Parnassus biceps. Or Severall choice pieces of poetry, composed by the best wits that were in both the universities before their dissolution. With an epistle in the behalfe of those now doubly secluded and sequestred Members, by one who himselfe is none.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A96974 of text R204146 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Thomason E1679_1). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
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         A96974
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         Thomason E1679_1
         ESTC R204146
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         99863834
         116049
         
           
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             Parnassus biceps. Or Severall choice pieces of poetry, composed by the best wits that were in both the universities before their dissolution. With an epistle in the behalfe of those now doubly secluded and sequestred Members, by one who himselfe is none.
             Wright, Abraham, 1611-1690.
          
           [16], 163, [1] p.
           
             Printed for George Eversden at the signe of the Maidenhead in St. Pauls Church-yard.,
             London: :
             1656.
          
           
             Compiler's note "To the ingenuous reader" signed: Ab: Wright.
             In verse.
             Annotation on Thomason copy: "15 Aprill.".
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Humorous poetry, English -- 17th century.
        
      
    
       A96974  R204146  (Thomason E1679_1).  civilwar no Parnassus biceps. Or Severall choice pieces of poetry,:  composed by the best wits that were in both the universities before their dissoluti Wright, Abraham 1656    35279 51 5 0 0 0 0 16 C  The  rate of 16 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the C category of texts with between 10 and 35 defects per 10,000 words. 
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        2007-06 Robyn Anspach
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           Parnassus
           Biceps
           .
           
             OR
             Severall
             Choice
             Pieces
          
           OF
           POETRY
           ,
           Composed
           by
           the
           best
           WITS
           that
           were
           in
           both
           the
           Universities
           BEFORE
           THEIR
           DISSOLUTION
           .
        
         
           
             With
             an
          
           Epistle
           
             in
             the
             behalfe
             of
             those
             now
             doubly
             secluded
             and
             sequestredMembers
          
           ,
           
             by
             One
             who
             himselfe
             is
             gone
             .
          
        
         
           
             LONDON
             :
          
           Printed
           for
           
             George
             Eversden
          
           at
           the
           Signe
           of
           the
           
             Maidenhead
          
           in
           St.
           
             Pauls
          
           Church-yard
           .
           1656.
           
        
      
       
       
         
           To
           the
           Ingenuous
           READER
           .
        
         
           
             SIR
             .
          
        
         
           THese
           leaves
           present
           you
           with
           some
           sow
           drops
           of
           that
           Ocean
           of
           Wit
           ,
           which
           flowed
           from
           those
           two
           brests
           of
           this
           Nation
           ,
           the
           two
           
             Universities
             ;
          
           and
           doth
           now
           (
           the
           sluces
           being
           puld
           up
           )
           overflow
           the
           whole
           Lands
           :
           or
           rather
           like
           those
           Springs
           of
           Paradice
           ,
           doth
           water
           and
           enrich
           the
           whole
           worlds
           whilst
           the
           Fountains
           themselvss
           are
           dryed
           up
           ,
           and
           that
           Twin-Paradise
           become
           desart
           .
           For
           then
           were
           these
           Verses
           Composed
           ,
           when
           
             Oxford
          
           and
           
             Camebridge
          
           were
           Vniversities
           ,
           and
           a
           Colledge
           
           more
           learned
           then
           a
           Town-Hall
           ;
           when
           the
           Buttery
           and
           Kitchin
           could
           speak
           Latine
           ,
           though
           not
           Preach
           ;
           and
           the
           very
           irrational
           Turnspits
           had
           so
           much
           knowing
           modesty
           ,
           as
           not
           to
           dare
           to
           come
           into
           a
           Chappel
           ,
           or
           to
           mountany
           Pulpits
           but
           their
           own
           .
           Then
           were
           these
           Poems
           writ
           ,
           when
           peace
           and
           plenty
           were
           the
           best
           Patriots
           and
           Maecenasses
           to
           great
           Wits
           ;
           when
           we
           could
           sit
           and
           make
           Verses
           under
           our
           own
           Figtrees
           ,
           and
           be
           inspired
           from
           the
           juice
           of
           our
           own
           Vines
           :
           then
           ,
           when
           it
           was
           held
           no
           sin
           for
           the
           same
           man
           to
           be
           both
           a
           Poet
           ,
           and
           a
           Prophet
           ;
           and
           to
           draw
           predictions
           no
           lesse
           from
           his
           Verse
           ,
           then
           his
           Text
           .
           Thus
           you
           shall
           meet
           here
           St.
           
           
             Pauls
          
           Rapture
           in
           a
           Poem
           ,
           and
           the
           fancy
           as
           high
           and
           as
           clear
           as
           the
           third
           Heaven
           ,
           into
           which
           
           that
           Apostle
           was
           caught
           up
           :
           and
           this
           not
           onely
           in
           the
           ravishing
           expressions
           and
           extasies
           of
           amorous
           Composures
           and
           Love
           Songs
           ;
           but
           in
           the
           more
           grave
           Dorick
           strains
           of
           sollid
           Divinity
           :
           Anthems
           that
           might
           have
           become
           
             Davids
          
           Harpe
           ,
           and
           
             Asaphs
          
           Quire
           ,
           to
           be
           sung
           ,
           as
           they
           were
           made
           ,
           with
           the
           Spirit
           of
           that
           chief
           Musitian
           .
           Againe
           ,
           In
           this
           small
           Glasse
           you
           may
           behold
           your
           owne
           face
           ,
           fit
           your
           own
           humors
           ,
           however
           wound
           up
           and
           tuned
           ;
           whether
           to
           the
           sad
           note
           ,
           and
           melancholy
           look
           of
           a
           disconsolate
           Elegy
           ,
           or
           those
           more
           sprightly
           jovial
           Aires
           of
           an
           Epithalamium
           ,
           or
           Epinichion
           .
           Further
           ,
           would
           you
           see
           a
           Mistresse
           of
           any
           age
           ,
           or
           face
           ,
           in
           her
           created
           ,
           or
           uncreated
           complexion
           :
           this
           mirrour
           presents
           you
           with
           more
           shapes
           then
           a
           Conjurers
           
           Glasse
           ,
           or
           a
           Limnors
           Pencil
           .
           It
           will
           also
           teach
           you
           how
           to
           court
           that
           Mistresse
           ,
           when
           her
           very
           washings
           and
           pargettings
           cannot
           flatter
           her
           ;
           how
           to
           raise
           a
           beauty
           out
           of
           wrinkles
           fourscore
           years
           old
           ,
           and
           to
           fall
           in
           love
           even
           with
           deformity
           and
           uglinesse
           .
           From
           your
           Mistresse
           it
           brings
           you
           to
           your
           God
           ;
           and
           (
           as
           it
           were
           some
           new
           Master
           of
           the
           Ceremonies
           )
           instructs
           you
           how
           to
           woe
           ,
           and
           court
           him
           likewise
           ;
           but
           with
           approaches
           and
           distances
           ,
           with
           gestures
           and
           expressions
           suitable
           to
           a
           Diety
           ;
           addresses
           clothed
           with
           such
           a
           sacred
           filial
           horror
           and
           reverence
           ,
           as
           may
           invite
           and
           embolden
           the
           most
           despairing
           condition
           of
           the
           saddest
           gloomy
           Sinner
           ;
           and
           withall
           dash
           out
           of
           countenance
           the
           greatest
           confidence
           of
           the
           most
           glorious
           Saint
           :
           and
           not
           with
           that
           blasphemous
           familiarity
           
           of
           our
           new-enlightned
           and
           inspired
           men
           ,
           who
           are
           as
           bold
           with
           the
           Majesty
           and
           glory
           of
           that
           Light
           that
           is
           unaprochable
           ,
           as
           with
           their
           own
           
             ignes
             fatui
             ;
          
           and
           account
           of
           the
           third
           Person
           in
           the
           blessed
           Trinity
           for
           no
           more
           then
           their
           Fellow-Ghost
           ;
           thinking
           him
           as
           much
           bound
           to
           them
           for
           their
           vertiginous
           blasts
           and
           while-winds
           ,
           as
           they
           to
           him
           for
           his
           own
           most
           holy
           Spirit
           .
           Your
           Authors
           then
           of
           these
           few
           sheets
           are
           Priests
           ,
           as
           well
           as
           Poets
           ;
           who
           canteach
           you
           to
           pray
           inverse
           ,
           and
           (
           if
           there
           were
           not
           already
           too
           much
           phantasticknes
           in
           that
           Trade
           )
           to
           Preach
           likewise
           :
           while
           they
           turn
           Scripture-chapters
           into
           Odes
           ,
           and
           both
           the
           Testaments
           into
           one
           book
           of
           Psalmes
           :
           making
           
             Parnassns
          
           as
           sacred
           as
           Mount
           
             Olivet
             ,
          
           and
           the
           nine
           Muses
           no
           lesse
           religious
           then
           a
           Cloyster
           of
           
           Nuns
           .
           But
           yet
           for
           all
           this
           I
           would
           not
           have
           thee
           ,
           
             Courteous
             Reader
             ,
          
           pass
           thy
           censure
           upon
           those
           two
           Fountains
           of
           Religion
           and
           Learning
           ,
           the
           
             Uviversities
             ,
          
           from
           these
           few
           small
           drops
           of
           wit
           ,
           as
           hardly
           as
           some
           have
           done
           upon
           the
           late
           
             Assemblies
          
           three-half-penny
           Catechisme
           :
           as
           if
           all
           their
           publick
           and
           private
           Libraries
           ,
           all
           their
           morning
           and
           evening
           watchings
           ,
           all
           those
           pangs
           and
           throwes
           of
           their
           Studies
           ,
           were
           now
           at
           length
           delivered
           but
           of
           a
           Verse
           ,
           and
           brought
           to
           bed
           onely
           of
           five
           feet
           ,
           and
           a
           Conceit
           .
           For
           although
           the
           judicious
           modesty
           of
           these
           Men
           dares
           not
           look
           the
           world
           in
           the
           face
           with
           any
           of
           
             Theorau
             Johns
          
           Revelations
           ,
           or
           those
           glaring
           New-lights
           that
           have
           muffled
           the
           Times
           and
           Nation
           with
           a
           greater
           confusion
           and
           darknes
           ,
           then
           ever
           benighted
           
           the
           world
           since
           the
           first
           Chaos
           :
           yet
           would
           they
           please
           bnt
           to
           instruct
           this
           ignorant
           Age
           with
           those
           exact
           elaborate
           Pieces
           ,
           which
           might
           reform
           Philosophy
           without
           a
           Civil
           War
           ,
           and
           new
           modell
           even
           Divinity
           its
           selfe
           without
           the
           ruine
           of
           either
           Chuch
           ,
           or
           State
           ;
           probably
           that
           most
           prudent
           and
           learned
           Order
           of
           the
           Church
           of
           
             Rome
             ,
          
           the
           
             Jesuite
             ,
          
           should
           not
           boast
           more
           sollid
           ,
           though
           more
           numerous
           Volums
           in
           this
           kind
           .
           And
           of
           this
           truth
           that
           Order
           was
           very
           sensible
           ,
           when
           it
           felt
           the
           rational
           Divinity
           of
           one
           single
           
             Chillingworth
          
           to
           be
           an
           unanswerable
           twelve-years-task
           for
           all
           their
           English
           Colledges
           in
           Chrisendome
           .
           And
           therefore
           that
           
             Society
          
           did
           like
           its
           selfe
           ,
           whe●…
           it
           sent
           us
           over
           a
           War
           instead
           of
           an
           Answer
           ,
           and
           proved
           us
           Hereticks
           by
           the
           sword
           :
           which
           
           in
           the
           first
           place
           was
           to
           Rout
           the
           
             Universities
             ,
          
           and
           to
           teach
           our
           two
           Fountains
           of
           Learning
           better
           manners
           ,
           then
           for
           ever
           heareafter
           to
           bubble
           and
           swell
           against
           the
           
             Apostolick
             Sea
             .
          
           And
           yet
           I
           know
           not
           whether
           the
           depth
           of
           their
           Politicks
           might
           not
           have
           advised
           to
           have
           kept
           those
           Fountains
           within
           their
           own
           banks
           ,
           and
           there
           to
           have
           dammd
           them
           and
           choakd
           them
           up
           with
           the
           mud
           of
           the
           Times
           ,
           rather
           then
           to
           have
           let
           those
           Protestant
           Streams
           run
           ;
           which
           perchance
           may
           effect
           that
           now
           by
           the
           spreading
           Riverets
           ,
           which
           they
           could
           never
           have
           done
           through
           the
           inclosed
           Spring
           :
           as
           it
           had
           been
           a
           deeper
           State-piece
           and
           Reach
           in
           that
           Sanedrim
           ,
           the
           great
           Councell
           of
           the
           Jewish
           Nation
           ,
           to
           have
           confined
           the
           Apostles
           to
           
             Jerusalem
             ,
          
           and
           there
           to
           have
           muzzeld
           them
           
           with
           Oaths
           ,
           and
           Orders
           ;
           rather
           then
           by
           a
           fruitful
           Persecution
           to
           scatter
           a
           few
           Gospel
           Seeds
           ,
           that
           would
           spring
           up
           the
           Religion
           of
           the
           whole
           world
           :
           which
           had
           it
           been
           Coopd
           within
           the
           walls
           of
           that
           City
           ,
           might
           (
           for
           all
           they
           knew
           )
           in
           few
           years
           have
           expired
           and
           given
           up
           the
           ghost
           upon
           the
           same
           
             Golgotha
          
           with
           its
           Master
           .
           And
           as
           then
           every
           Pair
           of
           Fishermen
           made
           a
           Church
           and
           caught
           the
           sixt
           part
           of
           the
           world
           in
           their
           Nets
           ;
           so
           now
           every
           Pair
           of
           Celledge-fellows
           make
           as
           many
           several
           Vniversityes
           ;
           which
           are
           truly
           so
           call'd
           ,
           in
           that
           they
           are
           Catholick
           ,
           and
           spread
           over
           the
           face
           of
           the
           whole
           earth
           ;
           which
           stands
           amazed
           ,
           to
           see
           not
           onely
           Religion
           ,
           but
           Learning
           also
           to
           come
           from
           beyond
           the
           
             Alpes
             ;
          
           and
           that
           a
           poor
           despised
           Canton
           and
           nook
           of
           the
           world
           should
           contain
           as
           much
           of
           each
           
           as
           all
           the
           other
           Parts
           besides
           .
           But
           then
           ,
           as
           when
           our
           single
           Jesus
           was
           made
           an
           universall
           Saviour
           ,
           and
           his
           particular
           Gospel
           the
           Catholick
           Religion
           ;
           though
           that
           Jesus
           and
           this
           Gospel
           did
           both
           take
           their
           rise
           from
           the
           holy
           City
           ;
           yet
           now
           no
           City
           is
           more
           unholy
           and
           infidel
           then
           that
           ;
           insomuch
           that
           there
           is
           at
           this
           day
           scarce
           any
           thing
           to
           be
           heard
           of
           a
           Christ
           at
           
             Jerusalem
             ,
          
           more
           then
           that
           such
           a
           one
           was
           sometimes
           there
           ,
           nor
           any
           thing
           to
           be
           seen
           of
           his
           Gospel
           ,
           more
           then
           a
           Sepulcher
           :
           just
           so
           it
           is
           here
           with
           us
           ;
           where
           though
           both
           Religion
           and
           Learning
           do
           owe
           their
           growth
           ,
           as
           well
           as
           birth
           ,
           to
           those
           Nurseryes
           of
           both
           ,
           the
           Vniversityes
           ;
           yet
           ,
           since
           the
           Siens
           of
           those
           Nurseryes
           have
           been
           transplanted
           ,
           there
           's
           little
           remaines
           in
           them
           now
           (
           if
           they
           are
           not
           belyed
           )
           either
           of
           the
           old
           
           Religion
           and
           Divinity
           ,
           more
           then
           its
           empty
           Chair
           &
           Pulpit
           ,
           or
           of
           the
           antient
           Learning
           &
           Arts
           ,
           except
           bare
           Schools
           ,
           and
           their
           gilded
           Superscriptions
           :
           so
           far
           have
           we
           beggard
           our selves
           to
           enrich
           the
           whole
           world
           .
           And
           thus
           ,
           
             Ingenuous
             Sir
             ,
          
           have
           I
           given
           you
           the
           State
           and
           Condition
           of
           this
           
             Poetick
             Miscellany
             ,
          
           as
           also
           of
           the
           
             Authors
             ;
          
           it
           being
           no
           more
           then
           some
           few
           Slips
           of
           the
           best
           Florists
           made
           up
           into
           a
           slender
           Garland
           ,
           to
           crown
           them
           in
           their
           Pilgrimage
           ,
           and
           refresh
           thee
           in
           thine
           :
           if
           yet
           their
           very
           Pilgrimage
           be
           not
           its
           selfe
           a
           Crown
           equall
           to
           that
           of
           Confessors
           ,
           and
           their
           Academicall
           Dissolution
           a
           Resurrection
           to
           the
           greatest
           temporall
           glory
           :
           when
           they
           shall
           be
           approved
           of
           by
           men
           and
           Angels
           for
           a
           chosen
           Generation
           ,
           a
           Royal
           Priesthood
           ,
           a
           peculiar
           People
           .
           In
           the
           interim
           let
           this
           
           comfort
           be
           held
           out
           to
           you
           ,
           
             our
             secluded
             University-members
             ,
          
           by
           him
           that
           is
           none
           ;
           (
           and
           therefore
           what
           hath
           been
           here
           spoken
           must
           not
           be
           interpreted
           as
           out
           of
           passion
           to
           my self
           ,
           but
           nicer
           zeal
           to
           my
           Mother
           )
           that
           according
           to
           the
           generally
           received
           Principles
           and
           Axioms
           of
           Policy
           ,
           and
           the
           soundest
           Judgment
           of
           the
           most
           prudential
           States-men
           upon
           those
           Principles
           ,
           the
           daie
           of
           your
           sad
           Ostracisme
           is
           expiring
           ,
           and
           at
           an
           end
           ;
           but
           yet
           such
           an
           end
           ,
           as
           some
           of
           you
           will
           not
           embrace
           when
           it
           shall
           be
           offered
           ;
           but
           will
           chuse
           rather
           to
           continue
           Peripateticks
           through
           the
           whole
           world
           ,
           then
           to
           return
           ,
           and
           be
           so
           in
           your
           own
           Colledges
           .
           For
           as
           that
           great
           Councell
           of
           
             Trent
          
           had
           a
           Form
           and
           Conclusion
           altogether
           contrary
           to
           the
           expectation
           and
           desires
           of
           them
           that
           procured
           it
           ;
           so
           our
           great
           Councels
           of
           
           
             England
          
           (
           our
           late
           Parliaments
           )
           will
           have
           such
           a
           result
           ,
           and
           Catastrophe
           ,
           as
           shall
           no
           ways
           answer
           the
           Fasts
           and
           Prayers
           ,
           the
           Humiliations
           ,
           and
           Thanks
           givings
           of
           their
           Plotters
           and
           Contrivers
           :
           such
           a
           result
           I
           say
           ,
           that
           will
           strike
           a
           palsie
           through
           Mr.
           
           
             Pims
          
           ashes
           ,
           make
           his
           cold
           Marble
           sweat
           ;
           and
           put
           all
           those
           several
           Partyes
           ,
           and
           Actors
           ,
           that
           have
           as
           yet
           appeard
           upon
           our
           tragical
           bloudy
           Stage
           ,
           to
           an
           amazed
           stand
           and
           gaze
           :
           when
           they
           shall
           confess
           themselves
           (
           but
           too
           late
           )
           to
           be
           those
           improvident
           axes
           and
           hammers
           in
           the
           hand
           of
           a
           subtle
           
             Workman
             ;
          
           whereby
           he
           was
           enabled
           to
           beat
           down
           ,
           and
           square
           out
           our
           Church
           and
           State
           into
           a
           Conformity
           with
           his
           own
           .
           And
           then
           it
           will
           appeare
           that
           the
           great
           Worke
           ,
           and
           the
           holy
           Cause
           ,
           and
           the
           naked
           Arme
           ,
           so
           much
           talked
           of
           for
           
           these
           fifteen
           years
           ,
           were
           but
           the
           work
           ,
           and
           the
           cause
           ,
           and
           the
           arme
           of
           that
           Hand
           ,
           which
           hath
           all
           this
           while
           reached
           us
           over
           the
           
             Alpes
             ;
          
           dividing
           ,
           and
           composing
           ,
           winding
           us
           up
           ,
           and
           letting
           us
           down
           ,
           untill
           our
           very
           discords
           have
           set
           and
           tuned
           us
           to
           such
           notes
           ,
           both
           in
           our
           Ecclesiastical
           ,
           and
           Civill
           Government
           ;
           as
           may
           soonest
           conduce
           to
           that
           most
           necessary
           Catholick
           Vnison
           and
           Harmony
           ,
           which
           is
           an
           essential
           part
           of
           Christs
           Church
           here
           upon
           Earth
           ,
           and
           the
           very
           Church
           its
           selfe
           in
           Heaven
           .
           And
           thus
           far
           ,
           
             Ingenuous
             Reader
             ,
          
           suffer
           him
           to
           be
           a
           Poet
           in
           his
           Prediction
           ,
           though
           not
           in
           his
           Verse
           ;
           who
           desires
           to
           be
           known
           so
           far
           to
           thee
           ,
           as
           that
           he
           is
           a
           friend
           to
           persecuted
           Truth
           ,
           and
           Peace
           ;
           and
           thy
           most
           affectionate
           Christian
           Servant
           ,
        
         
           
             Ab
             :
             Wright
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
       
         
           Vniversity-Poems
           .
        
         
           
             The
             Temper
             .
             UPON
             Dr.
             JUXON
             
               Bishop
               of
            
             LONDON
             .
          
           
             
               Great
               Sir
               ,
            
          
           
             ANd
             now
             more
             great
             then
             when
             you
             were
          
           
             o
             th'
             Cabinet
             to
             your
             King
             ,
             and
             Treasurer
             .
          
           
             For
             then
             your
             acts
             were
             lock't
             from
             common
             view
          
           
             Your
             life
             as
             Counsell
             being
             all
             Closet
             too
             ;
          
           
             But
             now
             that
             Cabinet
             's
             opened
             ,
             you
             doe
             passe
          
           
             To
             th'
             world
             for
             the
             chiefe
             Jewel
             of
             the
             case
             :
          
           
             Each
             vertue
             shines
             a
             several
             glorious
             spark
             ,
          
           
             Which
             then
             were
             but
             one
             Diamond
             in
             the
             dark
             .
          
           
             The
             Exchequer
             speaks
             your
             faith
             ,
             this
             you
             to
             be
          
           
             As
             true
             to
             the
             Counsell-board
             as
             Treasury
             ;
          
           
           
             Which
             care
             o
             th'
             civill
             good
             when
             they
             shall
             view
          
           
             The
             houses
             will
             repeal
             their
             act
             for
             you
             ;
          
           
             And
             in
             their
             graver
             policy
             debate
          
           
             The
             cloak
             lesse
             fit
             for
             the
             Church
             ,
             then
             th'
             gown
             for
             th'
             State
             .
          
           
             Next
             ,
             to
             your
             place
             your
             low
             mind
             did
             accord
          
           
             So
             well
             ,
             you
             seem'd
             a
             Bishop
             and
             no
             Lord
             .
          
           
             A
             Bishop
             such
             ,
             as
             even
             the
             Scots
             to
             make
          
           
             You
             theirs
             would
             arme
             ,
             and
             a
             new
             Covenant
             take
             ;
          
           
             Disband
             the
             Presbitery
             ,
             and
             henceforth
          
           
             Install
             you
             their
             sole
             Patriarch
             of
             the
             North
             .
          
           
             Such
             power
             hath
             your
             soft
             Rhetorick
             ,
             such
             awe
          
           
             Your
             nod
             ,
             and
             even
             your
             silence
             is
             a
             law
             ;
          
           
             While
             others
             are
             not
             heard
             through
             their
             own
             noyse
          
           
             And
             by
             their
             speaking
             much
             have
             lost
             their
             voyce
             :
          
           
             Thus
             those
             o
             th'
             starry
             Senate
             of
             the
             night
          
           
             Which
             slowest
             tread
             their
             Orbs
             shine
             till
             most
             bright
             ,
          
           
             And
             dart
             the
             strongest
             influx
             ;
             so
             conceal
          
           
             The
             flints
             cold
             veins
             a
             fire
             ;
             such
             is
             the
             zeal
          
           
             Of
             recluse
             Votaries
             ,
             piercing
             the
             aire
          
           
             And
             yet
             not
             heard
             ,
             and
             such
             the
             Anchorites
             prayer
             .
          
           
             Not
             like
             our
             modern
             Zelots
             ,
             whose
             bare
             name
          
           
             In
             Greek
             and
             Welch
             joyns
             language
             for
             a
             flame
             .
          
           
             Gun-powder
             souls
             ,
             whose
             Pulpit
             thoughts
             create
          
           
             A
             calenture
             and
             feaver
             in
             the
             State
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             plots
             and
             discipline
             are
             all
             fire
             ,
             and
             shine
          
           
             As
             hot
             ,
             as
             if
             contrived
             under
             the
             line
             .
          
           
             Your
             tempers
             cool
             and
             Northern
             ,
             calculate
          
           
             For
             the
             Miridian
             of
             this
             clime
             and
             State
             ;
          
           
             And
             may
             be
             fitly
             stil'd
             the
             Courts
             pole-star
             ,
          
           
             Or
             honours
             best
             morall
             Philosopher
             :
          
           
           
             So
             just
             your
             Sovereigne's
             ,
             t
             is
             a
             hard
             thing
          
           
             To
             say
             ,
             which
             was
             the
             Bishop
             ,
             which
             the
             King
             .
          
           
             This
             Temper
             took
             our
             State
             ,
             by
             whom
             we
             see
          
           
             The
             order
             question'd
             yet
             the
             Bishop
             free
             :
          
           
             So
             that
             of
             all
             their
             Acts
             this
             one
             's
             most
             rare
             ,
          
           
             A
             Church-man
             scape
             and
             a
             Lord
             Treasurer
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Poem
             ,
             Indefence
             
               of
               the
               decent
               Ornaments
               of
               Christ-Church
            
             Oxon
             ,
             
               occasioned
               by
               a
            
             Banbury
             
               brother
               ,
               who
               called
               them
               Idolatries
               .
            
          
           
             YOu
             that
             prophane
             our
             windows
             with
             a
             tongue
          
           
             Set
             like
             some
             clock
             on
             purpose
             to
             go
             wrong
             ;
          
           
             Who
             when
             you
             were
             at
             Service
             sigh'd
             ,
             because
          
           
             You
             heard
             the
             Organs
             musick
             not
             the
             Dawes
             :
          
           
             Pittying
             our
             solemn
             state
             ,
             shaking
             the
             head
          
           
             To
             see
             no
             ruines
             from
             the
             flore
             to
             the
             lead
             :
          
           
             To
             whose
             pure
             nose
             our
             Cedar
             gave
             offence
             ,
          
           
             Crying
             it
             smelt
             of
             Papists
             frankincense
             :
          
           
             Who
             walking
             on
             our
             Marbles
             scoffing
             said
          
           
             Whose
             bodies
             are
             under
             these
             Tombstones
             laid
             :
          
           
             Counting
             our
             Tapers
             works
             of
             darknesse
             ;
             and
          
           
             Choosing
             to
             see
             Priests
             in
             blew-aprons
             stand
          
           
             Rather
             then
             in
             rich
             Coapes
             which
             shew
             the
             art
          
           
             Of
             
               Sisera's
            
             prey
             Imbrodred
             in
             each
             part
             :
          
           
             Then
             when
             you
             saw
             the
             Altars
             Bason
             said
          
           
             Why
             's
             not
             the
             Ewer
             on
             the
             Cubboards
             head
             ,
          
           
           
             Thinking
             our
             very
             Bibles
             too
             prophane
             ,
          
           
             Cause
             you
             nere
             bought
             such
             Covers
             in
             
               Ducklane
               .
            
          
           
             Loathing
             all
             decency
             ,
             as
             if
             
             
             have
          
           
             Altars
             as
             foule
             and
             homely
             as
             a
             Grave
             .
          
           
             Had
             you
             one
             spark
             of
             reason
             ,
             you
             would
             finde
          
           
             Your selves
             like
             Idolls
             to
             have
             eyes
             yet
             blind
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             onely
             some
             base
             niggard
             Heresie
          
           
             To
             think
             Religion
             loves
             deformity
             .
          
           
             Glory
             did
             never
             yet
             make
             God
             the
             lesse
             ,
          
           
             Neither
             can
             beauty
             defile
             holinesse
             .
          
           
             What
             's
             more
             magnificent
             then
             Heaven
             ?
             yet
             where
          
           
             Is
             there
             more
             love
             and
             piety
             then
             there
             .
          
           
             My
             heart
             doth
             wish
             (
             wer
             't
             possible
             )
             to
             see
          
           
             
               Pauls
            
             built
             with
             pretious
             stones
             and
             porphery
             :
          
           
             To
             have
             our
             Halls
             and
             Galleries
             outshine
          
           
             Altars
             in
             beauty
             ,
             is
             to
             deck
             our
             swine
          
           
             With
             Orient
             Pearl
             ,
             whilst
             the
             deserving
             Quire
          
           
             Of
             God
             and
             Angels
             wallow
             in
             the
             mire
             :
          
           
             Our
             decent
             Copes
             onely
             distinction
             keep
          
           
             That
             you
             may
             know
             the
             Shepheard
             from
             the
             sheep
             ,
          
           
             As
             gaudy
             letters
             in
             the
             Rubrick
             shew
          
           
             How
             you
             may
             holi-dayes
             from
             lay-dayes
             know
             :
          
           
             Remember
             
               Aarons
            
             Robes
             and
             you
             will
             say
          
           
             Ladies
             at
             Masques
             are
             not
             so
             rich
             as
             they
             .
          
           
             Then
             are
             
             th'Priests
             words
             like
             thunderclaps
             when
             he
          
           
             Is
             lightning
             like
             rayed
             round
             with
             Majesty
             .
          
           
             May
             every
             Temple
             shine
             like
             those
             of
             
               Nile
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             still
             be
             free
             from
             Rat
             or
             Crocodile
             .
          
           
             But
             you
             will
             urge
             both
             Priest
             and
             Church
             should
             be
          
           
             The
             solemn
             patternes
             of
             humility
             .
          
           
           
             Doe
             not
             some
             boast
             of
             raggs
             ?
             Cynicks
             deride
          
           
             The
             pomp
             of
             Kings
             but
             with
             a
             greater
             pride
             .
          
           
             Meeknesse
             consists
             not
             in
             the
             cloaths
             but
             heart
             ,
          
           
             Nature
             may
             be
             vainglorious
             well
             as
             art
             ;
          
           
             We
             way
             as
             lowly
             before
             God
             appear
          
           
             Drest
             with
             a
             glorious
             pearl
             as
             with
             a
             tear
             ;
          
           
             In
             his
             high
             presence
             where
             the
             Stars
             and
             Sun
          
           
             Doe
             but
             Ecclipse
             ther
             's
             no
             ambition
             .
          
           
             You
             dare
             admit
             gay
             paint
             upon
             a
             wall
             ,
          
           
             Why
             then
             in
             glasse
             that
             held
             Apocriphall
             ?
          
           
             Our
             bodies
             Temples
             are
             :
             look
             in
             the
             eye
          
           
             The
             window
             ,
             and
             you
             needs
             must
             pictures
             spye
             ;
          
           
             
               Moses
            
             and
             
               Aaron
            
             and
             the
             Kings
             armes
             are
          
           
             Daubed
             in
             the
             Church
             when
             you
             the
             Warden
             were
             .
          
           
             Yet
             you
             nere
             find
             for
             Papist
             :
             shall
             we
             say
          
           
             
               Banbury
            
             is
             turnd
             
               Rome
               ,
            
             because
             we
             may
          
           
             See
             the
             holy
             Lamb
             and
             Christopher
             ?
             nay
             more
          
           
             The
             Altar
             stone
             set
             at
             the
             Tavern
             doore
             ?
          
           
             Why
             can't
             the
             Oxe
             then
             in
             the
             nativity
          
           
             Be
             Imagd
             forth
             ,
             but
             Papists
             Bulls
             are
             nigh
             ?
          
           
             Our
             pictures
             to
             no
             other
             end
             are
             made
          
           
             Then
             is
             your
             Time
             and
             sith
             your
             death
             and
             spade
             ;
          
           
             To
             us
             they
             'r
             but
             mementoes
             ,
             which
             present
             ▪
          
           
             Christ
             best
             ,
             except
             his
             Word
             and
             Sacrament
             .
          
           
             If
             't
             were
             a
             sin
             to
             set
             up
             Imagry
             ,
          
           
             To
             get
             a
             Child
             were
             flat
             Idolary
             .
          
           
             The
             modells
             of
             our
             buildings
             would
             be
             thus
          
           
             Directions
             to
             our
             houses
             ,
             ruines
             to
             us
             .
          
           
             Hath
             not
             each
             creature
             which
             hath
             daily
             birth
          
           
             Something
             which
             resembles
             Heaven
             or
             Earth
             ?
          
           
           
             Suppose
             some
             ignorant
             Heathen
             once
             did
             bow
          
           
             To
             Images
             ,
             may
             we
             not
             see
             them
             now
             ?
          
           
             Should
             we
             love
             darknesse
             and
             abhor
             the
             Sun
          
           
             Cause
             Persians
             gave
             it
             adoration
             ?
          
           
             And
             plant
             no
             Orchards
             ,
             because
             apples
             first
          
           
             Made
             
               Adam
            
             and
             his
             lineall
             race
             accurst
             ?
          
           
             Though
             wine
             for
             
               Bacchus
               ,
            
             bread
             for
             
               Ceres
            
             went
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             both
             are
             now
             used
             in
             the
             Sacrament
             .
          
           
             What
             then
             if
             these
             were
             Popish
             reliques
             ?
             few
          
           
             Windowes
             are
             elsewhere
             old
             but
             these
             are
             new
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             exceed
             the
             former
             ,
             that
             the
             face
          
           
             Of
             those
             come
             short
             of
             the
             outside
             of
             our
             glass
             ;
          
           
             Colours
             are
             here
             mix'd
             so
             ,
             that
             Rainbows
             be
          
           
             (
             Compared
             )
             but
             clouds
             without
             variety
             .
          
           
             Art
             here
             is
             Natures
             envy
             :
             this
             is
             he
             ,
          
           
             Not
             
               Paracelsus
               ,
            
             that
             by
             Chymistry
          
           
             Can
             make
             a
             man
             from
             ashes
             ,
             if
             not
             dust
             ,
          
           
             Producing
             off-springs
             of
             his
             mind
             not
             lust
             .
          
           
             See
             how
             he
             makes
             his
             maker
             ,
             and
             doth
             draw
          
           
             All
             that
             is
             meant
             i
             th'
             Gospel
             ,
             or
             i
             th'
             Law
             :
          
           
             Looking
             upon
             the
             Resurrection
          
           
             Me
             thoughts
             I
             saw
             the
             blessed
             vision
             ,
          
           
             Where
             not
             his
             face
             is
             meerly
             drawn
             but
             mind
             ,
          
           
             Which
             not
             with
             paint
             but
             oile
             of
             gladness
             shind
             :
          
           
             But
             when
             I
             viewed
             the
             next
             pane
             ,
             where
             we
             have
          
           
             The
             God
             of
             life
             transported
             to
             his
             grave
             ,
          
           
             Light
             then
             is
             dark
             ,
             all
             things
             so
             dull
             and
             dead
             ;
          
           
             As
             if
             that
             part
             of
             the
             window
             had
             been
             lead
             .
          
           
             
               Jonas
            
             his
             whale
             did
             so
             mens
             eyes
             befool
          
           
             That
             they
             'd
             have
             begd
             him
             for
             th'
             Anatomy
             School
             .
          
           
           
             That
             he
             saw
             Ships
             at
             
               Oxford
            
             one
             did
             swear
             ,
          
           
             Though
             Isis
             yet
             will
             Barges
             hardly
             bear
             .
          
           
             Another
             soon
             as
             he
             the
             trees
             espied
          
           
             Thought
             them
             i'
             th
             Garden
             on
             the
             other
             side
             .
          
           
             See
             in
             what
             state
             (
             though
             on
             an
             Asse
             )
             Christ
             went
             ,
          
           
             This
             shews
             more
             glorious
             then
             the
             Parliament
             .
          
           
             Then
             in
             what
             awe
             
               Moses
            
             his
             rod
             doth
             keep
          
           
             The
             Seas
             ,
             as
             if
             a
             frost
             had
             glaz'd
             the
             deep
             ;
          
           
             The
             raging
             waves
             are
             to
             themselves
             a
             bound
             ;
          
           
             Some
             cry
             help
             help
             or
             horse
             and
             man
             are
             drownd
             .
          
           
             Shadows
             doe
             every where
             for
             substance
             passe
             ,
          
           
             You
             'd
             think
             the
             sands
             were
             in
             a
             houre-glasse
             .
          
           
             You
             that
             do
             live
             with
             Chirurgeons
             ,
             have
             you
             seen
          
           
             A
             spring
             of
             blood
             forst
             from
             a
             swelling
             vein
             ?
          
           
             So
             from
             a
             touch
             of
             
               Moses
            
             rod
             doth
             jump
          
           
             A
             Chataract
             ,
             the
             rock
             is
             made
             a
             pump
             :
          
           
             At
             sight
             of
             whose
             oreflowings
             many
             get
          
           
             Themselves
             away
             for
             fear
             of
             being
             wet
             .
          
           
             Have
             you
             beheld
             a
             sprightfull
             Lady
             stand
          
           
             To
             have
             her
             frame
             drawn
             by
             a
             painters
             hand
             ?
          
           
             Such
             lively
             look
             and
             presence
             ,
             such
             a
             dresse
          
           
             King
             
               Pharoahs
            
             Daughters
             Image
             doth
             expresse
             ;
          
           
             Look
             well
             upon
             her
             Gown
             and
             you
             will
             swear
          
           
             The
             needle
             not
             the
             pencill
             hath
             been
             there
             :
          
           
             At
             sight
             of
             her
             some
             gallants
             doe
             dispute
          
           
             Whether
             i
             th'
             Church
             't
             is
             lawfull
             to
             salute
             .
          
           
             Next
             
               Jacob
            
             kneeling
             ,
             where
             his
             Kids-skins
             such
          
           
             As
             it
             may
             well
             cosen
             old
             
               Isaacs
            
             touch
             :
          
           
             A
             Shepheard
             seeing
             how
             thorns
             went
             round
             about
          
           
             
               Abrahams
            
             ram
             ,
             would
             needs
             have
             helpt
             it
             out
             .
          
           
           
             Behold
             the
             Dove
             descending
             to
             inspire
          
           
             The
             Apostles
             heads
             with
             cloven
             tongues
             of
             fire
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             a
             superficies
             there
             you
             le
             see
          
           
             The
             grosse
             dimentions
             of
             profundity
             :
          
           
             T
             is
             hard
             to
             judge
             which
             is
             best
             built
             and
             higher
          
           
             The
             arch-roofe
             in
             the
             window
             or
             the
             Quire
             .
          
           
             All
             beasts
             as
             in
             the
             Ark
             are
             lively
             done
             ,
          
           
             Nay
             you
             may
             see
             the
             shadow
             of
             the
             Sun
             .
          
           
             Upon
             a
             landskip
             if
             you
             look
             a
             while
          
           
             You
             le
             think
             the
             prospect
             at
             least
             forty
             mile
             .
          
           
             There
             's
             none
             needs
             now
             goe
             travell
             ,
             we
             may
             see
          
           
             At
             home
             
               Jerusalem
            
             and
             
               Ninevy
               ;
            
          
           
             And
             
               Sodome
            
             now
             in
             flames
             :
             one
             glance
             will
             dart
          
           
             Farther
             then
             Lynce
             with
             
               Galilaeus
            
             art
             .
          
           
             Seeing
             
               Eliahs
            
             Chariot
             ,
             we
             feare
          
           
             There
             is
             some
             fiery
             prodigy
             in
             the
             aire
             .
          
           
             When
             Christ
             to
             purge
             his
             Temple
             holds
             his
             whip
          
           
             How
             nimbly
             hucksters
             vvith
             their
             baskets
             skip
             .
          
           
             St.
             
               Peters
            
             fishes
             are
             so
             lively
             wrought
             ,
          
           
             Some
             cheapen
             them
             and
             ask
             when
             they
             were
             caught
             .
          
           
             Here
             's
             motion
             painted
             too
             :
             Chariots
             so
             fast
          
           
             Run
             ,
             that
             they
             're
             never
             gone
             though
             always
             past
             .
          
           
             The
             Angels
             with
             their
             Lutes
             are
             done
             so
             true
             ,
          
           
             We
             doe
             not
             onely
             look
             but
             hearken
             too
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             their
             sounds
             were
             painted
             :
             thus
             the
             wit
          
           
             Of
             the
             pencil
             hath
             drawn
             more
             then
             there
             can
             sit
             .
          
           
             Thus
             as
             (
             in
             Archimedes
             sphear
             )
             you
             may
          
           
             In
             a
             small
             glasse
             the
             universe
             survey
             :
          
           
             Such
             various
             shapes
             are
             too
             i
             th'
             Imagry
          
           
             As
             age
             and
             sex
             may
             their
             own
             features
             see
             .
          
           
           
             But
             if
             the
             window
             cannot
             shew
             your
             face
          
           
             Look
             under
             feet
             the
             Marble
             is
             your
             glasse
             ,
          
           
             Which
             too
             for
             more
             then
             Ornament
             is
             there
          
           
             The
             stones
             may
             learn
             your
             eyes
             to
             shed
             a
             tear
             :
          
           
             Yet
             though
             their
             lively
             shadows
             delude
             sence
          
           
             They
             never
             work
             upon
             the
             conscience
             ;
          
           
             They
             cannot
             make
             us
             kneel
             ;
             we
             are
             not
             such
          
           
             As
             think
             there
             's
             balsome
             in
             their
             kisse
             or
             touch
             ,
          
           
             That
             were
             grosse
             superstition
             we
             know
             ;
          
           
             There
             is
             no
             more
             power
             in
             them
             then
             the
             Popes
             toe
             .
          
           
             The
             Saints
             themselves
             for
             us
             can
             doe
             no
             good
             ,
          
           
             Muchless
             their
             pictures
             drawn
             in
             glass
             and
             wood
             ,
          
           
             They
             cannot
             seale
             ,
             but
             since
             they
             signifie
          
           
             They
             may
             be
             worthy
             of
             a
             cast
             o
             th'
             eye
             ,
          
           
             Although
             no
             worship
             :
             that
             is
             due
             alone
          
           
             Not
             to
             the
             Carpenters
             but
             Gods
             own
             Sonne
             :
          
           
             Obedience
             to
             blocks
             deserves
             the
             rod
             ;
          
           
             The
             Lord
             may
             well
             be
             then
             a
             jealous
             God
             .
          
           
             Why
             should
             not
             Statues
             now
             be
             due
             to
             
               Paul
               ,
            
          
           
             As
             to
             the
             
               Caesars
            
             of
             the
             Capitall
             .
          
           
             How
             many
             Images
             of
             great
             heires
             ,
             which
          
           
             Had
             nothing
             but
             the
             sin
             of
             being
             rich
             ,
          
           
             Shine
             in
             our
             Temples
             ?
             kneeling
             alwayes
             there
          
           
             Where
             when
             they
             were
             alive
             
             
             scarce
             appear
             .
          
           
             Yet
             shall
             Christs
             Sepulcher
             have
             nere
             a
             Tomb
             ?
          
           
             Shall
             every
             Saint
             suffer
             
               John
               Baptists
            
             doom
             ?
          
           
             No
             limb
             of
             
               Mary
            
             stand
             ?
             must
             we
             forget
          
           
             Christs
             cross
             as
             soon
             as
             past
             the
             Alphabet
             ?
          
           
             Shall
             not
             their
             heads
             have
             room
             in
             the
             window
             who
          
           
             Founded
             our
             Church
             and
             our
             Religion
             too
             ?
          
           
           
             We
             know
             that
             Gods
             a
             Spirit
             ,
             we
             confesse
          
           
             Thoughts
             cannot
             comprehend
             his
             name
             ,
             muchless
          
           
             Can
             a
             small
             glasse
             his
             nature
             :
             but
             since
             he
          
           
             Vouchsaf'd
             to
             suffer
             his
             humanity
             ,
          
           
             Why
             may
             not
             we
             (
             onely
             to
             puts
             in
             mind
          
           
             Of
             his
             Godhead
             )
             have
             his
             manhood
             thus
             enshrind
             ?
          
