                   and
                   straight
                   ,
                
                 
                   here
                   are
                   things
                   of
                   all
                   sizes
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Answer
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WE
                   will
                   go
                   no
                   more
                   to
                   the
                   new
                   Exchange
                
                 
                   Their
                   Credit
                   's
                   like
                   to
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Money
                   and
                   their
                   Loyalty
                
                 
                   Is
                   gone
                   to
                   
                     Goldsmith's
                     Hall.
                  
                
                 
                   But
                   we
                   will
                   keep
                   our
                   Old
                   Exchange
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhere
                   wealth
                   is
                   still
                   in
                   Fashion
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gold
                   Chaines
                   and
                   Ruffes
                   shalt
                   beare
                   the
                   Bell
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   your
                   Reformation
                   .
                
                 
                   Look
                   on
                   our
                   VValls
                   and
                   Pillars
                   too
                
                 
                   You
                   'l
                   find
                   us
                   much
                   the
                   sounder
                   :
                
                 
                   Sir
                   
                     Thomas
                     Gresham
                  
                   stands
                   upright
                
                 
                   But
                   Crook-back
                   was
                   your
                   founder
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   There
                   you
                   have
                   poynts
                   and
                   pinns
                   and
                   rings
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   such
                   like
                   toyes
                   as
                   those
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   Patches
                   Gloves
                   and
                   Ribons
                   gay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   O
                   our
                   money
                   goes
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   a
                   Fammily
                   is
                   sunck
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Titles
                   are
                   a
                   fading
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Some
                   Merchant's
                   daughter
                   setts
                   you
                   up
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   great
                   ones
                   lives
                   by
                   trading
                   .
                
                 
                   Look
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Marke
                   the
                   Nobility
                   throughout
                   ,
                
                 
                   Moderne
                   and
                   Antient
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   'l
                   see
                   what
                   power
                   the
                   Citty
                   had
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   much
                   it
                   could
                   do
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   many
                   houses
                   you
                   'l
                   observe
                
                 
                   Of
                   honour
                   true
                   or
                   seeming
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   have
                   received
                   from
                   the
                   Burse
                
                 
                   Creation
                   or
                   redeeming
                   .
                
                 
                   Look
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Our
                   wonted
                   meetings
                   are
                   at
                   twelve
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   all
                   the
                   world
                   approves
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   keep
                   off
                   till
                   candle-time
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   your
                   secret
                   Loves
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   you
                   come
                   flocking
                   in
                   a
                   maine
                
                 
                   Like
                   birds
                   of
                   the
                   same
                   feather
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   beasts
                   repayring
                   to
                   the
                   Arke
                
                 
                   Uncleane
                   and
                   cleane
                   together
                   .
                
                 
                   Look
                   ,
                   &c
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Wee
                   strike
                   a
                   bargaine
                   on
                   the
                   Exchange
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   make
                   it
                   good
                   else
                   where
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   your
                   procedings
                   are
                   alike
                
                 
                   Though
                   not
                   so
                   good
                   I
                   fear
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   your
                   commodities
                   are
                   naught
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   ever
                   you
                   may
                   prize
                   them
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   corners
                   and
                   darke
                   holes
                   are
                   sought
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   better
                   to
                   disguize
                   them
                   ,
                
                 
                   Looke
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   We
                   walke
                   ore
                   cellars
                   richly
                   fill'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   spices
                   of
                   each
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   have
                   a
                   Taverne
                   underneath
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   you
                   'r
                   undermin'd
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   such
                   a
                   building
                   long
                   endure
                
                 
                   All
                   sober
                   men
                   may
                   wonder
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   giddy
                   and
                   light
                   heads
                   prevaile
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   above
                   ground
                   and
                   under
                   .
                
                 
                   Look
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Wee
                   have
                   an
                   Office
                   ,
                   to
                   ensure
                
                 
                   Our
                   shipps
                   and
                   goods
                   at
                   sea
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   tempest
                   ,
                   rock
                   ,
                   or
                   pyrat
                   ,
                   can
                
                 
                   Deprive
                   us
                   of
                   that
                   plea.
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   your
                   Ladies
                   spring
                   a
                   leake
                
                 
                   Or
                   boarded
                   be
                   and
                   taken
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   shall
                   secure
                   your
                   Capitoll
                
                 
                   And
                   save
                   your
                   heads
                   from
                   aking
                   !
                
                 
                   Look
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   wee
                   'l
                   go
                   no
                   more
                   to
                   the
                   new
                   Eexchange
                
                 
                   Their
                   credit
                   's
                   like
                   to
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   money
                   and
                   their
                   loyalty
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   gone
                   to
                   Gold-smiths
                   hall
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   wee
                   will
                   keep
                   our
                   old
                   exchange
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   wealth
                   is
                   still
                   in
                   fashion
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Gold
                   chaines
                   and
                   ruffs
                   shall
                   bear
                   the
                   bell
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   your
                   reformation
                   .
                
                 
                   Look
                   on
                   our
                   walls
                   and
                   pillars
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   'l
                   finde
                   us
                   much
                   the
                   sounder
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     Sir
                     Thomas
                     Gresham
                  
                   stands
                   upright
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Crook-back
                   was
                   your
                   founder
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 S.
                 W.
                 S.
                 and
                 L.
                 P.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Shee
                   that
                   admires
                   her
                   servant's
                   face
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   stature
                   ,
                   limbs
                   ,
                   or
                   haire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Does
                   not
                   conceive
                   the
                   moderne
                   waies
                
                 
                   Of
                   Ladies
                   ,
                   wise
                   and
                   faire
                   .
                
                 
                   Hee
                   's
                   but
                   short
                   ,
                
                 
                   Care
                   not
                   for
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   be
                   tall
                   ones
                   enough
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   his
                   head
                
                 
                   Bee
                   all
                   redd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   his
                   coyne
                   bee
                   so
                   too
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   though
                   his
                   nose
                   turne
                   in
                   and
                   out
                
                 
                   With
                   passage
                   wide
                   and
                   large
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   much
                   unlike
                   a
                   rainy
                   spout
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   humors
                   to
                   discharge
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   his
                   back
                   ,
                
                 
                   Weare
                   a
                   pack
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   a
                   toy
                   among
                   friends
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   by
                   hook
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   by
                   crook
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   may
                   compasse
                   our
                   ends
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   your
                   witt
                   nor
                   language
                   charme
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   takes
                   a
                   femall
                   eare
                
                 
                   A
                   paire
                   of
                   pendants
                   worth
                   a
                   farme
                
                 
                   Are
                   held
                   more
                   welcom
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   abuse
                
                 
                   Your
                   poor
                   muse
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   you
                   write
                   us
                   fine
                   fancies
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   no
                   love
                
                 
                   Can
                   improve
                
                 
                   Without
                   suppers
                   or
                   daunces
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   God
                   dam-mee
                   is
                   a
                   good
                   conceit
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   they
                   who
                   sweare
                   present
                   us
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   that
                   's
                   your
                   only
                   taking
                   baite
                
                 
                   Words
                   nere
                   can
                   circumvent
                   us
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   belongs
                
                 
                   More
                   then
                   songs
                
                 
                   To
                   a
                   necklace
                   or
                   gown
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   your
                   plays
                
                 
                   And
                   essays
                
                 
                   May
                   be
                   had
                   for
                   a
                   crown
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Tytre-Tues
                 ,
                 or
                 A
                 Mock
                 -
                 Songe
              
               
                 to
                 the
                 tune
                 of
                 Chive-Chase
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Mr
                 
                   George
                   Chambers
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   TWo
                   madcaps
                   were
                   commited
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   treason
                   ,
                   as
                   some
                   say
                   ;
                
                 
                   It
                   was
                   the
                   wisdom
                   of
                   the
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Admire
                   it
                   all
                   you
                   may
                   .
                
                 
                   Brave
                   
                     Andrew
                     Windsor
                  
                   was
                   the
                   prince
                
                 
                   
                     George
                     Chambers
                  
                   favorite
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   two
                   bred
                   this
                   unknowne
                   offence
                
                 
                   I
                   wo'd
                   they
                   had
                   bine
                   be
                   —
                
              
               
                 
                   They
                   call
                   themselves
                   the
                   Tytere-tues
                
                 
                   And
                   wore
                   a
                   blew
                   Rib
                   —
                   bin
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   a
                   drie
                   ,
                   would
                   not
                   refuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   drink
                   —
                   O
                   fearefull
                   sinn
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Councell
                   ,
                   which
                   is
                   thought
                   most
                   wise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   sett
                   so
                   long
                   upon
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   they
                   grew
                   wearie
                   ,
                   and
                   did
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   could
                   make
                   nothing
                   on
                   't
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   still
                   ,
                   the
                   common
                   people
                   cri'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   must
                   not
                   be
                   forgot
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   had
                   for
                   smaller
                   matters
                   di'd
                
                 
                   They'd
                   don
                   —
                   wee
                   know
                   not
                   what
                   :
                
                 
                   Hang'd
                   ,
                   drawne
                   ,
                   and
                   quarter'd
                   ,
                   must
                   they
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Law
                   doth
                   sett
                   it
                   downe
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   's
                   punishment
                   for
                   papistrie
                
                 
                   That
                   are
                   of
                   high
                   renowne
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   My
                   Lord
                   of
                   Canterburie's
                   grace
                
                 
                   This
                   treason
                   brought
                   ot
                   light
                
                 
                   El's
                   had
                   it
                   bin
                   a
                   pitious
                   case
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   his
                   power
                   and
                   might
                
                 
                   Had
                   queld
                   their
                   pride
                   which
                   swell'd
                   to
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   the
                   child
                   ungot
                
                 
                   May
                   with
                   him
                   live
                   e'ne
                   till
                   hee
                   die
                
                 
                   As
                   silie
                   sheepe
                   that
                   rott
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   Papist
                   frowne
                   what
                   need
                   wee
                   care
                
                 
                   Hee
                   lives
                   above
                   their
                   reach
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   will
                   his
                   silver
                   Mitre
                   weare
                
                 
                   Though
                   now
                   forgot
                   to
                   preach
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   hee
                   were
                   but
                   hehind
                   mee
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   should
                   this
                   ballad
                   heare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sure
                   he
                   'd
                   revenge
                   with
                   bended
                   bow
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   die
                   like
                   a
                   Deere
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Northern
                 Ballet
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THere
                   dwelt
                   a
                   man
                   in
                   faire
                   Westmerland
                
                 
                   
                     Ionne
                     Armestrong
                  
                   men
                   did
                   him
                   call
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   had
                   nither
                   lands
                   nor
                   rents
                   coming
                   in
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   he
                   kept
                   eight
                   score
                   men
                   in
                   his
                   hall
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   had
                   Horse
                   and
                   Harness
                   for
                   them
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   Goodly
                   Steeds
                   were
                   all
                   milke
                   white
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   the
                   golden
                   bands
                   an
                   about
                   their
                   necks
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   weapons
                   they
                   were
                   all
                   alike
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Newes
                   then
                   was
                   brought
                   unto
                   the
                   King
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   there
                   was
                   sicke
                   a
                   won
                   as
                   hee
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   lived
                   syke
                   a
                   bold
                   out-Law
                
                 
                   And
                   robbed
                   all
                   the
                   north
                   country
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   King
                   he
                   writt
                   an
                   a
                   letter
                   then
                
                 
                   A
                   letter
                   which
                   was
                   large
                   and
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   signed
                   it
                   with
                   his
                   owne
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   promised
                   to
                   doe
                   him
                   no
                   wrong
                   ;
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   this
                   letter
                   came
                   Ionne
                   untill
                
                 
                   His
                   heart
                   it
                   was
                   as
                   blyth
                   as
                   birds
                   on
                   the
                   tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Never
                   was
                   I
                   sent
                   for
                   before
                   any
                   King
                
                 
                   My
                   father
                   ,
                   my
                   Grandfather
                   ,
                   nor
                   none
                   but
                   mee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   if
                   wee
                   goe
                   the
                   King
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   wolud
                   we
                   went
                   most
                   orderly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Every
                   man
                   of
                   you
                   shall
                   have
                   his
                   scarlet
                   cloak
                
                 
                   Laced
                   with
                   silver
                   laces
                   three
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Every
                   won
                   of
                   you
                   shall
                   have
                   his
                   velvett
                   coat
                
                 
                   Laced
                   with
                   sillver
                   lace
                   so
                   white
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   the
                   golden
                   bands
                   an
                   about
                   your
                   neck
                   's
                
                 
                   Black
                   hatts
                   ,
                   white
                   feathers
                   ,
                   all
                   alyke
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   By
                   the
                   morrow
                   morninge
                   at
                   ten
                   of
                   the
                   clock
                
                 
                   Towards
                   Edenburough
                   gon
                   was
                   hee
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   him
                   all
                   his
                   eight
                   score
                   men
                   ,
                
                 
                   Good
                   lord
                   it
                   was
                   a
                   goodly
                   sight
                   for
                   to
                   see
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   When
                   Ionne
                   came
                   befower
                   the
                   King
                
                 
                   He
                   fell
                   downe
                   on
                   his
                   knee
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   pardon
                   my
                   Soveraine
                   Leige
                   ,
                   he
                   said
                
                 
                   O
                   pardon
                   my
                   eight
                   score
                   men
                   and
                   mee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thou
                   shalt
                   have
                   no
                   pardon
                   ,
                   thou
                   traytor
                   strong
                
                 
                   For
                   thy
                   eight
                   score
                   men
                   not
                   thee
                
                 
                   For
                   to
                   morrow
                   morning
                   by
                   ten
                   of
                   the
                   clock
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   thou
                   and
                   them
                   shall
                   hang
                   on
                   the
                   gallow
                   tree
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   Ionne
                   looke'd
                   over
                   his
                   left
                   shoulder
                
                 
                   Good
                   Lord
                   what
                   a
                   grevious
                   look
                   looked
                   hee
                   ;
                
                 
                   Saying
                   asking
                   grace
                   of
                   a
                   graceles
                   face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   there
                   is
                   none
                   for
                   you
                   nor
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   Ionne
                   had
                   a
                   bright
                   sword
                   by
                   his
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   it
                   was
                   made
                   of
                   the
                   mettle
                   so
                   Free
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   had
                   not
                   the
                   king
                   stept
                   his
                   foot
                   aside
                
                 
                   He
                   had
                   smitten
                   his
                   head
                   from
                   his
                   faire
                   bodde
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Saying
                   ,
                   fight
                   on
                   my
                   merry
                   men
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   see
                   that
                   none
                   of
                   you
                   be
                   taine
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   rather
                   then
                   men
                   shall
                   say
                   we
                   were
                   hange'd
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   report
                   how
                   we
                   were
                   slaine
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   god
                   wott
                   faire
                   Eddenburrough
                   rose
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   besett
                   poore
                   Ionne
                   rounde
                
                 
                   That
                   fowerscore
                   and
                   tenn
                   of
                   Ionnes
                   best
                   men
                
                 
                   Lay
                   gasping
                   all
                   upon
                   the
                   ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Then
                   like
                   a
                   mad
                   man
                   Ionne
                   laide
                   about
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   a
                   mad
                   man
                   then
                   fought
                   hee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Untill
                   a
                   falce
                   Scot
                   came
                   Ionne
                   behinde
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   runn
                   him
                   through
                   the
                   faire
                   boddee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Saying
                   ,
                   Fight
                   on
                   my
                   merry
                   men
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   see
                   that
                   none
                   of
                   you
                   be
                   taine
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   will
                   stand
                   by
                   and
                   bleed
                   but
                   a
                   while
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   will
                   I
                   come
                   and
                   fight
                   againe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Newes
                   then
                   was
                   brought
                   to
                   young
                   
                     Ionne
                     Armestrong
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   he
                   stood
                   by
                   his
                   nurses
                   knee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   vowed
                   if
                   er'e
                   he
                   live'd
                   for
                   to
                   be
                   a
                   man
                   ,
                
                 
                   o
                   th'
                   the
                   treacherous
                   Scots
                   reveng'd
                   hee'dbe
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 
                   By
                   Mr.
                
                 Richard
                 Barnslay
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FAme
                   told
                   mee
                   ,
                   Lady
                   ,
                   your
                   fayr
                   hands
                   would
                   make
                
                 
                   A
                   willow
                   garland
                   for
                   me
                   ;
                   O
                   forsake
                
                 
                   That
                   dismall
                   office
                   ,
                   it
                   do's
                   not
                   agree
                
                 
                   With
                   those
                   sweet
                   looks
                   ,
                   that
                   fair
                   aspect
                   in
                   thee
                   .
                
                 
                   Fayrest
                   of
                   women
                   ,
                   canst
                   thou
                   bee
                   my
                   friend
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   thine
                   owne
                   hand
                   hasten
                   on
                   my
                   end
                   ?
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   must
                   loose
                   thee
                   ,
                   let
                   mee
                   loose
                   thee
                   so
                
                 
                   As
                   not
                   to
                   bee
                   my
                   utter
                   overthrow
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Time
                   lessons
                   sorrow
                   ,
                   we
                   endure
                   our
                   crosses
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   happier
                   fortunes
                   may
                   redeem
                   our
                   losses
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   I
                   wear
                   one
                   branch
                   of
                   that
                   sad
                   tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   shall
                   remember
                   it
                   eternally
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   prize
                   I
                   lost
                   ;
                   and
                   then
                   in
                   some
                   sad
                   grove
                
                 
                   Of
                   discontent
                   ,
                   where
                   fearfull
                   ghosts
                   doe
                   rove
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   forsaken
                   lovers
                   ,
                   there
                   I
                   'le
                   bee
                
                 
                   And
                   only
                   they
                   shall
                   keep
                   mee
                   company
                   .
                
                 
                   Untill
                   these
                   eyes
                   ,
                   in
                   some
                   unpollish'd
                   cave
                
                 
                   Running
                   like
                   fountaines
                   ,
                   weare
                   mee
                   forth
                   a
                   grave
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   I
                   'le
                   dye
                   ,
                   yet
                   first
                   I
                   will
                   curse
                   thee
                
                 
                   Damned
                   ,
                   unlucky
                   ,
                   fruitlesse
                   willow-tree
                
                 
                   Still
                   mayest
                   thou
                   withered
                   stand
                   ,
                   mayst
                   nev'r
                   bee
                   seen
                
                 
                   Clad
                   in
                   sweet
                   summers
                   pride
                   ,
                   may'st
                   nev'r
                   grow
                   greene
                   ;
                
                 
                   May
                   every
                   bryer
                   ,
                   and
                   every
                   bramble
                   bee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   a
                   full
                   Cedar
                   ,
                   or
                   huge
                   Oake
                   to
                   thee
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   some
                   cankerd
                   axe
                   shall
                   hewe
                   thee
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Come
                   never
                   neerer
                   citty
                   ,
                   house
                   or
                   towne
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   bee
                   thou
                   burnd
                   ,
                   yet
                   never
                   mayst
                   thou
                   bee
                
                 
                   A
                   christmas
                   block
                   for
                   joviall
                   company
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   bee
                   thou
                   placed
                   neare
                   some
                   ugly
                   ●…itch
                
                 
                   To
                   burne
                   some
                   murderer
                   ,
                   or
                   damned
                   witch
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Cast
                   away
                   Willow
                   ,
                   Lady
                   ,
                   then
                   ,
                   and
                   th●…se
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dog-tree
                   ,
                   or
                   hemlock
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   mornfull
                   yewes
                
                 
                   Torne
                   from
                   some
                   church-yard
                   side
                   ,
                   the
                   cursed
                   thorne
                
                 
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   the
                   weed
                   ,
                   which
                   still
                   before
                   it
                   's
                   borne
                
                 
                   Nine
                   times
                   the
                   devill
                   sees
                   ;
                   if
                   you
                   command
                
                 
                   I
                   le
                   weare
                   them
                   all
                   ,
                   compos'd
                   by
                   your
                   fayre
                   hand
                
                 
                   So
                   that
                   you
                   'l
                   grant
                   mee
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   may
                   goe
                   free
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   sad
                   branches
                   of
                   the
                   willowe
                   tree
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Ad
                 
                   Johannuelem
                   Leporem
                
                 ,
                 Lepidissimum
                 ,
                 Carmen
                 Heroicum
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Sing
                   the
                   furious
                   battails
                   of
                   the
                   Sphaeres
                
                 
                   Acted
                   in
                   eight
                   and
                   twenty
                   fathom
                   deep
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   that
                   a
                   time
                   ,
                   reckon
                   so
                   many
                   yeares
                
                 
                   You
                   'l
                   find
                   b
                   Endimion
                   fell
                   fast
                   asleep
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   now
                   assist
                   me
                   O
                   ye
                   c
                   Musiques
                   nine
                
                 
                   That
                   tell
                   the
                   Orbs
                   in
                   order
                   as
                   they
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   dread
                   d
                   Atlas
                   with
                   thine
                   eyes
                   so
                   fine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Smile
                   on
                   me
                   now
                   that
                   first
                   begin
                   to
                   write
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   e
                   Pompey
                   that
                   once
                   was
                   Tapster
                   of
                   New-Inne
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fought
                   with
                   f
                   Caesar
                   on
                   th'
                   g
                   AEmathian
                   plaines
                   ,
                
                 
                   First
                   with
                   his
                   dreadfull
                   g
                   Myrmidons
                   came
                   in
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   them
                   blood
                   in
                   the
                   Hepatick
                   veines
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   then
                   an
                   Antelope
                   in
                   Sable
                   blew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Clad
                   like
                   the
                   h
                   Prince
                   of
                   Aurange
                   in
                   his
                   Cloke
                   ,
                
                 
                   Studded
                   with
                   Satyres
                   ,
                   on
                   his
                   Army
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   presently
                   i
                   Pheanders
                   Army
                   broke
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   k
                   Philip
                   ,
                   for
                   hardiness
                   sirnamed
                   Chub
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Beauty
                   equall
                   to
                   fork-bearing
                   l
                   Bacchus
                   ,
                
                 
                   Made
                   such
                   a
                   thrust
                   at
                   m
                   Phaebe
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Club
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   made
                   the
                   n
                   Parthians
                   cry
                   ,
                   she
                   will
                   be-cack
                   us
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   VVhich
                   heard
                   ,
                   the
                   Delphick
                   Oracle
                   drew
                   nigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   wipe
                   faire
                   Phaebe
                   ,
                   if
                   ought
                   were
                   amiss
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   o
                   Heliotrope
                   ,
                   a
                   little
                   crafty
                   spye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cry'd
                   clouts
                   were
                   needless
                   ,
                   for
                   she
                   did
                   but
                   piss
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   subtle
                   Gloworme
                   lying
                   in
                   a
                   hedge
                
                 
                   And
                   heard
                   the
                   story
                   of
                   sweet
                   cheek't
                   p
                   Appollo
                   ,
                
                 
                   Snarch'd
                   from
                   bright
                   q
                   Styropes
                   his
                   Antick
                   sledge
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   butter'd
                   Flownders
                   cry'd
                   out
                   ,
                   r
                   Holla
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Holla
                   you
                   pamper'd
                   Jades
                   ,
                   quoth
                   he
                   ,
                   look
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mounting
                   straight
                   upon
                   a
                   Lobsters
                   thigh
                
                 
                   An
                   English
                   man
                   inflam'd
                   with
                   s
                   double
                   Beere
                   ,
                
                 
                   Swore
                   nev'r
                   to
                   t
                   drink
                   to
                   Man
                   ,
                   a
                   Woman
                   by
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   By
                   this
                   time
                   grew
                   the
                   conflict
                   to
                   be
                   u
                   hot
                   ,
                
                 
                   Boots
                   against
                   boots
                   'gainst
                   x
                   Sandals
                   ,
                   Sandals
                   ,
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Many
                   poor
                   thirsty
                   men
                   went
                   to
                   the
                   pot
                   ,
                
                 
                   Feathers
                   lopt
                   off
                   ,
                   spurrs
                   every
                   where
                   did
                   lie
                   .
                   
                     Caetera
                     de●…iderantur
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Bagnall's
                 Ballet
                 ,
                 supplied
                 of
                 what
                 was
                 left
                 out
                 in
                 
                   Musarum
                   Deliciae
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Ballet
                   ,
                   a
                   ballet
                   !
                   let
                   every
                   Poet
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   ballett
                   make
                   with
                   speed
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   that
                   has
                   wit
                   ,
                   now
                   let
                   him
                   shew
                   it
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   never
                   was
                   greater
                   need
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   that
                   never
                   made
                   ballett
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Will
                   make
                   one
                   now
                   ,
                   though
                   I
                   never
                   make
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Oh
                     Women
                     ,
                     monstrous
                     women
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     What
                     do
                     you
                     meane
                     to
                     doe
                     !
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   It
                   is
                   their
                   pride
                   and
                   strange
                   attire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   binds
                   me
                   to
                   this
                   taske
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   King
                   ,
                   and
                   Court
                   ,
                   did
                   much
                   admire
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   the
                   last
                   Christmas
                   maske
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   by
                   your
                   entertainment
                   then
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   should
                   have
                   smal
                   cause
                   to
                   come
                   there
                   agen
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   Women
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   You
                   cannot
                   bee
                   contented
                   to
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   did
                   the
                   women
                   of
                   old
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   are
                   all
                   for
                   pride
                   and
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   they
                   were
                   for
                   weather
                   and
                   cold
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     O
                     Women
                     ,
                     women
                  
                   !
                   fie
                   ,
                   fie
                   ,
                   fie
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   wonder
                   you
                   are
                   not
                   ashamed
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Women
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Where
                   is
                   the
                   decency
                   becom
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   your
                   fore-mothers
                   had
                   ?
                
                 
                   With
                   Gowns
                   of
                   Cloth
                   ,
                   and
                   Capps
                   of
                   Thrum
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   went
                   full
                   meanly
                   cladd
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   must
                   jett
                   it
                   in
                   silkes
                   and
                   gold
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your
                   pride
                   ,
                   though
                   in
                   winter
                   ,
                   is
                   never
                   a
                   cold
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Women
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Your
                   faces
                   trick'd
                   and
                   painted
                   bee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   breasts
                   all
                   open
                   bare
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   farr
                   that
                   a
                   man
                   may
                   almost
                   see
                
                 
                   Unto
                   your
                   Lady
                   ware
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   church
                   ,
                   to
                   tell
                   you
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Men
                   cannot
                   serve
                   God
                   for
                   looking
                   on
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   Women
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   at
                   the
                   Devills
                   shopps
                   you
                   buy
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   dresse
                   of
                   powdered
                   hayre
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   which
                   your
                   feathers
                   flaunt
                   and
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   'de
                   wish
                   you
                   have
                   a
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   Lucifer's
                   selfe
                   who
                   is
                   not
                   prouder
                
                 
                   Do
                   one
                   day
                   dresse
                   up
                   your
                   haire
                   with
                   a
                   powder
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Women
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   And
                   many
                   thereare
                   of
                   those
                   that
                   go
                
                 
                   Attyr'd
                   from
                   head
                   to
                   heele
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   them
                   from
                   men
                   you
                   cannot
                   know
                
                 
                   Unlesse
                   you
                   do
                   them
                   feele
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   oh
                   for
                   shame
                   though
                   they
                   have
                   none
                   ,
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   better
                   believe
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   them
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   Women
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Both
                   round
                   and
                   short
                   they
                   cut
                   their
                   hayre
                
                 
                   Whose
                   length
                   should
                   women
                   grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Loose
                   like
                   themselves
                   ,
                   their
                   hatts
                   they
                   weare
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   they
                   come
                   in
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   courtshipp
                   and
                   complements
                   must
                   bee
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   do
                   it
                   like
                   men
                   with
                   cappe
                   and
                   knee
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Women
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   They
                   at
                   their
                   sides
                   against
                   our
                   laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   little
                   punyards
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   surely
                   is
                   ,
                   (
                   I
                   thinke
                   )
                   because
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   love
                   mens
                   weapons
                   so
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   it
                   is
                   they
                   'le
                   stobb
                   all
                   men
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   do
                   refuse
                   to
                   stabb
                   them
                   agen
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Women
                   ,
                   &c
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Doublets
                   like
                   to
                   men
                   they
                   weare
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   they
                   ment
                   to
                   flout
                   us
                   ,
                
                 
                   Trust
                   round
                   with
                   poynts
                   and
                   ribbons
                   fayre
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   pray
                   let
                   ts
                   look
                   about
                   us
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   since
                   the
                   doublett
                   so
                   well
                   doth
                   fitt
                   'um
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   will
                   have
                   the
                   breeches
                   ;
                   and
                   if
                   they
                   can
                   get
                   '
                   um
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Women
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   do
                   they
                   care
                   what
                   a
                   wise
                   man
                   saith
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   preachers
                   in
                   their
                   defame
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   jeer
                   and
                   hold
                   him
                   an
                   asse
                   ;
                   but
                   I
                   faith
                
                 
                   They'd
                   blush
                   if
                   they
                   had
                   any
                   shame
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   citty
                   and
                   countrey
                   do
                   both
                   deride
                   'um
                
                 
                   And
                   our
                   King
                   ,
                   God
                   blesse
                   him
                   ,
                   cannot
                   abide
                   '
                   um
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Women
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   mask
                   was
                   at
                   the
                   court
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   King
                   to
                   be
                   showne
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   got
                   upon
                   seats
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   sport
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   soon
                   they
                   were
                   pull'd
                   down
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   many
                   were
                   thrust
                   out
                   of
                   dores
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   coats
                   well
                   cudgel'd
                   ,
                   &
                   they
                   cal'd
                   whores
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     O
                     King
                     ,
                     Relligious
                     King
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Godsave
                     thy
                     Majestie
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   so
                   with
                   prayers
                   to
                   God
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   grant
                   his
                   highnesse
                   peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wee
                   hope
                   we
                   shall
                   finde
                   remedie
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   this
                   mischiefe
                   cease
                   :
                
                 
                   Since
                   he
                   in
                   Court
                   has
                   tane
                   so
                   good
                   order
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   citty
                   leave
                   to
                   the
                   Maior
                   and
                   Recorder
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     O
                     King
                     ,
                     Relligious
                     King
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     God
                     blesse
                     thy
                     majestie
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   women
                   all
                   whom
                   this
                   concerns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   you
                   offended
                   bee
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   in
                   foule
                   and
                   rayling
                   tearms
                
                 
                   Do
                   swagger
                   and
                   scold
                   at
                   mee
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   tell
                   you
                   ,
                   if
                   you
                   mend
                   not
                   your
                   waies
                
                 
                   The
                   devil
                   will
                   fetch
                   you
                   all
                   ,
                   one
                   of
                   these
                   days
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Oh
                     Women
                     monstrous
                     Women
                  
                   !
                
                 
                   
                     What
                     do
                     you
                     mean
                     to
                     do
                     ?
                  
                
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Mr.
                   Smith
                
                 ,
                 to
                 Sir
                 
                   John
                   Mennis
                
                 ,
                 upon
                 the
                 surrender
                 of
                 
                   Conway
                   Castle
                
              
               
                 by
                 the
                 Ar
                 ,
                 BY.
                 
              
               
                 
                   ANd
                   how
                   ?
                   and
                   how
                   ?
                   hast
                   thou
                   cry'd
                   quittance
                
                 
                   With
                   Mountaine
                   ,
                   Bishop
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Brittaines
                
                 
                   Who
                   after
                   all
                   his
                   changes
                   ,
                   had
                
                 
                   Yet
                   one
                   trick
                   more
                   ,
                   to
                   make
                   John
                   mad
                   ?
                
                 
                   Hadst
                   thou
                   ,
                   for
                   this
                   ,
                   charge
                   of
                   the
                   Keyes
                
                 
                   Old
                   as
                   the
                   Castle
                   ?
                   and
                   the
                   payes
                
                 
                   Of
                   Men
                   unborne
                   ?
                   that
                   never
                   took
                
                 
                   A
                   name
                   ,
                   but
                   from
                   thy
                   Muster-Book
                   ?
                
                 
                   Hast
                   thou
                   been
                   honour'd
                   with
                   the
                   knee
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   Time-aged-Porter
                   ?
                   Hee
                
                 
                   Who
                   after
                   reverence
                   ,
                   humbly
                   sate
                
                 
                   Below
                   the
                   Salt
                   ,
                   and
                   munch'd
                   his
                   Sprat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   all
                   this
                   to
                   be
                   vex't
                
                 
                   Past
                   sufferance
                   ,
                   by
                   a
                   Man
                   o'
                   th
                   '
                   Text
                   !
                
                 
                   Well!
                   now
                   thou'
                   rt
                   come
                   in
                   sight
                   of
                   Pauls
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hast
                   thou
                   compounded
                   for
                   thy
                   Coales
                
                 
                   And
                   swallowed
                   glib
                   in
                   hope
                   to
                   thrive
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Covenant
                   ,
                   and
                   Oath
                   Negative
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   hand
                   lift
                   up
                   ,
                   like
                   those
                   that
                   are
                
                 
                   Indicted
                   for
                   less
                   crimes
                   at
                   Barre
                   ?
                
                 
                   Beleeve
                   me
                   ,
                   friend
                   ,
                   it
                   is
                   a
                   Burden
                
                 
                   Worse
                   then
                   a
                   close-stoole
                   with
                   a
                   Turd
                   in
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   if
                   from
                   Brittish
                   rocks
                   th'
                   hast
                   brought
                
                 
                   A
                   heard
                   of
                   Goats
                   ,
                   or
                   Runts
                   ,
                   or
                   ought
                
                 
                   That
                   Country
                   yeilds
                   ;
                   Flannel
                   ,
                   Carnoggins
                   ,
                
                 
                   Store
                   of
                   Me●…eglin
                   in
                   thy
                   waggons
                   ;
                
                 
                   Less
                   needst
                   thou
                   dwindle
                   to
                   appeare
                   Man
                
                 
                   At
                   Goldsmiths-Hall
                   before
                   the
                   Chaire-man
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   th'
                   ast
                   plundered
                   Pedlars-pack
                
                 
                   And
                   truss'd
                   it
                   on
                   thy
                   knightly
                   back
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rich
                   in
                   Box-whistles
                   ,
                   combs
                   in
                   cases
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tape
                   white
                   and
                   blue
                   ,
                   points
                   ,
                   inkle
                   ,
                   laces
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   may
                   satisfye
                   those
                   hungry
                   Kings
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   'l
                   hang
                   ●…ee
                   else
                   in
                   thine
                   own
                   strings
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   now
                   I
                   call
                   to
                   mind
                   the
                   tale
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   mounted
                   in
                   thy
                   nights
                   of
                   ale
                
                 
                   Thou
                   rod'st
                   home
                   duely
                   to
                   thy
                   Den
                
                 
                   On
                   back
                   of
                   resty
                   Cittizen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   pressing
                   as
                   the
                   cattle
                   grew
                
                 
                   Weary
                   ,
                   at
                   every
                   stage
                   ,
                   a
                   new
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   thorough-pac'd
                   ,
                   and
                   sure
                   of
                   foot
                
                 
                   Some
                   tripping
                   ,
                   with
                   string-halt
                   to
                   boot
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   't
                   is
                   their
                   time
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                   art
                   ore
                   -
                
                 
                   Ridden
                   by
                   them
                   ,
                   thou
                   roadst
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   have
                   I
                   seen
                   the
                   flyes
                   in
                   Summer
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yellow
                   as
                   was
                   the
                   neighbouring
                   scummer
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   shambling
                   thighs
                   ,
                   each
                   other
                   back
                
                 
                   By
                   turns
                   ,
                   and
                   traverse
                   o're
                   the
                   rack
                   .
                
                 
                   Ah!
                   worthy
                   friend
                   ,
                   it
                   makes
                   me
                   mad
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   count
                   the
                   dayes
                   ,
                   that
                   we
                   have
                   had
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   we
                   might
                   freely
                   meet
                   and
                   drink
                
                 
                   And
                   each
                   man
                   speak
                   what
                   he
                   did
                   think
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   every
                   step
                   we
                   doubt
                   ,
                   and
                   word
                
                 
                   As
                   men
                   to
                   passe
                   some
                   unknown
                   for'd
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   Patridges
                   devide
                   their
                   way
                
                 
                   When
                   stoop'd
                   at
                   by
                   the
                   Birds
                   of
                   prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dare
                   not
                   from
                   their
                   coverts
                   peep
                
                 
                   Till
                   night's
                   come
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   's
                   asleep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   from
                   their
                   severall
                   brakes
                   they
                   hast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   call
                   together
                   to
                   repast
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   frighted
                   by
                   these
                   buzzards
                   ,
                   flye
                
                 
                   Our
                   scattered
                   friends
                   ,
                   and
                   sculking
                   lye
                
                 
                   Till
                   cover'd
                   in
                   the
                   night
                   ,
                   they
                   chant
                
                 
                   And
                   call
                   each
                   other
                   to
                   the
                   hant
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Some
                   trusty
                   Taverne
                   ,
                   where
                   in
                   bowles
                
                 
                   They
                   drown
                   their
                   feares
                   ,
                   &
                   chirp
                   pooresouls
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   sad
                   plight
                   are
                   we
                   in
                   ?
                   what
                   pickles
                   ?
                
                 
                   That
                   we
                   must
                   drink
                   in
                   conventicles
                   ?
                
                 
                   Search
                   all
                   the
                   Centuries
                   ,
                   there
                   's
                   none
                
                 
                   Like
                   this
                   fell
                   Persecution
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   Time
                   sorts
                   ,
                   do
                   but
                   but
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   noon
                   I
                   'le
                   meet
                   thee
                   ,
                   here
                   's
                   my
                   hand
                   .
                
                 
                   I.
                   S.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Dated
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   house
                   of
                   Knight
                   ,
                   in
                   Nympton-Regis
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   one
                   drinks
                   ,
                   and
                   another
                   pledges
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   meane
                   at
                   meales
                   ,
                   the
                   day
                   is
                   Jack
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   15
                   of
                   the
                   month
                   that
                   's
                   black
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forty
                   eight
                   yeares
                   ,
                   and
                   sixteen
                   hundred
                
                 
                   Since
                   that
                   of
                   Grace
                   ,
                   away
                   are
                   squandred
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   since
                   Parliament
                   begon
                
                 
                   (
                   I
                   hope
                   you
                   'l
                   not
                   forget
                   that
                   Iohn
                   )
                
                 
                   Nothing
                   remaines
                   ,
                   but
                   that
                   I
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   Good
                   morrow
                   ;
                   that
                   's
                   the
                   time
                   o'
                   th
                   day
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 An
                 answer
                 to
                 a
                 Letter
                 from
                 Sr.
                 
                   John
                   Mennis
                
                 ,
                 wherein
                 he
                 ●…eeres
                 him
                 for
                 falling
                 so
                 quickly
                 to
                 the
                 use
                 of
                 the
                 Directory
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FRiend
                   ,
                   thou
                   dost
                   lash
                   me
                   with
                   a
                   story
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   long
                   one
                   too
                   ,
                   of
                   Directory
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   thou
                   alone
                   deserves
                   the
                   Birch
                
                 
                   That
                   broughtst
                   the
                   bondage
                   on
                   the
                   Church
                   .
                
                 
                   Didst
                   thou
                   not
                   treat
                   for
                   Bristow
                   Citty
                
                 
                   And
                   yeld
                   it
                   up
                   ?
                   the
                   more
                   's
                   the
                   pitty
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   saw'st
                   thou
                   not
                   ,
                   how
                   right
                   or
                   wrong
                
                 
                   The
                   common
                   prayer-book
                   went
                   along
                   ?
                
                 
                   Didst
                   thou
                   not
                   scourse
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   inchanted
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Articles
                   
                     Sir
                     Thomas
                  
                   granted
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   barter
                   ,
                   as
                   an
                   Author
                   saith
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Articles
                   o'
                   th'
                   Christian
                   faith
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Directory
                   jos●…les
                
                 
                   Christ
                   out
                   o'
                   th'
                   Church
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Apostles
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   tears
                   down
                   the
                   commnion-rayles
                
                 
                   That
                   Men
                   may
                   take
                   it
                   on
                   their
                   tayles
                   .
                
                 
                   Imagine
                   freind
                   ,
                   Bochus
                   the
                   King
                   ,
                
                 
                   Engraven
                   on
                   Sylla's
                   Signet
                   ring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Delivering
                   up
                   into
                   his
                   hands
                
                 
                   Fugurth
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   him
                   all
                   his
                   Lands
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Whom
                   Sylla
                   tooke
                   and
                   sent
                   to
                   Rome
                
                 
                   There
                   to
                   abide
                   the
                   Senate's
                   doome
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   the
                   same
                   posture
                   ,
                   I
                   suppose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Iohn
                   standing
                   in
                   's
                   doublet
                   and
                   hose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Delivering
                   up
                   ,
                   amidst
                   the
                   throng
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   common-prayer
                   and
                   wisedom's
                   song
                
                 
                   To
                   hands
                   of
                   Fairfax
                   to
                   be
                   sent
                
                 
                   A
                   sacrifice
                   to
                   the
                   Parliament
                   :
                
                 
                   Thou
                   litle
                   thoughtst
                   what
                   geare
                   began
                
                 
                   Wrap't
                   in
                   that
                   Treaty
                   ,
                   
                     Bus●…
                     Iohn
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   lurk'd
                   the
                   fire
                   ,
                   that
                   turn'd
                   to
                   cinder
                
                 
                   The
                   Church
                   ;
                   her
                   ornaments
                   to
                   tinder
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   bound
                   up
                   in
                   that
                   Treaty
                   lyes
                
                 
                   The
                   fate
                   of
                   all
                   our
                   Christmas
                   pyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   holy-dayes
                   there
                   went
                   to
                   wrack
                
                 
                   Our
                   Wakes
                   were
                   layd
                   upon
                   their
                   back
                   ;
                
                 
                   Our
                   Gossips
                   spoones
                   away
                   were
                   lurch'd
                
                 
                   Our
                   feasts
                   and
                   fees
                   for
                   woemen
                   church'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   this
                   and
                   more
                   ascribe
                   we
                   might
                
                 
                   To
                   thee
                   at
                   Bristow
                   ,
                   wretched
                   knight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   thou
                   upbraidst
                   ,
                   and
                   raylst
                   in
                   rime
                
                 
                   On
                   me
                   ,
                   for
                   that
                   ,
                   which
                   was
                   thy
                   crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   froward
                   Children
                   in
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amid
                   '
                   their
                   sports
                   some
                   shrewd
                   turne
                   donne
                
                 
                   The
                   faulty
                   youth
                   begins
                   to
                   prate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   layes
                   it
                   on
                   his
                   harmlesse
                   mate
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Dated
                
                 
                   From
                   Nympton
                   where
                   the
                   Cyder
                   smiles
                
                 
                   And
                   Iames
                   has
                   horse
                   as
                   lame
                   as
                   Gyles
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   fourth
                   of
                   May
                   ;
                   and
                   dost
                   thou
                   heare
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   as
                   I
                   take
                   it
                   ,
                   the
                   eighth
                   yeare
                
                 
                   Since
                   Portugall
                   by
                   
                     Duke
                     Braganza
                  
                
                 
                   Was
                   cut
                   from
                   Spaine
                   without
                   a
                   hand-saw
                   .
                
              
               
                 I.
                 S.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Mr.
                 Smith's
                 taking
                 a
                 Purge
                 .
              
               
                 
                   IN
                   morne
                   when
                   Phoebus
                   peep
                   't
                   through
                   crevis
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bold
                   as
                   our
                   Brittish
                   Guy
                   or
                   Bevis
                
                 
                   I
                   powder
                   took
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   his
                   beams
                
                 
                   Befreinded
                   ,
                   made
                   a
                   draught
                   for
                   Ieames
                   .
                
                 
                   Long
                   had
                   it
                   not
                   in
                   stomack
                   been
                
                 
                   But
                   from
                   each
                   part
                   ,
                   came
                   powd●…ing
                   in
                
                 
                   Of
                   uncouth
                   gear
                   such
                   pregnant
                   store
                
                 
                   That
                   gutt
                   'gan
                   grumble
                   ,
                   nock
                   runne
                   ore
                   .
                
                 
                   Have
                   yee
                   beheld
                   with
                   eager
                   haste
                
                 
                   The
                   trewant
                   Citts
                   when
                   scene
                   is
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   As
                   if
                   they
                   meant
                   their
                   ribs
                   to
                   burst
                
                 
                   While
                   each
                   beares
                   up
                   to
                   get
                   our
                   first
                   )
                
                 
                   Cloy
                   up
                   the
                   doore
                   ,
                   till
                   passage
                   small
                
                 
                   Into
                   one
                   body
                   rammes
                   'em
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   in
                   steed
                   of
                   men
                   and
                   witt
                
                 
                   Delivers
                   up
                   a
                   lumpe
                   of
                   citt
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   no
                   lesse
                   furie
                   in
                   a
                   throng
                
                 
                   Away
                   these
                   tachie
                   humors
                   flung
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   downwards
                   in
                   a
                   rage
                   they
                   drew
                
                 
                   To
                   ramble
                   ,
                   and
                   bid
                   nock
                   adieu
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   they
                   came
                   to
                   portall
                   nastie
                
                 
                   Bumme
                   was
                   so
                   straite
                   ,
                   and
                   they
                   so
                   hastie
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   many
                   a
                   worthy
                   pellett
                   must
                
                 
                   Into
                   one
                   Booming
                   shott
                   bee
                   thrust
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   rumbling
                   noyse
                   the
                   mastive
                   growl●…s
                
                 
                   The
                   f●…ighted
                   mice
                   forsake
                   their
                   holes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Souldiers
                   to
                   my
                   window
                   come
                
                 
                   Invited
                   thither
                   by
                   my
                   drum
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tire'd
                   with
                   this
                   hideous
                   coyle
                   behinde
                
                 
                   Nocke
                   layd
                   a
                   b●…ut
                   him
                   hard
                   for
                   winde
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hee
                   chaf'd
                   ,
                   and
                   fom'd
                   ,
                   as
                   buck
                   embo'st
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   painted
                   like
                   a
                   ●…oad
                   that
                   's
                   tost
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   he
                   gaind
                   a
                   litle
                   tyme
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cleard
                   his
                   Organ
                   from
                   the
                   slime
                   ;
                
                 
                   Palewas
                   his
                   look
                   ,
                   (
                   for
                   to
                   be
                   blunt
                   )
                   ,
                
                 
                   Arse
                   could
                   not
                   sett
                   a
                   good
                   face
                   on
                   't
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   yet
                   hee
                   strove
                   with
                   visage
                   wan
                
                 
                   To
                   vent
                   himselfe
                   ;
                   and
                   thus
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   dismall
                   Dose
                   !
                   oh
                   cursed
                   geere
                   !
                
