HOLLANDI Post-huma.  
A FUNERAL ELEGY OF KING JAMES: WITH A CONGRATULATORY Salve TO KING CHARLES.  
An Elegy of the Magnanimous HENRY Earl of Oxford.  
A Description of the late great, fearful and and Prodigious Plague: and diverse other pathetical Poems, Elegies, and other Lines, on diverse subjects.  
The Post-humes of ABRAHAM HOLLAND, sometimes of Trinity-college in CAMBRIDGE.  
The Author's EPITAPH, made by himself.  
CANTABRIGIAE, Impensis, HENRICI HOLLAND. 1626.   

The Names or Titles of the ensuing ELEGIES, etc.  

AN Elegy or some Post-hume tears for King JAMES: and A congratulatory Salve to King CHARLES.  
An Elegy on the Death of the Magnanimous HENRY Earl of Oxford, etc.  
A Poem written in the late Plague-time, to diverse the Authors endeared worthy Friends, then in the Country.  
A Description of the late great and prodigious Plague.  
A Satirical Poem against one that did falsely accuse the Author to the late Lord Keeper, of a Libel against JOHN OWENS Monument in Paul's.  
A Poem of his own dear Father being Sick.  
A Poem to his Friends in his own sickness, with a resolution against Death.  
A Letter, savouring of Mortification, written in the time of the late Visitation of the Plague, to his dear Brother H.H.  
A Confession of his sins to God, with a testimony of his Faith.  
A metrical Version of part of the 73. Pslame.  
T. C. the Authors endeared friend, his poetical Version of the 91. Psalm.  
A Meditation on the 6. Psalm, verse 4. and 5. With some other Meditations in his Sickness, and a Prayer.  
His Bodies Vale to his best Part.  
His Epitaph made by himself.    

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND HIGH-BORN HERO, GEORGE, LORD GORDON, EARL OF ENGIH: AND CAPTAIN OF THE GVARDDU-CORPS (commonly called JEAN DU-GVARD) to his Majesty of FRANCE: Son and Heir apparent, to the most Noble and Valorous the Marquis of HUNTLEY.  
Right Honourable:  
MY LORD: The Author of these Poems and other Lines, my dear Brother, being lately Deceased, and I loath that his Elaborate works should die, & be buried in Oblivion, thought good rather to commit them to the Press, And do make bold to make choice of your Noble Self, desiring you to deign the Patronage of them: And I am induced so to do in two respects; First, because your Honour is the Prime Maecenas of the Muses, of your Noble Rank, that I know, of Great Britain: Secondly, for that I am not ignorant of you Honours favourable and benign acceptance of some other the Author's Poems, from his own hands. Why shall I then doubt of your Acceptance of these? The Orphans of him, who to say no more, whiles he had breath, as he was much obliged, so did highly prise and honour your Lordship.  
Vouchsafe therefore, most Noble Lord, not only the Patronage hereof against the malevolent detractors and vulgar mouths (if any such there be) but the pardoning of my audacity herein, being altogether unknown unto you.  
Now, Noble SIR, as the World knows you were one of King JAMES his Northern WORTHIES; so, who will deny but our gracious King CHARLES accounts you no less? And that your Honour, Name and Fame, are not confined within the Empire of Great Britain, appears by that thrice honourable Office conferred on you by the most Christian French King: I pray GOD give you increase of Honour on Earth, and hereafter immortal Honour in Heaven. And so, I humbly take my leave of your Noble Lordship.  
Your Honour's most obsequious to be Commanded: H. H.   

TO The ingenious and ingenuous Reader, especially such as were the deceased Authors Friends.  
GENTLEMEN, I have enterprised to commit these ensuing Lines, my deceased Brothers Orphans, unto the Press, at mine own proper Charges, not to make them common; for I hold them better worth than to be exposed to the vulgar View of every Ignoramus or Non-intelligit: The world already being full fraught and farced with stuff fit for their understanding. What these are, I need not tell you that knew the Author; And for your sakes principally have I made this Impression, of no more Copies than I think to distribute unto ye, his (and some of mine own) endeared & worthy Friends. I hope you will vouchsafe them benign Acceptance, and me condign thankes: by which, I shall be encouraged to publish other his larger Labours which I have lying by me. And so I wish you all an hearty Vale, and of you take my leave.  
Yours to Command. H. H.   

MICHAEL DRAYTON Esquire, and Poet-Laureat, in Commendation of the AUTHOR and his first published Poem, NAUMACHIA.  
BY this one Limb, my HOLLAND, we may see  
What thou in time at thy full growth mayst be,  
Which Wit by her own Symmetry can take,  
And thy proportion perfectly can make  
At thy Ascendant: that when thou shalt show  
Thyself; who reads thee perfectly shall know  
Those of the Muses by this little light  
Saw before other where to take thy height.  
Proceed, let not Apollo's stock decay,  
POETS and KINGS are not borne every day.   

E C. Master of Arts, upon the same.  
SEnd forth, youngman, from Muse's womb,  
Thy other Royal Births at home,  
But slowly, slowly send them forth,  
Lest for their number and their worth  
The envious hand of Fates take hold,  
And crop thee; for they'll think thou'rt Old.   

I. W. I C. Upon the same.  
THat this small Piece the World should hazard first,  
Of other better Works thy Muse hath nursed  
To wonder I was forced, unless't be done  
As a small Star doth usher forth the Sun.   

E.P. Theologus, amico suo ARAHAMO HOLLANDO, D. PHILEMONIS F. in NAUMACHIAM suam.  
NAumachiam lustrando tuam, mihi flumine visus,  
jugenij placido desperijsse tui:  
Arma virum, tabulas Guleas, & Scuta per ●●das  
Aspicio, & mens est Carmine mersa simul.  
Emergo! & tabulas votivas dedico Musae,  
Docte HOLLANDE tua, quae bene facta canit.  
FINIS.   

AN ELEGY: OR, SOME POSTHUME TEARS, UPON THE ROYAL HEARSE OF OUR LATE SOVEREIGN JAMES, KING OF GREAT BRITAIN, France, and Jreland; Defender of the Faith, etc.  
Who Died at his Manor of THEOBALD'S, the XXVII. of March, 1625.  
By ABRAHAM HOLLAND.  
Printed for HEN. HOLLAND. M.DC.XXVI.   

TO THE RIGHT HIGH & MIGHTY CHARLES, OF GREAT BRITAIN, France, and Jreland; the first King (of that Name) and second Monarch: Defender of the FAITH, etc. Sole Inheritor of his Royal Father's KINGDOMS and VERTVES. AND To King JAMES his Jmmortall Memory.  
This Elegy is Consecrated by his Sacred Majesty's humblest and meanest Subject.   