           
             Is
             our
             Kings
             person
             lesse
             esteemd
             because
          
           
             We
             read
             him
             in
             our
             Coynes
             as
             well
             as
             Laws
             ?
          
           
             Doe
             what
             we
             can
             ,
             whether
             we
             think
             or
             paint
             ,
          
           
             All
             Gods
             expressions
             are
             but
             weak
             and
             faint
             .
          
           
             Yet
             spots
             in
             Globes
             must
             not
             be
             blotted
             thence
          
           
             That
             cannot
             shew
             the
             worlds
             magnificence
             .
          
           
             Nor
             is
             it
             fit
             we
             should
             the
             skill
             controul
          
           
             Because
             the
             Artist
             cannot
             draw
             the
             soul
             .
          
           
             Cease
             then
             your
             railings
             and
             your
             dull
             complaints
             ;
          
           
             To
             pull
             down
             Galleries
             and
             set
             up
             Saints
          
           
             Is
             no
             impiety
             :
             now
             we
             may
             well
          
           
             Say
             that
             our
             Church
             is
             truely
             visible
             :
          
           
             Those
             that
             before
             our
             glasse
             scaffolds
             prefer
             ,
          
           
             Would
             turne
             our
             Temple
             to
             a
             theater
             .
          
           
             Windows
             are
             Pulpits
             now
             ;
             though
             unlearnd
             ,
             one
          
           
             May
             read
             this
             Bibles
             new
             Edition
             .
          
           
             Instead
             of
             here
             and
             there
             a
             verse
             adornd
          
           
             Round
             with
             a
             lace
             of
             paint
             ,
             fit
             to
             be
             scornd
          
           
             Even
             by
             vulgar
             eyes
             ,
             each
             pane
             presents
          
           
             Whole
             chapters
             with
             both
             comment
             and
             contents
             ,
          
           
             The
             cloudy
             mysteries
             of
             the
             Gospel
             here
          
           
             Transparent
             as
             the
             Christall
             doe
             appear
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             not
             to
             see
             things
             darkly
             through
             a
             glasse
             ,
          
           
             Here
             you
             may
             see
             our
             Saviour
             face
             to
             face
             .
          
           
           
             And
             whereas
             Feasts
             come
             seldome
             ,
             here
             's
             descride
          
           
             A
             constant
             Chrismas
             ,
             Easter
             ,
             Whitsontide
             .
          
           
             Let
             the
             deafe
             hither
             come
             ;
             no
             matter
             though
          
           
             Faiths
             sence
             be
             lost
             ,
             we
             a
             new
             way
             can
             shew
             :
          
           
             Here
             we
             can
             teach
             them
             to
             believe
             by
             the
             eye
             ;
          
           
             These
             silenced
             Ministers
             doe
             edify
             :
          
           
             The
             Scriptures
             rayes
             contracted
             in
             a
             Glasse
          
           
             Like
             Emblems
             doe
             with
             greater
             vertue
             passe
             .
          
           
             Look
             in
             the
             book
             of
             Martyrs
             and
             you
             le
             see
          
           
             More
             by
             the
             Pictures
             then
             the
             History
             .
          
           
             That
             price
             for
             things
             in
             colours
             oft
             we
             give
          
           
             Which
             wee
             'd
             not
             take
             to
             have
             them
             while
             they
             live
             .
          
           
             Such
             is
             the
             power
             of
             painting
             that
             it
             makes
          
           
             A
             loving
             sympathy
             twixt
             men
             and
             snakes
             .
          
           
             Hence
             then
             
               Pauls
            
             doctrin
             may
             seem
             more
             divine
             ▪
          
           
             As
             Amber
             through
             a
             Glasse
             doth
             clearer
             shine
             .
          
           
             Words
             passe
             away
             ,
             as
             soon
             as
             heard
             are
             gone
             ;
          
           
             We
             read
             in
             books
             what
             here
             we
             dwell
             upon
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             then
             there
             's
             no
             more
             fault
             in
             Imagry
          
           
             Then
             there
             is
             in
             the
             Practise
             of
             piety
             ,
          
           
             Both
             edifie
             :
             what
             is
             in
             letters
             there
          
           
             Is
             writ
             in
             plainer
             Hierogliphicks
             here
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             not
             a
             new
             Religion
             we
             have
             chose
             ;
          
           
             T
             is
             the
             same
             body
             but
             in
             better
             cloaths
             .
          
           
             You
             le
             say
             they
             make
             us
             gaze
             when
             we
             should
             pray
          
           
             And
             that
             our
             thoughts
             doe
             on
             the
             figures
             stray
             :
          
           
             If
             so
             ,
             you
             may
             conclude
             us
             beasts
             ,
             what
             they
          
           
             Have
             for
             their
             object
             is
             to
             us
             the
             way
             .
          
           
             Did
             any
             ere
             use
             prospectives
             to
             see
          
           
             No
             farther
             then
             the
             Glasse
             :
             or
             can
             there
             be
          
           
           
             Such
             lazy
             travellers
             ,
             so
             given
             to
             sin
             ,
          
           
             As
             that
             they
             le
             take
             their
             dwelling
             at
             the
             Inne
             .
          
           
             A
             Christians
             sight
             rests
             in
             Divinity
             ,
          
           
             Signes
             are
             but
             spectacles
             to
             help
             faiths
             ey●
             ,
          
           
             God
             is
             the
             Center
             :
             dwelling
             one
             these
             words
             ,
          
           
             My
             muse
             a
             Sabbath
             to
             my
             brain
             affords
             .
          
           
             If
             their
             nice
             wits
             more
             solemn
             proof
             exact
             ,
          
           
             Know
             this
             was
             meant
             a
             Poem
             not
             a
             Tract
             .
          
        
         
           
             An
             ELEGIE
             ,
             
               Vpon
               the
               death
               of
               Sir
            
             John
             Burrowes
             ,
             
               Slaine
               at
               the
               Isle
               of
            
             Ree
             .
          
           
             OH
             wound
             us
             not
             with
             this
             sad
             tale
             ,
             forbear
          
           
             To
             press
             our
             grief
             too
             much
             ,
             we
             cannot
             hear
          
           
             This
             all
             at
             once
             ,
             such
             heavy
             newes
             as
             these
          
           
             Must
             be
             sunk
             gently
             into
             us
             by
             degrees
             :
          
           
             Say
             
               Burrowes
            
             is
             but
             hurt
             ,
             let
             us
             disgest
          
           
             This
             first
             ,
             then
             try
             our
             patience
             for
             the
             rest
             .
          
           
             Practise
             us
             first
             in
             lighter
             griefes
             ,
             that
             we
          
           
             May
             grow
             at
             last
             strong
             for
             this
             Tragedy
             .
          
           
             Doe
             not
             speak
             yet
             he
             's
             slaine
             ,
             or
             if
             he
             be
          
           
             Speak
             't
             in
             a
             whisper
             or
             uncertainty
             ,
          
           
             As
             some
             new
             unauthoriz'd
             buzze
             without
          
           
             Reason
             or
             warrant
             to
             confirme
             our
             doubt
             .
          
           
             Come
             t
             is
             not
             so
             ,
             t
             is
             but
             some
             flying
             talk
          
           
             Newes
             lately
             vented
             in
             the
             audacious
             walk
             ,
          
           
           
             Some
             lye
             that
             's
             drapt
             in
             
               Pauls
            
             to
             stur
             our
             fears
             ,
          
           
             And
             gatherd
             by
             the
             busie
             credulous
             eares
             .
          
           
             Will
             you
             believe
             ought
             comes
             from
             thence
             ?
             why
             there
          
           
             The
             Forts
             surrendred
             ,
             and
             the
             Rochellere
          
           
             Sworne
             English
             ,
             
               Tillyes
            
             slaine
             ,
             the
             hostile
             Kings
          
           
             Closed
             in
             our
             siege
             ,
             with
             such
             prodigious
             things
             ,
          
           
             Which
             your
             perswaded
             vulgar
             takes
             and
             sends
          
           
             Abroad
             as
             tokens
             to
             their
             country
             friends
             .
          
           
             Are
             all
             these
             wonders
             false
             ?
             and
             onely
             this
          
           
             True
             mongst
             so
             many
             impossibilities
             ?
          
           
             Where
             truth
             is
             worse
             then
             any
             forgery
          
           
             There
             we
             may
             curse
             his
             mouth
             that
             doth
             not
             lye
             ,
          
           
             When
             fame
             goes
             off
             with
             such
             a
             black
             report
          
           
             Worse
             then
             the
             murthering
             Canon
             from
             the
             fort
             ,
          
           
             Worse
             then
             the
             shot
             that
             killd
             him
             ,
             for
             but
             one
          
           
             Was
             killd
             with
             that
             ,
             this
             kills
             a
             Nation
             .
          
           
             I
             le
             not
             believe
             it
             yet
             ,
             doe
             we
             not
             know
          
           
             An
             envious
             murder
             fam'd
             him
             dead
             ere
             now
             ;
          
           
             Receiv'd
             went
             into
             Ballads
             and
             almost
          
           
             Clap'd
             in
             Caranto's
             upon
             every
             post
             :
          
           
             Why
             should
             he
             not
             now
             dye
             in
             jest
             as
             then
             ,
          
           
             And
             we
             as
             haply
             be
             mock'd
             agen
             ?
          
           
             But
             t
             is
             too
             certaine
             ,
             here
             his
             Coarse
             we
             have
          
           
             Come
             ore
             to
             prove
             his
             death
             and
             ask
             a
             Grave
             ,
          
           
             A
             Grave
             for
             his
             good
             service
             :
             onely
             thus
          
           
             Must
             we
             reward
             thee
             that
             wast
             slaine
             for
             us
             ,
          
           
             To
             mourn
             and
             bury
             thee
             ?
             and
             would
             our
             fears
          
           
             As
             soon
             were
             clos'd
             too
             as
             thy
             dust
             and
             tears
             .
          
           
             I
             would
             thou
             mightst
             dye
             wholly
             here
             ,
             and
             be
          
           
             Forgotten
             ,
             rather
             then
             our
             misery
          
           
           
             Should
             urge
             thy
             fresh
             remembrance
             ,
             and
             recall
          
           
             Our
             sorrows
             often
             to
             lament
             thy
             fall
             ,
          
           
             When
             we
             shall
             say
             hereafter
             ,
             t
             is
             well
             seen
          
           
             
               Burrowes
            
             is
             dead
             else
             this
             had
             never
             been
             .
          
           
             Why
             did
             we
             thus
             expose
             thee
             ,
             what
             's
             now
             all
          
           
             That
             Island
             to
             requite
             thy
             Funerall
             ;
          
           
             Though
             thousand
             troops
             of
             murdered
             French
             doe
             lye
          
           
             It
             may
             revenge
             ,
             it
             cannot
             satifie
             :
          
           
             They
             are
             before
             hand
             still
             ,
             and
             when
             we
             have
             done
          
           
             Our
             worst
             we
             are
             loosers
             though
             the
             Fort
             be
             won
             :
          
           
             Our
             conquerers
             now
             will
             weep
             ,
             when
             they
             shall
             see
          
           
             This
             price
             too
             dear
             to
             buy
             a
             victory
             :
          
           
             He
             whose
             brave
             fire
             gave
             heat
             to
             all
             the
             rest
          
           
             That
             dealt
             his
             spirits
             in
             each
             English
             breast
             ;
          
           
             From
             whose
             divided
             vertues
             you
             might
             take
          
           
             So
             many
             Captaines
             out
             and
             fully
             make
          
           
             Them
             each
             accomplisht
             with
             those
             parts
             the
             which
          
           
             Did
             joyntly
             his
             rare
             furnish'd
             soule
             enrich
             :
          
           
             He
             whose
             command
             was
             ore
             himselfe
             more
             high
          
           
             And
             strictly
             soure
             then
             ore
             his
             company
             :
          
           
             Not
             rashly
             valiant
             nor
             yet
             fearfull
             wise
             ,
          
           
             His
             flame
             had
             counsell
             in
             't
             ,
             his
             fury
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Not
             struck
             with
             courage
             at
             the
             drums
             proud
             beat
          
           
             Or
             made
             fierce
             onely
             by
             the
             Trumpets
             heat
             :
          
           
             When
             even
             pale
             hearts
             above
             their
             pitch
             doe
             fly
          
           
             And
             for
             a
             while
             doe
             mad
             it
             furiously
             :
          
           
             His
             rage
             was
             temper'd
             well
             ,
             no
             fear
             could
             dant
          
           
             His
             reason
             his
             cold
             blood
             was
             valiant
             .
          
           
             Alasse
             those
             vulgar
             praises
             injure
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Which
             now
             a
             Poet
             would
             as
             plenteously
          
           
           
             Give
             some
             boy
             souldier
             ,
             one
             that
             nere
             knew
             more
          
           
             Then
             the
             fine
             Scabbard
             and
             the
             Scarfe
             he
             wore
             .
          
           
             And
             we
             can
             pitch
             no
             higher
             ;
             thou
             hast
             outdone
          
           
             So
             much
             our
             fancy
             and
             invention
             ,
          
           
             It
             cannot
             give
             thee
             ought
             .
             He
             that
             of
             thee
          
           
             Shall
             write
             but
             halfe
             seems
             to
             write
             Poetry
             :
          
           
             It
             is
             a
             strong
             line
             here
             to
             speak
             yet
             true
             ,
          
           
             Hyperboles
             in
             others
             is
             thy
             due
             .
          
           
             Suffice
             it
             that
             thou
             wert
             our
             Armies
             all
             ;
          
           
             Whos
             's
             well
             tryed
             name
             did
             more
             the
             French
             appall
          
           
             Then
             all
             their
             wants
             could
             do
             ,
             whose
             inward
             dread
          
           
             Famish'd
             them
             more
             in
             courage
             then
             in
             bread
             :
          
           
             And
             we
             may
             make
             't
             a
             Question
             ,
             whether
             most
          
           
             Besiegd
             their
             Castle
             ,
             
               Burrowes
               ,
            
             or
             our
             Host
             .
          
           
             Now
             let
             me
             blame
             thy
             vertue
             ,
             it
             was
             this
          
           
             Took
             thee
             from
             us
             and
             not
             our
             enemies
             .
          
           
             Whilst
             thy
             unwearied
             toyle
             no
             respite
             takes
          
           
             And
             thinks
             rest
             sloath
             ,
             and
             with
             parpetual
             wakes
          
           
             Continuest
             night
             with
             day
             and
             day
             with
             night
             ;
          
           
             Thou
             wast
             more
             ventrous
             when
             thou
             didst
             not
             fight
             .
          
           
             This
             did
             expose
             thee
             to
             their
             fraud
             and
             mark
             ;
          
           
             They
             durst
             not
             seize
             upon
             thee
             but
             i
             th'
             dark
             :
          
           
             The
             coward
             bullet
             that
             so
             oft
             before
          
           
             Waved
             thy
             bold
             face
             and
             did
             fear
             thee
             more
          
           
             Then
             thou
             feardst
             it
             ,
             now
             by
             its
             errour
             is
          
           
             Aimed
             too
             too
             sure
             :
             There
             was
             no
             light
             to
             misse
             .
          
           
             Thus
             fell
             our
             Captaine
             ,
             and
             the
             sound
             be's
             dead
          
           
             Has
             fallen
             as
             deep
             ;
             and
             like
             that
             fatall
             lead
          
           
             Lies
             cold
             on
             us
             .
             Yet
             this
             thy
             honour
             be
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             hurts
             our
             wound
             ,
             thy
             death
             our
             misery
             .
          
           
           
             Not
             as
             the
             mourning
             of
             a
             private
             fate
          
           
             But
             as
             some
             ruine
             had
             befallen
             the
             State
             :
          
           
             The
             Fleet
             had
             been
             miscarried
             ,
             
               Denmark
            
             tane
          
           
             Or
             the
             Palatinate
             been
             lost
             againe
             .
          
           
             So
             we
             with
             down-cast
             looks
             astonishd
             quite
          
           
             Receiv'd
             this
             not
             as
             newes
             but
             as
             a
             fright
             :
          
           
             So
             we
             relate
             thy
             death
             ,
             whilst
             each
             man
             here
          
           
             Contributes
             to
             this
             publick
             losse
             a
             teare
             :
          
           
             Whilst
             Fathers
             tell
             their
             children
             this
             was
             he
             ;
          
           
             And
             they
             hereafter
             to
             posterity
          
           
             Range
             with
             those
             Forces
             that
             scourg'd
             
               France
            
             of
             old
          
           
             
               Burrowes
            
             and
             
               Talbots
            
             name
             together
             told
             .
          
           
             VVhilst
             we
             ad
             this
             to
             our
             quarrel
             ,
             and
             now
             more
          
           
             Fight
             to
             revenge
             thee
             then
             our
             Land
             before
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             a
             white
             blemish
             in
             his
             Mistresse
             eye
             .
          
           
             IF
             there
             be
             hap●y
             any
             man
             that
             dares
          
           
             Think
             that
             the
             blemish
             in
             the
             Moon
             impaires
          
           
             Her
             modest
             beauty
             :
             He
             may
             be
             so
             farre
          
           
             From
             right
             ,
             as
             he
             that
             thinks
             a
             Swan
             may
             marre
          
           
             A
             Christall
             stream
             ,
             or
             Ivory
             make
             a
             smutch
          
           
             Fairely
             enameld
             in
             a
             piece
             of
             touch
             .
          
           
             He
             that
             thinks
             so
             may
             as
             well
             entertaine
          
           
             A
             thought
             ,
             that
             this
             faire
             snowie
             Christall
             staine
             ,
          
           
             Which
             (
             beautious
             Mistress
             )
             late
             usurp'd
             your
             eye
             ,
          
           
             Hath
             done
             your
             Heavenly
             face
             some
             injury
          
           
           
             He
             that
             thinks
             so
             nere
             let
             him
             have
             the
             blisse
          
           
             To
             steale
             from
             your
             sweet
             lips
             a
             Nectar
             kisse
             .
          
           
             Believe
             me
             (
             faire
             )
             and
             so
             you
             may
             ,
             my
             duty
          
           
             Is
             to
             observe
             lest
             on
             your
             spotlesse
             beauty
          
           
             The
             least
             wrong
             makes
             assault
             ,
             it
             gives
             like
             grace
          
           
             Being
             white
             with
             the
             black
             moal
             on
             
               Venus
            
             face
             ;
          
           
             Yea
             
               Venus
            
             happily
             envied
             your
             sight
          
           
             Which
             wont
             to
             dazle
             her
             inferiour
             light
             ,
          
           
             So
             put
             out
             th'
             one
             eye
             cause
             it
             proudly
             strove
          
           
             With
             her
             which
             most
             should
             kindle
             men
             in
             love
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             t'other
             to
             extinguish
             she
             forbore
          
           
             Least
             then
             like
             
               Cupid
            
             you
             had
             wounded
             more
             .
          
           
             If
             you
             will
             have
             me
             nature
             search
             ,
             and
             tell
             you
          
           
             What
             was
             the
             cause
             that
             this
             fair
             blot
             befell
             you
             :
          
           
             It
             may
             be
             this
             ,
             your
             dainty
             living
             torch
          
           
             Which
             wont
             the
             greedy
             amorous
             eye
             to
             scorch
          
           
             With
             a
             sweet
             murthering
             flame
             ,
             when
             it
             could
             not
             wail
          
           
             For
             greif
             of
             so
             much
             slaughter
             it
             grew
             pale
             :
          
           
             It
             may
             be
             these
             two
             dainty
             stars
             in
             lew
          
           
             o
             th'
             grace
             which
             they
             from
             one
             another
             drew
             ,
          
           
             (
             Kind
             twins
             )
             would
             needs
             like
             
               Castor
            
             and
             his
             brother
          
           
             Die
             in
             their
             turns
             so
             to
             enrich
             each
             other
             :
          
           
             Or
             whether
             't
             were
             that
             
               Cupid
            
             in
             his
             flight
          
           
             Being
             drawn
             by
             such
             a
             most
             imperious
             light
             :
          
           
             Refusing
             all
             beds
             else
             doth
             sleeping
             lye
          
           
             White
             naked
             boy
             in
             your
             white
             spotted
             eye
             .
          
           
             Or
             thus
             :
             Heaven
             seeing
             a
             sun
             in
             each
             your
             eye
          
           
             Put
             out
             the
             one
             to
             scape
             a
             Prodigie
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             double
             grace
             from
             hence
             your
             beauty
             won
          
           
             Now
             you
             have
             a
             pale
             Moon
             and
             glistering
             Sun
             .
          
           
           
             Nor
             think
             your
             beauty
             now
             disgrac'd
             because
          
           
             You
             have
             but
             one
             eye
             ,
             believe
             me
             natures
             Laws
          
           
             (
             Being
             her selfe
             but
             one
             )
             admit
             no
             store
          
           
             In
             perfect
             things
             :
             there
             's
             one
             Sun
             and
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             Unlesse
             't
             be
             your
             left
             eye
             ;
             nor
             Moons
             more
             be
             ,
          
           
             Unlesse
             that
             eye
             make
             a
             plurality
             :
          
           
             Which
             Moon-like
             spotted
             is
             :
             the
             worlds
             but
             one
             :
          
           
             The
             perfect
             gem
             is
             call'd
             an
             union
             :
          
           
             One
             Earth
             there
             is
             ,
             one
             Ocean
             ,
             and
             the
             Gods
          
           
             Joy
             not
             in
             equall
             numbers
             ,
             but
             in
             odds
             .
          
           
             To
             perfect
             all
             this
             ,
             you
             my
             muse
             assures
          
           
             There
             's
             still
             one
             beauty
             in
             the
             world
             ,
             that
             's
             yours
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             Mr.
             
               Hammon
            
             Parson
             of
             
               Beudly
            
             For
             pulling
             down
             the
             May-pole
             .
          
           
             THe
             mighty
             zeal
             which
             thou
             hast
             late
             put
             on
             ;
          
           
             Neither
             by
             Prophet
             nor
             by
             Prophets
             son
          
           
             As
             yet
             prevented
             ,
             doth
             transport
             me
             so
          
           
             Beyond
             my selfe
             ,
             that
             though
             I
             nere
             could
             go
          
           
             Far
             in
             a
             Verse
             ,
             and
             have
             all
             rimes
             defied
          
           
             Since
             
               Hopkins
            
             and
             good
             
               Thomas
               Sternhold
            
             died
             ,
          
           
             Except
             it
             were
             the
             little
             paines
             I
             took
          
           
             To
             please
             good
             people
             in
             a
             Prayer-book
          
           
             That
             I
             set
             forth
             ,
             or
             so
             :
             yet
             must
             I
             raise
          
           
             My
             spirits
             for
             thee
             ,
             who
             shall
             in
             thy
             praise
          
           
             Gird
             up
             her
             loyns
             and
             furiously
             runne
          
           
             All
             kind
             of
             feet
             but
             Satans
             cloven
             one
             .
          
           
           
             Such
             is
             thy
             zeal
             ,
             so
             well
             thou
             dost
             expresse
             it
             ▪
          
           
             That
             wer
             't
             not
             like
             a
             charme
             I
             'd
             say
             God
             bless
             it
             .
          
           
             I
             needs
             must
             say
             it
             is
             a
             spirituall
             thing
          
           
             To
             raile
             against
             the
             Bishop
             and
             the
             King
             :
          
           
             But
             these
             are
             private
             quarrells
             ,
             this
             doth
             fall
          
           
             Within
             the
             compasse
             of
             the
             Generall
             .
          
           
             Whether
             it
             be
             a
             Pole
             painted
             or
             wrought
             ,
          
           
             Far
             otherwise
             then
             from
             the
             wood
             't
             was
             brought
             :
          
           
             Whose
             head
             the
             Idol-makers
             hand
             doth
             crop
             ;
          
           
             Where
             a
             prophane
             bird
             towring
             on
             the
             top
          
           
             Looks
             like
             the
             Calfe
             in
             
               Horeb
               ,
            
             at
             whose
             root
          
           
             The
             unyoakt
             youth
             doth
             exercise
             his
             foot
             :
          
           
             Or
             whether
             it
             preserves
             its
             boughs
             befriended
          
           
             By
             neighbouring
             bushes
             and
             by
             them
             attended
             ,
          
           
             How
             canst
             thou
             chuse
             but
             seeing
             it
             complaine
          
           
             That
             
               Baals
            
             worship'd
             in
             the
             Groves
             againe
             :
          
           
             Tell
             me
             how
             curst
             an
             egging
             with
             a
             sting
          
           
             Of
             lust
             doe
             these
             unwily
             dances
             bring
             ,
          
           
             The
             simple
             wretches
             say
             they
             mean
             no
             harme
          
           
             They
             don't
             indeed
             ,
             but
             yet
             those
             actions
             warme
          
           
             Our
             purer
             blood
             the
             more
             :
             For
             Satan
             thus
          
           
             Tempts
             us
             the
             more
             that
             are
             more
             righteous
             .
          
           
             Oft
             hath
             a
             Brother
             most
             sincerely
             gone
          
           
             Stifled
             with
             zeal
             and
             contemplation
             ,
          
           
             When
             lighting
             on
             the
             place
             where
             such
             repaire
          
           
             He
             views
             the
             Nimph
             and
             is
             clean
             out
             in
             his
             prayer
             :
          
           
             Oft
             hath
             a
             Sister
             grounded
             in
             a
             truth
             ,
          
           
             Seeing
             the
             jolly
             carriage
             of
             the
             youth
             ,
          
           
             Been
             tempted
             to
             the
             way
             that
             's
             broad
             and
             bad
             ;
          
           
             And
             wert
             not
             for
             our
             private
             pleasures
             ,
             had
          
           
           
             Renounced
             her
             little
             ruffe
             and
             goggle
             eye
          
           
             And
             quit
             her selfe
             of
             the
             fraternity
             .
          
           
             What
             is
             the
             mirth
             ?
             what
             is
             the
             mellody
          
           
             That
             sets
             them
             in
             this
             Gentiles
             vanity
             ?
          
           
             When
             in
             our
             Synagogues
             we
             raile
             at
             sin
             ,
          
           
             And
             tell
             men
             of
             the
             faults
             that
             they
             are
             in
             ,
          
           
             With
             hand
             and
             voyce
             so
             following
             our
             theams
          
           
             That
             we
             put
             out
             the
             sides
             men
             in
             their
             dreams
             :
          
           
             Sounds
             not
             the
             Pulpit
             then
             which
             we
             belabor
          
           
             Better
             and
             holier
             then
             doth
             a
             Tabor
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             such
             is
             unregenerate
             mans
             folly
             ,
          
           
             He
             loves
             the
             wicked
             noyse
             ,
             and
             hates
             the
             holy
             .
          
           
             If
             the
             sins
             sweet
             enticing
             ,
             and
             the
             blood
          
           
             Which
             now
             begins
             to
             boyl
             ,
             have
             thought
             it
             good
          
           
             To
             challenge
             liberty
             and
             recreation
          
           
             Let
             it
             be
             done
             in
             holy
             contemplation
             ;
          
           
             Brother
             and
             Sister
             in
             the
             field
             may
             walk
             ,
          
           
             Beginning
             of
             the
             holy
             word
             to
             talk
             ,
          
           
             Of
             
               David
            
             and
             
               Vriahs
            
             lovely
             wife
          
           
             Of
             
               Thamar
            
             and
             her
             lustfull
             Brothers
             strife
             ,
          
           
             Then
             underneath
             the
             hedge
             that
             is
             the
             next
          
           
             They
             may
             sit
             down
             and
             so
             act
             out
             the
             Text
             .
          
           
             Nor
             doe
             we
             want
             ,
             how
             ere
             we
             live
             austere
             ,
          
           
             In
             winter
             Sabbath
             nights
             some
             lusty
             cheare
             ;
          
           
             And
             though
             the
             Pastors
             grace
             which
             oft
             doth
             hold
          
           
             Halfe
             an
             houre
             long
             make
             the
             provision
             cold
             ,
          
           
             We
             can
             be
             merry
             thinking
             nere
             the
             worse
          
           
             To
             mend
             the
             matter
             at
             the
             second
             course
             ;
          
           
             Chapters
             are
             read
             and
             Hymns
             are
             sweetly
             sung
          
           
             Joyntly
             commanded
             by
             the
             nose
             and
             tongue
             :
          
           
           
             Then
             on
             the
             word
             we
             diversly
             dilate
          
           
             Wrangling
             indeed
             for
             heat
             of
             zeale
             ,
             not
             hate
             ,
          
           
             When
             at
             the
             length
             an
             unappeased
             doubt
          
           
             Fiercely
             comes
             in
             ,
             and
             then
             the
             lights
             go
             out
             .
          
           
             Darknesse
             thus
             makes
             our
             peace
             ,
             and
             we
             containe
          
           
             Our
             fiery
             spi●its
             till
             we
             meet
             againe
             :
          
           
             Till
             then
             no
             voyce
             is
             heard
             ,
             no
             tongue
             does
             go
          
           
             Unlesse
             a
             tender
             Sister
             shreek
             or
             so
             .
          
           
             Such
             should
             be
             our
             delights
             grave
             and
             demure
             ,
          
           
             Not
             so
             abominable
             ,
             and
             impure
          
           
             As
             those
             thou
             seekst
             to
             hinder
             :
             but
             I
             fear
          
           
             Satan
             will
             be
             too
             strong
             ,
             his
             kingdomes
             there
             .
          
           
             Few
             are
             the
             righteous
             ,
             nor
             doe
             I
             know
          
           
             How
             we
             this
             Idol
             here
             shall
             overthrow
             ,
          
           
             Since
             our
             sincerest
             Patron
             is
             deceas'd
          
           
             The
             number
             of
             the
             righteous
             is
             decreas'd
             :
          
           
             But
             we
             doe
             hope
             these
             times
             will
             on
             and
             breed
          
           
             A
             faction
             mighty
             for
             us
             .
             For
             indeed
          
           
             We
             labour
             all
             ,
             and
             every
             Sister
             joynes
          
           
             To
             have
             regenerate
             babes
             spring
             from
             our
             loyns
             :
          
           
             Besides
             what
             many
             carefully
             have
             done
          
           
             To
             get
             the
             unrighteous
             man
             a
             righteous
             son
             .
          
           
             Then
             stoutly
             on
             ,
             let
             not
             thy
             flocks
             range
             lewdly
          
           
             In
             their
             old
             vanities
             ,
             thou
             lamp
             of
             
               Beudly
               .
            
          
           
             One
             thing
             I
             pray
             thee
             ;
             doe
             not
             so
             much
             thirst
          
           
             After
             Idolatries
             last
             fall
             ,
             but
             first
          
           
             Follow
             thy
             suite
             more
             close
             ,
             let
             it
             not
             go
          
           
             Till
             it
             be
             thine
             as
             thou
             woulst
             have't
             :
             for
             so
          
           
             Thy
             successors
             upon
             the
             same
             entaile
          
           
             Hereafter
             may
             take
             up
             the
             Whitsun-ale
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             Mr.
             
               Sambourne
               ,
            
             sometime
             Sherife
             of
             
               Oxford-shire
            
             .
          
           
             FIe
             ,
             Schollers
             ,
             fie
             ,
             have
             you
             such
             thirsty
             souls
          
           
             To
             swill
             ,
             quaffe
             ,
             and
             carouse
             in
             
               Samborns
            
             bouls
             .
          
           
             Tell
             me
             ,
             mad
             youngsters
             ,
             what
             doe
             you
             believe
          
           
             It
             cost
             good
             
               Sambourne
            
             nothing
             to
             be
             Sheriffe
             ?
          
           
             To
             spend
             so
             many
             beeves
             ,
             so
             many
             weathers
             ,
          
           
             Maintaine
             so
             many
             Caps
             ,
             so
             many
             Feathers
             .
          
           
             Againe
             is
             malt
             so
             cheap
             ,
             this
             pinching
             year
             ,
          
           
             That
             you
             should
             make
             such
             havock
             of
             his
             bear
             :
          
           
             I
             hear
             you
             are
             so
             many
             ,
             that
             you
             make
          
           
             Most
             of
             his
             men
             turne
             Tapsters
             for
             your
             sake
             .
          
           
             And
             that
             when
             he
             even
             at
             the
             Bench
             doth
             sit
             ,
          
           
             You
             snatch
             the
             meat
             from
             off
             the
             hungry
             spit
             :
          
           
             You
             keep
             such
             hurly burly
             ,
             that
             it
             passes
             ,
          
           
             Ingurgitating
             sometimes
             whole
             halfe
             glasses
             .
          
           
             And
             some
             of
             you
             ,
             forsooth
             ,
             are
             grown
             so
             fine
             ,
          
           
             Or
             else
             so
             saucy
             ,
             as
             to
             call
             for
             wine
             ;
          
           
             As
             if
             the
             Sheriffe
             had
             put
             such
             men
             in
             trust
             ,
          
           
             As
             durst
             draw
             out
             more
             wine
             then
             needs
             they
             must
             .
          
           
             In
             faith
             ,
             in
             faith
             ,
             it
             is
             not
             well
             my
             Masters
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             fit
             that
             you
             should
             be
             the
             Shrieffs
             tasters
             .
          
           
             It
             were
             enough
             ,
             you
             being
             such
             gormondizers
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             the
             Shrieffs
             hence
             forth
             turn
             arrant
             misers
          
           
           
             Remove
             the
             Size
             ,
             to
             
               Oxfords
            
             foul
             disgrace
             ,
          
           
             To
             
               Henly
            
             on
             the
             Thames
             ,
             or
             some
             such
             place
             .
          
           
             He
             never
             had
             complained
             had
             it
             been
          
           
             A
             petty
             Ferkin
             ,
             or
             a
             Kilderkin
             :
          
           
             But
             when
             a
             Barrel
             daily
             is
             drunk
             out
             ,
          
           
             My
             Masters
             ,
             then
             t
             is
             time
             to
             look
             about
             .
          
           
             Is
             this
             a
             lye
             ?
             trow
             ye
             ,
             I
             tell
             you
             no
             ,
          
           
             My
             Lord
             High-Chancelor
             was
             informed
             so
             .
          
           
             And
             oh
             ,
             what
             would
             not
             all
             the
             bread
             in
             Town
          
           
             Suffice
             to
             drive
             the
             Sheriffs
             liquor
             down
             :
          
           
             But
             he
             in
             hampers
             must
             it
             from
             hence
             bring
             ;
          
           
             Oh
             most
             prodigious
             ,
             and
             most
             monstrous
             thing
             !
          
           
             Upon
             so
             many
             loaves
             of
             home-made
             bread
             ,
          
           
             How
             long
             might
             he
             and
             his
             two
             men
             have
             fed
             ?
          
           
             He
             would
             no
             doubt
             the
             poor
             they
             should
             be
             fed
          
           
             With
             the
             sweet
             morsells
             of
             his
             broken
             bread
             :
          
           
             But
             when
             that
             they
             poor
             soules
             for
             bread
             did
             call
             ,
          
           
             Answer
             was
             made
             ,
             the
             Schollers
             eate
             up
             all
             :
          
           
             And
             when
             for
             broken
             bear
             ,
             they
             crav●d
             a
             cup
             ,
          
           
             Answer
             was
             made
             ,
             the
             Schollers
             drunk
             it
             up
             .
          
           
             And
             thus
             I
             know
             not
             how
             they
             change
             the
             name
             ,
          
           
             Cut
             did
             the
             deed
             ,
             and
             long-tale
             bore
             the
             blame
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             Sheriffs
             Beere
             .
          
           
             OUr
             
               Oxford
            
             Sheriffe
             of
             late
             is
             grown
             so
             wise
             ,
          
           
             As
             to
             reprieve
             his
             Beere
             till
             next
             Assize
             :
          
           
             A
             lasse
             t
             was
             not
             so
             strong
             ,
             t
             was
             not
             so
             heady
             ,
          
           
             The
             Jury
             sate
             and
             found
             it
             dead
             already
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             A
             journey
             into
             
               France
               .
            
          
           
             I
             Went
             from
             
               England
            
             into
             
               France
               ,
            
          
           
             Not
             for
             to
             learn
             to
             sing
             or
             dance
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             yet
             to
             ride
             nor
             fence
             .
          
           
             Nor
             yet
             did
             goe
             like
             one
             of
             those
             ,
          
           
             That
             thence
             returne
             with
             halfe
             the
             nose
          
           
             They
             carried
             from
             hence
             .
          
           
             But
             I
             to
             
               Paris
            
             rode
             along
             ,
          
           
             Much
             like
             
               John
               Dory
            
             in
             the
             song
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             a
             holy
             tide
             .
          
           
             I
             on
             an
             ambling
             Nagge
             did
             get
             ,
          
           
             I
             trust
             he
             is
             not
             paid
             for
             yet
             .
          
           
             And
             spur'd
             him
             on
             each
             side
             .
          
           
             And
             to
             St.
             
               Dennis
            
             first
             we
             came
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             the
             sights
             of
             
               Nostredam
               ,
            
          
           
             The
             man
             that
             shewes
             them
             snuffles
             .
          
           
             Where
             who
             is
             apt
             for
             to
             believe
             ,
          
           
             May
             see
             our
             Ladies
             right
             arme
             sleeve
             ,
          
           
             And
             eke
             her
             old
             pantafles
             .
          
           
             Her
             brest
             ,
             her
             milk
             ,
             her
             very
             gown
             ,
          
           
             That
             she
             did
             weare
             in
             
               Bethlem
            
             Town
             ,
          
           
             When
             in
             the
             Inne
             she
             lay
             .
          
           
             No
             Carpenter
             could
             by
             his
             trade
          
           
             Gaine
             so
             much
             coyn
             as
             to
             have
             made
          
           
             A
             Gown
             of
             so
             rich
             stuffe
             .
          
           
           
             Yet
             they
             poor
             fooles
             think
             't
             worth
             their
             credit
             ,
          
           
             They
             must
             believe
             old
             
               Joseph
            
             did
             it
             ,
          
           
             Cause
             he
             deserv'd
             enough
             .
          
           
             There
             is
             one
             of
             the
             Crosses
             Nailes
             ,
          
           
             Whcih
             who
             so
             sees
             his
             Bonnet
             vailes
             ,
          
           
             And
             if
             he
             will
             may
             kneel
             .
          
           
             Some
             say
             t
             is
             false
             t
             was
             never
             so
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             feeling
             it
             thus
             much
             I
             know
             ,
          
           
             It
             is
             as
             true
             as
             steel
             .
          
           
             There
             is
             the
             Ianthorn
             which
             the
             
               Jewes
               ,
            
          
           
             When
             
               Judas
            
             led
             them
             forth
             did
             use
             ,
          
           
             It
             weighs
             my
             weight
             down-right
             .
          
           
             But
             to
             believe
             it
             you
             must
             think
             ,
          
           
             The
             
               Jewes
            
             did
             put
             a
             candle
             in
             't
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             t
             was
             wondrous
             light
             .
          
           
             There
             's
             one
             Saint
             there
             hath
             lost
             his
             nose
             ,
          
           
             Another
             his
             head
             ,
             but
             not
             his
             toes
             ,
          
           
             His
             elbow
             and
             a
             thumb
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             we
             had
             seen
             these
             holy
             rags
             ,
          
           
             We
             went
             to
             the
             Inne
             and
             took
             our
             Nags
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             away
             did
             come
             .
          
           
             We
             came
             to
             
               Paris
            
             on
             the
             
               Sene
               ,
            
          
           
             T
             is
             wondrous
             faire
             ,
             but
             nothing
             cleane
             ,
          
           
             T
             is
             
               Europes
            
             greatest
             Town
             .
          
           
             How
             strong
             it
             is
             I
             need
             not
             tell
             it
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             the
             world
             may
             easily
             smell
             it
             ,
          
           
             That
             walk
             it
             up
             and
             down
             .
          
           
           
             There
             many
             strange
             things
             are
             to
             see
             ,
          
           
             The
             Pallace
             ,
             the
             great
             Gallery
          
           
             The
             Pallace
             doth
             excell
             .
          
           
             The
             New-bridge
             ,
             and
             Statues
             there
             :
          
           
             At
             
               Nostredam
            
             St.
             
               Christopher
               ,
            
          
           
             The
             Steeple
             bears
             the
             bell
             .
          
           
             For
             learning
             the
             University
             ;
          
           
             And
             for
             old
             cloths
             the
             Frippery
             ,
          
           
             The
             house
             the
             Queen
             did
             build
             .
          
           
             St.
             
               Innocents
            
             whose
             earth
             devours
          
           
             Dead
             corps
             in
             four
             and
             twenty
             hours
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             the
             King
             was
             kil'd
             .
          
           
             The
             Basteel
             ,
             and
             St.
             
               Dennis
            
             street
             ,
          
           
             The
             Shatteet
             just
             like
             
               London
            
             Fleet
             ,
          
           
             The
             Arsenall
             no
             toy
             .
          
           
             But
             if
             you
             'l
             see
             the
             prettiest
             thing
             ,
          
           
             Go
             to
             the
             Court
             and
             see
             the
             King
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             t
             is
             a
             hopefull
             boy
             .
          
           
             He
             is
             of
             all
             his
             Dukes
             and
             Peers
             ,
          
           
             Reverencd
             for
             his
             wit
             and
             years
             :
          
           
             Nor
             must
             you
             think
             it
             much
             .
          
           
             For
             he
             with
             little
             switch
             can
             play
             ,
          
           
             And
             can
             make
             fine
             durt
             Pies
             of
             clay
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             never
             King
             made
             such
             .
          
           
             A
             Bird
             that
             can
             but
             kill
             a
             fly
             ,
          
           
             Or
             prate
             ,
             doth
             please
             his
             Magesty
             ,
          
           
             T
             is
             known
             to
             every
             one
             .
          
           
             The
             Duke
             of
             
               Guise
            
             gave
             him
             a
             Parrot
             ,
          
           
             And
             he
             had
             twenty
             Cannons
             for
             it
             ,
          
           
             For
             his
             great
             Gallioone
             .
          
           
           
             Oh
             that
             I
             ere
             might
             have
             the
             hap
          
           
             To
             get
             that
             Bird
             which
             in
             the
             Map
          
           
             Is
             call'd
             the
             
               Indian
            
             Duck
             ;
          
           
             I
             'd
             give
             it
             him
             ,
             and
             hope
             to
             be
          
           
             As
             great
             as
             
               Guise
            
             or
             
               Liciny
               ,
            
          
           
             Or
             else
             I
             had
             bad
             luck
             .
          
           
             Birds
             about
             his
             Chamber
             stand
             ,
          
           
             And
             he
             them
             feeds
             with
             his
             own
             hand
             ;
          
           
             T
             is
             his
             humility
             :
          
           
             And
             if
             they
             doe
             want
             any
             thing
             ,
          
           
             They
             need
             but
             whistle
             for
             their
             King
             ,
          
           
             And
             he
             comes
             presently
             .
          
           
             But
             now
             for
             these
             good
             parts
             he
             must
          
           
             Needs
             be
             instil'd
             
               Lewis
            
             the
             just
             ,
          
           
             Great
             
               Henryes
            
             lawfull
             heire
             .
          
           
             When
             to
             his
             stile
             to
             adde
             more
             words
             ,
          
           
             They
             had
             better
             call
             him
             King
             of
             Birds
             ,
          
           
             Then
             of
             the
             lost
             
               Navarre
               .
            
          
           
             He
             has
             besides
             a
             pretty
             firke
             ,
          
           
             Taught
             him
             by
             nature
             how
             to
             work
          
           
             In
             Iron
             with
             much
             ease
             :
          
           
             Sometimes
             into
             the
             Forge
             he
             goes
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             he
             knocks
             ,
             and
             there
             he
             blows
             ,
          
           
             And
             makes
             both
             locks
             and
             keys
             .
          
           
             Which
             puts
             a
             doubt
             in
             every
             one
             ,
          
           
             Where
             he
             be
             
               Mars
            
             or
             
               Vulcans
            
             son
             ;
          
           
             Some
             few
             believe
             his
             mother
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             let
             them
             all
             say
             what
             they
             will
             ,
          
           
             I
             am
             resolv'd
             and
             doe
             think
             still
             ,
          
           
             As
             much
             the
             one
             or
             t'other
             .
          