                 
                   Will
                   all
                   thy
                   body
                   runne
                   out
                   here
                   ?
                
                 
                   Will
                   vaynes
                   ,
                   and
                   sinnews
                   ,
                   flesh
                   ,
                   and
                   bone
                
                 
                   Be
                   gadding
                   ,
                   and
                   leave
                   nock
                   alone
                   ?
                
                 
                   Is
                   it
                   decreed
                   ,
                   oh
                   crewell
                   fates
                   !
                
                 
                   So
                   Mindus
                   at
                   her
                   citty
                   gates
                
                 
                   As
                   was
                   suspected
                   there
                   about
                
                 
                   Some
                   time
                   or
                   other
                   might
                   runne
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Divell
                   sure
                   bak●…t
                   ,
                   and
                   stale
                
                 
                   Was
                   grated
                   in
                   my
                   posset-ale
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   't
                   was
                   powder
                   of
                   the
                   bones
                
                 
                   Of
                   some
                   foote
                   souldier
                   dead
                   for
                   the
                   nonce
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   the
                   way
                   he
                   travailes
                   North
                
                 
                   Through
                   stomack
                   ,
                   belly
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   forth
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   what
                   he
                   seizes
                   in
                   each
                   towne
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   take's
                   it
                   with
                   him
                   as
                   his
                   owne
                   ;
                
                 
                   Well
                   ,
                   what
                   so
                   ere
                   thou
                   wer
                   't
                   ,
                   be
                   sure
                
                 
                   Thy
                   vengeance
                   '
                   I
                   le
                   no
                   more
                   indure
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   shall
                   the
                   head
                   or
                   stomack
                   put
                
                 
                   More
                   then
                   is
                   fitting
                   into
                   gutt
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   could
                   not
                   nostrells
                   ,
                   eyes
                   ,
                   or
                   eare
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   milde
                   expences
                   vent
                   you
                   there
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   vomitt
                   ,
                   by
                   a
                   neerer
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Discharge
                   what
                   in
                   the
                   stomak
                   lay
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   i'
                   st
                   not
                   justice
                   they
                   that
                   pas'd
                
                 
                   The
                   pleasure
                   ,
                   should
                   the
                   bitter
                   taste
                   ?
                
                 
                   Can
                   you
                   accuse
                   mee
                   ?
                   ever
                   came
                
                 
                   Ought
                   in
                   by
                   me
                   did
                   body
                   blame
                   ?
                
                 
                   Unlesse
                   your
                   keeping
                   ope
                   my
                   doore
                
                 
                   Drew
                   wind
                   ,
                   to
                   make
                   the
                   fabrick
                   roare
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   was
                   contented
                   once
                   a
                   day
                
                 
                   While
                   you
                   were
                   temperate
                   ,
                   to
                   obay
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   he
                   is
                   cur'st
                   that
                   's
                   forc't
                   to
                   stand
                
                 
                   All
                   the
                   day
                   long
                   with
                   hose
                   in
                   hand
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   the
                   spincter
                   muscle
                   put
                
                 
                   At
                   every
                   turne
                   to
                   ope
                   and
                   shut
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   there
                   to
                   stand
                   ,
                   and
                   notice
                   take
                
                 
                   Who
                   pass'd
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   whose
                   sake
                   .
                
                 
                   Therefore
                   bee
                   warn'd
                   keepe
                   better
                   dyet
                
                 
                   That
                   all
                   of
                   us
                   may
                   live
                   at
                   quiett
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Or
                   I
                   le
                   sto●…p
                   up
                   the
                   abuse'd
                   course
                
                 
                   And
                   send
                   up
                   fumes
                   will
                   make
                   you
                   worse
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   (
                   as
                   Mayerne
                   doth
                   )
                   they
                   say
                
                 
                   Divert
                   the
                   vent
                   another
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   spight
                   of
                   physick
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   word
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'le
                   make
                   your
                   pal●…e
                   tast
                   a
                   tourd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   you
                   belch
                   I
                   'le
                   turne
                   the
                   sent
                
                 
                   To
                   perfect
                   smell
                   of
                   fundament
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Miller
                 and
                 the
                 King's
                 Daughter
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 
                   Mr.
                   Smith
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   There
                   were
                   two
                   Sisters
                   they
                   went
                   a
                   playing
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     a
                     hie
                     downe
                     ,
                     downe
                     ,
                     a
                     downe-a
                     -
                  
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   their
                   fathers
                   ships
                   come
                   sayling
                   in
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     a
                     hy
                     downe
                     ,
                     downe
                     ,
                     a
                     downe-o
                     -
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   when
                   they
                   came
                   unto
                   the
                   sea-bry●…
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   elder
                   did
                   push
                   the
                   younger
                   in
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Sister
                   ,
                   O
                   Sister
                   ,
                   take
                   me
                   by
                   the
                   gow●…e
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drawe
                   me
                   up
                   upon
                   the
                   dry
                   ground
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Sister
                   ,
                   O
                   Sister
                   ,
                   that
                   may
                   not
                   bee
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
                 
                 
                   Till
                   salt
                   and
                   oatmeale
                   grow
                   both
                   of
                   a
                   tree
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Somtymes
                   she
                   sanke
                   ,
                   Somtymes
                   she
                   swam
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
                 
                   Untill
                   she
                   came
                   unto
                   the
                   mil-dam
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   miller
                   runne
                   hastily
                   downe
                   the
                   cliffe
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     &c
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   up
                   he
                   be
                   took
                   her
                   withou●…en
                   her
                   lif●…
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   did
                   he
                   doe
                   with
                   her
                   brest
                   bone
                   ?
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                
                 
                   He
                   made
                   him
                   a
                   viall
                   to
                   play
                   thereupon
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   did
                   he
                   doe
                   with
                   her
                   fingers
                   so
                   small
                   ?
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                
                 
                   He
                   made
                   him
                   peggs
                   to
                   his
                   Violl
                   withall
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   did
                   he
                   doe
                   with
                   her
                   nose-ridge
                   ?
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                
                 
                   Unto
                   his
                   Violl
                   he
                   made
                   him
                   a
                   bridge
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   did
                   he
                   do
                   with
                   her
                   Veynes
                   so
                   blewe
                   ?
                
                 
                   
                     with
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   made
                   him
                   strings
                   to
                   his
                   Viole
                   thereto
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     with
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   did
                   he
                   doe
                   with
                   her
                   eyes
                   so
                   bright
                   ?
                
                 
                   
                     with
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
                 
                   Upon
                   his
                   Violl
                   he
                   playd
                   at
                   first
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     with
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   did
                   he
                   doe
                   with
                   her
                   tongue
                   soe
                   rough
                   ?
                
                 
                   
                     with
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
                 
                   Unto
                   the
                   violl
                   it
                   spake
                   enough
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     with
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   did
                   he
                   doe
                   with
                   her
                   two
                   shinnes
                   ?
                
                 
                   
                     with
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
                 
                   Unto
                   the
                   violl
                   they
                   danc't
                   
                     Moll
                     Syms
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   with
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   bespake
                   the
                   treble
                   string
                   ,
                
                 
                   with
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
                 
                   O
                   yonder
                   is
                   my
                   father
                   the
                   King
                   ;
                
                 
                   with
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   bespake
                   the
                   second
                   string
                   ,
                
                 
                   with
                   &c.
                   
                
                 
                   O
                   yonder
                   sitts
                   my
                   mother
                   the
                   Queen
                   :
                
                 
                   with
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   then
                   bespake
                   the
                   stringes
                   all
                   three
                   ;
                
                 
                   with
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
                 
                 
                   O
                   yonder
                   is
                   my
                   sister
                   that
                   drowned
                   mee
                   .
                
                 
                   with
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   pay
                   the
                   miller
                   for
                   his
                   payne
                   ,
                
                 
                   with
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   him
                   bee
                   gone
                   in
                   the
                   divels
                   name
                   .
                
                 
                   with
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 Mr.
                 Smith
                 ,
                 to
                 Tom
                 Pollard
                 ,
                 and
                 Mr.
                 Mering
                 .
              
               
                 
                   MY
                   hearty
                   commendations
                   first
                   remembred
                
                 
                   To
                   Tom
                   ,
                   &
                   Robbin
                   tall
                   men
                   ,
                   and
                   well
                   timberd
                
                 
                   Hoping
                   of
                   both
                   your
                   welfares
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   blisse
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   my selfe
                   enjoy'd
                   when
                   I
                   wrote
                   this
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   to
                   let
                   you
                   understand
                   and
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   love
                   will
                   creepe
                   there
                   where
                   it
                   cannot
                   go
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   each
                   morning
                   I
                   doe
                   drink
                   your
                   healths
                
                 
                   After
                   our
                   Generalls
                   ,
                   &
                   the
                   Commonwealths
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   nothing
                   is
                   more
                   fatall
                   then
                   disorder
                
                 
                   Especially
                   now
                   Lesly's
                   on
                   the
                   Border
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   done
                   we
                   gather
                   into
                   Rankes
                   and
                   files
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   a
                   farre
                   off
                   we
                   look
                   like
                   greeat
                   wood
                   piles
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   we
                   practise
                   over
                   all
                   our
                   knacks
                
                 
                   With
                   as
                   much
                   ease
                   as
                   men
                   make
                   Almanacks
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Size
                   all
                   our
                   bulletts
                   to
                   a
                   dram
                   ,
                   we
                   hate
                
                 
                   To
                   kill
                   a
                   foe
                   with
                   waste
                   unto
                   the
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   our
                   carriage
                   heere
                   ,
                   it
                   hath
                   been
                   such
                
                 
                   Declar
                   't
                   I
                   cannot
                   ,
                   but
                   I
                   le
                   give
                   a
                   touch
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   noe
                   outrage
                   done
                   ,
                   not
                   one
                   that
                   Robbs
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   you
                   think
                   it
                   strange
                   Tom
                   ,
                   so
                   does
                   Nobbs
                
                 
                   But
                   t
                   is
                   as
                   true
                   as
                   steele
                   ,
                   for
                   on
                   my
                   word
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   worst
                   is
                   drinking
                   Ale
                   ,
                   browne
                   as
                   their
                   sword
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   harke
                   the
                   fiendes
                   are
                   come
                   close
                   to
                   Carlile
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lidsdale
                   is
                   cope't
                   with
                   Rebell-Scotts
                   the
                   while
                
                 
                   To
                   u●…
                   they
                   send
                   for
                   helpe
                   ,
                   the
                   postboy
                   skudds
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   scoures
                   his
                   pallfrie
                   in
                   his
                   propper
                   Sudds
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   I
                   could
                   write
                   deare
                   friends
                   ,
                   but
                   bad's
                   the
                   weather
                
                 
                   And
                   time
                   's
                   as
                   precious
                   as
                   you
                   both
                   to
                   gether
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   take
                   not
                   this
                   unkindely
                   ;
                   I
                   professe
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   no
                   man
                   more
                   your
                   servant
                   then
                
                 
                   I
                   S.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   New
                   castle
                   where
                   the
                   drouth
                   has
                   been
                
                 
                   That
                   makes
                   grasse
                   short
                   ,
                   and
                   gelding
                   thin
                   :
                
                 
                   Iuly
                   the
                   fifth
                   I
                   wrote
                   this
                   letter
                
                 
                   One
                   thousand
                   six
                   hunderd
                   ,
                   &
                   somewhat
                   better
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Upon
                 Iohn
                 Felton's
                 hanging
                 in
                 Chaines
                 at
                 Ports-mouth
                 ,
                 for
                 killing
                 the
                 Duke
                 of
                 Buckingham
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HEre
                   uninterd
                   suspends
                   (
                   though
                   not
                   to
                   save
                
                 
                   Surviving
                   friends
                   the
                   expences
                   of
                   a
                   grave
                
                 
                   Fel●…on's
                   dead
                   earth
                   ,
                   which
                   to
                   the
                   world
                   must
                   bee
                
                 
                   His
                   own
                   sad
                   monument
                   ,
                   his
                   Elegye
                
                 
                   As
                   large
                   as
                   fame
                   ,
                   but
                   whither
                   bad
                   o●…
                   good
                
                 
                   I
                   say
                   not
                   ,
                   by
                   himself
                   't
                   was
                   writ
                   in
                   blood
                
                 
                   For
                   with
                   his
                   body
                   thus
                   entomb'd
                   in
                   ayre
                
                 
                   Arch't
                   o're
                   with
                   Heaven
                   ,
                   set
                   with
                   thousand
                   faire
                
                 
                   And
                   glorious
                   Diamond-starrs
                   ;
                   a
                   Sepulcher
                
                 
                   Which
                   time
                   can
                   never
                   ruinate
                   ,
                   and
                   where
                
                 
                   Th'
                   impartiall
                   worme
                   (
                   which
                   is
                   not
                   brib'd
                   to
                   spare
                
                 
                   Princes
                   when
                   wrapt
                   in
                   Marble
                   )
                   cannot
                   share
                
                 
                   His
                   flesh
                   (
                   which
                   oft
                   the
                   charitable
                   skyes
                
                 
                   Embalme
                   with
                   teares
                   doing
                   those
                   obsequies
                
                 
                   Belong
                   to
                   men
                   )
                   shall
                   last
                   till
                   pittying
                   foul
                
                 
                   Contend
                   to
                   reach
                   his
                   body
                   to
                   his
                   Soule
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 Felton
                 in
                 the
                 Tower.
                 
              
               
                 
                   ENjoy
                   thy
                   bondage
                   ;
                   make
                   thy
                   prison
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   hast
                   a
                   liberty
                   thou
                   canst
                   not
                   owe
                
                 
                   To
                   such
                   base
                   punishment
                   ;
                   keep
                   't
                   intire
                   ,
                   since
                
                 
                   Nothing
                   but
                   guilt
                   shackles
                   they
                   conscience
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   dare
                   not
                   tempt
                   thy
                   valiant
                   blood
                   to
                   whey
                
                 
                   ●…n
                   feebling
                   it
                   with
                   pitty
                   ,
                   nor
                   dare
                   pray
                
                 
                   Thine
                   act
                   may
                   mercy
                   finde
                   ,
                   lest
                   thy
                   great
                   story
                
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   something
                   of
                   its
                   miracle
                   and
                   glory
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   wish
                   thy
                   merit
                   studied
                   cruelty
                   ,
                
                 
                   Short
                   vengance
                   befreinds
                   thy
                   memory
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   would
                   have
                   posterity
                   to
                   heare
                
                 
                   He
                   that
                   can
                   bravely
                   die
                   can
                   bravely
                   beare
                   .
                
                 
                   Torture
                   seemes
                   great
                   unto
                   a
                   cowards
                   eye
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   no
                   great
                   thing
                   to
                   suffer
                   ,
                   less
                   t●…
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   Should
                   all
                   the
                   clowds
                   fall
                   out
                   ,
                   &
                   in
                   that
                   strife
                
                 
                   Lightning
                   and
                   thunder
                   send
                   ●…o
                   take
                   my
                   life
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   should
                   applaud
                   the
                   wisedome
                   of
                   my
                   fate
                
                 
                   That
                   knew
                   to
                   value
                   me
                   at
                   such
                   a
                   rate
                
                 
                   As
                   at
                   my
                   fall
                   to
                   trouble
                   ●…ll
                   the
                   skie
                   ,
                
                 
                   Emptying
                   it self
                   upon
                   me
                   Joves
                   full
                   Armoty
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   soul
                   before
                   was
                   straightned
                   ,
                   thank
                   thy
                   doome
                
                 
                   To
                   show
                   her
                   vertue
                   she
                   hath
                   larger
                   Roome
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   sure
                   if
                   every
                   artery
                   were
                   broke
                
                 
                   Thou
                   wouldst
                   finde
                   strength
                   for
                   such
                   another
                   stroke
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   I
                   leave
                   thee
                   unto
                   death
                   and
                   fame
                
                 
                   Which
                   lives
                   to
                   shake
                   ambition
                   at
                   thy
                   name
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   (
                   if
                   it
                   were
                   no
                   sin
                   )
                   the
                   Court
                   by
                   it
                
                 
                   Should
                   hourely
                   sweare
                   before
                   a
                   favorite
                   .
                
                 
                   Farwell
                   ,
                   for
                   thy
                   beame
                   sake
                   we
                   shall
                   not
                   send
                
                 
                   Henceforth
                   Commanders
                   that
                   wil
                   foes
                   defend
                
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   it
                   ever
                   our
                   just
                   Monarch
                   please
                
                 
                   To
                   keep
                   an
                   Admirall
                   to
                   loose
                   the
                   Seas
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Farwell
                   ,
                   undaunted
                   stand
                   ,
                   and
                   joy
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   Of
                   publique
                   sorrow
                   the
                   Epitome
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   the
                   Duke's
                   name
                   suffer
                   ,
                   and
                   crowne
                   thy
                   thrall
                
                 
                   All
                   we
                   in
                   him
                   did
                   suffer
                   ;
                   thou
                   for
                   all
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   dare
                   boldly
                   write
                   ,
                   as
                   thou
                   darst
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Stout
                     Felton
                     ,
                     Englands
                     ransome
                     ,
                     here
                     doth
                     lye
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 the
                 Duke
                 of
                 Buckingham
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THe
                   King
                   loves
                   you
                   ,
                   you
                   him
                   ;
                   both
                   love
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   love
                   the
                   King
                   ,
                   he
                   you
                   ,
                   both
                   Buck-in-game
                
                 
                   Of
                   sport
                   the
                   King
                   loves
                   game
                   ,
                   of
                   game
                   the
                   Buck
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   men
                   you
                   ,
                   why
                   you
                   ?
                   Why
                   see
                   your
                   luck
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 the
                 Same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SOme
                   say
                   ,
                   the
                   Duke
                   was
                   vertuous
                   ,
                   gratious
                   ,
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Felton
                   basely
                   did
                   ,
                   to
                   spill
                   his
                   bloud
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   it
                   be
                   so
                   ,
                   what
                   did
                   he
                   then
                   amiss
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   sending
                   him
                   the
                   sooner
                   to
                   his
                   bliss
                   ?
                
                 
                   All
                   deaths
                   seem
                   pleasant
                   to
                   a
                   good-man's
                   Eye
                
                 
                   And
                   bad
                   men
                   onely
                   are
                   afraid
                   to
                   dye
                   ;
                
                 
                   Chang'd
                   he
                   this
                   Kingdome
                   to
                   possess
                   a
                   better
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   is
                   the
                   Duke
                   become
                   
                     Iohn
                     Felton's
                  
                   debter
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Lawyer
                 .
              
               
                 
                   LAwyers
                   themselves
                   up
                   hold
                   the
                   Common
                   weale
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   punish
                   such
                   as
                   do
                   offend
                   and
                   steale
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   free
                   with
                   subtill
                   art
                   the
                   innocent
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   any
                   danger
                   ,
                   losse
                   ,
                   or
                   punishment
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   can
                   ,
                   but
                   will
                   not
                   ,
                   keep
                   the
                   world
                   in
                   awe
                
                 
                   By
                   mis-expounded
                   and
                   distorted
                   lawe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Alwayes
                   they
                   have
                   great
                   store
                   of
                   charity
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   love
                   they
                   want
                   ,
                   not
                   keeping
                   amitye
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Clients
                 Transcription
                 of
                 the
                 same
                 Copy
                 ,
                 having
                 experienced
                 the
                 contrary
                 .
              
               
                 
                   LAwyers
                   themselves
                   uphold
                   the
                   Common-weale
                
                 
                   They
                   punish
                   such
                   as
                   do
                   offend
                   and
                   steale
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   free
                   with
                   subtill
                   art
                   the
                   innocent
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   any
                   danger
                   ,
                   losse
                   ,
                   or
                   punishment
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   can
                   ,
                   but
                   will
                   not
                   keep
                   ,
                   the
                   world
                   in
                   awe
                
                 
                   By
                   mis-expounded
                   and
                   distorted
                   lawe
                
                 
                   Allwayes
                   they
                   have
                   ,
                   great
                   store
                   of
                   charity
                
                 
                   And
                   love
                   they
                   want
                   ,
                   not
                   keeping
                   amitye
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 reverend
                 Canvase
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SO
                   lowd
                   a
                   lye
                   on
                   Sunday
                   rung
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   thicke
                   a
                   troupe
                   ,
                   so
                   grave
                   a
                   thrung
                   ,
                
                 
                   Assembled
                   in
                   a
                   Church
                   ,
                   to
                   laugh
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   nothing
                   ?
                   pardon
                   heavens
                   ;
                   when
                   halfe
                
                 
                   Had
                   Gods
                   marke
                   on
                   them
                   ?
                   none
                   so
                   good
                
                 
                   To
                   satisfie
                   the
                   hungry
                   croud
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   holsome
                   doctrine
                   ;
                   none
                   so
                   hardy
                
                 
                   With
                   an
                   howers
                   talke
                   to
                   quitt
                   the
                   tardy
                   ?
                
                 
                   All
                   silent
                   brethren
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   none
                
                 
                   Can
                   speake
                   by
                   inspiration
                   ?
                
                 
                   Dares
                   none
                   so
                   conscious
                   of
                   his
                   merit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   presuming
                   on
                   the
                   sperit
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   an
                   edifying
                   greeting
                
                 
                   Gratulate
                   this
                   zealous
                   meeting
                   ?
                
                 
                   Is
                   this
                   a
                   day
                   or
                   place
                   (
                   O
                   sin
                   !
                   )
                
                 
                   For
                   such
                   to
                   have
                   a
                   canvse
                   in
                   ?
                
                 
                   Lord
                   !
                   how
                   we
                   sat
                   like
                   
                     Queene
                     Candace's
                  
                
                 
                   Eunuch
                   ,
                   reading
                   each
                   other
                   faces
                   !
                
                 
                   Expecting
                   when
                   some
                   Philips
                   heire
                
                 
                   Would
                   come
                   to
                   ascend
                   the
                   sacred
                   chaire
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   cousning
                   Miles
                   the
                   bell
                   still
                   knockt
                
                 
                   T'
                   increase
                   the
                   number
                   of
                   the
                   mockt
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   conclusion
                   all
                   the
                   cittie
                
                 
                   Was
                   bidden
                   to
                   a
                   
                     nunc
                     dimitte
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   found
                   no
                   man
                   to
                   supply
                
                 
                   The
                   office
                   of
                   dumbe
                   Zacharie
                
                 
                   In
                   our
                   dismission
                   ,
                   till
                   wee
                   tiring
                
                 
                   The
                   bell
                   and
                   pullpit
                   both
                   conspiring
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Deprived
                   of
                   sound
                   ,
                   and
                   vesture
                   told
                   us
                
                 
                   The
                   tenor
                   onely
                   preacht
                   that
                   calld
                   us
                   ;
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 non
                 sequitur
                 ,
                 by
                 Dr.
                 Corbett
                 .
              
               
                 
                   MArke
                   how
                   the
                   Lanterns
                   clowd
                   mine
                   eyes
                
                 
                   See
                   where
                   a
                   moone
                   drake
                   ginnes
                   to
                   rise
                
                 
                   Sat●…rne
                   craules
                   much
                   like
                   an
                   
                     Ir●…n
                     Catt
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   the
                   naked
                   moone
                   in
                   a
                   slippshott
                   hatt
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thunder
                   thumping
                   toad
                   stooles
                   crock
                   the
                   pots
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   the
                   Meremaids
                   tumble
                
                 
                   Leather
                   catt-a-mountaines
                   shake
                   their
                   heeles
                
                 
                   To
                   heare
                   the
                   gosh-hawke
                   grumble
                
                 
                   The
                   rustie
                   threed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Begins
                   to
                   bleed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cobwebs
                   elbows
                   itches
                
                 
                   The
                   putrid
                   skyes
                
                 
                   Eat
                   mulsacke
                   pies
                
                 
                   Backed
                   up
                   in
                   logicke
                   brecehes
                
                 
                   Munday
                   trenchers
                   make
                   good
                   hay
                
                 
                   The
                   Lobster
                   weares
                   no
                   dagger
                
                 
                   Meale-Mouth'd
                   shee-peacockes
                   powle
                   the
                   starres
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   the
                   lowbell
                   ●…agger
                
                 
                   Blew
                   Crocodiles
                   foame
                   in
                   the
                   toe
                
                 
                   Blind
                   meal-bagges
                   do
                   follow
                   the
                   doe
                
                 
                   A
                   ribb
                   of
                   apple
                   braine
                   spice
                
                 
                   Will
                   follow
                   the
                   Lancasheire
                   dice
                
                 
                   Harke
                   how
                   the
                   chime
                   of
                   Plu●…oes
                   pispot
                   cracks
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   the
                   rainbowes
                   wheele
                   g●…nne
                   ,
                   made
                   of
                   flax
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   On
                   Oxford
                   Schollers
                   going
                   to
                   Woodstock
                
                 
                   to
                   heare
                   
                     Dr.
                     Corbet
                  
                   preach
                   before
                   the
                   King.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   THe
                   King
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Court
                
                 
                   Desirous
                   of
                   sport
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   woodstock
                   six
                   dayes
                   did
                   lye
                
                 
                   Thither
                   came
                   the
                   Doctors
                
                 
                   With
                   their
                   velvet
                   sleev'd
                   Proctors
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   rest
                   of
                   the
                   learned
                   frie.
                
                 
                   Some
                   faces
                   did
                   shine
                
                 
                   More
                   withale
                   then
                   with
                   wine
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   that
                   each
                   man
                   there
                   was
                   thought
                
                 
                   And
                   judged
                   by
                   theire
                   hue
                
                 
                   (
                   As
                   it
                   was
                   then
                   true
                   )
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   were
                   better
                   fed
                   then
                   taught
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   number
                   beside
                
                 
                   With
                   their
                   wenches
                   did
                   ride
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   Schollers
                   you
                   know
                   are
                   kind
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   riding
                   before
                
                 
                   Leand
                   back
                   evermore
                
                 
                   To
                   kisse
                   their
                   wenches
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   number
                   on
                   foot
                
                 
                   Without
                   cloak
                   ,
                   or
                   boot
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   to
                   the
                   Court
                   they
                   wou'd
                
                 
                   Which
                   was
                   for
                   to
                   show
                
                 
                   How
                   farr
                   they
                   wou'd
                   go
                
                 
                   To
                   doe
                   his
                   Majesty
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   reverend
                   Deane
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   ruff
                   ,
                   starched
                   clean
                
                 
                 
                   Did
                   preach
                   before
                   the
                   King
                
                 
                   A
                   Ring
                   there
                   was
                   spide
                
                 
                   In
                   his
                   band-string
                   tyde
                
                 
                   Was
                   not
                   this
                   a
                   pritty
                   thing
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Ring
                   without
                   doubt
                
                 
                   Was
                   the
                   thing
                   put
                   him
                   out
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   oft
                   hee
                   forgot
                   what
                   was
                   next
                
                 
                   That
                   all
                   that
                   were
                   there
                
                 
                   Did
                   thinke
                   ,
                   and
                   dare
                   sweare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hee
                   handled
                   it
                   more
                   then
                   his
                   Text.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 Horat.
                 34.
                 
                 Carm.
                 od
                 10.
                 ad
                 .
                 Ligurium
                 .
              
               
                 
                   T
                   Is
                   true
                   (
                   proud
                   boy
                   )
                   thy
                   beauty
                   may
                   presume
                
                 
                   Thank
                   Venus
                   for
                   't
                   but
                   when
                   thy
                   cheekes
                   shall
                   plume
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   manly
                   downe
                   shall
                   shade
                   thy
                   Childish
                   pride
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   thy
                   locks
                   (
                   which
                   dangle
                   on
                   each
                   side
                
                 
                   Of
                   thy
                   white
                   shoulders
                   )
                   shall
                   no
                   more
                   remain
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   thy
                   vermilion
                   cheeks
                   (
                   which
                   do
                   disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   glorious
                   colour
                   of
                   the
                   purple
                   rose
                   )
                
                 
                   Begin
                   to
                   fade
                   ,
                   and
                   Ligarinas
                   loose
                
                 
                   His
                   lovely
                   face
                   ,
                   being
                   rudely
                   stuck
                   with
                   haires
                
                 
                   Hard
                   hearted
                   boy
                   )
                   then
                   wilt
                   thou
                   say
                   with
                   teares
                
                 
                 
                   (
                   When
                   looking
                   for
                   thy
                   faire
                   self
                   in
                   a
                   glass
                
                 
                   Thou
                   findest
                   another
                   there
                   )
                   Ah
                   me
                   !
                   alas
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   do
                   I
                   now
                   perceive
                   ?
                   why
                   had
                   not
                   I
                   ?
                
                 
                   These
                   thoughts
                   when
                   I
                   was
                   lovely
                   smooth
                   ?
                   or
                   why
                   ?
                
                 
                   To
                   these
                   my
                   thoughts
                   which
                   I
                   now
                   entertaine
                
                 
                   Doe
                   not
                   my
                   Cheeks
                   grow
                   flik
                   &
                   young
                   again
                   ?
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 his
                 Mistris
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   'le
                   tell
                   you
                   whence
                   the
                   rose
                   did
                   first
                   grow
                   red
                
                 
                   And
                   whence
                   the
                   lillie
                   whitenesse
                   borrowed
                
                 
                   You
                   blush't
                   and
                   then
                   the
                   rose
                   with
                   red
                   was
                   dight
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   lillie
                   kist
                   your
                   hands
                   and
                   so
                   came
                   white
                
                 
                   Before
                   that
                   time
                   the
                   rose
                   was
                   but
                   a
                   staine
                
                 
                   The
                   lillie
                   nought
                   but
                   palenesse
                   did
                   containe
                
                 
                   You
                   have
                   the
                   native
                   colour
                   ;
                   these
                   they
                   die
                
                 
                   And
                   onely
                   flourish
                   in
                   your
                   livery
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Upon
                 a
                 Cobler
                 .
              
               
                 
                   COme
                   hither
                   ,
                   read
                   (
                   my
                   gentle
                   freind
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   behold
                   a
                   Coblers
                   End
                   ,
                
                 
                   Long
                   in
                   length
                   his
                   life
                   had
                   gone
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   he
                   had
                   no
                   Last
                   so
                   long
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   mighty
                   death
                   whose
                   darts
                   can
                   kill
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   man
                   that
                   made
                   him
                   soules
                   at
                   will.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 the
                 death
                 of
                 the
                 Lord
                 Treasurer
                 .
              
               
                 
                   IMmodest
                   death
                   ,
                   that
                   would
                   not
                   once
                   confer
                
                 
                   Dispose
                   or
                   part
                   with
                   our
                   Lord
                   Treasurer
                   !
                
                 
                   Had
                   he
                   beene
                   thee
                   ,
                   or
                   of
                   thy
                   fatall
                   tribe
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   would
                   have
                   spar'd
                   thy
                   life
                   ,
                   and
                   tane
                   a
                   bribe
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   that
                   so
                   often
                   had
                   with
                   gold
                   and
                   wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perverted
                   law
                   and
                   allmost
                   conjur'd
                   it
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   that
                   could
                   lengthen
                   causes
                   ,
                   and
                   was
                   able
                
                 
                   To
                   starve
                   a
                   suitor
                   at
                   the
                   councill-table
                
                 
                   At
                   last
                   not
                   having
                   Evidence
                   to
                   show
                
                 
                   Was
                   faine
                   (
                   perforce
                   )
                   to
                   take
                   a
                   deadly
                   blow
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 lover's
                 Melancholy
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HEnce
                   ,
                   hence
                   ,
                   all
                   you
                   vaine
                   delights
                
                 
                   As
                   short
                   as
                   are
                   the
                   nights
                
                 
                   Wherin
                   you
                   spend
                   your
                   folly
                   !
                
                 
                   Ther
                   's
                   nought
                   in
                   this
                   life
                   sweet
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   men
                   were
                   wise
                   to
                   ●…ee't
                
                 
                   But
                   only
                   melancholly
                   .
                
                 
                   Wellcome
                   folded
                   armes
                   ,
                   and
                   fixed
                   eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   fight
                   that
                   pea●…cing
                   mortifies
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   look
                   that
                   's
                   fastened
                   to
                   the
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   tongue
                   chain'd
                   up
                   without
                   a
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fountaines-heades
                   and
                   pathless
                   groves
                
                 
                   Places
                   which
                   pale
                   passion
                   loves
                   .
                
                 
                   Moone-light
                   walkes
                   when
                   all
                   the
                   fowles
                
                 
                   Are
                   warmely
                   hous'd
                   ,
                   save
                   Bats
                   and
                   owls
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   midnight
                   knell
                   ,
                   a
                   parting
                   groane
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   sounds
                   wee
                   feed
                   upon
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   stretch
                   our
                   bones
                   in
                   a
                   still
                   gloomy
                   valley
                
                 
                   Ther
                   's
                   nothing
                   truly
                   sweet
                   ,
                   but
                   melancholly
                   ;
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 answer
                 ,
                 by
                 Dr.
                 Stroad
                 .
              
               
                 
                   REturne
                   my
                   joyes
                   and
                   hither
                   bring
                
                 
                   A
                   tounge
                   not
                   made
                   to
                   speake
                   ,
                   but
                   sing
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   joll
                   ye
                   splene
                   ,
                   an
                   inward
                   feast
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   causelesse
                   laugh
                   without
                   a
                   jest
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   face
                   which
                   gladnesse
                   doth
                   annoint
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   arme
                   for
                   joy
                   flung
                   out
                   of
                   joynt
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   spritefull
                   gate
                   that
                   leaves
                   no
                   print
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   a
                   ●…eather
                   of
                   a
                   flint
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   heart
                   that
                   's
                   lighter
                   then
                   the
                   ayre
                
                 
                   An
                   eye
                   still
                   dancing
                   in
                   its
                   sphere
                   .
                
                 
                   Strong
                   which
                   mirth
                   nothing
                   shall
                   controul
                
                 
                   A
                   body
                   nimbler
                   then
                   a
                   soul
                   :
                
                 
                   Free
                   wandring
                   thoughts
                   not
                   tied
                   to
                   muse
                
                 
                   Which
                   thinking
                   all
                   things
                   ,
                   nothing
                   chuse
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   ere
                   wee
                   see
                   them
                   come
                   ,
                   are
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   ,
                   life
                   it selfe
                   doth
                   feed
                   upon
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   take
                   no
                   care
                   but
                   only
                   to
                   be
                   jolly
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   more
                   wretched
                   then
                   we
                   must
                   ,
                   is
                   folly
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Blush
                 .
              
               
                 
                   STay
                   hasty
                   blood
                   !
                   where
                   canst
                   thou
                   seek
                
                 
                   So
                   blest
                   a
                   place
                   as
                   in
                   her
                   cheek
                   ?
                
                 
                   How
                   can'st
                   thou
                   from
                   the
                   place
                   retire
                
                 
                   VVhere
                   beauty
                   doth
                   command
                   desire
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   thou
                   canst
                   not
                   stay
                   ,
                   then
                   show
                   ;
                
                 
                   Downe
                   to
                   her
                   painting
                   papps
                   below
                
                 
                   Flow
                   like
                   a
                   deluge
                   from
                   her
                   breast
                
                 
                   VVhere
                   Venus
                   Swannes
                   have
                   built
                   their
                   nest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   take
                   glory
                   to
                   disteine
                
                 
                   The
                   azure
                   of
                   each
                   swelling
                   vaine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thence
                   run
                   thou
                   boyling
                   through
                   each
                   part
                
                 
                   Till
                   thou
                   hast
                   warm'd
                   her
                   frozen
                   heart
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   from
                   love
                   she
                   would
                   retire
                
                 
                   Then
                   martyr
                   her
                   with
                   gentle
                   fire
                
                 
                   And
                   having
                   search't
                   each
                   secret
                   place
                
                 
                   Fly
                   back
                   againe
                   into
                   her
                   face
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVhere
                   blessed
                   live
                   in
                   changing
                   those
                
                 
                   VVhite
                   lillyes
                   to
                   a
                   Ruddy
                   rose
                   :
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 his
                 Mistris
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Last
                   when
                   I
                   saw
                   thee
                   ,
                   thou
                   didst
                   sweetly
                   play
                
                 
                   The
                   gentle
                   theife
                   ,
                   and
                   stolst
                   my
                   heart
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   Render't
                   again
                   or
                   else
                   give
                   me
                   thine
                   owne
                
                 
                   In
                   change
                   ,
                   for
                   two
                   for
                   thee
                   (
                   when
                   I
                   have
                   none
                   )
                
                 
                   Too
                   many
                   are
                   ,
                   else
                   I
                   must
                   say
                   ,
                   Thou
                   art
                
                 
                   A
                   sweet
                   facd
                   creature
                   with
                   a
                   double
                   heart
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 Christ-church
                 windowe
                 ,
                 and
                 Magd●…len
                 Colledge
                 wall
                 .
              
               
                 
                   YEe
                   men
                   of
                   Galilee
                   why
                   gaze
                   yee
                   so
                
                 
                   On
                   Mandlins
                   necessary
                   print
                   ,
                   as
                   though
                
                 
                   T
                   'had
                   bin
                   enough
                   for
                   that
                   pure
                   virgin's
                   sonne
                
                 
                   That
                   was
                   incarnate
                   ,
                   dyed
                   ,
                   &
                   rose
                   ,
                   to
                   have
                   done
                
                 
                   Those
                   heavenly
                   acts
                   ,
                   that
                   ransom'd
                   al
                   from
                   hell
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   no
                   visible
                   effigies
                   tell
                
                 
                   The
                   eye
                   ,
                   the
                   manner
                   how
                   .
                   Ye
                   misconceive
                
                 
                   VVho
                   think
                   these
                   sacred
                   mysteryes
                   must
                   leave
                
                 
                   Impression
                   onely
                   in
                   the
                   soul
                   ;
                   how
                   then
                
                 
                   Shall
                   those
                   that
                   bear
                   more
                   shape
                   than
                   mind
                   of
                   men
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Unlesse
                   their
                   outward
                   sense
                   informe
                   them
                   )
                   know
                
                 
                   VVhat
                   accidents
                   their
                   Saviour
                   long
                   ago
                
                 
                   Sustain'd
                   ?
                   each
                   wise
                   man
                   sees
                   't
                   is
                   not
                   the
                   fate
                
                 
                   Of
                   every
                   ideot
                   to
                   be
                   literate
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   who
                   can
                   then
                   forbid
                   (
                   ye
                   Lay
                   )
                   to
                   look
                
                 
                   And
                   read
                   those
                   things
                   without
                   or
                   line
                   or
                   book
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   (
                   if
                   modestye
                   may
                   judge
                   )
                   what
                   i
                   st
                
                 
                   But
                   a
                   supply
                   to
                   each
                   Evangelist
                   ?
                
                 
                   Long
                   may
                   the
                   learned
                   study
                   ,
                   peace
                   and
                   scratch
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   forme
                   of
                   th'
                   mainger
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   cratch
                
                 
                   Wherein
                   Babe
                   Christ
                   was
                   layd
                   be
                   understood
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   bungling
                   joyner
                   now
                   may
                   ken
                   what
                   wood
                
                 
                   The
                   stall
                   was
                   made
                   of
                   where
                   the
                   long
                   eared
                   steed
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   his
                   associate
                   Oxe
                   did
                   stand
                   and
                   feed
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   practis'd
                   oastler
                   knowes
                   their
                   meat
                   ,
                   can
                   say
                
                 
                   There
                   is
                   their
                   provender
                   ,
                   this
                   is
                   their
                   hay
                   .
                
                 
                   Yee
                   now
                   may
                   learne
                   the
                   naked
                   shepherds
                   hew
                
                 
                   The
                   stripling
                   boy
                   ,
                   and
                   him
                   it
                   'h
                   cap
                   of
                   blew
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   perfectly
                   as
                   it
                   had
                   seene
                   the
                   clownes
                
                 
                   Each
                   day
                   a
                   sunning
                   on
                   the
                   jewish
                   downes
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   strange
                   the
                   dogg's
                   not
                   there
                   ,
                   perhapps
                   the
                   Curr
                
                 
                   VVas
                   left
                   behind
                   ,
                   for
                   feare
                   of
                   noise
                   or
                   stirre
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   veiw
                   the
                   venerable
                   face
                   whereon
                
                 
                   The
                   horne
                   and
                   candle
                   cast
                   reflection
                   ,
                
                 
                   Observe
                   it
                   well
                   if
                   ere
                   you
                   chance
                   to
                   meet
                
                 
                   In
                   paradise
                   ,
                   you
                   'le
                   know
                   't
                   as
                   soon
                   as
                   see
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   reverent
                   Iosephs
                   portraiture
                   ,
                   see
                   how
                   ▪
                
                 
                   The
                   very
                   image
                   seemes
                   to
                   cringe
                   and
                   bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Marke
                   well
                   his
                   beard
                   ,
                   his
                   eyes
                   ,
                   his
                   nose
                   ,
                   if
                   ought
                
                 
                   Be
                   mist
                   ,
                   t
                   is
                   yours
                   ,
                   and
                   not
                   the
                   painters
                   fault
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   lead
                   your
                   eyes
                   unto
                   the
                   beauteous
                   one
                
                 
                   Who
                   nere
                   knew
                   man
                   ,
                   yet
                   mother
                   to
                   a
                   sonne
                   .
                
                 
                   Doth
                   not
                   her
                   face
                   more
                   fully
                   speake
                   her
                   heart
                
                 
                   And
                   joy
                   ,
                   than
                   text
                   or
                   comment
                   can
                   impart
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   oh
                   how
                   little
                   like
                   her selfe
                   when
                   shee
                
                 
                   VVhose
                   upcast
                   ,
                   downe
                   cast
                   lookes
                   ,
                   behold
                   the
                   tree
                   ?
                
                 
                   That
                   fatall
                   tree
                   whereon
                   the
                   Lord
                   of
                   breath
                
                 
                   Expos'd
                   himselfe
                   to
                   th'tyranny
                   of
                   death
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVas
                   ever
                   sorow
                   so
                   set
                   forth
                   ?
                   and
                   yet
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   the
                   quire
                   of
                   heavinesse
                   compleat
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   lov'd
                   disciple
                   bears
                   his
                   part
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                
                 
                   Doth
                   that
                   brave
                   lasse
                   that
                   clips
                   the
                   Crosse
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Consult
                   allauthors
                   ,
                   English
                   Greek
                   &
                   Lattin
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   nere
                   saw
                   truer
                   greife
                   or
                   finer
                   sattin
                   .
                
                 
                   Foule
                   fall
                   the
                   bird
                   whose
                   undiscerning
                   mute
                
                 
                   Presumes
                   to
                   turpifye
                   so
                   rich
                   a
                   suite
                   ;
                
                 
                   T'
                   was
                   very
                   strange
                   they
                   durst
                   so
                   boldly
                   greeve
                
                 
                   When
                   those
                   untutor'd
                   hacksters
                   of
                   the
                   Shreeve
                
                 
                   Close
                   by
                   sat
                   armed
                   Cap-a-pee
                   with
                   speares
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   swords
                   ,
                   and
                   glittering
                   helmets
                   ,
                   or'e
                   their
                   eares
                
                 
                   Bestriding
                   fiery
                   steeds
                   so
                   markt
                   so
                   made
                
                 
                   Bucephalu's
                   himselfe
                   was
                   but
                   a
                   jade
                
                 
                   Compar'd
                   to
                   these
                   ,
                   why
                   ?
                   who
                   would
                   be
                   but
                   vext
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   such
                   pal●…ryes
                   here
                   ,
                   and
                   none
                   it
                   'h
                   text
                   ?
                
                 
                   Next
                   let
                   your
                   eyes
                   and
                   thoughts
                   be
                   fixt
                   upon
                
                 
                   The
                   sad-sad
                   story
                   of
                   the
                   passion
                   ;
                
                 
                   See
                   how
                   from
                   side
                   ,
                   from
                   feet
                   ,
                   from
                   hands
                   as
                   yet
                
                 
                   The
                   crimson
                   blood
                   trills
                   down
                   ,
                   you
                   'l
                   sweare
                   t
                   were
                   wet
                   ;
                
                 
                   Were
                   Thomas
                   here
                   himselfe
                   ,
                   he
                   would
                   not
                   linger
                
                 
                   But
                   sooner
                   trust
                   his
                   eyes
                   then
                   erst
                   his
                   finger
                   .
                
                 
                   Mark
                   how
                   death
                   's
                   sable
                   cloud
                   doth
                   over-spread
                
                 
                   His
                   lips
                   ,
                   his
                   cheeks
                   ,
                   his
                   eyes
                   ,
                   his
                   sacred
                   head
                   .
                
                 
                   Behold
                   death
                   drawn
                   to
                   th'
                   life
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   that
                   hee
                
                 
                   Thus
                   wrackt
                   and
                   stretch't
                   upon
                   th'
                   accursed
                   tree
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Had
                   been
                   of
                   purpose
                   nayld
                   to
                   th'
                   crosse
                   to
                   try
                
                 
                   The
                   Painters
                   cunning
                   hand
                   ,
                   more
                   than
                   to
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   left
                   him
                   dead
                   ,
                   but
                   t
                   was
                   not
                   in
                   the
                   power
                
                 
                   Of
                   grave
                   ,
                   or
                   hell
                   to
                   keep
                   him
                   ,
                   there
                   one
                   houre
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   his
                   own
                   determination
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   dayes
                   are
                   past
                   ,
                   and
                   Ionah's
                   type
                   is
                   done
                
                 
                   He
                   walkes
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   full
                   glory
                   leaps
                   from
                   tombe
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   Lazarus
                   from
                   th'
                   earths
                   insatiate
                   wombe
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   not
                   to
                   dye
                   againe
                   :
                   meane
                   while
                   the
                   guard
                
                 
                   Who
                   vigilantly
                   slept
                   ,
                   soon
                   as
                   they
                   heard
                
                 
                   Deaths
                   prisoner
                   ,
                   and
                   their's
                   so
                   strangely
                   rise
                
                 
                   Start
                   up
                   with
                   frighted
                   hearts
                   and
                   gastly
                   eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   stare
                   and
                   muse
                   ,
                   and
                   sweare
                   ,
                   the
                   heardsmen
                   talke
                
                 
                   Strange
                   things
                   ,
                   but
                   nere
                   till
                   now
                   saw
                   dead
                   men
                   walke
                   :
                
                 
                   Do
                   but
                   take
                   notice
                   how
                   the
                   rascalls
                   look
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   some
                   prodigie
                   had
                   thunderstrook
                
                 
                   The
                   villaines
                   hearts
                   ,
                   or
                   some
                   strange
                   power
                   had
                   showne
                
                 
                   Medufae's
                   head
                   ,
                   and
                   turnd
                   them
                   all
                   to
                   stone
                   .
                