AN ELEGJE: OR, Some Posthume tears, upon the Royal Hearse of our late Sovereign King JAMES.  
NOw that the Land hath nigh forgot to weep,  
And JAMES the Good more peaceably doth sleep  
In his unblamed Urn, and th'universities,  
Upon his Hearse from their lamenting eyes  
Have thrown their Pearls, & through the widowed Town  
The curious wits have jewelled his Crown,  
Pardon if now poor I do spend a tear,  
Though fare unequal to my care, to bear  
My sorrow company, if I commence  
A Nania now, and end it two years hence,  
I'll chide my grief, which could so soon express  
Itself by speech, when speech makes sorrow less.  
he's dead; if some preciser man should ask  
Who 'tis I mean, tell him that is a task  
A mortal cannot answer; let him fly  
To be resolved first to Philosophy,  
And there make search, what skilful nature can  
Invent that's curious to produce a man  
Next, and most like a Deity: and hence  
Rise to a Metaphysic excellence,  
And transcend Nature, let him there suppose  
The soul's clear faculties, as they rose  
Perfect from the Creator, and withal  
Know such an one is dead, who did recall  
All decayed virtues: Who had he lived that day  
When wise PROMETHEUS' mankind formed of clay,  
He might have been the Stamp pure and refined,  
T'have moulded off all future humane Kind:  
But how these sparks which nature first did frame  
Were ripened by Time, and made a flame  
What graces did accrue unto the mind  
Of Him that's dead, when it was disciplined  
And formed by Arts additions, would require  
Praemeditations long and works entire,  
As HOMER haply being desired to clear  
What th' Ithacan or fierce ACHILLES were,  
Can not their well-known Excellence descry  
Under an Iliad and an Odyssie:  
Nor VIRGIL tell what his AENEAS was,  
Until his answer did make up the Mass  
Of full twelve Books: had now some Poet more  
And purer fancies than those Swans before  
Ever enjoyed, he could but meanly sing,  
And weakly tell what was our now-dead King.  
He was a Man, a King, a God, above  
The reach of envy feared alone for love,  
And yet he's dead, he that few days ago  
Had said so much, had been Great Britain's foe,  
Alas 'tis past an Omen now, and Fate  
Hath given us a bad licence to relate  
The hated truth, nor treason is't to say  
His Funeral was kept on such a day;  
We need no Calculations now, or Art  
of Stars to gather, when his mortal part  
Will pay the due to nature, he hath paid,  
And She hath him a full acquittance made  
Of all his debt: and now much like a strong  
And nimble-winged Eagle, which hath long  
Been penned in some close Cage, his vn-housed spirit  
On able Plumes hath ta'en a joyful flight  
Up to the Sun, while we poor men below  
Gaze at the sight, and after him can throw  
Only our vows: O whither Thou by this  
White Soul, art crowned in a Throne of bliss  
That standeth on Eternity, and thence  
With a new Power, as an intelligence  
Dost rule some Orb: or whether thou and thine,  
Thy wisdom and thy Clemency do shine  
As a new Constellation, in some Sphere,  
Where nor the Powre of winds and storms appear,  
Or any Gust: that heareth not the clash  
Of Thunder, sees no lightnings sulphury flash.  
But there as in a pleasing dream dost lie  
Bathed in bliss and fixed Tranquillity,  
Having attained unto that which Thou  
So soughtest on Earth, but full possessed of now  
Eternal Peace, while neighbouring Stars admire  
To see so bright a guest increase their choir.  
Or whether thou with Angels dost consent  
To hold an everlasting Parliament,  
In robes as white as those wherein the Choir  
Of surplussed Saints sing carols and admire  
Their Maker's glory ermined all with lights,  
And stars that glitter in serenest nights,  
The purple, not such as the Tyrian shell  
Doth yield, or th'high-priced Indian Cuchenel,  
But such as decks the proud Aurora, when  
She shows her blushing face to bed rid men,  
Or such as is for Coverlets dispread,  
To weary Phoebus on his Western bed.  
Where ere thou art, refined Soul, if so  
The shades of men freed from their prison, Know  
And see what's done on Earth, o understand  
And view the sorrow of thy widowed Land;  
Pardon our Avarice if we would fain  
Enjoy our CHARLES? yet have our JAMES again,  
England with one consent would gladly view  
A Heptarchy again of such as You  
Without division: Much I cannot blame  
Those Idle Wizards, who did blindly aim  
At Truth they knew not, when it is agreed,  
That now Thou art an an Emperor indeed,  
And fare above a King; Thy Laureate soul  
Being rid in triumph to her Capitol,  
Nor art thou fallen, but as in purest nights,  
In a full choir of Stars we see some lights  
Dissemble ruin, which when man kind saw  
At first, it thought that Fate had broke the law  
Of Nature, and let lose those rolling eyes,  
Which be the Garrison and centuries  
To the brass Wall of heaven and do keep  
Those golden Vaults in a still-waking sleep.  
Thy Son is living, who is so misled  
While he doth live to say that Thou art dead?  
Shall we here blame great Fate or love it, which  
Hath us at once made both extremely rich  
And most deplored poor? which hath the store  
Of hidden India given us, and more  
Than ere the pale and greedy Spaniard knew  
In wretched Mexico, or rich Peru,  
(Where ambushed rocks of Gold and silver found  
Look pale and blush to leave the guilty ground)  
But hath bereaved us of a Mint, a Coin  
That went for currant, unto which did join  
Refined Excellence: or, shall we say  
By this our loss, that Fate did but display  
Her indiscretion, which doth poise the States  
Of men alike, and mighty Potentates?  
The will of Destiny, which hath snatched away  
The Western Sun, and yet remains a Day  
As bright as if it still did here abide,  
Hath stopped the Current, yet the stream doth ride  
In Crystal beauty; hath impli'de a Change  
Without an alteration, yea, more strange  
Produced a joyful sadness: that the while  
We are a weeping, we do oft beguile  
The victory of sorrow with a gleam  
Of present joy, like as a sudden beam  
Strikes from a Tempest; you can pass no way,  
But by th'occurrent, one may justly say  
There's a strange Conflict, a strange Monster bred,  
Of joy and Sorrow streaming from one head  
The King: See, here comes on a drooping man  
With anguish printed in his brow, pale, wan,  
And only moving; ask him what's the cause,  
And you shall hear him after a sad pause  
So well as grief will give him leave, to say  
The best of Kings, the best of men, this day  
Hath left us wretched Mortals to deplore  
That bliss, that peace, that wisdom, which before  
We knew not how to value, till the want  
Tells us how negligent and Ignorant  
We were of so great happiness: Thus he  
Will make his sorry answer, or may be  
Bee altogether silent to descry  
Th'importance of the new calamity.  
For greatest miseries which should declare  
Excess of sorrow, dumb and silent are.  
But do I not through all the people hear  
Good Omens, and glad acclamations tear  
Th'astonished air, so loud and shrill, that Spain  
And Germany do stand amazed again:  
An art of memory would little aid  
To recall sorrow, when that word is said  
King CHARLES: As when in some uncertain weather  
Two divers winds do join their blasts together  
The wavering Forests, and the Neuter Corn  
You then may see, now this, now that way borne,  
Still most inclining to the conquering blast  
That did prevail, and breathe upon them last.  
I do confess, the gain of such a King  
We now enjoy, may well some solace bring  
For our dead JAMES: Yet as we often see  
In a religious Grove some aged Tree,  
As a long-lived Oak, or bald-head Elm,  
Which not so many Storms could overwhelm,  
So many Keen and surly Winter's rage,  
But there it stands respected for the age,  
Although the arms and seared bough's do fade,  
And that it with the trunk doth make a shade  
Rather than leaves: yet underneath the Fauns  
And Sylvan Gods from farre-remooved Lawns  
Shelter themselves; and when it falls the sweet  
And gentle Nymphs, and horn-hoofed Satyrs meet  
To wail their loved Shed, which oft did tame  
The rage of july, and the Dog-starres flame.  
Can we suppose another Sun would rise,  
And make his Zodiac from the Southern skies  
And set i'th' North, leaving the East as i'll  
As th'Orcades, yet we should think on still  
Our ancient friend the former Sun, whose power  
So many a Spring, so many a joyful hour  
Produced before: o! it is hard to say,  
When Customary virtue's ta'en away  
How great the grief is, though perhaps the bliss  
That doth ensue to th'other equal is.  
There is an old wife's Proverb that the Spring  
May make an Ague Physic for a King,  
And God this Medicine did to him apply,  
To cure him of diseased mortality,  
And settle him Eternal: where, nor age  
Doth follow Time, as in this Pilgrimage  
Of our sad life, nor sickness, pain, or fear,  
Or Decrement of beauty doth appear,  
But health eternal, and felicities  
Without impair, and Life that never dies.  
What man hereafter that partaketh sense,  
But much more, reason, will wish residence  
In this dark vale of life, where every hour  
Is spent or lost, or subject to the power  
Of dominiering Sin, especially  
When thus good Kings, our Gods Tutelar die▪  
Alas, while we in this life travail fare,  
We are but wretches hover in the air  
With waxed Plumes, where fear still leads the trace,  
And too much heaven brings us to earth apace,  
To bring us unto heaven: we Comers are  
Whose sudden lustre and prodigious hair  
Affrights the world with wonderment, if we  
Placed too high, or too inferior be.  
Ah! who would trust on the deceiving state  
O● slippery Crowns, held at as dear a rate  
As often purchased, and again resigned,  
Always with cares and anguish of the mind.  
This great, good, wise, and learned Monarch, whom  
The world affirmed the Light of Christendom:  
The Northern Star and Wonder of his time,  
Who was the moment of this Western clime,  
And held it in just poise: who did devise,  
But now the Embryo's of Policies  
Which Fate is still a teeming: this good King  
Alas, is come unto his Evening;  
And after souls and bodies last divorce,  
Lies in the Grave a cold unlived Corpse.  
Good Soul sleep sweet, and quiet, and do Thou  
That dost revive, our King, smooth up that brow  
That gives thy people life, do Thou appease  
Thy grief, and the contagion will cease  
Of too much care: But if Thou still dost keep  
Sorrow I'll swear he's dead that does not weep.  
Almighty God assist Thee, and the Winds.  
Be Champions for CHARLES, what ere He minds.   

AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT NOBLE and Magnanimous Heroë, HENRY Earl of Oxford, Viscount Bulbec, Lord Samford, and Lord great Chamberlain of England.  
WHO SICKENED IN SERVICE OF HIS KING and Country, in defence of the States. And died at the Hagh in Holland. April 1625.  
By ABRAHAM HOLLAND.  
Printed 1626.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND NOBLE LADY, DIANA, Countess of OXFORD, Dowager of the Deceased HENRY Earl of OXFORD, Viscount BULBEC, Lord SAMFORD, and Lord great Chamberlain of ENGLAND. AND, TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND APPROVED Soldier, ROBERT VERE, the succeeding Earl of OXFORD, Heir apparent to the same Noble Titles and Honours.  
To both their Honours, This Elegy is Consecrated.  By H. H.  

An Elegy upon the Death of the right Noble and Magnanimous HENRY Earl of Oxford, Viscount Bulbec, etc.  
WHat Star was wanting in the Sky? what place  
To be supplied anew? what empty space  
That required OXFORD? was some Light grown dim,  
Some Star Decrepit that suborned Him  
To dark the Earth by his Departure? Sure  
The Thracian God to make his Orb more pure  
Hath borrowed him; where in his fiery Car  
He shines a better MARS, a brighter Star?  
Or like a new Orion doth he stand  
In Crystal Mail, and a bright blade in's hand  
An armed Constellation, while the Choir  
Of Pyrrhic dancers, with reflecting fire  
Glitter on him? or like a Comets rage  
Strikes he amazement on the trembling age?  
Alas! these glorious fancies but express  
His worth and our love to him, not make less  
The rape of Fate, while we poor Mortals fare  
More want such men than heaven could want a Star.  
Let Grief then speak, and for this woeful time  
Let me nor study Number, Verse, or rhyme,  
But writ in fragments, so't shall be my due  
Though not a Poet good, a Mourner true.  
Though I should say no more but, OXFORD's dead,  
That would be made an Elegy, to spread  
Itself as fare as sorrow, the Contents  
Enlarged to Volumes, by the tears, laments,  
And grief ingenerall, when the world affords  
So vast a comment unto so few words.  
Ye Powers above that look on men with eyes  
Just and impartial, if in Fate there lies  
Still more revenge, o let us wretches know  
Our lot before, that we may weep below  
A timely expiation, and prevent  
The torrent of thy wrath which now is bend  
To make a Deluge o'er us, who have found,  
Though after all Great JAMES was laid in ground,  
A Plague, and OXFORD'S Death: 'tis hard to say  
Which of the two doth more our loss display  
The ruins both being General: and can  
Heaven be so angry with poor feeble man  
To persecute him further? No, the rage  
Of Pestilence which spreadeth through the age  
Can scarce surpass his loss: cast fear away  
Fate cannot teem more mischief; and must stay  
Now at the height of Vengeance: OXFORD'S death  
Hath engaged heaven to spare the rest beneath.  
Who, what he living was those men can tell  
Who past the North and Southern Poles do dwell  
I need not write it: that were but to show  
What we now want, and what we once did owe  
To such a man, whose like ensuing days  
Shall scarce produce: Antiquity may praise  
Their HECTORS, and ACHILLES, with a dim  
And feigned applause, while we do but right him  
In their Encomiums. Who like a Newborn Star  
Bred us amazement only, and from fare  
Made us admire what he in time would be,  
And so shut up his Early light, while we  
Wonder that Fate could be so prodigal  
So soon to show, so quickly to let fall  
So great a glory; which we well may say  
Had but an hour, a Minute, a short day  
That did deserve an age: yea, some will say  
As the best things, he made the shorter stay  
T'express an Excellence: Yet alas, herein  
We do but flatter sorrow and our sin  
Which took him hence; for had he stayed till then  
When there should be no memory left of men  
H'had been a Choice of heaven, and surpassed  
The Annals and the Chronicles, which vast  
Uncertain times have made: do not surmise  
That I herein am set t'Hyperbolize,  
A strict Historian of the time that says  
Less, shall be held Detractor of his Praise.  
Yea, future judgements when they shall compare  
Him with the rest shall call those writers spare,  
Who made him not a Pattern, as the blind  
Old HOMER, did ACHILLES, of his Kind.  
Alas 'twas nothing in the ancient time  
For Noble men to raise their names, and climb  
By haughty acts unto the top of Fame,  
When as obeisance to their Prince did claim,  
And their own Interests, that they should show  
Not more what they adventured, than did owe:  
When each day almost new invasions, when  
Civil disturbance did compel the men  
To a forced valour: In those times to have  
A TALBOT, ESSEX, or a DRAKE did save  
The Country but from damage: but that now  
When the now-Sainted JAMES had made a VOW  
To bless himself, and us by making Peace:  
That not all Spirit, and all MARS should cease  
But such a flame from those still ashes rise,  
Did save the Land from guilt of Cowardice.  
Since OXFORD was a Youth, BELLONA ne'er  
Breathed her alarms in this our Hemisphere,  
But he pursued them, with a Noble fire  
To fame his Country, and his own desire  
Grounded on that: Great Venice and the Fates  
Though luckless of Bohemia, with the States  
Now fatal to him, and th'attempted Seas  
Shall be his true, though Posthumes witnesses.  
He sought no new-made Honours in the Tide  
Of favour, but was borne the same he died.  
Nor came he to the Elysium with shame  
That the old VERES did blush to hear his Name  
Brighter than theirs: where his deserts to grace  
His Grandfathers rose up and gave him place,  
And set him with the Heroës', where the Choir  
Of airy Worthies rise up, and admire  
The stately Shade: those British Ghosts which long  
Ago were numbered in th'Elysian throng  
joy to behold him; SIDNEY threw his Bays  
On OXFORD'S head, and deigned to sing his praise;  
While Fame with silver Trumpet did keep time  
With his high Voice, and answered his rhyme.  
The soft enticements of the Court, the smiles  
Of Glorious Princes the bewitching wiles  
Of softer Ladies, and the Golden State  
That in such places doth on Greatness wait  
And all the shady happiness which seems  
To attend Kings and follow Diadems  
Were Boy-games to his mind: to see a Mask  
And sit it out, he held a greater task  
Than to endure a Siege: to wake all Night  
In his cold armour, still expecting fight  
And the dread Onset, the sad face of fear,  
And the pale silence of an Army, were  
His best Delights; among the common rout  
Of his rough Soldiers to sit hardness out  
Were his most pleasing Delicates: to him  
A Battered Helmet was a Diadem:  
And wounds, his Bravery: Knowing that Fame  
And fair Eternity could never claim  
Their Meeds without such Hazards: but alas  
That we must say, such a Man OXFORD was,  
A Hateful Syllable which doth imply  
Valour can be extinct and Virtue die.  
O were't not Profanation, I now  
Can turn a stiff Pythagorist and allow  
A real Metempsychosis, if so  
The Soul of OXFORD might divided flow  
On much Nobility: and yet my sect  
Should honour find from hence, they no Defect.  
This was the year of jubilee in Rome  
No marvel, 'twas of grief with us at home,  
England hath been Rome's Sacrifice, the whiles  
Our Tears and Funerals have bred their Smiles  
A company of sacred Souls before  
Him left Mortality, as if the score  
Of Fate were quickly to be paid: but when  
He left us wretches to continue men,  
While he himself did to a Crown attain  
The whole Choir seemed in him to die again:  
As if he had been th' Epitome, and Brief  
Of all their Virtues, and of all our grief:  
But Fate did act this last and greatest theft  
To see if we had any Sorrow left,  
As if those loved Souls which went before  
Had spent our tears, and left our Eyes no more,  
Alas, now pities us and bids us sleep  
Seeing when Eyes are done our hearts can weep.   