           
           
             The
             people
             don't
             dislike
             the
             youth
             ,
          
           
             Alleging
             reasons
             .
             For
             in
             truth
          
           
             Mothers
             should
             honoured
             be
             .
          
           
             Yet
             others
             say
             he
             loves
             her
             rather
             ,
          
           
             As
             well
             as
             ere
             she
             lov'd
             his
             Father
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             's
             notoriously
             .
          
           
             His
             Queen
             a
             little
             pretty
             wench
             ,
          
           
             Was
             born
             in
             
               Spaine
               ,
            
             speaks
             little
             
               French
               ,
            
          
           
             Nere
             like
             to
             be
             a
             Mother
             :
          
           
             For
             her
             incestuous
             house
             could
             not
          
           
             Have
             children
             unlesse
             they
             were
             begot
          
           
             By
             Uncle
             or
             by
             Brother
             .
          
           
             Now
             why
             should
             
               Lewis
            
             being
             so
             just
             ,
          
           
             Content
             himselfe
             to
             take
             his
             lust
             ,
          
           
             With
             his
             
               Licina's
            
             mate
             :
          
           
             And
             suffer
             his
             little
             pretty
             Queen
             ,
          
           
             From
             all
             her
             race
             that
             ere
             has
             been
          
           
             So
             to
             degenerate
             .
          
           
             T
             were
             charity
             for
             to
             be
             known
          
           
             To
             love
             strange
             chlldren
             as
             his
             own
             ;
          
           
             And
             why
             it
             is
             no
             shame
             :
          
           
             Unlesse
             he
             yet
             would
             greater
             be
             ,
          
           
             Then
             was
             his
             Father
             
               Henry
               ,
            
          
           
             Who
             some
             thought
             did
             the
             same
          
        
         
         
           
             BEN
             :
             JOHNSON
             To
             Burlace
             .
          
           
             WHy
             though
             I
             be
             of
             a
             prodigious
             wast
             ,
          
           
             I
             am
             not
             so
             voluminous
             and
             vast
          
           
             But
             there
             are
             lines
             wherewith
             I
             may
             be
             embrac'd
             ▪
          
           
             T
             is
             true
             ,
             as
             my
             womb
             swells
             ,
             so
             my
             backstoops
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             whole
             lump
             grows
             round
             ,
             deform'd
             and
             droops
             ;
          
           
             But
             yet
             the
             run
             of
             
               Heidleb
               :
            
             has
             hoops
             .
          
           
             You
             are
             not
             tyed
             by
             any
             Painters
             Law
             ,
          
           
             To
             square
             my
             circle
             ,
             I
             confesse
             ,
             but
             draw
          
           
             My
             
               superficies
               ,
            
             that
             was
             all
             you
             saw
             :
          
           
             Which
             if
             in
             compasse
             of
             no
             art
             it
             came
          
           
             To
             be
             describ●d
             ,
             but
             by
             a
             Monagram
             ,
          
           
             With
             one
             great
             blot
             you
             have
             drawn
             me
             as
             I
             am
             .
          
           
             But
             whilst
             you
             curious
             were
             to
             have
             it
             be
          
           
             An
             Archetype
             for
             all
             the
             world
             to
             see
             ,
          
           
             You
             have
             made
             it
             a
             brave
             peece
             ,
             but
             not
             like
             me
             .
          
           
             Oh
             had
             I
             now
             the
             manner
             ,
             mastery
             ,
             might
             ,
          
           
             Your
             power
             of
             handling
             shadow
             ,
             aire
             ,
             and
             sprite
             ,
          
           
             How
             I
             could
             draw
             ,
             behold
             ,
             and
             take
             delight
             ;
          
           
             But
             you
             are
             he
             can
             paint
             ,
             I
             can
             but
             write
             ,
          
           
             A
             Poet
             hath
             no
             more
             then
             black
             and
             white
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             has
             he
             flattering
             colours
             ,
             or
             false
             light
             .
          
           
           
             Yet
             when
             of
             friendship
             I
             would
             draw
             the
             face
             ,
          
           
             A
             letterd
             mind
             ,
             and
             a
             large
             heart
             would
             place
          
           
             To
             all
             posterity
             ,
             I
             would
             write
             
               Burlace
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             death
             of
             
               Prince
               HENRY
               .
            
          
           
             KEep
             station
             nature
             ,
             and
             rest
             Heaven
             sure
          
           
             On
             thy
             supporters
             shoulders
             ,
             lest
             past
             cure
          
           
             Thou
             dash'd
             by
             ruine
             fall
             with
             a
             great
             weight
             ;
          
           
             T
             will
             make
             thy
             Basis
             shrink
             ,
             and
             lay
             thy
             height
          
           
             Low
             as
             the
             Centre
             .
             Death
             and
             horror
             wed
          
           
             To
             vent
             their
             teeming
             mischiefe
             :
             
               Henryes
            
             dead
             .
          
           
             Compendious
             eloquence
             of
             death
             ,
             two
             words
          
           
             Breath
             stronger
             terror
             then
             plague
             ,
             fire
             ,
             or
             swords
          
           
             Ere
             conquerd
             .
             Why
             ,
             t
             is
             Epitaph
             and
             Verse
          
           
             Enough
             to
             be
             prefixt
             on
             natures
             Herse
          
           
             At
             Earths
             last
             dissolution
             .
             Whose
             fall
          
           
             Will
             be
             lesse
             griveous
             ,
             though
             more
             Generall
             .
          
           
             For
             all
             the
             woe
             ruine
             ere
             buried
             ,
          
           
             Lies
             in
             this
             narrow
             compasse
             :
             
               Henries
            
             dead
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             the
             BIBLE
             .
          
           
             BEhold
             this
             little
             Volume
             here
             enrold
             ,
          
           
             T
             is
             the
             Almighties
             Present
             to
             the
             world
             .
          
           
             Hearken
             Earth
             ,
             Earth
             :
             Each
             senslesse
             thing
             can
             hear
          
           
             His
             makers
             thunder
             ,
             though
             it
             want
             an
             eare
             .
          
           
             Gods
             word
             is
             senior
             to
             his
             work
             ;
             nay
             rather
          
           
             If
             rightly
             weighd
             ,
             the
             world
             may
             call
             it
             Father
             .
          
           
             God
             spake
             ,
             t
             was
             done
             :
             this
             great
             foundation
          
           
             Was
             but
             the
             makers
             exhalation
             ,
          
           
             Breathd
             out
             in
             speaking
             .
             The
             least
             work
             of
             man
          
           
             Is
             better
             then
             his
             word
             ;
             but
             if
             we
             scan
          
           
             Gods
             word
             aright
             ,
             his
             works
             far
             short
             doe
             fall
             :
          
           
             The
             word
             is
             God
             ,
             the
             works
             are
             creatures
             all
             .
          
           
             The
             sundry
             peeces
             of
             this
             generall
             frame
          
           
             Are
             dimmer
             letters
             ,
             all
             which
             spell
             the
             same
          
           
             Eternall
             word
             .
             But
             these
             cannot
             expresse
          
           
             His
             greatnesse
             with
             such
             easie
             readinesse
             ,
          
           
             And
             therefore
             yeeld
             .
             For
             heaven
             shall
             pass
             away
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sun
             ,
             the
             Moon
             ,
             the
             Stars
             ,
             shall
             all
             obey
          
           
             To
             light
             one
             generall
             boon-fire
             ;
             but
             his
             word
          
           
             His
             builder
             up
             ,
             his
             all
             destroying
             sword
          
           
             Yet
             still
             survives
             ,
             no
             jot
             of
             that
             can
             dye
             ,
          
           
             Each
             tittle
             measures
             immortality
             .
          
           
           
             Once
             more
             this
             mighty
             word
             his
             people
             greets
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             lapp●d
             and
             thus
             swath'd
             up
             in
             Paper
             sheets
             .
          
           
             Read
             here
             Gods
             Image
             with
             a
             zealous
             eye
             ,
          
           
             The
             legible
             and
             written
             Deity
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             some
             pieces
             of
             work
             in
             
               York
            
             House
             .
          
           
             VIew
             this
             large
             Gallery
             faced
             with
             mats
             and
             say
             ,
          
           
             Is
             it
             not
             purer
             then
             
               Joves
            
             milky
             way
             ?
          
           
             Which
             should
             he
             know
             ,
             mortals
             might
             justly
             fear
          
           
             He
             would
             forsake
             his
             Heaven
             and
             sojourne
             here
             .
          
           
             Here
             on
             a
             River
             rides
             a
             silver
             swan
             ,
          
           
             Vailing
             her
             swelling
             sailes
             ,
             and
             hath
             began
          
           
             Her
             merry
             will
             ,
             and
             left
             Meander
             dry
             ,
          
           
             Rather
             intending
             in
             this
             place
             to
             dye
             .
          
           
             So
             curious
             is
             the
             work
             ,
             the
             art
             so
             sweet
             ,
          
           
             That
             men
             stand
             back
             lest
             they
             should
             wet
             their
             feet
             .
          
           
             Here
             's
             
               Joseph
            
             and
             his
             Brethren
             ,
             he
             in
             state
          
           
             Enthroned
             in
             a
             Chaire
             ,
             his
             dream
             his
             fate
             .
          
           
             His
             brethren
             they
             stand
             bare
             ,
             and
             though
             the
             board
          
           
             Be
             dumb
             ,
             each
             posture
             of
             them
             call
             him
             Lord
             .
          
           
             
               Joseph
            
             conceals
             his
             tears
             with
             hard
             restraint
             ,
          
           
             Which
             would
             gush
             out
             should
             they
             not
             spoile
             the
             paint
             .
          
           
           
             Under
             a
             tree
             whose
             arms
             were
             wide
             displayed
          
           
             And
             broidered
             with
             blossomes
             ,
             
               Venus
            
             layed
          
           
             Her
             naked
             body
             ,
             which
             when
             men
             espy
             ,
          
           
             Modesty
             'gins
             to
             check
             the
             saucy
             eye
             ,
          
           
             They
             steal
             a
             look
             ;
             but
             why
             ?
             lest
             she
             ,
             they
             say
             ;
          
           
             Seeing
             them
             look
             should
             rise
             and
             run
             away
             .
          
           
             Well
             doth
             the
             Sun
             refuse
             his
             face
             to
             shew
             ,
          
           
             Blushing
             to
             see
             so
             faire
             a
             face
             below
             :
          
           
             Which
             had
             
               Pigmalion
            
             seen
             so
             truely
             faire
             ,
          
           
             He
             would
             have
             married
             streight
             and
             sav'd
             his
             prayer
             .
          
           
             For
             life
             ,
             which
             was
             the
             others
             only
             bliss
          
           
             He
             beg'd
             of
             
               Venus
               ,
            
             art
             hath
             given
             this
             .
          
           
             Divert
             your
             eye
             from
             this
             seducing
             sight
             ,
          
           
             And
             see
             the
             Dear
             &
             Heardgrooms
             harmeles
             fight
             ,
          
           
             One
             gasping
             lies
             ,
             where
             with
             consenting
             strife
             ,
          
           
             The
             Painter
             and
             the
             poorman
             tug
             for
             life
             .
          
           
             Well
             may
             you
             say
             that
             see
             his
             hanging
             head
             ,
          
           
             The
             Pictures
             lively
             ,
             though
             the
             man
             be
             dead
             .
          
           
             Open
             the
             door
             and
             let
             my
             eyes
             come
             in
             ,
          
           
             A
             place
             that
             would
             entice
             a
             Saint
             to
             sin
             ;
          
           
             Almost
             too
             dear
             for
             man
             to
             tread
             upon
             ,
          
           
             A
             floor
             all
             diaperd
             with
             Marble
             stone
             ,
          
           
             Feet
             touch
             our
             feet
             .
             This
             mystery
             beguiles
          
           
             Philosophy
             of
             many
             thousand
             wiles
             .
          
           
             Nay
             to
             encrease
             the
             miracle
             ;
             with
             ease
          
           
             We
             here
             become
             our
             own
             Antipodes
             .
          
           
             What
             ruder
             age
             did
             think
             the
             best
             of
             all
             ,
          
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
             hangs
             on
             every
             wall
             ,
          
           
             Quite
             hung
             with
             it
             ,
             where
             every
             eye
             may
             see
          
           
             Not
             more
             what
             we
             doe
             seem
             then
             what
             we
             be
             .
          
           
           
             The
             glasse
             so
             steals
             us
             from
             us
             that
             you
             'd
             swear
          
           
             That
             we
             the
             shadow
             that
             the
             substance
             were
             ,
          
           
             Which
             doth
             not
             take
             impression
             but
             doth
             give
             .
          
           
             Here
             might
             
               Narcissus
            
             see
             himselfe
             and
             live
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             for
             the
             pleasure
             of
             one
             fading
             houre
             ,
          
           
             Eternally
             be
             damn'd
             into
             a
             flower
             .
          
        
         
           
             Sir
             
               Henry
               Wotton
            
             on
             Q
             :
             ELIZABETH
             .
          
           
             
               YE
               glorious
               trifles
               of
               the
               East
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               estimation
               fancies
               raise
               ,
            
             
               Pearles
               ,
               Rubies
               ,
               Saphirs
               ,
               and
               the
               rest
            
             
               Of
               precious
               Gems
               ,
               what
               is
               your
               praise
            
             
               When
               as
               the
               Diamond
               shewes
               his
               raise
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ye
               Violets
               that
               first
               appear
               ,
            
             
               By
               your
               blew
               Purple
               Matles
               known
               ,
            
             
               Like
               the
               proud
               virgins
               of
               the
               year
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               the
               spring
               were
               all
               your
               own
               ,
            
             
               What
               are
               you
               when
               the
               Rose
               is
               blown
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ye
               lesser
               beauties
               of
               the
               night
               ,
            
             
               That
               weakly
               satisfies
               our
               eyes
            
             
               More
               by
               your
               number
               then
               your
               light
               ,
            
             
               Like
               common
               people
               of
               the
               skies
               ,
            
             
               What
               are
               ye
               when
               the
               Moon
               doth
               rise
               ?
            
          
           
           
             
               Ye
               warbling
               chanters
               of
               the
               wood
               ,
            
             
               That
               still
               our
               eares
               with
               natures
               layes
               ,
            
             
               Thinking
               your
               passions
               understood
            
             
               By
               accents
               weak
               .
               What
               is
               your
               praise
            
             
               When
               
                 Philomel
              
               her
               notes
               doth
               raise
               ?
            
          
           
             
               So
               when
               my
               Princesse
               shall
               be
               seen
            
             
               In
               sweetnesse
               of
               her
               looks
               and
               mind
               ,
            
             
               By
               vertue
               first
               then
               choise
               a
               Queen
               ;
            
             
               Tell
               whether
               she
               were
               not
               assing'd
            
             
               To
               ecclipse
               the
               glory
               of
               her
               kind
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Rose
               ,
               the
               Violet
               ,
               and
               the
               whole
               spring
            
             
               May
               to
               her
               breath
               for
               sweetnesse
               run
               ,
            
             
               The
               Diamonds
               darkned
               in
               the
               ring
               ;
            
             
               When
               she
               appears
               the
               Moons
               undone
               ,
            
             
               As
               at
               the
               brightnesse
               of
               the
               Sun
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             the
             Princes
             birth
             .
          
           
             
               WEll
               fare
               the
               Muses
               which
               in
               well
               chimb'd
               verse
            
             
               Our
               Princes
               noble
               birth
               do
               sing
               ,
            
             
               I
               have
               a
               heart
               as
               full
               of
               joy
               as
               theirs
               ,
            
             
               As
               full
               of
               duty
               to
               my
               King
               :
            
             
               And
               thus
               I
               tell
            
             
               How
               every
               bell
            
             
               Did
               sound
               forth
               
                 Englands
              
               merry
               glee
               ;
            
             
               The
               boon-fires
               too
            
             
               With
               much
               adoe
               ,
            
             
               It
               were
               great
               pitty
               to
               belye
               her
               ,
            
             
               Made
               
                 London
              
               seem
               as
               all
               one
               fire
               ;
            
             
               A
               joyfull
               sight
               to
               see
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               wisest
               Citizens
               were
               drunk
               that
               day
               ,
            
             
               With
               Bear
               and
               wine
               most
               soundly
               paid
               :
            
             
               The
               Constables
               in
               duty
               reeld
               away
               ,
            
             
               And
               charged
               others
               them
               to
               aide
               .
            
             
               To
               see
               how
               soon
            
             
               Both
               Sun
               and
               Moon
            
             
               And
               seven
               Stars
               forgotten
               be
               :
            
             
               But
               all
               the
               night
            
             
               Their
               heads
               were
               light
            
             
             
               With
               much
               exalting
               of
               their
               horne
               ,
            
             
               Because
               the
               Prince
               of
               
                 Wales
              
               was
               borne
               ;
            
             
               A
               joyfull
               sight
               to
               see
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Dutchmen
               they
               were
               drunk
               six
               dayes
               before
            
             
               And
               prayed
               us
               to
               excuse
               their
               joy
               .
            
             
               The
               Frenchmen
               vow'd
               nere
               to
               be
               sober
               more
               ,
            
             
               But
               drink
               healths
               to
               the
               royall
               boy
            
             
               In
               their
               own
               wine
            
             
               Both
               brisk
               and
               fine
               .
            
             
               The
               valient
               Irish
               cram
               a
               cree
               ,
            
             
               It
               pledged
               hath
            
             
               In
               Usquebath
               :
            
             
               And
               being
               in
               a
               joviall
               vaine
            
             
               They
               made
               a
               bog
               even
               of
               their
               braine
               :
            
             
               A
               joyfull
               sight
               to
               see
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               
                 Scots
              
               in
               bonny
               Ale
               their
               joy
               did
               sing
               ,
            
             
               And
               wisht
               this
               royall
               babe
               a
               man
               ,
            
             
               That
               they
               might
               beg
               him
               for
               to
               be
               their
               King
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               him
               rule
               them
               when
               he
               can
               ▪
            
             
               The
               
                 Spaniards
              
               made
            
             
               A
               shrug
               and
               said
               ,
            
             
               After
               my
               pipe
               come
               follow
               me
               ;
            
             
               Canary
               Sack
            
             
               Did
               go
               to
               rack
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Gentlemen
               with
               them
               took
               part
               ,
            
             
               The
               Papists
               drunk
               it
               with
               an
               heart
               :
            
             
               A
               joyfull
               sight
               to
               see
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               A
               
                 Welch
              
               for
               joy
               her
               cozen
               Prince
               was
               born
               ,
            
             
               Doe
               mean
               to
               change
               St.
               
               
                 Davids
              
               day
               ,
            
             
               Swearing
               no
               leeks
               hereafter
               shall
               be
               worne
            
             
               But
               on
               the
               twenty
               ninth
               of
               
                 May
                 .
              
            
             
               None
               so
               merry
            
             
               Drinking
               Perry
            
             
               And
               Metheglin
               on
               her
               knee
               ,
            
             
               Every
               man
            
             
               His
               crock
               and
               can
               :
            
             
               Thus
               arm'd
               the
               Devill
               they
               defied
               ,
            
             
               And
               durst
               tell
               
                 Belzebub
              
               she
               lyed
               :
            
             
               A
               joyfull
               sight
               to
               see
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               whilst
               the
               bells
               about
               us
               made
               a
               din
               ,
            
             
               And
               boon-fires
               for
               our
               Prince
               we
               make
               ;
            
             
               The
               Puritans
               doe
               onely
               burne
               within
            
             
               Spirituall
               fagots
               for
               his
               sake
               ,
            
             
               Should
               they
               maintaine
            
             
               A
               fire
               prophane
            
             
               They
               'd
               rather
               martyrs
               wish
               to
               be
               ,
            
             
               But
               this
               remit
            
             
               Till
               Judges
               sit
               ,
            
             
               Next
               Sessions
               some
               or
               other
               may
            
             
               Find
               wholesome
               Tyburne
               in
               their
               way
               :
            
             
               A
               joyfull
               sight
               to
               see
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             A
             Letter
             to
             his
             Mistresse
             .
          
           
             
               GO
               happy
               Paper
               ,
               by
               command
            
             
               Take
               liberty
               to
               kisse
               an
               hand
            
             
               More
               white
               then
               any
               part
               of
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Although
               with
               spots
               thou
               graced
               be
               .
            
             
               The
               glory
               of
               the
               chiefest
               day
               ,
            
             
               The
               morning
               aire
               perfum'd
               in
               
                 May
                 :
              
            
             
               The
               first-borne
               Rose
               of
               all
               the
               spring
               ,
            
             
               The
               down
               beneath
               the
               Turtles
               wing
               ;
            
             
               A
               Lute
               just
               reaching
               to
               the
               eare
               ,
            
             
               What
               ere
               is
               soft
               is
               sweet
               is
               faire
               ,
            
             
               Are
               but
               her
               shreds
               ,
               who
               fills
               the
               place
            
             
               And
               summe
               of
               every
               single
               grace
               .
            
          
           
             
               As
               in
               a
               child
               the
               nurse
               discries
               ,
            
             
               The
               mothers
               lips
               ,
               the
               fathers
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               The
               uncles
               nose
               ,
               and
               doth
               apply
            
             
               Honours
               to
               every
               part
               ;
               so
               I
            
             
               In
               her
               could
               analize
               the
               store
            
             
               Of
               all
               the
               choice
               ere
               nature
               wore
               ;
            
             
               Each
               private
               peece
               to
               minde
               may
               call
            
             
               Some
               Earth
               ,
               but
               none
               can
               match
               it
               all
               ;
            
             
               Poor
               Emblems
               they
               can
               but
               expresse
            
             
               One
               Element
               of
               comlinesse
               ;
            
             
             
               None
               are
               so
               rich
               to
               shew
               in
               one
            
             
               All
               simples
               of
               perfection
               :
            
             
               Nor
               can
               the
               Pencil
               represent
            
             
               More
               then
               the
               outward
               lineament
               ;
            
             
               Then
               who
               can
               limbe
               the
               Portraiture
            
             
               Of
               beauties
               live
               behaviour
               :
            
             
               Or
               what
               can
               figure
               every
               kind
            
             
               Of
               jewels
               that
               adorne
               the
               mind
               ?
            
             
               Thought
               cannot
               draw
               her
               Picture
               full
               ,
            
             
               Each
               thought
               to
               her
               is
               grosse
               ,
               is
               dull
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             the
             Earle
             of
             
               Pembroke's
            
             Death
             .
          
           
             
               DId
               not
               my
               sorrows
               sighd
               into
               a
               verse
            
             
               Deck
               the
               sad
               pomp
               and
               mourning
               of
               thy
               hearse
               ;
            
             
               I
               'd
               swear
               thy
               death
               the
               birth
               of
               hasty
               fame
               ,
            
             
               Begot
               to
               try
               our
               sorrowes
               with
               thy
               name
               .
            
             
               I
               le
               not
               believe
               it
               yet
               ;
               it
               cannot
               sort
            
             
               With
               earnest
               thou
               shouldst
               dye
               of
               meere
               report
               :
            
             
               Newes
               cannot
               kill
               ,
               nor
               is
               the
               common
               breath
               ,
            
             
               Fate
               ,
               or
               infection
               .
               Shall
               I
               think
               that
               death
            
             
               Struck
               with
               so
               rude
               a
               hand
               ,
               so
               without
               art
            
             
               To
               kill
               ,
               and
               use
               no
               Preface
               to
               his
               dart
               .
            
             
               Come
               
                 Pembrocke
              
               lives
               .
               Oh
               doe
               not
               fright
               our
               eares
            
             
               With
               such
               destroying
               truth
               ,
               first
               raise
               our
               fears
            
             
             
               And
               say
               he
               is
               not
               well
               ;
               that
               will
               suffice
            
             
               To
               force
               a
               river
               from
               the
               publick
               eyes
               .
            
             
               Or
               if
               he
               must
               be
               dead
               ,
               Oh
               let
               the
               newes
            
             
               Speak
               't
               in
               a
               stonish'd
               whisper
               ,
               let
               it
               use
            
             
               Some
               phrase
               without
               a
               voyce
               ,
               't
               would
               too
               much
               cloud
            
             
               Our
               apprehension
               should
               it
               speak
               aloud
               .
            
             
               Let
               's
               hear
               it
               in
               a
               Riddle
               ,
               or
               so
               told
            
             
               As
               if
               the
               labouring
               sence
               grieved
               to
               unfold
            
             
               Its
               doubtfull
               woe
               .
               Hadst
               thou
               endured
               the
               gout
               ,
            
             
               Or
               lingring
               of
               thy
               Doctor
               (
               which
               no
               doubt
            
             
               Had
               bin
               the
               worse
               disease
               )
               the
               publick
               zeal
            
             
               Had
               conquered
               fate
               and
               sav'd
               thee
               ;
               but
               to
               steal
            
             
               A
               close
               departure
               from
               us
               ,
               and
               to
               dye
            
             
               Of
               no
               disease
               ,
               but
               of
               a
               Prophesie
               ,
            
             
               Is
               mystery
               not
               fate
               :
               nor
               wert
               thou
               kild
            
             
               Like
               other
               men
               ,
               but
               like
               a
               type
               fulfilld
               .
            
             
               So
               suddenly
               to
               dye
               is
               to
               deceive
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               was
               it
               death
               ,
               but
               a
               not
               taking
               leave
               :
            
             
               T
               is
               true
               the
               shortnesse
               doth
               forbid
               to
               weep
               ,
            
             
               For
               so
               our
               Fathers
               dying
               fell
               asleep
               :
            
             
               So
               
                 Enoch
              
               whilst
               his
               God
               he
               did
               adore
               ,
            
             
               Instead
               of
               suffering
               death
               was
               seen
               no
               more
               .
            
             
               But
               oh
               this
               is
               too
               much
               ,
               and
               we
               should
               wrong
            
             
               Thy
               ashes
               ,
               thought
               we
               not
               this
               speed
               to
               long
               .
            
             
               Methinks
               a
               dream
               had
               serv'd
               ,
               or
               silent
               breath
               ,
            
             
               Or
               a
               still
               pulse
               ,
               or
               something
               like
               to
               death
               .
            
             
               Now
               t
               were
               detraction
               to
               suppose
               a
               tear
               ,
            
             
               Or
               the
               sad
               weeds
               which
               the
               glad
               mourners
               wear
            
             
               Could
               value
               such
               a
               losse
               .
               He
               that
               mourns
               thee
            
             
               Must
               bring
               an
               eye
               can
               weep
               an
               Elegy
               :
            
             
             
               A
               look
               that
               would
               save
               blacks
               ,
               whose
               heavy
               grace
            
             
               Chides
               mirth
               ,
               and
               wears
               a
               funerall
               in
               the
               face
               :
            
             
               Whose
               sighs
               are
               with
               such
               feeling
               sorrow
               blown
            
             
               That
               all
               the
               aire
               he
               draws
               returns
               a
               groan
               .
            
             
               That
               griefe
               doth
               nearest
               fit
               that
               is
               begun
            
             
               When
               the
               year
               ends
               and
               when
               the
               blacks
               are
               done
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thou
               needst
               no
               guilded
               Tomb
               ,
               superfluous
               cost
            
             
               Is
               best
               bestowed
               on
               them
               whose
               names
               are
               lost
               .
            
             
               Hadst
               thou
               no
               Statue
               ,
               thy
               great
               memory
            
             
               Were
               Marble
               to
               it selfe
               ,
               the
               bravery
            
             
               Of
               Jet
               or
               rich
               Enammel
               were
               mispent
            
             
               Where
               the
               brave
               Course
               is
               its
               own
               ornament
               .
            
             
               In
               thee
               shine
               all
               high
               parts
               ,
               which
               falsly
               wit
            
             
               Or
               flattering
               raptures
               for
               their
               Lord
               beget
               ,
            
             
               When
               they
               would
               faigne
               an
               Epitaph
               ,
               and
               write
            
             
               As
               if
               their
               griefe
               made
               legs
               when
               they
               indite
               ;
            
             
               Such
               dutifull
               untruths
               ,
               that
               ere
               he
               grieve
               ,
            
             
               The
               Readers
               first
               toile
               is
               how
               to
               believe
               .
            
             
               Thy
               greatnesse
               was
               no
               Idoll
               ,
               state
               in
               thee
            
             
               Receiv'd
               its
               lustre
               from
               humility
               .
            
             
               He
               that
               will
               blaze
               thy
               Coat
               ,
               and
               onely
               looks
            
             
               How
               thou
               wer
               't
               Noble
               by
               the
               Heraulds
               books
               ,
            
             
               Mistakes
               thy
               linage
               ;
               and
               admiring
               blood
               ,
            
             
               Forgets
               thy
               best
               descent
               ,
               vertue
               and
               good
               .
            
             
               These
               are
               too
               great
               for
               Scutcheons
               ,
               and
               made
               thee
            
             
               Without
               fore-fathers
               thine
               own
               Pedigree
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Vpon
             his
             chast
             Mistresse
             .
          
           
             
               LOve
               ,
               give
               me
               leave
               to
               serve
               thee
               ,
               and
               be
               wise
               ;
            
             
               To
               keep
               thy
               torch
               in
               ,
               and
               restore
               blind
               eyes
               :
            
             
               I
               le
               such
               a
               flame
               into
               my
               bosome
               take
               ,
            
             
               As
               Martyrs
               court
               when
               they
               embrace
               the
               stake
               ;
            
             
               No
               dull
               and
               smoaky
               fire
               ,
               but
               heat
               divine
               ,
            
             
               That
               burns
               not
               to
               consume
               but
               to
               refine
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               have
               a
               Mistresse
               for
               perfections
               rare
            
             
               In
               every
               eye
               ,
               but
               in
               my
               thoughts
               most
               faire
               .
            
             
               Like
               tapers
               on
               the
               Altar
               shine
               her
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               Her
               breath
               is
               the
               perfume
               of
               sacrifice
               :
            
             
               And
               wheresoever
               my
               fancy
               would
               begin
               ,
            
             
               Still
               her
               perfection
               lets
               Religion
               in
               .
            
             
               I
               touch
               her
               as
               my
               beads
               without
               devout
               care
               ,
            
             
               And
               come
               unto
               my
               courtship
               as
               my
               prayer
               .
            
             
               We
               sit
               and
               talk
               and
               kisse
               away
               the
               houres
            
             
               As
               chastly
               ,
               as
               the
               mornings
               dew
               kisse
               flowers
               .
            
             
               We
               were
               no
               flesh
               ,
               but
               one
               another
               greet
            
             
               As
               blessed
               soules
               in
               seperation
               meet
               .
            
             
               I
               might
               have
               lustfull
               thoughts
               to
               her
               of
               all
            
             
               Earths
               heavenly
               quire
               the
               most
               Angelicall
               ;
            
             
               But
               looking
               in
               my
               brest
               her
               forme
               I
               find
            
             
               That
               like
               my
               Guardian
               Angell
               keeps
               my
               mind
            
             
             
               From
               rude
               attempts
               ,
               and
               when
               affections
               stir
            
             
               I
               calme
               all
               passions
               with
               one
               thought
               of
               her
               .
            
             
               Thus
               they
               whose
               reason
               loves
               ,
               and
               not
               their
               sence
               ,
            
             
               The
               spirit
               love
               .
               Thus
               on
               intelligence
            
             
               Reflects
               upon
               his
               like
               ,
               and
               by
               chast
               loves
            
             
               In
               the
               same
               sphear
               this
               and
               that
               Angel
               moves
               :
            
             
               Nor
               is
               this
               barren
               love
               :
               each
               noble
               thought
            
             
               Begets
               another
               ,
               and
               that
               still
               is
               brought
            
             
               To
               bed
               of
               more
               ,
               vertues
               and
               grace
               encrease
               ;
            
             
               And
               such
               a
               numerous
               issue
               nere
               can
               cease
               :
            
             
               Where
               children
               (
               though
               great
               blessings
               )
               onely
               be
            
             
               Pleasures
               repriev'd
               to
               some
               postery
               .
            
             
               Beasts
               love
               like
               men
               ,
               if
               men
               in
               lust
               delight
               ,
            
             
               And
               call
               that
               love
               which
               is
               but
               appetite
               .
            
             
               When
               Essence
               meets
               with
               Essence
               ,
               and
               souls
               joyn
            
             
               In
               mutuall
               knots
               ,
               that
               's
               the
               true
               nuptiall
               twine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Such
               Lady
               is
               my
               love
               ,
               and
               such
               is
               true
               ;
            
             
               All
               other
               love
               is
               to
               your
               sex
               ,
               not
               you
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             a
             Painters
             handsome
             Daughter
             .
          
           
             SUch
             are
             your
             Fathers
             Pictures
             ,
             that
             we
             doe
          
           
             Believe
             they
             are
             not
             counterfeit
             but
             true
             :
          
           
             So
             lively
             and
             so
             fresh
             that
             we
             may
             swear
          
           
             Instead
             of
             draughts
             he
             hath
             placed
             creatures
             there
             ,
          
           
             People
             not
             shadowes
             ;
             which
             in
             time
             will
             be
          
           
             Not
             a
             dead
             number
             but
             a
             colony
             .
          
           
             Nay
             more
             ;
             yet
             some
             think
             they
             have
             skill
             and
             arts
             ,
          
           
             That
             they
             are
             well
             bred
             ,
             pictures
             of
             good
             parts
             ;
          
           
             And
             you
             your selfe
             faire
             
               Julia
            
             doe
             disclose
          
           
             Such
             beauties
             that
             you
             may
             seem
             one
             of
             those
             ,
          
           
             That
             having
             motion
             gaind
             at
             least
             and
             sence
             ,
          
           
             Began
             to
             know
             it selfe
             and
             stole
             from
             thence
             ;
          
           
             Whilst
             thus
             his
             aemulous
             art
             with
             nature
             strives
             ,
          
           
             Some
             think
             
             h'hath
             none
             ,
             others
             he
             hath
             two
             wives
             .
          
           
             If
             you
             love
             none
             (
             faire
             maide
             )
             but
             look
             on
             all
             ,
          
           
             You
             then
             among
             his
             set
             of
             Pictures
             fall
             ;
          
           
             If
             that
             you
             look
             on
             all
             and
             love
             all
             men
             ,
          
           
             The
             Pictures
             too
             will
             be
             your
             Sisters
             then
             .
          
           
             Your
             choise
             must
             shew
             you
             are
             of
             another
             fleece
             ,
          
           
             And
             tell
             you
             are
             his
             daughter
             not
             his
             piece
             .
          
           
           
             All
             other
             proofes
             are
             vaine
             ,
             go
             not
             about
             ;
          
           
             We
             two
             will
             embrace
             ,
             and
             love
             ,
             and
             clear
             the
             doubt
             .
          
           
             When
             you
             have
             brought
             forth
             your
             like
             the
             world
             will
             know
          
           
             You
             are
             his
             Child
             ;
             what
             Picture
             can
             doe
             so
             ?
          
        
         
           
             To
             Dr.
             
               Price
            
             writing
             Anniversaries
             on
             
               Prince
               HENRY
               .
            
          
           
             Even
             so
             dead
             
               Hector
            
             thrice
             was
             triumphd
             on
          
           
             The
             walls
             of
             
               Troy
               ,
            
             thrice
             slaine
             when
             fate
             had
             don
             :
          
           
             So
             did
             the
             barbarous
             
               Greeks
            
             before
             their
             hoast
          
           
             Turmoile
             his
             ashes
             and
             prophane
             his
             Ghost
             :
          
           
             As
             
               Henryes
            
             vault
             ,
             his
             pure
             and
             sacred
             hearse
          
           
             Is
             torne
             and
             batter'd
             by
             thy
             Anniverse
             .
          
           
             Wast
             not
             enough
             nature
             and
             strength
             were
             foes
             ,
          
           
             Unlesse
             thou
             yearly
             murther
             him
             in
             prose
             .
          
           
             Or
             didst
             rhou
             hope
             thy
             ravening
             verse
             could
             make
          
           
             A
             louder
             eccho
             then
             the
             Almanack
             .
          
           
             Trust
             me
             
               November
            
             doth
             more
             gastly
             look
          
           
             In
             
               Dades
            
             and
             
               Hopsons
            
             penniworth
             then
             thy
             book
             ;
          
           
             And
             sadder
             record
             their
             sixt
             figure
             bears
             ,
          
           
             Then
             thy
             false
             Printed
             and
             ambitious
             tears
             .
          
           
           
             And
             wer
             't
             not
             for
             Chrismas
             which
             is
             nigh
             ,
          
           
             When
             fruits
             ,
             when
             eaten
             and
             digested
             Pye
          
           
             Call
             for
             more
             paper
             ,
             no
             man
             could
             make
             shift
          
           
             How
             to
             employ
             thy
             writing
             to
             his
             thrift
             .
          
           
             Wherefore
             forbear
             for
             pitty
             or
             for
             shame
             ,
          
           
             And
             let
             some
             richer
             pen
             redeem
             his
             name
          
           
             From
             rottennesse
             ;
             then
             leave
             him
             captive
             ,
             since
          
           
             So
             vile
             a
             price
             nere
             ransom'd
             such
             a
             Prince
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Reply
             upon
             an
             Answer
             to
             the
             former
             Copy
             .
          
           
             NOr
             is
             it
             grieved
             ,
             grave
             you
             the
             memory
          
           
             Of
             such
             a
             story
             ,
             such
             a
             book
             as
             he
             ,
          
           
             That
             such
             a
             Copy
             might
             through
             the
             world
             be
             read
             :
          
           
             Yet
             
               Henry
            
             lives
             though
             he
             be
             buried
             .
          
           
             It
             could
             be
             wishd
             that
             every
             day
             would
             bear
          
           
             Him
             one
             good
             witnesse
             that
             he
             still
             were
             here
             .
          
           
             That
             sorrow
             rul'd
             the
             year
             ,
             and
             by
             this
             Sun
          
           
             Each
             man
             could
             tell
             thee
             how
             the
             day
             had
             run
             ▪
          
           
             O
             't
             were
             an
             honest
             cause
             for
             him
             could
             say
             ,
          
           
             I
             have
             bin
             busie
             and
             wept
             out
             the
             day
          
           
             Remembring
             him
             .
             His
             name
             would
             ever
             last
             ,
          
           
             Were
             such
             a
             trophy
             ,
             such
             a
             banner
             plac'd
          
           
             Upon
             his
             grave
             as
             this
             ;
             Here
             a
             man
             lies
          
           
             Was
             kild
             by
             
               Henryes
            
             dart
             not
             destinies
             .
          
           
           
             But
             for
             a
             Cobler
             to
             throw
             up
             his
             cap
          
           
             And
             cry
             the
             Prince
             the
             Prince
             ;
             O
             dire
             mishap
             !
          
           
             Or
             a
             
               Geneva
            
             bridegroom
             after
             Grace
          
           
             To
             throw
             his
             spouse
             i
             th'
             fire
             ,
             or
             scratch
             her
             face
          
           
             To
             the
             tune
             of
             the
             lamentation
             ,
             and
             delay
          
           
             His
             friday
             capon
             to
             the
             Sabbath
             day
             ;
          
           
             Or
             an
             old
             Popish
             Lady
             halfe
             vowed
             dead
          
           
             To
             fast
             away
             the
             day
             in
             gingerbread
             ;
          
           
             For
             him
             to
             write
             such
             Annals
             :
             all
             these
             things
          
           
             Doe
             open
             laughter
             and
             shut
             up
             griefes
             springs
             .
          
           
             Wherefore
             
               Vertumnus
            
             if
             you
             le
             Print
             the
             next
             ,
          
           
             Bring
             better
             notes
             ,
             or
             chuse
             a
             fitter
             text
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             a
             Lady
             that
             dyed
             of
             the
             small
             pox
             .
          
           
             O
             Thou
             deformed
             unwomanlike
             desease
             !
          
           
             That
             plowest
             up
             flesh
             and
             blood
             and
             sowest
             there
             pease
             ;
          
           
             And
             leav'st
             such
             prints
             on
             beauty
             if
             thou
             come
             ,
          
           
             As
             clouted
             shoon
             doe
             in
             a
             floare
             of
             loame
             :
          
           
             Thou
             that
             of
             faces
             honicombs
             dost
             make
             ,
          
           
             And
             of
             two
             breasts
             two
             cullinders
             ;
             forsake
          
           
             Thy
             deadly
             trade
             ,
             thou
             now
             art
             rich
             ,
             give
             ore
          
           
             And
             let
             our
             curses
             call
             thee
             forth
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             Or
             if
             thou
             needs
             wilt
             magnifie
             thy
             power
          
           
             Goe
             where
             thou
             art
             invoked
             every
             hour
          
           
           
             Amongst
             the
             gamesters
             ,
             where
             they
             name
             thee
             thick
          
           
             At
             the
             last
             man
             or
             the
             last
             pocky
             nick
             .
          
           
             Thou
             who
             hast
             such
             superfluous
             store
             of
             gaine
             ,
          
           
             Why
             strikst
             thou
             one
             whose
             ruine
             is
             thy
             shame
             ?
          
           
             O
             thou
             hast
             murdred
             where
             thou
             shouldst
             have
             kist
             ,
          
           
             And
             where
             thy
             shaft
             was
             needful
             ,
             there
             thou
             mist
             .
          
           
             Thou
             shouldst
             have
             chosen
             out
             some
             homely
             face
          
           
             Where
             thy
             ill-favourd
             kindness
             might
             add
             grace
             ,
          
           
             That
             men
             might
             say
             ,
             how
             beautious
             once
             was
             she
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             a
             curious
             piece
             was
             mard
             by
             thee
             :
          
           
             Thou
             shouldst
             have
             wrought
             on
             some
             such
             Lady-mould
          
           
             That
             never
             loved
             her
             Lord
             nor
             ever
             could
          
           
             Untill
             she
             were
             deformed
             ;
             thy
             tyranny
          
           
             Were
             then
             within
             the
             rules
             of
             charity
             .
          
           
             But
             upon
             one
             whose
             beauty
             was
             above
          
           
             All
             sorts
             of
             art
             ,
             whose
             love
             was
             more
             then
             love
             .
          
           
             On
             her
             to
             fix
             thy
             ugly
             counterfeit
             ,
          
           
             Was
             to
             erect
             a
             Piramid
             of
             jet
             ,
          
           
             And
             put
             out
             fire
             ;
             to
             dig
             a
             turfe
             from
             Hell
             ,
          
           
             And
             place
             it
             where
             a
             gentle
             soule
             should
             dwell
             ▪
          
           
             A
             soule
             which
             in
             the
             body
             would
             not
             stay
             ,
          
           
             When
             t
             was
             no
             more
             a
             body
             ,
             nor
             pure
             clay
             ,
          
           
             But
             a
             huge
             ulcer
             ;
             o
             thou
             heavenly
             race
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             soule
             that
             shunst
             the
             infection
             of
             thy
             case
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             house
             ,
             thy
             prison
             ,
             pure
             soule
             ,
             spotless
             faire
             ,
          
           
             Rest
             where
             no
             heat
             ,
             no
             cold
             ,
             no
             compounds
             are
             ▪
          
           
             Rest
             in
             that
             country
             ,
             and
             enjoy
             that
             ease
             ,
          
           
             Which
             thy
             fraile
             flesh
             denied
             ,
             and
             thy
             disease
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             Kings
             Returne
             to
             the
             City
             of
             
               London
            
             when
             he
             came
             last
             thether
             from
             
               Scotland
            
             and
             was
             entertained
             there
             by
             the
             Lord
             Mayor
             .
          
           
             
               SIng
               and
               be
               merry
               King
               
                 Charles
              
               is
               come
               back
               ,
            
             
               Le
               ts
               drink
               round
               his
               health
               with
               Claret
               &
               Sack
               :
            
             
               The
               
                 Scots
              
               are
               all
               quiet
               ,
               each
               man
               with
               his
               pack
            
             
               May
               cry
               now
               securely
               ,
               come
               see
               what
               you
               lack
               .
            