                 
                   Sure
                   small
                   perswasion
                   would
                   have
                   made
                   the
                   Elves
                
                 
                   For
                   feare
                   of
                   further
                   paines
                   to
                   hang
                   themselves
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   blame
                   them
                   not
                   ,
                   the
                   Lord
                   was
                   now
                   calcin'd
                
                 
                   Bright
                   as
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                   his
                   body
                   so
                   refin'd
                
                 
                   That
                   not
                   the
                   sawcinesse
                   of
                   mortall
                   eye
                
                 
                   Could
                   stare
                   upon
                   such
                   lustre
                   and
                   not
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   glorifi'd
                   humanity
                   can
                   stay
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   more
                   on
                   earth
                   ,
                   heaven
                   calls
                   ,
                   he
                   must
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ere
                   he
                   part
                   hee
                   'le
                   take
                   his
                   leave
                   ,
                   th'eleven
                   ,
                
                 
                   Attend
                   ,
                   and
                   see
                   him
                   ravisht
                   into
                   heaven
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   eyes
                   (
                   untill
                   an
                   interposing
                   cloud
                
                 
                   Did
                   interdict
                   accesse
                   of
                   sight
                   ,
                   and
                   shrowd
                
                 
                   His
                   godlike
                   countenance
                   from
                   mortall
                   ken
                   )
                
                 
                   Still
                   waite
                   upon
                   th'
                   ascending
                   Lord
                   ;
                   but
                   when
                
                 
                   Distance
                   had
                   snat
                   cht
                   him
                   from
                   their
                   view
                   ,
                   they
                   lift
                
                 
                   Their
                   hands
                   to
                   th'
                   skie
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   they
                   made
                   some
                   shift
                
                 
                   To
                   draw
                   him
                   down
                   againe
                   ,
                   such
                   was
                   their
                   love
                
                 
                   Thei●…e
                   scarse
                   assent
                   to
                   his
                   ascent
                   above
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   once
                   more
                   ,
                   note
                   ,
                   the
                   text
                   supplyed
                   which
                   tells
                
                 
                   Th'Apostles
                   were
                   spectators
                   and
                   none
                   else
                
                 
                   But
                   count
                   by
                   th'
                   pole
                   you
                   'l
                   find
                   th'
                   eleven
                   increast
                
                 
                   Their
                   troops
                   amount
                   to
                   five
                   or
                   sixe
                   at
                   least
                   .
                
                 
                   Were
                   Luke
                   alive
                   ,
                   hee
                   'd
                   thank
                   the
                   painters
                   wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   saw
                   his
                   oversight
                   and
                   mended
                   it
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   's
                   yeeld
                   to
                   reason
                   then
                   ,
                   let
                   him
                   that
                   lists
                
                 
                   Dispute
                   the
                   number
                   of
                   th'
                   Evangelists
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   Judgement
                   ever
                   please
                   this
                   thing
                   to
                   lift
                
                 
                   Or
                   Greenbury
                   or
                   none
                   must
                   be
                   the
                   fift
                
                 
                   I've
                   done
                   ,
                   bur
                   first
                   I
                   le
                   pray
                   ,
                   hayle
                   holy
                   cloth
                
                 
                   And
                   live
                   in
                   spight
                   of
                   rottennesse
                   or
                   moth
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   time
                   nor
                   vermine
                   ere
                   shall
                   dare
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   Corruptors
                   of
                   so
                   much
                   Divinitie
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   men
                   of
                   Galilee
                   why
                   do
                   ye
                   gaze
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   that
                   which
                   may
                   delight
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   amaze
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   That
                   's
                   left
                   for
                   us
                   ;
                   let
                   any
                   wise
                   man
                   bend
                
                 
                   His
                   eyes
                   towards
                   our
                   orientall
                   end
                
                 
                   Hee'●…e
                   blesse
                   himselfe
                   indeed
                   ,
                   grow
                   wise
                   ;
                   withall
                
                 
                   Approaching
                   take
                   the
                   window
                   for
                   a
                   wall
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   conclude
                   that
                   Wadehams
                   perspective
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Lincolnes
                   stately
                   types
                   can
                   long
                   survive
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   'le
                   break
                   for
                   envie
                   (
                   spight
                   of
                   wise
                   )
                   to
                   find
                
                 
                   Us
                   to
                   transcend
                   themselves
                   so
                   farre
                   behind
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   le
                   not
                   prayse
                   our
                   own
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   far
                   more
                   fit
                
                 
                   To
                   leave
                   the
                   talke
                   to
                   some
                   fine
                   Maud'lin
                   wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   may
                   enroule
                   in
                   some
                   well
                   languish●…t
                   staine
                
                 
                   As
                   we
                   their
                   walls
                   ,
                   so
                   they
                   our
                   lights
                   againe
                
                 
                   Only
                   I
                   feare
                   they
                   will
                   ,
                   (
                   least
                   we
                   surpasse
                   )
                
                 
                   Pull
                   down
                   their
                   hall
                   to
                   build
                   up
                   Eastern
                   glass
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 An
                 Elegie
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WHy
                   faire
                   vow-breaker
                   ,
                   have
                   thy
                   sinnes
                   thought
                   fit
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   be
                   curst
                   example
                   of
                   thy
                   wit
                
                 
                   As
                   well
                   as
                   scornes
                   ?
                   (
                   bad
                   womn
                   )
                   have
                   not
                   I
                
                 
                   Deserv'd
                   as
                   much
                   as
                   quiet
                   misery
                   ?
                
                 
                   Be
                   wise
                   and
                   trouble
                   not
                   my
                   suffering
                   fit
                
                 
                   For
                   every
                   sin
                   I
                   have
                   repentance
                   yet
                   ,
                
                 
                   Except
                   for
                   loving
                   thee
                   ;
                   do
                   not
                   thou
                   presse
                
                 
                   My
                   easie
                   madnesse
                   to
                   a
                   wickednesse
                
                 
                   As
                   high
                   as
                   that
                   ,
                   least
                   I
                   be
                   driven
                   so
                
                 
                   As
                   far
                   from
                   heaven
                   as
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                   which
                   I
                   know
                
                 
                 
                   Is
                   not
                   thy
                   ayme
                   ,
                   for
                   thou
                   hast
                   sin'd
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   In
                   place
                   ,
                   as
                   in
                   affection
                   ,
                   farre
                   from
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Am
                   I
                   thy
                   freind
                   or
                   kinsman
                   ?
                   have
                   I
                   ought
                
                 
                   That
                   is
                   familiar
                   with
                   thee
                   bettring
                   thought
                
                 
                   A
                   dreame
                   and
                   some
                   few
                   letters
                   too
                   ,
                   yet
                   lye
                
                 
                   Neglected
                   records
                   of
                   my
                   injury
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   know
                   no
                   itch
                   my
                   silent
                   sorrowes
                   moves
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   begg
                   a
                   bridall
                   kisse
                   or
                   paire
                   of
                   gloves
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   lighter
                   dutyes
                   which
                   they
                   seek
                
                 
                   Whose
                   sleepe
                   is
                   sound
                   &
                   constant
                   as
                   the
                   week
                
                 
                   Is
                   in
                   her
                   nights
                   ,
                   who
                   never
                   met
                   the
                   chaunce
                
                 
                   Of
                   love
                   amisse
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   a
                   dreameing
                   traunce
                
                 
                   And
                   wak't
                   to
                   gladnesse
                   ;
                   t'
                   is
                   not
                   so
                   with
                   me
                
                 
                   My
                   night
                   and
                   day
                   are
                   twins
                   in
                   misery
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   spend-thrift
                   eyes
                   have
                   beene
                   prepar'd
                   with
                   feares
                
                 
                   To
                   keep
                   a
                   solemne
                   revelling
                   in
                   teares
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hadst
                   thou
                   beene
                   silent
                   I
                   had
                   known
                   the
                   shame
                
                 
                   Of
                   that
                   dayes
                   union
                   by
                   my
                   greife
                   ,
                   not
                   fame
                   .
                
                 
                   Priva'te
                   as
                   sorrowes
                   lodging
                   had
                   I
                   dwelt
                
                 
                   Follow'd
                   with
                   my
                   dispaire
                   and
                   never
                   felt
                
                 
                   Anger
                   except
                   for
                   livinge
                   hadst
                   thou
                   bin
                
                 
                   Content
                   with
                   my
                   undoinge
                   'T
                   is
                   a
                   sinn
                
                 
                   My
                   love
                   cannot
                   forgive
                   there
                   to
                   upbraid
                
                 
                   Awret
                   chednesse
                   which
                   thou
                   thy selfe
                   hast
                   made
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Heaven
                   knowes
                   I
                   sufferd
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   sufferd
                   so
                
                 
                   That
                   by
                   me
                   t
                   was
                   as
                   infallible
                   to
                   know
                
                 
                   How
                   passive
                   man
                   is
                   ,
                   fate
                   knew
                   not
                   a
                   curse
                
                 
                   Except
                   thy
                   new
                   contempt
                   to
                   make
                   mee
                   worse
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   thou
                   gav'st
                   when
                   I
                   so
                   low
                   was
                   brought
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   knew
                   not
                   if
                   I
                   liv'd
                   but
                   yet
                   I
                   thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   counted
                   sighs
                   and
                   teares
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   to
                   scann
                
                 
                   The
                   aire
                   and
                   water
                   would
                   make
                   up
                   a
                   man.
                
                 
                   Hadst
                   thou
                   not
                   broake
                   the
                   peace
                   of
                   my
                   decay
                
                 
                   Ere
                   this
                   I
                   thinke
                   ●…'de
                   wept
                   some
                   sinns
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   Being
                   diseas'd
                   ,
                   diseas'd
                   past
                   mine
                   owne
                   cure
                
                 
                   Thou
                   wouldst
                   needs
                   kill
                   which
                   made
                   mee
                   to
                   indure
                
                 
                   My
                   patience
                   :
                   why
                   (
                   Ioyes
                   murdresse
                   )
                   wouldst
                   thou
                   prove
                
                 
                   VVhether
                   that
                   bee
                   as
                   passive
                   as
                   my
                   love
                   ?
                
                 
                   Had
                   woman
                   such
                   a
                   way
                   as
                   shee
                   can
                   give
                
                 
                   To
                   man
                   deniall
                   ,
                   as
                   of
                   love
                   to
                   live
                   ?
                
                 
                   VVhy
                   then
                   th'
                   abhored
                   reason
                   meers
                   me
                   ;
                   why
                
                 
                   Successless
                   lovers
                   doe
                   so
                   quickly
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   be
                   it
                   with
                   mee
                   ,
                   but
                   if
                   any
                   curse
                
                 
                   First
                   can
                   be
                   fastned
                   on
                   thee
                   which
                   is
                   worse
                
                 
                   Then
                   thy
                   unwept
                   for
                   vow-breach
                   may
                   it
                   come
                
                 
                   As
                   my
                   greife
                   heavye
                   ;
                   may
                   the
                   tedious
                   summe
                
                 
                   Of
                   thy
                   great
                   sinns
                   stand
                   sentinell
                   to
                   keep
                
                 
                   Repentance
                   from
                   thy
                   thoughts
                   reach
                   .
                   May
                   thy
                
                 
                   Sleep
                   Be
                   broken
                   as
                   my
                   hopes
                   ,
                   'bove
                   all
                   may
                   ●…e
                
                 
                   Thou
                   choosest
                   husband
                   ripe
                   to
                   jealousye
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   find
                   it
                   true
                   ,
                   to
                   tell
                   thee
                   ;
                   may
                   the
                   theames
                
                 
                   On
                   which
                   thy
                   sleepe
                   doth
                   paraphrase
                   in
                   dreames
                
                 
                   Bee
                   my
                   sad
                   wrongs
                   :
                   and
                   when
                   some
                   other
                   shall
                
                 
                   (
                   VVhom
                   chance
                   hath
                   made
                   with
                   mee
                   apocryphall
                
                 
                   In
                   loveing
                   storyes
                   )
                   search
                   an
                   instance
                   forth
                
                 
                   To
                   curse
                   his
                   Mistris
                   for
                   her
                   little
                   worth
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   May
                   thy
                   name
                   meet
                   him
                   ,
                   under
                   whom
                   must
                   be
                
                 
                   The
                   Common
                   place
                   of
                   womans
                   perjury
                   .
                
                 
                   May
                   heaven
                   make
                   all
                   this
                   :
                   and
                   if
                   thou
                   pray
                
                 
                   May
                   heaven
                   esteeme
                   as
                   that
                   thou
                   didst
                   that
                   day
                
                 
                   Of
                   thy
                   last
                   promises
                   ,
                   I
                   've
                   said
                   ,
                   be
                   free
                
                 
                   This
                   pennance
                   done
                   ,
                   then
                   my
                   dayes
                   destinye
                
                 
                   By
                   thee
                   is
                   antedated
                   .
                   But
                   three
                   sighs
                
                 
                   Must
                   first
                   pay
                   my
                   admission
                   to
                   the
                   skyes
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   for
                   my
                   madness
                   ,
                   loving
                   woman
                   so
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   could
                   think
                   her
                   true
                   ;
                   the
                   next
                   I
                   le
                   throw
                
                 
                   For
                   wounded
                   lovers
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   'le
                   breath
                   a
                   new
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   third
                   shall
                   pray
                   my
                   curses
                   may
                   prove
                   true
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 imitation
                 of
                 Sir
                 Philip
                 Sydnie's
                 Encomium
                 of
                 Mopsa
                 .
              
               
                 
                   ASsist
                   mee
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   Lov
                   's
                   ,
                   great
                   Queen
                   of
                   Paphos
                
                 
                   Inspire
                   my
                   muse
                   with
                   straines
                   more
                   rich
                   then
                   Saphos
                   !
                
                 
                   Approach
                   you
                   Heliconiau
                   lasses
                   ,
                   even
                
                 
                   Chaste
                   
                     Erato
                     ,
                     Thalie
                  
                   and
                   th'
                   other
                   seaven
                   .
                
                 
                   Direct
                   my
                   quill
                   whilst
                   I
                   her
                   praises
                   caroll
                   out
                
                 
                   Whose
                   paralle's
                   not
                   found
                   in
                   all
                   the
                   world
                   about
                
                 
                   In
                   lovelinesse
                   sh'
                   excells
                   (
                   and
                   't
                   is
                   no
                   wonder
                   )
                
                 
                   Those
                   brave
                   Cicilian
                   ,
                   forgers
                   of
                   Joves
                   thunder
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   chastity
                   I
                   m'e
                   sure
                   her
                   equall
                   none
                   is
                
                 
                   Not
                   Venus
                   selfe
                   that
                   lov'd
                   the
                   faire
                   Adonis
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Medea's
                   not
                   more
                   mild
                   ,
                   who
                   as
                   the
                   talk
                   is
                
                 
                   Made
                   Iason
                   steale
                   the
                   golden
                   fleece
                   from
                   Cholchos
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   modest
                   silence
                   ,
                   I
                   dare
                   say
                   shee
                   'l
                   fit
                   ye
                
                 
                   Wherein
                   shee
                   's
                   not
                   an
                   ace
                   behind
                   Zantippe
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Oh!
                   the
                   comely
                   graces
                   of
                   her
                   feature
                
                 
                   Great
                   Plutoes
                   Cour
                   affords
                   not
                   such
                   a
                   creature
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   golden
                   tresses
                   far
                   surpasse
                   Megaera's
                
                 
                   In
                   compassing
                   her
                   lofty
                   forehead
                   ,
                   whereas
                
                 
                   No
                   frown
                   nor
                   wrinckle
                   ere
                   appeares
                   to
                   fright
                   ye
                
                 
                   But
                   still
                   more
                   calme
                   than
                   smooth
                   fac'd
                   Amphirité
                   .
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   those
                   vaulted
                   cells
                   are
                   fixt
                   those
                   torches
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   proceeds
                   that
                   flame
                   so
                   fiercely
                   siorches
                   .
                
                 
                   Between
                   both
                   which
                   her
                   precious
                   nose
                   is
                   placed
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   fairest
                   pearles
                   and
                   rubies
                   rich
                   encased
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   comes
                   her
                   heavenly
                   mouth
                   whose
                   sweet
                   composure
                
                 
                   Falls
                   not
                   within
                   expressions
                   ,
                   limmits
                   ,
                   no
                   sure
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   even
                   unto
                   her
                   precious
                   eares
                   doth
                   guide
                   us
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   makes
                   her
                   full
                   as
                   faire
                   as
                   great
                   King
                   Mydas
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   's
                   smooth
                   as
                   Pan
                   ,
                   her
                   skin
                   (
                   which
                   you
                   'le
                   admire
                   )
                   is
                
                 
                   Like
                   purest
                   gold
                   ,
                   more
                   glorious
                   far
                   then
                   Iris
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   to
                   close
                   up
                   this
                   Magazin
                   of
                   pleasures
                
                 
                   She
                   most
                   exactly
                   treads
                   god
                   -
                   Vulcans
                   measures
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   my
                   Mistris
                   Character
                   ,
                   and
                   if
                   in
                
                 
                   These
                   lines
                   her
                   name
                   you
                   misse
                   ;
                   't
                   is
                   faire
                   
                     Befs
                     Griffin
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Scholler
                 that
                 sold
                 his
                 Cussion
                 .
              
               
                 
                   TOm
                   I
                   commend
                   thy
                   care
                   of
                   all
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   souldst
                   this
                   Cushion
                   for
                   a
                   pipe
                   of
                   To
                   —
                
                 
                   Now
                   art
                   thou
                   like
                   though
                   not
                   to
                   studdy
                   more
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ten
                   times
                   harder
                   then
                   thou
                   didst
                   before
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 the
                 death
                 of
                 Cut.
                 Cobler
                 .
              
               
                 
                   DEath
                   and
                   an
                   honest
                   Cobler
                   fell
                   at
                   bate
                
                 
                   And
                   finding
                   him
                   worne
                   out
                   ,
                   would
                   needs
                   translate
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   was
                   a
                   trusty
                   so'le
                   ,
                   and
                   time
                   had
                   bin
                
                 
                   He
                   would
                   well
                   liquord
                   go
                   through
                   thick
                   and
                   thin
                   .
                
                 
                   Death
                   put
                   a
                   trick
                   upon
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   was
                   't
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Cobler
                   call'd
                   for
                   All
                   ,
                   death
                   brought
                   his
                   last
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   not
                   uprightly
                   done
                   to
                   cut
                   his
                   thread
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   mended
                   more
                   and
                   more
                   till
                   he
                   was
                   dead
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   since
                   hee
                   's
                   gone
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   all
                   that
                   can
                   be
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Honest
                   Gut-Cobler
                   here
                   is
                   underlayd
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Letter
                 to
                 
                   Ben.
                   Johnson
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   DIe
                   Iohnson
                   ,
                   crosse
                   not
                   our
                   Religion
                   so
                
                 
                   As
                   to
                   be
                   thought
                   immortall
                   ;
                   let
                   us
                   know
                
                 
                   Thou
                   art
                   no
                   God
                   ;
                   thy
                   works
                   make
                   us
                   mistake
                
                 
                   Thy
                   person
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   great
                   creations
                   make
                
                 
                   Us
                   I
                   doll
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   cause
                   we
                   see
                   thee
                   do
                
                 
                   Eternall
                   things
                   ,
                   think
                   thee
                   eternall
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Restore
                   us
                   to
                   our
                   faith
                   and
                   dye
                   ,
                   thy
                   doome
                
                 
                   Will
                   do
                   as
                   much
                   good
                   as
                   the
                   fall
                   of
                   Rome
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   will
                   crush
                   an
                   heresie
                   ,
                   we
                   ne're
                   must
                   hope
                
                 
                   For
                   truth
                   till
                   thou
                   be
                   gon
                   ,
                   thou
                   and
                   the
                   Pope
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   though
                   we
                   may
                   be
                   certaine
                   in
                   thy
                   fall
                
                 
                   To
                   lose
                   both
                   wit
                   and
                   judgement
                   ,
                   braines
                   and
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   Sack
                   ,
                   nor
                   Love
                   ,
                   nor
                   Time
                   recover
                   us
                
                 
                   Better
                   be
                   fooles
                   then
                   superstitious
                   .
                
                 
                   Dye
                   !
                   to
                   what
                   end
                   should
                   we
                   thee
                   now
                   adore
                
                 
                   There
                   is
                   not
                   Schollership
                   to
                   live
                   to
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   language
                   is
                   refin'd
                   :
                   professors
                   doubt
                
                 
                   Their
                   Greek
                   and
                   Hebrew
                   both
                   shall
                   be
                   put
                   out
                
                 
                   And
                   we
                   that
                   Latin
                   studied
                   have
                   so
                   long
                
                 
                   Shall
                   now
                   dispute
                   &
                   write
                   in
                   Iohnsons
                   tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nay
                   ,
                   courtiers
                   yeeld
                   ,
                   &
                   every
                   beautious
                   wench
                
                 
                   Had
                   rather
                   speak
                   thy
                   English
                   then
                   her
                   French.
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   for
                   thy
                   matter
                   fancy
                   stands
                   agast
                
                 
                   Wondering
                   to
                   see
                   her
                   strength
                   thus
                   best
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   Invention
                   stops
                   her
                   course
                   and
                   bids
                   the
                   world
                
                 
                   Look
                   for
                   no
                   more
                   ;
                   she
                   hath
                   already
                   hurld
                
                 
                   Her
                   treasure
                   all
                   on
                   one
                   ,
                   thou
                   hast
                   out-done
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   our
                   wit
                   and
                   expectation
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   were
                   it
                   not
                   for
                   thee
                   ,
                   we
                   scarse
                   had
                   known
                
                 
                   Nature
                   her selfe
                   could
                   ere
                   so
                   farre
                   have
                   gon
                   .
                
                 
                   Dye
                   !
                   seemes
                   it
                   not
                   enough
                   thy
                   verse's
                   date
                
                 
                   Is
                   endlesse
                   ;
                   but
                   thine
                   own
                   prolonged
                   fate
                
                 
                   Must
                   equall
                   it
                   ;
                   for
                   shame
                   engross
                   not
                   age
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   (
                   the
                   fith
                   act
                   ended
                   )
                   leave
                   the
                   stage
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   us
                   clap
                   ,
                   we
                   know
                   the
                   Stars
                   that
                   do
                
                 
                   Give
                   others
                   one
                   sife
                   ,
                   give
                   a
                   laureat
                   two
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   thou
                   ,
                   if
                   thus
                   thy
                   body
                   long
                   survives
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hast
                   two
                   eternities
                   ,
                   and
                   not
                   two
                   lives
                   .
                
                 
                   Die
                   for
                   thine
                   own
                   sake
                   ,
                   seest
                   thou
                   not
                   thy
                   praise
                
                 
                   Is
                   shortned
                   onely
                   by
                   this
                   length
                   of
                   daies
                   .
                
                 
                   Men
                   may
                   talk
                   this
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   ,
                   to
                   part
                   the
                   strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   tenet
                   is
                   ,
                   thou
                   hast
                   no
                   fault
                   but
                   life
                   .
                
                 
                   Old
                   Authors
                   do
                   speed
                   best
                   ,
                   me-thinks
                   thy
                   warm
                   breath
                
                 
                   Casts
                   a
                   thick
                   mist
                   betwixt
                   thy
                   worth
                   ,
                   which
                   death
                
                 
                   Would
                   quickly
                   dissipate
                   .
                   If
                   thou
                   wouldst
                   have
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Bayes
                   to
                   flourish
                   ,
                   plant
                   them
                   on
                   thy
                   grave
                   .
                
                 
                   Gold
                   now
                   is
                   drosse
                   ,
                   and
                   Oracles
                   are
                   stuffe
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   us
                   ,
                   for
                   why
                   ?
                   Thou
                   art
                   not
                   low
                   enough
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   still
                   look
                   under
                   thee
                   .
                   Stoop
                   ,
                   and
                   submit
                
                 
                   Thy
                   glory
                   to
                   the
                   meanest
                   of
                   our
                   wit.
                
                 
                   The
                   
                     Rhodsan
                     Colossus
                  
                   ,
                   ere
                   it
                   fell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Could
                   not
                   be
                   scan'd
                   and
                   measured
                   ,
                   half
                   so
                   well
                   .
                
                 
                   Lie
                   levell
                   to
                   our
                   view
                   ,
                   so
                   shall
                   we
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   third
                   and
                   richest
                   University
                   .
                
                 
                   Art's
                   length
                   ,
                   Art's
                   heighth
                   ,
                   Art's
                   depth
                   ,
                   can
                   ne're
                   be
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   thou
                   art
                   prostrate
                   ,
                   stretch'd
                   upon
                   the
                   ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Learning
                   no
                   farther
                   then
                   thy
                   life
                   extends
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   thee
                   began
                   all
                   Arts
                   ,
                   with
                   thee
                   it
                   ends
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 a
                 young
                 Lady
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 Knight
                 .
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Vertuous
                   Lady
                   sitting
                   in
                   a
                   muse
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   As
                   fair
                   and
                   vertuous
                   ,
                   Ladies
                   often
                   use
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   elbow
                   leant
                   upon
                   one
                   knee
                   so
                   hard
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   other
                   distant
                   from
                   it
                   half
                   a
                   yard
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Knight
                   ,
                   to
                   quip
                   her
                   by
                   a
                   secret
                   token
                   ,
                
                 
                   Said
                   ,
                   Wife
                   ,
                   arise
                   ,
                   your
                   Cabinet
                   stands
                   open
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   rising
                   ,
                   blush'd
                   ,
                   and
                   smilingly
                   did
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lock
                   it
                   then
                   ,
                   if
                   you
                   please
                   ,
                   you
                   keep
                   the
                   key
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 a
                 Welch-man's
                 devotion
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THe
                   way
                   to
                   make
                   a
                   Welch-man
                   thirst
                   for
                   blisse
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   daily
                   say
                   his
                   prayers
                   on
                   his
                   knees
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   ,
                   to
                   perswade
                   him
                   ,
                   that
                   most
                   certain
                   't
                   is
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Moon
                   is
                   made
                   of
                   nothing
                   but
                   green
                   cheese
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   he
                   'l
                   desire
                   nought
                   else
                   ,
                   nor
                   greater
                   boon
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   plac'd
                   in
                   heaven
                   ,
                   to
                   feed
                   upon
                   the
                   Moon
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 a
                 Maid's
                 Legge
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FAir
                   Betty
                   us'd
                   to
                   tuck
                   her
                   coats
                   up
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   men
                   her
                   foot
                   and
                   leg
                   might
                   soon
                   espy
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   hast
                   a
                   pretty
                   legg
                   ,
                   (
                   saith
                   one
                   )
                   fair
                   Duck.
                
                 
                   Yea
                   ,
                   two
                   ,
                   (
                   saith
                   she
                   )
                   or
                   else
                   I
                   have
                   ill
                   luck
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   're
                   two
                   indeed
                   ,
                   they
                   're
                   twins
                   ,
                   I
                   think
                   ,
                   quoth
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   are
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   they
                   are
                   not
                   ,
                   Sir
                   ,
                   said
                   she
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   're
                   birth
                   was
                   both
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   I
                   dare
                   be
                   sworn
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   between
                   them
                   both
                   a
                   man
                   was
                   born
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 his
                 Sister
                 .
              
               
                 
                   LOving
                   sister
                   ,
                   every
                   line
                
                 
                   Of
                   your
                   last
                   Letter
                   ,
                   was
                   so
                   fine
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   the
                   best
                   mettall
                   ,
                   that
                   the
                   grain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Scriveners
                   pin-dust
                   had
                   been
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   touch
                   of
                   gold
                   did
                   sure
                   instill
                
                 
                   Some
                   vertue
                   ,
                   more
                   than
                   did
                   your
                   quill
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   since
                   you
                   write
                   no
                   cleanly
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   tokens
                   make
                   me
                   understand
                   .
                
                 
                   Mine
                   eyes
                   have
                   here
                   a
                   remedy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whereby
                   to
                   read
                   more
                   easily
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   do
                   but
                   jest
                   ;
                   Your
                   love
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   my
                   interpretation
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   words
                   I
                   will
                   recall
                   ,
                   and
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   know
                   your
                   hand
                   is
                   wondrous
                   fair
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 the
                 death
                 of
                 Hobson
                 ,
                 the
                 
                 Cambridge-Carrier
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HEre
                   Hobson
                   lies
                   ,
                   amongst
                   his
                   many
                   betters
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   man
                   not
                   learned
                   ,
                   yet
                   of
                   many
                   Letters
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Schollers
                   well
                   can
                   justifie
                   as
                   much
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   have
                   receiv'd
                   them
                   from
                   his
                   pregnant
                   pouch
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   His
                   carriage
                   is
                   well
                   known
                   ,
                   oft
                   hath
                   he
                   gone
                
                 
                   An
                   Embassie
                   ,
                   'twixt
                   father
                   and
                   the
                   son
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Cambridge
                   few
                   (
                   in
                   good
                   time
                   be
                   it
                   spoken
                   )
                
                 
                   But
                   will
                   remember
                   him
                   by
                   some
                   good
                   token
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   to
                   London
                   rode
                   he
                   day
                   by
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   death
                   benighting
                   him
                   ,
                   he
                   lost
                   his
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   wonder
                   is
                   it
                   ,
                   that
                   he
                   thus
                   is
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   most
                   men
                   know
                   ,
                   he
                   long
                   was
                   drawing
                   on
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Team
                   was
                   of
                   the
                   best
                   ,
                   nor
                   could
                   he
                   have
                
                 
                   Them
                   mir'd
                   in
                   any
                   ground
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   the
                   grave
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   he
                   sticks
                   indeed
                   ,
                   still
                   like
                   to
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Untill
                   some
                   Angell
                   lend
                   his
                   helping
                   hand
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   rests
                   in
                   peace
                   the
                   ever
                   toiling
                   Swain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   supream
                   Waggoner
                   ,
                   next
                   
                     Charls
                     his
                     wain
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Another
                 on
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HEre
                   lieth
                   one
                   ,
                   who
                   did
                   most
                   truely
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   he
                   could
                   never
                   die
                   ,
                   whilst
                   he
                   could
                   move
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   hung
                   his
                   destiny
                   ,
                   never
                   to
                   rot
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   he
                   could
                   but
                   jogg
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   keep
                   his
                   trot
                   .
                
                 
                   Made
                   of
                   Sphear
                   mettall
                   ,
                   never
                   to
                   decay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Untill
                   his
                   resolution
                   made
                   of
                   stay
                   .
                
                 
                   Time
                   numbers
                   motion
                   ,
                   yet
                   without
                   a
                   crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Gainst
                   old
                   truth
                   ,
                   motion
                   numbered
                   out
                   his
                   time
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   like
                   some
                   Engine
                   mov'd
                   ,
                   with
                   wheeles
                   and
                   weight
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   principles
                   once
                   ceas'd
                   ,
                   he
                   ended
                   streight
                   .
                
                 
                   Rest
                   ,
                   that
                   gives
                   all
                   men
                   life
                   ,
                   gave
                   him
                   his
                   death
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   too
                   much
                   breathing
                   put
                   him
                   out
                   of
                   breath
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   had
                   his
                   doings
                   lasted
                   as
                   they
                   were
                
                 
                   He
                   had
                   been
                   an
                   immortall
                   Carrier
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Another
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HEre
                   lies
                   old
                   Hobson
                   !
                   Death
                   hath
                   his
                   desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   (
                   alasse
                   )
                   hath
                   left
                   him
                   in
                   the
                   mire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   the
                   waies
                   being
                   foul
                   ,
                   twenty
                   to
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   here
                   stuck
                   in
                   a
                   slough
                   ,
                   and
                   overthrown
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   such
                   a
                   shifter
                   ,
                   that
                   if
                   truth
                   were
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   Death
                   was
                   half
                   glad
                   that
                   he
                   had
                   got
                   him
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   he
                   hath
                   any
                   time
                   this
                   ten
                   years
                   full
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dog'dd
                   him
                   'twixt
                   Cambridge
                   and
                   the
                   London-Bull
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   surely
                   death
                   could
                   never
                   have
                   prevail'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   his
                   weekly
                   course
                   of
                   carriage
                   fail'd
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   lately
                   finding
                   him
                   so
                   long
                   at
                   home
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thinking
                   now
                   his
                   journey's
                   end
                   was
                   come
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   he
                   had
                   tane
                   up
                   his
                   latest
                   Inne
                   ,
                
                 
                   Death
                   in
                   the
                   likenesse
                   of
                   a
                   Chamberlin
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Shew'd
                   him
                   his
                   room
                   ,
                   where
                   he
                   must
                   lodge
                   that
                   night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pull'd
                   off
                   his
                   boots
                   ,
                   and
                   took
                   away
                   the
                   light
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   ask
                   for
                   him
                   ,
                   it
                   shall
                   be
                   sed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hobson
                   has
                   supt
                   ,
                   and
                   newly
                   gon
                   to
                   bed
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Fr.
                   Clark
                
                 ,
                 Porter
                 of
                 St.
                 Johns
                 ,
                 To
                 the
                 President
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HElp
                   Silvanus
                   ,
                   help
                   god
                   Pan
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   shew
                   my
                   love
                   to
                   this
                   kinde
                   man
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   out
                   of
                   's
                   love
                   and
                   nature
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hath
                   well
                   encreas'd
                   my
                   store
                   of
                   wood
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   whilest
                   he
                   the
                   same
                   peruses
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wood-Nymphs
                   help
                   instead
                   of
                   Muses
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   thou
                   that
                   sitst
                   at
                   St.
                   Iohns
                   helm
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   humbly
                   thank
                   thee
                   for
                   my
                   Elme
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   it
                   chance
                   an
                   Oak
                   to
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   heart
                   of
                   Oak
                   I
                   thank
                   your
                   love
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Tree
                   (
                   to
                   leave
                   all
                   
                   Ovid's
                   fables
                   )
                
                 
                   Shall
                   be
                   the
                   Tree
                   of
                   Predicables
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   you
                   like
                   not
                   that
                   opinion
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   kindred
                   Tree
                   of
                   great
                   Iustinian
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   finer
                   Wits
                   may
                   run
                   upon
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   do
                   mean
                   to
                   make
                   fire
                   on
                   't
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   which
                   I
                   'le
                   sit
                   and
                   sing
                   ,
                   in
                   spight
                   of
                   wealth
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drink
                   in
                   Lambs-wool
                   to
                   your
                   Worship's
                   health
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 An
                 Epitaph
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HEre
                   underneath
                   this
                   stone
                   doth
                   lie
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   worthy
                   Knight
                   ,
                   brave
                   Sir
                   
                     Iohn
                     Drie
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   whose
                   funerall
                   there
                   was
                   no
                   weeping
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   dy'd
                   before
                   Christmas
                   ,
                   to
                   save
                   house-keeping
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Wife
                 .
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Lusty
                   young
                   Wife
                   ,
                   that
                   of
                   late
                   was
                   sped
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   pleasures
                   of
                   a
                   marriage-bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oft
                   a
                   grave
                   Doctor
                   ask'd
                   ,
                   whether's
                   more
                   right
                
                 
                   For
                   Venus
                   sports
                   ,
                   the
                   morning
                   or
                   the
                   night
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   good
                   old
                   man
                   reply'd
                   ,
                   as
                   he
                   thought
                   meet
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   morn's
                   more
                   wholsom
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   night
                   more
                   sweet
                   .
                
                 
                   Nay
                   then
                   (
                   said
                   she
                   )
                   since
                   we
                   have
                   time
                   and
                   leasure
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   'l
                   to
                   't
                   each
                   morn
                   for
                   health
                   ,
                   each
                   night
                   for
                   pleasure
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 constant
                 man.
                 
              
               
                 
                   HE
                   that
                   with
                   frownes
                   is
                   not
                   dejected
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   with
                   soothing
                   smiles
                   erected
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   at
                   the
                   baits
                   of
                   pleasure
                   biteth
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   whom
                   no
                   thoughts
                   nor
                   crosse
                   affrighteth
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   center
                   to
                   himself
                   ,
                   controleth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Change
                   and
                   fortune
                   when
                   she
                   rouleth
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   when
                   the
                   silent
                   night
                   begins
                   ,
                
                 
                   Makes
                   even
                   reckoning
                   with
                   his
                   sinns
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   not
                   deferreth
                   till
                   to
                   morrow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   wipe
                   out
                   his
                   black
                   scores
                   of
                   sorrow
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   sets
                   hell-pains
                   at
                   six
                   and
                   seven
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   feareth
                   not
                   the
                   fall
                   of
                   heaven
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   's
                   full
                   resolv'd
                   without
                   denyall
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   yield
                   his
                   life
                   to
                   any
                   tryall
                   ;
                
                 
                   Making
                   his
                   death
                   his
                   meditation
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   longing
                   for
                   his
                   transmigration
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   constant
                   man
                   ,
                   who
                   never
                
                 
                   From
                   himself
                   ,
                   nor
                   God
                   doth
                   sever
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 his
                 Mistris
                 .
              
               
                 
                   COme
                   let
                   's
                   hug
                   and
                   kisse
                   each
                   other
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sacrificing
                   to
                   Love's
                   mother
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   duties
                   which
                   she
                   loves
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   then
                   thousand
                   milky
                   Doves
                
                 
                   Fresh
                   bleeding
                   on
                   her
                   altars
                   .
                   We
                
                 
                   Will
                   not
                   use
                   our
                   piety
                
                 
                   In
                   such
                   slaughters
                   .
                   Cruelty
                
                 
                   Is
                   no
                   devotion
                   ,
                   nor
                   can
                   I
                
                 
                   Believe
                   ,
                   that
                   she
                   can
                   pleasure
                   take
                
                 
                   In
                   blood
                   ,
                   unlesse
                   for
                   Mars
                   his
                   sake
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   :
                   Let
                   us
                   to
                   
                   Cythera's
                   Queen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Burn
                   for
                   sacrifice
                   our
                   green
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tender
                   youth
                   ,
                   with
                   those
                   divine
                
                 
                   Flames
                   ,
                   which
                   thine
                   eyes
                   begot
                   of
                   mine
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   lest
                   the
                   while
                   our
                   zeal
                   catch
                   cold
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   warm
                   embraces
                   we
                   'l
                   enfold
                
                 
                   Each
                   other
                   ,
                   to
                   produce
                   a
                   heat
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   pleasing
                   her
                   ,
                   we
                   pleasure
                   get
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   's
                   kisse
                   and
                   hugg
                   each
                   other
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sacrificing
                   to
                   Lov
                   's
                   mother
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Swearing
                 .
              
               
                 
                   IN
                   elder
                   times
                   ,
                   an
                   antient
                   custom
                   was
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   weighty
                   matters
                   to
                   swear
                   by
                   the
                   Masse
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   Mass
                   was
                   down
                   ,
                   as
                   all
                   men
                   note
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   swore
                   they
                   by
                   the
                   crosse
                   of
                   the
                   grey
                   Groat
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   crosse
                   was
                   likewise
                   held
                   in
                   scorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   faith
                   and
                   troth
                   was
                   all
                   the
                   oath
                   was
                   sworn
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   they
                   had
                   out-worn
                   both
                   faith
                   and
                   troth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   Dam
                   my
                   soul
                   ,
                   became
                   a
                   common
                   oath
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   custom
                   kept
                   decorum
                   in
                   gradation
                   :
                
                 
                   Mass
                   ,
                   cross
                   ,
                   faith
                   ,
                   troth
                   out-sworn
                   ,
                   then
                   came
                   damnation
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 a
                 good
                 Legg
                 and
                 Foot.
                 
              
               
                 
                   IF
                   Hercules
                   tall
                   stature
                   might
                   be
                   guess'd
                
                 
                   But
                   by
                   his
                   thumb
                   ,
                   the
                   Index
                   of
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   due
                   proportion
                   ,
                   the
                   best
                   rule
                   that
                   I
                
                 
                   Would
                   chuse
                   ,
                   to
                   measure
                   Venus
                   beauty
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   Should
                   be
                   her
                   leg
                   and
                   foot
                   :
                   Why
                   gaze
                   we
                   so
                
                 
                   On
                   th'upper
                   parts
                   ,
                   as
                   proud
                   to
                   look
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   In
                   chusing
                   Wives
                   )
                   when
                   't
                   is
                   too
                   often
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   colours
                   of
                   their
                   face
                   are
                   not
                   their
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   for
                   their
                   legs
                   ,
                   whether
                   they
                   mince
                   or
                   stride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   native
                   compasses
                   are
                   seldom
                   wide
                
                 
                   Oftelling
                   truth
                   .
                   The
                   round
                   and
                   slender
                   foot
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   a
                   prov'd
                   token
                   of
                   a
                   secret
                   note
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   hidden
                   parts
                   ,
                   and
                   well
                   this
                   way
                   may
                   lead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unto
                   the
                   closet
                   of
                   a
                   mayden-head
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   emblems
                   of
                   our
                   youth
                   ,
                   we
                   Roses
                   tie
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   the
                   Garter
                   ,
                   love's
                   dear
                   mystery
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   want
                   of
                   beauty
                   here
                   ,
                   the
                   Peacock's
                   pride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   's
                   fall
                   her
                   train
                   ,
                   and
                   fearing
                   to
                   bespy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shuts
                   up
                   her
                   painted
                   witnesses
                   ,
                   to
                   let
                
                 
                   Those
                   eyes
                   from
                   view
                   ,
                   which
                   are
                   but
                   counterfeit
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   looks
                   not
                   if
                   this
                   part
                   be
                   good
                   or
                   evill
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   meet
                   with
                   cloven
                   feet
                   ,
                   and
                   match
                   the
                   devill
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   did
                   make
                   the
                   difference
                   between
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   more
                   unhallowed
                   creatures
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   clean
                   .
                
                 
                   Well
                   may
                   you
                   judge
                   her
                   other
                   parts
                   are
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   thoughts
                   are
                   wry
                   that
                   doth
                   not
                   tread
                   aright
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   then
                   ther
                   's
                   true
                   perfection
                   ,
                   when
                   we
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   parts
                   more
                   absolute
                   which
                   hidden
                   be
                   .
                
                 
                   Nature
                   ne're
                   lent
                   a
                   fair
                   foundation
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   an
                   unworthy
                   frame
                   to
                   rest
                   thereon
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   others
                   view
                   the
                   top
                   ,
                   and
                   limbs
                   throughout
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   deeper
                   knowledge
                   is
                   to
                   know
                   the
                   root
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   viewing
                   of
                   the
                   face
                   ,
                   the
                   weakest
                   know
                
                 
                   What
                   beauty
                   is
                   ,
                   the
                   learned
                   look
                   more
                   low
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   feet
                   the
                   other
                   parts
                   descry
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   in
                   a
                   pool
                   the
                   Moon
                   we
                   use
                   to
                   spy
                   .
                
                 
                   Pardon
                   ,
                   sweet-heart
                   ,
                   the
                   pride
                   of
                   my
                   desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   but
                   to
                   kisse
                   your
                   toe
                   it
                   should
                   aspire
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Upon
                 the
                 view
                 of
                 his
                 Mistresse
                 face
                 in
                 a
                 Glasse
                 .
              
               
                 
                   AH
                   cruel
                   Glasse●…
                   didst
                   thou
                   not
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Chloris
                   alone
                   too
                   hard
                   for
                   me
                   ?
                
                 
                   Perceiv'dst
                   thou
                   not
                   her
                   charming
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   ravish
                   mine
                   in
                   cruell
                   fight
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   then
                   another
                   she
                   must
                   frame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   single
                   forces
                   well
                   might
                   tame
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   lovers
                   heart
                   ;
                   no
                   humane
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   proof
                   against
                   her
                   force
                   alone
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   did
                   I
                   venture
                   ,
                   though
                   struck
                   mute
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   beauteous
                   vision
                   to
                   salute
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   like
                   aire
                   in
                   figur'd
                   charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deceiv'd
                   the
                   ambush
                   of
                   my
                   arms
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   some
                   wise
                   Angel
                   her
                   shape
                   took
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   so
                   he
                   might
                   more
                   heavenly
                   look
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   her
                   old
                   captive
                   ,
                   now
                   do
                   yield
                
                 
                   Her
                   shaddowed
                   self
                   another
                   field
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   such
                   odds
                   overcome
                   ,
                   to
                   die
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   no
                   dishonoured
                   victory
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 Bond
                 the
                 Userer
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HEre
                   lyes
                   a
                   Bond
                   under
                   this
                   tombe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Seald
                   and
                   deliver'd
                   to
                   ,
                   god
                   knows
                   whom
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 the
                 Duke
                 of
                 Buckingham
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WHen
                   I
                   can
                   pay
                   my
                   Parents
                   ,
                   or
                   my
                   King
                   '
                
                 
                   For
                   life
                   ,
                   or
                   peace
                   ,
                   or
                   any
                   dearer
                   thing
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   dearest
                   Lord
                   ,
                   expect
                   my
                   debt
                   to
                   you
                
                 
                   Shall
                   be
                   as
                   truly
                   paid
                   ,
                   as
                   it
                   is
                   due
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   as
                   no
                   other
                   price
                   or
                   recompence
                
                 
                   Serves
                   them
                   ,
                   but
                   love
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   obedience
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   nothing
                   payes
                   my
                   Lord
                   ,
                   but
                   what
                   's
                   above
                
                 
                   The
                   reach
                   of
                   hands
                   ,
                   his
                   vertue
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   love
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   when
                   as
                   goodness
                   doth
                   so
                   overflowe
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   conscience
                   binds
                   not
                   to
                   restore
                   but
                   owe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Requitall
                   were
                   presumpt●…n
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   may
                   ,
                
                 
                   Call
                   mee
                   ungratefull
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   strive
                   to
                   pay
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   with
                   this
                   morall
                   lesson
                   do
                   I
                   shift
                
                 
                   Like
                   one
                   that
                   meant
                   to
                   save
                   a
                   better
                   g●…ift
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   very
                   poor
                   or
                   connterfeit
                   poor
                   men
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   to
                   preserve
                   their
                   Turky
                   or
                   their
                   hen
                
                 
                   Do
                   offer
                   up
                   themselves
                   .
                   No
                   ,
                   I
                   have
                   sent
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   kind
                   of
                   guift
                   ,
                   will
                   last
                   by
                   being
                   spent
                   )
                
                 
                   Thanks-starling
                   ,
                   farr
                   above
                   the
                   bullion
                   rate
                
                 
                   Of
                   horses
                   ,
                   hangings
                   ,
                   jewells
                   ,
                   coyne
                   ,
                   or
                   plate
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   you
                   that
                   should
                   in
                   choosing
                   of
                   your
                   owne
                   ,
                
                 
                   Know
                   a
                   true
                   Diamond
                   from
                   a
                   Bristow
                   stone
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   that
                   do
                   know
                   they
                   are
                   not
                   allwayes
                   best
                
                 
                   In
                   their
                   intent
                   ,
                   that
                   lowdest
                   do
                   portest
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   a
                   prayer
                   from
                   the
                   Convocation
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   better
                   than
                   the
                   Commons
                   protestation
                   ,
                
                 
                   Trust
                   them
                   that
                   at
                   your
                   feet
                   their
                   lives
                   will
                   lay
                
                 
                   And
                   know
                   no
                   arts
                   but
                   to
                   performe
                   and
                   pray
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   they
                   that
                   buy
                   perferment
                   without
                   praying
                
                 
                   Begin
                   with
                   bribes
                   ,
                   and
                   finish
                   with
                   betraying
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Gentlemans
                 verses
                 before
                 he
                 Killed
                 himselfe
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HAst
                   Night
                   unto
                   thy
                   Center
                   ,
                   are
                   thy
                   winges
                
                 
                   Rul'd
                   by
                   the
                   course
                   of
                   dull
                   clockt
                   plummetings
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   so
                   ,
                   mount
                   on
                   my
                   thoughts
                   ,
                   &
                   wee
                   'le
                   exceed
                
                 
                   All
                   time
                   that
                   's
                   past
                   t'gain
                   midnight
                   with
                   ou●…
                   speed
                
                 
                   The
                   day
                   more
                   favourable
                   hasted
                   on
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   its
                   death
                   sent
                   mee
                   instruction
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   thy
                   darknesse
                   tombe
                   my
                   life
                   ,
                   let
                   then
                
                 
                   Thy
                   wonted
                   houres
                   seize
                   on
                   the
                   eyes
                   of
                   men
                
                 
                   Make
                   them
                   imagine
                   by
                   their
                   sleepe
                   ,
                   what
                   I
                
                 
                   Must
                   truly
                   act
                   ,
                   let
                   each
                   starr
                   veyle
                   his
                   Eye
                
                 
                   With
                   masques
                   of
                   mourninge
                   clowdes
                   :
                   methinkes
                   the
                   owles
                
                 
                   Prodigious
                   summons
                   strike
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   she
                   houles
                
                 
                   My
                   Epicedium
                   ,
                   with
                   whose
                   tragick
                   quill
                
                 
                   I
                   le
                   pencill
                   in
                   this
                   map
                   my
                   haplesse
                   ill
                   .
                