Two Epitaphs upon the same Noble Earl.  

EPITAPH. 1.  
PAssenger that needs wilt know  
Who lieth here  
First let me crave,  
That thou, thy Piety to show  
Let fall a tear  
Upon the Grave:  
'Tis Oxford: whom when thou shalt find  
Entombed below  
Who late did live,  
Thou thyself shalt call unkind,  
To have been so  
Jnquisitive.   

EPITAPH. 2.  
TO say that OXFORD here or there  
Doth lie, confines a place  
To his unbounded Fame,  
That Body which, you balm and sear  
That Image you do grace,  
Is but his Shade, his Name.  
What place of Heaven hath his Soul  
And his diviner parts,  
To mortals is unknown;  
This we may say without control,  
In all true English hearts  
His Tomb is made, though they be made of Stone.   
FINIS.   

A L'envoy to my endeared Friends Mr. R.T. Mr. W.H. Mr. T.C. and others being in the Country. Serving for an Introduction to the Description of the Plague.  
Do you not wonder that in this sad time  
I still have leisure to compose a rhyme?  
When as a Christian care forbids me now  
The help of Poetry, that my hot brow  
Should sweat with active Wine, or that my heart  
Should be so free from passion to use Art  
Unto my wild expressions: The mirth  
That entertains a Muse, and gives a Birth  
To happy lines, is fare more fit for you  
Who in your Country's happiness do view  
Our slaughters from a fare, as men in sight  
That stand remote spectators of a Fight.  
Yet I would have both you and all suppose  
Sorrow can speak as well in verse as prose  
In this great Year of Elegies: indeed  
Not with that life, that flame, and active speed.  
As when Security did bid me play  
With the smooth tresses of Asteria  
And wander in her eyes: alas that theme  
Is quelled in grief and drowned in the Stream  
Of the times sorrow: those Heroïck lays  
That were begun have thrown away their bays  
And clothed themselves in Cypress; and my brow  
Expects a Nightcap, more than Laurel now.  
Sirs you perhaps are chase o'er the Fields  
The Hare, the Dear, or what the season yields  
Do Imp your Falcon's wings, making it fly  
A subtle ambusher about the Sky.  
We are the Prey of Death and each night stay  
The call of Fate, until the Morning say  
We may draw forth a Noon; and so at Night  
Lie down again not sure of other light  
Till the great Resurrection: for may be  
Death hath his Writ this Night to serve on me.  
Do you inquire whether we be afraid  
Of Death or no which so soon doth invade  
So surely Kill, I answer, no: that man  
That liveth now and view's the storm, and can  
Still be afraid of Death, I must surmise  
A Renegade, or full of Cowardice:  
No Penitent can fear, and he that still  
Retains a heart unbroken acts more ill  
Than all his life before: that soul is Steel  
Which doth not bleed, that hell, which doth not feel  
The present blow: It is with us who here  
Hourly view death, as when exempt of fear  
At an Ostend or such a Siege to die  
The Soldiers thought it a Necessity  
And so did slight it, when each hour were shown  
So many others Death's t'assure their own.  
Endeared Friends, I am well and better much  
And in more sweet security than such  
Who think of a long life, by these death's here  
Being freed from what is worse than death, the Fear.  
Seldom is Christian Valour better gained.  
Than when 'tis by such misery obtained.  
I doubt not but that Fame which still doth use  
To spread abroad more large than certain news  
Hath blazed our State, and haply doth assure  
As you suppose fare more than we endure,  
Thus fare let me your doubts herein suffice  
Rumour itself can scarce Hyperbolise  
Our Real woe: Fear itself cannot vow  
There is more Mischief than we suffer now:  
If you shall hear of Streets wherein the Grass  
Doth grow for want of men that use to pass  
Or Smithfield turned a meadow or a plain  
Wherein the Horses, Kine, and Sheep again  
May feed rather than sell: or of poor men  
That in their Graves together lie by ten  
By twenties or by more: or sudden Fates  
Of people dying in the streets and gates,  
Do not suppose it false, we wretches try  
What other Ages shall hold Poetry,  
A March in midst of August, and the Star  
That reigneth now fare from Canicular  
In all but the effects; not clothed in bright  
And scorching Sunshine but in midst of Night  
And Winter storms, as if the Plague did fly  
Wrapped in those clouds to fright the troubled Sky  
And blast mortality: the air the while  
Scarce in a Month strikes forth one pleasing smile  
Muffled in damps, so close that from beneath  
We deem it hard by any way but Death  
To see bright Heaven again: The Rural swains  
Begin to doubt the Usury of their pains  
And Prophesy a Famine: and the Earth  
Choked with Carcases threatens a Dearth  
As a Revenge: The Skies the while do shower  
Down poisonous tempest to augment the power  
Of her pretended Malice: while the breath  
Of black contagious winds do transport Death  
Through the envenomed air: Earth, Aire, and Sky  
Conspiring to our great Calamity.  
In what a case poor London stands, to show  
Would ask a Pen and Muse that only know  
How to write grief: alas it is become  
A Theatre of Tragedies, where some  
Died i'th' first acts, and many slaughters past  
God knows what murder shall be in the last▪  
I live not in it, but in Chelsey air  
Where Death but in his Out-rodes doth repair,  
And thence do only hear the murmuring Bells  
Disclose the slaughter by the frequent Kneels.  
Yet as a tender Mother though she have  
A Child interred, and sleeping in the grave  
Yet will she oft go see the tomb, and due  
His dust with pious tears, and oft renew  
His Posthume exequys: so sometime I  
Go to behold the City, and espy  
As I do walk along the widowed streets  
Nothing but sorrow in each face that meets  
In the Large ruin nothing but a grief  
That speaks itself in silence, true and brief.  
Ah dear Sirs, it is changed from the Place  
Ye knew it once, when as the beauteous face  
Of Gallantry enriched the Streets, and Eyes  
Of frequent beauty made it a Paradise  
And the Delight of Nations, whose concourse  
Thither, and the Reflux as from the Source  
Of humane Kind did make it seem to be  
The Centre of the World, the World's Epitome.  
Death now alas hath not begun, but led  
His Triumph through the Town, and largely spread  
His gloomy wings in circuit o'er the Walls  
Attended by ten thousand Funerals  
As if those Pageants raised to renown  
Our dear Queen's Welcome, and great Charles his Crown  
Had been of purpose made a Woeful throne  
For Death and Fate to sit spectators on  
When I see these, think you I can forbear  
But praise that God, who let's me still be here  
And makes me not a Spectacle, as they  
That now are mine, and lived but yesterday?  
Dear Friends, it is not London, but the shade  
And Carcase of that place in ashes laid.  
Where you shall see in stead of sport and play  
A false yet as it seems a Holiday,  
The Doors shut up, and all the Streets about  
But here and there a Passenger walk out  
So solemn silence, that a man would say,  
'Twere a light Night, or Seruicetime all Day:  
The Bells as frequent as when oft they sound  
When a young Prince is borne, or new King crowned,  
Which heard, a Stranger might be brought to swear  
The Fift of August or November there  
Were Solemnised now: which to assure  
The Bonfires almost every night procure  
A Shade of joy; which if you right will Know  
As funeral Piles not solemn Bonfires glow  
The Bells in their sad language almost tell  
They ring no Holiday, but speak a Knell;  
The Doors so shut that one in them might doubt  
Whether it were to keep Death in or out.  
What Muse shall I invoke t'indite a rhyme  
That may express our miserable time?  
Where the pale Visages of men express  
Fare above Poetry the Heaviness  
Of God's sharp Scourge, where the Red wand affrights  
The Starring Passenger and troubled Nights  
Are spent in Burials, when what e'er we see  
Is but an Argument of Misery;  
The Wormwood-Nosegayes, & the trembling Pace  
Of them that pass, though they have Herb of Grace  
And curious Boxes to repel the air  
Which might assault them, seeming to outdare  
The will of Destiny: Nor can I blame  
Our weak Mortality, which thinks no shame  
To show a frailty, deeming perhaps that Fate  
Can yield to Sovereign Bezoar, Mithridate  
Or such Death-killers, let us think so still  
So we root out that weed of Sin and ill  
Which taints our souls, so though for many years  
It have prevailed, we'll drown it in our tears  
And Kill this Giant Plague, which through the town  
As an unloosed Lion, beareth down  
What e'er it meets, making no doubt to strike  
The cloudy Cedar and low Shrub alike:  
So quick and fast that it makes men to say  
'Twill not be long until the judgement Day  
Absolve the Massacre, Death so doth shrine  
To bring the Universe to light again.  
So few are borne to life so many Die  
Lucina doth not tithe Mortality,  
As if Death would not leave until for all  
Doomsday do make one fire one funeral.  
When now the Weeke-bills almost reach unto  
The sum which that of th'year had wont to do.  
If from the Town a Stranger should but spy  
How the affrighted People hast to fly  
In trembling heaps he could not but suppose  
The ransacked City taken by the Foes,  
And now possessed, and the remaining rout  
On a strict composition flying out.  
Enter the City you shall meet with there  
A fearful Valour, an audacious Fear,  
Where men do think't so difficult to scape  
That they expose themselves unto the rape  
While they yet tremble, as if thence to fly  
Were to give wings to Death, and hast to die.  
A Noon in Fleetstreet now can hardly show  
That Press which Midnight could not long ago;  
No Proclamation needs the Gentry hast  
Unto their Homes, they do it now too fast  
While the poor Starved rout are taken hence  
Alike by Famine and by Pestilence.  
Walk through the woeful Streets (whoever dare  
Still venture on the sad infected air)  
So many Marked houses you shall meet  
As if the City were one Red-Crosse street.  
The Plague hath spread itself so vast and far  
They need not set Marks in Particular  
One very Door, but to express the Loss  
Not gild but red the Public City cross:  
And brief for all to show the wrath of Fate  
Set LORD HAVE MERCY ON's, on every Gate.  
Alas the little house hath lost the Name  
While wretched London may the Title claim  
Of the great Pest-house: where are buried more  
Than we had thought it had contained before:  
That in our judgements it may well appear  
Turned from a City to a Sepulchre.   