             
               Sing
               and
               be
               merry
               boyes
               ,
               sing
               and
               be
               merry
               ,
            
             
               
                 London's
              
               a
               fine
               Town
               so
               is
               
                 London-Derry
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Great
               preparation
               in
               
                 London
              
               is
               made
            
             
               To
               bid
               the
               King
               welcome
               each
               man
               gives
               his
               aide
               ,
            
             
               With
               thanksgiving
               cloths
               themselves
               they
               arrayd
            
             
               (
               I
               should
               have
               said
               holy-day
               )
               but
               I
               was
               afraid
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               They
               stood
               in
               a
               row
               for
               a
               congratulation
            
             
               Like
               a
               company
               of
               wild-geese
               in
               the
               old
               fashion
               :
            
             
               Railes
               in
               the
               Church
               are
               abomination
               ,
            
             
               But
               Railes
               in
               the
               street
               are
               no
               innovation
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
           
             
               My
               Lord
               Mayor
               himselfe
               on
               cock-horse
               did
               ride
            
             
               Not
               like
               a
               young
               Gallant
               with
               a
               sword
               by
               his
               side
            
             
               T
               was
               carried
               before
               him
               ,
               but
               there
               was
               espied
            
             
               The
               crosse-bar
               in
               the
               hilt
               by
               a
               Puritan
               eyed
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               Two
               dozen
               of
               Aldermen
               ride
               two
               by
               two
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Gowns
               were
               all
               scarlet
               ,
               but
               their
               noses
               were
               blew
               ▪
            
             
               The
               Recorder
               made
               a
               speech
               ,
               if
               report
               it
               be
               true
               ,
            
             
               He
               promis'd
               more
               for
               them
               then
               ere
               they
               will
               do
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               They
               should
               be
               good
               subjects
               to
               the
               King
               and
               the
               State
               ,
            
             
               The
               Church
               they
               would
               love
               ,
               no
               Prelates
               would
               hate
               ;
            
             
               But
               methinks
               it
               was
               an
               ominous
               fate
            
             
               They
               brought
               not
               the
               King
               thorow
               Bishops-gate
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               The
               Citizens
               rod
               in
               their
               Golden
               Chaines
            
             
               Fetch'd
               from
               St.
               
                 Martyns
                 ,
              
               no
               region
               of
               
                 Spaines
                 :
              
            
             
               It
               seems
               they
               were
               trobl'd
               with
               
                 Gundamors
              
               pains
               ,
            
             
               Some
               held
               by
               their
               pummels
               and
               some
               by
               their
               manes
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               In
               Jackets
               of
               Velvet
               ,
               without
               Gown
               or
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               Their
               faces
               were
               wainscot
               ,
               their
               harts
               were
               of
               oke
               :
            
             
               No
               Trainbands
               were
               seen
               ,
               no
               drums
               beat
               a
               stroke
               ,
            
             
               Because
               City
               Captains
               of
               late
               have
               been
               broke
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
           
             
               The
               King
               Queen
               and
               Prince
               ,
               the
               Palsgrave
               of
               
                 Rhine
              
            
             
               With
               two
               branches
               more
               of
               the
               royal
               vine
            
             
               Rod
               to
               the
               
                 Guild-Hall
              
               where
               they
               were
               to
               dine
               ,
            
             
               There
               could
               be
               no
               lack
               where
               the
               Conduits
               run
               wine
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               Nine
               hundred
               dishes
               in
               the
               bill
               of
               fare
            
             
               For
               the
               King
               and
               Nobles
               prepared
               there
               were
               ;
            
             
               There
               could
               be
               no
               lesse
               a
               man
               might
               well
               swear
            
             
               By
               the
               widgeons
               and
               woodcocks
               and
               geese
               that
               were
               there
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               Though
               the
               dinner
               were
               long
               yet
               the
               grace
               was
               but
               short
               ,
            
             
               It
               was
               said
               in
               the
               fashion
               of
               the
               English
               Court
               .
            
             
               But
               one
               passage
               more
               I
               have
               to
               report
               ,
            
             
               Small
               thanks
               for
               my
               paines
               I
               look
               to
               have
               for
               t
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               Down
               went
               my
               Lord
               Mayor
               as
               low
               as
               his
               knee
               ,
            
             
               Then
               up
               went
               the
               white
               of
               an
               Aldermans
               eye
               :
            
             
               We
               thought
               the
               Bishops
               grace
               enlarged
               should
               be
            
             
               (
               Not
               the
               Arch-Bishops
               )
               no
               such
               meanign
               had
               he
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               When
               's
               Lordship
               kneeld
               down
               we
               lookd
               he
               should
               pray
               ,
            
             
               (
               So
               he
               did
               heartily
               but
               in
               his
               own
               way
               )
            
             
               The
               cup
               was
               his
               book
               ,
               the
               collect
               for
               the
               day
            
             
               Was
               a
               health
               to
               King
               
                 Charles
                 ,
              
               all
               out
               he
               did
               say
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
           
             
               The
               forme
               of
               prayer
               my
               Lord
               did
               begin
            
             
               The
               rest
               of
               the
               Aldermen
               quickly
               were
               in
               :
            
             
               One
               
                 Warner
              
               they
               had
               of
               the
               greatnesse
               of
               the
               sin
            
             
               Without
               dispensation
               from
               
                 Burton
              
               or
               
                 Prin.
              
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               Before
               they
               had
               done
               it
               grew
               towards
               night
               ,
            
             
               (
               I
               forget
               my
               Lord
               Mayor
               was
               made
               a
               Knight
               :
            
             
               The
               Recorder
               too
               with
               another
               wight
               ,
            
             
               Whom
               I
               cannot
               relate
               ,
               for
               the
               torches
               are
               light
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               Up
               and
               away
               by
               St.
               
               
                 Pauls
              
               they
               passe
               ;
            
             
               When
               a
               prickear'd
               brayd
               like
               a
               Puritan
               ass
            
             
               Some
               thought
               he
               had
               been
               scar'd
               with
               the
               painted
               glasse
            
             
               He
               swore
               not
               but
               cry'd
               high
               Popery
               by
               th'
               masse
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               The
               Quire
               with
               Musick
               on
               a
               Scaffold
               they
               see
            
             
               In
               Surplices
               all
               their
               Tapers
               burnt
               by
               ,
            
             
               An
               Anthem
               they
               sung
               most
               melodiously
               ;
            
             
               If
               this
               were
               Popery
               I
               confesse
               it
               was
               high
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               From
               thence
               to
               
                 White
                 Hall
              
               there
               was
               made
               no
               stay
            
             
               Where
               the
               King
               gave
               them
               thanks
               for
               their
               love
               that
               day
               ,
            
             
               Nothing
               was
               wanting
               if
               I
               could
               but
               say
            
             
               The
               House
               of
               Commons
               had
               met
               him
               half
               way
               .
            
             
               Sing
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             Kings-Book
             bound
             up
             in
             a
             Cover
             coloured
             with
             His
             Blood
             .
          
           
             LEt
             abler
             pens
             commend
             these
             leaves
             ;
             whose
             fame
          
           
             Spreads
             through
             all
             languages
             ,
             through
             time
             whose
             name
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             can
             those
             Tongues
             add
             glory
             to
             this
             book
          
           
             So
             great
             ,
             as
             they
             from
             the
             translation
             took
             .
          
           
             Shine
             then
             rare
             piece
             in
             thine
             own
             
               Charls
            
             his
             ray
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             suffer
             me
             thy
             covering
             to
             display
             ,
          
           
             And
             tell
             the
             world
             that
             this
             plain
             sanguine
             vail
          
           
             A
             beauty
             far
             more
             glorious
             doth
             conceal
          
           
             Then
             masks
             of
             Ladies
             :
             and
             although
             thou
             be
          
           
             A
             Book
             ,
             where
             every
             leafe's
             a
             Library
          
           
             Fil'd
             with
             choise
             Gems
             of
             th'
             Arts
             ,
             Law
             ,
             Gospel
             ;
          
           
             The
             chiefest
             Jewel
             is
             the
             Cabinet
             .
          
           
             A
             shrine
             much
             holier
             then
             the
             Saint
             ;
             you
             may
             yet
          
           
             To
             this
             as
             harmelesse
             adoration
             pay
             ,
          
           
             As
             those
             that
             kneel
             to
             Martyrs
             tombs
             ,
             for
             know
             ,
          
           
             This
             sacred
             blood
             doth
             
               Rome
            
             a
             Relique
             show
          
           
             Richer
             then
             all
             her
             shrines
             ,
             and
             then
             all
             those
          
           
             More
             hallowed
             far
             ,
             far
             more
             miraculous
             .
          
           
             Thus
             cloth'd
             go
             forth
             ,
             bless'd
             Book
             ,
             and
             yield
             to
             none
          
           
             But
             to
             the
             Gospel
             ,
             and
             Christs
             blood
             alone
             .
          
           
           
             Thy
             Garments
             now
             like
             his
             ;
             so
             just
             the
             same
             ,
          
           
             As
             he
             from
             
               Bozra
               ,
            
             and
             the
             wine-presse
             came
             ;
          
           
             Both
             purpled
             with
             like
             gore
             :
             where
             you
             may
             see
          
           
             This
             on
             the
             Scaffold
             ,
             that
             upon
             the
             Tree
          
           
             Pour'd
             out
             to
             save
             whole
             Nations
             .
             O
             may't
             lye
          
           
             Speechlesse
             like
             that
             ,
             and
             never
             never
             cry
          
           
             Vengence
             ,
             but
             pray
             father
             forgive
             these
             too
             ,
          
           
             (
             Poor
             ignorant
             men
             !
             )
             they
             know
             not
             what
             they
             doe
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             Nuptials
             of
             
               John
               Talbot
            
             Esquire
             ,
             and
             Mistresse
             
               Elizabeth
               Kite
               .
            
          
           
             
               COme
               grand
               
                 Apollo
              
               tune
               my
               Lyre
            
             
               To
               harmonize
               in
               th'
               Muses
               Quire
               ,
            
             
               Give
               me
               a
               draught
               of
               Helicon
               ,
            
             
               Let
               
                 Pindus
              
               and
               
                 Parnassus
              
               prove
            
             
               Propitious
               in
               the
               slights
               of
               love
               ,
            
             
               Though
               distanc'd
               now
               at
               
                 Eberton
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               A
               consecrated
               quill
               I
               know
               ,
            
             
               Pluck'd
               from
               the
               silver'd
               Swan
               of
               Po
               ,
            
             
               Love-tales
               is
               onely
               fit
               to
               write
               ,
            
             
               But
               since
               t
               is
               voted
               by
               the
               Stoick
               ,
            
             
               Not
               place
               nor
               pen
               doth
               make
               the
               Poet
               ,
            
             
               I
               le
               venture
               with
               a
               plume
               of
               th'
               Kite
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               Not
               for
               to
               blazen
               the
               great
               name
            
             
               Of
               th'
               
                 Talbots
              
               never
               dying
               fame
            
             
               Eterniz'd
               in
               all
               Histories
               ,
            
             
               I
               le
               onely
               say
               the
               
                 Trojan
              
               wit
               ,
            
             
               Which
               
                 Helen
              
               stole
               ,
               must
               now
               submit
            
             
               To
               
                 Talbot
              
               in
               loves
               mysteries
               .
            
          
           
             
               For
               neither
               
                 Egypt
                 ,
                 Troy
                 ,
              
               nor
               
                 Greece
                 ,
              
            
             
               Nor
               
                 Colchis
              
               with
               her
               Golden-Fleece
            
             
               Hath
               ever
               ought
               produc'd
               so
               rare
            
             
               In
               vertue
               ,
               beauty
               ,
               every
               Grace
            
             
               That
               dignifies
               the
               mind
               or
               face
               ,
            
             
               Which
               with
               this
               Couple
               may
               compare
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               holy
               Priest
               hath
               firmely
               tied
            
             
               The
               Gordian
               knot
               ,
               that
               t
               will
               abide
            
             
               The
               touch
               of
               what
               's
               Canonicall
               ;
            
             
               And
               th'
               Pigmie
               Justice
               hath
               fast
               chain'd
            
             
               The
               Bugbeare
               Act
               ,
               though
               it
               be
               proclaim'd
            
             
               As
               simple
               ,
               as
               Apocryphall
               ▪
            
          
           
             
               Let
               's
               hasten
               therefore
               them
               to
               bring
            
             
               To
               th'
               pleasant
               fountaine
               whence
               doth
               spring
            
             
               The
               joyes
               of
               
                 Cupids
              
               Monarchy
               ;
            
             
               There
               tumbling
               on
               their
               Nuptiall
               bed
            
             
               To
               batter
               for
               a
               Maiden-head
               ,
            
             
               Twind
               like
               the
               Zodiack
               Geminie
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hence
               dull
               ey'd
               
                 Somnus
              
               think
               not
               now
            
             
               T'
               inthrone
               upon
               this
               Ladies
               brow
               ,
            
             
             
               Far
               choycer
               joyes
               doe
               her
               invite
               :
            
             
               For
               she
               's
               now
               anchor'd
               in
               a
               Haven
            
             
               Where
               sacred
               
                 Hymen
              
               her
               hath
               given
            
             
               An
               other
               Soveraigne
               of
               the
               night
               .
            
          
           
             
               Come
               draw
               the
               curtains
               ,
               le
               ts
               depart
               ,
            
             
               And
               leave
               two
               bodies
               in
               one
               heart
            
             
               Devoted
               to
               a
               restlesse
               rest
               .
            
             
               And
               when
               their
               virgin
               Lamps
               expire
               ,
            
             
               May
               there
               arise
               from
               the
               same
               fire
            
             
               An
               other
               
                 Phoenix
              
               in
               the
               Nest
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             
               Aglaura
            
             Printed
             in
             Folio
             .
          
           
             BY
             this
             large
             margent
             did
             the
             Poet
             mean
          
           
             To
             have
             a
             Comment
             wrote
             upon
             the
             Scene
             ?
          
           
             Or
             else
             that
             Ladies
             ,
             who
             doe
             never
             look
          
           
             But
             in
             a
             Poem
             or
             in
             a
             Play-book
             ,
          
           
             May
             in
             each
             page
             have
             space
             to
             scrible
             down
          
           
             When
             such
             a
             Lord
             or
             fashion
             came
             to
             Town
             ;
          
           
             As
             Swains
             in
             Almanacks
             their
             counts
             doe
             keep
             their
             sheep
             .
          
           
             When
             their
             cow
             calv'd
             and
             when
             they
             bought
          
           
             Ink
             is
             the
             life
             of
             Paper
             ,
             't
             is
             meet
             then
          
           
             That
             this
             which
             scap'd
             the
             Presse
             should
             feel
             the
             pen
             .
          
           
             A
             room
             with
             one
             side
             furnish'd
             ,
             or
             a
             face
          
           
             Painted
             halfe
             way
             ,
             is
             but
             a
             foule
             disgrace
             .
          
           
           
             This
             great
             voluminous
             Pamphlet
             may
             be
             said
          
           
             To
             be
             like
             one
             who
             hath
             more
             haire
             then
             head
             :
          
           
             More
             excrement
             then
             body
             ,
             trees
             which
             sprout
          
           
             With
             broadest
             leaves
             have
             still
             the
             smallest
             fruit
             .
          
           
             When
             I
             saw
             so
             much
             white
             I
             did
             begin
          
           
             To
             think
             
               Aglaura
            
             either
             did
             lye
             in
             ,
          
           
             Or
             else
             did
             pennance
             :
             never
             did
             I
             see
          
           
             Unlesse
             in
             Bills
             dash'd
             in
             the
             
               Chancery
            
          
           
             So
             little
             in
             so
             much
             ,
             as
             if
             the
             feet
          
           
             Of
             Poetry
             were
             sold
             like
             Law
             by
             the
             sheet
             .
          
           
             Should
             this
             new
             fashion
             last
             but
             one
             halfe
             year
             ,
          
           
             Poets
             as
             Clarks
             would
             make
             our
             Paper
             deare
             .
          
           
             Doth
             not
             that
             Artist
             erre
             and
             blast
             his
             fame
          
           
             That
             sets
             out
             Pictures
             lesser
             then
             the
             frame
             :
          
           
             Was
             ever
             Chamberlain
             so
             mad
             to
             dare
          
           
             To
             lodge
             a
             Child
             in
             the
             great
             Bed
             of
             
               Ware
               .
            
          
           
             
               Aglaura
            
             would
             please
             better
             did
             she
             lye
          
           
             i
             th'
             narrow
             bounds
             of
             an
             Epitome
             .
          
           
             Those
             pieces
             that
             are
             wove
             of
             th'
             finest
             twist
             ,
          
           
             As
             Velvet
             ,
             Plush
             ,
             have
             still
             the
             smallest
             list
             .
          
           
             She
             that
             in
             
               Persian
            
             habits
             made
             such
             brags
          
           
             Degenerates
             in
             the
             excesse
             of
             rags
             :
          
           
             Who
             by
             her
             Giant
             bulk
             this
             onely
             gaines
          
           
             Perchance
             in
             Libraries
             to
             hang
             in
             chaines
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             not
             in
             books
             as
             choth
             ,
             we
             never
             say
          
           
             Make
             
               London
            
             measure
             when
             we
             buy
             a
             Play
             ,
          
           
             But
             rather
             have
             them
             par'd
             ;
             those
             leaves
             are
             faire
          
           
             To
             the
             judicious
             which
             most
             spotted
             are
             .
          
           
             Give
             me
             the
             sociable
             pocket
             books
             ,
          
           
             These
             empty
             Folio's
             onely
             please
             the
             Cooks
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             Venus
             lachrimans
             .
          
           
             WAke
             my
             
               Adonis
            
             doe
             not
             dye
             ,
          
           
             One
             life's
             enough
             for
             thee
             and
             I
             ;
          
           
             Where
             are
             thy
             words
             ,
             thy
             wiles
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             love
             ,
             thy
             frowns
             ,
             thy
             smiles
             ;
          
           
             Alasse
             in
             vaine
             I
             call
             ,
          
           
             One
             death
             hath
             snatch'd
             them
             all
             :
          
           
             Yet
             death
             's
             not
             deadly
             in
             thy
             face
             ,
          
           
             Death
             in
             those
             looks
             it selfe
             hath
             grace
             .
          
           
             T
             was
             this
             ,
             t
             was
             this
             I
             feard
          
           
             When
             thy
             pale
             ghost
             appeard
             :
          
           
             This
             I
             presag'd
             when
             thundering
             
               Jove
            
          
           
             Tore
             the
             best
             myrtle
             in
             my
             Grove
             ;
          
           
             When
             my
             sick
             rosebuds
             lost
             their
             smell
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             my
             Temples
             untouch'd
             fell
             ;
          
           
             And
             t
             was
             for
             some
             such
             thing
          
           
             My
             Dove
             did
             hang
             her
             wing
             .
          
           
             Whether
             art
             thou
             my
             Diety
             gone
             ,
          
           
             
               Venus
            
             in
             
               Venus
            
             there
             is
             none
             :
          
           
             In
             vaine
             a
             Goddesse
             now
             am
             I
          
           
             Onely
             to
             grieve
             and
             not
             to
             dye
             .
          
           
             But
             I
             will
             love
             my
             griefe
             ,
          
           
             Make
             tears
             my
             tears
             reliefe
             :
          
           
           
             And
             sorrows
             shall
             to
             me
          
           
             A
             new
             
               Adonis
            
             be
             ;
          
           
             And
             this
             no
             fates
             can
             rob
             me
             of
             ,
             whiles
             I
          
           
             A
             goddesse
             am
             to
             weep
             but
             not
             to
             dye
             .
          
        
         
           
             An
             Ode
             in
             the
             praise
             of
             Sack
             .
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               HEar
               me
               as
               if
               thy
               eares
               had
               palate
               Jack
               ,
            
             
               I
               sing
               the
               praise
               of
               Sack
               :
            
             
               Hence
               with
               
                 Apollo
              
               and
               the
               muses
               nine
               ,
            
             
               Give
               me
               a
               cup
               of
               wine
               .
            
             
               Sack
               will
               the
               soule
               of
               Poetry
               infuse
               ,
            
             
               Be
               that
               my
               theam
               and
               muse
               .
            
             
               But
               
                 Bacchus
              
               I
               adore
               no
               Diety
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               
                 Bacchus
              
               neither
               unlesse
               Sack
               he
               be
               .
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               Let
               us
               by
               reverend
               degrees
               draw
               nere
               ,
            
             
               I
               feel
               the
               Goddesse
               here
               .
            
             
               Loe
               I
               ,
               dread
               Sack
               ,
               an
               humble
               Priest
               of
               thine
            
             
               First
               kisse
               this
               cup
               thy
               shrine
               ,
            
             
               That
               with
               more
               hallowed
               lips
               and
               inlarg'd
               soule
            
             
               I
               may
               receive
               the
               whole
               :
            
             
               Till
               
                 Sibill-like
              
               full
               with
               my
               God
               I
               lye
               ,
            
             
               And
               every
               word
               I
               speak
               be
               Propehsie
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Come
               to
               this
               Altar
               you
               that
               are
               opprest
               ,
            
             
               Or
               otherwise
               distrest
               ,
            
             
               Here
               's
               that
               will
               further
               grivances
               prevent
               ,
            
             
               Without
               a
               Parliament
               :
            
             
               With
               fire
               from
               hence
               if
               once
               your
               blood
               be
               warm
               feel
            
             
               Nothing
               can
               doe
               you
               harme
               ;
            
             
               When
               thou
               art
               arm'd
               with
               Sack
               ,
               thou
               canst
               not
            
             
               Though
               thunder
               strike
               thee
               ;
               that
               hath
               made
               thee
               steel
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               Art
               sick
               man
               ?
               doe
               not
               bid
               for
               thy
               escape
            
             
               A
               cock
               to
               
                 Aesculape
                 ;
              
            
             
               If
               thou
               wouldst
               prosper
               ,
               to
               this
               Altar
               bring
            
             
               Thy
               gratefull
               offring
               ,
            
             
               Touch
               but
               the
               shrine
               ,
               that
               does
               the
               God
               enclose
               ,
            
             
               And
               streight
               thy
               feaver
               goes
            
             
               Whilst
               thou
               immaginst
               this
               ,
               hee
               's
               given
               thee
            
             
               Not
               onely
               heath
               but
               immortality
               .
            
          
           
             
               5.
               
            
             
               Though
               thou
               wert
               dumb
               as
               is
               the
               scaly
               fry
            
             
               In
               
                 Neptunes
              
               royalty
               :
            
             
               Drink
               but
               as
               they
               doe
               ,
               and
               new
               wayes
               shalt
               find
            
             
               To
               utter
               thy
               whole
               mind
               ;
            
             
               When
               Sack
               more
               severall
               language
               has
               infus'd
            
             
               Then
               
                 Babels
              
               builders
               used
               :
            
             
             
               And
               whensoever
               thou
               thy
               voyce
               shalt
               raise
               ,
            
             
               No
               man
               shall
               understand
               but
               all
               shall
               praise
               .
            
          
           
             
               6.
               
            
             
               Hath
               cruell
               nature
               so
               thy
               senses
               bound
            
             
               Thou
               canst
               not
               judge
               of
               sounds
               ?
            
             
               Loe
               where
               yon
               narrow
               fountaine
               scatters
               forth
            
             
               Streams
               of
               an
               unknown
               worth
               :
            
             
               The
               heavenly
               musick
               of
               that
               murmure
               there
            
             
               Would
               make
               thee
               turne
               all
               eare
               ;
            
             
               And
               keeping
               time
               with
               the
               harmonious
               flood
               ,
            
             
               Twixt
               every
               bubble
               thou
               shalt
               cry
               good
               good
               .
            
          
           
             
               7.
               
            
             
               Has
               fortune
               made
               thee
               poor
               ,
               dost
               thou
               desire
            
             
               To
               heap
               up
               glorious
               mire
               ?
            
             
               Come
               to
               this
               stream
               where
               every
               drop's
               a
               Pearl
            
             
               Might
               buy
               an
               Earl
               :
            
             
               Drench
               thy selfe
               soundly
               here
               and
               thou
               shalt
               rise
            
             
               Richer
               then
               both
               the
               Indies
               .
            
             
               So
               mayest
               thou
               still
               enjoy
               with
               full
               content
            
             
               
                 Midas
              
               his
               wish
               without
               his
               punishment
               .
            
          
           
             
               8.
               
            
             
               All
               this
               can
               Sack
               ,
               and
               more
               then
               this
               Sack
               can
               ,
            
             
               Give
               me
               a
               fickle
               man
            
             
               That
               would
               be
               somewhat
               faine
               but
               knows
               not
               what
               ,
            
             
               There
               is
               a
               cure
               for
               that
               :
            
             
             
               Let
               him
               quaffe
               freely
               of
               this
               powerfull
               flood
               ,
            
             
               He
               shall
               be
               what
               he
               would
               .
            
             
               To
               all
               our
               wishes
               Sack
               content
               does
               bring
               ,
            
             
               And
               but
               our selves
               can
               make
               us
               every
               thing
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             An
             Epitaph
             on
             some
             bottles
             of
             Sack
             and
             Claret
             laid
             in
             sand
             .
          
           
             ENter
             and
             see
             this
             tomb
             (
             Sirs
             )
             doe
             not
             fear
          
           
             No
             spirits
             but
             of
             Sack
             will
             fright
             you
             here
             :
          
           
             Weep
             ore
             this
             tomb
             ,
             your
             waters
             here
             may
             have
          
           
             Wine
             for
             their
             sweet
             companion
             in
             this
             grave
             .
          
           
             A
             dozen
             
               Shakespears
            
             here
             inter'd
             doe
             lye
             ;
          
           
             Two
             dozen
             
               Johnsons
            
             full
             of
             Poetry
             .
          
           
             Unhappy
             Grapes
             could
             not
             one
             pressing
             doe
             ,
          
           
             But
             now
             at
             last
             you
             must
             be
             buried
             too
             :
          
           
             T
             were
             commendable
             sacriledge
             no
             doubt
          
           
             Could
             I
             come
             at
             your
             graves
             to
             steal
             you
             out
             .
          
           
             Sleep
             on
             but
             scorne
             to
             dye
             ,
             immortall
             liquor
             ,
          
           
             The
             burying
             of
             thee
             thus
             shall
             make
             thee
             quicker
             .
          
           
             Mean
             while
             thy
             friends
             pray
             loud
             that
             thou
             maist
             have
          
           
             A
             speedy
             resurrection
             from
             thy
             grave
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             How
             to
             choose
             a
             Mistresse
             .
          
           
             HEr
             for
             a
             Mistresse
             would
             I
             faine
             enjoy
          
           
             That
             hangs
             out
             lip
             and
             pouts
             at
             every
             toy
             ;
          
           
             Speaks
             like
             a
             wag
             ,
             is
             bold
             ;
             dares
             stoutly
             stand
          
           
             And
             bids
             love
             welcome
             with
             a
             wanton
             hand
             :
          
           
             If
             she
             be
             modest
             wise
             and
             chast
             of
             life
             ,
          
           
             Hang
             her
             she
             's
             good
             for
             nothing
             but
             a
             wife
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             a
             Picture
             .
          
           
             BEhold
             those
             faire
             eyes
             ,
             in
             whose
             sight
          
           
             Sparkles
             a
             lustre
             no
             lesse
             bright
          
           
             Then
             that
             of
             rising
             Stars
             when
             they
          
           
             Would
             make
             the
             night
             outshine
             the
             day
             .
          
           
             To
             those
             pure
             lips
             the
             humming
             be
             ,
          
           
             May
             as
             to
             blooming
             Roses
             flee
             :
          
           
             The
             wanton
             wind
             about
             doth
             hurle
             ,
          
           
             Courting
             in
             vaine
             that
             lovely
             curle
             ;
          
           
             And
             makes
             a
             murmure
             in
             despaire
             ,
          
           
             To
             dally
             the
             unmooved
             haire
             .
          
           
             View
             but
             the
             cheeks
             where
             the
             red
             Rose
          
           
             And
             Lilly
             white
             a
             beauty
             growes
             ,
          
           
           
             So
             orient
             as
             might
             adorne
          
           
             The
             flowing
             of
             the
             brightest
             morne
             .
          
           
             Sure
             't
             is
             no
             Picture
             ,
             nere
             was
             made
          
           
             So
             much
             perfection
             in
             a
             shade
             :
          
           
             Her
             shape
             is
             soule
             enough
             to
             give
          
           
             A
             sencelesse
             Marble
             power
             to
             live
             .
          
           
             If
             this
             an
             Idoll
             be
             ,
             no
             eye
          
           
             Can
             ever
             scape
             Idolatry
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             Ladies
             Attire
             .
          
           
             YOu
             Ladies
             that
             wear
             Cypresse
             vailes
             ,
          
           
             Turn'd
             lately
             to
             white
             linnen
             rayles
             ;
          
           
             And
             to
             your
             girdles
             wear
             your
             bands
             ,
          
           
             And
             shew
             your
             armes
             instead
             of
             hands
             .
          
           
             What
             could
             you
             doe
             in
             Lent
             so
             meet
          
           
             As
             ,
             fittest
             dresse
             ,
             to
             wear
             a
             sheet
             ?
          
           
             T
             was
             once
             a
             band
             ,
             t
             is
             now
             a
             cloak
             ;
          
           
             A
             acorne
             one
             day
             proves
             a
             oak
             .
          
           
             Weare
             but
             your
             linnens
             to
             your
             feet
          
           
             And
             then
             the
             band
             will
             be
             a
             sheet
             .
          
           
             By
             which
             device
             and
             wise
             excesse
          
           
             You
             doe
             your
             pennance
             in
             a
             dresse
             :
          
           
             And
             none
             shall
             know
             by
             what
             they
             see
          
           
             Which
             Ladies
             censur'd
             ,
             and
             which
             free
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             The
             Answer
             .
          
           
             BLack
             Cypresse
             vailes
             are
             shrowds
             of
             night
             ,
          
           
             White
             linnen
             railes
             are
             rayes
             of
             light
             ,
          
           
             Which
             to
             our
             girdles
             though
             we
             wear
          
           
             We
             have
             armes
             to
             keep
             your
             hands
             off
             there
             .
          
           
             Who
             makes
             our
             bands
             to
             be
             our
             cloak
             ,
          
           
             Makes
             
               John
            
             a
             stiles
             of
             
               John
            
             a
             noak
             .
          
           
             We
             wear
             our
             linnen
             to
             our
             feet
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             need
             not
             make
             our
             band
             our
             sheet
             ▪
          
           
             Your
             Clergy
             wear
             as
             long
             as
             we
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             that
             implies
             conformity
             .
          
           
             Be
             wise
             ,
             recant
             what
             you
             have
             writ
             ,
          
           
             Least
             you
             doe
             pennance
             for
             your
             wit
             ;
          
           
             And
             least
             loves
             charmes
             doe
             weave
             a
             string
          
           
             To
             tye
             you
             as
             you
             did
             your
             ring
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             a
             Gentlewoman
             that
             had
             the
             Small-Pox
             .
          
           
             A
             Beauty
             smoother
             then
             the
             Ivory
             plaine
             ,
          
           
             Late
             by
             the
             Pox
             injuriously
             was
             slaine
             .
          
           
             T
             was
             not
             the
             Pox
             ,
             love
             shot
             a
             thousand
             darts
          
           
             And
             made
             those
             pits
             for
             graves
             to
             bury
             hearts
             :
          
           
             But
             since
             that
             beauty
             hath
             regaind
             its
             light
             ,
          
           
             Those
             hearts
             are
             doubly
             slaine
             it
             shines
             so
             bright
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             a
             faire
             Gentlewomans
             blistered
             lip
             .
          
           
             HIde
             not
             your
             sprouting
             lip
             ,
             nor
             kill
          
           
             The
             juicie
             bloom
             with
             bashfull
             skill
             ▪
          
           
             Know
             it
             is
             an
             amorous
             dew
          
           
             That
             swells
             to
             court
             your
             corall
             hew
             .
          
           
             And
             what
             a
             blemish
             you
             esteem
          
           
             To
             other
             eyes
             a
             Pearl
             may
             seem
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             watry
             growth
             is
             not
             above
          
           
             The
             thrifty
             seize
             which
             Pearls
             doe
             love
             :
          
           
           
             And
             doth
             so
             well
             become
             that
             part
          
           
             That
             chance
             may
             seem
             a
             secret
             art
             :
          
           
             Doth
             any
             judge
             the
             face
             lesse
             faire
          
           
             Whose
             tender
             silk
             a
             moral
             doth
             bear
             ?
          
           
             Are
             apples
             thought
             lesse
             sound
             and
             sweet
          
           
             When
             honey
             specks
             and
             red
             doe
             meet
             ?
          
           
             Or
             will
             a
             Diamond
             shine
             lesse
             clear
          
           
             If
             in
             the
             midst
             a
             soile
             appear
             ?
          
           
             Then
             is
             your
             lip
             made
             fairer
             by
          
           
             Such
             sweetnesse
             of
             deformity
             .
          
           
             The
             Nectar
             which
             men
             strive
             to
             sip
          
           
             Springs
             like
             a
             well
             upon
             your
             lip
             .
          
           
             Nor
             doth
             it
             shew
             immodesty
             ,
          
           
             But
             overflowing
             chastity
             .
          
           
             O
             who
             will
             blame
             the
             fruitfull
             trees
          
           
             When
             too
             much
             gum
             or
             sap
             he
             sees
             ?
          
           
             Here
             nature
             from
             her
             store
             doth
             send
          
           
             Onely
             what
             other
             parts
             can
             lend
             .
          
           
             If
             lovely
             buds
             ascend
             so
             high
             ,
          
           
             The
             root
             below
             cannot
             be
             dry
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             his
             Mistresse
             .
          
           
             KEepe
             on
             your
             mask
             and
             hide
             your
             eye
             ,
          
           
             For
             in
             beholding
             you
             I
             dye
             .
          
           
             Your
             fatall
             beauty
             Gorgon-like
          
           
             Dead
             with
             astonishment
             doth
             strike
             .
          
           
           
             Your
             piercing
             eyes
             that
             now
             I
             see
          
           
             Are
             worse
             then
             Basilisks
             to
             me
             .
          
           
             Shut
             from
             mine
             eyes
             those
             hills
             of
             snow
             ,
          
           
             Their
             melting
             vally
             doe
             not
             shew
             :
          
           
             Those
             azure
             pathes
             lead
             to
             dispaire
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             vex
             me
             not
             ,
             forbear
             ,
             forbear
             ;
          
           
             For
             while
             I
             thus
             in
             torments
             dwell
             ,
          
           
             The
             sight
             of
             Heaven
             is
             worse
             then
             Hell
             .
          
           
             In
             those
             faire
             cheeks
             two
             pits
             doe
             lye
          
           
             To
             bury
             those
             slaine
             by
             your
             eye
             :
          
           
             So
             this
             at
             length
             doth
             comfort
             me
             ,
          
           
             That
             fairely
             buried
             I
             shall
             be
             :
          
           
             My
             grave
             with
             Roses
             ,
             Lillies
             ,
             spread
             ,
          
           
             Methinks
             t
             is
             life
             for
             to
             be
             dead
             :
          
           
             Come
             then
             and
             kill
             me
             with
             your
             ●ye
             ,
          
           
             For
             if
             you
             let
             me
             live
             ,
             I
             dye
             .
          
           
             When
             I
             perceive
             your
             lips
             againe
          
           
             Recover
             those
             your
             eyes
             have
             slaine
             ,
          
           
             With
             kisses
             that
             (
             like
             balsome
             pure
             )
          
           
             Deep
             wounds
             as
             soon
             as
             made
             doe
             cure
             ;
          
           
             Methinks
             t
             is
             sicknesse
             to
             be
             sound
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             's
             no
             health
             to
             such
             a
             wound
             .
          
           
             When
             in
             your
             bosome
             I
             behold
          
           
             Two
             hills
             of
             snow
             yet
             never
             cold
             :
          
           
             Which
             lovers
             ,
             whom
             your
             beauty
             kills
             ,
          
           
             Revive
             by
             climing
             those
             your
             hills
             .
          
           
             Methinks
             there
             's
             life
             in
             such
             a
             death
          
           
             That
             gives
             a
             hope
             of
             sweeter
             breath
             .
          
           
             Then
             since
             one
             death
             prevailes
             not
             where
          
           
             So
             many
             Antidotes
             are
             nere
             :
          
           
           
             And
             your
             bright
             eyes
             doe
             but
             in
             vaine
          
           
             Kill
             those
             who
             live
             as
             fast
             as
             slaine
             ;
          
           
             That
             I
             no
             more
             such
             death
             survive
             ,
          
           
             Your
             way
             's
             to
             bury
             me
             alive
          
           
             In
             place
             unknown
             ,
             and
             so
             that
             I
          
           
             Being
             dead
             may
             live
             and
             living
             dye
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             lover
             to
             one
             dispraising
             his
             Mistresse
             .
          
           
             WHy
             slight
             you
             her
             whom
             I
             approve
             ▪
          
           
             Thou
             art
             no
             peere
             to
             try
             my
             love
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             canst
             discerne
             where
             her
             forme
             lies
             ,
          
           
             Unlesse
             thou
             sawest
             her
             with
             my
             eyes
          
           
             Say
             she
             were
             foule
             ,
             or
             blacker
             then
          
           
             The
             night
             ,
             or
             Sun
             burnt
             
               African
               ;
            
          
           
             If
             lik't
             by
             me
             ,
             't
             is
             I
             alone
          
           
             Can
             make
             a
             beauty
             where
             there
             's
             none
             :
          
           
             For
             rated
             in
             my
             fancy
             she
          
           
             Is
             so
             as
             she
             appears
             to
             me
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             not
             the
             feature
             or
             a
             face
          
           
             That
             doth
             my
             faire
             Election
             grace
             .
          
           
             Nor
             is
             my
             fancy
             onely
             led
          
           
             By
             a
             well
             temper'd
             white
             and
             red
             ;
          
           
             Could
             I
             enamour'd
             grow
             on
             those
             ,
          
           
             The
             Lilly
             and
             the
             blushing
             Rose
          
           
           
             United
             in
             one
             stalk
             might
             be
          
           
             As
             dear
             unto
             my
             thoughts
             as
             she
             ,
          
           
             But
             I
             look
             farther
             and
             doe
             find
          
           
             A
             richer
             beauty
             in
             her
             mind
             :
          
           
             Where
             something
             is
             so
             lasting
             faire
             ,
          
           
             As
             time
             and
             age
             cannot
             impaire
             .
          
           
             Hadst
             thou
             a
             prospective
             so
             cleare
          
           
             That
             thou
             couldst
             view
             my
             object
             there
             ;
          
           
             When
             thou
             her
             vertues
             didst
             espy
             ,
          
           
             thou
             dst
             wonder
             and
             confesse
             that
             I
          
           
             Had
             cause
             to
             like
             ;
             and
             learne
             from
             hence
          
           
             To
             love
             by
             judgement
             ,
             not
             by
             sence
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             the
             death
             of
             a
             faire
             Gentlewomans
             Robin-redbrest
             .
          
           
             WHatsoere
             birds
             in
             groves
             are
             bred
          
           
             Provide
             your
             anthems
             ,
             
               Robins
            
             dead
             .
          
           
             Poor
             
               Robin
            
             that
             was
             wont
             to
             nest
          
           
             In
             faire
             
               Siloras
            
             lovely
             brest
             ,
          
           
             And
             thence
             would
             peep
             into
             her
             eye
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             what
             feather
             stood
             awry
             .
          
           
             This
             pretty
             bird
             might
             freely
             sip
          
           
             The
             sugered
             Nectar
             from
             her
             lip
             .
          
           
             When
             many
             love-burnt
             soules
             have
             pined
          
           
             To
             see
             their
             rivall
             so
             retained
             .
          
           
           
             But
             what
             caused
             
               Robins
            
             death
             was
             this
             ,
          
           
             
               Robin
            
             sure
             surfeited
             with
             blisse
             ;
          
           
             Or
             else
             cause
             her
             faire
             cheek-possest
          
           
             A
             purer
             red
             then
             
               Robins
            
             brest
             ,
          
           
             Wherein
             consisted
             all
             his
             pride
             ,
          
           
             The
             little
             bird
             for
             envy
             dyed
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             the
             death
             of
             Sir
             
               Tho
               :
               Pelham
               .
            
          
           
             MEerely
             for
             death
             to
             grieve
             and
             mourne
          
           
             Were
             to
             repine
             that
             man
             was
             borne
             .
          
           
             When
             weak
             old
             age
             doth
             fall
             asleep
          
           
             'T
             were
             foul
             ingratitude
             to
             weep
             .
          
           
             Those
             threds
             alone
             should
             force
             out
             tears
          
           
             Whose
             suddain
             crack
             breaks
             off
             some
             years
             .
          
           
             Here
             't
             is
             not
             so
             ,
             full
             distance
             here
          
           
             Sunders
             the
             cradle
             from
             the
             beere
             .
          
           
             A
             fellow-traveller
             he
             hath
             bin
          
           
             So
             long
             with
             time
             ,
             so
             worn
             to'th
             skin
             ,
          
           
             That
             were
             it
             not
             just
             now
             bereft
          
           
             His
             body
             first
             the
             soule
             had
             left
             .
          
           
             Threescore
             and
             ten
             is
             natures
             date
             ,
          
           
             Our
             journey
             when
             we
             come
             in
             late
             :
          
           
             Beyond
             that
             time
             the
             overplus
          
           
             Was
             granted
             not
             to
             him
             ,
             but
             us
             .
          
           
           
             For
             his
             own
             sake
             the
             Sun
             ne're
             stood
             ,
          
           
             But
             onely
             for
             the
             peoples
             good
             :
          
           
             Even
             so
             he
             was
             held
             out
             by
             aire
          
           
             Which
             poor
             men
             uttered
             in
             their
             prayer
             :
          
           
             And
             as
             his
             goods
             were
             lent
             to
             give
             ,
          
           
             So
             were
             his
             dayes
             that
             they
             might
             live
             .
          
           
             So
             ten
             years
             more
             to
             him
             were
             told
          
           
             Enough
             to
             make
             another
             old
             :
          
           
             Oh
             that
             death
             would
             still
             doe
             so
             ,
          
           
             Or
             else
             on
             goodmen
             would
             bestow
          
           
             That
             wast
             of
             years
             which
             unthrifts
             fling
          
           
             Away
             by
             their
             distempering
             .
          
           
             That
             some
             might
             thrive
             by
             this
             decay
          
           
             As
             well
             as
             that
             of
             land
             and
             clay
             .
          
           
             T
             was
             now
             well
             done
             :
             no
             cause
             to
             mourne
          
           
             On
             such
             a
             seasonable
             stone
             ;
          
           
             Where
             death
             is
             but
             a
             guest
             ,
             we
             sinne
          
           
             Not
             bidding
             welcome
             to
             his
             Inne
             .
          
           
             Sleep
             ,
             sleep
             ,
             goodman
             ,
             thy
             rest
             embrace
             ,
          
           
             Sleep
             ,
             sleep
             ,
             
             th'ast
             trod
             a
             weary
             race
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             Of
             Musick
             .
          
           
             
               WHen
               whispering
               straines
               with
               creeping
               wind
            
             
               Distill
               soft
               passion
               through
               the
               heart
               ,
            
             
               And
               whilst
               at
               every
               touch
               we
               find
            
             
               Our
               pulses
               beat
               and
               bear
               a
               part
               .
            
             
               When
               threds
               can
               make
            
             
               Our
               heart-strings
               shake
               ;
            
             
               Philosophy
               can
               scarce
               deny
            
             
               Our
               soules
               consists
               in
               harmony
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               unto
               heavenly
               joyes
               we
               feigne
            
             
               What
               ere
               the
               soule
               affecteth
               most
               ,
            
             
               Which
               onely
               thus
               we
               can
               explaine
            
             
               By
               Musick
               of
               the
               winged
               host
               :
            
             
               Whose
               rayes
               we
               think
            
             
               Make
               stars
               to
               wink
               ;
            
             
               Philosophy
               can
               scarce
               deny
            
             
               Our
               soules
               consist
               of
               harmony
               .
            
          
           
             
               O
               lul
               me
               ,
               lul
               me
               ,
               charming
               aire
               ,
            
             
               My
               senses
               each
               with
               wonder
               sweet
               ;
            
             
               Like
               snow
               on
               wool
               thy
               fallings
               are
               ,
            
             
               Soft
               like
               spirits
               are
               thy
               feet
               .
            
             
             
               Griefe
               who
               needs
               fear
            
             
               That
               hath
               an
               ear
               ?
            
             
               Down
               let
               him
               lie
            
             
               And
               slumbring
               dye
               ,
            
             
               And
               change
               his
               soule
               for
               harmony
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             his
             Mistresse
             .
          
           
             I
             Le
             tell
             you
             how
             the
             Rose
             did
             first
             grow
             red
             ,
          
           
             And
             whence
             the
             Lillies
             whitenesse
             borrowed
             .
          
           
             You
             blusht
             and
             streight
             the
             Rose
             with
             red
             was
             dight
             ,
          
           
             The
             Lillies
             kiss'd
             your
             hands
             and
             so
             grew
             white
             .
          