                 
                   Caus'd
                   first
                   by
                   her
                   ,
                   whose
                   fowle
                   apostacy
                
                 
                   In
                   love
                   for
                   ever
                   brand
                   her
                   ;
                   and
                   when
                   I
                
                 
                   Am
                   dead
                   ,
                   deare
                   paper
                   (
                   my
                   minds
                   heire
                   )
                   convey
                
                 
                   This
                   epitaph
                   unto
                   her
                   veiwe
                   ,
                   and
                   pray
                
                 
                   Her
                   to
                   inscribe
                   it
                   on
                   my
                   tombe
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Here
                     lyes
                  
                
                 
                   
                     One
                     murthered
                     by
                     a
                     womans
                     perjuryes
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Who
                     from
                     the
                     time
                     ,
                     she
                     scorn'd
                     him
                     ,
                     scorn'd
                     to
                     live
                  
                
                 
                   
                     No
                     rivall
                     shall
                     him
                     of
                     his
                     death
                     deprive
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Song
                 in
                 commendation
                 of
                 Musicke
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WHen
                   whispering
                   straines
                   doe
                   softly
                   steale
                
                 
                   With
                   creeping
                   passion
                   through
                   the
                   heart
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   at
                   every
                   touch
                   wee
                   feel
                
                 
                   Our
                   pulses
                   beat
                   and
                   beare
                   a
                   part
                
                 
                   When
                   threads
                   can
                   make
                
                 
                   A
                   hart
                   string
                   quake
                
                 
                   Philosophy
                
                 
                   Can
                   scarce
                   denye
                
                 
                   The
                   soule
                   consists
                   of
                   harmony
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   unto
                   heavenly
                   joyes
                   we
                   feigne
                
                 
                   What
                   ere
                   the
                   soul
                   affecteth
                   most
                
                 
                   Which
                   only
                   thus
                   we
                   can
                   explaine
                
                 
                   By
                   musick
                   of
                   the
                   winged
                   host
                   .
                
                 
                   Whose
                   layes
                   wee
                   thinke
                
                 
                   Make
                   starrs
                   to
                   winke
                
                 
                   Philosophy
                
                 
                   Cannot
                   deny
                
                 
                   Our
                   soule
                   consists
                   of
                   harmony
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   lull
                   mee
                   ,
                   lull
                   mee
                   ,
                   charminge
                   ayr
                
                 
                   My
                   senses
                   rockt
                   with
                   wonder
                   sweet
                
                 
                   Like
                   snow
                   on
                   wooll
                   ,
                   thy
                   fallings
                   are
                
                 
                   Soft
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   spirit
                   ,
                   are
                   thy
                   feet
                
                 
                   Greife
                   who
                   need
                   feare
                
                 
                   That
                   hath
                   an
                   eare
                
                 
                   Downe
                   let
                   him
                   lye
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   slumbring
                   dye
                
                 
                   And
                   change
                   his
                   soule
                   for
                   harmony
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Dialogue
                 betwixt
                 Cupid
                 and
                 a
                 Country-Swaine
                 .
              
               
                 
                   AS
                   Cupid
                   tooke
                   his
                   bow
                   and
                   bolt
                
                 
                   Some
                   birding-sport
                   to
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   lightt
                   upon
                   a
                   shepheards
                   swaine
                
                 
                   That
                   was
                   some
                   good
                   mans
                   hinde
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Swa.
                   
                
                 
                   Well
                   met
                   faire
                   Boy
                   ,
                   what
                   sport
                   abroad
                
                 
                   It
                   is
                   a
                   goodly
                   day
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   birds
                   will
                   sitt
                   this
                   frosty
                   morne
                
                 
                   You
                   cannot
                   choose
                   but
                   slay
                   .
                
                 
                   Gods-ouches
                   look
                   ,
                   your
                   eyes
                   are
                   out
                
                 
                   You
                   will
                   not
                   bird
                   I
                   trow
                   :
                
                 
                   Alas
                   goe
                   home
                   or
                   else
                   I
                   thinke
                
                 
                   The
                   birds
                   will
                   laugh
                   at
                   you
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Cup.
                   
                
                 
                   Why
                   man
                   thou
                   dost
                   deceave
                   thy selfe
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   my
                   mother
                   lyes
                
                 
                   Who
                   sayd
                   that
                   though
                   that
                   I
                   were
                   blind
                
                 
                   My
                   arrowes
                   yet
                   had
                   eyes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Swa.
                   
                
                 
                   Why
                   then
                   thy
                   mother
                   is
                   a
                   voole
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   art
                   but
                   an
                   elfe
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   let
                   thy
                   arrowes
                   to
                   have
                   eyes
                
                 
                   And
                   goe
                   with
                   out
                   thy selfe
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Cup.
                   
                
                 
                   Not
                   ,
                   so
                   Sir
                   Swaine
                   ,
                   but
                   hold
                   thy
                   prate
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   do
                   take
                   a
                   shaft
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   le
                   make
                   thee
                   know
                   what
                   I
                   can
                   do
                
                 
                   (
                   At
                   this
                   the
                   young
                   Swain
                   laught
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Then
                   angry
                   Cupid
                   drew
                   his
                   bow
                
              
               
                 
                   Swa.
                   
                
                 
                   For
                   Gods
                   sake
                   kill
                   mee
                   not
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Cup.
                   
                
                 
                   I
                   le
                   make
                   thy
                   lither
                   liver
                   ake
                
              
               
                 
                   Swa.
                   
                
                 
                   Nay
                   I
                   de
                   be
                   loth
                   of
                   that
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   singing
                   arrow
                   hit
                   the
                   marke
                
                 
                   And
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   silly
                   soule
                
                 
                   You
                   might
                   see
                   by
                   his
                   hollow
                   eyes
                
                 
                   Where
                   love
                   had
                   made
                   a
                   hole
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   the
                   Swain
                   went
                   bleeding
                   home
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   stay
                   it
                   was
                   no
                   boot
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   found
                   that
                   he
                   could
                   see
                   to
                   hit
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   could
                   not
                   see
                   to
                   shoot
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Sighes
                 .
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Tell
                   mee
                   ,
                   tell
                   ,
                   thou
                   god
                   of
                   winde
                
                 
                   In
                   all
                   thy
                   cavernes
                   canst
                   thou
                   find
                
                 
                   A
                   vapor
                   ,
                   flame
                   ,
                   a
                   gale
                   or
                   blast
                
                 
                   Like
                   to
                   a
                   sigh
                   which
                   love
                   doth
                   cast
                   ?
                
                 
                   Can
                   any
                   whirle-wind
                   in
                   thy
                   vault
                
                 
                   Plough
                   up
                   Earths
                   breath
                   with
                   like
                   assault
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Goe
                     Wind
                     and
                     blow
                     then
                     where
                     thou
                     please
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Yea
                     breathlesse
                     leave
                     mee
                     to
                     my
                     ease
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   thou
                   bee'st
                   wind
                   ,
                   O
                   then
                   refrain
                
                 
                   From
                   wracking
                   me
                   whilst
                   I
                   complain
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   thou
                   bee'st
                   wind
                   ,
                   then
                   leight
                   thou
                   art
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   how
                   heavy
                   is
                   my
                   heart
                   ?
                
                 
                   If
                   thou
                   bee'st
                   wind
                   ,
                   then
                   purge
                   thy
                   way
                
                 
                   Let
                   care
                   ,
                   that
                   cloggs
                   thy
                   force
                   ,
                   obey
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Goe
                     wind
                     and
                     blowe
                     ,
                     &c.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   blasts
                   of
                   sighing
                   raised
                   are
                
                 
                   By
                   th'
                   influence
                   of
                   my
                   bright
                   starre
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   AEolus
                   from
                   whence
                   they
                   came
                
                 
                   Is
                   love
                   that
                   straines
                   to
                   blow
                   the
                   same
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   angry
                   Sway
                   of
                   whose
                   behest
                
                 
                   Makes
                   hearth
                   and
                   bellowes
                   of
                   one
                   brest
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Go
                     wind
                     and
                     blowe
                     ,
                     &c.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   Know
                   t'
                   is
                   a
                   wind
                   that
                   longs
                   to
                   blow
                
                 
                   Upon
                   my
                   Saint
                   where
                   ere
                   she
                   goe
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stealing
                   through
                   her
                   fanne
                   it
                   beares
                
                 
                   Soft
                   errands
                   to
                   her
                   lipps
                   and
                   eares
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   perhaps
                   a
                   passage
                   makes
                
                 
                   Downe
                   to
                   the
                   heart
                   when
                   breath
                   she
                   takes
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Goe
                     wind
                     and
                     blow
                     ,
                     &c.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   Yea
                   gentle
                   gale
                   ,
                   try
                   it
                   againe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oh
                   do
                   not
                   passe
                   from
                   me
                   in
                   vaine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Go
                   mingle
                   with
                   her
                   soul
                   divine
                
                 
                   Engendring
                   spirits
                   like
                   to
                   mine
                   :
                
                 
                   Yea
                   take
                   my
                   soul
                   along
                   with
                   thee
                
                 
                   To
                   work
                   a
                   stronger
                   Sympathy
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Goe
                     wind
                     and
                     blow
                     ,
                     &c.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   My
                   soul
                   before
                   the
                   grosser
                   part
                
                 
                   Thus
                   to
                   her
                   heaven
                   should
                   depart
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   my
                   body
                   cannot
                   lie
                
                 
                   On
                   wings
                   of
                   wind
                   ,
                   she
                   soone
                   shall
                   flye
                   ;
                
                 
                   Though
                   not
                   one
                   soul
                   our
                   bodies
                   joyne
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   bodies
                   shall
                   our
                   soules
                   combine
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Goe
                     wind
                     and
                     blow
                     thou
                     where
                     thou
                     please
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Yea
                     breathlesse
                     leave
                     me
                     to
                     my
                     ease
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               
                 Weomen
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WEomen
                   are
                   borne
                   in
                   Wilsheire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Brought
                   up
                   in
                   Cumberland
                   .
                
                 
                   Lead
                   their
                   lives
                   in
                   Bedfordsheire
                
                 
                   Bring
                   their
                   husbands
                   to
                   Buckingame
                
                 
                   And
                   dye
                   in
                   Shrewsbury
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 a
                 dissemble●…
                 .
              
               
                 
                   COuld
                   any
                   show
                   where
                   Pl●…es
                   people
                   dwell
                
                 
                   Whose
                   head
                   stand
                   in
                   their
                   brests
                   ,
                   who
                   cannot
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   smoothinge
                   lye
                   ,
                   because
                   their
                   open
                   heart
                
                 
                   And
                   lipps
                   are
                   joyned
                   so
                   neere
                   .
                   I
                   would
                   depart
                
                 
                   As
                   quicke
                   as
                   thought
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   forget
                   the
                   wrongs
                
                 
                   Which
                   I
                   have
                   sufferd
                   by
                   deceitfull
                   tongues
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   would
                   depart
                   ,
                   where
                   soules
                   departed
                   bee
                
                 
                 
                   Which
                   being
                   freed
                   from
                   clowdy
                   flesh
                   ,
                   can
                   see
                
                 
                   Each
                   other
                   so
                   immediately
                   ,
                   so
                   cleare
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   none
                   need
                   tongues
                   to
                   speak
                   nor
                   eares
                   to
                   heare
                   :
                
                 
                   Were
                   tongues
                   intended
                   to
                   expresse
                   the
                   soul
                
                 
                   And
                   can
                   wee
                   better
                   do
                   with
                   none
                   at
                   all
                   ?
                
                 
                   Where
                   words
                   first
                   made
                   our
                   meanings
                   to
                   reveale
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   they
                   us'd
                   our
                   meaning
                   to
                   conceale
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   ayre
                   by
                   which
                   we
                   breathe
                   ,
                   will
                   that
                   turne
                   fogg
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   breath
                   turne
                   mist
                   ;
                   will
                   that
                   become
                   a
                   Clogg
                
                 
                   Which
                   should
                   unload
                   the
                   mind
                   ?
                   fall
                   wee
                   upon
                
                 
                   Another
                   Babells
                   Sub-confusion
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   selfe
                   same
                   language
                   must
                   wee
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   diverse
                   faction
                   of
                   the
                   wordes
                   and
                   mind
                   ?
                
                 
                   Dull
                   as
                   I
                   am
                   ,
                   that
                   hug
                   such
                   empty
                   aire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   never
                   markt
                   the
                   deeds
                   ,
                   (
                   a
                   phrase
                   more
                   faire
                
                 
                   More
                   trusty
                   and
                   univocall
                   )
                   joyne
                   well
                   ,
                
                 
                   Three
                   or
                   foure
                   actions
                   wee
                   may
                   quickly
                   spell
                
                 
                   A
                   hollow
                   heart
                   ;
                   if
                   these
                   no
                   sight
                   will
                   lend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Read
                   the
                   whole
                   sentence
                   and
                   observe
                   the
                   end
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   wil
                   not
                   waite
                   so
                   long
                   :
                   the
                   guilty
                   man
                
                 
                   (
                   On
                   whom
                   I
                   ground
                   my
                   speech
                   )
                   no
                   longer
                   can
                
                 
                   Delude
                   my
                   sense
                   ,
                   nor
                   can
                   the
                   gracefull
                   art
                
                 
                   Of
                   kind
                   dissembling
                   ,
                   button
                   up
                   his
                   heart
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   well-spoke
                   wrongs
                   ,
                   are
                   such
                   as
                   hurtful
                   ●…ords
                
                 
                   Writ
                   in
                   a
                   comely
                   hand
                   ,
                   or
                   bloody
                   swords
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sheathd
                   up
                   in
                   velvet
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   draw
                   on
                   mee
                
                 
                   My
                   armour
                   proof
                   is
                   incredulity
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 a
                 Freind
                 .
              
               
                 
                   LIke
                   as
                   the
                   hand
                   which
                   hath
                   bin
                   usd
                   to
                   play
                
                 
                   One
                   lesson
                   long
                   ,
                   still
                   runs
                   the
                   usuall
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   waites
                   not
                   what
                   the
                   ●…earers
                   bid
                   it
                   strike
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   doth
                   presume
                   by
                   custome
                   this
                   will
                   like
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   run
                   my
                   thoughts
                   which
                   are
                   so
                   perfect
                   grown
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   well
                   acquainted
                   with
                   my
                   passion
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   now
                   they
                   do
                   prevent
                   mee
                   with
                   their
                   haste
                
                 
                   And
                   ere
                   I
                   think
                   to
                   sigh
                   ,
                   my
                   sigh
                   is
                   past
                   ;
                
                 
                   Is
                   past
                   and
                   flown
                   to
                   you
                   ,
                   for
                   you
                   alone
                
                 
                   Are
                   all
                   the
                   object
                   that
                   I
                   think
                   upon
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   did
                   not
                   you
                   supply
                   my
                   soul
                   with
                   thought
                
                 
                   For
                   want
                   of
                   action
                   it
                   to
                   none
                   were
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   though
                   our
                   absent
                   armes
                   may
                   not
                   enfold
                
                 
                   Reall
                   embraces
                   ;
                   yet
                   wee
                   firmly
                   hold
                
                 
                   Each
                   other
                   in
                   possession
                   ;
                   thus
                   wee
                   see
                
                 
                   The
                   Lord
                   enjoyes
                   his
                   Lands
                   where
                   e're
                   he
                   be
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   Knights
                   possest
                   no
                   more
                   then
                   where
                   they
                   sate
                
                 
                   What
                   were
                   they
                   greater
                   then
                   a
                   meaner
                   state
                   ?
                
                 
                   This
                   makes
                   mee
                   firmly
                   yours
                   ,
                   you
                   firmly
                   myne
                
                 
                   That
                   something
                   more
                   than
                   bodies
                   us
                   combine
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Poeticall
                 Poem
                 ,
                 by
                 
                   Mr.
                   Stephen
                   Locket
                
                 to
                 Mistrisse
                 Bess
                 Sarney
                 .
              
               
                 
                   TO
                   my
                   
                     Bess
                     Sarney
                  
                   ,
                   quintessence
                   of
                   beauty
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   
                     Steven
                     Locket
                  
                   do
                   present
                   my
                   duty
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   In
                   rythem
                   daigne
                   goddess
                   to
                   accept
                   my
                   verses
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   wis
                   with
                   worse
                   wise
                   men
                   have
                   wip't
                   their
                   A
                   —
                
                 
                   O
                   thou
                   which
                   able
                   art
                   to
                   take
                   to
                   taske
                   all
                
                 
                   (
                   Pox
                   !
                   what
                   will
                   rythme
                   to
                   that
                   ?
                   )
                   oh
                   ,
                   I
                   'me
                   a
                   raskall
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   'me
                   turnd
                   poet
                   late
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   thy
                   credit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   pend
                   this
                   poem
                   ,
                   prethee
                   tak
                   't
                   and
                   read
                   it
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   needs
                   not
                   be
                   asham'd
                   of
                   't
                   ,
                   for
                   it
                   raises
                
                 
                   Trophyes
                   as
                   high
                   as
                   maypoles
                   to
                   thy
                   prayses
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   in
                   order
                   it
                   thy
                   head
                   doth
                   handle
                
                 
                   That
                   's
                   more
                   orbicular
                   than
                   a
                   quadrangle
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   top
                   of
                   which
                   doth
                   grow
                   a
                   Turst
                   of
                   tresses
                
                 
                   Winter
                   her selfe
                   ,
                   rayd
                   in
                   her
                   hoary
                   dresses
                
                 
                   Of
                   frost
                   ,
                   lookes
                   not
                   more
                   lovely
                   ;
                   thy
                   browes
                   truly
                
                 
                   Have
                   larger
                   furrowes
                   ,
                   than
                   a
                   feild
                   ploughed
                   newly
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   eyes
                   ,
                   ha
                   eyes
                   (
                   Zounds
                   I'am
                   so
                   full
                   of
                   clinches
                   )
                
                 
                   Are
                   not
                   sunck
                   in
                   thy
                   head
                   above
                   sixe
                   inches
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   which
                   distraining
                   gently
                   ,
                   there
                   doth
                   streame
                
                 
                   Rivers
                   of
                   whey
                   ,
                   mixed
                   with
                   curdled
                   creame
                   .
                
                 
                   Straight
                   as
                   a
                   Rams
                   horne
                   is
                   thy
                   nose
                   ,
                   more
                   marrow
                
                 
                   Lyes
                   in
                   thy
                   nostrills
                   ,
                   than
                   would
                   fill
                   a
                   barrow
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   your
                   lip
                   to
                   mak
                   't
                   more
                   ornamentall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hangs
                   down
                   a
                   jewell
                   of
                   S
                   —
                   Orientall
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   bright
                   gold
                   &
                   thy
                   face
                   are
                   of
                   one
                   colour
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   if
                   compar'd
                   with
                   thine
                   ,
                   that
                   is
                   the
                   duller
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   lips
                   are
                   white
                   as
                   tallow
                   ,
                   never
                   man
                   did
                
                 
                   Buss
                   sweeter
                   things
                   ,
                   (
                   sure
                   they
                   are
                   sugarcandid
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   Thy
                   teeth
                   more
                   comely
                   than
                   two
                   dirty
                   rakes
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   breath
                   is
                   stronger
                   than
                   a
                   douzen
                   j●…kes
                   are
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   fa●…t
                   for
                   all
                   perfumes
                   ,
                   a
                   turd
                   for
                   roses
                
                 
                   Smell
                   men
                   but
                   thee
                   ,
                   they
                   wish
                   them selves
                   all
                   n●…ses
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   voyce
                   as
                   sweet
                   ,
                   as
                   musicall
                   ,
                   as
                   fine
                   is
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   any
                   phlegmy
                   Hagg's
                   ,
                   that
                   ninty
                   nine
                   is
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   thou
                   speakst
                   ,
                   (
                   as
                   if
                   th
                   'had
                   bin
                   the
                   wonder
                
                 
                   Of
                   women
                   kind
                   )
                   thy
                   tongu's
                   as
                   still
                   as
                   thunder
                
                 
                   But
                   oh
                   thy
                   shoulders
                   large
                   ;
                   't
                   is
                   six
                   to
                   seven
                   ,
                
                 
                   Should
                   Atla's
                   faile
                   ,
                   but
                   thou
                   wouldst
                   beare
                   up
                   heaven
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   dost
                   excell
                   ,
                   I
                   warrant
                   thee
                   for
                   a
                   button
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hercules
                   and
                   Cacus
                   too
                   ,
                   that
                   stole
                   mutton
                   .
                
                 
                   About
                   the
                   wast
                   ,
                   there
                   thou
                   art
                   three
                   times
                   fuller
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   was
                   the
                   
                     Wadham
                     G●…ragantuan
                     Buller
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   buttock
                   and
                   thy
                   fashion
                   are
                   so
                   all
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   'de
                   a
                   swore
                   thou
                   hadst
                   a
                   Fardingall
                   on
                
                 
                   Thy
                   leggs
                   are
                   Badg●…t
                   like
                   ,
                   and
                   goe
                   as
                   even
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   do
                   Iambick
                   verses
                   or
                   
                     I
                     Steven
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   I
                   'm
                   come
                   unto
                   thy
                   feet
                   ,
                   where
                   I
                   do
                
                 
                   Prostrate
                   my selfe
                   ,
                   with
                   reverence
                   to
                   thy
                   shoo
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Which
                   for
                   antiquity
                   ne're
                   a
                   jot
                   behind
                   is
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Tom
                     Coriats
                  
                   ,
                   that
                   travell'd
                   both
                   the
                   Indies
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   thy
                   sweet
                   sake
                   ,
                   I
                   will
                   go
                   down
                   to
                   Pluto
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   thy
                   quarrel
                   beat
                   him
                   black
                   &
                   blew
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   lest
                   Sr
                   Cerberus
                   should
                   be
                   too
                   lusty
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   have
                   a
                   loafe
                   will
                   hold
                   him
                   play
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   crusty
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   'le
                   bring
                   the
                   Dev'll
                   back
                   with
                   me
                   in
                   a
                   snaffle
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   in
                   that
                   kind
                   I
                   scorne
                   to
                   take
                   a
                   baffle
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   I
                   take
                   my
                   leave
                   ;
                   prithee
                   sweet
                   Thumkin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hold
                   up
                   thy
                   coats
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   may
                   kisse
                   thy
                   bumkin
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Thanks
                 for
                 a
                 welcome
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FOr
                   your
                   good
                   looks
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   your
                   Claret
                
                 
                   For
                   often
                   bidding
                   ,
                   Do
                   not
                   spare
                   it
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   tossing
                   glasses
                   to
                   the
                   top
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   sucking
                   of
                   a
                   drop
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   scarce
                   a
                   drop
                   was
                   left
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   what
                   doth
                   nickname
                   wine
                   e'vn
                   wind
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   healthfull
                   mirth
                   and
                   lusty
                   Sherry
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   made
                   grave
                   old
                   Cato
                   merry
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   are
                   our
                   thanks
                   that
                   you
                   may
                   have
                
                 
                   In
                   bloud
                   the
                   Claret
                   that
                   you
                   gave
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   your
                   service
                   shall
                   be
                   spent
                
                 
                   The
                   spirits
                   which
                   your
                   Sack
                   hath
                   lent
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 Phillis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FYe
                   on
                   this
                   Courtly
                   life
                   ,
                   full
                   of
                   displeasure
                
                 
                   Where
                   neither
                   frownes
                   nor
                   smiles
                   keepe
                   any
                   measure
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   every
                   passion
                   governs
                   in
                   extremes
                   ,
                
                 
                   True
                   love
                   and
                   faith
                   from
                   hence
                   falshod
                   doth
                   banish
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   vowes
                   of
                   friendship
                   here
                   like
                   vapours
                   vanish
                   ,
                
                 
                   Loyalty's
                   counted
                   but
                   a
                   dreame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inconstant
                   favours
                   like
                   rivers
                   gliding
                   ,
                
                 
                   Truth
                   is
                   despis'd
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   flatterie's
                   priz'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Poore
                   vertue
                   here
                   hath
                   no
                   certaine
                   abiding
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   's
                   no
                   longer
                   stay
                   ,
                   my
                   fairest
                   Phillis
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   us
                   fly
                   from
                   hence
                   where
                   so
                   much
                   ill
                   is
                   ;
                
                 
                   Into
                   some
                   some
                   desert
                   place
                   there
                   to
                   abide
                
                 
                   True
                   love
                   shall
                   go
                   with
                   us
                   and
                   faith
                   unfained
                
                 
                   Pure
                   thoughts
                   ,
                   embraces
                   chaste
                   ,
                   and
                   vowes
                   unstain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Vertue
                   her selfe
                   shall
                   ever
                   be
                   our
                   guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Cottage
                   poore
                   where
                   neither
                   frowning
                   fortune
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   change
                   of
                   fate
                
                 
                   Can
                   once
                   abate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   sweet
                   content
                   ,
                   or
                   peace
                   at
                   all
                   importune
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   There
                   will
                   we
                   drive
                   our
                   flocks
                   from
                   hills
                   and
                   vallies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   whilst
                   they
                   feeding
                   are
                   ,
                   wee
                   'l
                   sit
                   &
                   dally
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thy
                   sweet
                   voyce
                   to
                   sing
                   birds
                   shall
                   invite
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   I
                   with
                   roses
                   ,
                   violets
                   ,
                   and
                   lillies
                
                 
                   Will
                   flowry
                   garlands
                   make
                   to
                   crown
                   my
                   Phillis
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   numbred
                   verses
                   to
                   thy
                   praise
                   indite
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   Sun
                   is
                   Westwardly
                   declining
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   flocks
                   and
                   we
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   home
                   wards
                   flee
                
                 
                   And
                   rest
                   our selves
                   untill
                   the
                   Suns
                   next
                   shining
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Women
                 .
              
               
                 
                   ONce
                   I
                   must
                   confesse
                   I
                   loved
                
                 
                   And
                   expected
                   love
                   againe
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   so
                   often
                   as
                   I
                   proved
                
                 
                   My
                   expectance
                   was
                   in
                   vaine
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Women
                   joy
                   to
                   be
                   attempted
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   do
                   glory
                   when
                   they
                   see
                
                 
                   Themselves
                   from
                   loves
                   force
                   exempted
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   men
                   captived
                   bee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   If
                   they
                   love
                   ,
                   they
                   can
                   conceale
                   it
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dissemble
                   when
                   they
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   as
                   men
                   will
                   straight
                   reveale
                   it
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   known
                   their
                   hearts
                   disease
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Men
                   must
                   beg
                   and
                   crave
                   their
                   favour
                   ,
                
                 
                   Making
                   many
                   an
                   idle
                   vow
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   they
                   froward
                   in
                   behaviour
                   ,
                
                 
                   Faine
                   would
                   yeild
                   ,
                   but
                   know
                   not
                   how
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Sweet
                   stolne-sport
                   to
                   them
                   is
                   gratefull
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   heart
                   they
                   wish
                   to
                   have
                   it
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   they
                   do
                   account
                   it
                   hatefull
                
                 
                   Upon
                   any
                   termes
                   to
                   crave
                   it
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   would
                   men
                   not
                   goe
                   about
                   it
                
                 
                   But
                   leave
                   off
                   at
                   all
                   to
                   woe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ere
                   they
                   would
                   be
                   long
                   without
                   it
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   would
                   beg
                   and
                   crave
                   it
                   too
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 World.
                 
              
               
                 
                   WHether
                   men
                   do
                   laugh
                   or
                   weep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   they
                   doe
                   wake
                   or
                   sleep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   they
                   feele
                   heat
                   or
                   cold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   they
                   be
                   young
                   or
                   old
                   ;
                
                 
                   There
                   is
                   underneath
                   the
                   Sun
                
                 
                   Nothing
                   in
                   true
                   earnest
                   done
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   All
                   our
                   pride
                   is
                   but
                   a
                   jest
                   ,
                
                 
                   None
                   are
                   worst
                   and
                   none
                   are
                   best
                   ;
                
                 
                   Greife
                   and
                   joy
                   ,
                   and
                   hope
                   and
                   feare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Play
                   their
                   pageants
                   every
                   where
                   ;
                
                 
                   Vaine
                   opinion
                   all
                   doth
                   sway
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   world
                   is
                   but
                   a
                   play
                   .
                
                 
                   Powers
                   above
                   in
                   clouds
                   doth
                   sit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Marking
                   our
                   poore
                   apish
                   wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   so
                   lamely
                   without
                   state
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   high
                   glory
                   imitate
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   ill
                   can
                   be
                   felt
                   but
                   paine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   happy
                   men
                   disdaine
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 his
                 absent
                 Mistresse
                 .
              
               
                 
                   ABsence
                   ,
                   heare
                   thou
                   my
                   protestation
                
                 
                   Against
                   thy
                   strength
                   ,
                
                 
                   Distance
                   and
                   length
                   ;
                
                 
                   Do
                   what
                   thou
                   canst
                   for
                   alteration
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   hearts
                   where
                   love
                   's
                   refin'd
                
                 
                   Are
                   absent
                   joyn'd
                   ,
                   by
                   tyme
                   combin'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Who
                   loves
                   but
                   where
                   the
                   Graces
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   mind
                   hath
                   found
                
                 
                   Affectious
                   ground
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   time
                   place
                   mortality
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   heart
                   that
                   cannot
                   varie
                   ,
                
                 
                   Absence
                   is
                   present
                   tyme
                   doth
                   carry
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   By
                   absence
                   this
                   good
                   meane
                   I
                   gaine
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   can
                   catch
                   her
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   none
                   can
                   watch
                   her
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   some
                   close
                   corner
                   of
                   my
                   brain
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   I
                   embrace
                   her
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   kisse
                   her
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   enjoy
                   her
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   misse
                   her
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Constant
                 Lover
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Know
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   you
                   ,
                   shee
                   is
                   not
                   faire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   hath
                   she
                   sparkling
                   eyes
                   or
                   curled
                   haire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   shee
                   brag
                   of
                   vertue
                   or
                   of
                   truth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   any
                   thing
                   about
                   her
                   save
                   her
                   youth
                   .
                
                 
                   Shee
                   is
                   woman
                   too
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   no
                   End
                
                 
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                   I
                   verses
                   write
                   and
                   letters
                   send
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   nought
                   I
                   doe
                   can
                   to
                   compassion
                   move
                   her
                
                 
                   Al
                   this
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                   yet
                   cannot
                   choose
                   but
                   love
                   her
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   am
                   not
                   blind
                   as
                   you
                   and
                   others
                   bee
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   think
                   and
                   sweare
                   they
                   littile
                   Cupid
                   see
                
                 
                   Play
                   in
                   their
                   Mistris
                   eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   there
                   dwell
                
                 
                   Roses
                   on
                   cheekes
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   her
                   brest
                   excell
                
                 
                   The
                   whitest
                   snow
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   that
                   love
                   were
                   built
                
                 
                   On
                   fading
                   red
                   and
                   white
                   '
                   the
                   bodies
                   quilt
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   I
                   cannot
                   love
                   unless
                   I
                   tell
                
                 
                   Wherein
                   or
                   on
                   what
                   part
                   my
                   love
                   doth
                   dwell
                   .
                
                 
                   Vaine
                   Hereticks
                   you
                   bee
                   ,
                   for
                   I
                   love
                   more
                
                 
                   Then
                   ever
                   any
                   did
                   that
                   told
                   wherefore
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   trouble
                   mee
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   nor
                   tell
                   mee
                   why
                   ,
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   !
                   because
                   shee
                   is
                   shee
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   am
                   I
                   :
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Irish
                 Beggar
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Pray
                   you
                   save
                   poore
                   Irish
                   knave
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     A
                     hone
                     a
                     hone
                  
                
                 
                   Round
                   about
                   the
                   towne
                   throughout
                
                 
                   Is
                   poore
                   Shone
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Master
                   to
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Loving
                   and
                   kinde
                
                 
                   But
                   Shone
                   to
                   his
                   mind
                   's
                
                 
                   Neare
                   the
                   neere
                   ,
                
                 
                   Poore
                   Shone
                   can
                   find
                   none
                   heere
                
                 
                   Which
                   makes
                   him
                   cry
                   for
                   feare
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     A
                     hone
                     a
                     hone
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Sh●…n
                   being
                   poore
                   ,
                   his
                   feet
                   being
                   sore
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   hee
                   le
                   no
                   more
                
                 
                   Trot
                   about
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   find
                   Master
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   had
                   radir
                   go
                   without
                
                 
                   And
                   cry
                   a
                   hone
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   was
                   so
                   curst
                   that
                   I
                   was
                   forc't
                
                 
                   
                     A
                     hone
                     a
                     hone
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   goe
                   bare
                   foot
                   and
                   strips
                   to
                   boot
                
                 
                   And
                   no
                   shooes
                   ,
                   none
                   ,
                
                 
                   None
                   English
                   could
                   I
                   speake
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   mind
                   for
                   to
                   breake
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   many
                   laught
                   to
                   heare
                   the
                   moane
                   I
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   like
                   a
                   tyred
                   jade
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   had
                   no
                   worke
                   or
                   trade
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Cryed
                     ,
                     a
                     hone
                     a
                     hone
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   In
                   stead
                   of
                   breakfast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   faine
                   runn
                   a
                   pace
                
                 
                   To
                   gett
                   more
                   stomach
                   to
                   my
                   hungry
                   throate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   for
                   freind
                   I
                   sought
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   calld
                   me
                   all
                   to
                   nought
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     A
                     hone
                     a
                     hone
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   Ladyes
                   sake
                   some
                   pitty
                   take
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     A
                     hone
                     a
                     hone
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   serv'd
                   a
                   lasse
                   where
                   was
                   no
                   masse
                
                 
                   No
                   faith
                   none
                   ;
                
                 
                   Oft
                   was
                   I
                   beat
                   'cause
                   I
                   de
                   not
                   eat
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   frydayes
                   ,
                   beefe
                   and
                   meat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Twice
                   a
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   I
                   went
                   to
                   pray
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tooke
                   holy
                   bead
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     A
                     hone
                     a
                     hone
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Make
                   Church
                   to
                   go
                
                 
                   Whether
                   will
                   or
                   no
                
                 
                   I
                   le
                   dye
                   ,
                   or
                   I
                   doe
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   Grace
                   a
                   Christ
                   ,
                
                 
                   Poor
                   Shone
                   loves
                   Popish
                   Preist
                   ,
                
                 
                   Good
                   Catholick
                   thou
                   seest
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     A
                     hone
                     a
                     hone
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Answer
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   prithee
                   Shone
                   make
                   no
                   more
                   mone
                
                 
                   For
                   thy
                   Mr
                   lost
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   doe
                   intend
                   something
                   to
                   spend
                   ,
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   Catholicks
                   thus
                   Crost
                   .
                
                 
                   Take
                   this
                   small
                   guift
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   it
                   make
                   a
                   shift
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bee
                   not
                   thou
                   bereft
                   of
                   thy
                   minde
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   though
                   hee
                   be
                   unkind
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   leave
                   thee
                   thus
                   behind
                
                 
                   
                     To
                     cry
                     a
                     hone
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Buy
                   thee
                   some
                   beere
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   some
                   good
                   cheere
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   nought
                   for
                   thee
                   too
                   deare
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   ere
                   ensue
                
                 
                   Be
                   constant
                   still
                   and
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   country
                   do
                   not
                   rue
                
                 
                   
                     Nor
                     cry
                     a
                     hone
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Shone
                
                 
                   Good
                   shentry
                   men
                   that
                   do
                   intend
                
                 
                   To
                   helpe
                   poore
                   Shone
                   at
                   's
                   need
                
                 
                   Mine
                   patron
                   ●…eer
                   hath
                   given
                   mee
                   beere
                
                 
                   And
                   meat
                   whereon
                   to
                   feed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yea
                   and
                   money
                   too
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   I
                   hope
                   that
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVill
                   do
                   as
                   he
                   did
                   do
                   for
                   my
                   reliefe
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   ease
                   my
                   paine
                   and
                   greife
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   le
                   eat
                   no
                   powdred
                   beefe
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVhat
                   ere
                   ensue
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   I
                   le
                   keep
                   my
                   fast
                
                 
                   As
                   in
                   times
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   my
                   prayers
                   and
                   vowes
                   I
                   will
                   renew
                
                 
                   Cause
                   friends
                   I
                   find
                   but
                   few
                   ,
                
                 
                   Poore
                   Shone
                   will
                   still
                   prove
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   adieu
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Question
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   aske
                   thee
                   whence
                   those
                   ashes
                   were
                
                 
                   Which
                   shrine
                   themselves
                   in
                   plaits
                   of
                   haire
                   ?
                
                 
                   Unknown
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                   sure
                   each
                   morne
                   dyes
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Phoenix
                   for
                   a
                   sacrifice
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   aske
                   whence
                   are
                   those
                   aires
                   that
                   flye
                
                 
                   From
                   birds
                   in
                   sweetest
                   harmony
                   ?
                
                 
                   Unknown
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                   but
                   sure
                   the
                   choice
                
                 
                   Of
                   accents
                   ecchoed
                   from
                   her
                   voice
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   aske
                   thee
                   whence
                   those
                   active
                   fires
                
                 
                   Take
                   light
                   which
                   glide
                   through
                   burnisht
                   aire
                   ?
                
                 
                   Unknown
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                   unlesse
                   there
                   flyes
                
                 
                   A
                   flash
                   of
                   lightning
                   from
                   her
                   eyes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   aske
                   thee
                   whence
                   those
                   ruddy
                   bloomes
                
                 
                   Pierce
                   on
                   her
                   cheekes
                   on
                   scarlet
                   gownes
                   ?
                
                 
                   Unknowne
                   to
                   me
                   ?
                   Sure
                   that
                   which
                   flyes
                
                 
                   From
                   fading
                   roses
                   ,
                   her
                   cheek
                   dyes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   I
                   le
                   ask
                   thee
                   of
                   the
                   lilly
                   ,
                   whence
                
                 
                   It
                   gaind
                   that
                   type
                   of
                   innocence
                   ?
                
                 
                   Unknowne
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                   sure
                   natures
                   deck●…
                
                 
                   Was
                   ravish'd
                   from
                   her
                   snowie
                   necke
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Reply
                 .
              
               
                 
                   ASke
                   me
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   whither
                   do
                   stray
                
                 
                   The
                   golden
                   atomes
                   of
                   the
                   day
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   in
                   pure
                   love
                   ,
                   heaven
                   did
                   prepare
                
                 
                   Those
                   powders
                   ,
                   to
                   enrich
                   your
                   haire
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Aske
                   me
                   no
                   more
                   whither
                   doth
                   haste
                
                 
                   The
                   nightingal
                   when
                   summer's
                   past
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   in
                   your
                   sweet
                   devided
                   throat
                
                 
                   She
                   winters
                   ,
                   and
                   keepes
                   warme
                   her
                   noate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Aske
                   me
                   no
                   more
                   where
                   those
                   starres
                   light
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   downewards
                   stoop
                   in
                   dead
                   of
                   night
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   in
                   your
                   eyes
                   they
                   sett
                   ;
                   and
                   there
                
                 
                   Fixed
                   become
                   ,
                   as
                   in
                   their
                   spheare
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Aske
                   me
                   no
                   more
                   where
                   Iove
                   bestowes
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Iune
                   is
                   past
                   ,
                   the
                   fading
                   rose
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   in
                   your
                   beauties
                   Orient
                   deep
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   flowers
                   as
                   in
                   their
                   bedds
                   do
                   sleep
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Aske
                   me
                   no
                   more
                   if
                   East
                   or
                   West
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Phoenix
                   builds
                   her
                   spiced
                   nest
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   unto
                   you
                   at
                   last
                   she
                   flyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   your
                   fragrant
                   bosome
                   dyes
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Mock-Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Tell
                   you
                   true
                   ,
                   whereon
                   doth
                   light
                
                 
                   The
                   dusky
                   shade
                   of
                   banisht
                   night
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   in
                   just
                   vengeance
                   heavens
                   allow
                
                 
                   It
                   still
                   should
                   shine
                   upon
                   your
                   brow
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   tell
                   you
                   true
                   where
                   men
                   may
                   seek
                
                 
                   The
                   sound
                   which
                   once
                   the
                   owle
                   did
                   shreek
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   in
                   your
                   false
                   deviding
                   throat
                
                 
                   It
                   lyes
                   ,
                   and
                   death
                   is
                   in
                   its
                   noate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   tell
                   you
                   true
                   whither
                   do
                   passe
                
                 
                   The
                   siniling
                   look
                   out
                   of
                   a
                   glasse
                   ;
                
                 
                   It
                   leapes
                   into
                   your
                   face
                   ,
                   for
                   there
                
                 
                   A
                   falser
                   shadow
                   doth
                   appeare
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   le
                   tell
                   you
                   true
                   whither
                   are
                   blowne
                
                 
                   The
                   airy
                   wheeles
                   of
                   Thistle
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   fly
                   into
                   your
                   mind
                   ,
                   whose
                   care
                
                 
                   Is
                   to
                   be
                   light
                   as
                   thistles
                   are
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   I
                   tell
                   you
                   true
                   within
                   what
                   nest
                
                 
                   The
                   stranger
                   Cuckoe's
                   eggs
                   do
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   is
                   your
                   bosome
                   which
                   can
                   keepe
                
                 
                   Nor
                   him
                   ,
                   nor
                   him
                   ,
                   where
                   one
                   should
                   sleepe
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Moderatix
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Le
                   tell
                   you
                   where
                   another
                   sun
                
                 
                   That
                   setts
                   ,
                   as
                   riseing
                   it
                   begun
                   .
                
                 
                   It
                   is
                   my selfe
                   who
                   keepes
                   one
                   spheare
                
                 
                   And
                   were
                   the
                   same
                   if
                   men
                   so
                   were
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   need
                   I
                   tell
                   ,
                   that
                   life
                   and
                   death
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   passe
                   in
                   sentence
                   from
                   one
                   breath
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   issue
                   from
                   my
                   equall
                   heart
                
                 
                   Both
                   love
                   and
                   scorn
                   for
                   mens
                   desert
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   le
                   tell
                   you
                   in
                   what
                   heavenly
                   hell
                
                 
                   An
                   Angell
                   and
                   a
                   friend
                   may
                   dwell
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   is
                   myne
                   eye
                   whose
                   glassy
                   book
                
                 
                   Sends
                   back
                   the
                   gazers
                   divers
                   look
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   le
                   tell
                   you
                   in
                   a
                   divers
                   scale
                
                 
                   One
                   weight
                   can
                   up
                   and
                   downewards
                   hale
                   :
                
                 
                   You
                   call
                   me
                   thistle
                   ,
                   you
                   a
                   rose
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   neither
                   am
                   ,
                   yet
                   both
                   of
                   those
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   le
                   tell
                   you
                   where
                   both
                   frost
                   and
                   fire
                
                 
                   In
                   peace
                   of
                   common
                   feat
                   conspire
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   My
                   frozen
                   brest
                   that
                   flint
                   is
                   like
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   yeilds
                   a
                   fire
                   if
                   you
                   will
                   strike
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   you
                   that
                   love
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   that
                   loath
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   one
                   aspect
                   I
                   answer
                   both
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   round
                   about
                   me
                   glowes
                   a
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   melt
                   and
                   harden
                   grosse
                   desire
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 affirmative
                 answer
                 .
              
               
                 
                   OH
                   no
                   ,
                   heaven
                   saw
                   mens
                   fancyes
                   stray
                
                 
                   To
                   idolize
                   but
                   dust
                   and
                   clay
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   embleme
                   gave
                   that
                   they
                   might
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   beautye's
                   date
                   but
                   dust
                   must
                   bee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   No
                   Philomel
                   when
                   summers
                   gon
                
                 
                   Hasts
                   to
                   the
                   wood
                   her
                   rape
                   to
                   moane
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Unwilling
                   hers
                   )
                   a
                   shamd
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   Your
                   (
                   unlike
                   hers
                   )
                   unchastity
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Oh
                   no
                   ,
                   those
                   starrs
                   flye
                   but
                   the
                   sight
                
                 
                   Of
                   what
                   you
                   act
                   in
                   dead
                   of
                   night
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   shamd
                   themselves
                   should
                   Pandars
                   prove
                
                 
                   In
                   your
                   unsatiate
                   beastly
                   love
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Oh
                   no
                   ,
                   that
                   rose
                   when
                   Iune
                   is
                   past
                
                 
                   Lookes
                   pale
                   as
                   with
                   a
                   poysonous
                   blast
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   such
                   your
                   beauty
                   ,
                   when
                   as
                   time
                
                 
                   Like
                   winter
                   shall
                   oretake
                   your
                   prime
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Oh
                   no
                   the
                   Phoenix
                   shuns
                   the
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   feares
                   the
                   lustfull
                   fires
                   t'
                   embrace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   your
                   hot
                   brest
                   and
                   barren
                   wombe
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   death
                   or
                   some
                   perpetuall
                   tombe
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 discourse
                 between
                 a
                 Poet
                 and
                 a
                 Painter
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Poet.
                   