The Description of the late great memorable and prodigious Plague. 1625.  

GOod God what poison lurkd in that first fruit  
Whose surfeit left us wretches prostitute  
To such a world of sorrow? Not confined  
Only to tear and cruciate the mind  
With sad remembrance of the bliss, wherein  
We might have lived, but see the cruel Sin  
Spares not our souls weak houses, but doth spread  
From viler parts unto the nobler head  
A thousand Maladies, which now alas  
Through each small Inlet of the Body, pass  
Remorseless Enemies, and batter down,  
The clayie bulwarks of our Mud-walled town.  
Our throat is like that vast breach, which doth bring  
In like the Trojan Horse dire surfeiting;  
When in the Stomach like the Marketplace  
The foes let lose dare spread themselves, and trace  
Through all the City, some are ready first  
To break the Sluices, which do raging burst  
And drown low buildings, some with flaming brands  
Fire holy Temples, some with Swords in hands  
Sharpe-pointed-Iavelins, mals, and poisonous darts  
Make Massacres through all the trembling parts  
Of the distressed Fabric; no control  
Can barre'em but they will assault the Soul  
Itself almost, while each small-breathing Poor  
Betrays unto the foe a Postern Door  
To enter in at, every crawling vein  
Affords him harbour, and doth Entertain  
The bloody Enemy, each Muscle, Nerve,  
And Film makes him a Fortress to preserve  
His longer Durance, till the guest at last  
With ruin pays his Host for all that's past.  
How many such foes, think you? Secret lie  
When hundreds of them ambush in one Eye?  
Which is the Lantern, and the Watch, and Light  
Keeps Centurie for all the Body's Night.  
As soon may I exactly number all  
The fainting leaves that in an Autumn fall,  
The Creatures of the Summer, or the Store  
Of wilder infects, which old Nilus' shore  
Each year produceth, as with judgement show  
How many fierce and bold diseases flow  
Upon this wretched Carcase, when each year  
New troops of raging Fevers domineer  
That know no name, Each boy can nigh express  
Diseases now to Pose Hypocrates.  
Happy that age of gold, not only 'cause  
It had no vice, and so no need of Laws,  
When Nature was their Solon, and the want  
Of Knowledge to do ill, did make them Ignorant  
Of the Redress, not blessed alone in this  
Although the air and earth increased their bliss,  
But that an able Body was combined  
In a sweet friendship with a harmless mind.  
They knew no Physic (though their drugs did grow  
Then in full virtue, able to bestow  
Health on this age) because they Knew not how  
To get those Sicknesses, which men Know now.  
The Ague with a hundred names; the Aches  
More than the joints; the Palsy that attaches  
The limbs with Dissolution; the wild  
And Bedlam Frenzy: the Vertigo, styled  
Because it whirls the giddy brains about:  
The sweving Megrim; and the racking Gout:  
The cruel Stone; the torturing Colic fierce  
And wring winds, which through the limbs disperse  
Their airy torments; lingering dispense  
Of pale Consumptions, which besot the sense:  
The Deluge of a Dropsy: When shall I  
Run through 'em all? the sleepy Lethargy;  
Quick-murdring Apoplexy which doth Kill  
 it makes Sick: the piteous Falling-Ill:  
The Elephant-skined Leprosy: jaundice stain:  
Ambush'd Impostumes which surprise the brain:  
With hart-assaulting Pleurisies: the tough  
And clutterd Phlegm: and Rheum that breeds the Cough:  
Strappado, Cramps; the sodaine-pricking Stitch;  
The Nightmare: which the people think a Witch,  
Th'all conquering Pox, to which compared the rest  
Are Lady Sick-fits: this is that foreign guest  
The Divell-instructed Indies to us sold  
To recompense the filching of their Gold.  
All these and more innumerable powers  
Lay siege unto this weake-walled Fort of ours  
And oft surprise an Outwork, yea sometime  
In desperate malice ready are to climb  
The walls themselves: till that the heart much like  
A strong Defendant maketh good the Dike  
And gives 'em a repulse: yet oft alas,  
This noble Champion stains the conquered Mass  
With dying blood: For Sickness is a Fight,  
The victory doubtful, Chances infinite.  
But hath that power who is all Mercy, still  
More, and more cruel Punishments to Kill  
Minute-liued man? yea, though you add to these  
Pale meager Famine, Murders of the Seas,  
And Wars vast Slaughters; you shall find one more  
That may affright the rest we named before  
The Plague, whose very naming seems t'affright  
My trembling Quill, as it doth haste to write,  
Lest as it raging flies about the land  
This Instant it might seize upon my hand:  
The Plague a dreary Punishment, Heaven's curse,  
The fatal Engine of Destruction, worse  
Than we can well imagine, which doth bring  
Terror on mortals, Death on every thing,  
And Desolation unto Cities: O  
What ere thou art, dire Ill, whether thou dost flow  
From powerful Influence of the Stars, or rather  
Dost thy vast malice and contagion gather  
From poisonous Southern winds, which have prevailed  
Upon the sickly air, or Steames Exhaled  
From th'earth's envenomed womb: or whether it be  
Our Bodies Constitutions, which agree  
With the malicious air and so contract  
The quick Infection: whether it be the Pact  
Of Fate, and will of Heaven which doth stand,  
Or Gods immediate angry moved hand,  
As 'tis; O pull it in, thou Gracious Power,  
And let not this blind Enemy devour  
The Grace of England. CHARLES implores, we  
With him in zealous Orisons agree:  
Hear him for us, and us for him; and stay  
Thy dreadful vengeance, which doth now display  
Horror through all thy People, and gins  
To show the ugly portrait of our sins,  
Which have pulled down thy wrath. O let suffice  
That world of blood in foreign Air that lies,  
Of noble English souls, whose carcases  
The brutish Shores, wild Fields, and greedy Seas  
Expose to Dogs, to ravenous Fowls, and Fishes;  
Ah, little answering to the tender wishes  
Of their poor mothers, who at home the while  
Gape at their children's Honours, and beguile  
Their early fears with too late hopes: alas  
They little think, that now the soiled Grass  
Usurps their dear embraces, and grim Fate  
Sits pale upon those Beauties, which of late  
They made their Age's comforts, who now shall  
Ah! be bound to them for a Burial.  
O call to mind this Fatal Year, wherein  