           
             You
             have
             the
             native
             colour
             ,
             these
             the
             die
             ,
          
           
             And
             onely
             flourish
             in
             your
             livery
             :
          
           
             Before
             that
             time
             each
             Rose
             was
             but
             one
             staine
             ,
          
           
             The
             lilly
             nought
             but
             palenesse
             did
             containe
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             a
             black
             Gentlewoman
             .
          
           
             IF
             shadowes
             be
             a
             Pictures
             excellence
          
           
             And
             make
             it
             seem
             more
             glorious
             to
             the
             sence
             :
          
           
             If
             stars
             in
             brightest
             day
             are
             lost
             for
             sight
          
           
             And
             seem
             more
             glorious
             in
             the
             mask
             of
             night
             .
          
           
           
             Why
             should
             you
             think
             fair
             creature
             that
             you
             lack
          
           
             Perfection
             cause
             your
             eyes
             and
             haire
             are
             black
             .
          
           
             Or
             that
             your
             beauty
             ,
             which
             so
             far
             exceeds
          
           
             The
             new-sprung
             Lillies
             in
             their
             maidenheads
             ,
          
           
             The
             rosie
             colour
             of
             your
             cheeks
             and
             lips
          
           
             Should
             by
             that
             darknesse
             suffer
             an
             ecclipse
             .
          
           
             Rich
             Diamonds
             are
             fairer
             being
             set
          
           
             And
             compassed
             within
             a
             foileof
             jet
             .
          
           
             Nor
             can
             it
             be
             dame
             nature
             should
             have
             made
          
           
             So
             bright
             a
             Sun
             to
             shine
             without
             a
             shade
             .
          
           
             It
             seems
             that
             nature
             when
             she
             first
             did
             fancy
          
           
             Your
             rare
             composure
             studied
             Negromancy
             :
          
           
             And
             when
             to
             you
             these
             guifts
             she
             did
             impart
          
           
             She
             used
             altogether
             the
             Black
             Art
             .
          
           
             She
             framed
             the
             Magick
             circle
             of
             your
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             those
             hairs
             the
             chains
             wherein
             she
             ties
          
           
             Rebellious
             hearts
             ,
             those
             vaines
             ,
             which
             doe
             appear
          
           
             Twined
             in
             Meanders
             about
             every
             sphear
             ,
          
           
             Mysterious
             figures
             are
             ,
             and
             when
             you
             list
          
           
             Your
             voyce
             commandeth
             like
             an
             exorcist
             .
          
           
             Now
             if
             in
             Magick
             you
             have
             skill
             so
             far
          
           
             Vouchsafe
             to
             make
             me
             your
             familiar
             .
          
           
             Nor
             hath
             kind
             nature
             her
             black
             art
             reveald
          
           
             By
             outward
             parts
             alone
             ,
             some
             are
             conceald
             .
          
           
             As
             by
             the
             spring
             head
             men
             may
             easily
             know
          
           
             The
             nature
             of
             the
             streams
             that
             run
             below
             .
          
           
             So
             your
             black
             eyes
             and
             haire
             doe
             give
             direction
             ,
          
           
             That
             all
             the
             rest
             are
             of
             the
             like
             complexion
             .
          
           
             The
             rest
             where
             all
             rest
             lies
             that
             blesseth
             man
             ,
          
           
             That
             
               Indian
            
             mine
             ,
             that
             streight
             of
             Magellan
             .
          
           
           
             The
             worlds
             dividing
             gulph
             ,
             through
             which
             who
             venters
          
           
             With
             hoised
             sailes
             and
             ravishd
             sences
             enters
          
           
             To
             a
             new
             world
             of
             blisse
             .
             Pardon
             I
             pray
          
           
             If
             my
             rude
             muse
             presumes
             for
             to
             display
          
           
             Secrets
             forbid
             ,
             or
             hath
             her
             bounds
             surpast
          
           
             In
             praising
             sweetnesse
             which
             she
             nere
             did
             tast
             :
          
           
             Starv'd
             men
             may
             talk
             of
             meat
             ,
             and
             blind
             men
             may
          
           
             (
             Though
             hid
             from
             light
             )
             yet
             know
             there
             is
             a
             day
             .
          
           
             A
             rover
             in
             the
             mark
             his
             arrow
             sticks
          
           
             Sometimes
             as
             well
             as
             he
             that
             shoots
             at
             pricks
             .
          
           
             And
             if
             I
             might
             direct
             my
             shaft
             aright
             ,
          
           
             The
             black
             mark
             would
             I
             hit
             ,
             and
             not
             the
             white
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             a
             Gentlewoman
             walking
             in
             the
             Snow
             .
          
           
             I
             Saw
             faire
             
               Cloris
            
             walk
             alone
             ,
          
           
             When
             feathered
             raine
             came
             softly
             downe
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               Jove
            
             descended
             from
             his
             Tower
          
           
             To
             court
             her
             in
             a
             silver
             showre
             :
          
           
             The
             wanton
             snow
             flew
             to
             her
             breast
          
           
             Like
             little
             birds
             into
             their
             nest
             ,
          
           
             And
             overcome
             with
             whitenesse
             there
          
           
             For
             griefe
             dissolv'd
             into
             a
             teare
             ,
          
           
           
             Which
             trickling
             down
             her
             garments
             hemme
          
           
             To
             deck
             her
             freezd
             into
             a
             gemme
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             one
             dead
             in
             the
             snow
             .
          
           
             WIthin
             a
             fleece
             of
             silent
             waters
             drownd
             .
          
           
             Before
             I
             met
             with
             death
             a
             grave
             I
             found
             .
          
           
             That
             which
             e●iled
             my
             life
             from
             her
             sweet
             home
          
           
             For
             griefe
             streight
             froze
             it selfe
             into
             a
             Tomb
             .
          
           
             Onely
             one
             Element
             my
             fate
             thought
             meet
          
           
             To
             be
             my
             death
             ,
             grave
             ,
             tomb
             ,
             and
             winding
             sheet
             .
          
           
             
               Phoebus
            
             himselfe
             my
             Epitaph
             had
             writ
             ;
          
           
             But
             blotting
             many
             ere
             he
             thought
             one
             fit
             ,
          
           
             He
             wrote
             untill
             my
             tomb
             and
             grave
             were
             gone
             ;
          
           
             And
             't
             was
             an
             Epitaph
             that
             I
             had
             none
             ;
          
           
             For
             every
             man
             that
             pass'd
             along
             that
             way
          
           
             Without
             a
             sculpture
             read
             that
             there
             I
             lay
             .
          
           
             Here
             now
             the
             second
             time
             inclosed
             I
             lye
          
           
             And
             thus
             much
             have
             the
             best
             of
             destiny
             .
          
           
             Corruption
             (
             from
             which
             onely
             one
             was
             free
             )
          
           
             Devour'd
             my
             grave
             ,
             but
             did
             not
             seize
             on
             me
             .
          
           
             My
             first
             grave
             took
             me
             from
             the
             race
             of
             men
             ,
          
           
             My
             last
             shall
             give
             me
             back
             to
             life
             agen
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             a
             woman
             dying
             in
             travell
             the
             child
             unborne
             .
          
           
             WIthin
             this
             grave
             there
             is
             a
             grave
             intombd
             ,
          
           
             Here
             lies
             a
             mother
             and
             a
             child
             inwombd
             .
          
           
             T
             was
             strange
             that
             nature
             so
             much
             vigour
             gave
          
           
             To
             one
             that
             nere
             was
             born
             ,
             to
             make
             a
             grave
             .
          
           
             Yet
             an
             injunction
             stranger
             nature
             willd
             her
             ,
          
           
             Poor
             mother
             ,
             to
             be
             tomb
             to
             that
             which
             kild
             her
             :
          
           
             And
             not
             with
             so
             much
             cruelty
             content
             ,
          
           
             Buries
             the
             child
             ,
             the
             grave
             ,
             and
             monument
             .
          
           
             Where
             shall
             we
             write
             the
             Epitaph
             ?
             whereon
             ?
          
           
             The
             child
             ,
             the
             grave
             ,
             the
             monument
             is
             gone
             :
          
           
             Or
             if
             upon
             the
             child
             we
             write
             a
             staffe
             ,
          
           
             Where
             shall
             we
             write
             the
             tombs
             own
             Epitaph
             ?
          
           
             Onely
             this
             way
             is
             left
             ,
             and
             now
             we
             must
          
           
             As
             on
             a
             table
             carpeted
             with
             dust
          
           
             Make
             chisells
             of
             our
             fingers
             ,
             and
             engrave
          
           
             An
             Epitaph
             both
             on
             the
             tomb
             and
             grave
          
           
             Within
             the
             dust
             :
             but
             when
             some
             hours
             are
             gone
          
           
             Will
             not
             the
             Epitaph
             have
             need
             of
             one
             ?
          
           
             I
             know
             it
             well
             :
             yet
             grave
             it
             therefore
             deep
          
           
             That
             those
             which
             know
             the
             losse
             may
             truly
             weep
          
           
           
             And
             shed
             their
             tears
             so
             justly
             in
             that
             place
          
           
             Which
             we
             before
             did
             with
             a
             finger
             trace
             ,
          
           
             That
             filling
             up
             the
             letters
             they
             may
             lie
          
           
             As
             inlaid
             Christall
             to
             posterity
             .
          
           
             Where
             (
             as
             in
             glasse
             )
             if
             any
             write
             another
          
           
             Let
             him
             say
             thus
             ,
             here
             lies
             a
             haplesse
             mother
          
           
             Whom
             cruel
             sate
             hath
             made
             to
             be
             a
             tomb
             ,
          
           
             And
             kept
             in
             travell
             till
             the
             day
             of
             doom
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             Man
             .
          
           
             ILl
             busied
             man
             why
             shouldst
             thou
             take
             such
             care
          
           
             To
             lenghthen
             out
             thy
             lives
             short
             callendar
             ;
          
           
             Each
             dropping
             season
             ,
             and
             each
             flower
             doth
             cry
          
           
             Fool
             as
             I
             fade
             and
             wither
             thou
             must
             die
             .
          
           
             The
             beating
             of
             thy
             pulse
             when
             thou
             art
             well
          
           
             Is
             but
             the
             towling
             of
             thy
             passing
             bell
             :
          
           
             Night
             is
             thy
             hearse
             ,
             whose
             sable
             Canopy
          
           
             Covers
             alike
             deceased
             day
             and
             thee
             .
          
           
             And
             all
             those
             weeping
             dewes
             which
             nightly
             fall
          
           
             Are
             but
             as
             tears
             shed
             for
             thy
             funerall
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             
               Faireford
            
             windows
             .
          
           
             TEll
             me
             you
             anti-Saints
             why
             glasse
          
           
             With
             you
             is
             longer
             lived
             then
             brasse
             :
          
           
             And
             why
             the
             Saints
             have
             scap'd
             their
             falls
          
           
             Better
             from
             windowes
             then
             from
             walls
             .
          
           
             Is
             it
             because
             the
             brethrens
             fires
          
           
             Maintaine
             a
             glasse-house
             in
             
               Black-friers
               ?
            
          
           
             Next
             which
             the
             Church
             stands
             North
             and
             South
             ,
          
           
             And
             East
             and
             West
             the
             Preachers
             mouth
             .
          
           
             Or
             i
             st
             because
             such
             painted
             ware
          
           
             Resembles
             something
             what
             you
             are
             ,
          
           
             So
             pied
             ,
             so
             seeming
             ,
             so
             unsound
          
           
             In
             doctrine
             and
             in
             manners
             found
             ,
          
           
             That
             ont
             of
             emblemattick
             wit
          
           
             You
             spare
             your selves
             in
             sparing
             it
             ?
          
           
             If
             it
             be
             so
             then
             
               Faireford
            
             boast
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Church
             hath
             kept
             what
             all
             have
             lost
             ;
          
           
             And
             is
             preserved
             from
             the
             bane
          
           
             Of
             either
             war
             or
             Puritan
             .
          
           
             Whose
             life
             is
             colour'd
             in
             the
             paint
             ,
          
           
             The
             inside
             drosse
             ,
             the
             outside
             Saint
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             a
             Gentlewoman
             playing
             on
             the
             Lute
             .
          
           
             BE
             silent
             you
             still
             musick
             of
             the
             sphears
             ,
          
           
             And
             every
             sence
             make
             hast
             to
             be
             all
             eares
             ;
          
           
             And
             give
             devout
             attention
             to
             her
             aires
             ,
          
           
             To
             which
             the
             Gods
             doe
             listen
             as
             to
             prayers
          
           
             Of
             pious
             votaries
             :
             the
             which
             to
             hear
          
           
             Tumult
             would
             be
             attentive
             ,
             and
             would
             swear
          
           
             To
             keep
             lesse
             noise
             at
             
               Nile
            
             if
             there
             she
             sing
             ,
          
           
             Or
             with
             a
             sacred
             touch
             grace
             but
             one
             string
             .
          
           
             Amongst
             so
             many
             auditors
             ,
             so
             many
             throngs
          
           
             Of
             Gods
             and
             men
             ,
             that
             presse
             to
             hear
             her
             songs
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             let
             me
             have
             an
             unespied
             room
             ,
          
           
             And
             die
             with
             such
             an
             anthem
             ore
             my
             tomb
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             Love
             .
          
           
             
               WHen
               I
               do
               love
               I
               would
               notwish
               to
               speed
               ,
            
             
               To
               plead
               fruition
               rather
               then
               desire
               ,
            
             
               But
               on
               sweet
               lingring
               expectation
               feed
               ,
            
             
               And
               gently
               would
               protract
               not
               feed
               my
               fire
               .
            
             
             
               What
               though
               my
               love
               a
               martyrdome
               you
               name
               ,
            
             
               No
               Salamander
               ever
               feels
               the
               flame
               .
            
          
           
             
               That
               which
               is
               obvious
               I
               as
               much
               esteem
            
             
               As
               Courtiors
               doe
               old
               cloths
               :
               for
               novelty
            
             
               Doth
               rellish
               pleasures
               ,
               and
               in
               them
               we
               deem
            
             
               The
               hope
               is
               sweeter
               then
               the
               memory
               .
            
             
               Injoying
               breeds
               a
               glut
               ,
               men
               better
               tast
            
             
               Comforts
               to
               come
               ,
               then
               pleasures
               that
               are
               past
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Catholick
             .
          
           
             
               
                 
                   
                     I
                     Hold
                     as
                     faith
                  
                   
                     What
                     
                       Romes
                    
                     Ch
                     :
                     saith
                  
                   
                     Where
                     the
                     King
                     is
                     head
                  
                   
                     The
                     flocks
                     misled
                  
                   
                     Where
                     the
                     Altars
                     drest
                  
                   
                     The
                     peoples
                     blest
                  
                   
                     He
                     's
                     but
                     an
                     asse
                  
                   
                     Who
                     shuns
                     the
                     Masse
                  
                
                 
                   
                     What
                     
                       Englands
                    
                     Church
                     alow
                  
                   
                     My
                     conscience
                     disallowes
                  
                   
                     That
                     Church
                     can
                     have
                     no
                     shame
                  
                   
                     That
                     holds
                     the
                     Pope
                     supreame
                  
                   
                     There
                     's
                     service
                     scarce
                     divine
                  
                   
                     With
                     table
                     bread
                     and
                     wine
                  
                   
                     Who
                     the
                     Communion
                     flies
                  
                   
                     Is
                     Catholick
                     and
                     wise
                     .
                  
                
              
            
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             
               Faireford
            
             windowes
             .
          
           
             I
             Know
             no
             paint
             of
             Poetry
          
           
             Can
             mend
             such
             colours
             Imagery
          
           
             In
             sullen
             inke
             ;
             Yet
             
               Faireford
            
             I
          
           
             May
             rellish
             thy
             faire
             memory
             .
          
           
             Such
             is
             the
             ecchoes
             fainter
             found
             ;
          
           
             Such
             is
             the
             light
             when
             Sun
             is
             drownd
             .
          
           
             So
             did
             the
             fancy
             look
             upon
          
           
             The
             work
             before
             it
             was
             begun
             .
          
           
             Yet
             when
             those
             shews
             are
             out
             of
             sight
          
           
             My
             weaker
             colours
             may
             delight
             .
          
           
             Those
             Images
             so
             faithfully
          
           
             Report
             the
             feature
             to
             the
             eye
             ,
          
           
             As
             you
             would
             think
             each
             picture
             was
          
           
             Some
             visage
             in
             a
             looking-glasse
             ;
          
           
             Not
             a
             glasse-window
             face
             ,
             unlesse
          
           
             Such
             as
             
               Cheap-side
            
             hath
             ,
             when
             a
             presse
          
           
             Of
             painted
             Gallants
             looking
             out
          
           
             Bedeck
             the
             casement
             round
             about
             .
          
           
             Bnt
             these
             have
             holy
             phisnomy
             ;
          
           
             Each
             pane
             instructs
             the
             laity
          
           
             With
             silent
             eloquence
             ,
             for
             here
          
           
             Devotion
             leads
             the
             eye
             not
             eare
          
           
           
             To
             note
             the
             cetechising
             paint
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             easie
             phrase
             did
             so
             acquaint
          
           
             Our
             sence
             with
             Gospel
             that
             the
             Creed
          
           
             In
             such
             a
             hand
             the
             weak
             may
             read
             .
          
           
             Such
             types
             can
             yet
             of
             vertue
             be
             ,
          
           
             And
             Christ
             as
             in
             a
             glasse
             we
             see
             .
          
           
             Behold
             two
             Turtles
             in
             one
             Cage
          
           
             With
             such
             a
             lovely
             equipage
             ,
          
           
             As
             they
             who
             mark
             them
             well
             may
             doubt
          
           
             Some
             young
             ones
             have
             been
             there
             stolne
             out
             .
          
           
             When
             with
             a
             fishing
             rod
             the
             Clark
          
           
             St.
             
             
               Peters
            
             draught
             of
             fish
             doth
             mark
             :
          
           
             Such
             is
             the
             scale
             ,
             the
             eye
             ,
             the
             fin
             ,
          
           
             You
             'd
             think
             they
             strove
             and
             leap'd
             within
             :
          
           
             But
             if
             the
             net
             which
             holds
             them
             brake
          
           
             He
             with
             his
             angle
             some
             would
             take
             .
          
           
             But
             would
             you
             walk
             a
             turne
             in
             
               Pauls
               ,
            
          
           
             Look
             up
             ,
             one
             little
             pane
             inroules
          
           
             A
             fairer
             Temple
             ,
             fling
             a
             stone
          
           
             The
             Church
             is
             out
             of
             the
             window
             flown
             .
          
           
             Consider
             but
             not
             ask
             your
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             And
             ghosts
             at
             mid-day
             seem
             to
             rise
             .
          
           
             The
             Saints
             their
             striving
             to
             descend
          
           
             Are
             past
             the
             glasse
             and
             downward
             bend
             .
          
           
             Look
             there
             the
             Devils
             all
             would
             cry
             ,
          
           
             Did
             they
             not
             see
             that
             Christ
             was
             by
             .
          
           
             See
             where
             he
             suffers
             for
             thee
             ,
             see
          
           
             His
             body
             taken
             from
             the
             tree
             :
          
           
             Had
             ever
             death
             such
             life
             before
             ?
          
           
             The
             limber
             corps
             besullied
             ore
          
           
           
             With
             meager
             palenesse
             doth
             display
          
           
             A
             middle
             state
             'twixt
             flesh
             and
             clay
             :
          
           
             His
             armes
             ,
             his
             head
             ,
             his
             legs
             ,
             his
             crown
          
           
             Like
             a
             true
             Lambskin
             dangling
             down
             :
          
           
             Who
             can
             forbear
             the
             grave
             being
             nigh
          
           
             To
             bring
             fresh
             ointment
             in
             his
             eye
             ?
          
           
             The
             Puritans
             were
             sure
             deceiv'd
          
           
             Who
             thought
             those
             shadows
             mov'd
             and
             heav'd
             .
          
           
             So
             held
             from
             stoning
             Christ
             ;
             the
             wind
          
           
             And
             boisterous
             tempests
             were
             so
             kind
          
           
             As
             on
             his
             Image
             not
             to
             pray
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             both
             the
             winds
             and
             Sea
             obey
             .
          
           
             At
             
               Momus
            
             wish
             be
             not
             dismaied
             ;
          
           
             For
             if
             each
             Christians
             heart
             were
             glaz'd
          
           
             With
             such
             a
             window
             ,
             then
             each
             breast
          
           
             Might
             be
             his
             own
             Evangelist
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             the
             praise
             of
             an
             ill-favourd
             Gentlewoman
             .
          
           
             MArry
             and
             love
             thy
             
               Flavia
               ,
            
             for
             she
          
           
             Hath
             all
             things
             whereby
             others
             beautious
             be
             :
          
           
             For
             though
             her
             eyes
             be
             small
             ,
             her
             mouth
             is
             great
             ,
          
           
             Though
             her
             lips
             Ivory
             be
             ,
             her
             teeth
             be
             jet
             :
          
           
             Though
             they
             be
             dark
             ,
             yet
             she
             is
             light
             enough
             ,
          
           
             And
             though
             her
             harsh
             hair
             fail
             ,
             her
             skin
             is
             rough
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             what
             if
             it
             be
             yellow
             ,
             her
             haires
             red
             ,
          
           
             Give
             her
             but
             thine
             she
             has
             a
             maidenhead
             .
          
           
             These
             things
             are
             beauties
             elements
             ,
             where
             these
          
           
             Compounded
             are
             in
             one
             she
             needs
             must
             please
             :
          
           
             If
             red
             and
             white
             and
             each
             good
             quality
          
           
             Be
             in
             the
             wench
             ,
             nere
             ask
             where
             it
             doth
             lye
             :
          
           
             In
             buying
             things
             perfumed
             we
             ask
             if
             there
          
           
             Be
             musk
             and
             amber
             in
             it
             ,
             but
             not
             where
             .
          
           
             Though
             all
             her
             parts
             be
             not
             i
             th'
             usuall
             place
             ,
          
           
             She
             hath
             the
             anagram
             of
             a
             good
             face
             .
          
           
             When
             by
             the
             gam-ut
             some
             Musitians
             make
          
           
             A
             perfect
             song
             ,
             others
             will
             undertake
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             gam-ut
             chang'd
             to
             equall
             it
             :
          
           
             Things
             simply
             good
             can
             never
             be
             unfit
             .
          
           
             For
             one
             nights
             revells
             silk
             and
             gold
             we
             use
             ,
          
           
             But
             in
             long
             journies
             cloth
             and
             leather
             chuse
             .
          
           
             Beauty
             is
             barren
             oft
             ;
             and
             husbands
             say
          
           
             There
             's
             the
             best
             land
             where
             is
             the
             foulest
             way
             .
          
           
             And
             what
             a
             soveraigne
             medicine
             will
             she
             be
          
           
             If
             thy
             past
             sins
             have
             taught
             thee
             jealousie
             .
          
           
             Here
             needs
             no
             spies
             nor
             Eunuchs
             :
             her
             commit
          
           
             Safe
             to
             thy
             foes
             yea
             to
             thy
             Marmoset
             .
          
           
             When
             
               Belgias
            
             Cities
             th'
             ruind
             country
             drown
          
           
             That
             durty
             foulness
             armes
             and
             guards
             the
             Town
             .
          
           
             So
             doth
             her
             face
             guard
             her
             ,
             and
             so
             for
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Which
             by
             occasion
             absent
             oft
             mayest
             be
             .
          
           
             She
             whose
             face
             like
             the
             clouds
             turns
             day
             to
             night
             ,
          
           
             And
             mightier
             then
             the
             Sea
             makes
             Moors
             seem
             white
             .
          
           
           
             Who
             though
             seven
             years
             she
             in
             the
             street
             hath
             laid
          
           
             A
             Nunnery
             durst
             receive
             and
             think
             a
             maid
             .
          
           
             And
             though
             in
             child-bed-labour
             she
             did
             lie
          
           
             Midwives
             would
             swear
             't
             were
             but
             a
             tympany
             .
          
           
             If
             she
             accuse
             her selfe
             ,
             I
             'le
             credit
             lesse
          
           
             Then
             witches
             which
             impossibles
             confesse
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             Heavens
             best
             Image
             ,
             his
             faire
             and
             vertuous
             Mistresse
             
               M.
               S.
               
            
          
           
             
               THe
               most
               insulting
               tyrants
               can
               but
               be
            
             
               Lords
               of
               our
               bodies
               ,
               still
               our
               minds
               are
               free
               .
            
             
               My
               Mistress
               thralls
               my
               soul
               ,
               those
               chains
               of
               Gold
            
             
               Her
               locks
               my
               very
               thoughts
               infetterd
               hold
               .
            
             
               Then
               sure
               she
               is
               a
               Goddesse
               ,
               and
               if
               I
            
             
               Should
               worship
               her
               ,
               't
               is
               no
               Idolary
               .
            
          
           
             
               Within
               her
               cheeks
               a
               fragrant
               garden
               lies
            
             
               Where
               Roses
               mixt
               with
               Lillies
               feast
               mine
               eyes
               :
            
             
               Here
               's
               alwayes
               spring
               ,
               no
               winter
               to
               annoy
            
             
               Those
               heavenly
               flowers
               ,
               onely
               some
               tears
               of
               joy
            
             
               Doe
               water
               them
               ,
               and
               sure
               if
               I
               be
               wise
            
             
               This
               garden
               is
               another
               Paradice
               .
            
          
           
             
               Her
               eyes
               two
               heavenly
               lamps
               ,
               whose
               orderd
               motion
            
             
               Swayes
               all
               my
               reason
               ,
               my
               sence
               ,
               my
               devotion
               ;
            
             
             
               And
               yet
               those
               beams
               did
               then
               most
               glorious
               shine
            
             
               When
               passions
               dark
               had
               maskd
               this
               soul
               of
               mine
               :
            
             
               Now
               if
               the
               night
               her
               glory
               best
               declare
               ,
            
             
               What
               can
               I
               deem
               them
               but
               a
               sta●ry
               paire
               .
            
          
           
             
               Her
               brow
               is
               vertues
               court
               ,
               where
               she
               alone
            
             
               Triumphant
               sits
               in
               faultlesse
               beauties
               throne
               :
            
             
               Did
               you
               but
               mark
               its
               purenesse
               ,
               you
               would
               swear
            
             
               
                 Diana's
              
               come
               from
               Heaven
               to
               sojourne
               there
               .
            
             
               Onely
               this
               Cynthia
               dims
               not
               even
               at
               noon
               ,
            
             
               There
               wants
               a
               man
               (
               methinks
               )
               in
               such
               a
               Moon
               .
            
          
           
             
               Her
               breath
               is
               great
               
                 Joves
              
               incense
               ,
               sweeter
               far
            
             
               Then
               all
               
                 Arabian
              
               winds
               and
               spices
               are
               :
            
             
               Her
               voyce
               the
               sphears
               best
               Musick
               ,
               and
               those
               twins
               ▪
            
             
               Her
               armes
               a
               precious
               paire
               of
               Cherubs
               wings
               .
            
             
               In
               briefe
               she
               is
               a
               map
               of
               Heaven
               ,
               and
               there
            
             
               O
               would
               that
               I
               a
               constellation
               were
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             The
             black
             maid
             to
             the
             faire
             boy
             .
          
           
             FAire
             boy
             (
             alasse
             )
             why
             fliest
             thou
             me
          
           
             That
             languish
             in
             such
             flames
             for
             thee
             .
          
           
             I
             me
             black
             ,
             t
             is
             true
             ;
             why
             so
             is
             night
             ,
          
           
             And
             lovers
             in
             dark
             shades
             delight
             .
          
           
             The
             whole
             world
             doe
             but
             close
             your
             eye
          
           
             Will
             be
             to
             you
             as
             black
             as
             I
             :
          
           
             Or
             ope't
             and
             view
             how
             dark
             a
             shade
          
           
             Is
             by
             your
             own
             faire
             body
             made
             ,
          
           
             Which
             followes
             thee
             where
             ere
             thou
             goe
             ,
          
           
             O
             who
             allowed
             would
             not
             doe
             so
             :
          
           
             Then
             let
             me
             ever
             live
             so
             nigh
             ,
          
           
             And
             thou
             shalt
             need
             no
             shade
             but
             I.
             
          
        
         
           
             His
             Answer
             .
          
           
             BLack
             girle
             complaine
             not
             that
             I
             fly
             ,
          
           
             Since
             fate
             commands
             antipathy
             .
          
           
             Prodigious
             must
             that
             union
             prove
          
           
             Where
             black
             and
             white
             together
             move
             :
          
           
           
             And
             a
             conjunction
             of
             our
             lips
          
           
             Not
             kisses
             makes
             but
             an
             ecclipse
             ,
          
           
             In
             which
             the
             mixed
             black
             and
             white
          
           
             Pretends
             more
             terrour
             then
             delight
             .
          
           
             Yet
             if
             my
             shadow
             thou
             wilt
             be
             ,
          
           
             Enjoy
             thy
             dearest
             wish
             ;
             but
             see
          
           
             Thou
             keep
             my
             shadows
             property
             ,
          
           
             And
             flee
             away
             when
             I
             come
             nigh
             ;
          
           
             Else
             stay
             till
             death
             hath
             blinded
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             le
             bequeath
             my selfe
             to
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
             Verses
             sent
             to
             a
             Lady
             ,
             which
             she
             sending
             back
             unread
             ,
             were
             returned
             with
             this
             inscription
             .
          
           
             REead
             (
             faire
             maid
             )
             and
             know
             the
             heat
          
           
             That
             warmes
             these
             lines
             is
             like
             the
             beate
             .
          
           
             Thy
             chast
             pulse
             keeps
             ;
             thy
             mornings
             thought
          
           
             Hath
             not
             more
             temper
             .
             :
             were
             there
             ought
          
           
             On
             this
             virgin
             paper
             shed
          
           
             That
             might
             to
             crimson
             turne
             thy
             red
          
           
             I
             should
             blush
             for
             thee
             ,
             but
             I
             vow
          
           
             T
             is
             all
             as
             spotlesse
             as
             thy
             brow
             .
          
           
             Read
             then
             ,
             and
             know
             what
             art
             thou
             hast
             ,
          
           
             That
             thus
             canst
             make
             a
             Poet
             chast
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             The
             Verses
             .
          
           
             ON
             a
             day
             (
             't
             is
             in
             thy
             power
          
           
             To
             make
             me
             blesse
             or
             curse
             that
             hour
             )
          
           
             I
             saw
             thy
             face
             ,
             they
             face
             then
             maskd
          
           
             Like
             Ivory
             in
             Ebon
             cask'd
             .
          
           
             But
             that
             dark
             cloud
             once
             drawn
             away
             ,
          
           
             Just
             like
             the
             dawning
             of
             the
             day
          
           
             So
             brake
             thy
             beauty
             forth
             ,
             and
             I
          
           
             Grew
             sad
             ,
             glad
             ,
             neither
             ,
             instantly
             :
          
           
             Yet
             through
             thy
             mercy
             ,
             or
             my
             chance
             ,
          
           
             Me
             thought
             I
             saw
             a
             pleasing
             glance
          
           
             Thou
             threwst
             on
             me
             :
             a
             sugar
             smile
          
           
             Dimpled
             thy
             cheeks
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             while
          
           
             Mirth
             dancd
             upon
             thy
             brow
             ,
             to
             prove
          
           
             It
             came
             from
             kindnesse
             if
             not
             love
             .
          
           
             Oh
             make
             it
             good
             ;
             in
             this
             let
             me
          
           
             Not
             Poet
             but
             a
             Prophet
             be
             .
          
           
             And
             think
             not
             (
             fairest
             )
             that
             thy
             fame
          
           
             Is
             wrongd
             by
             a
             Poets
             Mistresse
             name
             ;
          
           
             Queens
             have
             been
             proud
             on
             't
             ,
             for
             their
             Kiugs
          
           
             Are
             but
             our
             subjects
             ;
             nay
             all
             things
          
           
             Shall
             unto
             all
             posterity
          
           
             Appear
             as
             we
             will
             have
             them
             ,
             we
          
           
             Give
             men
             valour
             ,
             maids
             chastity
          
           
             And
             beauty
             too
             :
             if
             
               Homer
            
             would
          
           
             
               Hellen
            
             had
             been
             an
             hag
             ,
             and-Troy
             had
             stood
             .
          
           
             And
             though
             far
             humbler
             be
             my
             verse
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             some
             there
             will
             be
             will
             rehearse
          
           
           
             And
             like
             it
             too
             perhaps
             ;
             and
             then
          
           
             The
             life
             that
             now
             thou
             lendst
             my
             pen
          
           
             The
             world
             shall
             pay
             thee
             back
             agen
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Nightingale
             .
          
           
             MY
             limbs
             were
             weary
             ,
             and
             my
             head
             opprest
          
           
             With
             drowsinesse
             and
             yet
             I
             could
             not
             rest
             .
          
           
             My
             bed
             was
             such
             no
             down
             nor
             feathers
             can
          
           
             Make
             one
             more
             soft
             ,
             though
             
               Jove
            
             again
             turn
             Swan
             .
          
           
             No
             fear
             distracted
             thoughts
             my
             slumber
             broke
             ,
          
           
             I
             heard
             no
             screech-owle
             squeak
             ,
             nor
             raven
             croak
             ;
          
           
             Nay
             even
             the
             flea
             (
             that
             proud
             insulting
             else
             )
          
           
             Had
             taken
             truce
             ,
             and
             was
             asleep
             it selfe
             :
          
           
             But
             't
             was
             nights
             darling
             ,
             and
             the
             woods
             chiefe
             jewel
          
           
             The
             Nightingale
             that
             was
             so
             sweetly
             crewel
             .
          
           
             And
             wooed
             my
             ears
             to
             rob
             my
             eyes
             of
             sleep
             .
          
           
             That
             whilst
             she
             sung
             of
             
               Tereus
               ,
            
             they
             might
             weep
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             rejoyce
             the
             tyrant
             did
             her
             wrong
             ,
          
           
             Her
             cause
             of
             woe
             was
             burthen
             of
             her
             song
             ;
          
           
             Which
             whilst
             I
             listned
             too
             ,
             and
             greiv'd
             to
             hear
             ,
          
           
             T
             was
             such
             I
             could
             have
             wish'd
             my selfe
             all
             eare
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             false
             the
             Poets
             feigne
             of
             
               Orpheus
               ,
            
             he
          
           
             Could
             neither
             move
             a
             stone
             ,
             a
             beast
             ,
             nor
             tree
          
           
             To
             follow
             him
             ;
             but
             wheresoere
             she
             flies
          
           
             She
             makes
             a
             grove
             ,
             where
             Satyrs
             and
             Fairies
          
           
             About
             her
             perch
             to
             daunce
             her
             roundelayes
             ,
          
           
             For
             she
             sings
             ditties
             to
             them
             whilst
             
               Pan
            
             playes
             .
          
           
           
             Yet
             she
             sung
             better
             now
             ,
             as
             if
             in
             me
          
           
             She
             meant
             with
             sleep
             to
             try
             the
             mastery
             .
          
           
             But
             whilst
             she
             chanted
             thus
             ,
             the
             Cock
             for
             spight
          
           
             (
             Dayes
             hoarser
             herauld
             )
             chid
             away
             the
             night
             .
          
           
             Thus
             rob'd
             of
             sleep
             ,
             mine
             eyelids
             nightly
             guest
             ,
          
           
             Methought
             I
             lay
             content
             ,
             though
             not
             at
             rest
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Barclay
            
             his
             Epitaph
             .
          
           
             HE
             that
             's
             imprisoned
             in
             this
             narrow
             room
          
           
             Wer
             't
             not
             for
             custome
             needs
             nor
             verse
             nor
             tomb
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             can
             there
             from
             these
             memory
             be
             lent
          
           
             To
             him
             ,
             who
             must
             be
             his
             tombs
             monument
             ;
          
           
             And
             by
             the
             vertue
             of
             his
             lasting
             name
          
           
             Must
             make
             his
             tomb
             live
             long
             ,
             not
             it
             his
             fame
             .
          
           
             For
             when
             this
             gaudy
             pageantry
             is
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Children
             of
             the
             unborn
             world
             shall
             spy
             the
             stone
          
           
             That
             covers
             him
             ,
             and
             to
             their
             fellowes
             cry
          
           
             Just
             here
             ,
             just
             here
             abouts
             
               Barclay
            
             doth
             lie
             .
          
           
             Let
             them
             with
             faigned
             titles
             fortifie
          
           
             Their
             tombs
             ,
             whose
             sickly
             vertues
             fear
             to
             die
             .
          
           
             And
             let
             their
             tombs
             belie
             them
             ,
             call
             them
             blest
             ,
          
           
             And
             charitable
             marble
             faigne
             the
             rest
             .
          
           
             He
             needs
             not
             ,
             when
             lifes
             true
             story
             is
             done
             ,
          
           
             The
             lying
             proscript
             of
             a
             perjured
             stone
             .
          
           
             Then
             spare
             his
             tomb
             ,
             that
             's
             needlesse
             and
             unsafe
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             virtue
             must
             outlive
             his
             Epitaph
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             A
             welcome
             to
             Sack
             .
          
           
             SO
             soft
             streams
             meet
             ,
             so
             streams
             with
             gladder
             smiles
          
           
             Meet
             after
             long
             divorcement
             by
             the
             Iles
          
           
             When
             love
             the
             child
             of
             likenesse
             leadeth
             on
          
           
             Their
             christall
             natures
             to
             an
             union
             .
          
           
             So
             meet
             stoln
             kisses
             when
             the
             moon-shine
             nights
          
           
             Call
             forth
             fierce
             lovers
             to
             their
             wisht
             delights
             .
          
           
             So
             Kings
             and
             Queens
             meet
             when
             desire
             convinces
          
           
             All
             thoughts
             but
             those
             that
             aime
             at
             getting
             Princes
             ;
          
           
             As
             I
             meet
             thee
             soule
             of
             my
             life
             and
             fame
             ▪
          
           
             Eternall
             lamp
             of
             love
             ,
             whose
             radiant
             flame
          
           
             Out-stares
             the
             Heavens
             Osiris
             ,
             and
             thy
             gleams
          
           
             Darkens
             the
             splendour
             of
             his
             midday
             beames
             .
          
           
             Welcome
             ô
             welcome
             my
             illustrious
             spouse
             ,
          
           
             Welcome
             as
             is
             the
             end
             unto
             my
             vowes
             .
          
           
             Nay
             far
             more
             welcome
             then
             the
             happy
             soyl
          
           
             The
             Sea-scourg'd
             Merchant
             after
             all
             his
             toyl
          
           
             Salutes
             with
             tears
             of
             joy
             ,
             when
             fires
             display
          
           
             The
             smoaking
             chimnies
             of
             his
             Ithaca
             .
          
           
             Where
             hast
             thou
             been
             so
             long
             from
             my
             embraces
          
           
             Poor
             pittied
             exile
             ,
             tell
             me
             did
             thy
             graces
          
           
             Fly
             discontented
             hence
             ,
             and
             for
             a
             time
          
           
             Did
             rather
             chuse
             to
             blesse
             some
             other
             clime
             :
          
           
           
             And
             was
             it
             to
             this
             end
             thou
             wentst
             to
             move
             me
          
           
             More
             by
             thy
             absence
             to
             desire
             and
             love
             thee
             .
          
           
             Why
             frowns
             my
             sweet
             ?
             why
             does
             my
             Saint
             defer
          
           
             Her
             bosome
             smiles
             from
             me
             her
             worshipper
             .
          
           
             Why
             are
             those
             happy
             looks
             (
             the
             which
             have
             bin
          
           
             Time
             past
             so
             fragant
             )
             sickly
             now
             drawn
             in
          
           
             Like
             a
             dull
             twilight
             ?
             tell
             me
             has
             my
             soul
          
           
             Prophaned
             in
             speech
             ,
             or
             done
             an
             act
             more
             foul
          
           
             Against
             thy
             purer
             nature
             ,
             for
             that
             fault
          
           
             I
             le
             expiate
             with
             fire
             ,
             with
             haire
             ,
             and
             salt
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             the
             christall
             humour
             of
             the
             spring
          
           
             Purge
             hence
             the
             guilt
             ,
             and
             aire
             ,
             the
             quarrelling
             .
          
           
             Wilt
             thou
             not
             smile
             ,
             or
             tell
             me
             what
             amisse
             ,
          
           
             Have
             I
             bin
             cold
             to
             hug
             thee
             ,
             too
             remisse
          
           
             And
             temperate
             in
             embracings
             ?
             has
             desire
          
           
             To
             thee-ward
             died
             in
             the
             embers
             ,
             and
             no
             fire
          
           
             Left
             in
             this
             rak'd
             up
             ash-heap
             as
             a
             mark
          
           
             To
             testifie
             the
             glowing
             of
             a
             spark
             ?
          
           
             Have
             I
             divorc'd
             thee
             onely
             to
             combine
             ▪
          
           
             And
             quench
             my
             lust
             upon
             some
             other
             wine
             ?
          
           
             True
             I
             confesse
             I
             left
             thee
             ,
             and
             appeal
          
           
             T
             was
             done
             by
             me
             more
             to
             confirm
             my
             zeal
          
           
             And
             double
             my
             affection
             ,
             as
             doe
             those
          
           
             Whose
             love
             grows
             more
             inflam'd
             by
             being
             foes
             .
          
           
             But
             to
             forsake
             thee
             ever
             ,
             could
             there
             be
          
           
             A
             thought
             of
             such
             impossibility
             ?
          
           
             When
             thou
             thy self
             dost
             say
             thy
             Isles
             shall
             lack
          
           
             Grapes
             ,
             ere
             that
             
               Herrick
            
             leaves
             Canary
             Sack
             .
          
           
             Thou
             art
             my
             life
             ,
             my
             Heaven
             ,
             salt
             to
             all
          
           
             My
             dearest
             dainties
             ,
             thou
             the
             principall
          
           
           
             Fire
             to
             all
             my
             functions
             ,
             giv'st
             me
             blood
             ,
          
           
             Chine
             ,
             spirit
             ,
             and
             marrow
             and
             what
             else
             is
             good
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             mak'st
             me
             airy
             ,
             active
             ,
             to
             be
             borne
          
           
             Like
             
               Iphictus
            
             upon
             the
             tops
             of
             corne
             ,
          
           
             And
             mak'st
             me
             winged
             like
             the
             nimble
             Howers
          
           
             To
             dance
             and
             caper
             on
             the
             heads
             of
             flowers
             ,
          
           
             And
             ride
             the
             Sunbeams
             .
             Can
             there
             be
             a
             thing
          
           
             Under
             the
             heavenly
             Isis
             that
             can
             bring
          
           
             More
             love
             unto
             my
             life
             ,
             or
             can
             present
          
           
             My
             Genius
             with
             a
             fuller
             blandishment
             ?
          
        
         
           
             A
             Parodox
             on
             the
             praise
             of
             a
             painted
             face
             .
          
           
             NOt
             kiss
             ?
             by
             
               Jove
            
             I
             must
             and
             make
             impression
          
           
             As
             long
             as
             
               Cupid
            
             dares
             to
             hold
             his
             Session
          
           
             Upon
             thy
             flesh
             and
             blood
             ,
             our
             kisses
             shall
          
           
             Out
             minute
             time
             ,
             and
             without
             number
             fall
             .
          
           
             Doe
             not
             I
             know
             these
             balls
             of
             blushing
             red
          
           
             That
             on
             thy
             cheeks
             thus
             amorously
             are
             spred
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             snowy
             neck
             ,
             those
             veins
             upon
             thy
             brow
          
           
             Which
             with
             their
             azure
             crinkling
             sweetly
             bow
             ,
          
           
             Are
             from
             art
             borrowed
             ,
             and
             no
             more
             thine
             own
          
           
             Then
             chains
             that
             on
             St.
             
             
               Georges
            
             day
             are
             shown
          
           
             Are
             proper
             to
             the
             wearer
             ?
             yet
             for
             this
          
           
             I
             Idoll
             thee
             ,
             and
             beg
             a
             courteous
             kisse
             .
          
           
           
             The
             Fucus
             and
             Cerusse
             which
             on
             thy
             face
          
           
             The
             cunning
             hand
             doth
             lay
             to
             add
             more
             grace
             ,
          
           
             Deceive
             me
             with
             such
             pleasing
             fraud
             ,
             that
             I
          
           
             Find
             in
             thy
             art
             wh●t
             can
             in
             nature
             lie
             :
          
           
             Much
             like
             a
             Painter
             which
             upon
             some
             wall
          
           
             On
             which
             the
             cadent
             Sun-beams
             use
             to
             fall
             ,
          
           
             Paints
             with
             such
             art
             a
             guilded
             butterfly
             ,
          
           
             That
             silly
             maids
             with
             slow-made
             fingers
             try
          
           
             To
             catch
             it
             ,
             and
             then
             blush
             at
             their
             mistake
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             of
             this
             painted
             fly
             much
             reckoning
             make
             .
          