                
                 
                   PAinter
                   ,
                   I
                   p●…ithee
                   pencill
                   to
                   the
                   life
                
                 
                   The
                   woman
                   thou
                   wouldst
                   willingly
                   call
                   wife
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fashion
                   her
                   from
                   the
                   head
                   unto
                   the
                   heel
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   perfect
                   that
                   but
                   gazing
                   thou
                   mayst
                   feel
                
                 
                   Pigmaleons
                   passion
                   :
                   colour
                   her
                   faire
                   haire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   amber
                   ,
                   or
                   to
                   something
                   else
                   more
                   rare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Temper
                   a
                   white
                   shall
                   passe
                   Pyrenean
                   snow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   her
                   temples
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   it
                   bestow
                
                 
                   Such
                   artificiall
                   azure
                   ,
                   that
                   the
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   make
                   the
                   heart
                   beleeve
                   the
                   ma●…ble
                   skye
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   perfect
                   her
                   had
                   melted
                   in
                   soft
                   raines
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lending
                   a
                   blew
                   to
                   brauuch
                   her
                   swelling
                   veines
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   Painter
                   ,
                   to
                   come
                   lower
                   ,
                   her
                   sweet
                   chin
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   would
                   have
                   small
                   and
                   white
                   ,
                   not
                   much
                   trench'd
                   in
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   alltogether
                   plain
                   ,
                   but
                   such
                   an
                   one
                
                 
                   The
                   nicest
                   thought
                   may
                   judge
                   equall
                   to
                   none
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   nose
                   I
                   would
                   have
                   comely
                   ,
                   not
                   too
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   men
                   call
                   it
                   ,
                   in
                   Physiognomy
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   type
                   of
                   honour
                   ;
                   nor
                   too
                   low
                   ▪
                   f●…r
                   then
                
                 
                   They
                   I
                   say
                   ,
                   sh●…'s
                   known
                   (
                   God
                   knowes
                   )
                   how
                   many
                   men
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   broad
                   ,
                   nor
                   flat
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   the
                   hard
                   favour'd
                   mould
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   thin
                   ,
                   nor
                   sharp
                   ,
                   for
                   then
                   they
                   'le
                   call
                   her
                   scold
                   .
                
                 
                   Apparrell
                   it
                   in
                   such
                   a
                   speaking
                   grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   men
                   may
                   read
                   Majesty
                   in
                   her
                   face
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   lipps
                   a
                   paire
                   of
                   blushing
                   twinnes
                   so
                   red
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nice
                   fancy
                   may
                   depart
                   away
                   full
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   Painter
                   ,
                   when
                   thou
                   com●…st
                   unto
                   her
                   eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   let
                   thy
                   Pencill
                   play
                   ;
                   there
                   cunningly
                
                 
                   Expresse
                   thy selfe
                   ,
                   for
                   as
                   at
                   feasts
                   ▪
                   so
                   here
                
                 
                   The
                   dainties
                   I
                   keep
                   last
                   to
                   crown
                   the
                   cheer
                   .
                
                 
                   Make
                   her
                   eye
                   Love●…●…veet
                   argument
                   ,
                   a
                   look
                
                 
                   That
                   may
                   discourse
                   ▪
                   make
                   it
                   a
                   well
                   w●…it
                   book
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whereas
                   in
                   faire
                   set
                   〈◊〉
                   of
                   art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Men
                   there
                   may
                   read
                   the
                   story
                   of
                   her
                   heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Whiter
                   than
                   white
                   ,
                   if
                   you
                   would
                   po●…rtray
                   ought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Display
                   her
                   neck
                   cure
                   as
                   the
                   purest
                   thought
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   her
                   gratious
                   give
                   her
                   a
                   broad
                   brest
                
                 
                   Topt
                   with
                   two
                   milkie
                   mountains
                   ;
                   down
                   her
                   chest
                   .
                
                 
                   Between
                   those
                   hills
                   let
                   Loves
                   sweet
                   vally
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   pleasing
                   thraldome
                   of
                   a
                   Love-sick
                   eye
                   .
                
                 
                   Still
                   ,
                   Painter
                   ,
                   to
                   fall
                   lower
                   paint
                   her
                   waste
                
                 
                   Straight
                   as
                   the
                   Cedar
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Norway
                   Mast
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   take
                   a
                   modest
                   step
                   ,
                   let
                   men
                   but
                   guesse
                
                 
                   By
                   her
                   neat
                   foot
                   a
                   hidden
                   handsomnesse
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   Paint●…r
                   ,
                   I
                   would
                   have
                   her
                   in
                   each
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   Remaine
                   unmatcht
                   by
                   nature
                   or
                   by
                   art
                   .
                
                 
                   Canst
                   thou
                   doe
                   this
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Pa●…nter
                   .
                
                 
                   —
                   Yes
                   Sir
                   ,
                   I
                   le
                   draw
                   a
                   feature
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   shall
                   conclude
                   that
                   art
                   hath
                   out-done
                   nature
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Pencill
                   Sir
                   ,
                   shall
                   force
                   you
                   to
                   confesse
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   can
                   more
                   lively
                   than
                   your
                   pen
                   expresse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Poet.
                   
                
                 
                   That
                   by
                   this
                   then
                   let
                   me
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   body
                   draw
                   a
                   mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   O
                   Painter
                   ,
                   to
                   your
                   pencill
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   draw
                   me
                   something
                   rationall
                   :
                
                 
                   Give
                   her
                   thoughts
                   ,
                   serious
                   ,
                   secure
                   ,
                
                 
                   Holy
                   ,
                   chaste
                   ,
                   religious
                   ,
                   pure
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   vertue
                   never
                   known
                   to
                   start
                   ,
                
                 
                   Make
                   her
                   an
                   understanding
                   heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Seat
                   the
                   Graces
                   in
                   her
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   well
                   taught
                   truth
                   ,
                   a
                   faith
                   refin'd
                
                 
                   From
                   doubts
                   and
                   jelousies
                   ;
                   and
                   give
                
                 
                   Unto
                   her
                   heart
                   a
                   hope
                   may
                   live
                
                 
                   Longer
                   then
                   time
                   ,
                   untill
                   it
                   be
                
                 
                   Perfected
                   by
                   Eternity
                   .
                
                 
                   Give
                   her
                   an
                   honest
                   loving
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Neither
                   too
                   coy
                   ,
                   nor
                   yet
                   too
                   kind
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   her
                   equall
                   thoughts
                   so
                   raise
                   her
                   ,
                
                 
                   Loose
                   thoughts
                   may
                   f●…are
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   chast
                   praise
                   her
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   Painter
                   ,
                   next
                   observe
                   this
                   rule
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   principle
                   in
                   Apelles
                   Schoole
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Leave
                   not
                   too
                   much
                   space
                   between
                
                 
                   Her
                   tongue
                   and
                   heart
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   seldome
                   seen
                
                 
                   That
                   such
                   tell
                   truth
                   ;
                   but
                   let
                   there
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Between
                   them
                   both
                   a
                   sympathy
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   she
                   whose
                   tongue
                   and
                   heart
                   keep
                   even
                
                 
                   In
                   every
                   syllable
                   ,
                   courts
                   heaven
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   otherwise
                   ,
                   this
                   maxim
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   False
                   above
                   's
                   not
                   true
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   mind
                   and
                   body
                   let
                   her
                   be
                   all
                   over
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   golden
                   text
                   bound
                   in
                   a
                   golden
                   cover
                   .
                
                 
                   Canst
                   thou
                   doe
                   this
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Painter
                   .
                
                 
                   —
                   But
                   Sir
                   ,
                   '
                   Is
                   't
                   your
                   intent
                
                 
                   I
                   should
                   draw
                   her
                   in
                   both
                   parts
                   excellent
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Poet.
                   
                
                 
                   It
                   is
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Paint
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   in
                   plain
                   words
                   ,
                   not
                   in
                   dark
                   sense
                   to
                   lurk
                   ,
                
                 
                   Find
                   you
                   the
                   woman
                   ;
                   and
                   '
                   I
                   le
                   fall
                   to
                   work
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 B.
                 R.
                 for
                 her
                 Bracelets
                 .
              
               
                 
                   T
                   Is
                   not
                   (
                   Deare
                   Love
                   )
                   that
                   Amber
                   twist
                
                 
                   Which
                   circles
                   round
                   thy
                   captive
                   wrist
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   have
                   the
                   power
                   to
                   make
                   me
                   more
                
                 
                   Your
                   pris'ner
                   then
                   I
                   was
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   Though
                   I
                   that
                   bracelet
                   dearer
                   hold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   Misers
                   would
                   a
                   chaine
                   of
                   gold
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   this
                   but
                   tyes
                   my
                   outward
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   Heart-strings
                   alone
                   can
                   tye
                   my
                   heart
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   that
                   soft
                   and
                   silken
                   〈◊〉
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   hands
                   did
                   unto
                   mine
                   bequeath
                   ;
                
                 
                   Can
                   bind
                   with
                   halfe
                   so
                   powerfull
                   charmes
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   the
                   Embraces
                   of
                   your
                   armes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Although
                   not
                   iron
                   bands
                   (
                   my
                   faire
                   )
                
                 
                   Can
                   bind
                   more
                   fiercely
                   than
                   your
                   ●…aire
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   that
                   will
                   chaine
                   me
                   most
                   will
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   heart
                   in
                   True
                   Love's-knot
                   to
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   T
                   is
                   not
                   those
                   beams
                   ,
                   your
                   haires
                   ,
                   nor
                   all
                
                 
                   Your
                   glorious
                   out-side
                   doth
                   me
                   thrall
                   ;
                
                 
                   Although
                   your
                   lookes
                   have
                   force
                   enough
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   the
                   stateliest
                   Tyrants
                   bow
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   any
                   angell
                   could
                   deny
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   person
                   his
                   idolatry
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   I
                   do
                   not
                   so
                   much
                   adore
                
                 
                   The
                   temple
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   goddesse
                   more
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   then
                   my
                   soul
                   you
                   would
                   confine
                
                 
                   To
                   prison
                   ,
                   tye
                   your
                   heart
                   to
                   mine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your
                   noble
                   vertues
                   ,
                   constant
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   only
                   powerfull
                   chaines
                   will
                   prove
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   bind
                   me
                   ever
                   ,
                   such
                   as
                   those
                
                 
                   The
                   hands
                   of
                   death
                   shall
                   ne're
                   unloose
                   .
                
                 
                   Untill
                   I
                   such
                   a
                   prisoner
                   be
                
                 
                   No
                   liberty
                   can
                   make
                   me
                   free
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 Tom
                 Holland
                 and
                 Nell
                 Cotton
                 .
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Light
                   young
                   man
                   lay
                   with
                   a
                   lighter
                   woman
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   did
                   request
                   their
                   things
                   might
                   bee
                   in
                   common
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   gave
                   her
                   (
                   when
                   her
                   good
                   will
                   he
                   had
                   gotten
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   yard
                   of
                   Holland
                   for
                   an
                   ell
                   of
                   Cotton
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 We
                 lchman
                 .
              
               
                 
                   JEnkin
                   a
                   welchman
                   having
                   suites
                   in
                   law
                
                 
                   Journying
                   to
                   London
                   chance
                   to
                   steal
                   a
                   Cow
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   (
                   pox
                   on
                   her
                   luck
                   as
                   ere
                   man
                   saw
                   )
                
                 
                   VVas
                   burnt
                   with
                   in
                   the
                   fist
                   ,
                   her
                   know
                   not
                   how
                   .
                
                 
                   Being
                   ask'd
                   how
                   well
                   the
                   case
                   did
                   with
                   him
                   stand
                
                 
                   Wee's
                   have
                   her
                   now
                   (
                   quoth
                   Ienkin
                   )
                   in
                   her
                   hand
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Woman
                 that
                 scratcht
                 her
                 Husband
                 .
              
               
                 
                   A
                   VVoman
                   lately
                   fiercely
                   did
                   assail
                
                 
                   Her
                   husband
                   with
                   sharp
                   speech
                   ,
                   but
                   sharper
                   nail
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   that
                   stood
                   by
                   and
                   saw
                   her
                   ,
                   to
                   her
                   sed
                
                 
                   Why
                   do
                   you
                   use
                   him
                   so
                   ?
                   he
                   is
                   your
                   head
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   is
                   my
                   head
                   (
                   quoth
                   she
                   )
                   indeed
                   t
                   is
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   do
                   but
                   scratch
                   my
                   head
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   may
                   you
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Mistris
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HEr
                   for
                   a
                   Mistris
                   ,
                   would
                   I
                   faine
                   enjoy
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   hangs
                   the
                   lipp
                   and
                   pouts
                   for
                   every
                   toy
                   :
                
                 
                   Speakes
                   like
                   a
                   wag
                   ,
                   is
                   bold
                   ,
                   dares
                   boldly
                   stand
                
                 
                   And
                   bid
                   love
                   welcome
                   with
                   a
                   wanton
                   hand
                   .
                
                 
                   Laughs
                   lowd
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   one
                   blow
                   will
                   give
                   you
                   three
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   shee
                   's
                   stabbd
                   ,
                   will
                   fall
                   a
                   kissing
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   shee
                   be
                   modest
                   wise
                   and
                   chast
                   of
                   life
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hang
                   her
                   shee
                   's
                   good
                   for
                   nothing
                   but
                   a
                   wife
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 One
                 fighting
                 with
                 his
                 wife
                 .
              
               
                 
                   MEg
                   and
                   her
                   husband
                   Tom
                   ,
                   not
                   long
                   agoe
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVere
                   at
                   it
                   close
                   ,
                   exchanging
                   blow
                   for
                   blow
                   .
                
                 
                   Both
                   being
                   eager
                   ,
                   both
                   of
                   a
                   stout
                   heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Endured
                   many
                   a
                   bang
                   ere
                   they
                   would
                   part
                   .
                
                 
                   Peter
                   lookt
                   on
                   &
                   would
                   not
                   stint
                   the
                   strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   curst
                   (
                   quoth
                   he
                   )
                   that
                   parteth
                   man
                   and
                   wife
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Ambition
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THe
                   whistling
                   windes
                   me-thinkes
                   do
                   witnesse
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   greif
                   so
                   great
                   as
                   to
                   have
                   liv'd
                   in
                   blisse
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   only
                   this
                   poore
                   plain
                   song
                   will
                   I
                   sing
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   was
                   not
                   borne
                   ,
                   nor
                   shall
                   I
                   dye
                   a
                   King.
                
                 
                   To
                   leape
                   at
                   honour
                   is
                   a
                   daungerous
                   case
                   ,
                
                 
                   See
                   but
                   the
                   gudgeons
                   they
                   will
                   bite
                   a
                   pace
                   .
                
                 
                   Untill
                   the
                   fatall
                   hook
                   be
                   swallowed
                   downe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wherewith
                   ambition
                   angles
                   for
                   a
                   crowne
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   be
                   content
                   and
                   let
                   the
                   baite
                   passe
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   hath
                   enough
                   that
                   lives
                   contentedly
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   thou
                   must
                   advancement
                   have
                   ,
                   then
                   see
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   way
                   thou
                   must
                   advanced
                   be
                   .
                
                 
                   True
                   temporizing
                   is
                   the
                   meanes
                   to
                   climbe
                
                 
                   There
                   is
                   no
                   musick
                   without
                   keeping
                   time
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Upon
                 a
                 Gardiner
                 .
              
               
                 
                   COuld
                   he
                   forget
                   his
                   death
                   ?
                   that
                   every
                   houre
                
                 
                   Was
                   emblem'd
                   to
                   it
                   by
                   the
                   fading
                   flowre
                   :
                
                 
                   Should
                   he
                   not
                   mind
                   his
                   end
                   ?
                   yes
                   needshe
                   must
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   still
                   was
                   conversant'mongst
                   bedds
                   of
                   dust
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   no
                   on
                   yon
                   in
                   an
                   handchercher
                
                 
                   Tempt
                   your
                   sad
                   eyes
                   unto
                   a
                   needlesse
                   feare
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   he
                   that
                   thinkes
                   on
                   death
                   well
                   lives
                   &
                   dyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   gardner
                   sure
                   is
                   gon
                   to
                   paradise
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 his
                 first
                 Love.
                 
              
               
                 
                   MY
                   first
                   love
                   whom
                   all
                   beautyes
                   did
                   ado●…
                
                 
                   Fireing
                   my
                   heart
                   ,
                   supprest
                   it
                   with
                   her
                   scorn
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   since
                   like
                   tynder
                   in
                   my
                   heart
                   it
                   lyes
                
                 
                   By
                   every
                   sparkle
                   made
                   a
                   sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   wanton
                   eye
                   now
                   kindleth
                   my
                   desire
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   is
                   free
                   to
                   all
                   which
                   was
                   entire
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   now
                   my
                   wandring
                   thoughts
                   are
                   not
                   confin'd
                
                 
                   Unto
                   one
                   woman
                   ,
                   but
                   to
                   woman-kind
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   for
                   her
                   shape
                   I
                   love
                   ,
                   that
                   for
                   her
                   face
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   for
                   her
                   gesture
                   ,
                   or
                   som
                   other
                   grace
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   somtimes
                   when
                   I
                   none
                   of
                   these
                   can
                   find
                
                 
                   I
                   chuse
                   her
                   by
                   the
                   kernell
                   not
                   the
                   rinde
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   do
                   hope
                   though
                   my
                   cheife
                   hope
                   is
                   gone
                
                 
                   To
                   find
                   in
                   many
                   what
                   I
                   lost
                   in
                   one
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   to
                   merchants
                   which
                   have
                   some
                   great
                   losse
                
                 
                   Trade
                   by
                   retayle
                   which
                   cannot
                   do
                   in
                   grosse
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   is
                   in
                   fault
                   ,
                   which
                   caus'd
                   me
                   first
                   to
                   stray
                
                 
                   Needs
                   must
                   he
                   wander
                   ,
                   who
                   hath
                   lost
                   his
                   way
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Guiltlesse
                   I
                   am
                   ,
                   she
                   did
                   the
                   change
                   provoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   made
                   that
                   charcole
                   which
                   at
                   first
                   was
                   ok●…
                
                 
                   For
                   as
                   a
                   looking
                   glasse
                   to
                   the
                   aspect
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   it
                   was
                   whole
                   doth
                   but
                   one
                   face
                   reflect
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   crac●…
                   or
                   broak
                   in
                   peeces
                   ,
                   there
                   is
                   shown●…
                
                 
                   Many
                   lesse
                   faces
                   ,
                   where
                   was
                   first
                   but
                   one
                   .
                
                 
                   So-love
                   unto
                   my
                   heart
                   did
                   first
                   preferre
                
                 
                   Her
                   image
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   planted
                   none
                   but
                   her
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   when
                   t
                   was
                   crackt
                   &
                   martyrd
                   by
                   her
                   scorne
                
                 
                   Many
                   lesse
                   faces
                   in
                   her
                   seat
                   were
                   borne
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   like
                   to
                   tinder
                   I
                   am
                   prone
                   to
                   catch
                
                 
                   Each
                   falling
                   sparkle
                   ,
                   fit
                   for
                   any
                   match
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 his
                 Mistris
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Will
                   not
                   doe
                   sacrifice
                
                 
                   To
                   thy
                   face
                   ,
                   or
                   to
                   thy
                   eyes
                
                 
                   Nor
                   unto
                   thy
                   lilly
                   palme
                
                 
                   Nor
                   thy
                   breath
                   that
                   wounding
                   balme
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   part
                
                 
                   To
                   which
                   my
                   heart
                
                 
                   In
                   vowes
                   is
                   sealed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   that
                   mine
                
                 
                   Of
                   blisse
                   divine
                
                 
                   Which
                   is
                   concealed
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   's
                   the
                   golden
                   fruit
                   to
                   me
                
                 
                   So
                   I
                   may
                   not
                   shake
                   the
                   tree
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   's
                   that
                   golden
                   architecture
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   may
                   not
                   touch
                   the
                   nectar
                   ?
                
                 
                   Bare
                   enjoying
                   all
                   the
                   rest
                
                 
                   Is
                   but
                   like
                   a
                   golden
                   feast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   at
                   need
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   never
                   feed
                
                 
                   Our
                   love
                   sick-wishes
                
                 
                   Let
                   me
                   eate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Substantiall
                   meat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   view
                   the
                   dishes
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 his
                 letter
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FLy
                   paper
                   ,
                   kisse
                   those
                   hands
                
                 
                   Whence
                   I
                   am
                   bard
                   of
                   late
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   quickly
                   will
                   unloose
                   thy
                   bands
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   wish
                   me
                   thine
                   estate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Appeare
                   unto
                   her
                   eyes
                
                 
                   Though
                   they
                   do
                   burne
                   to
                   fumes
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   happy
                   is
                   the
                   sacrifice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   heaven-fire
                   consumes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Yet
                   ev'n
                   with
                   this
                   depart
                
                 
                   With
                   a
                   soft
                   dying
                   breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whisper
                   the
                   truths
                   into
                   her
                   heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   take
                   them
                   on
                   thy
                   death
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   thou
                   canst
                   not
                   now
                
                 
                   New
                   oathes
                   or
                   give
                   or
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   to
                   repeat
                   the
                   former
                   vow
                
                 
                   Wee
                   did
                   each
                   other
                   make
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Say
                   thou
                   cam'st
                   to
                   complain
                
                 
                   But
                   not
                   of
                   love
                   ,
                   nor
                   her
                
                 
                   But
                   on
                   my
                   fortune
                   being
                   faine
                
                 
                   Thus
                   absent
                   to
                   conferre
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   thou
                   hast
                   offer'd
                   this
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   then
                   for
                   thy
                   payne
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   will
                   inpart
                   to
                   thee
                   a
                   kisse
                
                 
                   And
                   read
                   the
                   ore
                   againe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Perhaps
                   when
                   form
                   my
                   sake
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   lipps
                   have
                   made
                   thee
                   blest
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   so
                   embalmd
                   ●…hee
                   ,
                   she
                   will
                   make
                
                 
                   Thy
                   grave
                   within
                   her
                   brest
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Oh
                   never
                   then
                   desire
                
                 
                   To
                   rise
                   from
                   such
                   a
                   roome
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   would
                   not
                   leave
                   his
                   life
                   t'
                   aspire
                
                 
                   In
                   death
                   to
                   such
                   a
                   tombe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   in
                   these
                   joyes
                   excesse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Melt
                   ,
                   languish
                   ,
                   faint
                   ,
                   and
                   dye
                   ▪
                
                 
                   For
                   might
                   I
                   have
                   so
                   good
                   accesse
                
                 
                   To
                   her
                   ,
                   ev'n
                   so
                   would
                   I.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 An
                 Epitaph
                 upon
                 Hurry
                 the
                 Taylor
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WIthin
                   this
                   tombe
                   is
                   honest
                   Hurry
                   layd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   in
                   good
                   fashion
                   liv'd
                   ,
                   good
                   fashion
                   dy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   T'
                   is
                   strange
                   that
                   death
                   so
                   soon
                   cut
                   off
                   his
                   thread
                
                 
                   Som
                   say
                   his
                   end
                   not
                   full
                   done
                   ,
                   he
                   was
                   dead
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   here
                   the
                   knot
                   is
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   thus
                   it
                   scann
                
                 
                   He
                   took
                   a
                   yard
                   ,
                   whose
                   due
                   was
                   but
                   a
                   spann
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   er●…
                   hee
                   's
                   happy
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   know
                   full
                   well
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   now
                   in
                   heaven
                   since
                   here
                   he
                   had
                   his
                   hell
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Scylla
                 toothlesse
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SCylla
                   is
                   toouthlesse
                   ;
                   yet
                   when
                   she
                   was
                   young
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   had
                   both
                   tooth
                   enough
                   ,
                   and
                   too
                   much
                   tongue
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   should
                   I
                   now
                   of
                   toothlesse
                   Scylla
                   say
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   her
                   tongue
                   hath
                   worne
                   her
                   teeth
                   away
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 AVicar
                 .
              
               
                 
                   AN
                   honest
                   Vicar
                   riding
                   by
                   the
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   knowing
                   better
                   how
                   to
                   spend
                   the
                   day
                
                 
                   Did
                   sing
                   unto
                   himself
                   Genevaes
                   psalmes
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   blind
                   man
                   hearing
                   him
                   straight
                   askt
                   an
                   almes
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   (
                   quoth
                   he
                   )
                   with
                   coine
                   I
                   cannot
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   god
                   bless
                   thee
                   good
                   man
                   with
                   all
                   my
                   heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   said
                   the
                   man
                   the
                   greater
                   is
                   my
                   losse
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   such
                   as
                   you
                   do
                   blesse
                   without
                   a
                   crosse
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 a
                 Ribband
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THis
                   silken
                   wreath
                   that
                   circles-in
                   my
                   arms
                
                 
                   Is
                   but
                   an
                   emblem
                   of
                   your
                   mystick
                   charmes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wherewith
                   the
                   magick
                   of
                   your
                   beauty
                   binds
                
                 
                   My
                   Captive
                   soule
                   ,
                   and
                   round
                   about
                   it
                   winds
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Time
                   may
                   weare
                   out
                   these
                   soft
                   weak
                   bands
                   ,
                   but
                   those
                   :
                
                 
                   Strong
                   chaines
                   of
                   brasse
                   fate
                   shall
                   not
                   discompose
                
                 
                   This
                   holy
                   relique
                   may
                   preserve
                   my
                   wrist
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   my
                   whole
                   frame
                   by
                   th'
                   other
                   doth
                   subsist
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   that
                   my
                   prayers
                   and
                   sacrifice
                   ,
                   to
                   this
                
                 
                   I
                   only
                   pay
                   a
                   superstitious
                   kisse
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   but
                   the
                   idoll
                   ,
                   that
                   the
                   deity
                   ;
                
                 
                   Religion
                   there
                   is
                   due
                   ,
                   here
                   ceremony
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   receive
                   by
                   faith
                   ,
                   this
                   but
                   in
                   trust
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   I
                   may
                   ●…ender
                   duty
                   ,
                   ther●…
                   I
                   must
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   other
                   like
                   a
                   layman
                   I
                   may
                   bear
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   become
                   loves
                   preist
                   when
                   that
                   I
                   weare
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   moves
                   like
                   ayre
                   ,
                   that
                   as
                   the
                   center
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   knot
                   your
                   vertue
                   ●…yes
                   ,
                   this
                   but
                   your
                   hands
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   nature
                   fram'd
                   ,
                   but
                   this
                   is
                   made
                   by
                   art
                
                 
                   This
                   makes
                   my
                   arme
                   your
                   prisoner
                   ,
                   that
                   my
                   heart
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 a
                 Gentlewoman
                 ,
                 desiring
                 a
                 copie
                 of
                 Verses
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FAire
                   Madam
                   ,
                   cast
                   those
                   Diamonds
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   need
                   their
                   torchlight
                   in
                   so
                   bright
                   a
                   day
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   show
                   within
                   your
                   beauties
                   glorious
                   noon
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   more
                   than
                   spangles
                   fixed
                   in
                   the
                   moon
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   jewells
                   then
                   the
                   truest
                   lustre
                   beare
                
                 
                   When
                   they
                   hang
                   dangling
                   in
                   an
                   Aethiop's
                   eare
                
                 
                   But
                   placed
                   neere
                   a
                   beauty
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   so
                   bright
                
                 
                   Like
                   starres
                   in
                   day-time
                   they
                   are
                   lost
                   from
                   sight
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   you
                   do
                   your
                   sex
                   a
                   great
                   abuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   not
                   pretious
                   stemmes
                   for
                   womens
                   use
                   .
                
                 
                   Nature
                   to
                   men
                   hath
                   better
                   jewells
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   serve
                   for
                   active
                   use
                   not
                   ornament
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   us
                   make
                   exchange
                   ,
                   since
                   that
                   those
                   be
                
                 
                   Fitter
                   for
                   you
                   ,
                   and
                   these
                   more
                   fit
                   for
                   me
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 Dr.
                 Corbett's
                 Marriage
                 .
              
               
                 
                   COme
                   all
                   yee
                   Muses
                   and
                   rejoyce
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   our
                   Apolloes
                   happy
                   choice
                   .
                
                 
                   Phoebus
                   has
                   conquer'd
                   Cupids
                   charme
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fair
                   Daphne
                   f●…yes
                   into
                   his
                   arme
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   Daphne
                   be
                   a
                   tree
                   ,
                   then
                   marke
                   ,
                
                 
                   Apollo
                   is
                   become
                   the
                   barke
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   Daphne
                   be
                   a
                   branch
                   of
                   bay
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   weares
                   her
                   for
                   a
                   crowne
                   to
                   day
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   happy
                   bridegrome
                   which
                   dost
                   wed
                
                 
                   Thy selfe
                   unto
                   a
                   virgins
                   bed
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   thy
                   love
                   burne
                   with
                   hot
                   desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   l●…kes
                   no
                   oyle
                   to
                   feed
                   the
                   fire
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   know
                   not
                   poore
                   Pigmaleons
                   lot
                
                 
                   Nor
                   have
                   you
                   a
                   meere
                   idoll
                   got
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   You
                   no
                   Ixion
                   ,
                   you
                   no
                   proud
                
                 
                   Iuno
                   makes
                   imbrace
                   a
                   cloud
                   .
                
                 
                   Looke
                   how
                   pure
                   Dianaes
                   skin
                
                 
                   Appeares
                   as
                   it
                   is
                   shadow'd
                   in
                
                 
                   A
                   crystall
                   streame
                   ;
                   or
                   looke
                   what
                   grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shines
                   in
                   fair
                   Venus
                   lovely
                   face
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   She
                   Adonis
                   courts
                   and
                   woes
                
                 
                   Such
                   beautyes
                   ,
                   yea
                   and
                   more
                   than
                   those
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sparkle
                   in
                   her
                   ;
                   see
                   but
                   her
                   soul
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   will
                   judge
                   those
                   beautyes
                   foul
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   rarest
                   beautye
                   is
                   within
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   's
                   fairest
                   where
                   she
                   is
                   not
                   seen
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   her
                   perfection's
                   character
                
                 
                   You
                   have
                   approv'd
                   and
                   chosen
                   her
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   precious
                   she
                   !
                   at
                   this
                   wedding
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   jewell
                   weares
                   the
                   marriage
                   ring
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   understanding's
                   deep
                   ,
                   like
                   the
                
                 
                   
                     Venetian
                     Duke
                  
                   you
                   wedd
                   the
                   sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   sea
                   deep
                   ,
                   bottomelesse
                   ,
                   profound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   which
                   none
                   but
                   your selfe
                   may
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   Blind
                   Cupid
                   shot
                   not
                   this
                   love-dart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   reason
                   chose
                   ,
                   and
                   not
                   your
                   heart
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   knew
                   her
                   little
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   her
                
                 
                   Apron
                   was
                   but
                   a
                   muckender
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhen
                   that
                   same
                   Corrall
                   which
                   doth
                   deck
                
                 
                   Her
                   lippes
                   ,
                   she
                   wore
                   about
                   her
                   neck
                   :
                
                 
                   You
                   courted
                   her
                   ,
                   you
                   woed
                   her
                   not
                
                 
                   Out
                   of
                   a
                   window
                   ;
                   shee
                   was
                   got
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   borne
                   your
                   wife
                   ;
                   it
                   may
                   be
                   se'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   cradle
                   was
                   her
                   marriadge
                   bed
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   ring
                   too
                   was
                   layd
                   up
                   for
                   it
                
                 
                   Untill
                   her
                   finger
                   was
                   growne
                   fit
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   once
                   gave
                   her
                   to
                   play
                   withall
                
                 
                   A
                   babie
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   hope
                   you
                   shall
                
                 
                   This
                   day
                   your
                   auncient
                   guift
                   renew
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   she
                   will
                   do
                   the
                   same
                   for
                   you
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   Virgin
                   wax
                   imprint
                   upon
                
                 
                   Her
                   brest
                   your
                   owne
                   impression
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   may
                   (
                   there
                   is
                   no
                   treason
                   in
                   't
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Coine
                   sterling
                   ,
                   now
                   you
                   have
                   a
                   mint
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   now
                   are
                   stronger
                   than
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   side
                   hath
                   in
                   it
                   on
                   ribb
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   she
                   was
                   a
                   kin
                   to
                   me
                
                 
                   Only
                   in
                   soul
                   and
                   amity
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   wee
                   are
                   ,
                   since
                   shee
                   your
                   bride
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   soul
                   and
                   bodye
                   both
                   allyde
                   .
                
                 
                   T'
                   is
                   this
                   hath
                   made
                   me
                   lesse
                   to
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   in
                   one
                   can
                   honour
                   two
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   match
                   a
                   riddle
                   may
                   be
                   styld
                   ,
                
                 
                   Two
                   mothers
                   now
                   have
                   but
                   on
                   child
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   need
                   we
                   not
                   a
                   Salomon
                
                 
                   Each
                   mother
                   here
                   enjoyes
                   her
                   owne
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Many
                   there
                   are
                   I
                   know
                   have
                   try'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   her
                   their
                   owne
                   lovely
                   bride
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   it
                   is
                   Alexanders
                   lot
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   cut
                   in
                   twaine
                   the
                   Gordian
                   knot
                   :
                
                 
                   Claudia
                   to
                   prove
                   that
                   she
                   was
                   chast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tyed
                   but
                   a
                   girdle
                   to
                   her
                   wast
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   drew
                   a
                   ship
                   to
                   Rome
                   by
                   land
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   the
                   world
                   may
                   understand
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   a
                   Claudia
                   to
                   faire
                   bride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   spotlesse
                   innocence
                   is
                   tryed
                   ,
                
                 
                   None
                   but
                   thy
                   girdle
                   could
                   have
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Corbet
                   to
                   a
                   marriage
                   bed
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   muses
                   and
                   rejoyce
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   your
                   nursling's
                   happy
                   choyce
                   :
                
                 
                   Come
                   Flora
                   straw
                   the
                   bridemayds
                   bed
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   a
                   garden
                   crowne
                   her
                   head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   thy
                   flowers
                   be
                   to
                   seek
                   ,
                
                 
                   Come
                   gather
                   roses
                   at
                   her
                   cheek
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   Hymen
                   light
                   thy
                   torches
                   ,
                   let
                
                 
                   Thy
                   bed
                   with
                   tapers
                   be
                   beset
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   there
                   be
                   no
                   fire
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   Come
                   light
                   thy
                   taper
                   at
                   her
                   eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   that
                   bright
                   eye
                   there
                   dwells
                   a
                   starre
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wisemen
                   by
                   it
                   guided
                   are
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   those
                   delicious
                   eyes
                   there
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Two
                   little
                   balls
                   of
                   ivory
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   happy
                   is
                   he
                   then
                   that
                   may
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   two
                   dainty
                   balls
                   goe
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   not
                   a
                   teare
                   drop
                   from
                   that
                   eye
                
                 
                   Unlesse
                   for
                   very
                   joy
                   to
                   cry
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   let
                   your
                   joy
                   continue
                   ;
                   may
                
                 
                   A
                   whole
                   age
                   be
                   your
                   wedding
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   happy
                   virgin
                   ,
                   it
                   is
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   your
                   deare
                   spouse
                   embraceth
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   you
                   from
                   heaven
                   are
                   not
                   farre
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   sure
                   in
                   Abrahams
                   bosome
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   muses
                   and
                   rejoyce
                
                 
                   At
                   our
                   Apollo's
                   happy
                   choice
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Mart.
                 Epigr.
                 59
                 lib
                 :
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 
                   THoul't
                   mend
                   to
                   morrow
                   ,
                   thus
                   thou
                   still
                   tell'st
                   me
                
                 
                   Faine
                   would
                   I
                   know
                   but
                   this
                   ,
                   when
                   that
                   will
                   be
                   ?
                
                 
                   Where
                   might
                   a
                   man
                   that
                   bliss-full
                   morning
                   finde
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   vast
                   Armenia
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   urmost
                   Inde
                   ?
                
                 
                   This
                   morning
                   comes
                   as
                   slow
                   as
                   Platoes
                   yeare
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   might
                   this
                   morning
                   cost
                   (
                   for
                   sure
                   t
                   is
                   deare
                   ?
                   )
                
                 
                   Thou
                   l't
                   mend
                   to
                   morrow
                   :
                   Now
                   's
                   too
                   late
                   ;
                   I
                   say
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   only
                   wise
                   that
                   mended
                   yesterday
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 Richardum
                 quendam
                 ,
                 Divitem
                 ,
                 Avarum
                 .
              
               
                 
                   DEvising
                   on
                   a
                   time
                   what
                   name
                   I
                   might
                
                 
                   Best
                   give
                   unto
                   a
                   dry
                   illiberall
                   chuffe
                   ,
                
                 
                   After
                   long
                   search
                   on
                   his
                   owne
                   name
                   I
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nay
                   then
                   (
                   said
                   I
                   )
                   No
                   more
                   ,
                   I
                   have
                   enough
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   name
                   and
                   nature
                   do
                   full
                   well
                   agree
                
                 
                   For
                   's
                   name
                   is
                   Rich
                   and
                   hard
                   ;
                   and
                   so
                   is
                   he
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 Thomam
                 quendam
                 Catharum
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THomas
                   the
                   puritan
                   ,
                   cannot
                   abide
                
                 
                   The
                   name
                   of
                   Christmas
                   ,
                   Candlemas
                   ,
                   or
                   such
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   calls
                   them
                   ever
                   Christide
                   ,
                   Candletide
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   all
                   to
                   name
                   the
                   masse
                   (
                   forsooth
                   )
                   to
                   much
                   :
                
                 
                   Thomas
                   by
                   this
                   your
                   rule
                   the
                   sacred
                   font
                
                 
                   In
                   Baptism
                   must
                   be-wash
                   your
                   limmes
                   againe
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   new
                   name
                   you
                   must
                   receive
                   upon
                   't
                
                 
                   For
                   superstitious
                   Thomas
                   you
                   l
                   disdaine
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   might
                   I
                   be
                   your
                   god●…e
                   ,
                   or
                   his
                   guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   Thomas
                   you
                   shall
                   have
                   Tom-tyde
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Epilogus
                 Incerti
                 Authoris
                 .
              
               
                 
                   LIke
                   to
                   the
                   mowing
                   tone
                   of
                   unspoke
                   speeches
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   two
                   lobsters
                   clad
                   in
                   logick
                   breeches
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   the
                   gray
                   fleece
                   of
                   a
                   crimson
                   catt
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   a
                   moone-calfe
                   in
                   a
                   slippshoo
                   hatt
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   the
                   shaddow
                   when
                   the
                   sunne
                   is
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   a
                   thought
                   ,
                   that
                   nev'r
                   was
                   thought
                   upon
                   ,
                
                 
                   Even
                   such
                   is
                   man
                   who
                   never
                   was
                   begotten
                   ,
                
                 
                   Untill
                   his
                   children
                   were
                   both
                   dead
                   and
                   rotten
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Like
                   to
                   the
                   fiery
                   touch-hole
                   of
                   a
                   cabbage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   a
                   crablowse
                   with
                   his
                   bag
                   and
                   baggage
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   the
                   guilt
                   reflection
                   of
                   the
                   winde
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   th'
                   abortive
                   issue
                   borne
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   the
                   four
                   square
                   circle
                   of
                   a
                   ring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   high
                   downe
                   a
                   ding
                   a
                   ding
                   a
                   ding
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Even
                   such
                   is
                   man
                   who
                   breathlesse
                   without
                   doubt
                
                 
                   Spake
                   to
                   small
                   purpose
                   when
                   his
                   tongue
                   was
                   out
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Like
                   the
                   fresh
                   colours
                   of
                   a
                   withered
                   Rose
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   a
                   running
                   verse
                   that
                   's
                   writ
                   in
                   prose
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   the
                   umbles
                   of
                   a
                   tynder
                   box
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   a
                   sound
                   man
                   ,
                   troubled
                   with
                   the
                   pox
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   to
                   hobbnayles
                   coyn'd
                   in
                   single
                   pence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   they
                   should
                   lose
                   their
                   preterperfecttence
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   such
                   is
                   man
                   who
                   dyed
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   did
                   laugh
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   read
                   these
                   strong
                   lines
                   for
                   his
                   Epitaph
                   .
                
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
               THE
               INNOVATION
               OF
               PENELOPE
               AND
               VLYSSES
               ,
               A
               Mock-Poem
               .
            
             
               By
               
                 I.
                 S.
              
               
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               
                 Anno
                 Dom.
              
               1658.
               
            
          
           
             
             
             
               The
               Epistle
               Dedicatory
               to
               the
               Reader
               .
            
             
               COurteous
               Reader
               ,
               I
               had
               not
               gone
               my
               full
               time
               ,
               when
               by
               a
               sudden
               flight
               occasioned
               by
               the
               Beare
               and
               Wheel-barrow
               on
               the
               Bank-side
               ,
               I
               fell
               in
               travaile
               ,
               and
               therefore
               cannot
               call
               this
               ,
               a
               timely
               Issue
               ,
               but
               a
               Mischance
               ,
               which
               I
               must
               put
               out
               to
               the
               world
               to
               nurse
               ;
               hoping
               it
               will
               be
               fostered
               with
               the
               greater
               care
               ,
               because
               of
               its
               own
               innocency
               .
               The
               reasons
               why
               the
               Dedication
               is
               so
               generall
               ,
               is
               to
               avoid
               Carps
               in
               the
               Fishpond
               of
               this
               world
               ,
               for
               now
               no
               man
               may
               reade
               it
               ,
               but
               must
               patronize
               it
               .
               
                 
                   And
                   must
                   protect
                   what
                   he
                   would
                   greet
                   perchance
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   he
                   were
                   not
                   the
                   Patron
                   with
                   def-iance
                   .
                
              
               
               You
               see
               here
               I
               have
               much
               adoe
               to
               hold
               in
               my
               muse
               from
               her
               jumping
               meeter
               :
               't
               is
               time
               to
               let
               slip
               .
               For
               as
               the
               cunning
               statuarist
               did
               by
               Alcides
               foot
               guesse
               at
               the
               proportion
               of
               his
               whole
               body
               ,
               so
               doe
               I
               forbeare
               the
               application
               of
               this
               Simile
               and
               rest
               ,
            
             
               
                 Yours
                 ever
                 .
                 I.
                 S.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               his
               Worthy
               Friend
               Mr.
               
                 I.
                 S.
              
               upon
               his
               happy
               Innovation
               of
               Penelope
               and
               Vlysses
               .
            
             
               
                 IT
                 was
                 no
                 idle
                 fancie
                 ,
                 I
                 beheld
              
               
                 A
                 reall
                 obiect
                 ,
                 that
                 around
                 did
                 gild
              
               
                 The
                 neighbouring
                 vallies
                 and
                 the
                 mountaine
                 tops
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 sided
                 to
                 Parnassus
                 ,
                 with
                 the
                 drops
              
               
                 From
                 her
                 disheveld
                 hayre
                 .
                 I
                 sought
                 the
                 cause
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 loe
                 ,
                 she
                 had
                 her
                 dwelling
                 in
                 the
                 jawes
              
               
                 Of
                 pearly
                 Helicon
                 ,
                 assign'd
                 to
                 bee
              
               
                 Guide
                 ore
                 the
                 Comick
                 straynes
                 of
                 poetry
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 lowr'd
                 her
                 flight
                 ,
                 and
                 soone
                 assembled
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 since
                 old
                 Chaucer
                 had
                 tane
                 leave
                 to
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 Upon
                 her
                 name
                 in
                 print
                 :
                 But
                 O
                 the
                 rabble
              
               
                 Of
                 pamphleteers
                 even
                 from
                 the
                 court
                 toth
                 '
                 stable
                 ,
              
               
                 Knights
                 ,
                 and
                 dis●…arded
                 Captaines
                 ,
                 with
                 the
                 scrib●…
                 ;
              
               
                 Famous
                 in
                 water-works
                 ,
                 besides
                 the
                 tribe
              
               
                 Of
                 the
                 true
                 poets
                 ,
                 they
                 attended
                 on
              
               
                 The
                 birth
                 of
                 this
                 great
                 Convocation
                 .
              
               
                 Sacred
                 Thalia
                 ,
                 in
                 an
                 angrie
                 heat
              
               
                 That
                 well
                 became
                 her
                 zeale
                 ,
                 rose
                 from
                 her
                 seat
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 beckoning
                 for
                 silence
                 ,
                 there
                 disclaym'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Protection
                 of
                 the
                 poets
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 nam'd
              
               
                 The
                 cause
                 of
                 her
                 revoke
                 ,
                 for
                 that
                 (
                 quoth
                 she
                 )
              
               
                 So
                 many
                 panders
                 'long
                 to
                 poetry
                 :
              
               
               
                 A
                 crue
                 of
                 Scriblers
                 that
                 with
                 brazen
                 face
              
               
                 Prostitute
                 art
                 and
                 worke
                 unto
                 disgrace
              
               
                 My
                 patronage
                 ,
                 each
                 calling
                 out
                 on
                 mee
              
               
                 For
                 midwife
                 to
                 his
                 bastard
                 progenie
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 standing
                 as
                 ●…rotectresse
                 of
                 that
                 brood
              
               
                 My
                 care
                 's
                 ill
                 construed
                 by
                 the
                 sister-hood
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 that
                 she
                 paused
                 a
                 while
                 ,
                 and
                 glanc'st
                 her
                 eye
              
               
                 Among
                 st
                 the
                 mingled
                 pen-wrights
                 ,
                 to
                 descrie
              
               
                 One
                 to
                 d●…stinguish
                 by
                 a
                 different
                 style
                 ,
              
               
                 Dull
                 Latmus
                 from
                 Diviner
                 Pindus
                 soyle
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 length
                 she
                 six't
                 on
                 thee
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 anon
              
               
                 Proclaym'd
                 the
                 her
                 selected
                 champion
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 was
                 this
                 worke
                 presented
                 to
                 her
                 care
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 smiled
                 at
                 it
                 ,
                 and
                 was
                 pleas'd
                 to
                 heare
              
               
                 Dunces
                 so
                 well
                 traduc'd
                 ;
                 and
                 by
                 this
                 rule
                 ,
              
               
                 Discoverd
                 all
                 that
                 nere
                 were
                 of
                 the
                 schoole
              
               
                 Of
                 noble
                 poesie
                 ,
                 and
                 them
                 she
                 threw
              
               
                 Farre
                 from
                 her
                 care
                 and
                 her
                 aquantance
                 too
                 ;
              
               
                 Thus
                 were
                 they
                 found
                 and
                 lost
                 ,
                 and
                 this
                 the
                 test
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 writ
                 in
                 earnest
                 what
                 's
                 here
                 meant
                 in
                 jest
                 .
              