* Equally & justly sent.  Thy justice hath been equal to our Sin;  
Both great: O let thy blessed Goodness still,  
As it is wont to do, surpass our Ill  
Those men whom we did love, whom we did trust  
Should be our Shields, are turned to Shades, to Dust;  
Let the enthroned Soul of JAMES implore,  
That after Him, thou punish His no more:  
Let the great Spirit of OXFORD, which hath past  
The Sentence of thy Anger, be the last  
Thou plaguest us withal; and let us know,  
That still thou pitiest us, poor men, below.  
But never let this Land endure again  
That woeful solitude, which once did reign  
In our fair Cities; which, neglected left,  
In a deplored ruin, showed the theft  
Of angry Fate: when scarce a tenant Mouse  
Was left, in many a fair unpeopled house;  
But the sad Owls and Night-Ravens aloof,  
Did keep their Revels on the silent roof:  
When at high Noon one passing by, should meet  
A Midnight Dark, and silence in the street;  
When in the ways well-paved and worn before  
By frequent steps of men, there now grew store  
Of uncouth Grass; and Harvests now apace  
Grew where they once were sold, i'th'Market-place:  
When as no Merryments, no Sports, no Plays  
Were known at all, and yet all Holidays.  
No Papers then over the doors were set,  
With, Chambers ready furnished to be let;  
But a sad, Lord have mercy upon us, and  
A bloody Cross, as fatal Marks did stand,  
Able to fright one from the Prayer. The time  
Then held it an inexpiable Crime,  
To visit a sick friend: Strange Stoure, wherein  
Love was a fault and Charity a sin;  
When Bad did fear infection from the Good,  
And men did hate their cruel Neighbourhood.  
'Twas a deplored time, wherein the Skies  
Themselves did labour, and let fall their eyes;  
When one might see the Sun, with sallow hair  
And languishing complexion, dull the air:  
Looking e'en so, as when at Chryses Plaint,  
He went like Night, the Grecian troops to taint  
With sad Infection; when his dire shafts cast,  
Killed more than Hector in the nine years past.  
The Heavens were clothed with bleak mists, & the air  
With the thick Damp, was struck into despair  
Of future clearness, or serener day,  
But that the Clouds for fear ran oft away.  
The Night, whose dewy shade had wont to tame  
The sultry relics of the Midday flame,  
Distilled no Crystal Pearls upon the ground;  
But wrapped in vaporous smoke, and clothed around  
With poisonous Exhalations, did affright  
The trembling Moon; whose dim and paler light  
Looked with that countenance, as if again  
Her silver horns should ne'er escape the Wane,  
So to renew her Circuit. The dull Choir  
Of sickly Stars showed now no smiling fire,  
But shone like un-snuffed Tapers: as if Fate  
Did give them leave now to prognosticate  
Their own estate, not others; and apply  
Themselves at last to sad Astrology.  
The poyson-cluttered Springs, with Plague infused,  
Ran not with Crystal torrents, as they used;  
But in dull streams, as them dire influence fills,  
With fainting pace, scarce reached unto their rills:  
And languid Rivers, which before did pass  
The Crystal with their clearness; now, alas,  
Look muddy, without stirring: and their streams,  
That wont to be all spangled with the beams  
Of the blithe Sun; now, in a weltering flood,  
Ran not with water, but prodigious blood.  
Those Trees whereof the Ancients used to raise  
Their Funeral Piles, might in these fatal days  
Burn at their own Death's, which in sad despair  
Spread not their leavy beauties through the air,  
But suffered Autumn in the Spring: forlorn  
And feral Cypress now had cause to mourn,  
Poppeyes' themselves this time in death did sleep,  
And the Myrrhe-tree had reason here to weep  
A Funeral Perfume: those gaudy flowers  
Which want to make Garlands for Paramours,  
Mourned in their drooping bravery, and spread  
The ground at their own deaths, as for the dead.  
The Corn grew not, as if it meant t'undoo  
Men not with Plague alone, but Famine too.  
Herbs, Physics Sovereigns, here infected die,  
And for themselves could find no remedy.  
The brute Beasts now, which Nature, to bestow  
The Excellence on Man, did make with low  
Downe-looking Postures, first did feel the rage  
Of th'earth-born Plague, and died before their age.  
The long-lived Hart this time to die began,  
Before it reached unto the age of Man.  
The faithful Spaniel, by his death, did try  
The mischief of his well-nosed Faculty,  
And ranging with quick Sent, did soon prove  
Th'infectious Malice of the Dog above.  
The lusty Steed, scouring in's Game apace,  
Lights on Death's Goal, in middle of his Race:  
The nimble Fowl, as th'air it flies around,  
Flags his sick wings, and sinks unto the ground,  
Not long before to the remorseless Sky  
In silly Notes have sung his Elegy.  
The luckless Night-Ravens, which used to groan  
The death of others, now might Dirge their own:  
The Snow-plumed Swan, as it did gently ride  
Upon the silver Stream, sung forth, and died.  
Anon the Damp dares break into the Walls,  
Making a way by thousand Funerals:  
Who can express th'astonishment and fear,  
Which doth at entrance of a Plague appear?  
Even so the fleeced Herd doth tremble, when  
An Aburne Lion, hungry from his Den,  
Breaks in among 'em: than you may behold  
The pale-looked Shepherd gaze upon his Fold  
With helpless pity, the poor Lam-kins creep  
Under their Dams; the silly trembling Sheep  
Stand full of cold amazement at the sight,  
Small hope for mercy, and less hope in flight,  
Expecting only which of all shall scape  
The ready horror of the Lion's rape,  
Other Diseases warning give before,  
That we may reckon, and acquit the Score  
Of our sin's Prodigality: in this,  
We scarce can be resolved whether 'tis  
Sickness, or Death itself; so quick it tries  
The strength of Nature, so soon poor Man dies:  
That many to repose in th'Evening lying,  
Have made their sleep true kin to Death, by dying  
Before the Morn. Ah! who would then defer  
A preparation for this Messenger  
Of blessed or cursed Eternity? What man  
Would still presume to sin, that knows the span  
Of short uncertain Life? Ye gracious Powers,  
That measure out the minutes and the hours  
Of this our wandering Pilgrimage, restrain  
These sudden slaughtermen; or, good God wain  
Us from our sins, that we may neither fear  
The rape of Death, nor covet to be here:  
O curb this raging Sickness, which with sense  
Bereaves us of the means of Penitence.  
When a dire Frenzy seizeth on the Brain,  
Full of resistless flame, and full of pain;  
That Madness, which no cure can well appease,  
Is but a Symptom, unto this Disease.  
Our blood all fire, as if it did portend  
We were not here to stay, but soon ascend;  
When streams of sulphur through our veins do glide,  
And scarce the sense of sorrow doth abide.  
This time how miserable, may we guess,  
Where want of sense, is chiefest happiness:  
When the distracted Soul can scarce devise  
How to supply the weakest Faculties  
Of the disturbed Body; but presents  
Unto the Eye strange objects, strange portents,  
And antique shadows: when the feverish rage  
Sets us on journeys oft, and Pilgrimage,  
And entertains our wild and wandering sight  
With monstrous Land-schips, able to affright  
A man in's wits: when the deceived Ears  
Do apprehend what ere the Fancy fears;  
The groans of Ghosts, and whispering of Spirits,  
The silken tread of Fairies in the Nights,  
The language of an airy Picture, howls  
Of funeral Dogs, and warnings of sad Owls.  
The Taste distasteth all things, and the same  
Is sweet, and bitter, when the inward flame  
Furs the swollen Tongue; & the quick Feeling marred,  
Knoweth no difference between soft and hard:  
Such a confused Error doth distract  
The labouring Senses, so is the Fancy racked  
By the dire sickness; when from place to place  
The Body rolleth, and would fain embrace  
Some Icy cooler: but alas, the heat  
assuaging, there ensues a Marble sweat  
'Twixt Death and Nature, wrestling: then appear  
Those deadly Characters, which th'ensign bear  
Before approaching Fate; which notice give,  
None spotless die, how ever they did live.  
A sickness comfortless; when we do fear  
To see those friends whom we do love most dear.  
The Minister's Devotion here doth stick,  
By leaving Visitation of the sick,  
Making the Service-Booke imperfect: when  
We see a crossed Door, as 'twere a Den  
Of Serpents, or a Prodigy, we shun  
The poor distressed Habitation.  
The Death as comfortless; where not appears  
One friend, to shed some tender funeral tears:  
Black Night's the only Mourner. No sad Verse,  
Nor solemn flowers do deck the dreary Hearse:  
Some few old folk perhaps, for many a year  
Who have forgot to weep, attend the Beer;  
Such, whose dry age hath made most fit to keep  
Th'infected without fear, but not to weep;  
Whose kin to death, made them not fear to die,  
Whose deafness made them then fit company  
Unto the sick, when they were speechless grown:  
A miserable Consolation.  
But had you looked about, you might have seen  
Death in each corner, and the secret teen  
Of angry Destiny: No sport dispels  
The mists of sorrow; a sad silence dwells  
In all the streets, and a pale terror seizes  
Upon their faces, who had no Diseases.  
So usual 'twas, before the Morn to die,  
That when at Night two friends left company,  
They would not say, Good Night; but thus alone,  
God send's a joyful Resurrection.  
If two or three days interposed between,  
One friend by chance another friend had seen,  
It was as strange, and joyful, as to some,  
When a dear friend doth from the Indies come.  
Through the naked town, of death there was such plenty,  
One Bell at once was fain to ring for twenty.  
No Clocks were heard to strike upon their Bells,  
'Cause nothing rung but death-lamenting Knells.  
Strange, that the Hours should fail to tell the Day,  
When Time to thousands ran so fast away.  
Time was confused, and kept at such a plight,  
The Day to thousands now was made a Night.  
Hundreds that never saw before, but died,  
At one same time, in one same Grave abide;  
That our weak Fancies, if we did not hold  
It Profanation, here to be too bold,  
Might wonder what, being strangers, they would say  
To one another at the judgement Day.  
Some, by their fear to go to Church debarred,  
Anon are carried dead unto the Yard.  
The Churchyards groaned, with too much death oppressed,  
And the Earth rests not, 'cause so many rest.  
And Churches now with too much burial fed,  
Feared they should have no meetings but of Dead:  
Death fell on death, and men began to fear  
That men would want to carry forth the Bear.  
The Bearers, Keepers, Sextons that remain  
Surpass in number all the town again.  
Friends here killed friends, womb-fellowes Kill their Brother's  
Fathers their Sons, and Daughters kill their Mothers:  
By one another (strange!) so many died  
And yet no murder here, no Homicide.  
A Mother great with Child by the Plague's might  
Infects to Death her Child not borne to light.  
So killing that which yet ne'er lived; the womb  
Of th'alive Mother, to th'dead Child was tomb,  
Where in the fleshy grave the still Babe lying  
Doth kill his Mother by his own first dying.  
Her travail here on Earth she could not tend  
But finishes in heaven her journeys end.  
To others, frolic set unto their meals  
Secure of death sly Death upon them steals  
And strikes among 'em, so that thence in speed  
With heavy Cheer theyare borne the worms to feed.  
To some at work to others at their play,  
To thousands death makes a long Holiday.  
Death all conditions equally invades,  
Nor riches, power, nor beauty here persuades,  
Old dye with young, with women men, the rage  
Of the dire Plague spares neither sex nor age.   