           
             Such
             is
             our
             state
             ,
             since
             what
             we
             look
             upon
          
           
             Is
             nought
             but
             colour
             and
             proportion
             :
          
           
             Give
             me
             a
             face
             that
             is
             as
             full
             of
             lies
          
           
             As
             Gipsies
             or
             your
             cunning
             Lotteries
             ;
          
           
             That
             is
             more
             false
             and
             more
             sophisticate
          
           
             Then
             are
             your
             reliques
             ,
             or
             a
             man
             of
             state
             :
          
           
             Yet
             such
             being
             glazed
             by
             the
             slight
             of
             art
          
           
             Gaine
             admiration
             ,
             and
             win
             many
             a
             heart
             .
          
           
             Put
             case
             there
             be
             a
             difference
             in
             the
             mould
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             may
             thy
             
               Venus
            
             be
             more
             brisk
             and
             bold
             .
          
           
             —
             for
             oftentimes
             we
             see
          
           
             Rich
             Candy
             wines
             in
             wooden
             bowles
             to
             be
             .
          
           
             The
             odoriferous
             Civet
             doth
             not
             lye
          
           
             Within
             the
             Muscats
             nose
             ,
             or
             eare
             ,
             or
             eye
             ,
          
           
             But
             in
             a
             baser
             place
             :
             for
             prudent
             nature
          
           
             In
             drawing
             up
             the
             various
             forms
             and
             stature
             ,
          
           
             Gives
             from
             the
             curious
             shop
             of
             her
             large
             treasure
          
           
             To
             faire
             parts
             comelinesse
             ,
             to
             baser
             pleasure
             .
          
           
             The
             fairest
             flower
             that
             in
             the
             spring
             doth
             grow
          
           
             Is
             not
             so
             much
             for
             use
             ,
             as
             for
             a
             show
             .
          
           
           
             As
             Lillies
             ,
             Hyacinths
             ,
             the
             gorgeous
             birth
          
           
             Of
             all
             pied
             flowers
             which
             diaper
             the
             earth
             ,
          
           
             Please
             more
             with
             their
             discolourd
             purple
             traine
          
           
             Then
             wholesom
             potherbs
             which
             for
             use
             remaine
             .
          
           
             Should
             I
             a
             golden
             speckled
             Serpent
             kisse
          
           
             Because
             the
             colour
             which
             he
             wears
             is
             his
             ?
          
           
             A
             perphum'd
             cordovant
             who
             would
             not
             wear
             ,
          
           
             Because
             it
             s
             sent
             is
             borrowed
             other
             where
             ?
          
           
             The
             cloths
             and
             vestiments
             which
             grace
             us
             all
          
           
             Are
             not
             our
             own
             but
             adventitiall
             .
          
           
             Time
             rifles
             natures
             beauty
             ,
             but
             sly
             art
          
           
             Repaires
             by
             cunning
             each
             decaied
             part
             ,
          
           
             Fills
             here
             a
             wrinkle
             ,
             and
             there
             purles
             a
             veine
             ;
          
           
             And
             with
             a
             cunning
             hand
             runs
             ore
             againe
          
           
             The
             breaches
             dented
             by
             the
             pen
             of
             time
             ,
          
           
             And
             makes
             deformity
             to
             be
             no
             crime
             ▪
          
           
             So
             when
             great
             men
             are
             grip'd
             by
             sicknesse
             :
             hand
             ,
          
           
             Illustrious
             phisick
             pregnantly
             doth
             stand
          
           
             To
             patch
             up
             foule
             diseases
             ,
             and
             doth
             strive
          
           
             To
             keep
             their
             tottering
             carkases
             alive
             .
          
           
             Beauty
             a
             candle
             is
             ,
             with
             every
             puffe
          
           
             Blown
             out
             ,
             leaves
             nothing
             but
             a
             stinking
             snuffe
          
           
             To
             fill
             our
             nostrils
             with
             :
             thus
             boldly
             think
          
           
             The
             purest
             candle
             yields
             the
             foulest
             stink
             :
          
           
             As
             the
             pure
             food
             ,
             and
             daintiest
             nutriment
             ,
          
           
             Yields
             the
             most
             strong
             and
             hottest
             excrement
             .
          
           
             Why
             hang
             we
             then
             on
             things
             so
             apt
             to
             vary
             ,
          
           
             So
             fleeting
             ,
             brittle
             ,
             and
             so
             temporary
             ,
          
           
             That
             agues
             ,
             coughs
             ,
             the
             toothach
             ,
             or
             cathar
             ,
          
           
             Slight
             touches
             of
             diseases
             spoil
             and
             mar
             .
          
           
           
             But
             when
             that
             age
             their
             beauty
             doth
             displace
             ,
          
           
             And
             plows
             up
             furrows
             in
             their
             once
             smooth
             face
             ;
          
           
             Then
             they
             become
             forsaken
             and
             do
             show
          
           
             Like
             stately
             Abbies
             destroyed
             long
             ago
             .
          
           
             Love
             grant
             me
             then
             a
             reparable
             face
             ,
          
           
             That
             whilst
             there
             colours
             are
             can
             want
             no
             grace
             :
          
           
             Pygmalions
             painted
             statue
             I
             could
             love
             ,
          
           
             If
             it
             were
             warme
             ,
             and
             soft
             ,
             or
             could
             but
             move
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               WHen
               
                 Orpheus
              
               swetly
               did
               complain
            
             
               Upon
               his
               Lute
               with
               heavy
               strain
            
             
               How
               his
               
                 Euridice
              
               was
               slain
               ;
            
             
               The
               trees
               to
               hear
            
             
               Obtain'd
               an
               eare
            
             
               And
               after
               left
               it
               off
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
               At
               every
               stroke
               and
               every
               stay
            
             
               The
               boughs
               kept
               time
               and
               nodding
               lay
               ,
            
             
               And
               listned
               bending
               every
               way
               ;
            
             
               The
               ashen
               tree
            
             
               As
               well
               as
               well
               as
               he
            
             
               Began
               to
               shake
               and
               learnt
               to
               play
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               If
               wood
               could
               speak
               ,
               a
               tree
               might
               hear
               ,
            
             
               If
               wood
               can
               sound
               our
               griefe
               so
               near
               ,
            
             
               A
               tree
               might
               drop
               an
               amber
               tear
               :
            
             
               If
               wood
               so
               well
            
             
               Could
               sound
               a
               knell
               ,
            
             
               The
               Cypresse
               might
               condoal
               the
               bear
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               standing
               nobles
               of
               the
               grove
               ,
            
             
               Hearing
               dead
               wood
               to
               speak
               and
               move
               ,
            
             
               The
               fatall
               axe
               began
               to
               love
               ;
            
             
               They
               envied
               death
            
             
               That
               gave
               such
               breath
               ,
            
             
               As
               men
               alive
               doe
               Saints
               above
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             Mr.
             
               Hoptons
            
             death
             .
          
           
             GRiefs
             prodigals
             where
             are
             you
             ?
             unthrifts
             wher
             ?
          
           
             Whose
             tears
             and
             sighs
             extemporary
             are
             ;
          
           
             Pour'd
             out
             ,
             not
             spent
             ,
             who
             never
             ask
             a
             day
          
           
             Your
             debt
             of
             sorrow
             on
             the
             grave
             to
             pay
             ;
          
           
             But
             as
             if
             one
             hours
             mourning
             could
             suffice
             ,
          
           
             Dare
             think
             it
             now
             no
             sin
             to
             have
             dry
             eyes
             :
          
           
             Away
             ,
             profane
             not
             
               Hoptons
            
             death
             ,
             nor
             shame
          
           
             His
             grave
             with
             griefe
             not
             worthy
             of
             that
             name
             :
          
           
             Sorrow
             conceiv'd
             and
             vented
             both
             together
             ;
          
           
             Like
             prayers
             of
             Puritans
             ,
             or
             in
             foul
             weather
          
           
           
             The
             sailers
             forc't
             devotion
             ,
             when
             in
             fear
          
           
             They
             pray
             this
             minute
             ,
             and
             the
             next
             they
             swear
             .
          
           
             No
             I
             must
             meet
             with
             men
             ,
             men
             that
             doe
             know
          
           
             How
             to
             compute
             their
             tears
             and
             weigh
             their
             wo
             ;
          
           
             That
             can
             set
             down
             in
             an
             exact
             account
          
           
             To
             what
             the
             losse
             of
             
               Hopton
            
             doth
             amount
             :
          
           
             Tell
             you
             particulars
             ,
             how
             much
             of
             truth
          
           
             Of
             unmatch'd
             virtue
             and
             untainted
             youth
          
           
             Is
             gone
             with
             him
             ,
             and
             having
             sum'd
             all
             look
          
           
             Like
             bankrupt
             Merchants
             on
             their
             table
             book
             ,
          
           
             With
             eyes
             confounded
             and
             amaz'd
             to
             find
          
           
             The
             poor
             and
             blanck
             remainder
             left
             behind
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             his
             Mistresse
             eye
             .
          
           
             AM
             I
             once
             more
             blest
             with
             a
             grace
             so
             high
          
           
             As
             to
             be
             lookt
             on
             with
             that
             other
             eye
             ?
          
           
             Or
             shall
             I
             think
             it
             once
             more
             sent
             againe
          
           
             To
             iterate
             my
             souls
             sweet
             lasting
             paine
             ?
          
           
             Your
             other
             eye
             ,
             dear
             soule
             ,
             had
             fire
             before
          
           
             And
             darts
             enough
             ,
             you
             need
             not
             have
             sought
             more
          
           
             From
             this
             revived
             ;
             scarce
             could
             I
             endure
          
           
             The
             lustre
             of
             this
             eye
             when
             't
             was
             obscure
             :
          
           
             How
             shall
             I
             now
             when
             like
             a
             fresh-born
             Sun
          
           
             It
             strikes
             forth
             such
             a
             new
             reflection
             ?
          
           
             Yet
             welcome
             ,
             dearest
             torment
             ,
             spare
             not
             me
          
           
             Dart
             forth
             more
             flames
             ,
             they
             please
             if
             sent
             from
             thee
          
           
           
             I
             hope
             your
             eyes
             as
             they
             in
             lustre
             doe
             ,
          
           
             Will
             imitate
             the
             Sun
             in
             virtue
             too
             .
          
           
             If
             plagues
             and
             sicknesses
             from
             him
             be
             sent
          
           
             Yet
             gives
             he
             warmth
             ,
             life
             ,
             growth
             and
             nourishment
             .
          
           
             This
             is
             my
             comfort
             now
             ,
             if
             one
             eye
             strike
             ,
          
           
             The
             other
             may
             give
             remedy
             alike
             .
          
           
             Welcome
             againe
             clear
             lamp
             of
             beauty
             ;
             shine
             ,
          
           
             Shine
             bright
             on
             Earth
             as
             do
             the
             soule
             divine
             ,
          
           
             To
             which
             my
             thoughts
             with
             like
             devotion
             run
          
           
             As
             
               Indians
            
             adore
             the
             rising
             Sun
             .
          
           
             Now
             shall
             I
             mine
             own
             Image
             view
             alive
          
           
             In
             this
             extenuating
             perspective
             ,
          
           
             This
             living
             looking
             glasse
             ,
             when
             thou
             shalt
             grace
          
           
             Me
             ,
             sweet
             ,
             so
             much
             as
             to
             admit
             my
             face
          
           
             Neighbour
             to
             thine
             ,
             o
             how
             I
             then
             shall
             love
          
           
             To
             see
             my
             shape
             in
             that
             black
             stream
             to
             move
             :
          
           
             Against
             all
             reason
             I
             then
             more
             admire
          
           
             My
             shadow
             there
             ,
             then
             my
             whole
             selfe
             entire
             .
          
           
             How
             oft
             (
             though
             loth
             from
             that
             sweet
             seat
             to
             part
             )
          
           
             Strive
             I
             to
             travell
             that
             way
             to
             thy
             heart
             ;
          
           
             Where
             if
             one
             wink
             doe
             thy
             quick
             look
             recall
             ,
          
           
             I
             loose
             ,
             poor
             wretch
             ,
             my
             shadow
             ,
             selfe
             ,
             and
             all
             .
          
           
             Thus
             all
             the
             life
             which
             I
             so
             glorious
             thought
          
           
             By
             thy
             sole
             wink
             is
             quencht
             and
             turn'd
             to
             nought
             .
          
           
             Oh
             how
             I
             wont
             to
             curse
             that
             cobweb
             lawn
          
           
             Which
             like
             a
             curtaine
             ore
             thy
             eye
             was
             drawn
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             that
             death
             upon
             that
             eye
             did
             sit
             ,
          
           
             And
             this
             had
             bin
             the
             winding
             sheet
             for
             it
             ,
          
           
             The
             which
             ,
             as
             it
             from
             off
             that
             eye
             was
             thrown
             ,
          
           
             Seemd
             to
             look
             pale
             for
             griefe
             that
             it
             was
             gone
             .
          
           
           
             Yet
             when
             both
             this
             and
             t'other
             dainty
             robe
          
           
             Did
             close
             like
             cases
             that
             most
             heavenly
             globe
             ,
          
           
             Think
             not
             they
             could
             disparage
             your
             faire
             eyes
             ;
          
           
             No
             more
             then
             painters
             doe
             their
             chiefest
             prize
             ;
          
           
             Who
             use
             to
             hang
             some
             veil
             or
             silken
             sheet
             ,
          
           
             That
             men
             may
             more
             desire
             and
             long
             to
             se'it
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             Dr.
             
               Griffith
            
             heald
             of
             a
             strange
             cure
             by
             
               Bernard
               Wright
            
             of
             
               Oxford
               .
            
          
           
             WElcome
             abroad
             ,
             ô
             welcome
             from
             your
             bed
          
           
             I
             joy
             to
             see
             you
             thus
             delivered
             .
          
           
             After
             four
             years
             in
             travell
             issues
             forth
          
           
             A
             birth
             of
             lasting
             wonder
             ,
             whereat
             truth
          
           
             Might
             well
             suspect
             her selfe
             ,
             a
             new
             disease
          
           
             Borne
             to
             advance
             the
             Surgeons
             of
             our
             dayes
          
           
             Above
             all
             others
             :
             a
             perfidious
             bone
          
           
             Eaten
             and
             undermind
             by
             humours
             grown
             :
          
           
             Lodg'd
             in
             the
             captive
             thigh
             ,
             which
             first
             of
             any
          
           
             Halted
             ,
             yet
             furnisht
             with
             a
             bone
             to
             many
             ;
          
           
             No
             Golgotha
             ,
             nor
             charnell
             house
             ,
             nor
             field
             ,
          
           
             If
             all
             were
             searcht
             could
             such
             another
             yield
             ,
          
           
             A
             bone
             so
             lockt
             and
             hugd
             ,
             as
             is
             a
             bar
          
           
             That
             back
             and
             forward
             may
             be
             wrested
             far
          
           
             But
             not
             puld
             out
             at
             either
             hole
             ,
             nor
             could
          
           
             The
             cunning
             workman
             come
             to
             't
             as
             he
             would
             :
          
           
           
             Crosse
             veins
             did
             guard
             the
             sore
             ,
             a
             hollow
             cave
          
           
             Must
             wade
             into
             the
             flesh
             ,
             the
             Surgeons
             grave
          
           
             Thus
             being
             digd
             ,
             the
             file
             without
             delay
          
           
             Must
             grate
             the
             bone
             ,
             and
             carve
             those
             chips
             away
             .
          
           
             Blest
             be
             the
             midmen
             whose
             dexterity
          
           
             Puld
             out
             a
             birth
             like
             
               Bacchus
            
             from
             the
             thigh
             .
          
           
             Tutors
             of
             nature
             ,
             whose
             well
             guided
             art
          
           
             Can
             rectifie
             her
             wants
             in
             every
             part
             :
          
           
             Who
             by
             preserving
             others
             pay
             the
             debt
          
           
             They
             owe
             to
             nature
             ,
             and
             doe
             rebeget
          
           
             Her
             strength
             grown
             ruinate
             :
             I
             could
             be
             glad
          
           
             Such
             liv'd
             the
             dayes
             which
             they
             to
             others
             add
             :
          
           
             Nor
             can
             I
             rightly
             tell
             the
             happier
             man
          
           
             The
             patient
             or
             the
             Surgeon
             ;
             doe
             but
             scan
          
           
             His
             praise
             thy
             ease
             ,
             't
             was
             sure
             an
             extasie
          
           
             That
             kild
             
               Van-otto
            
             not
             a
             lethargy
             ;
          
           
             Striving
             to
             crown
             his
             work
             he
             bravely
             tryed
          
           
             His
             last
             and
             greatest
             cure
             then
             gladly
             dyed
             .
          
           
             
               Bernard
            
             must
             tarry
             longer
             ;
             should
             he
             flye
          
           
             After
             his
             brother
             all
             the
             world
             must
             dye
             ▪
          
           
             Or
             live
             a
             cripple
             ;
             
               Griffiths
            
             happy
             fate
          
           
             Requires
             the
             same
             hand
             still
             to
             iterate
          
           
             No
             lesse
             a
             miracle
             :
             the
             joyners
             skill
          
           
             Could
             never
             mend
             his
             carved
             pate
             so
             well
          
           
             As
             he
             hath
             heald
             a
             naturall
             :
             the
             stout
          
           
             And
             boasting
             
               Paracelsus
            
             who
             gives
             out
          
           
             His
             rule
             can
             give
             mans
             life
             eternity
             ,
          
           
             Would
             faintly
             doubt
             of
             his
             recovery
             ;
          
           
             He
             that
             hath
             wrought
             these
             cures
             I
             think
             he
             can
          
           
             As
             well
             of
             scraps
             make
             up
             a
             perfect
             man
             .
          
           
           
             Oh
             had
             you
             seen
             his
             marrow
             drop
             away
             ,
          
           
             Or
             the
             others
             brains
             drop
             out
             ,
             then
             would
             you
             say
          
           
             Nothing
             could
             cure
             this
             fracture
             or
             that
             bone
          
           
             Save
             
               Bernard
            
             or
             the
             Resurrection
             .
          
           
             Now
             smile
             upon
             thy
             torment
             ,
             pretty
             thing
          
           
             How
             will
             you
             use
             it
             ?
             bury
             it
             in
             a
             ring
          
           
             Like
             a
             deaths
             head
             ,
             or
             send
             it
             to
             the
             grave
          
           
             In
             earnest
             of
             the
             body
             it
             must
             have
             :
          
           
             Or
             if
             you
             will
             you
             may
             the
             same
             translate
          
           
             Into
             a
             die
             because
             't
             was
             fortunate
             ;
          
           
             The
             ring
             were
             blest
             ,
             't
             is
             like
             a
             Diamond
             born
          
           
             Out
             of
             a
             Rock
             ,
             so
             was
             it
             hewn
             and
             torn
          
           
             Out
             of
             your
             thigh
             :
             the
             gem
             worth
             nothing
             is
          
           
             Untill
             it
             be
             cut
             forth
             ,
             no
             more
             is
             this
             .
          
           
             Happy
             are
             you
             that
             know
             what
             treasure
             't
             is
          
           
             To
             find
             lost
             health
             ,
             they
             onely
             feel
             the
             blisse
             :
          
           
             Thou
             that
             hast
             felt
             these
             pains
             ,
             maist
             wel
             maintain
          
           
             Mans
             chiefest
             pleasure
             is
             but
             want
             of
             pain
             .
          
           
             Enjoy
             thy selfe
             ;
             for
             nothing
             worse
             can
             come
          
           
             To
             one
             so
             schoold
             and
             vers'd
             in
             martyrdome
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             The
             Liberty
             and
             Requiem
             of
             an
             imprisoned
             Royalist
             .
          
           
             
               BEat
               on
               proud
               billows
               ,
               
                 Boreas
              
               blow
            
             
               Swell'd
               curled
               Waves
               high
               as
               
                 Joves
              
               roof
               ,
            
             
               Your
               incivility
               shall
               know
               ,
            
             
               That
               innocence
               is
               tempest
               proof
               .
            
             
               Though
               surly
               
                 Nereus
              
               frown
               ,
               my
               thoughts
               are
               calm
               ,
            
             
               Then
               strike
               (
               afflictions
               )
               for
               your
               wounds
               are
               balm
               .
            
          
           
             
               That
               which
               the
               world
               miscalls
               a
               jaile
               ,
            
             
               A
               private
               closet
               is
               to
               me
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               a
               good
               conscience
               is
               my
               baile
               ,
            
             
               And
               innocence
               my
               liberty
               .
            
             
               Locks
               ,
               bars
               ,
               walls
               ,
               lonenesse
               ,
               tho
               together
               met
               ,
            
             
               Make
               me
               no
               prisoner
               ,
               but
               an
               Anchoret
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               ,
               whilst
               I
               wisht
               to
               be
               retir'd
               ,
            
             
               Into
               this
               private
               room
               was
               turn'd
            
             
               As
               if
               their
               wisdomes
               had
               conspir'd
            
             
               A
               Salamander
               should
               be
               burn'd
               :
            
             
               And
               like
               those
               Sophies
               who
               would
               drown
               a
               fish
               ,
            
             
               I
               am
               condemn'd
               to
               suffer
               what
               I
               wish
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               The
               Cynick
               hug
               his
               poverty
               ,
            
             
               The
               Pelicane
               her
               wildernesse
               ,
            
             
               And
               't
               is
               the
               
                 Indians
              
               pride
               to
               lye
            
             
               Naked
               on
               frozen
               
                 Caucasus
                 .
              
            
             
               And
               like
               to
               these
               ,
               Stoicks
               severe
               we
               see
            
             
               Make
               torments
               easie
               by
               their
               apathy
               .
            
          
           
             
               These
               manicles
               upon
               my
               arme
            
             
               I
               as
               my
               sweethearts
               favours
               wear
               ,
            
             
               And
               then
               to
               keep
               my
               ancles
               warm
            
             
               I
               have
               some
               Iron
               shackles
               there
               :
            
             
               These
               walls
               are
               but
               my
               garrison
               ,
               this
               Cell
            
             
               Which
               men
               call
               Jaile
               ,
               doth
               prove
               my
               Citadell
            
          
           
             
               So
               he
               that
               strook
               at
               
                 Jasons
              
               life
               ,
            
             
               Thinking
               h'
               had
               made
               his
               purpose
               sure
               ,
            
             
               By
               a
               malicious
               friendly
               knife
               ,
            
             
               Did
               onely
               wound
               him
               to
               a
               cure
               .
            
             
               Malice
               I
               see
               wants
               wit
               ,
               for
               what
               is
               meant
            
             
               Mischiefe
               ,
               oft
               times
               proves
               favour
               by
               th'
               event
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               'me
               in
               this
               Cabinet
               lockt
               up
            
             
               Like
               some
               high
               prized
               Margarite
               ;
            
             
               Or
               like
               some
               great
               Mogul
               ,
               or
               Pope
               ,
            
             
               Am
               cloyster'd
               up
               from
               publique
               sight
               :
            
             
               Retir'dnesse
               is
               a
               part
               of
               majesty
               ,
            
             
               And
               thus
               ,
               proud
               
                 Sultan
                 ,
              
               I
               'me
               as
               great
               as
               thee
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               Here
               sin
               for
               want
               of
               food
               doth
               starve
               ,
            
             
               Where
               tempting
               objects
               are
               not
               seen
               ,
            
             
               And
               these
               walls
               doe
               onely
               serve
            
             
               To
               keep
               vice
               out
               ,
               not
               keep
               me
               in
               ▪
            
             
               Malice
               of
               late
               's
               grown
               charitable
               sure
               ,
            
             
               I
               'me
               not
               committed
               ,
               but
               am
               kept
               secure
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               once
               my
               Prince
               affliction
               hath
               ,
            
             
               Prosperity
               doth
               treason
               seem
               ,
            
             
               And
               then
               to
               smooth
               so
               rough
               a
               path
            
             
               I
               can
               learn
               patience
               too
               from
               him
               .
            
             
               Now
               not
               to
               suffer
               shews
               no
               loyall
               heart
               ,
            
             
               When
               Kings
               want
               ●ase
               subjects
               must
               love
               to
               smart
               .
            
          
           
             
               What
               tho
               I
               cannot
               see
               my
               King
            
             
               Either
               in
               's
               person
               or
               his
               coyne
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               contemplation
               is
               a
               thing
            
             
               Which
               renders
               what
               I
               have
               not
               mine
               ▪
            
             
               My
               King
               from
               me
               no
               Adamant
               can
               part
               ,
            
             
               Whom
               I
               doe
               wear
               ingraven
               in
               my
               heart
               .
            
          
           
             
               My
               soul
               's
               free
               ,
               as
               th'
               ambient
               aire
               ,
            
             
               Altho
               my
               baser
               part
               's
               immur'd
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               loyall
               thoughts
               doe
               still
               repaire
            
             
               T'
               accompany
               my
               solitude
               .
            
             
               And
               though
               rebellion
               doe
               my
               body
               bind
               ,
            
             
               My
               King
               can
               onely
               captivate
               my
               mind
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               Have
               you
               not
               seen
               the
               Nightingale
            
             
               When
               turn'd
               a
               Pilgrim
               to
               a
               cage
               ,
            
             
               How
               she
               doth
               sing
               her
               wonted
               tale
            
             
               In
               that
               her
               narrow
               hermitage
               ;
            
             
               Even
               there
               her
               chanting
               melody
               doth
               prove
            
             
               That
               all
               her
               bars
               are
               trees
               ,
               her
               cage
               a
               grove
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               am
               that
               bird
               ,
               which
               they
               combine
            
             
               Thus
               to
               deprive
               of
               liberty
               ,
            
             
               Who
               though
               they
               doe
               my
               corps
               confine
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               maugre
               hate
               my
               soule
               is
               free
               :
            
             
               And
               tho
               immur'd
               ,
               yet
               can
               I
               chirp
               and
               sing
            
             
               Disgrace
               to
               rebells
               ,
               glory
               to
               my
               King
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             his
             imperious
             Mistresse
             .
          
           
             
               WEll
               ,
               well
               't
               is
               true
               ,
            
             
               I
               am
               now
               fal'n
               in
               love
               ,
            
             
               And
               t
               is
               with
               you
               ;
            
             
               And
               now
               I
               plainly
               see
               ,
            
             
               While
               you
               'r
               enthron'd
               by
               me
               above
            
             
               You
               all
               your
               art
               and
               power
               improve
            
             
               To
               tyranize
               ore
               me
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               my
               flames
               the
               objects
               of
               your
               scorn
               ,
            
             
               While
               you
               rejoyce
               ,
               and
               feast
               your
               eyes
               ,
               to
               see
               me
               quite
               forlorn
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               But
               yet
               be
               wise
               ,
            
             
               And
               don't
               believe
               that
               I
            
             
               Doe
               think
               your
               eyes
            
             
               More
               bright
               than
               Stars
               can
               be
               ,
            
             
               Or
               that
               you
               Angels
               far
               out-vy
            
             
               In
               their
               Coelestiall
               livery
            
             
               T
               was
               all
               but
               Poetry
               .
            
             
               I
               could
               have
               said
               as
               much
               by
               any
               she
               ,
            
             
               You
               are
               no
               beauty
               of
               your selfe
               ,
               but
               are
               made
               so
               by
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               Though
               we
               like
               fools
            
             
               Fathome
               the
               Earth
               and
               sky
               ,
            
             
               And
               drain
               the
               Schools
            
             
               For
               names
               t'
               expresse
               you
               by
               ,
            
             
               Out-rend
               all
               loud
               hyperbolyes
            
             
               To
               dub
               our
               fancies
               Deityes
            
             
               By
               
                 Cupids
              
               heraldry
               ;
            
             
               We
               know
               you
               'r
               flesh
               and
               blood
               as
               well
               as
               men
               ,
            
             
               And
               when
               we
               please
               can
               mortalize
               ,
               and
               make
               you
               so
               agen
               .
            
          
           
             
               Yet
               since
               my
               fate
            
             
               Hath
               drawn
               me
               to
               the
               thing
            
             
               Which
               I
               did
               hate
               ,
            
             
               I
               le
               not
               my
               labour
               loose
               ;
            
             
               But
               will
               love
               ,
               and
               as
               I
               begin
            
             
               To
               the
               purpose
               ,
               now
               my
               hand
               is
               in
               ,
            
             
               Spight
               of
               the
               art
               you
               use
               :
            
             
               And
               have
               you
               know
               the
               world
               is
               not
               so
               bare
               ;
            
             
               Ther
               's
               things
               enough
               to
               love
               besides
               such
               toyes
               as
               Ladies
               are
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               I
               'le
               love
               good
               wine
               ,
            
             
               I
               'le
               love
               my
               book
               and
               muse
               ,
            
             
               Nay
               all
               the
               nine
               ;
            
             
               I
               'le
               love
               my
               reall
               friend
               :
            
             
               I
               'le
               love
               my
               horse
               ;
               and
               could
               I
               chuse
            
             
               One
               that
               my
               love
               would
               not
               abuse
               ,
            
             
               To
               her
               my
               love
               should
               bend
               .
            
             
               I
               will
               love
               those
               that
               laugh
               ,
               and
               those
               that
               sing
               ,
            
             
               I
               le
               never
               pine
               my selfe
               away
               for
               any
               female
               thing
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             Dr.
             
               Ravis
            
             Bishop
             of
             
               London
               .
            
          
           
             WHen
             I
             pass'd
             
               Pauls
            
             and
             traveld
             on
             the
             walk
          
           
             Where
             all
             our
             
               Brittain
            
             sinners
             swear
             and
             talk
             :
          
           
             Old
             
               Harry
               Ruffians
               ,
            
             Bankrupts
             ,
             and
             South-sayers
             ,
          
           
             And
             youths
             whose
             cousenage
             is
             as
             old
             as
             theirs
             :
          
           
             And
             there
             beheld
             the
             body
             of
             my
             Lord
          
           
             Trod
             under
             foot
             of
             vice
             which
             he
             abhord
             ;
          
           
             It
             griev'd
             me
             that
             the
             Landlord
             of
             all
             times
          
           
             Should
             set
             long
             lives
             and
             leases
             to
             their
             crimes
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             his
             springing
             honours
             should
             afford
          
           
             Scarce
             so
             much
             Sun
             as
             to
             the
             prophets
             gourd
             :
          
           
             But
             since
             swift
             flights
             of
             vertue
             have
             good
             ends
             ,
          
           
             Like
             breath
             of
             Angells
             which
             a
             blessing
             sends
          
           
           
             And
             vanisheth
             withall
             ,
             whilst
             fouler
             deeds
          
           
             Expect
             a
             tedious
             harvest
             for
             bad
             seeds
             .
          
           
             I
             blame
             not
             fame
             and
             nature
             ,
             if
             they
             gave
          
           
             Where
             they
             could
             give
             no
             more
             ,
             their
             last
             a
             grave
             ;
          
           
             And
             justly
             doe
             thy
             grieved
             friends
             forbear
          
           
             Marble
             and
             Alabaster
             boyes
             to
             rear
          
           
             Ore
             thy
             Religious
             dust
             ,
             because
             they
             know
          
           
             Thy
             worth
             ,
             which
             such
             allusions
             cannot
             shew
             ,
          
           
             For
             thou
             hast
             trod
             amongst
             those
             happy
             ones
             ,
          
           
             Who
             trust
             not
             in
             their
             superscriptions
             ,
          
           
             Their
             hired
             Epitaphs
             and
             perjur'd
             stone
             ,
          
           
             Which
             so
             belies
             the
             soule
             when
             she
             is
             gone
             :
          
           
             Thou
             doest
             commit
             thy
             body
             as
             it
             lies
          
           
             To
             tongues
             of
             living
             men
             ,
             not
             unborn
             eyes
             ;
          
           
             What
             profits
             then
             a
             sheet
             of
             lead
             ?
             what
             good
          
           
             If
             on
             thy
             coarse
             a
             Marble
             quarry
             stood
             ?
          
           
             Let
             those
             that
             fear
             their
             rising
             purchase
             vaults
             ,
          
           
             And
             rear
             them
             statues
             to
             excuse
             their
             faults
             ;
          
           
             As
             if
             like
             birds
             that
             peck
             at
             Painters
             grapes
             ▪
          
           
             The
             judg
             knew
             not
             their
             persons
             from
             their
             shapes
             .
          
           
             Nor
             needs
             the
             Chancelor
             boast
             ,
             whose
             Pyramis
          
           
             Above
             the
             House
             and
             Altar
             reared
             is
             ;
          
           
             For
             though
             thy
             body
             fill
             a
             viler
             room
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             shalt
             not
             change
             deeds
             with
             him
             for
             his
             tomb
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             Dr.
             
               Langton
               .
            
          
           
             BEcause
             of
             fleshy
             mould
             we
             be
          
           
             Subject
             unto
             mortality
             ;
          
           
             Let
             no
             man
             wonder
             at
             his
             death
             ,
          
           
             More
             flesh
             he
             had
             ,
             and
             then
             lesse
             breath
             :
          
           
             But
             if
             you
             question
             how
             he
             dyed
          
           
             T
             was
             not
             the
             fall
             of
             swelling
             pride
             ,
          
           
             T
             was
             no
             ambition
             to
             ascend
          
           
             Heaven
             in
             humility
             :
             his
             end
             ▪
          
           
             Assured
             us
             his
             God
             did
             make
          
           
             This
             piece
             for
             our
             example
             sake
             .
          
           
             Had
             you
             but
             seen
             him
             in
             his
             way
          
           
             To
             Church
             his
             last
             best
             Sabbath
             day
             ,
          
           
             His
             strugling
             soule
             did
             make
             such
             hast
          
           
             As
             if
             each
             breath
             should
             be
             his
             last
             ;
          
           
             Each
             stone
             he
             trod
             on
             sinking
             strove
          
           
             To
             make
             his
             grave
             ,
             and
             shewed
             his
             love
             ▪
          
           
             O
             how
             his
             sweating
             body
             wept
             ,
          
           
             Knowing
             how
             soon
             it
             should
             be
             swept
          
           
             i
             th'
             mould
             ;
             but
             while
             he
             steals
             to
             pray
             ,
          
           
             His
             weighty
             members
             long
             to
             stay
             ,
          
           
             Each
             word
             did
             bring
             a
             breathlesse
             tear
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             he
             'd
             leave
             his
             spirit
             there
             :
          
           
           
             He
             gone
             looks
             back
             as
             t
             were
             to
             see
          
           
             The
             place
             where
             he
             would
             buried
             be
             ,
          
           
             Bowing
             as
             if
             did
             desire
          
           
             At
             the
             same
             time
             for
             to
             expire
             :
          
           
             Which
             being
             done
             he
             long
             shall
             dwell
          
           
             Within
             the
             place
             he
             loved
             so
             well
             ;
          
           
             Where
             night
             and
             morning
             hundreds
             come
          
           
             A
             Pilgrimage
             unto
             his
             tomb
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             the
             Bell-Founder
             of
             great
             Tom
             of
             Christ-Church
             in
             
               Oxford
               .
            
          
           
             
               THou
               that
               by
               ruine
               doest
               repaire
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               destruction
               art
               a
               Founder
               :
            
             
               Whose
               art
               doth
               tell
               us
               what
               men
               are
               ,
            
             
               Who
               by
               corruption
               shall
               rise
               sounder
               :
            
             
               In
               this
               fierce
               fires
               intensive
               heat
               ,
            
             
               Remember
               this
               is
               Tom
               the
               great
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               ,
               Cyclops
               ,
               think
               at
               every
               stroak
            
             
               With
               which
               thy
               sledge
               his
               side
               shall
               wound
               ,
            
             
               That
               then
               some
               Statute
               thou
               hast
               broak
            
             
               Which
               long
               depended
               on
               his
               sound
               ;
            
             
               And
               that
               our
               Colledge-Gates
               doe
               cry
            
             
               They
               were
               not
               shut
               since
               Tom
               did
               die
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               Think
               what
               a
               scourge
               't
               is
               to
               the
               City
            
             
               To
               drink
               and
               swear
               by
               
                 Carfax
              
               Bell
               ,
            
             
               Which
               bellowing
               without
               tune
               or
               pitty
            
             
               The
               night
               and
               day
               devides
               not
               well
               ;
            
             
               But
               the
               poor
               tradesmen
               must
               give
               ore
            
             
               His
               ale
               at
               eight
               or
               sit
               till
               four
               .
            
          
           
             
               We
               all
               in
               hast
               drink
               off
               our
               wine
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               we
               never
               should
               drink
               more
               ;
            
             
               So
               that
               the
               reckoning
               after
               nine
            
             
               Is
               larger
               now
               then
               that
               before
               .
            
             
               Release
               this
               tongue
               which
               erst
               could
               say
            
             
               Home
               Scollers
               ;
               drawer
               what
               's
               to
               pay
               ?
            
          
           
             
               So
               thou
               of
               order
               shalt
               be
               Founder
               ,
            
             
               Making
               a
               Ruler
               for
               the
               people
               ,
            
             
               One
               that
               shalt
               ring
               thy
               praises
               rounder
            
             
               Then
               t'other
               six
               bells
               in
               the
               steeple
               :
            
             
               Wherefore
               think
               when
               Tom
               is
               running
            
             
               Our
               manners
               wait
               upon
               thy
               cunning
               .
            
          
           
             
               Then
               let
               him
               raised
               be
               from
               ground
            
             
               The
               same
               in
               number
               ,
               weight
               ,
               and
               sound
               ;
            
             
               For
               may
               thy
               conscience
               rule
               thy
               gaine
               ,
            
             
               Or
               would
               thy
               theft
               might
               be
               thy
               baine
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             a
             Gentleman
             ,
             that
             kissing
             his
             Mistresse
             left
             blood
             upon
             her
             .
          
           
             WHat
             mystery
             is
             this
             that
             I
             should
             find
          
           
             My
             blood
             in
             kissing
             you
             to
             stay
             behind
             ?
          
           
             T
             was
             not
             for
             want
             of
             colour
             that
             required
          
           
             My
             blood
             for
             paint
             :
             no
             die
             could
             be
             desired
          
           
             On
             that
             faire
             cheeck
             ,
             where
             scarlet
             were
             a
             spot
             ,
          
           
             And
             where
             the
             juice
             of
             Lillies
             but
             a
             blot
             :
          
           
             If
             at
             the
             presence
             of
             the
             murtherer
          
           
             The
             wound
             will
             bleed
             ,
             and
             tell
             the
             cause
             is
             there
             ,
          
           
             A
             touch
             will
             doe
             much
             more
             :
             even
             so
             my
             heart
          
           
             When
             secretly
             it
             felt
             your
             killing
             dart
          
           
             Shewed
             it
             in
             blood
             ;
             which
             yet
             doth
             more
             complain
          
           
             Because
             it
             cannot
             be
             so
             toucht
             again
             .
          
           
             This
             wounded
             heart
             to
             shew
             its
             love
             most
             true
          
           
             Sent
             forth
             a
             drop
             and
             wrote
             its
             mind
             on
             you
             ;
          
           
             Was
             ever
             paper
             halfe
             so
             white
             as
             this
             ,
          
           
             Or
             wax
             so
             yielding
             to
             the
             printed
             kisse
             ?
          
           
             Or
             seal
             so
             strong
             ?
             no
             letter
             ere
             was
             writ
          
           
             That
             could
             the
             Authors
             mind
             so
             truly
             fit
             :
          
           
             For
             though
             my selfe
             to
             forraine
             countries
             fly
          
           
             My
             blood
             desires
             to
             keep
             you
             company
             ;
          
           
           
             Here
             I
             could
             spill
             it
             all
             ,
             thus
             I
             can
             free
          
           
             My
             enemy
             from
             blood
             though
             slaine
             I
             be
             :
          
           
             But
             slaine
             I
             cannot
             be
             ,
             nor
             meet
             with
             ill
             ,
          
           
             Since
             but
             to
             you
             I
             have
             no
             blood
             to
             spill
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             an
             aged
             Gentlewoman
             .
          
           
             NO
             spring
             nor
             summers
             beauty
             hath
             such
             grace
          
           
             As
             I
             have
             seen
             in
             one
             autumnall
             face
             .
          
           
             Young
             beauties
             force
             their
             loves
             ,
             and
             that
             's
             a
             rape
             ,
          
           
             Your's
             doth
             but
             counsell
             ,
             yet
             they
             cannot
             scape
             :
          
           
             If
             't
             were
             a
             shame
             to
             love
             ,
             here
             t
             were
             no
             shame
             ,
          
           
             Affection
             takes
             here
             reverences
             name
             ▪
          
           
             Were
             her
             first
             years
             the
             golden
             age
             ?
             that
             's
             true
             ;
          
           
             But
             now
             she
             's
             gold
             oft
             tried
             and
             ever
             new
             :
          
           
             That
             was
             her
             torrid
             and
             inflaming
             time
             ,
          
           
             This
             is
             her
             tolerable
             tropick
             clime
             .
          
           
             Faire
             eyes
             ,
             who
             askes
             more
             heat
             then
             comes
             from
             thence
             ,
          
           
             He
             in
             a
             feaver
             wishes
             pestilence
             .
          
           
             Call
             not
             those
             wrinkles
             graves
             ,
             if
             graves
             they
             were
          
           
             They
             were
             loves
             graves
             ,
             for
             els
             they
             are
             no where
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             lies
             not
             love
             dead
             here
             ,
             but
             here
             doth
             sit
          
           
             Vowed
             to
             this
             trench
             like
             to
             an
             Anchoret
             :
          
           
             And
             here
             till
             her
             (
             which
             must
             be
             his
             )
             death's
          
           
             He
             doth
             not
             dig
             a
             grave
             ,
             but
             build
             a
             tomb
             :
          
           
             Here
             dwells
             he
             ,
             though
             he
             sojourne
             every where
             doom
          
           
             In
             progresse
             ,
             yet
             his
             standing
             house
             is
             here
             .
          
           
           
             She
             allwayes
             evening
             is
             ,
             nor
             noon
             nor
             night
             ,
          
           
             Where
             's
             no
             voluptuousnsse
             ,
             though
             a
             delight
             .
          
           
             
               Xerxes
            
             strange
             love
             ,
             the
             broad-leav'd
             plantane
             tree
             ,
          
           
             Was
             loved
             for
             age
             ,
             none
             being
             so
             large
             as
             she
          
           
             Or
             else
             because
             being
             young
             ,
             nature
             did
             blesse
          
           
             Her
             youth
             with
             ages
             glory
             barrennesse
             .
          
           
             If
             we
             love
             things
             long
             sought
             ,
             age
             is
             a
             thing
          
           
             Which
             we
             are
             sixty
             years
             a
             compassing
             :
          
           
             If
             transitory
             things
             which
             soon
             decay
             ,
          
           
             Age
             must
             be
             loveliest
             at
             the
             latest
             day
             .
          
           
             But
             name
             not
             winter-faces
             ,
             whose
             skin
             's
             slack
             ,
          
           
             Lank
             like
             an
             unthrifts
             purse
             ,
             or
             empty
             sack
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             eyes
             seek
             light
             within
             ,
             for
             all
             here
             's
             shade
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             mouth
             's
             a
             hole
             rather
             worn
             out
             then
             made
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             severall
             tooth
             to
             a
             severall
             place
             is
             gone
          
           
             To
             vex
             their
             soules
             at
             the
             Resurrection
             :
          
           
             Name
             not
             these
             living
             deaths-heads
             unto
             me
             ,
          
           
             For
             such
             not
             antient
             ,
             but
             antiques
             be
             .
          
           
             I
             hate
             extreams
             ;
             yet
             I
             had
             rather
             stay
          
           
             With
             tombs
             then
             cradles
             to
             wear
             out
             the
             day
             :
          
           
             Since
             that
             loves
             naturall
             motion
             is
             ▪
             may
             still
          
           
             My
             love
             descend
             and
             journey
             down
             the
             hill
             ;
          
           
             Not
             panting
             after
             growing
             beauties
             ,
             so
          
           
             I
             shall
             ebb
             on
             with
             them
             that
             homewards
             go
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             his
             Mistresse
             going
             to
             Sea
             .
          