            
             
               James
               Atkins
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               his
               Precious
               Friend
               
                 I.
                 S.
              
               upon
               his
               choyse
               conceipt
               of
               Penelope
               and
               Ulysses
               .
            
             
               
                 LOng
                 look't
                 for
                 comes
                 at
                 last
                 ;
                 t
                 was
                 sayd
                 of
                 old●…
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'le
                 use
                 the
                 proverb
                 ;
                 herein
                 I
                 am
                 bold
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 if
                 the
                 ancient
                 Poets
                 don't
                 belie
                 us
              
               
                 
                   Nihil
                   jam
                   dictum
                   quod
                   non
                   dictum
                   pri●…s
                   :
                
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 that
                 passe
                 :
                 the
                 thing
                 I
                 would
                 intend
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 my
                 unpolist
                 lines
                 ,
                 is
                 to
                 commend
              
               
                 A
                 worke
                 that
                 may
                 to
                 an
                 ingenious
                 care
              
               
                 Be
                 its
                 owne
                 or
                 ator
                 ;
                 for
                 nothing
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 grate's
                 this
                 stupid
                 age
                 ,
                 wherein
                 each
                 ma●…e
              
               
                 That
                 can
                 but
                 ●…yme
                 ,
                 is
                 poet
                 laureat
                 .
              
               
                 It
                 is
                 the
                 scorne
                 of
                 time
                 ,
                 and
                 for
                 m●…
                 par●…
              
               
                 That
                 at
                 the
                 best
                 am
                 but
                 af●…eind
                 to
                 art
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 senses
                 ake
                 to
                 heare
                 the
                 cry
                 advance
              
               
                 And
                 dot●…
                 upon
                 the
                 workes
                 of
                 ignorance
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 focles
                 admire
                 folly
                 :
                 while
                 I
                 thee
              
               
                 That
                 into
                 pastime
                 turn'st
                 their
                 poetrie
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               his
               Sonne
               ,
               upon
               his
               Minerva
               .
            
             
               
                 THou
                 art
                 my
                 son
                 ,
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 ●…y
                 choyse
                 is
                 spoke
                 ;
              
               
                 ●…hine
                 with
                 thy
                 fathers
                 muse
                 strikes
                 equall
                 stroke
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 shewd
                 more
                 art
                 in
                 Virgil
                 to
                 relate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 it
                 worth
                 th'
                 heareing
                 ,
                 his
                 Gnats
                 fate
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 to
                 conceive
                 what
                 those
                 great
                 mindes
                 must
                 be
              
               
                 That
                 sought
                 and
                 found
                 out
                 fruitfull
                 Italic
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 as
                 read
                 and
                 do
                 not
                 apprehend
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 applause
                 the
                 purpose
                 and
                 the
                 end
              
               
                 Of
                 this
                 neat
                 Poem
                 ,
                 in
                 themselves
                 confesse
              
               
                 A
                 dull
                 stupiditie
                 and
                 barrennesse
                 .
              
               
                 Methinks
                 I
                 do
                 behold
                 in
                 this
                 rare
                 birth
              
               
                 A
                 temple
                 built
                 up
                 to
                 facetious
                 mirth
                 ,
              
               
                 Pleasd
                 Phoebus
                 smiling
                 on
                 it
                 ;
                 doubt
                 not
                 then
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 the
                 suffrage
                 of
                 juditious
                 men
              
               
                 Will
                 honour
                 this
                 Thalia
                 ;
                 and
                 for
                 those
              
               
                 That
                 praise
                 Sr.
                 Bevis
                 ,
                 or
                 what
                 's
                 worse
                 in
                 pros●…
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 dwell
                 still
                 in
                 ignorance
                 .
                 To
                 write
              
               
                 In
                 a
                 new
                 strain
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 it
                 ra●…se
                 delight
              
               
                 As
                 thou
                 in
                 this
                 hast
                 done
                 ,
                 doth
                 not
                 by
                 chance
              
               
                 But
                 merit
                 ,
                 crowne
                 thee
                 with
                 the
                 laurell
                 branch
                 .
              
            
             
               Phillip
               Massenger
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               his
               Deare
               Friend
               Mr.
               
                 I.
                 S.
              
               upon
               his
               quaint
               Innovation
               of
               Penelope
               and
               Ulysses
               .
            
             
               
                 FLy
                 ,
                 Fly
                 my
                 muse
                 ,
                 this
                 is
                 the
                 tyme
                 if
                 ever
              
               
                 〈◊〉
                 try
                 thy
                 ●…ings
                 ,
                 now
                 sore
                 aloftor
                 ne●…
                 ;
              
               
                 Importune
                 fame
                 ,
                 for
                 't
                 is
                 her
                 hand
                 must
                 owe
              
               
                 A
                 glory
                 to
                 this
                 temple
                 .
                 Bid
                 her
                 blow
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 her
                 lungs
                 crack
                 and
                 call
                 the
                 world
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 A
                 worke
                 that
                 else
                 wil●…●…'ts
                 owne
                 trumpet
                 be
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 would
                 not
                 have
                 the
                 squeamish
                 Age
                 to
                 jeare
              
               
                 Or
                 slight
                 my
                 muse
                 for
                 bringing
                 up
                 the
                 reare
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 let
                 the
                 garish
                 rabble
                 looke
                 a
                 squint
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 though
                 I
                 were
                 one
                 of
                 their
                 tribe
                 in
                 print
                 ;
              
               
                 It
                 is
                 a
                 Trust
                 that
                 fitly
                 does
                 become
              
               
                 My
                 matchlesse
                 freindship
                 to
                 have
                 such
                 a
                 Rome
              
               
                 For
                 know
                 no
                 vulgar
                 pen
                 could
                 ever
                 glory
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 the
                 Master
                 of
                 so
                 choise
                 a
                 story
                 .
              
               
                 Blush
                 ,
                 Blush
                 ,
                 for
                 shame
                 ,
                 yee
                 wood-be-poets
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 see
                 ●…our
                 faces
                 ,
                 let
                 this
                 glasse
                 recall
              
               
                 Your
                 faults
                 to
                 your
                 remembrance
                 ,
                 numbers
                 ,
                 rym
              
               
                 Your
                 long
                 parentheses
                 ,
                 and
                 verse
                 that
                 clim●…
              
               
                 Up
                 to
                 the
                 elbow
                 ;
                 here
                 you
                 may
                 descry
              
               
                 Such
                 stuffe
                 as
                 weaker
                 wits
                 call
                 poetry
                 :
              
               
                 From
                 hence-forth
                 let
                 no
                 pedling
                 rimers
                 dare
              
               
                 Prophane
                 Thalias
                 alters
                 with
                 such
                 ware
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 great
                 cure
                 ,
                 this
                 booke
                 unto
                 thy
                 name
              
               
                 Shall
                 be
                 a
                 trophy
                 of
                 immortall
                 fame
                 .
              
            
             
               I.
               M.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 The
                 Author
                 to
                 the
                 Author
              
               .
               To
               his
               worthy
               Friend
               
                 I.
                 S.
              
               upon
               his
               happy
               Translation
               of
               Ulysses
               and
               Penelope
               .
            
             
               
                 LEt
                 joy
                 possesse
                 the
                 universall
                 Globe
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 worke
                 is
                 donne
                 ,
                 bright
                 Sol
                 is
                 in
                 his
                 robe
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 time
                 and
                 nature
                 breathe
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 the
                 arts
                 ,
              
               
                 Pause
                 here
                 a
                 while
                 ,
                 they
                 have
                 perform'd
                 their
                 parts
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 a
                 Man
                 ,
                 that
                 from
                 the
                 Alpes
                 doth
                 fall
              
               
                 Being
                 in
                 drinke
                 ,
                 and
                 has
                 no
                 hurt
                 at
                 all
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 afterwards
                 hee
                 has
                 considerd
                 well
                 ,
              
               
                 An●…
                 veiw'd
                 the
                 Al●…itude
                 ,
                 from
                 whence
                 hee
                 fell
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 in
                 his
                 sober
                 thoughts
                 hee
                 has
                 the
                 hint
                 on
                 't
              
               
                 It
                 frights
                 him
                 more
                 then
                 to
                 endure
                 the
                 dint
                 on
                 't
                 ;
              
               
                 Even
                 so
                 our
                 Author
                 ,
                 when
                 hee
                 veiwes
                 aright
              
               
                 What
                 time
                 and
                 industry
                 have
                 brought
                 to
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 more
                 be
                 troubled
                 both
                 in
                 M●…nd
                 and
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 ●…o
                 thinke
                 what
                 's
                 donne
                 ,
                 then
                 in
                 the
                 doing
                 it
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 at
                 the
                 spring
                 and
                 Birth-day
                 of
                 Glendour
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 storyes
                 treat
                 of
                 for
                 a
                 Man
                 and
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 then
                 I
                 say
                 there
                 was
                 such
                 notice
                 taken
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 VVales
                 and
                 all
                 her
                 Mountaniers
                 were
                 shaken
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 Alteration
                 must
                 there
                 needes
                 be
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 usher
                 in
                 thine
                 Issue
                 !
                 who
                 knowes
                 how
              
               
               
                 To
                 fadom
                 thought
                 ,
                 or
                 tye
                 the
                 starres
                 in
                 strings
                 ?
              
               
                 Such
                 must
                 his
                 learning
                 be
                 that
                 kens
                 these
                 things
                 .
              
               
                 Me-thinks
                 the
                 spheares
                 should
                 falter
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 sage
              
               
                 Should
                 from
                 this
                 time
                 reckon
                 another
                 age
                 ,
              
               
                 Gossips
                 shall
                 make
                 it
                 famous
                 ,
                 It
                 shall
                 bee
              
               
                 The
                 common
                 Meatpole
                 to
                 Posterity
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 time
                 of
                 Edmonds
                 and
                 of
                 Gertrude's
                 birth
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 three
                 yeares
                 after
                 such
                 aworke
                 came
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 was
                 the
                 great
                 eclipse
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 the
                 time
              
               
                 When
                 this
                 Mans
                 Granfather
                 was
                 in
                 his
                 prime
                 ;
              
               
                 Hackster
                 the
                 Back-sword-man
                 then
                 broke
                 his
                 Arme
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 yeare
                 old
                 Honyman
                 his
                 Bees
                 did
                 swarme
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 I
                 guesse
                 aright
                 ,
                 began
                 that
                 yeare
              
               
                 The
                 Hollanders
                 Plantation
                 in
                 York-shire
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 shall
                 all
                 Accidents
                 be
                 brought
                 about
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 this
                 the
                 onely
                 time
                 to
                 find
                 em
                 out
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Men
                 did
                 of
                 old
                 count
                 from
                 the
                 dayes
                 of
                 Adam
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Eve
                 the
                 spinster
                 (
                 no
                 newes
                 then
                 of
                 Madam
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 Some
                 from
                 Diana's
                 Temple
                 ,
                 that
                 rare
                 peece
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 from
                 the
                 stealing
                 of
                 the
                 Golden
                 fleece
                 ;
              
               
                 From
                 moderne
                 Matters
                 som
                 their
                 Reckoning
                 make
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 great
                 voyage
                 of
                 
                   Sr
                   :
                   Francis
                   Drake
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Other
                 's
                 from
                 88
                 ,
                 and
                 some
                 there
                 are
              
               
                 That
                 count
                 from
                 bringing
                 of
                 the
                 Brook
                 from
                 VVare
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 these
                 things
                 shall
                 be
                 abolish'd
                 quite
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 no
                 Man
                 now
                 shall
                 aprehend
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 have
                 a
                 sonne
                 a
                 daughter
                 or
                 a
                 neece
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 age
                 not
                 dated
                 with
                 this
                 master-peece
                 .
              
               
               
                 More
                 I
                 would
                 say
                 ,
                 much
                 more
                 ;
                 but
                 that
                 I
                 fear
              
               
                 My
                 liberall
                 commendations
                 would
                 appeare
              
               
                 Like
                 to
                 the
                 Gates
                 of
                 Thebes
                 ,
                 where
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 some
                 ,
              
               
                 Fear'd
                 lest
                 the
                 citty
                 should
                 run
                 out
                 at
                 'um
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 may
                 my
                 error
                 be
                 ,
                 whilst
                 here
                 I
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 Great
                 Neptunes
                 Anthems
                 ,
                 to
                 salute
                 a
                 spring
                 ,
              
               
                 Bùt
                 such
                 a
                 spring
                 ,
                 as
                 all
                 that
                 ere
                 have
                 seene
                 it
              
               
                 Confesse
                 there
                 's
                 nought
                 but
                 spirit
                 of
                 waters
                 in
                 it
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 here
                 let
                 me
                 excuse
                 that
                 prity
                 Elfe
              
               
                 Thy
                 froward
                 Muse
                 that
                 left
                 thee
                 to
                 thy selfe
                 ;
              
               
                 Whom
                 thou
                 upbraidst
                 for
                 that
                 ;
                 which
                 I
                 replye
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 nought
                 but
                 Advantagious
                 Policy
                 ;
              
               
                 T'
                 was
                 a
                 good
                 Omen
                 when
                 she
                 backward
                 went
              
               
                 That
                 she
                 would
                 arme
                 her selfe
                 with
                 double
                 hint
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 shee
                 did
                 ,
                 they
                 'l
                 say
                 ,
                 that
                 doe
                 peruse
                 ore
              
               
                 This
                 seeming
                 pamphlet
                 which
                 a●…onensues
                 your
              
            
             
               
                 Loving
                 Friend
                 .
                 
                   I.
                   S.
                
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Author
               to
               himselfe
               .
            
             
               
                 HIgh
                 as
                 the
                 Alpes
                 my
                 towring
                 muse
                 dos
                 wing
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 snach
                 the
                 laurell
                 from
                 fames
                 fane
                 ,
                 &
                 fling
                 it
              
               
                 Even
                 at
                 thy
                 crowne
                 ,
                 thy
                 crowne
                 ;
                 where
                 may
                 it
                 sit
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 time
                 it selfe
                 ,
                 being
                 non-plus'd
                 ,
                 wither
                 it
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 stroake
                 that
                 herein
                 of
                 thy
                 pen
                 made
                 proof
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 like
                 the
                 stamp
                 of
                 Pegasus
                 his
                 hoof
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 does
                 uncurtaine
                 where
                 does
                 sit
                 and
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Heliconians
                 ,
                 round
                 about
                 the
                 spring
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 wish
                 the
                 world
                 this
                 pamphlet
                 had
                 not
                 seene
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 having
                 veiw'd
                 it
                 ,
                 it
                 had
                 faulty
                 been
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 might
                 I
                 still
                 have
                 lov'd
                 thee
                 ,
                 cruell
                 fate
              
               
                 Has
                 made
                 the
                 now
                 the
                 object
                 of
                 my
                 hate
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 envy
                 feedes
                 on
                 merit
                 ,
                 but
                 believe
                 mee
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 love
                 thy
                 person
                 ,
                 though
                 thy
                 worth
                 does
                 grieve
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               I.
               S.
               
            
          
           
             
             
             
               The
               Preface
               to
               that
               most
               elaborate
               piece
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               entituled
               ,
               
                 Penelope
                 and
                 Ulysses
              
               .
            
             
               
                 NO
                 ,
                 I
                 protest
                 ,
                 not
                 that
                 I
                 wish
                 the
                 gaines
              
               
                 To
                 spoile
                 the
                 trade
                 of
                 mercenary
                 braines
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 am
                 indifferently
                 bent
                 ,
                 so
                 ,
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 Whether
                 I
                 ever
                 sell
                 my
                 workes
                 or
                 no.
              
               
                 Nor
                 was
                 't
                 my
                 aime
                 when
                 I
                 took
                 pen
                 in
                 fingers
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 take
                 imployment
                 from
                 the
                 Ballad-singers
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 none
                 of
                 th●…se
                 :
                 But
                 on
                 a
                 gloomy
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 genius
                 stept
                 to
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 thus
                 gan
                 say
                 ;
              
               
                 Listen
                 to
                 me
                 ,
                 I
                 give
                 you
                 information
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 History
                 deserves
                 a
                 grave
                 translation
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 comparisons
                 be
                 free
                 from
                 slanders
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 say
                 ,
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 Hero
                 and
                 Leanders
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 said
                 ,
                 I
                 took
                 my
                 chaire
                 ,
                 in
                 colours
                 wrought
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 at
                 an
                 outcry
                 ,
                 with
                 two
                 stoo●…es
                 I
                 bought
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 stooles
                 of
                 Dornix
                 ,
                 which
                 that
                 you
                 may
                 know
                 well
              
               
                 Are
                 certain
                 stuffs
                 ,
                 Upholsters
                 use
                 to
                 s●…ll
                 .
              
               
                 Stuffs
                 ,
                 said
                 I
                 ?
                 No
                 :
                 some
                 Linsey
                 -
                 Wolsey-monger
                 mixt
                 them
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 were
                 not
                 Stuff
                 nor
                 Cloth
                 sure
                 ,
                 but
                 betwixt
                 them
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Ward
                 〈◊〉
                 bought
                 them
                 in
                 ,
                 it
                 was
                 without
              
               
                 High●…
                 Faringdon
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 a
                 greasie
                 lout
              
               
                 Bid
                 for
                 them
                 shillings
                 six
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 bid
                 seven
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 summe
                 that
                 is
                 accounted
                 odd
                 ,
                 not
                 ●…ven
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Cryer
                 thereat
                 seemed
                 to
                 be
                 willing
                 ,
              
               
                 Q●…oth
                 he
                 ,
                 there
                 's
                 no
                 man
                 better
                 then
                 seven
                 shilling
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 thought
                 it
                 was
                 a
                 reasonable
                 price
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 struck
                 upon
                 the
                 Table
                 ,
                 once
                 ,
                 twice
                 ,
                 thrice
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 pen
                 in
                 one
                 hand
                 ,
                 Pen-knife
                 in
                 the
                 other
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Ink
                 was
                 good
                 ,
                 my
                 Paper
                 was
                 no
                 other
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 sat
                 me
                 down
                 ,
                 being
                 with
                 sadnesse
                 moved
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 sing
                 this
                 new
                 Song
                 ,
                 sung
                 of
                 old
                 by
                 Ovid.
              
               
               
                 But
                 would
                 you
                 think
                 ,
                 as
                 I
                 was
                 thus
                 preparing
              
               
                 All
                 in
                 a
                 readinesse
                 ,
                 here
                 and
                 there
                 staring
              
               
                 To
                 find
                 my
                 implements
                 ,
                 that
                 th'
                 untoward
                 Elfe
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Muse
                 ,
                 should
                 steal
                 away
                 ,
                 and
                 hide
                 her selfe
                 ,
              
               
                 Just
                 so
                 it
                 was
                 ,
                 faith
                 ,
                 neither
                 worse
                 nor
                 better
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 way
                 she
                 run
                 ,
                 er'e
                 I
                 had
                 writ
                 a
                 Letter
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 after
                 her
                 a
                 pace
                 ,
                 and
                 beat
                 the
                 Bushes
                 ,
              
               
                 Rank
                 Grasse
                 ,
                 Firrs
                 ,
                 Ferne
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 tall
                 Banks
                 of
                 Rushes
              
               
                 At
                 last
                 I
                 found
                 my
                 M●…se
                 ,
                 and
                 wot
                 you
                 what
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 put
                 her
                 up
                 ,
                 for
                 lo
                 she
                 was
                 at
                 squat
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 sl●…t
                 quoth
                 I
                 ,
                 hadst
                 thou
                 not
                 run
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 had
                 made
                 Verses
                 all
                 th●…s
                 live-long
                 day
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 good
                 sooth
                 ,
                 o're
                 much
                 I
                 d●…rst
                 not
                 chide
                 her
                 ,
              
               
                 Lest
                 she
                 should
                 run
                 away
                 ,
                 and
                 hide
                 her
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 my
                 heat
                 was
                 o're
                 I
                 spake
                 thus
                 to
                 her
                 ;
              
               
                 Why
                 did'st
                 thou
                 play
                 the
                 wag
                 ?
                 I
                 'm
                 very
                 ●…ure
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 commended
                 thee
                 ,
                 above
                 old
                 Chaucer
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 a
                 Tavern
                 once
                 I
                 had
                 a
                 Sawcer
              
               
                 Of
                 White-wine
                 Vinegar
                 ,
                 dasht
                 in
                 my
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 saying
                 thou
                 deservedst
                 a
                 better
                 grace
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 knowst
                 that
                 then
                 I
                 took
                 a
                 Sawsedge
                 up
                 ,
              
               
                 Upon
                 the
                 knaves
                 face
                 it
                 gave
                 such
                 a
                 clap
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 he
                 repented
                 him
                 that
                 he
                 had
                 spoken
              
               
                 Against
                 thy
                 Fame
                 ,
                 he
                 struck
                 by
                 the
                 same
                 token
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 oft
                 have
                 sung
                 thy
                 Meeters
                 ,
                 and
                 sometimes
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 laught
                 to
                 set
                 on
                 others
                 at
                 thy
                 rimes
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 that
                 my
                 Muse
                 considered
                 had
                 this
                 geare
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 sigh'd
                 so
                 sore
                 ,
                 it
                 griev'd
                 my
                 heart
                 to
                 heare
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 said
                 she
                 had
                 done
                 ill
                 ,
                 and
                 was
                 not
                 blameless
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Polyhym●…ey
                 (
                 one
                 that
                 shal
                 be
                 namelesse
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 present
                 when
                 she
                 spoke
                 it
                 )
                 and
                 before
                 her
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Muses
                 lamentation
                 was
                 the
                 soarer
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 to
                 shew
                 she
                 was
                 not
                 quite
                 unkinde
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 sounded
                 out
                 these
                 strong
                 lines
                 of
                 her
                 minde
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               THE
               INNOVATION
               OF
               Vlysses
               and
               Penelope
               .
            
             
               
                 O
                 All
                 ye
                 1
                 Cliptick
                 Spirits
                 of
                 the
                 Sphaeres
              
               
                 That
                 have
                 or
                 2
                 sense
                 to
                 hear
                 or
                 3
                 use
                 of
                 eares
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 you
                 in
                 number
                 4
                 twelve
                 Caelestiall
                 Signes
              
               
                 That
                 Poets
                 have
                 made
                 use
                 of
                 in
                 their
                 lines
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 which
                 men
                 doe
                 know
                 what
                 Seasons
                 good
              
               
                 To
                 gueld
                 their
                 Bore-piggs
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 Horses
                 blood
                 ;
              
               
                 List
                 to
                 my
                 dolefull
                 glee
                 ,
                 ô
                 5
                 list
                 I
                 say
                 ,
              
               
                 Unto
                 the
                 Complaint
                 of
                 Penelopay
                 .
              
               
               
                 She
                 was
                 a
                 Lo●…er
                 ,
                 I
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 was
                 hee
              
               
                 As
                 loving
                 unto
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 he
                 to
                 6
                 she
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 mark
                 how
                 things
                 were
                 al●…er'd
                 in
                 〈◊〉
                 moment
              
               
                 Ulysses
                 was
                 a
                 Graecian
                 born
                 ,
                 I
                 so
                 meant
              
               
                 To
                 have
                 inform'd
                 you
                 first
                 ;
                 but
                 since
                 't
                 is
                 or'●…
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 is
                 as
                 7
                 well
                 ,
                 as
                 had
                 it
                 been
                 before
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 being
                 as
                 I
                 said
                 ,
                 a
                 Greek
                 there
                 rose
              
               
                 A
                 Quarrell
                 '
                 twi●…t
                 the
                 Trojans
                 and
                 their
                 8
                 foes
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 mean
                 the
                 Graecians
                 ,
                 whereof
                 he
                 was
                 9
                 one
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 that
                 pass
                 ,
                 he
                 was
                 La●…rtes
                 Sonne
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 least
                 some
                 of
                 the
                 difference
                 be
                 ig-norant
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 was
                 about
                 a
                 1
                 Wench
                 ,
                 you
                 may
                 hear
                 more
                 2
                 on
                 't
              
               
                 In
                 Virgils
                 Aeneids
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Homer
                 too
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 Paris
                 lov'd
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 no
                 more
                 adoe
              
               
                 But
                 goes
                 and
                 steales
                 her
                 from
                 her
                 Husband
                 :
                 wherefore
              
               
                 The
                 Graecians
                 took
                 their
                 Tooles
                 ,
                 and
                 fighted
                 therefore
                 .
              
               
               
                 And
                 that
                 you
                 may
                 perceive
                 they
                 were
                 stout
                 3
                 Signiors
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Combat
                 lasted
                 for
                 the
                 space
                 of
                 ten
                 4
                 years
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 Gallant
                 bideing
                 where
                 full
                 many
                 a
                 Mother
              
               
                 Is
                 oft
                 bereav'd
                 of
                 Child
                 ,
                 Sister
                 of
                 Brothe
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Lady
                 greatly
                 longing
                 for
                 his
                 presence
              
               
                 5
                 Writ
                 him
                 a
                 Letter
                 ,
                 whereof
                 this
                 the
                 Sense
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 My
                 pretty
                 Duck
                 ,
                 my
                 Pigsnie
                 ,
                 my
                 Ulysses
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Thy
                 poor
                 Penelope
                 sends
                 a
                 6
                 thousand
                 Kisses
              
               
                 "
                 As
                 to
                 her
                 only
                 Ioy
                 ,
                 a
                 hearty
                 greeting
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 Wishing
                 thy
                 Company
                 ,
                 but
                 not
                 thy
                 meeting
              
               
                 "
                 With
                 enemies
                 ,
                 and
                 fiery
                 Spirits
                 in
                 Armour
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 which
                 perchance
                 may
                 do
                 thy
                 bedy
                 harme-or
              
               
                 "
                 May
                 take
                 thee
                 Pisoner
                 ,
                 and
                 clap
                 on
                 thee
                 bolts
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 locks
                 upon
                 thy
                 legges
                 ,
                 such
                 as
                 weare
                 Colts
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 send
                 me
                 word
                 ,
                 and
                 e're
                 that
                 thou
                 want
                 r●…some
              
               
                 "
                 Being
                 a
                 man
                 so
                 comely
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 handsome
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Ile
                 sell
                 my
                 Smocke
                 both
                 from
                 my
                 backe
                 and
                 7
                 belly
              
               
               
                 
                   "
                   E're
                   you
                   want
                   Money
                   ,
                   Meat
                   ,
                   or
                   Cloathes
                   ,
                   I
                   tell
                   yee
                   .
                
              
               
                 When
                 that
                 Ulysses
                 ,
                 all
                 in
                 grief
                 enveloped
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 markt
                 how
                 right
                 this
                 Letter
                 was
                 Peneloped
                 .
              
               
                 Laid
                 one
                 hand
                 on
                 his
                 heart
                 ,
                 and
                 said't
                 was
                 guilty
                 ,
              
               
                 Resting
                 the
                 other
                 on
                 his
                 Dagger-hilty
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 gan
                 to
                 speake
                 :
                 O
                 thou
                 that
                 dost
                 controule
              
               
                 All
                 beauties
                 else
                 ,
                 thou
                 hast
                 so
                 bang'd
                 my
                 soule
              
               
                 With
                 this
                 thy
                 lamentation
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 sweare
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 love
                 thee
                 strangely
                 ,
                 without
                 wit
                 or
                 fear
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 could
                 have
                 wish'd
                 (
                 quoth
                 he
                 ,
                 )
                 my selfe
                 the
                 Paper
              
               
                 Inke
                 ,
                 Standish
                 ,
                 Sandbox
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 burning
                 Taper
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 were
                 the
                 Instruments
                 of
                 this
                 thy
                 writeing
              
               
                 Or
                 else
                 the
                 Stool
                 whereon
                 thou
                 sat'st
                 inditing
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 might
                 have
                 bin
                 neer
                 that
                 lovely
                 breech
              
               
                 That
                 never
                 yet
                 was
                 troubled
                 with
                 the
                 8
                 Itch.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 the
                 thought
                 of
                 that
                 ,
                 his
                 Sorrow
                 doubled
              
               
                 His
                 heart
                 with
                 wo
                 ,
                 was
                 so
                 Cuff'd
                 and
                 Cornubled
                 ,
              
               
               
                 That
                 he
                 approv'd
                 one
                 of
                 his
                 Ladyes
                 Verses
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 The
                 which
                 my
                 Author
                 in
                 his
                 booke
                 rehearses
                 )
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 true
                 quoth
                 he
                 ,
                 9
                 Loves
                 troubles
                 make
                 me
                 tamer
                 ,
              
               
                 Res
                 est
                 Soliciti
                 plena
                 timoris
                 Amor.
              
               
                 This
                 said
                 ,
                 he
                 blam'd
                 himselfe
                 ,
                 and
                 chid
                 his
                 folly
              
               
                 For
                 being
                 so
                 ore-rul'd
                 with
                 melancholly
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 call'd
                 himself
                 ,
                 Fool
                 ,
                 Coxecombe
                 ,
                 Asse
                 ,
                 and
                 Fop
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 many
                 ascurvy
                 name
                 he
                 reckon'd
                 up
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 himself
                 ,
                 this
                 language
                 was
                 too
                 rough
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 certainly
                 the
                 Man
                 had
                 wit
                 enough
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 he
                 resolves
                 to
                 leave
                 his
                 Trojan
                 foes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 go
                 to
                 see
                 his
                 Love
                 in
                 his
                 best
                 Cloaths
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 marke
                 how
                 he
                 was
                 cross'd
                 in
                 his
                 intent
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 friends
                 suspected
                 him
                 incontinent
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 some
                 of
                 them
                 suppos'd
                 he
                 was
                 in
                 love
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 his
                 eyes
                 all
                 in
                 his
                 head
                 did
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 more
                 or
                 less
                 then
                 used
                 ,
                 I
                 know
                 not
                 which
              
               
                 But
                 I
                 am
                 sure
                 they
                 did
                 not
                 move
                 so
                 mich
              
               
                 As
                 they
                 were
                 wont
                 to
                 doe
                 :
                 and
                 then
                 't
                 was
                 blasted
                 .
              
               
                 Ulysses
                 was
                 in
                 love
                 ,
                 and
                 whilst
                 that
                 lasted
              
               
               
                 No
                 other
                 newes
                 within
                 the
                 Camp
                 was
                 spoke
                 of
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 many
                 did
                 suppose
                 the
                 Match
                 was
                 broke
                 off
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 he
                 conceal'd
                 himself
                 ,
                 nor
                 was
                 o're
                 hasty
              
               
                 To
                 shift
                 his
                 Cloaths
                 ,
                 though
                 now
                 grown
                 somewhat
                 nasty
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 having
                 wash'd
                 his
                 hands
                 in
                 Pewter
                 Bason
                 ,
              
               
                 Determines
                 for
                 to
                 get
                 a
                 Girle
                 or
                 a
                 Son
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 fair
                 Penelope
                 ,
                 for
                 he
                 look'd
                 trimmer
              
               
                 Then
                 young
                 Leander
                 when
                 he
                 learn'd
                 his
                 1
                 Primer
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Graece
                 he
                 wends
                 apace
                 ,
                 for
                 all
                 his
                 hope
              
               
                 Was
                 only
                 now
                 to
                 see
                 faire
                 Penelope
                 :
              
               
                 She
                 kemb●d
                 her
                 head
                 ,
                 and
                 wash'd
                 her
                 face
                 in
                 Creame
              
               
                 And
                 pinch'd
                 her
                 cheeks
                 to
                 make
                 the
                 2
                 redde
                 bloud
                 stream
              
               
                 She
                 don'd
                 new
                 cloaths
                 ,
                 and
                 sent
                 the
                 old
                 ones
                 packing
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 had
                 her
                 shoes
                 rub'd
                 over
                 with
                 Lamp
                 3
                 blacking
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 new
                 rebato
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 falling
                 band
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Rings
                 with
                 severall
                 poesies
                 on
                 her
                 hand
                 .
              
               
               
                 A
                 stomacher
                 upon
                 her
                 breast
                 so
                 bare
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 Strips
                 and
                 Gorgets
                 was
                 not
                 then
                 the
                 weare
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 thus
                 adorn'd
                 to
                 meet
                 her
                 youthfull
                 Lover
              
               
                 Heard
                 by
                 a
                 Post-boy
                 ,
                 he
                 was
                 new
                 come
                 over
                 :
              
               
                 She
                 then
                 prepares
                 a
                 banquet
                 very
                 neat
              
               
                 4
                 Yet
                 there
                 was
                 not
                 a
                 bit
                 of
                 Butchers
                 meat
              
               
                 But
                 Pyes
                 ,
                 and
                 Capons
                 ,
                 Rabbits
                 ,
                 Larkes
                 ,
                 and
                 Fruit
                 ;
              
               
                 Orion
                 on
                 a
                 Dolphin
                 ,
                 with
                 his
                 5
                 Harpe
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 the
                 midst
                 of
                 all
                 these
                 dishes
                 stood
              
               
                 A
                 platter
                 of
                 Pease-porridg
                 ,
                 wondrous
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 next
                 to
                 that
                 the
                 god
                 of
                 Love
                 was
                 plac'd
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Image
                 being
                 made
                 out
                 of
                 Rye-paste
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 that
                 good
                 ,
                 which
                 the
                 old
                 Proverb
                 speaks
              
               
                 [
                 The
                 one
                 the
                 Heart
                 ,
                 't
                 other
                 the
                 belly
                 breaks
                 .
                 ]
              
               
                 Ulysses
                 seeing
                 himself
                 a
                 welcome
                 Guest
              
               
                 Resolves
                 to
                 have
                 some
                 Fidlers
                 at
                 the
                 Feast
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 'mongst
                 the
                 various
                 Consort
                 choosing
                 them
              
               
                 That
                 in
                 their
                 sleeves
                 the
                 armes
                 of
                 Agamem
                 -
              
               
                 Non
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 next
                 verse
                 ,
                 wore
                 :
                 Cry'd
                 in
                 a
                 rage
              
               
                 Sing
                 me
                 some
                 Song
                 made
                 in
                 the
                 Iron-Age
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 Iron-Age
                 ,
                 quoth
                 he
                 that
                 used
                 to
                 sing
                 ?
              
               
                 This
                 to
                 my
                 mind
                 the
                 Black-Smith's
                 Song
                 doth
                 bring
              
               
                 The
                 Black-Smiths
                 ,
                 quoth
                 Ulisses
                 ?
                 and
                 there
                 holloweth
                 ,
              
               
                 Whoope
                 !
                 is
                 there
                 such
                 a
                 Song
                 ?
                 Let
                 's
                 ha
                 't
                 .
                 It
                 followeth
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 
                   The
                   Black-Smith
                
                 .
                 As
                 it
                 was
                 sung
                 before
                 Ulysses
                 and
                 Penelope
                 at
                 their
                 Feast
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 returned
                 from
                 their
                 
                   Trojan
                   Warrs
                
                 ,
                 collected
                 out
                 of
                 
                   Homer
                   ,
                   Virgill
                
                 and
                 Ovid
                 ,
                 by
                 some
                 of
                 the
                 Modern
                 Familie
                 of
                 the
                 Fancies
                 .
              
               
                 
                   OF
                   all
                   the
                   trades
                   that
                   ever
                   I
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   none
                   with
                   the
                   Blacksmith
                   compar'd
                   may
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   so
                   many
                   severall
                   tooles
                   workes
                   hee
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     Nobody
                     can
                     deny
                  
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   first
                   that
                   ever
                   thunderbolt
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   a
                   Cyclops
                   of
                   the
                   Blacksmiths
                   trade
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   in
                   a
                   learned
                   author
                   is
                   sayd
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     Nobody
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   Thunderingly
                   we
                   lay
                   about
                
                 
                   The
                   fire
                   like
                   lightening
                   flasheth
                   out
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   suddainly
                   with
                   water
                   wee
                   d'out
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     No
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   The
                   fayrest
                   Godesse
                   in
                   the
                   skyes
                
                 
                   To
                   marry
                   with
                   Vulcan
                   did
                   devise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   was
                   a
                   Blacksmith
                   grave
                   and
                   wise
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Mulciber
                   to
                   do
                   her
                   all
                   right
                
                 
                   Did
                   build
                   her
                   a
                   Towne
                   by
                   day
                   and
                   by
                   night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   afterwards
                   he
                   Hammersmith
                   hight
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   that
                   no
                   Enemy
                   might
                   wrong
                   her
                
                 
                   Hee
                   gave
                   her
                   Fort
                   she
                   need
                   no
                   stronger
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   is
                   the
                   lane
                   of
                   Ironmonger
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Vulcan
                   farther
                   did
                   acquaint
                   her
                
                 
                   That
                   a
                   pritty
                   estate
                   he
                   would
                   appoynt
                   her
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leave
                   her
                   Seacoale-lane
                   for
                   ajoynture
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   Smithfeild
                   he
                   did
                   free
                   from
                   dirt
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   had
                   sure
                   great
                   reason
                   for
                   't
                
                 
                   It
                   stood
                   very
                   neare
                   to
                   *
                   venus
                   court
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   after
                   in
                   good
                   time
                   and
                   tide
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   was
                   to
                   the
                   Blacksmiths
                   rectifyed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   given'em
                   by
                   
                     Edmond
                     ●…rouside
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   At
                   last
                   *
                   he
                   made
                   a
                   Nett
                   or
                   traine
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   which
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   warre
                   was
                   t'ane
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ever
                   since
                   was
                   call'd
                   Pauls
                   chaine
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   common
                   proverb
                   ,
                   as
                   it
                   is
                   read
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   we
                   should
                   hit
                   the
                   nayle
                   o'
                   the
                   head
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Without
                   the
                   Blacksmith
                   cannot
                   be
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   There
                   is
                   another
                   must
                   not
                   be
                   forgot
                
                 
                   Which
                   falls
                   unto
                   the
                   Blacksmiths
                   lot
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   we
                   should
                   strike
                   while
                   the
                   I'rons
                   hott
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   third
                   lyes
                   in
                   the
                   Blacksmiths
                   way
                
                 
                   When
                   things
                   are
                   safe
                   as
                   old-wives
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   have
                   'em
                   under
                   lock
                   and
                   key
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Another
                   proverb
                   makes
                   me
                   laugh
                
                 
                   Because
                   the
                   Smith
                   can
                   challenge
                   but
                   halfe
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   things
                   are
                   as
                   Plaine
                   as
                   a
                   Pike
                   staffe
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   't
                   other
                   halfe
                   to
                   him
                   does
                   belong
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   therefore
                   ,
                   do
                   the
                   Smith
                   no
                   wrong
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   one
                   is
                   held
                   to
                   it
                   hard
                   ,
                   buckle
                   and
                   thong
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   there
                   is
                   a
                   whole
                   one
                   proper
                   and
                   fit
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Blacksmith's
                   justice
                   is
                   seene
                   in
                   it
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   you
                   give
                   a
                   man
                   rostmeat
                   and
                   beat
                   him
                   with
                   spitt
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Another
                   proverb
                   does
                   seldome
                   fayle
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   you
                   meet
                   with
                   naughty
                   beere
                   or
                   ale
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   cry
                   it
                   is
                   as
                   dead
                   as
                   a
                   dore
                   nayle
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     VVhich
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   you
                   stick
                   to
                   one
                   when
                   fortunes
                   wheele
                
                 
                   Doth
                   make
                   him
                   many
                   losses
                   feele
                
                 
                   We
                   say
                   such
                   a
                   friend
                   is
                   as
                   true
                   as
                   steele
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     VVhich
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Ther
                   's
                   one
                   that
                   's
                   in
                   the
                   Blacksmith's
                   bookes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   him
                   alone
                   for
                   remedy
                   lookes
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   is
                   he
                   that
                   is
                   offo'the
                   hookes
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Ther
                   's
                   ner'a
                   slutt
                   ,
                   if
                   filth
                   over-smutch
                   her
                
                 
                   But
                   owes
                   to
                   the
                   Blacksmith
                   for
                   her
                   leatcher
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   without
                   a
                   payre
                   of
                   tongs
                   no
                   man
                   will
                   touch
                   her
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   There
                   is
                   a
                   lawe
                   in
                   merry
                   England
                
                 
                   In
                   which
                   the
                   Smith
                   has
                   some
                   command
                
                 
                   When
                   any
                   one
                   is
                   burnt
                   in
                   the
                   hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Banbury
                   ale
                   a
                   halfe-yard-pott
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Devill
                   a
                   Tinker
                   dares
                   stand
                   to
                   't
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   once
                   the
                   tost
                   be
                   hizzing-hott
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   any
                   Taylor
                   has
                   the
                   Itch
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Blacksmith's
                   water
                   ,
                   as
                   black
                   as
                   pitch
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   make
                   his
                   fingers
                   goe
                   thorow-stitch
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Sullen-woman
                   needs
                   no
                   leech
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Blacksmiths
                   Bellowes
                   restores
                   her
                   speech
                
                 
                   And
                   will
                   fetch
                   her
                   againe
                   with
                   wind
                   in
                   her
                   Breech
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Your
                   snuffling
                   Puritans
                   do
                   surmise
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   without
                   the
                   Blacksmiths
                   mysteries
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     St
                     :
                     Peter
                  
                   had
                   never
                   gotten
                   his
                   keyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     VVhich
                     every
                     one
                     can
                     deny
                  
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   And
                   further
                   more
                   there
                   are
                   of
                   those
                
                 
                   Tha●…
                   without
                   the
                   Blacksmiths
                   help
                   do
                   suppose
                
                 
                   
                     St
                     :
                     Dunstan
                  
                   had
                   never
                   tane
                   the
                   Divel
                   by
                   the
                   nose
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     Nobody
                     can
                     deny
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   though
                   they
                   are
                   so
                   rigid
                   and
                   nice
                
                 
                   And
                   rayle
                   against
                   Drabs
                   ,
                   and
                   Drinke
                   ,
                   and
                   Dice
                
                 
                   Yet
                   they
                   do
                   allowe
                   the
                   Blacksmith
                   his
                   vice
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   when
                   so
                   many
                   Haeresies
                   fly
                   about
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   every
                   sect
                   growes
                   still
                   more
                   in
                   doubt
                
                 
                   The
                   Blacksmith
                   he
                   is
                   hammering
                   it
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Though
                   Serjeants
                   at
                   law
                   grow
                   richer
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   long
                   pleading
                   a
                   good
                   cause
                   can
                   marr
                
                 
                   Yet
                   your
                   Blacksmith
                   takes
                   more
                   pains
                   at
                   the
                   Barr
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   though
                   he
                   has
                   no
                   Commander's
                   look
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   brag
                   of
                   those
                   he
                   hath
                   slayn
                   and
                   took
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   he
                   is
                   as
                   good
                   as
                   ever
                   strooke
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   though
                   he
                   does
                   lay
                   on
                   many
                   a
                   blow
                
                 
                   It
                   ruines
                   neither
                   freind
                   nor
                   foe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Would
                   our
                   plundering-souldiers
                   had
                   don
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     every
                     one
                     can
                     deny
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Though
                   Bankrupts
                   lye
                   lurking
                   in
                   their
                   holes
                
                 
                   And
                   laugh
                   at
                   their
                   Creditors
                   ,
                   and
                   catchpoles
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   your
                   Smith
                   can
                   fetch
                   em
                   over
                   the
                   coales
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Wh●…ch
                     Nobody
                     can
                     deny
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Our
                   lawes
                   do
                   punish
                   severely
                   still
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   countersit
                   ,
                   deed
                   ,
                   bond
                   ,
                   or
                   bill
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   your
                   Smith
                   may
                   freely
                   forge
                   what
                   he
                   will
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   be
                   a
                   Jockey
                   is
                   thought
                   a
                   fine
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   to
                   trayne
                   up
                   a
                   horse
                   ,
                   and
                   prescribe
                   him
                   his
                   meat
                
                 
                   Yet
                   your
                   smith
                   knowes
                   best
                   to
                   give
                   a
                   heat
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Roreing-Boy
                   who
                   every
                   one
                   quayles
                
                 
                   And
                   swagge●…s
                   ,
                   &
                   drinks
                   ,
                   &
                   sweares
                   and
                   rayles
                   ,
                
                 
                   Could
                   never
                   yet
                   make
                   the
                   Smith
                   eat
                   his
                   nayls
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   if
                   to
                   know
                   him
                   men
                   did
                   desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   would
                   not
                   scorne
                   him
                   but
                   ranck
                   him
                   higher
                
                 
                   For
                   what
                   he
                   gets
                   is
                   out
                   of
                   the
                   fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   .
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Though
                   Ulysses
                   himselfe
                   has
                   gon
                   many
                   miles
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   warre
                   has
                   all
                   the
                   craft
                   &
                   the
                   wiles
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   your
                   Smith
                   can
                   sooner
                   double
                   his
                   files
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   &c
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Sayst
                   thou
                   so
                   ,
                   quoth
                   Ulysses
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   he
                   did
                   call
                
                 
                   For
                   wine
                   to
                   drinke
                   to
                   the
                   Black-Smiths
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   vowed
                   it
                   should
                   go
                   round
                   as
                   a
                   Ball
                
                 
                   
                     VVhich
                     Nobody
                     should
                     deny
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   cause
                   he
                   had
                   such
                   pleasure
                   t'ane
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   honest
                   fidlers
                   merry
                   straine
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   gave
                   him
                   the
                   Horse-Shoe
                   in
                   Drury-lane
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     Nobody
                     can
                     deny
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Where
                   his
                   posterity
                   ever
                   since
                
                 
                   Are
                   ready
                   with
                   wine
                   ,
                   both
                   Spanish
                   &
                   French
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   those
                   that
                   can
                   bring
                   in
                   another
                   Clench
                
                 
                   
                     Which
                     Nobody
                     can
                     deny
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   song
                   being
                   don
                   they
                   drank
                   the
                   health
                   ,
                   they
                   rose
                
                 
                   They
                   wo'd
                   in
                   verse
                   ,
                   and
                   went
                   to
                   bed
                   in
                   prose
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Prologue
                 to
                 the
                 
                   Mayor
                   of
                   Quinborough
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   LOe
                   I
                   the
                   Maior
                   of
                   
                     Qu●…borough
                     Town
                  
                   by
                   name
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   my
                   brethren
                   saving
                   one
                   that
                   's
                   lame
                   ;
                
                 
                   Are
                   come
                   as
                   fast
                   as
                   fyery
                   mil-horse
                   gallops
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   meet
                   thy
                   grace
                   ,
                   thy
                   Queene
                   ,
                   &
                   her
                   fair
                   Trollops
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   reason
                   of
                   our
                   comming
                   do
                   no
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   must
                   be
                   don
                   ,
                   I
                   finde
                   it
                   i'
                   th
                   Town-book
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   not
                   I
                   my selfe
                   ,
                   I
                   scorne
                   to
                   read
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   keep
                   a
                   Clarck
                   to
                   do
                   these
                   jobbs
                   at
                   need
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   respect
                   a
                   rare
                   conceipt
                   before
                   Thong
                   castle
                   see
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Reach
                   me
                   the
                   thing
                   ,
                   to
                   give
                   the
                   King
                   ,
                   that
                   other
                   too
                   ,
                   I
                   prethee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   here
                   they
                   be
                   ,
                   for
                   Queene
                   and
                   hee
                   ,
                   the
                   guist's
                   all
                   steele
                   ,
                   and
                   leather
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   conceit
                   of
                   mickle
                   weight
                   ,
                   and
                   here
                   they
                   're
                   com
                   together
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   shew
                   two
                   loves
                   must
                   joyne
                   in
                   one
                   ,
                   our
                   Towne
                   presents
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   gilded
                   scabberd
                   to
                   the
                   Queene
                   ,
                   this
                   dagger
                   unto
                   Thee
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HEe
                   that
                   a
                   happy
                   life
                   will
                   lead
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   these
                   times
                   of
                   distraction
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   list'n
                   to
                   me
                   and
                   I
                   will
                   him
                   read
                
                 
                   A
                   lecture
                   without
                   faction
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   want
                   three
                   things
                   whence
                   misery
                   springs
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   all
                   begin
                   with
                   a
                   letter
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   bound
                   his
                   desires
                   to
                   what
                   nature
                   requires
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   reason
                   his
                   humor
                   fetter
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   not
                   his
                   wealth
                   prodigious
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   that
                   breeds
                   care
                   and
                   dangers
                   ;
                
                 
                   Makes
                   him
                   envi'd
                   above
                   ,
                   and
                   hated
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   constant
                   slave
                   to
                   strangers
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   're
                   happiest
                   of
                   all
                   whose
                   estats
                   are
                   small
                
                 
                   Though
                   but
                   enough
                   to
                   maintain
                   'um
                
                 
                   They
                   may
                   do
                   ,
                   they
                   may
                   say
                   ,
                   having
                   nothing
                   to
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   will
                   not
                   quit
                   cost
                   to
                   arraigne
                   u'm
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   would
                   I
                   have
                   him
                   clogg'd
                   with
                   a
                   wife
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   househould
                   care
                   and
                   cumber
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   to
                   one
                   place
                   confine
                   a
                   mans
                   lise
                   :
                
                 
                   Cause
                   he
                   cannot
                   remove
                   his
                   lumber
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   are
                   happier
                   farr
                   that
                   unwedded
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   forrage
                   on
                   all
                   in
                   common
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   stormes
                   they
                   may
                   flye
                   ,
                   &
                   if
                   they
                   should
                   dye
                
                 
                   They
                   undo
                   neither
                   child
                   nor
                   woman
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   his
                   braines
                   overflow
                   with
                   witt
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   savours
                   on
                   discretion
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   costly
                   to
                   get
                   and
                   hard
                   to
                   keep
                
                 
                   And
                   dangerous
                   .
                   in
                   the
                   possession
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   are
                   happyest
                   men
                   that
                   can
                   scarce
                   tell
                   ten
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   beat
                   not
                   their
                   braines
                   about
                   reason
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   may
                   say
                   what
                   will
                   serve
                   ,
                   themselves
                   to
                   preserve
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   words
                   are
                   neare
                   tak'n
                   for
                   treason
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Of
                   fools
                   there
                   is
                   none
                   like
                   to
                   the
                   Witt
                
                 
                   For
                   he
                   takes
                   paines
                   to
                   show
                   it
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   his
                   pride
                   and
                   his
                   drinke
                   brings
                   him
                   into
                   his
                   fit
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   straight
                   he
                   must
                   be
                   a
                   poet
                
                 
                   Now
                   his
                   jests
                   he
                   flings
                   at
                   States
                   and
                   at
                   Kings
                
                 
                   For
                   applause
                   of
                   bayes
                   and
                   shaddowes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thinkes
                   a
                   verse
                   serves
                   as
                   well
                   ,
                   as
                   circle
                   or
                   spell
                
                 
                   Till
                   he
                   rhimes
                   himselfe
                   to
                   the
                   Barbadoes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   that
                   within
                   his
                   bounds
                   will
                   keep
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   baffle
                   all
                   dysasters
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   fortune
                   and
                   fate
                   commands
                   he
                   may
                   give
                
                 
                 
                   Which
                   worldling●…
                   call
                   their
                   masters
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   may
                   dance
                   ,
                   he
                   may
                   laugh
                   ,
                   he
                   may
                   sing
                   ,
                   he
                   may
                   quaffe
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   be
                   mad
                   ,
                   may
                   be
                   sad
                   may
                   be
                   jolly
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   may
                   walk
                   without
                   fear
                   ,
                   and
                   sleep
                   without
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   fig
                   for
                   the
                   world
                   and
                   its
                   folly
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 drunken
                 Lover
                 .
                 