Most powerful Influence of ruling Stars  
Which with blind darts Kill more than bloody Wars  
Resistless Famine greedy Time, or when  
The threatfull hand of Tyrants striketh men  
Into pale terror, more than all diseases  
Ah, happy he who heaven least displeases.   
FINIS.   

HOLLAND his Hornet To sting a Varlet: OR, A few Satirical lashes for one that did falsely accuse him, to the late Lord Keeper, of a Libel against JOHN OWENS Monument in Paul's.  
By ABRAHAM HOLLAND.   

Against one that imposed a Libel on me, to the late Lord KEEPER.  
Whosoever thou wast that thus  
Mistaken or Malicious,  
(The last I do imagine) that  
Didst Father on me this vile Brat  
A stinking Libel, go and be  
Scorned of all as much as me.  
May I know thy Name in Time  
Libelled in some Ballad-Rime:  
May I hear thee 'bout the Street  
Begging Offal for the Fleet:  
May'st thou cry in tuned Prose  
Corns have you on your Feet, or Toes,  
Or Rats to catch, and in the end  
Veniee-Glasses have you to mend.  
May justice make thee so to lack  
To offer Lines to all in Black.  
And succeed if Vengeance linger  
At last the one-legged Ballad-Singer.  
Fowl ill thy judgement, couldst thou find  
None whom thou couldst think inclined  
To Libelling but me, no one  
That made lewd Verse but me alone.  
No itching Scrivener that doth make  
Verses by an Almanac?  
No lazy leadenwitted, Ass  
Professing Poetry (alas.)  
No Latined Merchant, whose fine clothes  
Scorn that he should write in Prose?  
No parcell-Gentleman that vows  
He can still the Latin touse?  
No busy Lawyer's Clerk, that still  
Will usurp Poetic skill?  
No pretty Toy, no learned Fool?  
Nor clownish Usher of a School?  
Couldst thou find none, but must disperse  
Me the Author of that Verse  
So basely libellous, and durst  
Me of all men pick out first  
To be thy Toung-Ball? or didst rather  
Thy own bastard on me Father?  
A Palsy take my Muse, if I  
Knew how to make a quick reply  
To them who did this Fame disclose,  
Whether it were Verse or Prose,  
A Volume, or a Pamphlet, long  
Or short, Iämbick, or a song  
Latin, or Greek, Tuscan, or Welsh,  
Or such as puffing Dutchmen belch  
In their Fat Language: strange that I  
Should stretch a Line from Coventry  
And make it reach to Paul's, and place  
It under OWENS brazen face:  
Wretch! I would have thee know, that Time  
I was versed in other Rhyme  
As free from malice, as from thee  
And the wrong thou putst on me:  
Where sweet Damsels did infuse  
Flame into me, and to my Muse,  
The only sting I had did rise  
From the Lustre of their eyes,  
Where our Pastime was, to sing  
By the Banks of some clear Spring:  
No venom ambushed in those Floods  
Which have no Satyrs in our Woods  
Only sometime in gentle Ranks  
As we walked o'er the Banks  
I a blacke-swolne Toad did see  
We now I think was kin to thee:  
But of a better kind, that could  
Within itself its venom hold.  
Well, thou hast done thy worst to me,  
I'll tell thee what I think of thee,  
Sure some opinionated Ass  
Thou art, who in the world dost pass  
For a wise Man (by these rules  
We best know who are best Fools)  
Some bosome-creeper, fed with sloth,  
A Fool, a Madman, or else both:  
Some seeming Statist, who canst find  
By what's before, what is behind.  
That hadst as much respect of me  
As I mean to have of thee.  
Yea, this I guess, and certain know it  
Thou art held some 
* Or if yo● will Errants  arrant Poet.  
One of those about the Town  
Who did scatter up and down  
Naenia's on th'untimely Fate  
Of the good Duke, and DORSET late.  
Who in nought more luckless were  
Than that They left thee tampering here  
To soil their Ghosts, and whiter Fames  
And lamentably tear their Names.  
Some Fantastic Coxcomb, who  
Affects a garb with much ado.  
Yea, though perhaps thou bearest my Name,  
At thy conditions I 〈◊〉 shame:  
And this I'll lay my life upon  
None of my Religion,  
Who as haply 'tis thy use  
Wouldst the People thus seduce  
And Malicious draw on me  
A crime so near to Heresy  
That is to wrong my friends, and made  
Me this uncouth style invade  
To be a railer, who do use,  
The world doth know, a gentler Muse.  
FINIS.   