           
             FArewell
             fair
             Saint
             ,
             may
             not
             the
             Seas
             and
             wind
          
           
             Swel
             like
             the
             heart
             and
             eyes
             you
             leave
             behind
             ,
          
           
             But
             calme
             and
             gentle
             (
             like
             the
             looks
             they
             bear
             )
          
           
             Smile
             on
             your
             face
             and
             whisper
             in
             your
             eare
             :
          
           
             Let
             no
             foule
             billow
             offer
             to
             arise
          
           
             That
             it
             may
             nearer
             look
             upon
             your
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Least
             wind
             and
             waves
             enamourd
             with
             such
             form
          
           
             Should
             throng
             and
             croud
             themselves
             into
             a
             storm
             ;
          
           
             But
             if
             it
             be
             your
             fate
             (
             vast
             Seas
             )
             to
             love
             ,
          
           
             Of
             my
             becalmed
             heart
             learn
             how
             to
             move
             :
          
           
             Move
             then
             ,
             but
             in
             a
             gentle
             lovers
             pace
             ,
          
           
             No
             wrinkles
             nor
             no
             furrowes
             in
             your
             face
             ;
          
           
             And
             ye
             fierce
             winds
             see
             that
             you
             tell
             your
             tale
          
           
             In
             such
             a
             breath
             as
             may
             but
             fill
             her
             saile
             :
          
           
             So
             whilst
             you
             court
             her
             each
             his
             severall
             way
          
           
             You
             will
             her
             safely
             to
             her
             port
             convay
             ;
          
           
             And
             loose
             her
             in
             a
             noble
             way
             of
             woing
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             both
             contribute
             to
             your
             own
             undoing
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             A
             Copy
             of
             Verses
             spoke
             to
             King
             
               CHARLES
            
             by
             way
             of
             entertainment
             when
             he
             was
             pleas'd
             to
             grace
             S.
             
               John's
            
             Colledge
             with
             his
             visit
             .
             
               1636.
               
            
          
           
             
               WEre
               they
               not
               Angells
               sang
               ,
               did
               not
               mine
               eares
            
             
               Drink
               in
               a
               sacred
               Anthem
               from
               you
               sphears
               ?
            
             
               Was
               I
               not
               blest
               with
               
                 Charles
              
               and
               
                 Maries
              
               name
               ,
            
             
               Names
               wherein
               dwells
               all
               Musick
               ?
               t
               is
               the
               same
               .
            
             
               Hark
               ,
               I
               my self
               now
               but
               speak
               
                 Charles
              
               and
               
                 Mary
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               't
               is
               a
               Poem
               ,
               nay
               't
               is
               a
               library
               ▪
            
          
           
             
               All
               haile
               to
               your
               dread
               Majesties
               ,
               whose
               power
            
             
               Adds
               lustre
               to
               our
               feast
               ,
               and
               to
               our
               bower
               :
            
             
               And
               what
               place
               fitter
               for
               so
               Royall
               guests
            
             
               Then
               this
               ,
               where
               every
               book
               presents
               a
               feast
               .
            
             
               Here
               's
               
                 Virgils
              
               well-drest
               Venison
               ,
               here
               's
               the
               wine
            
             
               Made
               
                 Horace
              
               sing
               so
               sweetly
               ;
               here
               you
               dine
            
             
               With
               the
               rich
               
                 Cleopatra's
              
               warelike
               love
               ;
            
             
               Nay
               you
               may
               feast
               and
               frolick
               here
               with
               
                 Jove
                 .
              
            
             
               Next
               view
               that
               bower
               ,
               which
               is
               as
               yet
               all
               green
               ,
            
             
               But
               when
               you
               'r
               there
               ,
               the
               red
               and
               white
               are
               seen
               .
            
             
               A
               bower
               ,
               which
               had
               (
               t
               is
               true
               )
               been
               beautified
            
             
               With
               catechising
               Arras
               on
               each
               side
               ;
            
             
             
               But
               we
               the
               Baptists
               sons
               did
               much
               desire
            
             
               To
               have
               it
               like
               the
               dwelling
               of
               our
               sire
            
             
               A
               grove
               or
               desart
               .
               See
               (
               dread
               Leige
               )
               you
               le
               guesse
            
             
               Even
               our
               whole
               Colledge
               in
               a
               wildernesse
               .
            
             
               Your
               eyes
               and
               eares
               being
               fed
               ,
               tast
               of
               that
               feast
               ,
            
             
               Which
               hath
               its
               pomp
               and
               glory
               from
               its
               guest
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             new
             Quadrangle
             of
             St.
             
               Johns
            
             Colledge
             in
             
               Oxford
               ,
            
             built
             by
             the
             most
             Reverend
             Father
             in
             God
             the
             Lord
             Archbishop
             of
             
               Canterbury
               .
            
          
           
             T
             Is
             done
             ;
             and
             now
             wheres
             he
             that
             cryed
             it
             down
          
           
             For
             the
             long
             tedious
             businesse
             of
             the
             Town
             ;
          
           
             Let
             him
             but
             see
             it
             thus
             ,
             and
             hee
             l
             contend
          
           
             How
             we
             could
             such
             a
             Quadrat
             so
             soon
             end
             ,
          
           
             Nay
             think
             't
             was
             time
             little
             enough
             to
             frame
          
           
             The
             exact
             modell
             onely
             of
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             finish'd
             then
             ;
             and
             so
             ,
             there
             's
             not
             the
             eye
          
           
             Can
             blame
             it
             ,
             that
             's
             best
             skilld
             in
             Symmetry
             :
          
           
             You
             'd
             think
             each
             stone
             were
             rais'd
             by
             
               Orpheus
            
             art
             ,
          
           
             There
             's
             such
             sweet
             harmony
             in
             every
             part
             .
          
           
             Thus
             they
             are
             one
             :
             yet
             if
             you
             please
             to
             pry
          
           
             But
             farther
             in
             the
             quaint
             variety
          
           
             Of
             the
             choise
             workmen
             ,
             there
             will
             seem
             to
             be
          
           
             A
             disagreeing
             uniformity
             .
          
           
             Here
             Angels
             ,
             stars
             ,
             there
             vertues
             arts
             are
             seen
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             whom
             all
             these
             meet
             the
             King
             and
             Queen
             .
          
           
           
             Next
             view
             the
             smoothfaced
             columns
             ,
             and
             each
             one
          
           
             Looks
             like
             a
             pile
             of
             well
             joynd
             Punice-stone
             :
          
           
             Nor
             wonder
             ,
             for
             as
             smooth
             ,
             as
             cleare
             they
             are
          
           
             As
             is
             your
             Mistresse
             glasse
             ,
             or
             what
             shines
             there
             .
          
           
             So
             that
             you
             'd
             think
             at
             first
             sight
             at
             a
             blush
          
           
             The
             massy
             sollid
             earth
             Diaphanous
             .
          
           
             But
             these
             are
             common
             ,
             would
             you
             see
             that
             thing
          
           
             In
             which
             our
             King
             delights
             ,
             which
             in
             our
             King
             ?
          
           
             Look
             up
             ,
             and
             then
             with
             reverence
             cast
             your
             eye
          
           
             Upon
             our
             
               Maryes
            
             comely
             Majesty
             :
          
           
             T
             is
             she
             ,
             and
             yet
             had
             you
             her self
             ere
             seen
             ,
          
           
             
             
             swear
             but
             for
             the
             crown
             't
             were
             not
             the
             Queen
             .
          
           
             Nor
             i
             st
             the
             workmans
             fault
             ;
             for
             what
             can
             be
          
           
             I
             would
             faine
             know
             like
             to
             a
             Deity
             ?
          
           
             Unlesse
             her
             
               Charles
               ;
            
             yet
             hath
             his
             statue
             proved
          
           
             So
             like
             himselfe
             you
             'd
             think
             it
             spoke
             and
             mov'd
             ,
          
           
             But
             that
             you
             plainely
             see
             t
             is
             brasse
             ;
             nay
             were
          
           
             The
             Guard
             but
             near
             ,
             they
             'd
             cry
             the
             King
             ,
             be
             bare
             .
          
           
             Rare
             forme
             ,
             and
             as
             rare
             matter
             ;
             that
             can
             give
          
           
             O●r
             
               Charles
            
             after
             his
             reigne
             ages
             to
             live
             .
          
           
             Not
             like
             your
             graver
             Citizens
             wise
             cost
             ,
          
           
             Who
             think
             they
             have
             King
             enough
             on
             a
             sign-post
             :
          
           
             Where
             he
             may
             stand
             (
             for
             all
             I
             see
             )
             unknown
             ,
          
           
             But
             for
             the
             loving
             superscription
             .
          
           
             No
             ;
             here
             he
             reigns
             in
             state
             ,
             to
             every
             eye
          
           
             So
             like
             himselfe
             in
             compleat
             Majesty
             ,
          
           
             That
             men
             shall
             cry
             ,
             viewing
             his
             limbs
             and
             face
          
           
             All
             fresh
             three
             ages
             hence
             ,
             long
             live
             his
             Grace
             .
          
           
             Blest
             be
             that
             subject
             then
             ,
             which
             did
             foresee
          
           
             The
             Kings
             (
             though
             he
             's
             as
             God
             )
             mortality
             :
          
           
           
             And
             through
             a
             Princely
             care
             hath
             found
             the
             way
          
           
             To
             reinthrone
             his
             dust
             and
             crown
             his
             clay
             ;
          
           
             That
             so
             what
             strange
             events
             soere
             may
             fall
          
           
             Through
             peace
             or
             war
             antimonarchical
             :
          
           
             Though
             these
             three
             Kingdoms
             should
             becom
             one
             flame
          
           
             And
             that
             consume
             us
             with
             our
             King
             and
             his
             name
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             here
             our
             gracious
             
               Charles
            
             whenever
             lent
          
           
             To
             his
             much
             honourd
             Marble
             ,
             and
             there
             spent
          
           
             To
             a
             dust's
             atome
             ,
             being
             then
             scarce
             a
             thing
             ,
          
           
             May
             still
             reigne
             on
             ,
             and
             long
             survive
             a
             King
             .
          
        
         
           
             Fortunes
             Legacy
             .
          
           
             BLind
             fortune
             if
             thou
             wants
             a
             guide
             ;
          
           
             I
             le
             shew
             thee
             how
             thou
             shalt
             divide
             ,
          
           
             Distribute
             unto
             each
             his
             due
             :
          
           
             Justice
             is
             blind
             and
             so
             are
             you
             .
          
           
             Toth'
             Userer
             this
             doom
             impart
             ,
          
           
             May
             Scriveners
             break
             and
             then
             his
             heart
             ;
          
           
             His
             debters
             all
             to
             beggery
             call
             ,
          
           
             Or
             what
             's
             as
             bad
             turne
             Courtiers
             all
             .
          
           
             Unto
             the
             tradesmen
             that
             sell
             dear
          
           
             A
             long
             Vacation
             all
             the
             year
             ,
          
           
             Revenge
             us
             too
             for
             their
             deceits
          
           
             By
             sending
             wives
             light
             as
             their
             weights
             .
          
           
             But
             fortune
             how
             wilt
             recompence
          
           
             The
             Frenchmens
             daily
             insolence
             ?
          
           
           
             That
             they
             may
             know
             no
             greater
             paine
          
           
             May
             they
             returne
             to
             
               France
            
             againe
             .
          
           
             To
             lovers
             ,
             that
             will
             not
             believe
          
           
             Their
             sweet
             mistakes
             ,
             thy
             blindnesse
             give
             .
          
           
             And
             least
             the
             Players
             should
             grow
             poor
          
           
             Give
             them
             
               Aglaura's
            
             more
             and
             more
             .
          
           
             To
             Phisitians
             if
             thou
             please
          
           
             Give
             them
             another
             new
             disease
             .
          
           
             To
             Schollers
             give
             (
             if
             thou
             canst
             doe
             't
             )
          
           
             A
             Benefice
             without
             a
             suit
             .
          
           
             To
             court
             Lords
             grant
             monopolies
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             their
             wives
             communities
             :
          
           
             So
             fortune
             thou
             shalt
             please
             them
             all
             ,
          
           
             When
             Lords
             doe
             rise
             and
             Ladies
             fall
             .
          
           
             Give
             to
             the
             Lawers
             I
             beseech
          
           
             As
             much
             for
             silence
             as
             for
             speech
             .
          
           
             Give
             Ladies
             Ushers
             strength
             of
             back
             ,
          
           
             And
             unto
             me
             a
             cup
             of
             Sack
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             Vpon
             a
             Gentlewomans
             entertainment
             of
             him
             .
          
           
             WHether
             ,
             sweet
             Mistresse
             ,
             I
             should
             most
          
           
             Commend
             your
             Musick
             or
             your
             cost
             :
          
           
             Your
             well
             spread
             table
             ,
             or
             the
             choise
          
           
             Banquet
             of
             your
             hand
             and
             voyce
             ,
          
           
             There
             's
             none
             will
             doubt
             .
             For
             can
             there
             be
          
           
             Twixt
             earth
             and
             Heaven
             analogy
             ?
          
           
             Or
             shall
             a
             trencher
             or
             dish
             stand
          
           
             In
             competition
             with
             your
             hand
             ?
          
           
             Your
             hand
             ,
             that
             turns
             men
             all
             to
             eare
             :
          
           
             Your
             hand
             ,
             whose
             every
             joynts
             a
             sphear
             .
          
           
             For
             certainly
             he
             that
             shall
             see
          
           
             The
             swiftnesse
             of
             your
             harmony
             ,
          
           
             Will
             streightwayes
             in
             amazement
             prove
          
           
             The
             spheares
             to
             you
             but
             slowly
             move
             ;
          
           
             And
             in
             that
             thought
             confesse
             that
             thus
          
           
             The
             Heavens
             are
             come
             down
             to
             us
             .
          
           
             As
             he
             may
             well
             ;
             when
             he
             shall
             hear
          
           
             Such
             Aires
             as
             may
             be
             sung
             even
             there
             ;
          
           
           
             Your
             sacred
             Anthems
             ,
             strains
             that
             may
          
           
             Grace
             the
             eternall
             Quire
             to
             play
             :
          
           
             And
             certainly
             they
             were
             prepar'd
          
           
             By
             Angells
             onely
             to
             be
             heard
          
           
             Then
             happy
             I
             that
             was
             so
             blest
          
           
             To
             be
             yours
             and
             your
             Musicks
             quest
             ;
          
           
             For
             which
             I
             de
             change
             all
             other
             chear
             ,
          
           
             Thinking
             the
             best
             though
             given
             to
             dear
             .
          
           
             For
             yours
             are
             delicates
             that
             fill
             ,
          
           
             And
             filling
             leave
             us
             empty
             still
             :
          
           
             Sweetmeats
             that
             surfet
             to
             delight
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             fullnesse
             is
             meere
             appetite
             .
          
           
             Then
             farewell
             all
             our
             heavenly
             fare
             ,
          
           
             Those
             singing
             dainties
             of
             the
             aire
             ;
          
           
             For
             you
             to
             me
             doe
             seem
             as
             good
          
           
             As
             all
             the
             consorts
             of
             the
             wood
             ;
          
           
             And
             might
             I
             but
             enjoy
             my
             choice
             ,
          
           
             My
             Quire
             should
             be
             your
             onely
             voyce
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             To
             a
             black
             Gentlewoman
             Mistresse
             
               A.
               H.
               
            
          
           
             GRieve
             not
             (
             faire
             maid
             )
             cause
             you
             are
             black
             ;
             so
             's
             she
          
           
             That
             's
             spouse
             to
             him
             who
             died
             upon
             the
             tree
             :
          
           
             And
             so
             is
             every
             thing
             .
             For
             to
             your
             thought
             ,
          
           
             If
             you
             but
             wink
             ,
             the
             worlds
             as
             dark
             as
             nought
             .
          
           
             Or
             doe
             but
             look
             abroad
             and
             you
             shall
             meet
          
           
             In
             every
             hallowed
             Church
             ,
             in
             every
             street
             ,
          
           
             The
             fairest
             still
             in
             this
             ;
             who
             think
             they
             lack
          
           
             Of
             their
             perfections
             if
             not
             all
             in
             black
             :
          
           
             Their
             gowns
             ,
             their
             veiles
             are
             so
             ,
             nay
             more
             their
             necks
             ,
          
           
             Their
             very
             beauties
             are
             foild
             off
             with
             specks
          
           
             Of
             the
             dark
             colour
             .
             Whilst
             thus
             to
             her
             mate
          
           
             Each
             seems
             more
             faire
             .
             Now
             they
             but
             personate
          
           
             What
             you
             are
             really
             .
             Your
             fairest
             haire
          
           
             Shadows
             the
             Picture
             of
             your
             face
             more
             faire
             :
          
           
             Your
             two
             black
             sphears
             are
             like
             two
             Globes
             beset
          
           
             With
             Ebony
             ,
             or
             ring'd
             about
             with
             Jet
             .
          
           
             O
             how
             I
             now
             desire
             ene
             to
             depart
          
           
             From
             all
             the
             rest
             ,
             and
             study
             the
             Black
             art
             :
          
           
             But
             since
             that
             's
             not
             alowed
             me
             ,
             I
             will
             see
          
           
             How
             I
             may
             truely
             ,
             fairest
             ,
             study
             thee
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             To
             the
             Memory
             of
             BEN
             :
             JOHNSON
             .
          
           
             AS
             when
             the
             vestall
             hearth
             went
             out
             ,
             no
             fire
          
           
             Lesse
             holy
             then
             the
             flame
             that
             did
             expire
          
           
             Could
             kindle
             it
             againe
             :
             so
             at
             thy
             fall
          
           
             Our
             wit
             great
             
               Ben
               ,
            
             is
             too
             Apocriphall
          
           
             To
             celebrate
             the
             losse
             ;
             since
             t
             is
             too
             much
          
           
             To
             write
             thy
             Epitaph
             ,
             and
             not
             be
             such
             .
          
           
             What
             thou
             wert
             ,
             like
             the
             hard
             Oracles
             of
             old
          
           
             Without
             an
             extasie
             cannot
             be
             told
             .
          
           
             We
             must
             be
             ravisht
             first
             ,
             thou
             must
             infuse
          
           
             Thy selfe
             into
             us
             both
             the
             theam
             and
             muse
             .
          
           
             Else
             ,
             though
             we
             all
             conspir'd
             to
             make
             thy
             herse
          
           
             Our
             work
             ,
             so
             that
             it
             had
             been
             but
             one
             great
             verse
             :
          
           
             Though
             the
             Priest
             had
             translated
             for
             that
             time
          
           
             The
             Liturgy
             ,
             and
             buried
             thee
             in
             rime
             ;
          
           
             So
             that
             in
             meeter
             we
             had
             heard
             it
             said
          
           
             Poetique
             dust
             is
             to
             Poetique
             laid
             :
          
           
             And
             though
             that
             dust
             being
             
               Shakespears
               ,
            
             thou
             mighst
             have
          
           
             Not
             his
             room
             but
             the
             Poet
             for
             thy
             grave
             ;
          
           
             So
             that
             as
             thou
             didst
             Prince
             of
             numbers
             dye
          
           
             And
             live
             ,
             so
             now
             thou
             mighst
             in
             numbers
             lye
             ;
          
           
             T
             were
             fraile
             solemnity
             .
             Verses
             on
             thee
          
           
             And
             not
             like
             thine
             ,
             would
             but
             kind
             libels
             be
             ;
          
           
             And
             we
             ,
             not
             speaking
             thy
             whole
             worth
             ,
             should
             raise
          
           
             Worse
             blots
             then
             they
             that
             envied
             thy
             praise
             ▪
          
           
           
             Indeed
             thou
             needst
             not
             us
             ,
             since
             above
             all
          
           
             Invention
             ,
             thou
             wert
             thine
             own
             funerall
             .
          
           
             Hereafter
             when
             time
             hath
             fed
             on
             thy
             Tomb
             ,
          
           
             The
             inscription
             worne
             out
             ,
             and
             the
             marble
             dumb
             ;
          
           
             So
             that
             't
             would
             pose
             a
             Crittick
             to
             restore
          
           
             Halfe
             words
             ,
             and
             words
             expir'd
             so
             long
             before
             .
          
           
             When
             thy
             maim'd
             statue
             hath
             a
             sentencd
             face
             ,
          
           
             And
             looks
             that
             are
             the
             horrour
             of
             the
             place
             ;
          
           
             That
             t
             will
             be
             learning
             and
             antiquity
          
           
             To
             ask
             a
             
               Selden
            
             to
             say
             this
             was
             thee
             ;
          
           
             Thou
             'lt
             have
             a
             whole
             name
             still
             :
             nor
             needst
             thou
             fear
          
           
             That
             will
             be
             ruind
             ,
             or
             loose
             nose
             or
             hair
             .
          
           
             Let
             others
             write
             so
             thin
             ,
             that
             they
             can't
             be
          
           
             Authors
             till
             rotten
             ,
             no
             posterity
          
           
             Can
             add
             to
             thy
             works
             ,
             th'
             had
             their
             whole
             growth
             then
          
           
             When
             first
             borne
             ,
             and
             came
             aged
             from
             the
             pen
             .
          
           
             Whilst
             living
             thou
             enjoyest
             the
             fame
             and
             sence
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             that
             time
             gives
             but
             the
             reverence
             .
          
           
             When
             
             tha'rt
             of
             
               Homers
            
             years
             ,
             no
             man
             will
             say
          
           
             Thy
             Poems
             are
             lesse
             worthy
             ,
             but
             more
             gray
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             bastard
             Poetry
             ,
             and
             of
             the
             false
             blood
          
           
             Which
             can't
             withot
             succession
             be
             good
             .
          
           
             Things
             that
             will
             always
             last
             ,
             doe
             thus
             agree
          
           
             With
             things
             Eternall
             ,
             they
             at
             once
             perfect
             be
             .
          
           
             Scorne
             then
             their
             censure
             ,
             who
             gave
             out
             thy
             wit
          
           
             As
             long
             about
             a
             Comedy
             did
             sit
             ,
          
           
             As
             Elephants
             bring
             forth
             ;
             and
             that
             thy
             blots
          
           
             And
             mendings
             took
             moretime
             then
             
               Fortune
            
             plots
             :
          
           
             That
             such
             thy
             drought
             was
             ,
             and
             so
             great
             thy
             thirst
             ,
          
           
             That
             all
             thy
             Plays
             were
             drawn
             at
             the
             Mermaid
             first
             .
          
           
           
             That
             the
             Kings
             yearly
             Butt
             wrote
             ,
             and
             his
             wine
          
           
             Had
             more
             right
             then
             thou
             to
             thy
             Cateline
             .
          
           
             Let
             such
             men
             keep
             a
             diet
             ,
             let
             their
             wit
          
           
             Be
             rackt
             ,
             and
             while
             they
             write
             ,
             suffer
             a
             fit
          
           
             When
             they
             have
             felt
             tortures
             which
             outpaine
             the
             gouut
             ,
          
           
             Such
             as
             with
             lesse
             the
             State
             draws
             Treason
             out
             ;
          
           
             Though
             they
             should
             the
             length
             of
             consumption
             lie
             ,
          
           
             Sick
             of
             their
             Verse
             ,
             and
             of
             their
             Poem
             die
             ,
          
           
             T
             would
             not
             be
             thy
             worst
             Scene
             ,
             but
             would
             at
             last
          
           
             Confirme
             their
             boastings
             ,
             and
             shew
             't
             made
             in
             hast
             .
          
           
             He
             that
             writes
             well
             ,
             writes
             quick
             ,
             since
             the
             rules
             true
             ,
          
           
             Nothing
             is
             slowly
             done
             ,
             that
             's
             always
             new
             .
          
           
             So
             when
             thy
             Fox
             had
             ten
             times
             Acted
             been
             ,
          
           
             Each
             day
             was
             first
             ,
             but
             that
             t
             was
             cheaper
             seen
             .
          
           
             And
             so
             thy
             Alchymist
             Played
             ore
             and
             ore
             ,
          
           
             Was
             new
             o
             th'
             stage
             ,
             when
             t
             was
             not
             at
             the
             door
             .
          
           
             We
             ,
             like
             the
             Actors
             ,
             did
             repeat
             ,
             the
             pit
          
           
             The
             first
             time
             saw
             ,
             the
             next
             conceived
             thy
             wit
             :
          
           
             Which
             was
             cast
             in
             those
             forms
             ,
             such
             rules
             ,
             such
             arts
             ,
          
           
             That
             but
             to
             some
             not
             halfe
             thy
             Acts
             were
             parts
             :
          
           
             Since
             of
             some
             silken
             judgements
             we
             may
             say
          
           
             They
             fild
             a
             box
             two
             houres
             ,
             but
             saw
             no
             Play
             .
          
           
             So
             that
             the
             unlearned
             lost
             their
             mony
             ,
             and
          
           
             Schollers
             saved
             onely
             ,
             that
             could
             understand
             .
          
           
             Thy
             Scene
             was
             free
             from
             monsters
             ,
             no
             hard
             plot
          
           
             Calld
             down
             a
             God
             t'
             untie
             the
             unlikely
             knot
             .
          
           
             The
             stage
             was
             still
             a
             stage
             ,
             two
             entrances
          
           
             Were
             not
             two
             parts
             of
             the
             world
             disjoynd
             by
             Seas
             .
          
           
             Thine
             were
             land
             Tragedies
             ,
             no
             Prince
             was
             found
          
           
             To
             swim
             a
             whole
             Scene
             out
             ,
             then
             oth'stage
             drownd
             ,
          
           
           
             Pitcht
             fields
             ▪
             and
             Red-Bul
             wars
             ,
             still
             felt
             thy
             doom
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             laidst
             no
             sieges
             to
             the
             Musick
             Room
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             wouldst
             alow
             to
             thy
             best
             Comedies
          
           
             Humors
             that
             should
             above
             the
             people
             rise
             :
          
           
             Yet
             was
             thy
             language
             and
             thy
             stile
             so
             high
          
           
             Thy
             Sock
             to
             the
             ancle
             ,
             Buskin
             reachd
             toth'
             thigh
             :
          
           
             And
             both
             so
             chast
             ,
             so
             'bove
             dramatick
             clean
             ,
          
           
             That
             we
             both
             safely
             saw
             and
             lived
             thy
             Scene
             .
          
           
             No
             foul
             loose
             line
             did
             prostitute
             thy
             wit
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             wrotst
             thy
             Comedies
             ;
             didst
             not
             commit
             .
          
           
             We
             did
             the
             vice
             arraignd
             not
             tempting
             hear
             ,
          
           
             And
             were
             made
             judges
             not
             bad
             parts
             by
             the
             eare
             .
          
           
             For
             thou
             even
             sin
             didst
             in
             such
             words
             array
             ,
          
           
             That
             some
             who
             came
             bad
             parts
             ,
             went
             out
             good
             Play
             .
          
           
             Which
             ended
             not
             with
             th'
             Epilogue
             ,
             the
             age
          
           
             Still
             Acted
             ▪
             and
             grew
             innocent
             from
             the
             stage
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             true
             thou
             hadst
             some
             sharpnesse
             ,
             but
             thy
             salt
          
           
             Serv'd
             but
             with
             pleasure
             to
             reforme
             the
             fault
             :
          
           
             Men
             were
             laught
             into
             vertue
             ,
             and
             none
             more
          
           
             Hated
             
               Face
            
             acted
             then
             were
             such
             before
             .
          
           
             So
             did
             thy
             sting
             not
             blood
             but
             humors
             draw
             ;
          
           
             So
             much
             doth
             Satyre
             more
             correct
             then
             Law
             ;
          
           
             Which
             was
             not
             nature
             in
             thee
             ,
             as
             some
             call
          
           
             Thy
             teeth
             ,
             who
             say
             thy
             wit
             lay
             in
             thy
             gall
             .
          
           
             That
             thou
             dist
             quarrel
             first
             ,
             and
             then
             in
             spight
          
           
             Didst
             'gainst
             a
             person
             of
             such
             vices
             write
             :
          
           
             And
             t
             was
             revenge
             not
             truth
             ,
             that
             on
             the
             stage
          
           
             
               Carlo
            
             was
             not
             presented
             ,
             but
             thy
             rage
             :
          
           
             And
             that
             when
             thou
             in
             company
             wert
             met
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             meat
             took
             notes
             ,
             and
             thy
             discourse
             was
             net
             .
          
           
           
             We
             know
             thy
             free
             vaine
             had
             this
             innocence
             ,
          
           
             To
             spare
             the
             party
             ,
             and
             to
             brand
             the
             offence
             .
          
           
             And
             the
             just
             indignation
             thou
             wert
             in
          
           
             Did
             not
             expose
             
               Shift
            
             but
             his
             tricks
             and
             gin
             .
          
           
             Thou
             mighst
             have
             us'd
             
             th'old
             comick
             freedome
             ,
             these
          
           
             Might
             have
             seen
             themselves
             played
             like
             
               Socrates
               .
            
          
           
             Like
             
               Cleon
               Mammon
            
             might
             the
             Knight
             have
             been
             ;
          
           
             If
             as
             Greek
             Authors
             thou
             hadst
             turn'd
             Greek
             spleen
             ;
          
           
             And
             hadst
             not
             chosen
             rather
             to
             translate
          
           
             Their
             learning
             into
             English
             ,
             not
             their
             hate
             .
          
           
             Indeed
             this
             last
             ,
             if
             thou
             hadst
             been
             bereft
          
           
             Of
             thy
             humanity
             ,
             might
             be
             called
             theft
             .
          
           
             The
             other
             was
             not
             ,
             whatsoere
             was
             strange
          
           
             Or
             borrowed
             in
             thee
             did
             grow
             thine
             by
             th'
             change
             .
          
           
             Who
             without
             Latine
             helps
             ,
             hadst
             been
             as
             rare
          
           
             As
             
               Beaument
               ,
               Fletcher
               ,
            
             or
             as
             
               Shakespeare
            
             were
             :
          
           
             And
             like
             them
             from
             thy
             native
             stock
             couldst
             say
          
           
             Poets
             and
             Kings
             are
             not
             born
             every
             day
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             An
             Answer
             to
             the
             Letter
             of
             the
             Cloake
             .
          
           
             
               Mr.
               Roberts
               ,
            
          
           
             
               I
               Wonder
               that
               you
               should
               send
               for
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               I
               thought
               you
               scornd
               it
               should
               be
               spoke
            
             
               That
               once
               your
               promise
               should
               be
               broke
               ,
            
             
               If
               from
               your
               word
               you
               doe
               revoke
            
             
               I
               have
               wit
               enough
               to
               keep
               the
               Cloak
               .
            
          
           
             
               You
               say
               you
               le
               make
               me
               smart
               for
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               I
               doe
               not
               care
               a
               fart
               for
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               I
               will
               study
               the
               black
               art
               in
               the
               Cloak
            
             
               Rather
               then
               I
               will
               part
               with
               the
               Cloak
               .
            
          
           
             
               You
               say
               you
               mean
               to
               try
               for
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               I
               scorne
               to
               tell
               a
               lye
               for
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               My
               word
               I
               le
               never
               deny
               for
               the
               Cloak
            
             
               Although
               I
               thought
               
               
               cry
               for
               the
               Cloak
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               doe
               protest
               most
               deep
               in
               the
               Cloak
            
             
               I
               did
               both
               mourne
               and
               weep
               in
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               And
               if
               I
               should
               not
               keep
               the
               Cloak
            
             
               I
               were
               a
               very
               sheep
               in
               the
               Cloak
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               I
               took
               your
               Cloak
               to
               mourne
               in
               your
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               My
               corps
               I
               did
               adorne
               in
               your
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               And
               many
               a
               time
               have
               I
               sworn
               in
               your
               Cloak
            
             
               That
               I
               will
               never
               return
               in
               your
               Cloak
               .
            
          
           
             
               Your
               father
               we
               did
               bury
               in
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               And
               after
               we
               were
               merry
               in
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               And
               then
               I
               told
               Mr.
               
                 Perry
              
               of
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               I
               am
               not
               weary
               of
               the
               Cloak
               .
            
          
           
             
               Yet
               still
               I
               stand
               in
               fear
               of
               the
               Cloak
            
             
               That
               I
               shall
               be
               never
               the
               near
               for
               the
               Cloak
               :
            
             
               I
               pray
               you
               ,
               good
               Sir
               ,
               forbear
               the
               Cloak
            
             
               I
               know
               that
               you
               can
               spare
               the
               Cloak
               .
            
          
           
             
               It
               cost
               me
               many
               a
               tear
               in
               your
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               And
               many
               a
               beaker
               of
               bear
               in
               your
               Cloak
               ;
            
             
               And
               yet
               I
               stand
               in
               fear
               of
               your
               Cloak
            
             
               That
               I
               shall
               be
               nere
               the
               near
               for
               your
               Cloak
               .
            
          
           
             
               Therefore
               ,
               good
               Sir
               ,
               forbear
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               For
               though
               I
               have
               worn
               bare
               the
               Cloak
               ,
            
             
               I
               had
               rather
               for
               to
               tear
               the
               Cloak
            
             
               Then
               see
               another
               wear
               the
               Cloak
               .
            
             
               Your
               friend
               in
               truth
               till
               death
               me
               choak
            
             
               If
               you
               will
               let
               me
               have
               the
               Cloak
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Loves
             Courtship
             .
          
           
             
               HArk
               my
               
                 Flora
                 ,
              
               Love
               doth
               call
               us
            
             
               To
               the
               strife
               that
               must
               befall
               us
               :
            
             
               He
               hath
               rob'd
               his
               mothers
               Myrtles
               ,
            
             
               And
               hath
               puld
               her
               downy
               Turtles
               .
            
             
               See
               our
               geniall
               posts
               are
               crownd
               ,
            
             
               And
               our
               beds
               like
               billowes
               rise
               :
            
             
               Softer
               lists
               are
               no where
               found
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               strife
               its
               selfe
               's
               the
               prize
               .
            
          
           
             
               Let
               not
               shades
               and
               dark
               affright
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               eyes
               have
               lustre
               that
               will
               light
               thee
               :
            
             
               Think
               not
               any
               can
               surprize
               us
               ,
            
             
               Love
               himselfe
               doth
               now
               disguise
               us
               :
            
             
               From
               thy
               wast
               that
               girdle
               throw
            
             
               Night
               and
               silence
               both
               wait
               here
               ,
            
             
               Words
               or
               actions
               who
               can
               know
            
             
               Where
               there
               's
               neither
               eye
               nor
               eare
               .
            
          
           
             
               Shew
               thy
               bosome
               and
               then
               hide
               it
               ,
            
             
               Licence
               touching
               and
               then
               chide
               it
               ;
            
             
               Profer
               something
               and
               forbear
               it
               ,
            
             
               Give
               a
               grant
               and
               then
               forswear
               it
               :
            
             
             
               Ask
               where
               all
               my
               shame
               is
               gone
               ,
            
             
               Call
               us
               wanton
               wicked
               men
               ;
            
             
               Doe
               as
               Turtles
               kisse
               and
               grone
               ,
            
             
               Say
               thou
               nere
               shalt
               joy
               againe
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               can
               hear
               thee
               curse
               ,
               yet
               chase
               thee
               ;
            
             
               Drink
               thy
               tears
               and
               still
               embrace
               thee
               :
            
             
               Easie
               riches
               are
               no
               treasure
               ,
            
             
               She
               that
               's
               willing
               spoiles
               the
               pleasure
               :
            
             
               Love
               bids
               learn
               the
               wrestlers
               slight
               ,
            
             
               Pull
               and
               struggle
               when
               we
               twine
               ;
            
             
               Let
               me
               use
               my
               force
               to
               night
               ,
            
             
               The
               next
               conquest
               shall
               be
               thine
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             death
             of
             the
             Lord
             
               Stafford
               ,
            
             the
             last
             of
             his
             name
             .
          
           
             MUst
             then
             our
             loves
             be
             short
             still
             ?
             must
             we
             chuse
          
           
             Not
             to
             enjoy
             ?
             only
             admire
             &
             loose
             ?
          
           
             Must
             axiomes
             hence
             grow
             sadly
             understood
             ,
          
           
             And
             we
             thus
             see
             t
             is
             dangerous
             to
             be
             good
             ?
          
           
             So
             books
             begun
             are
             broken
             off
             ,
             and
             we
          
           
             Receive
             a
             fragment
             for
             an
             History
             ;
          
           
             And
             as
             't
             were
             present
             wealth
             ,
             what
             was
             but
             debt
             ,
          
           
             Lose
             that
             of
             which
             we
             are
             not
             owners
             yet
             ;
          
           
           
             But
             as
             in
             books
             that
             want
             the
             closing
             line
             ,
          
           
             We
             onely
             can
             conjecture
             ,
             and
             repine
             ▪
          
           
             So
             must
             we
             here
             too
             onely
             grieve
             ,
             and
             guesse
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             our
             fancy
             make
             ,
             what
             's
             wanting
             ,
             lesse
             .
          
           
             Thus
             when
             rich
             webs
             are
             left
             unfinished
             ,
          
           
             The
             spider
             doth
             supply
             them
             with
             her
             thred
             .
          
           
             For
             tell
             me
             what
             addition
             can
             be
             wrought
          
           
             To
             him
             ,
             whose
             youth
             was
             even
             the
             bound
             of
             thought
             .
          
           
             Whose
             buddings
             did
             deserve
             the
             robe
             ,
             whiles
             we
          
           
             In
             smoothnesse
             did
             the
             deeds
             of
             wrinkles
             see
             :
          
           
             When
             his
             State-nonage
             might
             have
             been
             thought
             fit
             .
          
           
             To
             break
             the
             custome
             and
             allowed
             to
             sit
             .
          
           
             His
             actions
             veiled
             his
             age
             ,
             and
             could
             not
             stay
          
           
             For
             that
             we
             call
             ripenesse
             ,
             and
             just
             day
             .
          
           
             Others
             may
             wait
             the
             staffe
             and
             the
             gray
             haire
             ,
          
           
             And
             call
             that
             wisdome
             which
             is
             onely
             fear
             .
          
           
             Christen
             a
             coldnesse
             temperance
             ,
             and
             then
             boast
          
           
             Full
             and
             ripe
             vertue
             ,
             when
             all
             actions
             lost
             :
          
           
             This
             is
             not
             to
             be
             noble
             ,
             but
             be
             slack
             ;
          
           
             A
             
               Stafford
            
             ne're
             was
             good
             by
             the
             Almanack
             .
          
           
             He
             ,
             who
             thus
             stayes
             the
             season
             ,
             and
             expects
             ,
          
           
             Doth
             not
             gaine
             habits
             ,
             but
             disguise
             defects
             .
          
           
             Here
             nature
             outslips
             culture
             :
             he
             came
             tried
             ,
          
           
             Straight
             of
             himselfe
             at
             first
             ,
             not
             rectified
             :
          
           
             Manners
             so
             pleasing
             and
             so
             handsome
             cast
             ,
          
           
             That
             still
             that
             overcame
             which
             was
             shewn
             last
             .
          
           
             All
             minds
             were
             captived
             thence
             ,
             as
             if
             't
             had
             been
          
           
             The
             same
             to
             him
             to
             have
             been
             loved
             and
             seen
             .
          
           
           
             Had
             he
             not
             been
             snatch'd
             thus
             ,
             what
             drive
             hearts
             now
          
           
             Into
             his
             nets
             ,
             would
             have
             driven
             Cities
             too
             :
          
           
             For
             these
             his
             essayes
             which
             began
             to
             win
          
           
             Were
             but
             bright
             sparks
             which
             shewed
             the
             mine
             within
             .
          
           
             Rude
             draughts
             unto
             the
             Picture
             ;
             things
             we
             may
          
           
             Stile
             the
             first
             beams
             of
             the
             increasing
             day
             ;
          
           
             Which
             did
             but
             onely
             great
             discoveries
             bring
             ,
          
           
             As
             outward
             coolenesse
             shews
             the
             inward
             spring
             .
          
           
             Nor
             were
             his
             actions
             to
             content
             the
             sight
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Artists
             pieces
             plac'd
             in
             a
             good
             light
             ,
          
           
             That
             they
             might
             take
             at
             distance
             ,
             and
             obtrude
          
           
             Something
             unto
             the
             eye
             that
             might
             delude
             :
          
           
             His
             deeds
             did
             all
             most
             perfect
             then
             appear
          
           
             When
             you
             observ'd
             ,
             view'd
             close
             ,
             and
             did
             stand
             near
          
           
             For
             could
             there
             ought
             else
             spring
             from
             him
             whose
             line
          
           
             From
             which
             he
             sprung
             was
             rule
             and
             discipline
             .
          
           
             Whose
             vertues
             were
             as
             books
             before
             him
             set
             ,
          
           
             So
             that
             they
             did
             instruct
             ,
             who
             did
             beget
             :
          
           
             Taught
             thence
             not
             to
             be
             powerfull
             ,
             but
             know
             ,
          
           
             Shewing
             he
             was
             their
             blood
             by
             living
             so
             .
          
           
             For
             whereas
             some
             are
             by
             their
             big-lip
             known
             ,
          
           
             Others
             by
             imprinted
             burning
             swords
             were
             shown
             ;
          
           
             So
             they
             by
             great
             deeds
             are
             ,
             from
             which
             bright
             fame
          
           
             Engraves
             free
             reputation
             on
             their
             name
             :
          
           
             These
             are
             their
             native
             marks
             ,
             and
             it
             hath
             been
          
           
             The
             
               Staffords
            
             lot
             to
             have
             their
             signes
             within
             .
          
           
           
             And
             though
             this
             firme
             hereditatry
             good
          
           
             Might
             boasted
             be
             as
             flowing
             with
             the
             blood
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             he
             ne're
             graspt
             this
             stay
             :
             but
             as
             those
             ,
             who
          
           
             Carry
             perfumes
             about
             them
             still
             ,
             scarce
             doe
          
           
             Themselves
             perceive
             them
             ,
             though
             anothers
             sence
          
           
             Suck
             in
             the
             exhaling
             odour
             :
             so
             he
             thence
          
           
             Ne're
             did
             perceive
             he
             carried
             this
             good
             smell
             ,
          
           
             But
             made
             new
             still
             by
             doing
             himselfe
             well
             .
          
           
             To
             imbalme
             him
             then
             is
             vaine
             ,
             where
             spreading
             fame
          
           
             Supplies
             the
             want
             of
             spices
             ;
             where
             the
             name
             ,
          
           
             It selfe
             preserving
             ,
             may
             for
             ointment
             passe
             ,
          
           
             And
             he
             still
             seen
             lie
             coffind
             as
             in
             glasse
             .
          
           
             Whiles
             thus
             his
             bud
             dims
             full
             flowers
             ,
             and
             his
             sole
          
           
             Beginning
             doth
             reproach
             anothers
             whole
             .
          
           
             Coming
             so
             perfect
             up
             ,
             that
             there
             must
             needs
          
           
             Have
             been
             found
             out
             new
             titles
             for
             new
             deeds
             .
          
           
             Though
             youth
             and
             lawes
             forbid
             ,
             which
             will
             not
             let
          
           
             Statues
             be
             rais'd
             ,
             or
             him
             stand
             brasen
             :
             yet
          
           
             Our
             minds
             retaines
             this
             royalty
             of
             Kings
             ,
          
           
             Not
             to
             be
             bound
             to
             time
             ,
             but
             judge
             of
             things
          
           
             And
             worship
             as
             they
             merit
             :
             there
             we
             doe
          
           
             Place
             him
             at
             height
             ,
             and
             he
             stands
             golden
             too
             .
          
           
             A
             comfort
             ,
             but
             not
             equall
             to
             the
             crosse
             ,
          
           
             A
             faire
             remainder
             ,
             but
             not
             like
             the
             losse
             .
          
           
             For
             he
             (
             that
             last
             pledge
             )
             being
             gone
             ,
             we
             doe
          
           
             Not
             onely
             loose
             the
             heir
             but
             the
             honour
             too
             .
          
           
             Set
             we
             up
             then
             this
             boast
             against
             our
             wrong
             ,
          
           
             He
             left
             no
             other
             signe
             that
             he
             was
             young
             :
          
           
           
             And
             spight
             of
             fate
             his
             living
             vertues
             will
             ,
          
           
             Though
             he
             be
             dead
             ,
             keep
             up
             the
             Barony
             still
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             UNequall
             nature
             ,
             that
             dost
             load
             ,
             not
             pair
          
           
             Bodies
             with
             souls
             ,
             to
             great
             for
             them
             to
             bear
             !
          