                   J.
                   D.
                
                 Delight
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Dore
                   ,
                   I
                   dote
                   ,
                   but
                   am
                   a
                   sott
                   to
                   show
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   was
                   a
                   very
                   fool
                   to
                   let
                   her
                   know
                   't
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   now
                   she
                   doth
                   so
                   cuning
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   proves
                   a
                   freind
                   worse
                   then
                   a
                   foe
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   will
                   not
                   hold
                   me
                   fast
                   nor
                   let
                   me
                   goe
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   tells
                   me
                   ,
                   I
                   cannot
                   forsake
                   her
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   straight
                   I
                   endeavor
                   to
                   leave
                   her
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   to
                   make
                   me
                   stay
                   throw's
                   a
                   kisse
                   in
                   my
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oh
                   then
                   I
                   could
                   tarry
                   for
                   ever
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   retire
                   ,
                   salute
                   ,
                   and
                   sit
                   down
                   by
                   her
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   do
                   I
                   five
                   in
                   frost
                   ,
                   and
                   freeze
                   in
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   Nectar
                   from
                   her
                   lipps
                   I
                   sup
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   though
                   I
                   do
                   not
                   drink
                   all
                   up
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   am
                   I
                   drunk
                   with
                   kissing
                   of
                   the
                   cup
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   her
                   lipps
                   are
                   two
                   brimmers
                   of
                   Clarret
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   first
                   I
                   begin
                   to
                   miscarry
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   brests
                   of
                   delight
                   ,
                   are
                   two
                   bottles
                   of
                   white
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   her
                   eyes
                   are
                   two
                   cups
                   of
                   Canary
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Drunk
                   as
                   I
                   live
                   ,
                   dead
                   drunk
                   beyond
                   reprieve
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   my
                   secrets
                   dribble
                   through
                   a
                   sive
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   arme
                   about
                   my
                   neck
                   she
                   laith
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   all
                   is
                   Scripture
                   that
                   she
                   saith
                
                 
                   Which
                   I
                   lay
                   hold
                   on
                   ,
                   with
                   my
                   fuddled
                   faith
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   find
                   a
                   fond
                   lover's
                   a
                   drunkard
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   dangerous
                   is
                   when
                   he
                   flyes
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   hipps
                   and
                   with
                   lipps
                   ,
                   with
                   black
                   eyes
                   and
                   white
                   thighes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Blind
                   Cupid
                   sure
                   tippled
                   his
                   eyes
                   out
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   She
                   bids
                   me
                   ,
                   Arise
                   ,
                   tells
                   me
                   I
                   must
                   be
                   wise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   her
                   ,
                   for
                   she
                   is
                   not
                   in
                   love
                   she
                   cryes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   do
                   I
                   fret
                   and
                   fling
                   and
                   throw
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   I
                   be
                   fettered
                   to
                   my
                   foe
                   ?
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   begin
                   to
                   run
                   but
                   cannot
                   goe
                
                 
                   I
                   pray
                   thee
                   ,
                   sweet
                   ,
                   use
                   me
                   more
                   kindly
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   had
                   better
                   for
                   to
                   hold
                   me
                   fast
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   once
                   disengage
                   your
                   bird
                   from
                   his
                   cage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beleeve
                   me
                   hee
                   'le
                   leave
                   you
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Lik
                   a
                   sot
                   I
                   sit
                   that
                   fild
                   the
                   towne
                   with
                   witt
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   confesse
                   I
                   have
                   most
                   need
                   of
                   it
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   have
                   been
                   drunk
                   with
                   duck
                   and
                   deare
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   bove
                   aquarter
                   of
                   a
                   yeare
                   :
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   the
                   cure
                   of
                   sleeping
                   or
                   small
                   beere
                   ,
                
                 
                   think
                   I
                   can
                   number
                   the
                   months
                   to
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Iuly
                     ,
                     August
                     ,
                     September
                     ,
                     October
                  
                
                 
                   Thus
                   goes
                   my
                   account
                   a
                   mischeife
                   upon
                   't
                
                 
                   But
                   sure
                   I
                   shall
                   goe
                   when
                   I
                   am
                   sober
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   My
                   legs
                   are
                   lame
                   ,
                   my
                   courage
                   is
                   quite
                   tam'de
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   heart
                   and
                   all
                   my
                   body
                   is
                   inflamde
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   by
                   experience
                   I
                   can
                   prove
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   sweare
                   by
                   all
                   the
                   powers
                   above
                   ;
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   better
                   to
                   be
                   drunk
                   with
                   wine
                   then
                   love
                   .
                
                 
                   Good
                   sack
                   makes
                   us
                   merry
                   and
                   witty
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   faces
                   with
                   jwells
                   adorning
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   though
                   that
                   we
                   grope
                   yet
                   ,
                   there
                   is
                   some
                   hope
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   a
                   man
                   may
                   be
                   sober
                   next
                   morning
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   command
                   she
                   throwes
                   me
                   from
                   her
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   bids
                   me
                   goe
                   yet
                   knowes
                   I
                   cannot
                   stand
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   measure
                   all
                   the
                   ground
                   by
                   tripps
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   ever
                   Sot
                   so
                   drunk
                   in
                   sipps
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   ever
                   man
                   so
                   over
                   seene
                   in
                   lipps
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   pray
                   ,
                   maddam
                   fickle
                   ,
                   be
                   faithfull
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leave
                   off
                   your
                   damnable
                   dodging
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pray
                   do
                   not
                   deceive
                   me
                   ,
                   either
                   love
                   me
                   or
                   leave
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   me
                   go
                   home
                   to
                   my
                   lodging
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   love
                   too
                   much
                   but
                   yet
                   my
                   sollie's
                   such
                
                 
                   I
                   cannot
                   leave
                   ,
                   I
                   must
                   love
                   to
                   '
                   ther
                   touch
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   's
                   a
                   Health
                   unto
                   the
                   King
                   ,
                   how
                   now
                   ?
                
                 
                   I
                   am
                   drunk
                   and
                   speak
                   treason
                   I
                   vow
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lovers
                   and
                   fooles
                   say
                   any
                   thing
                   you
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   feare
                   I
                   have
                   tyred
                   your
                   patience
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   am
                   sure
                   ,
                   t
                   is
                   I
                   have
                   the
                   wrong
                   on
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   My
                   wit
                   is
                   bereft
                   me
                   ;
                   for
                   all
                   that
                   I
                   have
                   left
                   me
                
                 
                   Will
                   but
                   just
                   serve
                   to
                   make
                   me
                   a
                   song
                   on
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   mistris
                   and
                   I
                   shall
                   never
                   comply
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   is
                   the
                   short
                   and
                   the
                   long
                   on
                   't
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 the
                 Tune
                 of
                 The
                 beginning
                 of
                 the
                 World.
                 
              
               
                 
                   R.
                   P.
                
                 Delight
                 .
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Mother
                   ,
                   chave
                   bin
                   a
                   batchelour
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   twelve
                   and
                   twanty
                   yeare
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   'ze
                   have
                   often
                   beene
                   a
                   wowing
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   c
                   ham
                   never
                   the
                   neare
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     Ione
                     Gromball
                  
                   chee'l
                   ha'
                   non
                   s'
                   mee
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   ze
                   look
                   so
                   like
                   a
                   lowt
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   vaith
                   ,
                   c
                   ham
                   as
                   propper
                   a
                   man
                   as
                   zhe
                   .
                
                 
                   Zhee
                   need
                   not
                   be
                   zo
                   stout
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   She
                   zaies
                   ifize
                   ,
                   cond
                   daunce
                   and
                   zing
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   
                     Thomas
                     Miller
                  
                   con
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   cut
                   a
                   cauper
                   ,
                   as
                   litle
                   
                     Iack
                     Taylor
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   how
                   chee'd
                   love
                   mee
                   thon
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   zoft
                   and
                   faire
                   ,
                   I
                   hil
                   none
                   of
                   that
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   vaith
                   cham
                   not
                   zo
                   nimble
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Tailor
                   hath
                   nought
                   to
                   trouble
                   his
                   thought
                
                 
                   But
                   his
                   needel
                   and
                   his
                   thimble
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   zon
                   ,
                   th'
                   art
                   of
                   a
                   lawfull
                   age
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   jolly
                   tidy
                   boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   de
                   have
                   thee
                   try
                   her
                   once
                   a
                   gaine
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   can
                   but
                   say
                   thee
                   nay
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   O
                   Gramarcy
                   mother
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   hill
                   zet
                   a
                   good
                   vace
                   o'
                   the
                   matter
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   hill
                   dresse
                   up
                   my
                   zon
                   as
                   fine
                   as
                   a
                   dog
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   hill
                   have
                   a
                   fresh
                   bout
                   at
                   her
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   first
                   I
                   hill
                   put
                   on
                   my
                   zunday
                   parrell
                
                 
                   That
                   's
                   lac't
                   about
                   the
                   quarters
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   a
                   paire
                   of
                   buckram
                   slopps
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   vlanting
                   paire
                   of
                   garters
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   my
                   sword
                   tide
                   vast
                   to
                   my
                   zide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   my
                   grandvathers
                   dug'en
                   and
                   dagger
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   Peacocks
                   veather
                   in
                   my
                   capp
                
                 
                   Then
                   oh
                   how
                   I'
                   ch
                   shall
                   swagger
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nay
                   tak
                   thee
                   a
                   lockrum
                   napkin
                   son
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   wipe
                   thy
                   snotty
                   nose
                   ,
                
                 
                   T
                   's
                   noe
                   matter
                   vor
                   that
                   ,
                   I
                   hill
                   snort
                   it
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   vlurt
                   it
                   athart
                   my
                   cloths
                   :
                
                 
                   Ods
                   ,
                   bodikins
                   nay
                   fy
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   prethee
                   son
                   do
                   not
                   so
                   :
                
                 
                   Be
                   mannerly
                   son
                   till
                   thou
                   canst
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   shee
                   le
                   ha'
                   thee
                   or
                   noe
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   zirrah
                   Mother
                   harke
                   a
                   while
                
                 
                   Whoe
                   's
                   that
                   that
                   comes
                   so
                   near
                   ?
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   
                     Ione
                     Grumball
                  
                   ,
                   hold
                   thy
                   peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   feare
                   that
                   she
                   doe
                   heare
                   .
                
                 
                   Nay
                   on
                   't
                   be
                   she
                   ,
                   I
                   hill
                   dresse
                   my
                   words
                
                 
                   In
                   zuch
                   a
                   scholards
                   grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   virst
                   of
                   all
                   chall
                   take
                   my
                   honds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lay
                   them
                   athwart
                   her
                   vace
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Good
                   morrow
                   my
                   honey
                   my
                   sugger-candy
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   litle
                   pretty
                   mouse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cha
                   hopes
                   thy
                   vather
                   and
                   mother
                   be
                   well
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   home
                   at
                   thine
                   own
                   house
                   .
                
                 
                   I'
                   ch
                   am
                   zhame
                   vac't
                   to
                   show
                   my
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   C
                   ham
                   zure
                   thou
                   knowst
                   my
                   arrant
                   :
                
                 
                   Zum
                   zen
                   ,
                   Jug
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   mun
                   a
                   thee
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   leasure
                   Sir
                   I
                   warrant
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   You
                   must
                   (
                   Sir
                   Clowne
                   )
                   is
                   for
                   the
                   King
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   not
                   for
                   such
                   a
                   mome
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   might
                   have
                   said
                   ,
                   by
                   leave
                   faire
                   maid
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   your
                   (
                   must
                   )
                   alone
                   .
                
                 
                   Ich
                   am
                   noe
                   more
                   nor
                   clowne
                   thats
                   vlat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cham
                   in
                   my
                   zunday
                   parrell
                   ,
                
                 
                   I'
                   ch
                   came
                   vor
                   love
                   and
                   I
                   pray
                   so
                   tak
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                   Che
                   hopes
                   che
                   will
                   not
                   quarrell
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Robbin
                   dost
                   thou
                   love
                   me
                   so
                   well
                   ?
                
                 
                   I
                   vaith
                   ,
                   abommination
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   then
                   you
                   should
                   have
                   fram'd
                   your
                   words
                
                 
                   Into
                   a
                   finer
                   fashion
                   .
                
                 
                   Vine
                   vashions
                   and
                   vine
                   speeches
                   too
                
                 
                   As
                   schollards
                   volks
                   con
                   utter
                   ,
                
                 
                   Chad
                   wrather
                   speak
                   but
                   twa
                   words
                   plaine
                
                 
                   Thon
                   haulfe
                   a
                   score
                   and
                   stutter
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Chave
                   land
                   ,
                   chave
                   houss
                   ,
                   chave
                   twa
                   va●…
                   beasts
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   's
                   better
                   thon
                   vine
                   speeches
                   ;
                
                 
                   T
                   's
                   a
                   signe
                   that
                   Fortune
                   favours
                   fooles
                
                 
                   She
                   lets
                   them
                   have
                   such
                   riches
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Hark
                   how
                   she
                   comes
                   upon
                   mee
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'd
                   wish
                   it
                   be
                   a
                   good
                   zine
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   that
                   will
                   steale
                   any
                   wit
                   from
                   thee
                
                 
                   Had
                   need
                   to
                   rise
                   betime
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 An
                 Old
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   BAck
                   and
                   sides
                   go
                   bare
                   go
                   bare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   feet
                   and
                   hands
                   go
                   cold
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   my
                   belly
                   have
                   Ale
                   enough
                
                 
                   Whether
                   it
                   be
                   new
                   or
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Whether
                     it
                     be
                     new
                     or
                     old
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Boyes
                     ,
                     whether
                     it
                     be
                     new
                     or
                     old
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   
                     But
                     let
                     my
                     belly
                     have
                     ale
                     enough
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Whether
                     it
                     be
                     new
                     or
                     old
                     ,
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   beggar
                   's
                   a
                   thing
                   as
                   good
                   as
                   a
                   King
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   aske
                   me
                   the
                   reason
                   why
                
                 
                   For
                   a
                   King
                   cannot
                   swagger
                
                 
                   And
                   drink
                   like
                   a
                   beggar
                
                 
                   No
                   King
                   so
                   happy
                   as
                   I
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Some
                   call
                   me
                   knave
                   and
                   rascall
                   slave
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                   how
                   to
                   collogue
                
                 
                   Come
                   upon
                   Um
                   ,
                   and
                   upon
                   'um
                   ;
                
                 
                   Will
                   your
                   worships
                   and
                   honour
                   um
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   am
                   an
                   honest
                   rogue
                   ,
                   then
                   I
                
                 
                   Come
                   upon
                   um
                   ,
                   and
                   upon
                   'um
                   will
                   you
                   worships
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   a
                   sart
                   fiye
                   away
                   where
                   he
                   makes
                   his
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   any
                   man
                   think
                   or
                   suppose
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   a
                   fart
                   cannot
                   tell
                   ,
                   when
                   it
                   s
                   out
                   where
                   to
                   dwell
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Unlesse
                     it
                     be
                     in
                     your
                     nose
                     ,
                     unlesse
                     it
                     be
                     in
                     your
                     nose
                     boyes
                     ,
                     Unlesse
                     it
                     be
                     in
                     your
                     nose
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   For
                   a
                   fart
                   cannot
                   tell
                   ,
                   when
                   it
                   s
                   out
                   where
                   to
                   dwell
                
                 
                   Unlesse
                   it
                   be
                   in
                   your
                   nose
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Sowgelder's
                 Song
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 Beggers-Bush
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Met
                   with
                   the
                   Divell
                   in
                   the
                   shape
                   of
                   a
                   Ramme
                   ,
                
                 
                   Over
                   and
                   over
                   the
                   Sow-gelder
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   took
                   him
                   and
                   haltred
                   him
                   fast
                   by
                   the
                   horne
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pickt
                   out
                   his
                   stones
                   as
                   you
                   'd
                   pick
                   out
                   your
                   cornes
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   quoth
                   the
                   Divell
                   and
                   with
                   that
                   he
                   shrunk
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   left
                   me
                   a
                   carkase
                   of
                   mutton
                   that
                   stunk
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Walking
                   alone
                   but
                   a
                   mile
                   and
                   a
                   halfe
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   where
                   he
                   lay
                   in
                   the
                   shape
                   of
                   a
                   calfe
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   took
                   him
                   and
                   gelt
                   him
                   e're
                   he
                   thought
                   any
                   evill
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   found
                   him
                   to
                   be
                   but
                   a
                   sucking
                   Divell
                   .
                
                 
                   Bla
                   quoth
                   the
                   Divell
                   and
                   clapt
                   down
                   his
                   taile
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   was
                   sold
                   after
                   for
                   excellent
                   veale
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   I
                   met
                   with
                   the
                   Divell
                   in
                   the
                   shape
                   of
                   a
                   Pigge
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   look't
                   at
                   the
                   rogue
                   ,
                   and
                   he
                   look't
                   something
                   bigge
                   ;
                
                 
                   E're
                   a
                   man
                   cold
                   fart
                   thrice
                   ,
                   I
                   had
                   made
                   him
                   a
                   hogge
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oh
                   quoth
                   the
                   Divell
                   and
                   then
                   gave
                   a
                   Jerke
                
                 
                   That
                   the
                   Jew
                   was
                   converted
                   by
                   eating
                   of
                   porke
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   woman's
                   attire
                   I
                   met
                   him
                   full
                   fine
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   took
                   him
                   at
                   least
                   for
                   an
                   Angell
                   divine
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   viewing
                   his
                   crabb-face
                   I
                   fell
                   to
                   my
                   trade
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   made
                   him
                   forsweare
                   ever
                   acting
                   a
                   maid
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   quoth
                   the
                   Divell
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   ranne
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hid
                   him
                   in
                   a
                   Fryers
                   gray
                   weeds
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   say
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   halfe
                   a
                   yeare
                   after
                   it
                   was
                   my
                   great
                   chance
                
                 
                   To
                   meet
                   with
                   a
                   gray
                   coate
                   that
                   lay
                   in
                   a
                   Trance
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   took
                   him
                   and
                   I
                   graspt
                   him
                   fast
                   by
                   the
                   codds
                   ;
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   his
                   tongue
                   and
                   his
                   taile
                   I
                   left
                   little
                   odds
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   ,
                   quoth
                   the
                   Divell
                   ,
                   much
                   harme
                   hast
                   thou
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   art
                   sure
                   to
                   be
                   cursed
                   of
                   many
                   a
                   man.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   My
                   ram
                   ,
                   calfe
                   ,
                   my
                   porke
                   ,
                   my
                   punk
                   and
                   my
                   fryar
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   have
                   left
                   them
                   unfurnish't
                   of
                   their
                   best
                   Lady
                   ware
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   he
                   runs
                   roaring
                   from
                   alehouse
                   to
                   Taverne
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   sweares
                   hee
                   'le
                   turn
                   tutor
                   to
                   the
                   swaggering
                   gallant
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   I
                   catch
                   him
                   I
                   le
                   serve
                   him
                   no
                   worse
                
                 
                   For
                   Ile
                   lib
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   leave
                   him
                   not
                   a
                   peny
                   in
                   his
                   purse
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Three
                   merry
                   ladds
                   met
                   at
                   the
                   Rose
                
                 
                   To
                   speak
                   the
                   praises
                   of
                   the
                   Nose
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   nose
                   which
                   stands
                   in
                   middle
                   place
                
                 
                   Sets
                   out
                   the
                   beauty
                   of
                   the
                   face
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   nose
                   with
                   which
                   we
                   have
                   begunne
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   serve
                   to
                   make
                   our
                   verses
                   runne
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Invention
                     often
                     barren
                     growes
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     But
                     still
                     their
                     's
                     matter
                     in
                     the
                     nose
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   nose
                   is
                   of
                   so
                   high
                   a
                   price
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   men
                   prefer
                   't
                   before
                   their
                   eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   no
                   man
                   counts
                   him
                   for
                   his
                   friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   boldly
                   takes
                   his
                   nose
                   by
                   the
                   end
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   nose
                   that
                   like
                   Euripus
                   flows
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sea
                   that
                   did
                   the
                   wiseman
                   pose
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Invention
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   nose
                   is
                   of
                   as
                   many
                   kinds
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   mariners
                   can
                   reckon
                   winds
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   long
                   ,
                   the
                   short
                   ,
                   the
                   nose
                   displayd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   great
                   nose
                   which
                   did
                   fright
                   the
                   maid
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   nose
                   through
                   which
                   the
                   brother-hood
                
                 
                   Did
                   parley
                   for
                   their
                   sisters
                   good
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Invention
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   The
                   slat
                   ,
                   the
                   sharp
                   ,
                   the
                   roman
                   snout
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   hawkes
                   nose
                   Circled
                   round
                   about
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   crooked
                   nose
                   that
                   stands
                   awry
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   ruby
                   nose
                   of
                   Scarlet
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Brazen-nose
                   without
                   a
                   face
                
                 
                   That
                   doth
                   the
                   learned
                   Colledge
                   grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Invention
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   long
                   nose
                   when
                   the
                   teeth
                   appeare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shews
                   what
                   's
                   a
                   clock
                   if
                   the
                   day
                   be
                   clear
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   broad
                   nose
                   stands
                   in
                   buckler
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   takes
                   the
                   blowes
                   from
                   off
                   the
                   face
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   nose
                   being
                   plaine
                   without
                   a
                   ridge
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   serve
                   sometimes
                   to
                   make
                   a
                   bridge
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Invention
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   short
                   nose
                   is
                   the
                   Lovers
                   blisse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Because
                   it
                   hinders
                   not
                   a
                   kisse
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   toating
                   nose
                   is
                   a
                   monstrous
                   thing
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   's
                   he
                   that
                   did
                   the
                   bottle
                   bring
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   that
                   brought
                   th●…●…ttle
                   hither
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   drink
                   ;
                   oh
                   monstrous
                   !
                   out
                   of
                   measure
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Invention
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   fiery
                   nose
                   ,
                   in
                   Lanthornes
                   stead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   light
                   its
                   Master
                   to
                   his
                   bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   who
                   so
                   ere
                   that
                   treasure
                   owes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Growes
                   poore
                   in
                   purse
                   ,
                   though
                   rich
                   in
                   nose
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   brazen
                   nose
                   that
                   's
                   o're
                   the
                   gate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Maintaines
                   full
                   many
                   a
                   Latin-pate
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Invention
                     ,
                     &c.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   If
                   any
                   nose
                   take
                   this
                   in
                   snuffe
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   think
                   it
                   more
                   then
                   is
                   enough
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   answer
                   them
                   ,
                   we
                   did
                   not
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   think
                   such
                   noses
                   had
                   been
                   here
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   there
                   be
                   ,
                   we
                   need
                   not
                   care
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   nose
                   of
                   wax
                   our
                   Statutes
                   are
                   .
                
                 
                   Invention
                   now
                   is
                   barren
                   growne
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   matters
                   out
                   ,
                   the
                   nose
                   is
                   blown
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Phillada
                 flouts
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Oh!
                   what
                   a
                   pain
                   is
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   shall
                   I
                   bear
                   it
                   ?
                
                 
                   Shee
                   will
                   inconstant
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   greatly
                   feare
                   it
                   .
                
                 
                   Shee
                   so
                   torments
                   my
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   my
                   strength
                   faileth
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   wavers
                   with
                   the
                   wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   a
                   shippe
                   that
                   saileth
                   .
                
                 
                   Please
                   her
                   the
                   best
                   I
                   ●…y
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shee
                   looks
                   another
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   lack
                   and
                   well
                   a
                   day
                
                 
                   Phillada
                   floutes
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   All
                   the
                   fair
                   yesterday
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   did
                   passe
                   by
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   look't
                   another
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   would
                   not
                   spye
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   woo'd
                   her
                   for
                   to
                   dine
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   could
                   not
                   get
                   her
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   VVill
                   had
                   her
                   to
                   the
                   wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hee
                   might
                   intreat
                   her
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Daniel
                   she
                   did
                   dance
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   me
                   she
                   look't
                   a
                   sconce
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   thrice
                   unhappy
                   chance
                   ,
                
                 
                   Phillada
                   floutes
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Faire
                   Maid
                   ,
                   be
                   not
                   so
                   coy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Doe
                   not
                   disdaine
                   me
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   am
                   my
                   mothers
                   joy
                
                 
                   Sweet
                   entertain
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Shee
                   'l
                   give
                   me
                   when
                   she
                   dyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   that
                   is
                   fitting
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Poultrey
                   and
                   her
                   Bees
                
                 
                   And
                   her
                   Geese
                   sitting
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   paire
                   of
                   mattrisse
                   bedds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   bagge
                   full
                   of
                   shredds
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   for
                   all
                   this
                   goods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Phillada
                   floutes
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   She
                   hath
                   a
                   cloute
                   of
                   mine
                
                 
                   Wrought
                   with
                   good
                   Coventry
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   she
                   keeps
                   for
                   a
                   signe
                
                 
                   Of
                   my
                   fidelitie
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   i'faith
                   ,
                   if
                   she
                   flinch
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   shall
                   not
                   weare
                   it
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   Tibb
                   my
                   tother
                   wench
                
                 
                   I
                   mean
                   to
                   beare
                   it
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   it
                   grieves
                   my
                   heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   soon
                   from
                   her
                   to
                   part
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Death
                   strikes
                   me
                   with
                   his
                   dart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Phillada
                   floutes
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thou
                   shallt
                   eate
                   Curds
                   &
                   Cream
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   the
                   year
                   lasting
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   drink
                   the
                   Christall
                   stream
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pleasant
                   in
                   tasting
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wigge
                   and
                   whay
                   whilst
                   thou
                   burst
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ramble
                   berry
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pye-lid
                   and
                   pasty
                   crust
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pears
                   ,
                   Plums
                   ,
                   and
                   Cherrey
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   raiment
                   shal
                   be
                   thin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Made
                   of
                   a
                   weavers
                   skin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   all
                   's
                   not
                   worth
                   a
                   pinne
                   ,
                
                 
                   Phillada
                   floutes
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Fair
                   maidens
                   ,
                   have
                   a
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   time
                   take
                   me
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   can
                   have
                   those
                   as
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   forsake
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Doll
                   the
                   dairy-maide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Laught
                   on
                   me
                   lately
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wanton
                   VVinifrid
                
                 
                   Favours
                   me
                   greatly
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   throws
                   milk
                   on
                   my
                   clothes
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'other
                   playes
                   with
                   my
                   nose
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   wanton
                   signes
                   are
                   those
                   ?
                
                 
                   Phillada
                   flouts
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   cannot
                   work
                   and
                   sleep
                
                 
                   All
                   at
                   a
                   season
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Love
                   wounds
                   my
                   heart
                   so
                   deep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   all
                   reason
                   .
                
                 
                   I'gin
                   to
                   pine
                   a
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   greife
                   and
                   sorrow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   to
                   a
                   fatted
                   beast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pen'd
                   in
                   a
                   meadow
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   shall
                   be
                   dead
                   I
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   in
                   this
                   thousand
                   yeare
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   for
                   very
                   feare
                   .
                
                 
                   Phillada
                   flouts
                   me
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Milk-maids
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WAlkeing
                   betimes
                   close
                   by
                   a
                   green
                   wood
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hy
                   tranonny
                   ,
                   nonny
                   with
                   hy
                   tranonny
                   no
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   payre
                   of
                   lovely
                   milk
                   maides
                   there
                   by
                   chance
                   I
                   spide
                
                 
                   With
                   hy
                   tranonny
                   nonny
                   no
                   ,
                   with
                   tranonny
                   no
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   One
                   of
                   them
                   was
                   faire
                
                 
                   As
                   fair
                   as
                   fair
                   might
                   bee
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   other
                   she
                   was
                   browne
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   wanton
                   rowling
                   eye
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Syder
                   to
                   make
                   sillibubbs
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   carryed
                   in
                   their
                   pailes
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   suggar
                   in
                   their
                   purses
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hung
                   dangling
                   at
                   their
                   tailes
                   .
                
                 
                   Wa●…-coats
                   of
                   flannell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   petty-coats
                   ofredd
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   them
                   milk
                   white
                   aporns
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   straw-hats
                   on
                   their
                   heads
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Silke
                   poynts
                   ,
                   with
                   silver
                   taggs
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   bout
                   their
                   wrists
                   were
                   shown
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   jett-Rings
                   ,
                   with
                   poesies
                
                 
                   
                     Yours
                     more
                     then
                     his
                     owne
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   to
                   requite
                   their
                   lovers
                   poynts
                   and
                   rings
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   gave
                   their
                   lovers
                   bracelets
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   many
                   pretty
                   things
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   there
                   they
                   did
                   get
                   gownes
                
                 
                   All
                   on
                   the
                   grasse
                   so
                   green
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   taylor
                   was
                   not
                   skilfull
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   stitches
                   they
                   were
                   seen
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   spent
                   the
                   long
                   summers
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   took
                   their
                   nut
                   browne
                   milk
                   pailes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   they
                   came
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Well
                   fare
                   you
                   merry
                   milk
                   maids
                
                 
                   That
                   dable
                   in
                   the
                   dew
                
                 
                   For
                   you
                   have
                   kisses
                   plenty
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Ladyes
                   have
                   but
                   few
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 old
                 Ballet
                 of
                 shepheard
                 Tom.
                 
              
               
                 
                   AS
                   I
                   late
                   wandred
                   over
                   a
                   Plaine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Upon
                   a
                   hill
                   piping
                   I
                   spide
                   a
                   shephards
                   swaine
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   slops
                   were
                   of
                   green
                   ,
                   his
                   coat
                   was
                   of
                   gray
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   his
                   head
                   a
                   wreath
                   of
                   willow
                   &
                   of
                   bay
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   sigh'd
                   and
                   he
                   pip't
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   eyes
                   he
                   often
                   wip't
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   curst
                   and
                   ban'd
                   the
                   boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   first
                   brought
                   his
                   annoy
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   with
                   the
                   fire
                   of
                   desire
                   ,
                   so
                   inflam'd
                   his
                   minde
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   doate
                   upon
                   a
                   lasse
                   ;
                   so
                   various
                   &
                   unkinde
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   howling
                   ,
                   he
                   threw
                   his
                   whistle
                   a
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   beat
                   his
                   heeles
                   agen
                   the
                   ground
                   whereon
                   he
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   swore
                   &
                   he
                   star'dhe
                   was
                   quite
                   bereft
                   of
                   hope
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   out
                   of
                   his
                   scrip
                   he
                   pulled
                   a
                   rope
                   :
                
                 
                   Quoth
                   he
                   ,
                   the
                   man
                   that
                   wooes
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   me
                   prepare
                   his
                   noose
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   rather
                   then
                   I
                   'le
                   fry
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   hemp
                   I
                   le
                   choose
                   to
                   dy
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   up
                   he
                   rose
                   ,
                   &
                   he
                   goes
                   streight
                   unto
                   a
                   tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   he
                   thus
                   complaines
                   of
                   his
                   lasses
                   cruelty
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   pox
                   upon
                   the
                   divell
                   ,
                   that
                   ever
                   t
                   was
                   my
                   lot
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   set
                   my
                   love
                   upon
                   so
                   wooddish
                   a
                   trot
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   I
                   been
                   better
                   took
                   Ione
                   of
                   the
                   mill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kate
                   of
                   the
                   creame
                   house
                   ,
                   or
                   bony
                   bouncing
                   Nell
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Proud
                   word
                   I
                   speak
                
                 
                   I
                   had
                   them
                   at
                   my
                   beck
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   they
                   on
                   holydayes
                
                 
                   Would
                   give
                   me
                   prick
                   and
                   praise
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Phillis
                   she
                   was
                   to
                   me
                   dearer
                   then
                   my
                   eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   whom
                   I
                   now
                   indure
                   these
                   plaguy
                   miseryes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Oft
                   have
                   I
                   woo'd
                   her
                   with
                   many
                   a
                   teare
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   ribband
                   for
                   her
                   head
                   tire
                   ,
                   and
                   laces
                   from
                   the
                   fayre
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   bone-lace
                   and
                   with
                   shoone
                   ,
                   with
                   bracelets
                   and
                   with
                   pinns
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   many
                   a
                   toy
                   besides
                   :
                   good
                   god
                   forgive
                   my
                   sinns
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   this
                   plaguy
                   flirt
                
                 
                   Would
                   ding
                   them
                   in
                   the
                   dirte
                
                 
                   And
                   smile
                   to
                   see
                   mee
                   tear
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   locks
                   from
                   of
                   my
                   haire
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   scratch
                   my
                   chops
                   ,
                   rend
                   my
                   slops
                   ,
                   &
                   at
                   wakes
                   to
                   sit
                
                 
                   Like
                   to
                   a
                   sot
                   bereft
                   both
                   of
                   reason
                   sense
                   and
                   witt
                   .
                
                 
                   Therefore
                   from
                   this
                   bough
                   Tom
                   bids
                   a
                   dew
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   shepherds
                   of
                   the
                   valley
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   joviall
                   crew
                   .
                
                 
                   Farewell
                   Thump
                   ,
                   my
                   ram
                   ,
                   and
                   Cut
                   my
                   bobtaild
                   curre
                   ,
                
                 
                   Behold
                   your
                   Mr
                   ,
                   proves
                   his
                   owne
                   murtherer
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Goe
                   to
                   my
                   Philis
                   ,
                   goe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   this
                   tale
                   of
                   woe
                   .
                
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   where
                   she
                   may
                   finde
                
                 
                   Me
                   tottering
                   in
                   the
                   winde
                   .
                
                 
                   Say
                   on
                   a
                   tree
                   she
                   may
                   see
                   her
                   Tom
                   rid
                   from
                   all
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   she
                   may
                   take
                   him
                   napping
                   as
                   Mosse
                   took
                   his
                   Mare
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Philis
                   by
                   chance
                   stood
                   close
                   in
                   a
                   bush
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   the
                   Clowne
                   did
                   sprawle
                   ,
                   she
                   streight
                   to
                   him
                   did
                   rush
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   cut
                   in
                   two
                   the
                   rope
                   and
                   thus
                   to
                   him
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dispairing
                   Tom
                   ,
                   my
                   Tom
                   ,
                   thou
                   hast
                   undone
                   a
                   maid
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   as
                   one
                   amaz'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Upon
                   her
                   face
                   he
                   gaz'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   this
                   wofull
                   case
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   kist
                   his
                   pallid
                   face
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   whoopt
                   amaine
                   ,
                   swore
                   ,
                   no
                   swaine
                   ever
                   more
                   should
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soe
                   happy
                   in
                   his
                   love
                   ,
                   nor
                   halfe
                   so
                   sweet
                   as
                   she
                   ,
                
              
            
             
               
                 Obsequies
                 .
              
               
                 
                   DRaw
                   not
                   so
                   near
                
                 
                   Unlesse
                   you
                   shed
                   a
                   tear
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   stone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   I
                   grone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   will
                   weepe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Untill
                   eternall
                   sleepe
                
                 
                 
                   Hath
                   charm'd
                   my
                   weary
                   eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Flora
                   lyes
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Embalm'd
                   with
                   many
                   a
                   teare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   the
                   swaines
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   plaines
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   have
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   many
                   a
                   vestall
                   Maid
                
                 
                   Hath
                   mourn'd
                   her
                   obsequies
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   snowy
                   brests
                   they
                   tear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rend
                   their
                   golden
                   hayre
                   ;
                
                 
                   Casting
                   cryes
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   Celestiall
                   deityes
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   returne
                
                 
                   Her
                   beauty
                   from
                   the
                   urne
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   raigne
                
                 
                   Unparallel
                   on
                   earth
                   againe
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   strait
                   a
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Peircing
                   the
                   aire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cryes
                   ,
                   shee
                   's
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   soule
                   is
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unto
                   a
                   place
                   more
                   rare
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   You
                   spirits
                   that
                   doe
                   keep
                
                 
                   The
                   dust
                   of
                   those
                   that
                   sleep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Under
                   the
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Heare
                   the
                   sound
                
                 
                   Of
                   a
                   swaine
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   folds
                   his
                   armes
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unto
                   the
                   ashes
                   he
                   adores
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   pity
                   doe
                   not
                   fright
                
                 
                   Him
                   wandring
                   in
                   the
                   night
                   :
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   he
                   laves
                
                 
                   Virgins
                   graves
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unto
                   their
                   memoryes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Contributing
                   sad
                   showers
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   my
                   name
                   is
                   read
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   number
                   of
                   the
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   one
                   may
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Charity
                   repay
                
                 
                   My
                   sad
                   soul
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   tribute
                   which
                   she
                   gave
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   howle
                
                 
                   Some
                   requiem
                   on
                   my
                   grave
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   weep
                   noe
                   more
                
                 
                   Greife
                   willnot
                   restore
                
                 
                   Her
                   freed
                   from
                   care
                   .
                
                 
                   Though
                   she
                   be
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   soule
                   is
                   fled
                
                 
                   Unto
                   a
                   place
                   more
                   rare
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Of
                 a
                 Taylor
                 and
                 a
                 Lowse
                 .
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Lowse
                   without
                   leave
                   a
                   Taylor
                   did
                   molest
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Taylor
                   was
                   forc'd
                   the
                   lowse
                   to
                   arrest
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Taylor
                   of
                   curtesie
                   the
                   lowse
                   did
                   release
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   she
                   bi
                   tt
                   the
                   harder
                   and
                   stil
                   broke
                   the
                   peace
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   doubtfull
                   matter
                   ,
                   your
                   counsell
                   I
                   crave
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   law
                   of
                   the
                   lowse
                   the
                   Taylor
                   may
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   jury
                   of
                   beggers
                   debating
                   the
                   cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   Decree'd
                   in
                   their
                   verdict
                   that
                   lyce
                   should
                   have
                   lawes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   therefore
                   they
                   say
                   without
                   further
                   reciting
                
                 
                   That
                   lyce
                   must
                   be
                   subject
                   to
                   the
                   law
                   of
                   bacbiting
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   law
                   doth
                   provide
                   for
                   the
                   party
                   so
                   greived
                
                 
                   The
                   low●…e
                   so
                   offending
                   not
                   to
                   be
                   repreived
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   straight
                   to
                   be
                   taken
                   and
                   had
                   to
                   the
                   jayle
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   to
                   suffer
                   the
                   crush
                   of
                   the
                   nayle
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 old
                 Ballad
                 of
                 Little
                 Musgrave
                 and
                 the
                 Lady
                 Barnard
                 .
              