           
             As
             some
             put
             extracts
             (
             that
             for
             soules
             may
             passe
             ,
          
           
             Still
             quickning
             where
             they
             are
             )
             in
             frailer
             glasse
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             active
             generous
             spirits
             scorne
             to
             live
          
           
             By
             such
             weak
             means
             ,
             and
             slight
             preservative
             :
          
           
             So
             high
             borne
             minds
             ;
             whose
             dawnings
             like
             the
             day
          
           
             In
             torrid
             climes
             cast
             forth
             a
             full-noon
             ray
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             vigorous
             brests
             inherit
             (
             throngd
             in
             one
             )
          
           
             A
             race
             of
             soules
             by
             long
             succession
             ;
          
           
             And
             rise
             in
             their
             descents
             ;
             in
             whom
             we
             see
          
           
             Entirely
             summ'd
             a
             new
             born
             ancestry
             :
          
           
             These
             soules
             of
             fire
             (
             whose
             eager
             thoughts
             alone
          
           
             Create
             a
             feaver
             or
             consumption
             )
          
           
             Orecharge
             their
             bodies
             :
             labring
             in
             the
             strife
          
           
             To
             serve
             so
             quick
             and
             more
             then
             mortall
             life
             .
          
           
             Where
             every
             contemplation
             doth
             oppresse
          
           
             Like
             fits
             of
             the
             Calenture
             ,
             and
             kills
             no
             lesse
             .
          
           
             Goodnesse
             hath
             its
             extreams
             as
             well
             as
             sin
             ,
          
           
             And
             brings
             ,
             as
             vice
             ,
             death
             and
             diseases
             in
             .
          
           
           
             This
             was
             thy
             fate
             ,
             great
             
               Stafford
               ;
            
             thy
             fierce
             speed
          
           
             T'
             out-live
             thy
             years
             ,
             to
             throng
             in
             every
             deed
          
           
             A
             masse
             of
             vertues
             ;
             hence
             thy
             minutes
             swell
          
           
             Not
             to
             a
             long
             life
             ,
             but
             long
             Chronicle
             .
          
           
             Great
             name
             (
             for
             that
             alone
             is
             left
             to
             be
          
           
             Calld
             great
             ;
             and
             t
             is
             no
             small
             nobility
          
           
             To
             leave
             a
             name
             )
             when
             we
             deplore
             the
             fall
          
           
             Of
             thy
             brave
             Stem
             ,
             and
             in
             thee
             of
             them
             all
             ;
          
           
             Who
             dost
             this
             glory
             to
             thy
             race
             dispence
             ,
          
           
             Not
             known
             to
             honour
             ,
             t'
             end
             with
             innocence
             ;
          
           
             Me
             thinks
             I
             see
             a
             spark
             from
             thy
             dead
             eye
          
           
             Cast
             beams
             on
             thy
             deceas'd
             Nobility
             .
          
           
             Witnesse
             those
             Marble
             heads
             ,
             whom
             
               Westminster
            
          
           
             Adores
             (
             perhaps
             without
             a
             nose
             or
             eare
             )
          
           
             Are
             now
             twice
             raised
             from
             the
             dust
             ,
             and
             seem
          
           
             New
             sculpt
             againe
             ,
             when
             thou
             art
             plac'd
             by
             them
             ;
          
           
             When
             thou
             ,
             the
             last
             of
             that
             brave
             house
             deceast
             ,
          
           
             Hadst
             none
             to
             cry
             (
             our
             brother
             )
             but
             the
             Priest
             :
          
           
             And
             this
             true
             riddle
             is
             to
             ages
             sent
          
           
             
               Stafford
            
             is
             his
             Fore-fathers
             monument
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             A
             Song
             of
             the
             Precise
             Cut
             .
          
           
             
               WIth
               face
               and
               fashion
               to
               be
               known
            
             
               For
               one
               of
               sure
               election
               ,
            
             
               With
               eyes
               all
               white
               and
               many
               a
               groan
               ,
            
             
               With
               neck
               aside
               to
               draw
               in
               tone
               ,
            
             
               With
               harp
               in
               's
               nose
               or
               he
               is
               none
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               of
               the
               town
               ,
            
             
               O
               the
               town
               ,
               O
               the
               towns
               new
               teacher
               .
            
          
           
             
               With
               pate
               cut
               shorter
               then
               the
               brow
               ,
            
             
               With
               little
               ruffe
               starcht
               you
               know
               how
               ,
            
             
               With
               cloak
               like
               
                 Paul
                 ,
              
               no
               cape
               I
               trow
               ,
            
             
               With
               Surplesse
               none
               ,
               but
               lately
               now
               ;
            
             
               With
               hands
               to
               thump
               ,
               no
               knees
               to
               bow
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               ,
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               With
               couzning
               cough
               and
               hallow
               cheek
            
             
               To
               get
               new
               gatherings
               every
               week
               ,
            
             
               With
               paltry
               change
               of
               and
               to
               eke
               ,
            
             
               With
               some
               small
               Hebrew
               ,
               and
               no
               Greek
               ,
            
             
               To
               find
               out
               words
               when
               stuff
               's
               to
               seek
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               ,
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
           
             
               With
               shopboard
               breeding
               and
               intrusion
               ,
            
             
               With
               some
               outlandish
               Institution
               ,
            
             
               With
               
                 Vrsines
              
               Catechisme
               to
               muse
               on
               ,
            
             
               With
               
                 Systems
              
               method
               for
               confusion
               ,
            
             
               With
               grounds
               strong
               layed
               of
               meer
               illusion
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               ▪
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               With
               rites
               indifferent
               all
               damned
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               unlawfull
               if
               commanded
               ,
            
             
               Good
               works
               of
               Popery
               down
               banded
               ,
            
             
               And
               morall
               Lawes
               from
               him
               estranged
               ,
            
             
               Except
               the
               Sabbath
               still
               unchanged
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               ,
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               With
               speech
               unthought
               ,
               quick
               revelation
               ,
            
             
               With
               boldnesse
               in
               predestination
               ,
            
             
               With
               threats
               of
               absolute
               damnation
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               yea
               and
               nay
               hath
               some
               salvation
            
             
               For
               his
               own
               Tribe
               ,
               not
               every
               Nation
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               ,
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               With
               after
               licence
               cost
               a
               Crown
            
             
               When
               Bishop
               new
               had
               put
               him
               down
               ,
            
             
               With
               tricks
               calld
               repetition
               ,
            
             
               And
               doctrine
               newly
               brought
               to
               town
            
             
               Of
               teaching
               men
               to
               hang
               and
               drown
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               ,
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               With
               flesh-provision
               to
               keep
               lent
               ,
            
             
               With
               shelves
               of
               sweetnesse
               often
               spent
               ,
            
             
             
               Which
               new
               maid
               brought
               ,
               old
               Lady
               sent
               ,
            
             
               Though
               to
               be
               saved
               a
               poor
               present
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               Legacies
               assure
               the
               event
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               ,
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               With
               troops
               expecting
               him
               at
               door
            
             
               That
               would
               hear
               Sermons
               and
               no
               more
               ,
            
             
               With
               Noting-tools
               and
               sighs
               great
               store
               ,
            
             
               With
               Bibles
               great
               to
               turne
               them
               ore
            
             
               While
               he
               wrests
               places
               by
               the
               score
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               ,
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               With
               running
               text
               ,
               the
               nam'd
               forsaken
               ,
            
             
               With
               for
               and
               but
               both
               by
               sence
               shaken
               ,
            
             
               Cheap
               doctrines
               forc'd
               ,
               wild
               uses
               raken
               ,
            
             
               Both
               sometimes
               one
               by
               mark
               mistaken
               ,
            
             
               With
               any
               thing
               to
               any
               shapen
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               ,
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               With
               new
               wrought
               caps
               against
               the
               Cannon
            
             
               For
               taking
               cold
               ,
               though
               sure
               he
               have
               none
               ,
            
             
               A
               Sermons
               end
               when
               he
               began
               one
               ,
            
             
               A
               new
               houre
               long
               when
               his
               glasse
               had
               run
               one
               ,
            
             
               New
               use
               ,
               new
               points
               ,
               new
               notes
               to
               stand
               on
               .
            
             
               See
               a
               new
               teacher
               ,
               
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             Lady
             
               Paulets
            
             Gift
             to
             the
             Vniversity
             of
             
               Oxford
            
             :
             Being
             an
             exact
             piece
             of
             Needle-work
             presenting
             the
             whole
             story
             of
             the
             Incarnation
             ,
             Passion
             ,
             Resurrection
             ,
             and
             Ascension
             of
             our
             Saviour
             .
          
           
             COuld
             we
             judge
             here
             most
             vertuous
             Madam
             :
             then
          
           
             Your
             needle
             might
             receive
             praise
             from
             our
             pen
             .
          
           
             But
             this
             our
             want
             bereaves
             it
             of
             that
             part
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             to
             admire
             and
             thank
             is
             all
             our
             Art
             ▪
          
           
             The
             work
             deserves
             a
             Shrine
             :
             I
             should
             rehearse
          
           
             Its
             glory
             in
             a
             story
             ,
             not
             a
             verse
             .
          
           
             Colours
             are
             mix'd
             so
             subtily
             ,
             that
             thereby
          
           
             The
             strength
             of
             art
             doth
             take
             and
             cheat
             the
             eye
             :
          
           
             At
             once
             a
             thousand
             we
             can
             gaze
             upon
             ,
          
           
             But
             are
             deceiv'd
             by
             their
             transition
             .
          
           
             What
             toucheth
             is
             the
             same
             ;
             beam
             takes
             from
             beam
          
           
             The
             next
             still
             like
             ,
             yet
             differing
             in
             the
             extream
             .
          
           
             Here
             runs
             this
             tract
             ,
             thither
             we
             see
             that
             tends
             ,
          
           
             But
             cannot
             say
             here
             this
             or
             there
             that
             ends
             ▪
          
           
             Thus
             while
             they
             creep
             insensibly
             we
             doubt
          
           
             Whether
             the
             one
             pours
             not
             the
             other
             out
             .
          
           
           
             Faces
             so
             quick
             and
             lively
             ,
             that
             we
             may
          
           
             Fear
             if
             we
             turn
             our
             backs
             they
             l
             steal
             away
             .
          
           
             Postures
             of
             griefe
             so
             true
             ,
             that
             we
             may
             swear
          
           
             Your
             artfull
             fingers
             have
             wrought
             passion
             there
             .
          
           
             View
             we
             the
             manger
             ,
             and
             the
             Babe
             ,
             we
             thence
          
           
             Believe
             the
             very
             threads
             have
             innocence
             .
          
           
             Then
             on
             the
             Crosse
             ,
             such
             love
             ,
             such
             griefe
             we
             find
          
           
             As
             t
             were
             a
             transcript
             of
             our
             Saviours
             mind
             :
          
           
             Each
             parcell
             so
             expressive
             ,
             each
             so
             fit
             ,
          
           
             That
             the
             whole
             seems
             not
             so
             much
             wrought
             as
             writ
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             sacred
             text
             ,
             all
             we
             may
             coat
             ,
             and
             thence
          
           
             Extract
             what
             may
             be
             press'd
             in
             our
             defence
             .
          
           
             Blest
             Mother
             of
             the
             Church
             ,
             be
             in
             the
             list
          
           
             Reckond
             with
             th'
             four
             a
             she
             Evangelist
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             can
             the
             stile
             be
             prophanation
             ,
             when
          
           
             The
             needle
             may
             convert
             more
             then
             the
             pen
             .
          
           
             When
             faith
             may
             come
             by
             seeing
             ;
             and
             each
             leafe
          
           
             Rightly
             perus'd
             ,
             prove
             Gospell
             to
             the
             deafe
             .
          
           
             Had
             not
             that
             
               Hellen
            
             haply
             found
             the
             crosse
          
           
             By
             this
             your
             work
             ,
             you
             had
             repaired
             that
             losse
             .
          
           
             Tell
             me
             not
             of
             
               Penelope
               ,
            
             we
             do
          
           
             See
             a
             web
             here
             more
             chast
             and
             sacred
             too
             .
          
           
             Where
             are
             ye
             now
             O
             women
             ,
             ye
             that
             sow
          
           
             Temptations
             labouring
             to
             expresse
             the
             bow
          
           
             Of
             the
             blind
             Archer
             :
             ye
             that
             rarely
             set
          
           
             To
             please
             your
             loves
             a
             
               Venus
            
             in
             a
             net
             ?
          
           
             Turne
             your
             skill
             hither
             ,
             then
             we
             shall
             no
             doubt
          
           
             See
             the
             Kings
             daughter
             glorious
             too
             without
             .
          
           
             Women
             sewed
             onely
             figleaves
             hitherto
             ,
          
           
             
               Eves
            
             nakednesse
             is
             onely
             cloath'd
             by
             you
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             MAdam
             ,
             your
             work
             's
             all
             miracle
             ,
             and
             you
          
           
             The
             first
             Evangelist
             ,
             whose
             skillfull
             clue
          
           
             Hath
             made
             a
             road
             to
             
               Bethlem
               ;
            
             now
             we
             may
          
           
             Without
             a
             stars
             direction
             find
             the
             way
          
           
             To
             the
             cratch
             our
             Saviours
             cradle
             ,
             there
             him
             see
          
           
             Mantled
             in
             hay
             ,
             had
             not
             your
             piety
          
           
             Swath'd
             him
             in
             silk
             ;
             they
             that
             have
             skill
             may
             see
          
           
             (
             For
             sure
             t
             is
             prickt
             )
             the
             Virgins
             lullaby
             .
          
           
             The
             Oxe
             would
             faine
             be
             bellowing
             did
             he
             not
             fear
          
           
             That
             at
             his
             noyse
             the
             Babe
             would
             wake
             and
             hear
             .
          
           
             And
             as
             each
             passage
             of
             his
             birth
             's
             at
             strife
          
           
             To
             excell
             ,
             so
             even
             the
             death
             's
             drawn
             to
             the
             life
             .
          
           
             See
             how
             the
             greedy
             souldiers
             tug
             to
             share
          
           
             His
             seamelesse
             coat
             ,
             as
             if
             your
             work
             they
             'd
             tear
             :
          
           
             Look
             on
             his
             read
             ,
             that
             's
             naturall
             ,
             on
             his
             gown
          
           
             That
             's
             a
             pure
             scarlet
             ;
             so
             acutes
             his
             crown
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             who
             thinks
             not
             they
             are
             thorns
             indeed
             ,
          
           
             Would
             he
             were
             prick'd
             untill
             his
             fingers
             bleed
             .
          
           
             His
             Crosse
             a
             skilfull
             joyner
             cannot
             know
             ,
          
           
             (
             So
             neat
             t
             is
             fram'd
             )
             where
             it
             be
             wood
             or
             no
             :
          
           
             So
             closely
             by
             the
             curious
             needle
             pointed
             ,
          
           
             Had
             
               Joseph
            
             seen
             't
             he
             knew
             not
             where
             were
             joynted
             .
          
           
             His
             side
             seems
             yet
             to
             bleed
             and
             leave
             a
             stain
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             the
             blood
             now
             trickled
             from
             the
             vein
             :
          
           
             Methinks
             I
             hear
             the
             Thiefe
             for
             mercy
             call
             ,
          
           
             He
             might
             have
             stole't
             ,
             't
             was
             nere
             lock'd
             up
             at
             all
             .
          
           
           
             See
             how
             he
             faints
             ;
             the
             crimson
             silk
             turns
             pale
          
           
             Changing
             its
             graine
             .
             Could
             I
             but
             see
             the
             vaile
          
           
             Rent
             ,
             all
             were
             finish'd
             ,
             but
             that
             's
             well
             forborn
             ;
          
           
             T
             were
             pitty
             such
             a
             work
             as
             this
             we●e
             torn
             .
          
           
             Turn
             but
             your
             eye
             aside
             and
             you
             may
             see
          
           
             His
             pensive
             handmaids
             take
             him
             from
             the
             tree
             ,
          
           
             Embalming
             him
             with
             tears
             ,
             none
             could
             expresse
             ,
          
           
             Madam
             ,
             but
             you
             death
             in
             so
             fit
             a
             dresse
             ;
          
           
             No
             hand
             but
             yours
             could
             teach
             the
             needles
             eye
          
           
             To
             drop
             true
             tears
             ,
             unfeignedly
             to
             cry
             .
          
           
             Follow
             him
             to
             his
             virgin
             tomb
             ,
             and
             view
          
           
             His
             corps
             inviron'd
             with
             a
             miscreate
             crue
          
           
             Of
             drowsie
             watch
             ,
             who
             look
             as
             though
             they
             were
          
           
             Nere
             bid
             to
             watch
             and
             pray
             ,
             but
             sleep
             and
             swear
             :
          
           
             The
             third
             day
             being
             come
             ,
             and
             their
             Charge
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Only
             some
             Relicks
             left
             upon
             the
             stone
             ;
          
           
             One
             quakes
             ,
             another
             yawnes
             ,
             a
             third
             in
             hast
          
           
             To
             run
             had
             not
             your
             needle
             made
             him
             fast
             :
          
           
             And
             to
             excuse
             themselves
             all
             they
             can
             say
          
           
             Is
             that
             they
             dream'd
             some
             one
             stole
             him
             away
             :
          
           
             You
             ,
             Madam
             ,
             by
             the
             Angels
             guidance
             have
          
           
             Found
             him
             againe
             since
             he
             rose
             from
             the
             grave
             .
          
           
             So
             zealous
             of
             his
             company
             ,
             no
             force
          
           
             Could
             part
             you
             had
             not
             heaven
             made
             the
             divorse
             ;
          
           
             Where
             he
             remains
             till
             the
             last
             day
             ,
             and
             then
          
           
             I
             wish
             with
             joy
             you
             there
             may
             meet
             again
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               Lady
               ,
            
          
           
             
               YOu
               have
               drawn
               ,
               and
               are
               all
               graces
               ;
               none
               so
               true
            
             
               As
               those
               lodge
               in
               your
               needle-work
               and
               you
               :
            
             
               Hither
               will
               throng
               we
               know
               these
               draughts
               to
               see
            
             
               Whole
               bevies
               of
               Court
               Maddams
               ;
               such
               as
               be
            
             
               Fair
               spectacles
               themselves
               ,
               yet
               shall
               these
               glasses
            
             
               Ravish
               by
               shewing
               not
               theirs
               but
               your
               faces
               :
            
             
               Eyes
               that
               will
               shame
               the
               Christalls
               ,
               and
               out
               steal
            
             
               The
               patterns
               quaintest
               lustre
               those
               conceal
               :
            
             
               Fingers
               of
               Ivory
               that
               will
               pointing
               stand
            
             
               As
               Indexes
               to
               shew
               where
               moved
               the
               hand
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               what
               method
               ;
               till
               a
               dawning
               light
            
             
               Spread
               on
               the
               Pictures
               from
               their
               neighbouring
               white
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               so
               they
               shall
               not
               weave
               new
               beauties
               in
            
             
               Those
               webs
               ,
               your
               silk
               is
               whiter
               then
               their
               skin
               :
            
             
               T
               is
               said
               that
               some
               will
               chang
               their
               own
               for
               bought
            
             
               Locks
               ,
               so
               they
               be
               not
               painted
               but
               thus
               wrought
               :
            
             
               And
               scanning
               well
               these
               tresses
               well
               died
               threads
            
             
               Curle
               into
               locks
               about
               the
               female
               heads
               ,
            
             
               So
               neatly
               periwig'd
               ,
               will
               choose
               to
               wear
            
             
               Rather
               what
               you
               so
               make
               then
               what
               grows
               hair
               .
            
             
               This
               Lady
               learns
               a
               smile
               from
               hence
               ,
               she
               there
            
             
               A
               devout
               griefe
               takes
               forth
               from
               
                 Maryes
              
               tear
               ,
            
             
               So
               lively
               dropt
               ;
               as
               if
               i
               th'
               woman
               't
               was
            
             
               Water
               ,
               what
               's
               silk
               i
               th'
               needle
               ,
               pearl
               i
               th'
               glasse
               .
            
             
             
               A
               third
               will
               imitate
               your selfe
               ,
               and
               try
            
             
               Each
               pieces
               counterfeit
               :
               which
               being
               set
               by
            
             
               As
               types
               unto
               your
               Gospel
               ,
               all
               will
               guesse
            
             
               You
               are
               the
               Evangelist
               ,
               she
               the
               Prophetesse
               .
            
          
           
             
               Here
               lies
               my
               Saviour
               ;
               and
               though
               he
               it
               is
            
             
               Lends
               life
               to
               all
               ,
               yet
               borrows
               he
               from
               this
               :
            
             
               And
               doth
               to
               th'
               world
               by
               two
               Nativities
               come
            
             
               Both
               from
               your
               fancy
               and
               from
               
                 Maryes
              
               womb
               ▪
            
             
               For
               who
               observes
               the
               Art
               will
               move
               a
               strife
            
             
               Whether
               the
               threads
               be
               more
               of
               silk
               then
               life
               .
            
             
               All
               things
               are
               in
               such
               proper
               colours
               shown
               ;
            
             
               The
               naturall
               seem
               feigned
               ,
               these
               their
               own
               :
            
             
               And
               all
               so
               well
               compos'd
               ,
               their
               juncture
               such
               ,
            
             
               It
               were
               some
               seperation
               but
               to
               touch
               :
            
             
               As
               in
               the
               varied
               bow
               which
               Heaven
               ▪
               bends
            
             
               The
               red
               appears
               and
               yet
               the
               blew
               nere
               ends
               ;
            
             
               Here
               green
               ,
               and
               yellow
               there
               ,
               yet
               none
               can
               see
            
             
               Where
               green
               or
               yellow
               do
               begin
               to
               be
               ,
            
             
               Each
               into
               others
               transient
               ,
               and
               so
               fit
            
             
               Still
               ,
               what
               you
               choose
               nothing
               would
               serve
               but
               it
               .
            
             
               What
               punctuall
               thorns
               here
               crown
               the
               Crucifix
               ;
            
             
               I
               thought
               your
               needle
               ,
               but
               your
               silk
               more
               pricks
               .
            
             
               The
               sides
               wound
               had
               appeared
               by
               a
               cleft
            
             
               i
               th'
               wound
               ;
               had
               you
               but
               so
               much
               unwrought
               left
            
             
               And
               open
               ;
               as
               through
               which
               the
               spear
               once
               stole
               ,
            
             
               Now
               you
               have
               fill'd
               it
               't
               is
               a
               truer
               hole
               .
            
             
               Did
               you
               pin
               down
               the
               hands
               and
               feet
               t
               would
               fail
            
             
               Much
               of
               the
               truth
               ,
               the
               stich
               is
               verier
               naile
               :
            
             
               Well
               drops
               the
               blood
               in
               shadow
               ;
               were
               there
               need
            
             
               Of
               true
               ,
               but
               squeeze
               the
               Picture
               and
               't
               would
               bleed
               :
            
             
             
               For
               life
               that
               onely
               floats
               in
               vainer
               breath
            
             
               Other
               arts
               give
               :
               that
               which
               returns
               from
               death
               :
            
             
               Yours
               fresh
               and
               fully
               ideates
               ;
               and
               is
               one
            
             
               That
               holds
               out
               to
               a
               Resurrection
               .
            
             
               Here
               t
               is
               that
               it
               to
               Christ
               joyntly
               procures
            
             
               A
               rising
               from
               both
               bottomes
               ,
               hell
               and
               yours
               :
            
             
               His
               countenance
               refin'd
               seems
               not
               more
               new
            
             
               Issuing
               out
               from
               the
               grave
               then
               from
               your
               clew
               ;
            
             
               Allmost
               so
               much
               of
               the
               Diety
               is
               shown
            
             
               In
               your
               works
               as
               is
               visible
               in
               its
               own
               :
            
             
               In
               these
               materialls
               we
               may
               more
               God
               see
            
             
               Then
               heathens
               in
               a
               flower
               ,
               or
               a
               true
               tree
               .
            
             
               But
               could
               we
               reach
               your
               fancy
               and
               find
               in
               't
            
             
               The
               spirituality
               of
               every
               Print
               ;
            
             
               We
               darkly
               might
               conceive
               pure
               Godheads
               ,
               one
            
             
               Nature
               ,
               our
               Christ
               both
               of
               his
               flesh
               and
               bone
               .
            
             
               Blest
               Soule
               ,
               who
               thus
               internally
               hast
               eyed
            
             
               Thy
               Saviour
               ;
               how
               hast
               thou
               been
               sanctified
               ?
            
             
               I
               dare
               to
               say
               so
               long
               as
               he
               stayed
               in
            
             
               Your
               minds
               ,
               pure
               mirrour
               ,
               that
               you
               scarce
               did
               sin
               :
            
             
               Had
               but
               one
               idle
               thought
               disturb'd
               the
               glasse
               ,
            
             
               That
               same
               reflected
               blemish
               would
               forth
               passe
            
             
               Into
               the
               stained
               table
               ,
               and
               no
               doubt
            
             
               The
               blur
               within
               had
               been
               a
               blot
               without
               .
            
             
               Look
               ore
               the
               Passion
               ;
               now
               you
               only
               view
            
             
               Old
               wonnds
               ;
               had
               you
               then
               sinn'd
               you
               had
               made
               new
               .
            
             
               But
               all
               is
               acurate
               :
               we
               cannot
               find
            
             
               One
               fault
               in
               the
               copy
               ,
               cause
               not
               one
               i
               th'
               mind
               :
            
             
               And
               yet
               t
               is
               drawn
               in
               such
               briefe
               Imagry
            
             
               The
               smallest
               error
               cannot
               unseen
               lye
               .
            
             
             
               Each
               Picture
               's
               couched
               in
               so
               little
               space
               ,
            
             
               Had
               you
               but
               miss'd
               a
               thread
               
               y'had
               lost
               a
               face
               .
            
             
               Not
               as
               in
               gouty
               Arras
               ,
               where
               a
               list
            
             
               Of
               any
               colour
               if
               left
               out
               's
               not
               mist
               ,
            
             
               And
               where
               the
               shuttle
               twenty
               times
               mishot
            
             
               Makes
               not
               so
               rude
               a
               sphalm
               ,
               as
               here
               a
               knot
            
             
               Or
               stich
               let
               faln
               :
               t
               is
               easie
               to
               excell
            
             
               Wbere's
               such
               a
               latitude
               of
               doing
               well
               .
            
             
               But
               ,
               Madam
               ,
               you
               that
               in
               two
               Tables
               draw
            
             
               The
               Gospell
               whole
               ,
               as
               God
               wrought
               all
               the
               Law
               ,
            
             
               Are
               both
               compendious
               and
               true
               :
               the
               story
            
             
               Doth
               something
               loose
               in
               bulk
               ,
               nothing
               in
               glory
               .
            
             
               The
               Magi
               are
               made
               lesse
               ,
               but
               not
               lesse
               wise
               ,
            
             
               Their
               gifts
               diminish
               ,
               but
               their
               values
               rise
               :
            
             
               For
               since
               they
               are
               come
               hither
               ,
               that
               's
               thought
               best
            
             
               Which
               they
               do
               bring
               from
               you
               ,
               not
               from
               the
               East
               .
            
             
               We
               cannot
               pen
               forth
               all
               your
               Art
               ,
               much
               lesse
            
             
               Our
               Obligations
               and
               our
               thanks
               expresse
               :
            
             
               More
               will
               be
               said
               when
               we
               can
               better
               prize
            
             
               Your
               Present
               :
               mean
               while
               (
               Lady
               )
               let
               this
               suffice
               .
            
          
           
             
               With
               such
               delight
               we
               your
               Imbrodry
               view
               ,
            
             
               No
               other
               object
               can
               please
               more
               but
               you
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               gift
               hath
               swoln
               us
               to
               such
               thankfull
               pride
            
             
               W'
               have
               now
               no
               matter
               for
               a
               wish
               beside
            
             
               The
               giver
               ;
               you
               alone
               outvy
               it
               ,
               and
            
             
               Wee
               'l
               wave
               the
               work
               onely
               to
               kisse
               your
               hand
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Against
             BEN
             :
             JOHNSON
             .
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               COme
               leave
               that
               saucy
               way
            
             
               Of
               baiting
               those
               that
               pay
            
             
               Dear
               for
               the
               sight
               of
               thy
               declining
               wit
               :
            
             
               I
               know
               it
               is
               not
               fit
            
             
               That
               a
               sale-Poet
               (
               just
               contempt
               once
               thrown
               )
            
             
               Should
               cry
               up
               thus
               his
               own
               .
            
             
               I
               wonder
               by
               what
               dower
               ,
            
             
               Or
               patent
               you
               had
               power
            
             
               From
               all
               to
               rape
               a
               judgement
               ?
               let
               it
               sussice
            
             
               Had
               you
               bin
               modest
               ,
               
               y'had
               bin
               counted
               wise
               .
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               T
               is
               known
               you
               can
               doe
               well
               ,
            
             
               And
               that
               you
               can
               excell
            
             
               As
               a
               translator
               ;
               but
               when
               things
               require
            
             
               A
               genius
               and
               a
               fire
            
             
               Not
               kindled
               heretofore
               by
               others
               pains
               ,
            
             
               As
               oft
               you
               have
               wanted
               brains
            
             
               And
               art
               to
               strike
               the
               white
               ,
            
             
               As
               you
               have
               leveld
               right
               :
            
             
               But
               if
               men
               vouch
               not
               things
               Apocriphall
               ,
            
             
               You
               bellow
               ,
               rave
               ,
               and
               spatter
               round
               your
               gall
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               
                 Jugge
                 ,
                 Peg
                 ,
                 Pierce
                 ,
                 Fly
                 ,
              
               and
               all
            
             
               Your
               jests
               so
               nominall
               ,
            
             
               Are
               things
               so
               far
               below
               an
               able
               braine
               ,
            
             
               As
               they
               doe
               throw
               a
               staine
            
             
               Through
               all
               the
               unlucky
               plot
               ,
               and
               doe
               displease
            
             
               As
               deep
               as
               
                 Pericles
                 :
              
            
             
               Where
               yet
               there
               is
               not
               laid
            
             
               Before
               a
               chamber-maid
            
             
               Discourse
               so
               weak
               ,
               as
               might
               have
               serv'd
               of
               old
            
             
               For
               Schoolboys
               when
               they
               of
               love
               or
               valor
               told
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               Why
               rage
               then
               when
               the
               show
            
             
               Should
               judgement
               be
               ;
               and
               know
            
             
               That
               there
               are
               those
               in
               Plush
               that
               scorn
               to
               drudg
            
             
               For
               Stages
               ,
               yet
               can
               judge
            
             
               Not
               onely
               Poets
               looser
               laws
               but
               wits
               ,
            
             
               With
               all
               their
               perquisits
               :
            
             
               A
               gift
               as
               rich
               and
               high
            
             
               As
               noble
               Poesy
               ,
            
             
               Which
               though
               in
               sport
               it
               be
               for
               Kings
               a
               play
               ,
            
             
               T
               is
               next
               Mechanick
               when
               it
               works
               for
               pay
               .
            
          
           
             
               6.
               
            
             
               
                 Alcaeus
              
               Lute
               had
               none
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               loose
               
                 Anacreon
                 ,
              
            
             
               That
               taught
               so
               bold
               assuming
               of
               the
               baies
            
             
               When
               they
               deserv'd
               no
               praise
               .
            
             
             
               To
               raile
               men
               into
               approbation
            
             
               T
               is
               new
               ;
               t
               is
               yours
               alone
               ;
            
             
               And
               prospers
               not
               .
               For
               know
            
             
               Fame
               is
               as
               coy
               ,
               as
               you
               ;
            
             
               Can
               be
               disdainfull
               ;
               and
               who
               dares
               to
               prove
            
             
               A
               rape
               on
               her
               shall
               gaine
               her
               scorne
               not
               love
               .
            
          
           
             
               6.
               
            
             
               Leave
               then
               this
               humerous
               vaine
               ,
            
             
               And
               this
               more
               humerous
               straine
               ,
            
             
               Where
               selfe
               conceit
               and
               choler
               of
               the
               blood
            
             
               Eclips
               what
               else
               is
               good
               :
            
             
               Then
               if
               you
               please
               those
               raptures
               high
               to
               touch
            
             
               Whereof
               you
               boast
               so
               much
               ,
            
             
               And
               but
               forbear
               the
               crown
            
             
               Till
               the
               world
               put
               it
               on
               :
            
             
               No
               doubt
               from
               all
               you
               may
               amazement
               draw
               ,
            
             
               Since
               braver
               theam
               no
               
                 Phoebus
              
               ever
               saw
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Vpon
             a
             Gentlewoman
             who
             broke
             her
             vow
             .
          
           
             WHen
             first
             the
             Magick
             of
             thine
             eye
          
           
             Usurp'd
             upon
             my
             liberty
             ,
          
           
             Triumphing
             in
             my
             hearts
             spoile
             ,
             thou
          
           
             Didst
             lock
             up
             thine
             in
             such
             a
             vow
             :
          
           
             When
             I
             prove
             false
             may
             the
             bright
             day
          
           
             Be
             governd
             by
             the
             Moons
             pale
             ray
             :
          
           
             And
             I
             too
             well
             remember
             ,
             this
          
           
             Thou
             saidst
             and
             sealdst
             it
             with
             a
             kisse
             .
          
           
             O
             heavens
             !
             and
             could
             so
             soon
             that
             tie
          
           
             Relent
             in
             slack
             Apostasie
             ?
          
           
             Could
             all
             thy
             oaths
             and
             morgag'd
             trust
          
           
             Vanish
             like
             letters
             form●d
             in
             dust
             ,
          
           
             Which
             the
             next
             wind
             scatters
             ?
             take
             heed
             ,
          
           
             Take
             heed
             ,
             Revolter
             ,
             know
             this
             deed
          
           
             Hath
             wrongd
             the
             world
             ;
             which
             will
             fare
             worse
          
           
             By
             thy
             example
             then
             thy
             curse
             .
          
           
             Hide
             that
             false
             brow
             in
             mists
             thy
             shame
             ;
          
           
             Nere
             see
             light
             more
             ,
             but
             the
             dim
             flame
          
           
             Of
             funerall
             lamps
             :
             thus
             sit
             and
             moane
          
           
             And
             learn
             to
             keep
             thy
             guilt
             at
             home
             ;
          
           
             Give
             it
             no
             vent
             .
             For
             if
             again
          
           
             Thy
             love
             or
             vowes
             betray
             more
             men
             ;
          
           
           
             At
             length
             I
             fear
             thy
             perjur'd
             breath
          
           
             Will
             blow
             out
             day
             and
             waken
             death
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Song
             upon
             a
             Winepot
             .
          
           
             
               ALl
               Poets
               Hippocrene
               admire
               ,
            
             
               And
               pray
               to
               water
               to
               inspire
            
             
               Their
               wit
               and
               muse
               with
               heavenly
               fire
               .
            
             
               Had
               they
               this
               heavenly
               fountaine
               seen
               ,
            
             
               Sack
               both
               their
               muse
               and
               wit
               had
               been
               ,
            
             
               And
               this
               Pintepot
               their
               Hipocrene
               .
            
          
           
             
               Had
               they
               truly
               discovered
               it
               ,
            
             
               They
               had
               like
               me
               ,
               thought
               it
               unfit
            
             
               To
               pray
               to
               water
               for
               their
               wit
               :
            
             
               And
               had
               ador'd
               Sack
               as
               divine
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               a
               Poet
               God
               of
               Wine
               ,
            
             
               And
               this
               Pintepot
               had
               bin
               the
               Shrine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sack
               unto
               them
               had
               bin
               instead
            
             
               Of
               Nectar
               and
               the
               heavenly
               bread
               ,
            
             
               And
               every
               a
               boy
               a
               Gannemed
               :
            
             
               But
               had
               they
               made
               a
               God
               of
               it
               ,
            
             
               Or
               stiled
               it
               Patron
               of
               their
               wit
               ,
            
             
               This
               Pintepot
               had
               bin
               a
               Temple
               fit
               .
            
             
             
               Well
               then
               companions
               i
               st
               not
               fit
               ,
            
             
               Since
               to
               this
               gem
               we
               owe
               our
               wit
               ,
            
             
               That
               we
               should
               praise
               the
               Cabinet
               ;
            
             
               And
               drink
               a
               health
               to
               this
               divine
            
             
               And
               bounteous
               palace
               of
               our
               Wine
               ?
            
             
               Die
               he
               with
               thirst
               that
               doth
               repine
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             one
             married
             to
             an
             old
             man
             .
          
           
             SEeing
             thou
             wouldst
             (
             bewitch'd
             by
             some
             ill
          
           
             Be
             buried
             in
             those
             monnmental
             arms
             (
             charms
             )
          
           
             All
             we
             can
             wish
             is
             may
             that
             earth
             be
             light
          
           
             Upon
             thy
             tender
             limbs
             ,
             and
             so
             good
             night
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               I
               Mean
               to
               sing
               of
               
                 Englands
              
               fate
               ,
            
             
               (
               God
               blesse
               in
               th'
               mean
               time
               the
               King
               and
               his
               (
               Mate
               )
            
             
               That
               's
               rul'd
               by
               the
               Antipodian
               state
               ,
            
             
               Which
               no body
               can
               deny
               .
            
          
           
             
               Had
               these
               seditious
               times
               been
               when
            
             
               We
               had
               the
               life
               of
               our
               wise
               Poet
               
                 Ben
                 ,
              
            
             
               Apprentices
               had
               not
               been
               Parliament
               men
               ,
            
             
               Which
               no body
               can
               deny
               .
            
          
           
           
             
               But
               Puritans
               bear
               all
               the
               sway
               ;
            
             
               And
               they
               'l
               have
               no
               Bishops
               as
               most
               of
               them
               say
               ,
            
             
               But
               God
               may
               have
               the
               better
               another
               day
               ,
            
             
               Which
               no body
               can
               deny
               .
            
          
           
             
               
                 Prin
              
               and
               
                 Burton
              
               say
               women
               that
               are
               lewd
               and
               loose
            
             
               Shall
               wear
               Italian
               locks
               for
               their
               abuse
               ,
            
             
               They
               'l
               onely
               have
               private
               keys
               for
               their
               own
               use
               ,
            
             
               Which
               no body
               can
               deny
               .
            
          
           
             
               Zealous
               
                 Prin
              
               hath
               threatned
               a
               shrewd
               downfall
            
             
               To
               cut
               off
               long
               locks
               both
               bushy
               and
               small
               ,
            
             
               But
               I
               hope
               he
               will
               not
               take
               eares
               and
               all
               ,
            
             
               Which
               no body
               can
               deny
               .
            
          
           
             
               They
               'l
               not
               alow
               of
               what
               pride
               in
               brings
               ,
            
             
               No
               favours
               in
               hats
               nor
               any
               such
               things
               ,
            
             
               They
               'l
               convert
               all
               ribbands
               into
               Bible
               strings
               ,
            
             
               Which
               no body
               can
               deny
               .
            
          
           
             
               God
               blesse
               the
               King
               ,
               and
               Queen
               also
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               true
               Subjects
               from
               high
               to
               low
               ,
            
             
               The
               Roundheads
               can
               pray
               for
               themselves
               we
               know
               ,
            
             
               Which
               no body
               can
               deny
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Vpon
             the
             
               Times
               .
            
          
           
             THe
             
               Parliament
            
             cries
             arme
             ,
             the
             
               King
            
             says
             no
             ;
          
           
             The
             new
             
               Lievtenants
            
             cry
             on
             ,
             le
             ts
             go
             ;
          
           
             The
             
               People
            
             all
             amaz'd
             ,
             ask
             where
             's
             the
             foe
             ?
          
           
             The
             bugbear
             
               Scots
            
             behind
             the
             door
             cry
             boh
             .
          
           
             Patience
             a
             while
             ,
             and
             time
             will
             plainly
             shew
          
           
             The
             
               King
            
             stands
             still
             faster
             then
             they
             can
             goe
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             double
             Chronogram
             (
             the
             one
             in
             Latine
             the
             other
             in
             the
             English
             of
             that
             Latine
             )
             upon
             the
             year
             1642.
             
          
           
             TV
             DeVs
             IaM
             propItIVs
             sIs
             regI
             regnoqVe
             hVIC
             VnIVerso
             .
          
           
             OgoD
             noVV
             sheVV
             faVoVr
             to
             the
             kIng
             anD
             thIs
             VVhoLe
             LanD
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             the
             
               Noble-mans
               Sons
            
             Cloak
             that
             refused
             to
             wear
             a
             Gown
             in
             
               Oxford
               .
            
          
           
             SAw
             you
             the
             Cloak
             at
             Church
             to
             day
          
           
             The
             long-worne
             short
             Cloak
             lined
             with
             
               Say
               ?
            
          
           
             What
             had
             the
             
               Man
            
             no
             Gown
             to
             wear
             ,
          
           
             Or
             was
             this
             sent
             him
             from
             the
             
               Mayor
               ?
            
          
           
             Or
             i
             st
             the
             Cloak
             which
             
               Nixon
            
             brought
          
           
             To
             trim
             the
             Tub
             where
             
               Golledge
            
             taught
             ?
          
           
             Or
             can
             this
             best
             conceal
             his
             lips
             ,
          
           
             And
             shew
             Communion
             sitting
             hips
             ?
          
           
             Or
             was
             the
             Cloak
             St.
             
               Pauls
               ?
            
             if
             so
          
           
             With
             it
             he
             found
             the
             
               Parchments
            
             too
             .
          
           
             Yes
             verily
             ;
             for
             he
             hath
             been
          
           
             With
             mine
             Host
             
               Gajus
            
             at
             the
             New-Inn
             .
          
           
             A
             Gown
             (
             God
             blesse
             us
             )
             trailes
             o
             th'
             floore
          
           
             Like
             th'
             petticoat
             of
             the
             Scarlet
             Whore
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             large
             stiffe
             pleats
             he
             dares
             confide
          
           
             Are
             ribs
             from
             
               Antichrists
            
             own
             side
             .
          
           
             A
             mourning
             Cope
             ,
             if
             't
             looks
             to
             the
             East
             ,
          
           
             Is
             the
             black
             Surplisse
             of
             the
             
               Beast
               .
            
          
           
             Stay
             ,
             read
             the
             Cards
             ;
             the
             Queens
             and
             Kings
          
           
             The
             best
             i
             th'
             Pack
             are
             Gouned
             things
             ;
          
           
             But
             shortcut
             
               Spade
            
             with
             t'other
             three
          
           
             Are
             dub'd
             i
             th
             Cloak
             of
             knavery
             .
          
           
             Beside
             his
             
               Lordship
            
             cloak'd
             did
             stand
          
           
             When
             his
             Watch
             went
             false
             by
             slight
             of
             hand
             :
          
           
             Then
             look
             for
             more
             such
             Cloaks
             as
             these
          
           
             From
             th'
             
               Court
            
             of
             
               Wards
            
             and
             
               Liveries
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             On
             
               Alma's
            
             voyce
             .
          
           
             
               WHat
               Magick
               art
            
             
               Compells
               my
               soule
               to
               fly
               away
               ,
            
             
               And
               leave
               desert
            
             
               My
               poor
               composed
               trunck
               of
               clay
               ?
            
             
               Strange
               violence
               !
               thus
               pleasingly
               to
               teare
            
             
               The
               soule
               forth
               of
               the
               body
               by
               the
               eare
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               
                 Alma
              
               sings
               ,
            
             
               The
               pretty
               Chanters
               of
               the
               skie
            
             
               Doe
               droop
               their
               wings
               ,
            
             
               As
               in
               disgrace
               they
               meant
               to
               die
               ;
            
             
               Because
               their
               tunes
               which
               were
               before
               so
               rare
               ,
            
             
               Compar'd
               to
               hers
               ,
               doe
               but
               distract
               the
               aire
               .
            
          
           
             
               Each
               sensitive
            
             
               In
               emulation
               proudly
               stands
               ,
            
             
               Striving
               to
               thrive
            
             
               Under
               the
               blisse
               of
               her
               commands
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               charming
               voyce
               doth
               Bears
               and
               Tigers
               tame
               ,
            
             
               And
               teach
               the
               Sphears
               new
               melodies
               to
               frame
               ▪
            
          
           
             
               The
               Angells
               all
            
             
               (
               Astonisht
               at
               her
               heavenly
               aire
               )
            
             
               Would
               sudden
               fall
            
             
               From
               cold
               amazement
               to
               dispaire
               ;
            
             
               But
               that
               by
               nimble
               theft
               they
               all
               conspire
            
             
               To
               steal
               her
               hence
               for
               to
               enrich
               their
               quire
               .
            
          
           
             FINIS
             .