               
                 
                   AS
                   it
                   fell
                   one
                   holy-day
                   ,
                   hay
                   downe
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   many
                   be
                   in
                   the
                   yeare
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   young
                   men
                   and
                   maids
                
                 
                   Together
                   did
                   goe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Mattins
                   and
                   Masse
                   to
                   heare
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Little
                   Musgrave
                   came
                   to
                   the
                   church
                   dore
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Preist
                   was
                   at
                   private
                   Masse
                
                 
                   But
                   he
                   had
                   more
                   minde
                   of
                   the
                   faire
                   women
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   he
                   had
                   of
                   our
                   lady
                   grace
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   The
                   one
                   of
                   them
                   was
                   clad
                   in
                   green
                
                 
                   Another
                   was
                   clad
                   in
                   pale
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   came
                   in
                   my
                   lord
                   Bernards
                   wife
                
                 
                   The
                   fairest
                   amonst
                   them
                   all
                   ;
                
              
               
                 
                   She
                   cast
                   an
                   eye
                   on
                   little
                   Musgrave
                
                 
                   As
                   bright
                   as
                   the
                   summer
                   sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   bethought
                   this
                   little
                   Musgrave
                
                 
                   This
                   lady's
                   heart
                   have
                   I
                   woonn
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Quoth
                   she
                   I
                   have
                   loved
                   thee
                   little
                   Musgrave
                
                 
                   Full
                   long
                   and
                   many
                   a
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   have
                   I
                   loved
                   you
                   fair
                   Lady
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   never
                   word
                   durst
                   I
                   say
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   have
                   a
                   bower
                   at
                   Buckelsfordbery
                
                 
                   Full
                   daintyly
                   it
                   is
                   geight
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   thou
                   wilt
                   wed
                   thither
                   thou
                   little
                   Musgrave
                
                 
                   Thou's
                   lig
                   in
                   mine
                   armes
                   all
                   night
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Quoth
                   he
                   ,
                   I
                   thank
                   yee
                   faire
                   lady
                
                 
                   This
                   kindnes
                   thou
                   showest
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   whether
                   it
                   be
                   to
                   my
                   weal
                   or
                   woe
                
                 
                   This
                   night
                   I
                   will
                   lig
                   with
                   thee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   that
                   he
                   heard
                   a
                   little
                   tyne
                   page
                
                 
                   By
                   his
                   ladyes
                   coach
                   as
                   he
                   ran
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   though
                   I
                   am
                   my
                   ladyes
                   foot
                   page
                
                 
                   Yet
                   I
                   am
                   lord
                   Barnards
                   man
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   My
                   lord
                   Barnard
                   shall
                   knowe
                   of
                   this
                
                 
                   Whether
                   I
                   sink
                   or
                   sinn
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ever
                   where
                   the
                   bridges
                   were
                   broake
                
                 
                   He
                   laid
                   him
                   downe
                   to
                   swimme
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   sleepe
                   or
                   wake
                   thou
                   Lord
                   Barnard
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   thou
                   a●…t
                   a
                   man
                   of
                   life
                
                 
                   For
                   little
                   Musgrave
                   is
                   at
                   Bucklesfordbery
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   bed
                   with
                   thy
                   own
                   wedded
                   wife
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   this
                   be
                   true
                   thou
                   little
                   tinny
                   Page
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   thing
                   thou
                   tellest
                   to
                   mee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   all
                   the
                   land
                   in
                   Bucklesfordbery
                
                 
                   I
                   freely
                   will
                   give
                   to
                   thee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   if
                   it
                   be
                   a
                   ly
                   ,
                   thou
                   little
                   tinny
                   Page
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   thing
                   thou
                   tellest
                   to
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   hyest
                   tree
                   in
                   Bucklesfordbery
                
                 
                   Then
                   hanged
                   shalt
                   thou
                   be
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   called
                   up
                   his
                   merry
                   men
                   all
                
                 
                   Come
                   sadle
                   me
                   my
                   steed
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   nigh●…
                   must
                   I
                   to
                   Buckellsfordbery
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   never
                   had
                   greater
                   need
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   some
                   of
                   them
                   whistl'd
                   &
                   some
                   of
                   them
                   sung
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   these
                   words
                   did
                   say
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ever
                   when
                   my
                   lord
                   Barnards
                   horn
                   blew
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   way
                   Musgrave
                   a
                   way
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Me-thinks
                   I
                   hear
                   the
                   Thresel-cock
                   ,
                
                 
                   Me-thinks
                   I
                   hear
                   the
                   Jaye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Me-thinks
                   I
                   hear
                   my
                   Lord
                   Barnard
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   would
                   I
                   were
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Lye
                   still
                   ,
                   lye
                   still
                   ,
                   thou
                   little
                   Musgrave
                
                 
                   And
                   huggell
                   me
                   from
                   the
                   cold
                   ,
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   nothing
                   but
                   a
                   shephards
                   boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   driving
                   his
                   sheep
                   to
                   the
                   fold
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Is
                   not
                   thy
                   hawke
                   upon
                   a
                   perch
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thy
                   steed
                   eats
                   oats
                   and
                   hay
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   fair
                   Lady
                   in
                   thine
                   armes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wouldst
                   thou
                   bee
                   away
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   that
                   my
                   lord
                   Barnard
                   came
                   to
                   the
                   dore
                
                 
                   And
                   lit
                   a
                   stone
                   upon
                
                 
                   He
                   plucked
                   out
                   three
                   silver
                   keys
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   open'd
                   the
                   dores
                   each
                   one
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   lifted
                   up
                   the
                   coverlett
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   lifted
                   up
                   the
                   sheet
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   now
                   ,
                   how
                   now
                   ,
                   thou
                   littell
                   Musgrave
                
                 
                   Doest
                   thou
                   find
                   my
                   lady
                   sweet
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   find
                   her
                   sweet
                   ,
                   quoth
                   little
                   Musgrave
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   't
                   is
                   to
                   my
                   paine
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   would
                   gladly
                   give
                   three
                   hundred
                   pounds
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   were
                   on
                   yonder
                   plaine
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Arise
                   arise
                   thou
                   littell
                   Musgrave
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   put
                   thy
                   ●…loth-es
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   shal
                   ne●…re
                   be
                   said
                   in
                   my
                   country
                
                 
                   I
                   have
                   killed
                   a
                   naked
                   man.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   have
                   two
                   Swords
                   in
                   one
                   scabberd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Full
                   deere
                   they
                   cost
                   my
                   purse
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   shalt
                   have
                   the
                   best
                   of
                   them
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   will
                   have
                   the
                   worse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   first
                   stroke
                   that
                   little
                   Musgrave
                   stroke
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   hurt
                   Lord
                   Barnard
                   sore
                
                 
                   The
                   next
                   stroke
                   that
                   Lord
                   Barnard
                   stroke
                
                 
                   Little
                   Musgrave
                   ne're
                   struck
                   more
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   that
                   bespake
                   this
                   faire
                   lady
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   bed
                   whereas
                   she
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Although
                   thou'
                   rt
                   dead
                   thou
                   little
                   Musgrave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   I
                   for
                   thee
                   will
                   pray
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   wish
                   well
                   to
                   thy
                   soule
                   will
                   I
                
                 
                   So
                   long
                   as
                   I
                   have
                   life
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   will
                   I
                   not
                   for
                   thee
                   Barnard
                
                 
                   Although
                   I
                   am
                   thy
                   wedded
                   wife
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   cut
                   her
                   paps
                   from
                   off
                   her
                   brest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Great
                   pitty
                   it
                   was
                   to
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   some
                   drops
                   of
                   this
                   ladies
                   heart's
                   blood
                
                 
                   Ran
                   trickling
                   downe
                   her
                   knee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Woe
                   worth
                   you
                   ,
                   woe
                   worth
                   ,
                   my
                   mery
                   men
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   were
                   ne're
                   borne
                   for
                   my
                   good
                   :
                
                 
                   Why
                   did
                   you
                   not
                   offer
                   to
                   stay
                   my
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   you
                   see
                   me
                   wax
                   so
                   wood
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   I
                   have
                   slaine
                   the
                   bravest
                   Sir
                   Knight
                
                 
                   That
                   ever
                   rode
                   on
                   steed
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   have
                   I
                   done
                   the
                   fairest
                   lady
                
                 
                   That
                   ever
                   did
                   womans
                   deed
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   grave
                   ,
                   a
                   grave
                   ,
                   Lord
                   Barnard
                   cryd
                
                 
                   To
                   put
                   these
                   lovers
                   in
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   lay
                   my
                   lady
                   on
                   upper
                   hand
                
                 
                   For
                   she
                   came
                   of
                   the
                   better
                   kin
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Scots
                 arrears
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FOwre
                   hundred
                   thousand
                   pounds
                
                 
                   A
                   lusty
                   bag
                   indeed
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Was
                   't
                   ever
                   knowne
                   so
                   vast
                   a
                   sum
                
                 
                   Ere
                   past
                   the
                   river
                   Tw●…de
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Grea●…
                   pitty
                   it
                   is
                   ,
                   I
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whole
                   carts
                   was
                   thither
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   hardly
                   two
                   in
                   fifty
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   forty
                   shillings
                   meant
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   't
                   was
                   to
                   some
                   perceiv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Three
                   kingdomes
                   were
                   undone
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   those
                   that
                   sit
                   heere
                   thought
                   it
                   fitt
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   settle
                   them
                   one
                   by
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   Ireland
                   hath
                   no
                   haste
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   there
                   thei
                   le
                   not
                   begin
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Scottish
                   ayde
                   must
                   first
                   be
                   pai'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   ye
                   came
                   freely
                   in
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                     William
                     Lilly
                  
                   writes
                   —
                
                 
                   Who
                   writes
                   the
                   truth
                   you
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   frosty
                   weather
                   they
                   marched
                   hither
                   .
                
                 
                   Up
                   to
                   the
                   chins
                   in
                   snow
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Free
                   quarter
                   at
                   excesse
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   do
                   not
                   weigh
                   a
                   feather
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   Crowns
                   for
                   coals
                   brought
                   in
                   by
                   shoals
                   ;
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   kept
                   their
                   men
                   together
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   plunder
                   they
                   esteeme
                
                 
                   As
                   trifles
                   of
                   no
                   worth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   force
                   ye
                   dote
                   because
                   recruite
                
                 
                   Issued
                   no
                   faster
                   forth
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   once
                   this
                   cash
                   is
                   paid
                
                 
                   I
                   hope
                   the
                   Scot
                   be
                   spedd
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   need
                   not
                   steale
                   but
                   fairly
                   deal
                
                 
                   Both
                   to
                   be
                   cloth'd
                   and
                   fedd
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   sheep
                   and
                   oxen
                   may
                
                 
                   Safe
                   in
                   their
                   pastures
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   need
                   they
                   filch
                   the
                   cow
                
                 
                   That
                   's
                   milch
                   to
                   sojourne
                   in
                   their
                   land
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   wonder
                   much
                   the
                   Scot
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   defiles
                   his
                   hands
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Because
                   the
                   summ's
                   a
                   price
                   of
                   Rome
                
                 
                   Rays'd
                   out
                   of
                   the
                   Bishops
                   lands
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   too
                   too
                   wel
                   ye
                   know
                
                 
                   To
                   what
                   intent
                   they
                   in
                   came
                
                 
                   T
                   was
                   not
                   their
                   paines
                   produc'd
                   this
                   gaines
                
                 
                   T
                   was
                   sent
                   to
                   packe
                   them
                   home
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mee
                   thinks
                   I
                   heare
                   them
                   laugh
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   how
                   matters
                   proved
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   give
                   ashout
                   it
                   so
                   fell
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   were
                   more
                   fear'd
                   then
                   loved
                   ,
                
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   ●…key
                   after
                   this
                
                 
                   ●…nge
                   hath
                   forgott
                
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   fires
                   hee
                   much
                   retires
                
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   shows
                   himselfe
                   no
                   Scott
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Rebellis
                 SCOTUS
                 .
              
               
                 
                   CUrae
                   Deo
                   sumus
                   ,
                   ista
                   si
                   cedant
                   Scoto
                   ?
                
                 
                   Variat●…
                   spleniis
                   ●…omina
                   Ps●…che
                   ●…st
                   suis.
                
                 
                   Aut
                   stell●…
                   yea
                   .
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Campanu●…ae
                   omn●…s
                   ;
                   totus
                   Ucalegon
                   suo
                   ,
                
                 
                   Coriaceae
                   cui
                   millies
                   mille
                   hydriae
                   ,
                
                 
                   Suburbicants
                   pensiles
                   par●…ciis
                
                 
                   Non
                   sint
                   refrigerio
                   .
                   Poeticus
                   furor
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cometâ
                   non
                   min●…s
                   ,
                   vel
                   ore
                   flammeo
                
                 
                   Commune
                   despuente
                   fatum
                   stellulâ
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dirum
                   ominatur
                   .
                   Ecquis
                   ,
                   è
                   Stoâ
                   ,
                   suam
                
                 
                   Iam
                   temperet
                   bilem
                   ?
                   patria
                   quando
                   ●…ue
                
                 
                   Tam
                   Pym●…ianâ
                   ,
                   id
                   est
                   pediculosâ
                   ,
                   perit
                   ?
                
                 
                   Bombamachidisque
                   fit
                   bolus
                   myrmeciis
                   ?
                
                 
                   Scotos
                   nec
                   ausim
                   nominare
                   ,
                   carminum
                
                 
                   Nisi
                   inter
                   amuleta
                   ,
                   nec
                   meditarier
                
                 
                   Nisi
                   c●…ebello
                   ,
                   quod
                   capillitio
                   rubens
                
                 
                   (
                   Quale
                   ●…umo
                   coluberrimum
                   ●…uriis
                   caput
                   )
                
                 
                   Quot
                   inde
                   verba
                   ,
                   tot
                   v●…nena
                   promp●…erit
                   .
                
                 
                   Rhadamantbe●…
                   ,
                   fac
                   ,
                   gutt●…r
                   esset
                   nu●…c
                   mihi
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sulphurque
                   ,
                   patibul●…mque
                   copiosius
                
                 
                   Ructans
                   ,
                   Magus
                   qu●…
                   c●…nias
                   b●…nbycinas
                   ;
                
                 
                   Poteram
                   ut
                   Agyr●…●…or
                   ,
                   pill●…as
                
                 
                   Vomicas
                   loqui
                   ,
                   〈◊〉
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                   ●…yga
                   :
                
                 
                   Aut
                   ut
                   Gen●…vae
                   Sie●…
                   ,
                   Pe●…ers
                
                 
                   Tartara
                   ,
                   〈◊〉
                   equ●…leos
                   boare
                   pulpitis
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   mchinan●…
                   p●…r
                   f●…rem
                   nunquam
                   Scoto
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cun●…is
                   Scl●…tis
                   hi●…
                   gutturalibus
                   .
                
                 
                   Ut
                   dig●…
                   D●…i
                   du●…nt
                   ,
                   vorem
                   par
                   est
                   pri●…s
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   P●…giator
                   u●…
                   )
                   sicas
                   ,
                   &
                   acinaces
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Is●…
                   ,
                   h●…c
                   ,
                   
                     I
                     ambe
                  
                   ,
                   gressibus
                   faxo
                   tuis
                
                 
                   At
                   huc
                   ,
                   ●…ambe
                   ,
                   mo●…sibus
                   faxo
                   magis
                   .
                
                 
                   Satyr●…que
                   tortri●…
                   ,
                   tot
                   huc
                   adducite
                
                 
                   Flagella
                   ,
                   qu●…t
                   pr●…sens
                   mere●…ur
                   seculum
                
                 
                   Scoti
                   ●…enfieis
                   pares
                   ;
                   audax
                   s●…ylum
                
                 
                   Hor●…re
                   tinge
                   ,
                   sic
                   nocent
                   minus
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Vt
                   Martyres
                   olim
                   induebant
                   belluis
                   .
                
                 
                   (
                   Quasi
                   sisterent
                   Regis
                   sacros
                   hypocritas
                   )
                
                 
                   En
                   hos
                   eodem
                   Sch●…mate
                   (
                   at
                   retro
                   )
                   Scotos
                   ,
                
                 
                   Extrà
                   Scotos
                   ,
                   intus
                   feras
                   ,
                   &
                   sine
                   tropo
                   .
                
                 
                   Fallax
                   Ierna
                   viperae
                   nihil
                   foves
                
                 
                   Scoto
                   Colono
                   ?
                   Non
                   ego
                   Britanniam
                   .
                
                 
                   Lupis
                   carentem
                   dix●…rim
                   ,
                   vivo
                   Scoto
                   .
                
                 
                   Quin
                   Thamesinus
                   pyrgopolinices
                   Scotus
                
                 
                   Poterat
                   leones
                   ,
                   tigrides
                   ,
                   ursos
                   ,
                   cane●…
                
                 
                   Proprii
                   inquilinos
                   pectoris
                   spectaculo
                
                 
                   Monstr●…sse
                   ;
                   pro
                   obolis
                   omnibus
                   quibus
                   solet
                
                 
                   Spectare
                   monstra
                   Cratis
                   ,
                   &
                   Fori
                   simul
                
                 
                   Poene
                   ocreatum
                   vulgus
                   .
                   Et
                   patria
                   fera
                
                 
                   Scotos
                   eremus
                   indicat
                   terrae
                   plag●…
                
                 
                   Vel
                   omnipraesentem
                   negans
                   Deum
                   ,
                   nisi
                
                 
                   Venisset
                   inde
                   Carolus
                   ,
                   cohors
                   nisi
                
                 
                   C●…afordiana
                   ,
                   miles
                   &
                   Montro●…s
                   ,
                
                 
                   Feritatis
                   eluens
                   notam
                   pagan●…
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hanc
                   pr●…sset
                   semivictimam
                   Deo
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nec
                   Scoticus
                   est
                   ,
                   totus
                   L●…pardus
                   ,
                   Leo
                   ;
                
                 
                   Habent
                   &
                   Ara●…
                   sicut
                   Arcam
                   f●…deris
                
                 
                   Velut
                   tabellae
                   bifi●…is
                   pictae
                   plicis
                
                 
                   Fert
                   Angelos
                   pars
                   haec
                   ,
                   &
                   haec
                   Cacodaemonas
                   :
                
                 
                   Cui
                   somnianti
                   tartarum
                   su●…
                   pavor
                
                 
                   Sic
                   poenitere
                   ,
                   viderat
                   regnum
                   velim
                
                 
                   Nigrius
                   Scotorum
                   semel
                   ,
                   &
                   esset
                   innocens
                   .
                
                 
                   Regio
                   ,
                   malignâ
                   quae
                   facit
                   votum
                   prece
                   ,
                
                 
                   Relegetur
                   ad
                   Gyares
                   breves
                   nunquam
                   incola
                   !
                
                 
                   Pun●…sset
                   ubi
                   Cainum
                   nec
                   exilio
                   Deus
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sed
                   ,
                   ut
                   ille
                   trechedipnum
                   ,
                   magis
                   Domicaenio
                   .
                
                 
                   Vt
                   gens
                   vagans
                   recutita
                   ,
                   vel
                   contagium
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aut
                   Beclzebub
                   ,
                   si
                   des
                   ubiquitarium
                   .
                
                 
                   Hinc
                   crro
                   fit
                   semper
                   Scotus
                   ,
                   cer●…os
                   locos
                   ,
                
                 
                   Et
                   hos
                   &
                   illos
                   quoslihet
                   cito
                   nauseans
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vt
                   frusta
                   divisi
                   orbis
                   ,
                   &
                   Topograp●…iae
                
                 
                   Mend●…citatis
                   offulas
                   ,
                   curt●…s
                   nimis
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Ipse
                   universitatis
                   haeres
                   integrae
                   ,
                
                 
                   Et
                   totus
                   in
                   toto
                   ,
                   natio
                   Epidemica
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nec
                   gliscit
                   ergo
                   jargonre
                   Gallicè
                   ,
                
                 
                   Exoticis
                   aut
                   Indicis
                   modis
                   ,
                   neque
                
                 
                   Iberio
                   nutu
                   negare
                   ,
                   nec
                   studet
                
                 
                   Callere
                   quem
                   de
                   Belgicis
                   
                     Hoghen
                     moghen
                  
                
                 
                   Venter
                   tumens
                   ,
                   aut
                   barba
                   canthari
                   refert
                   .
                
                 
                   (
                   Quae
                   Coriatis
                   una
                   mens
                   nostratibus
                   )
                
                 
                   Pugna
                   est
                   in
                   eni●…o
                   ,
                   atque
                   animus
                   in
                   patinâ
                   Scoto
                   .
                
                 
                   Huic
                   Struthioni
                   sugger●…t
                   cibum
                   chalybs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Et
                   denti-ductor
                   appetitus
                   ,
                   baltheo
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pro
                   more
                   ,
                   pendulos
                   molares
                   inserit
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   At
                   interim
                   nostras
                   quid
                   involant
                   dapes
                   ?
                
                 
                   Serpens
                   Edenum
                   ,
                   non
                   Edenb●…rgum
                   appetit
                   .
                
                 
                   Aut
                   Angliae
                   ,
                   cui
                   jam
                   malum
                   est
                   Hemorrhois
                   ,
                
                 
                   Haematopotas
                   h●…s
                   posteris
                   meatibus
                
                 
                   Natura
                   medica
                   supposuit
                   hirudines
                
                 
                   Cruore
                   satiandos
                   licèt
                   nostro
                   priùs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nostro
                   sed
                   &
                   cruore
                   moribundos
                   quoque
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nec
                   computo
                   credant
                   priori
                   ,
                   nos
                   item
                
                 
                   Novum
                   addituros
                   ,
                   servitutem
                   pristinae
                
                 
                   Aliam
                   ,
                   gemellam
                   nuperae
                   ,
                   fraterculos
                
                 
                   Palpare
                   quando
                   caeperant
                   charos
                   nimis
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Suff●…agiorum
                   scilicet
                   poppysmata
                   )
                
                 
                   Et
                   crustulum
                   impertire
                   velut
                   ●…ffam
                   Cerbero
                
                 
                   Subblandiens
                   decreverat
                   Senatulus
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nos
                   aera
                   locu●…s
                   arma
                   visc
                   eribus
                   priùs
                
                 
                   Indemus
                   usque
                   &
                   usque
                   vel
                   capulo
                   tenus
                   .
                
                 
                   Seri
                   videmus
                   quo
                   Scotum
                   tractes
                   modo
                   .
                
                 
                   Princeps
                   rebelli
                   mitior
                   tergo
                   quasi
                
                 
                   Sellas
                   equino
                   detrahen●…
                   aptat
                   suo
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   At
                   jus
                   rapinas
                   hasce
                   defendit
                   vetus
                   ?
                
                 
                   Egyptus
                   ista
                   perdit
                   ,
                   aufert
                   Israel
                
                 
                   An
                   bibliorum
                   nescis
                   hos
                   satellites
                   ?
                
                 
                   Praetorianis
                   queis
                   cohortibus
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hier●…salem
                   triariis
                   )
                   spes
                   nititur
                   novae
                
                 
                   Sororcularum
                   ?
                   Cardo
                   ,
                   cardo
                   vertitur
                
                 
                   Cupediarum
                   ,
                   primitivae
                   legis
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   O
                   bone
                   Deus
                   !
                   quanti
                   est
                   carere
                   linte
                   is
                   !
                
                 
                   Orexis
                   ut
                   Borealis
                   ,
                   &
                   fames
                   ,
                   movet
                   !
                
                 
                   Vi●…uque
                   ,
                   vestibusque
                   cassi
                   ,
                   hinc
                   Knoxio
                
                 
                   Su●…ore
                   simul
                   ,
                   &
                   Knoxio
                   utuntur
                   coquo
                   ,
                
                 
                   Piè
                   quod
                   algeant
                   ,
                   quod
                   esurian●…
                   piè
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Larvas
                   quin
                   usque
                   detrahas
                   ,
                   &
                   nummulis
                
                 
                   Titulisque
                   ,
                   (
                   ut
                   animabus
                   )
                   su●…est
                   fallacia
                   .
                
                 
                   Librae
                   ,
                   &
                   Barones
                   (
                   detumescant
                   interim
                
                 
                   Uocabulorum
                   tympani
                   )
                   quanti
                   valent
                   !
                
                 
                   Hic
                   Cantianum
                   paene
                   ,
                   paene
                   villicum
                   ,
                
                 
                   Solidosque
                   totos
                   illa
                   ,
                   sed
                   gratis
                   ,
                   duos
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Apagè
                   superbae
                   fraudulentiae
                   ,
                   simul
                
                 
                   Prosapiâ
                   pictos
                   ,
                   fide
                   &
                   pictos
                   procul
                   :
                
                 
                   Opprobrium
                   poetico
                   vel
                   stigmati
                
                 
                   Etiam
                   cruci
                   crux
                   .
                   Non
                   aliter
                   Hyperbolus
                
                 
                   Hyperscelestus
                   ostracismo
                   sit
                   pudor
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Americanus
                   ,
                   ille
                   ,
                   qui
                   coelum
                   horruit
                
                 
                   Quod
                   Hispanorum
                   repat
                   eò
                   sed
                   pars
                   quota
                   !
                
                 
                   Videra●…
                   in
                   Orco
                   si
                   Scotos
                   ,
                   (
                   hui
                   tot
                   Scotos
                   !
                   )
                
                 
                   Roterodamus
                   pependerat
                   medioximus
                   .
                
                 
                   Sat
                   musa
                   !
                   semissa
                   fercularia
                
                 
                   Medullitùs
                   v●…rans
                   ,
                   diabolis
                   invides
                
                 
                   Propriam
                   sibi
                   suam
                   Scoti
                   paropsidem
                   .
                
                 
                   Vt
                   Berniclis
                   enim
                   Scoti
                   ,
                   sic
                   Lucifer
                
                 
                   Saturatur
                   ipsis
                   Berniclatioribus
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nam
                   lapsus
                   à
                   furcâ
                   Scotus
                   ,
                   mox
                   &
                   Styge
                
                 
                   Tinctus
                   ,
                   suum
                   novatur
                   in
                   Plaut-Anserem
                   .
                
              
               
                 FINIS
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Rebell
                 SCOT
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HOw
                   !
                   Providence
                   !
                   and
                   yet
                   a
                   Scottish
                   crew
                   !
                
                 
                   Then
                   Madam
                   Nature
                   wears
                   black
                   patches
                   too
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   shall
                   our
                   Nation
                   be
                   in
                   bondage
                   thus
                
                 
                   Unto
                   a
                   Land
                   that
                   truckles
                   under
                   us
                   ?
                
                 
                   Ring
                   the
                   bells
                   backward
                   ,
                   I
                   am
                   all
                   on
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   all
                   the
                   buckets
                   in
                   a
                   Country
                   Quire
                
                 
                   Shall
                   quench
                   my
                   rage
                   .
                   A
                   Poet
                   should
                   be
                   fear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   angry
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   Comet
                   's
                   flaming
                   beard
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   's
                   the
                   Stoick
                   ,
                   can
                   his
                   wrath
                   appease
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   his
                   Countrey
                   sick
                   of
                   
                   Pym's
                   disease
                   ?
                
                 
                   By
                   Scotch-invasion
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   made
                   a
                   prey
                
                 
                   To
                   such
                   
                     Pig-widgin
                     Myrmidons
                  
                   as
                   they
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   there
                   's
                   charm
                   in
                   verse
                   ,
                   I
                   would
                   not
                   quo●…
                
                 
                   The
                   name
                   of
                   Scot
                   without
                   an
                   antidote
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unlesse
                   my
                   head
                   were
                   red
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   might
                   brew
                
                 
                   Invention
                   there
                   that
                   might
                   be
                   poyson
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   Were
                   I
                   a
                   drowsie
                   Judge
                   ,
                   whose
                   dismal
                   note
                
                 
                   Disgorgeth
                   halters
                   as
                   a
                   Juglers
                   throat
                
                 
                   Doth
                   ribbands
                   :
                   could
                   I
                   (
                   in
                   Sir
                   Emp'rick
                   tone
                   )
                
                 
                   Speak
                   Pills
                   in
                   phrase
                   ,
                   and
                   quack
                   destruction
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   roar
                   like
                   Marshall
                   ,
                   that
                   Genevah
                   Bull
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hell
                   and
                   damnation
                   a
                   Pulpit
                   full
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   to
                   expresse
                   a
                   Scot
                   ,
                   to
                   play
                   that
                   prize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   all
                   those
                   mouth-Granadoes
                   can
                   suffice
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   a
                   Scot
                   can
                   properly
                   be
                   curst
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   must
                   (
                   like
                   Hocus
                   )
                   swallow
                   daggers
                   first
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   ,
                   keen
                   Iambicks
                   ,
                   with
                   your
                   badgers
                   feet
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Badger-like
                   ,
                   bite
                   till
                   your
                   feet
                   do
                   meet
                
                 
                   Help
                   ,
                   ye
                   tarc
                   Satyrists
                   ,
                   to
                   imp
                   my
                   rage
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   Scorpions
                   that
                   should
                   whip
                   this
                   age
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scots
                   are
                   like
                   Witches
                   ;
                   do
                   but
                   whet
                   your
                   pen
                   ;
                
                 
                   Scratch
                   till
                   the
                   bloud
                   come
                   ,
                   they
                   'l
                   not
                   hurt
                   you
                   then
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Now
                   as
                   the
                   Martyrs
                   were
                   inforc'd
                   to
                   take
                
                 
                   The
                   shapes
                   of
                   beasts
                   ,
                   like
                   hypocrires
                   at
                   stake
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   'le
                   bait
                   my
                   Scot
                   so
                   ,
                   yet
                   not
                   cheat
                   your
                   eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Scot
                   ,
                   within
                   a
                   beast
                   ,
                   is
                   no
                   disguise
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   No
                   more
                   let
                   Ireland
                   brag
                   ,
                   her
                   harmlesse
                   Nation
                
                 
                   Fosters
                   no
                   Venom
                   ,
                   since
                   the
                   Scot's
                   plantation
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   our
                   feign'd
                   antiquity
                   maintain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Since
                   they
                   came
                   in
                   ,
                   England
                   hath
                   Wolves
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Scot
                   that
                   kept
                   the
                   Tower
                   ,
                   might
                   have
                   showne
                
                 
                   (
                   Within
                   the
                   grate
                   of
                   his
                   own
                   breast
                   alone
                   )
                
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   Leopard
                   and
                   the
                   Panther
                   ,
                   and
                   ingrost
                
                 
                   ●…t
                   all
                   those
                   wild
                   Collegiats
                   had
                   cost
                   :
                
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   honest
                   high-shooes
                   ,
                   in
                   their
                   termly
                   fees
                   ,
                
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   to
                   the
                   salvage
                   Lawyer
                   ,
                   next
                   to
                   these
                   .
                
                 
                   Na●…re
                   her selfe
                   doth
                   Scotch-men
                   beasts
                   confesse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Making
                   their
                   Countrey
                   such
                   a
                   wildernesse
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   L●…nd
                   that
                   brings
                   in
                   question
                   and
                   suspense
                
                 
                   Gods
                   omni-presence
                   ,
                   but
                   that
                   Charles
                   came
                   thence
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   Montrosse
                   and
                   Crawfords
                   loyal
                   band
                
                 
                   Atton'd
                   their
                   sins
                   ,
                   and
                   christ'ned
                   half
                   the
                   Land
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   it
                   all
                   the
                   Nation
                   hath
                   these
                   spots
                   ;
                
                 
                   There
                   is
                   a
                   Church
                   ,
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   Kirk
                   of
                   Scots
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   in
                   a
                   picture
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   squinting
                   paint
                
                 
                   Shews
                   fiend
                   on
                   this
                   side
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   that
                   side
                   saint
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   that
                   saw
                   Hell
                   in
                   's
                   melancholy
                   dream
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   twi-light
                   of
                   his
                   fancy's
                   theam
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scar'd
                   from
                   his
                   sins
                   ,
                   repented
                   in
                   a
                   fright
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   he
                   view'd
                   Scotland
                   ,
                   had
                   turn'd
                   Proselyte
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Land
                   ,
                   where
                   one
                   may
                   pray
                   with
                   curst
                   intent
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   may
                   they
                   never
                   suffer
                   banishment
                   !
                
                 
                   Had
                   Cain
                   been
                   Scot
                   ,
                   God
                   would
                   have
                   chang'd
                   his
                   doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   fore't
                   him
                   wander
                   ,
                   but
                   confin'd
                   him
                   home
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   Jews
                   they
                   spread
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   infection
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   the
                   devil
                   had
                   Ubiquity
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence'tis
                   they
                   live
                   at
                   Rovers
                   ,
                   and
                   desie
                
                 
                   This
                   or
                   that
                   place
                   ,
                   rags
                   of
                   Geography
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   They
                   're
                   Citizens
                   ot'h
                   '
                   world
                   ;
                   they
                   're
                   all
                   in
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Scotland's
                   a
                   Nation
                   Epidemical
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   they
                   ramble
                   not
                   ,
                   to
                   learn
                   the
                   mode
                
                 
                   How
                   to
                   be
                   drest
                   ,
                   or
                   how
                   to
                   lisp
                   abroad
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   return
                   knowing
                   in
                   the
                   Spanish
                   shrug
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   which
                   of
                   the
                   Dutch-States
                   a
                   double
                   Jug
                
                 
                   Resembles
                   most
                   ,
                   in
                   belly
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   beard
                   .
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   Card
                   by
                   which
                   the
                   Marriners
                   are
                   steer'd
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   No
                   ;
                   the
                   Scots-Errant
                   sight
                   ,
                   and
                   sight
                   to
                   eat
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Ess●…rich-stomacks
                   make
                   their
                   swords
                   their
                   meat
                
                 
                   Nature
                   with
                   Scots
                   ,
                   as
                   Tooth-drawers
                   hath
                   dealt
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   use
                   to
                   hang
                   their
                   teeth
                   upon
                   their
                   belt
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Yet
                   wonder
                   not
                   at
                   this
                   their
                   happy
                   choice
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Serpent's
                   fatal
                   still
                   to
                   Paradise
                   .
                
                 
                   Sure
                   England
                   hath
                   the
                   Hemeroids
                   ,
                   and
                   these
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   North-posture
                   of
                   the
                   patient
                   seize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Leeches
                   ,
                   thus
                   they
                   physically
                   thirst
                
                 
                   After
                   our
                   bloud
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   the
                   cure
                   shall
                   burst
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   not
                   think
                   to
                   make
                   us
                   run
                   o'
                   th
                   score
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   purchase
                   villenage
                   as
                   once
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   an
                   Act
                   pass'd
                   to
                   stroak
                   them
                   on
                   the
                   head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Call
                   them
                   good
                   Subjects
                   ,
                   buy
                   them
                   Ginger-bread
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   Gold
                   ,
                   nor
                   Acts
                   of
                   grace
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   Steel
                   must
                   tame
                
                 
                   The
                   stubborn
                   Scot
                   :
                   a
                   Prince
                   that
                   would
                   reclaim
                
                 
                   Rebels
                   by
                   yeilding
                   ,
                   doth
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                   (
                   or
                   worse
                   )
                
                 
                   Who
                   sadled
                   his
                   own
                   back
                   ,
                   to
                   shame
                   his
                   horse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Was
                   it
                   for
                   this
                   you
                   left
                   your
                   leaner
                   soil
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   to
                   lard
                   Israel
                   with
                   Aegypts
                   spoyl
                   ?
                
                 
                   They
                   are
                   he
                   Gospels
                   Life-guard
                   ,
                   but
                   for
                   them
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   Garrison
                   of
                   new
                   I●…rusalem
                   )
                
                 
                   Wha●…
                   would
                   the
                   Brethren
                   do'the
                   cause
                   !
                   the
                   cause
                   !
                
                 
                   Sack
                   possets
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   fundamental
                   Lawes
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Lord
                   !
                   what
                   a
                   goodly
                   thing
                   is
                   want
                   of
                   shirts
                   !
                
                 
                   How
                   a
                   Scotch-stomack
                   ,
                   and
                   no
                   meat
                   ,
                   converts
                   !
                
                 
                   They
                   wanted
                   food
                   and
                   rayment
                   ;
                   so
                   they
                   took
                
                 
                   Religion
                   for
                   their
                   Seamstresse
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Cook.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Unmask
                   them
                   well
                   ;
                   their
                   honours
                   and
                   estate
                
                 
                   As
                   well
                   as
                   conscience
                   are
                   sophisticate
                   .
                
                 
                   Shrive
                   but
                   their
                   titles
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   money
                   poize
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Laird
                   and
                   twenty
                   pounds
                   pronounc'd
                   with
                   noise
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   constru'd
                   ,
                   but
                   for
                   a
                   plain
                   Yeoman
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   good
                   sober
                   Two-pence
                   ,
                   and
                   well
                   so
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   then
                   ,
                   you
                   proud
                   Impostors
                   ,
                   get
                   you
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   Picts
                   in
                   Gentry
                   and
                   devotion
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   scandal
                   to
                   the
                   stock
                   of
                   Verse
                   ,
                   a
                   race
                
                 
                   Able
                   to
                   bring
                   the
                   Gibbet
                   in
                   disgrace
                   .
                
                 
                   Hyperbolus
                   by
                   suffering
                   did
                   traduce
                
                 
                   The
                   Ostracism
                   ,
                   and
                   sham'd
                   it
                   out
                   of
                   use
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Indian
                   ,
                   that
                   heaven
                   did
                   ●…orsweare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Because
                   he
                   heard
                   the
                   Spaniards
                   were
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   he
                   but
                   known
                   what
                   Scots
                   in
                   hell
                   had
                   been
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   would
                   
                   Erasmus-like
                   have
                   hung
                   between
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   My
                   Muse
                   hath
                   done
                   .
                   A
                   Voider
                   for
                   the
                   nonce
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   wrong
                   the
                   devil
                   ,
                   should
                   I
                   pick
                   their
                   bones
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   dish
                   is
                   his
                   ;
                   for
                   when
                   the
                   Scots
                   decease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hell
                   ,
                   like
                   their
                   Nation
                   ,
                   feeds
                   on
                   Barnacles
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Scot
                   ,
                   when
                   from
                   the
                   Gallow-tree
                   got
                   loose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drops
                   into
                   S●…yx
                   ,
                   and
                   turns
                   a
                   Soland-Goose
                   .
                
              
            
             
               The
               End.
               
            
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A52015-e120
           
             a
             There
             began
             the
             Utopian
             accompt
             of
             years
             ,
             
               Mor
               :
               Lib.
               1.
               circa
               finem
               .
            
          
           
             b
             Endimion
             was
             a
             handsome
             young
             Welshman
             ,
             whom
             one
             
               Luce
               Moone
            
             lov'd
             for
             his
             sweet
             breath
             ;
             and
             would
             never
             hang
             off
             his
             lips
             :
             but
             he
             not
             caring
             for
             her
             ,
             eat
             a
             bundance
             of
             toasted
             cheese
             ,
             purposely
             to
             make
             his
             breath
             unsavory
             ;
             upon
             which
             ,
             the
             lest
             him
             presently
             ,
             and
             ever
             since
             't
             is
             proverbially
             spoken
             [
             as
             inconstant
             as
             
               Luce
               Moone
               .
            
             ]
             The
             Uatican
             coppy
             of
             Hesiod
             ,
             reades
             her
             name
             ,
             Mohun
             ,
             but
             contractedly
             it
             is
             
               Moone
               .
               Hesiod
               .
               lib.
               4.
               tom
               .
               3.
               
            
          
           
             c
             For
             all
             the
             Orbes
             make
             Musick
             in
             their
             motion
             ,
             
               Berosus
               de
               sphaera
               .
               lib.
               3.
               
            
          
           
             d
             Atlas
             was
             a
             Porter
             in
             Mauritania
             ,
             and
             because
             by
             reason
             of
             his
             strength
             ,
             he
             bore
             burthens
             of
             stupendious
             weight
             ,
             the
             Poëts
             sain'd
             ,
             that
             he
             carried
             the
             Heavens
             on
             his
             shoulders
             .
             
               Cicero
               .
               de
               nat
               .
               Deorum
               .
               lib.
               7.
               
            
          
           
             e
             There
             were
             two
             others
             of
             these
             names
             ,
             Aldermen
             of
             
               Rome
               .
               Tit.
               Liu.
               hist.
               lib.
               28.
               
            
          
           
             f
             AEmathia
             ,
             
               is
               a
               very
               faire
               Common
               in
            
             Northamptonshire
             ,
             Strabo
             .
             lib.
             321.
             
          
           
             g
             These
             Myrmidons
             were
             Cornish-men
             ,
             and
             sent
             by
             Bladud
             ,
             sometimes
             King
             of
             this
             Realme
             ,
             to
             ayd
             
               Pompey
               .
               Caesar
               de
               bello
               .
               civili
               .
               lib.
               14.
               
            
          
           
             g
             These
             Myrmidons
             were
             Cornish-men
             ,
             and
             sent
             by
             Bladud
             ,
             sometimes
             King
             of
             this
             Realme
             ,
             to
             ayd
             
               Pompey
               .
               Caesar
               de
               bello
               .
               civili
               .
               lib.
               14.
               
            
          
           
             h
             It
             seemes
             not
             to
             be
             meant
             by
             
               Count
               Henry
            
             ,
             but
             his
             brother
             Maurice
             ,
             by
             comparing
             his
             picture
             to
             the
             thing
             here
             spoken
             of
             .
             
               Iansen
               ,
               de
               praed
               .
               lib.
               22.
               
            
          
           
             i
             Pheander
             was
             so
             modest
             ,
             that
             he
             was
             called
             the
             Maiden
             Knight
             ;
             and
             yet
             so
             valiant
             ,
             that
             a
             ●…rench
             Cava●…eer
             wrote
             his
             life
             ,
             and
             called
             his
             Book
             ,
             Pheandir
             the
             
               Mailen
               Knight
               .
               Hon.
               d'Vrsec
               .
               Tom.
               45.
               
            
          
           
             k
             This
             seemes
             not
             to
             be
             that
             King
             ,
             that
             was
             Son
             of
             Amintas
             ,
             and
             King
             of
             Macedon
             ;
             but
             one
             who
             it
             seems
             was
             very
             lascivious
             :
             for
             I
             suspect
             there
             is
             some
             obscaene
             conceit
             in
             that
             word
             Club
             in
             the
             third
             verse
             following
             besides
             ,
             marke
             his
             violence
             .
          
           
             l
             Bacchus
             ,
             was
             a
             drunken
             yeoman
             of
             the
             Guard
             to
             Queen
             Elizabeth
             ,
             and
             a
             great
             Archer
             ;
             so
             that
             it
             seemes
             the
             Authour
             mistooke
             his
             halbert
             ,
             for
             a
             forke
             .
          
           
             m
             This
             was
             Long-Megg
             of
             Westminster
             ,
             who
             after
             this
             conflict
             with
             Phillip
             ,
             followed
             him
             in
             all
             his
             warres
             .
             
               Iustinian
               .
               lib.
               35.
            
             
          
           
             n
             These
             were
             Lancashire-men
             ,
             and
             sent
             by
             King
             Gorbadug
             (
             for
             this
             war
             seemes
             to
             have
             been
             in
             the
             time
             of
             the
             Heptarchy
             in
             England
             )
             to
             the
             aide
             of
             
               Caesar.
               Caesar.
               lib.
               citat
               .
               prope
               finem
               .
            
          
           
             o
             And
             therefore
             ,
             the
             herb
             into
             which
             he
             was
             turned
             ,
             was
             called
             
               Turnsole
               .
               Ovid.
               Metam
               .
               lib.
               25.
               
            
          
           
             p
             Appollo
             ,
             was
             Caesars
             Page
             ,
             and
             a
             Monomatapan
             by
             birth
             ,
             whose
             name
             by
             inversion
             was
             Ollopa
             :
             which
             in
             the
             old
             language
             of
             that
             Country
             ,
             signifies
             as
             much
             as
             faire
             youth
             :
             but
             ,
             
               Euphoniae
               Gratia
            
             ,
             called
             
               Apollo
               ,
               Gor.
               Bec.
               lib.
               46.
               
            
          
           
             q
             Styropes
             ,
             was
             a
             lame
             Smiths-man
             dwelling
             in
             S.
             Iohns-street
             ;
             but
             how
             he
             was
             called
             Bright
             ,
             I
             know
             not
             ,
             except
             it
             were
             by
             reason
             of
             the
             Luster
             of
             his
             eyes
             .
          
           
             r
             Holla
             ,
             mistaken
             for
             Apollo
             .
          
           
             s
             Cervisia
             (
             apud
             Medicos
             ,
             vinum
             hordeaceum
             )
             potus
             est
             Anglis
             longè
             charissimus
             ;
             Inventum
             Ferrarij
             Londinensis
             ,
             Cui
             nomen
             Smuggo
             ,
             Polydor.
             Virgil
             ,
             de
             Invent.
             rerum
             .
             lib.
             2.
             
          
           
             t
             Impp.
             Germaniae
             ,
             antiquitus
             sol●…bant
             ,
             ●…aris
             temporibus
             ,
             adire
             Basingstochium
             ;
             ubi
             ,
             de
             more
             ,
             Iusjurandum
             solenne
             praestabant
             ,
             de
             non
             viro
             propinando
             ,
             praesente
             muliere
             :
             Hic
             Mos
             ,
             jamdudum
             apud
             Anglos
             ,
             pene
             vim
             legis
             obtinuit
             ;
             quippe
             gens
             illa
             ,
             longe
             humanissima
             morem
             istum
             ,
             in
             hodiernum
             usque
             diem
             ,
             magna
             Curiositate
             ,
             pari
             Comitate
             conjuncta
             ,
             usurpant
             .
             Pancirol
             —
             utriusque
             imperij
             .
             lib.
             6.
             cap.
             5.
             
          
           
             u
             It
             seemes
             this
             was
             a
             great
             battail
             ,
             both
             by
             the
             furie
             of
             it
             ,
             &
             the
             aydes
             of
             each
             side
             ;
             but
             hereof
             read
             more
             ,
             in
             
               Cornel.
               Tacit.
               lib.
               de
               moribus
               German
               .
            
          
           
             x
             
               This
               is
               in
               imitation
               of
            
             Lucan
             —
             Signis
             Signa
             ,
             &
             pila
             —
             &c.
             Pharsali●…
             .
             lib.
             1.
             in
             principio
             .
          
        
         
           Notes for div A52015-e45840
           
             1
             The
             harder
             the
             word
             is
             ,
             the
             easier
             it
             is
             to
             be
             un●…stood
             .
          
           
             2
             In
             varying
             the
             use
             of
             the
             senses
             ,
             the
             Author
             shewes
             himselfe
             to
             be
             in
             his
             wit●…
             .
          
           
             3
             In
             varying
             the
             use
             of
             the
             senses
             ,
             the
             Author
             shewes
             himselfe
             to
             be
             in
             his
             wit●…
             .
          
           
             4
             There
             the
             Author
             shewes
             himselfe
             to
             be
             well
             versed
             in
             the
             Almanack
             .
          
           
             5
             Being
             twice
             repeated
             ,
             it
             argues
             an
             elegant
             fancy
             in
             the
             Poet.
             
          
           
             6
             To
             makefalse
             English
             ,
             argues
             as
             much
             knowledge
             as
             to
             make
             true
             latin
             .
          
           
             7
             Better
             once
             done
             then
             never
             .
          
           
             8
             For
             sometimes
             there
             may
             happen
             a
             quarrell
             amongst
             friends
             .
          
           
             9
             Till
             he
             was
             married
             ,
             he
             could
             be
             but
             one
             .
          
           
             1
             There
             is
             no
             mischiefe
             ,
             but
             a
             woman
             is
             at
             one
             end
             of
             it
             .
          
           
             2
             The
             more
             you
             heare
             on
             't
             ,
             the
             worse
             you
             'l
             like
             it
             .
          
           
             3
             There
             was
             a
             Spanish
             regiment
             amongst
             them
             .
          
           
             4
             That
             may
             be
             done
             in
             an
             houre
             ,
             which
             we
             may
             repent
             all
             our
             life
             after
             .
          
           
             5
             Being
             up
             to
             the
             Elbowes
             in
             trouble
             ,
             she
             expressed
             it
             in
             this
             line
             .
          
           
             6
             Even
             Reckoning
             ,
             makes
             long
             friends
             .
          
           
             7
             As
             a
             pudding
             ha's
             two
             ends
             ,
             so
             a
             smock
             ha's
             tw●…
             〈◊〉
             .
          
           
             8
             As
             Love
             doth
             commonly
             break
             out
             into
             an
             itch
             ,
             yet
             with
             her
             it
             did
             not
             so
             .
          
           
             9
             There
             the
             Author
             translates
             out
             of
             Ovid
             ,
             as
             Ben
             Johnson
             do's
             in
             Sejanus
             out
             of
             Homer
             .
          
           
             1
             By
             this
             you
             may
             perceive
             ,
             that
             primers
             were
             first
             printed
             at
             Abidos
             .
          
           
             2
             For
             distinction
             sake
             ,
             because
             many
             mens
             noses
             bleed
             white
             blood
             .
          
           
             3
             Black
             is
             the
             beauty
             of
             the
             shoe
             .
          
           
             4
             Because
             a
             Cow
             ,
             was
             amongst
             the
             ancient
             Graecians
             called
             a
             Neat
             ,
             Gesner
             in
             his
             Etymolog
             .
             lib.
             103.
             
             Tom
             16.
             
          
           
             5
             Better
             falsifye
             the
             Rime
             ,
             then
             the
             Story
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             *
             Turne
             ▪
             mill
             street
             
          
           
             *
             Vulcan
             .