TO MY DEAR FATHER, Mr. PHILEMON HOLLAND, Doctor in Physic, being Sick.  
SPring of my life, by whom I first did try  
This bitter-sweet of frail Mortality:  
Source of my being, next to him that gives  
The divine Power, by which each mortal lives:  
O think not but your Children do comprise  
Part of your Sickness, we all sympathise  
In your Disease: let it to all be known  
What e'er is yours in sorrow, is mine own.  
Let no ill Omen be that while I writ  
To yield some comfort, tears do blind my sight,  
I would suppresse'em; nor vainglorious hence  
Seek other witness but my Conscience  
Which may to GOD bear record, how my heart,  
In each disaster, with you bears a part.  
Let me, dear Father, pardon here implore  
If my Muse languish; ne'er had I before  
So ill a Theme: the Subject dims mine eyes  
And makes my sickly Verses sympathise.  
O, how my haughty Muse I could have strained  
If I had seen your merits had obtained  
A due reward: if I had known the worth  
Which lies in you had been full blazed forth  
About the world; and so might gladly see  
Your worthy name as dear to all▪ as me.  
And now, good Father, as I know your mind  
Is with all precepts drawn from Heaven refined  
Though Sickness be the calling for the Score  
The Epitome, and Bill of life before  
By which as by a Sergeant God demands  
Of passed life defrayment at our hands:  
Yet let not us a Medicine apply  
To one so fraught with good Philosophy,  
But let us them of you still borrow, giving  
By living still, example of good living.  
Yet if a young unstayed head may give  
Precepts to die (when Fate doth please) and live,  
(Long may it be) 'tis thus: O, let not cares  
That gall the troubled mind, nor sad affairs  
Of this world vex you, neither think it loss  
If to gain Heaven, you gain but little dross  
Of fading wealth; I dare without sin swear  
That wealth's unworthy you, that's scraped here.  
Let it not grieve you that the vulgar crew  
Have not to your deservings given the dew;  
Virtue most part is in the world despized  
And those that most do merit least are prized.  
You know that so it hath been in all Ages,  
The best Philosophers, and wisest Sages,  
The greatest Poets have been still exempt  
Of present glory, drowned in contempt,  
When yet their glorious Fame that could not die  
Was crowned with future immortality.  
God is in debt to them who here have lived  
Deserving well, and little have received,  
And though the Principal a while do rest  
he'll paid at last with double interest,  
Heaven is not rich for nothing, but be sure  
'Tis treasured for the wealth-deseruing Poor.  
And to yourself though God defray not it  
Your children's children shall receive it yet.  
I would not have you envy them, who here  
In the world's judgement glorious appear,  
On whom this Earth's abounding wealth encroaches  
Who live secure, whose Heaven is their Coaches,  
Long trains of Servants, and delicious cates,  
Saluters, Flatterers, and delicates  
For their fair carcases: believe it true  
God's scarce acquainted with thus-blessed a crew.  
His own Son's an example, who among  
Us men, was poor, despized, and suffered wrong,  
To whom men scarce would means or meals afford;  
O, who would grudge to imitate our Lord?  
Yet know when black Oblivion shall rot  
Their worthless names, their merits flourish not,  
Then shall your memory unbounded fly  
And never perish till the world do die.  
O, do not undervalue so yourself  
To think them richer who have greater pelf,  
I'll undertake ten thousand in this Land  
Who both themselves and you do understand,  
Though cloyed with riches on their wealthy floors  
Would willingly exchange their worth for yours.  
O! that I could persuade you to think less  
Of this base world, and see your happiness.  
Say, this ungrateful Town, this luckless Cage  
Wherein you have been cooped all your age  
And spent your golden years, to gain a few  
Who are in nothing but dissembling true  
Hollow, tongue-friends, if I may call them friends  
Who have used you to their peculiar ends  
A friend in title, but a slave indeed  
To serve their turns: o that you had ta'en heed  
In time of these: yet what should one expect  
Of such a base-born rabble but neglect  
For good deserts: a rout that never knew  
What meant morality, nor ever drew  
The Sacred milk of Learning: whose chief height  
Is to know yards of drapery, and the weight  
Of Grocery and Spices, whose base birth  
Life, manners, friendship, all do smell of earth  
Grosse vile and muddy: yet one comfort is  
The time may be when you this Town shall miss  
And say with grief, we once had such a one  
We hated virtue present, but now gone  
We long and wish for't. Thus in many places  
The worthiest men's rewards have been disgraces;  
Thus Athens want her best deservers use  
Thus Rome her noble Statesmen to abuse  
With death or banishment: thus still we try  
Contempt ensues familiarity:  
Yea, Prophets (as our Saviour's self did deem)  
In their own Countries still have small esteem.  
Well, whatsoever this Town do think you, let  
It thus be Known, All England's in your debt.  
Yet are there some (I dare avouch it) good  
Ingenuous minds who having understood  
Your worth and merits, love your very name,  
Though fare remote, yea, and admire the same.  
I doubt not yet, dear Father,  you die  
By timely Fate, to see you raised as high  
As your well-weighed ambition aims at, which  
Is to be sweetly well content, not rich,  
T'enjoy your friends, and children, and they you  
To spend your fading old year's residue  
In sweet tranquillity, and live with such  
As will respect and honour you as much  
As here they slight you, and the time from hence  
Shall all your past misfortunes recompense:  
All comforts fit for age shall you be given,  
Your only care to make your path for Heaven.  
And if myself a Poet may presage  
You shall have yet an old new Golden age.  
God will not end your aged days, so long  
As you may still help and do good among  
His people here: But as a Captain when  
He means to exercise his faithfullest men  
He puts them upon dangers, makes them try  
Disasters, hardness and all misery,  
That when at last the foe shall be repaired  
They be not found unskilled and unprepared.  
Sickness is but a mustering show, wherein  
We learn to fight, to skirmish and to win  
At the last combat, Death: in that tide  
Happy is he that oftest Sickness tried.  
Such as did always in full health remain  
Are oft poor wretches lamentably slain  
As untried Soldiers. Though once Fate by God  
Shall of your frail make a period.   

To his Friends in the Time of his Sickness.  
A resolution against Death.  
FRiends, if it be my lot, as some men use  
To pay their debt sooner than you would choose  
To harsh exacting Fate I would not have  
You stand lamenting o'er my youthful Grave  
As if it were my Prison, and I thrown  
There on a desperate Execution.  
I know there's no release from't yet more free  
Know I this prison than your liberty.  
I would not have you rail at it, and say  
That it from you had closely stolen away  
And treacherously betrayed your Friend: alas  
They err who think they into th'grave do pass  
As to a Punishment, and therefore call  
It the sad Urn, the Place of Burial,  
The house of Lamentation, Life's Thief;  
The Den of Sorrow, and the Cell of Grief:  
You wrong it by these Names, It is my Bed,  
Where Life's Day spent, I lay my wearied  
And o'retoyled Body, in a long deep Night  
Till he that gives all Day, renew my Light.  
It is my sleeping chair, my chair of State,  
Wherein I sit equal with conquering Fate.  
And outface Death, daring him if he can  
To challenge more than I have paid of Man.  
Make him my Sinnes-bill cancel, and agree  
That Christ's cross o'er it my acquittance be.  
As a poor Traveller, whom the conceit  
Of a long tedious journey, thitst, and heat,  
And weariness tormenteth, by the Way  
Longing for home, all he can do, doth Pray  
For some Refreshment, at the last espies  
The joyful smoke of his own Country rise  
To bid him welcome: then with Pleasure's Tears  
He casts away both Languishment, and Fears.  
And smiling takes the next Bank he doth see.  
So pleasing is my Grave, so sweet to me.  
This piece of Ground, which you in scorn perchance  
Miscall my Grave, is my Inheritance.  
That 'tis entailed on me, the Law avers  
By due succession from my Grandfathers.  
Mine it hath been, by right, since Adam cursed  
Man with this Blessing, and possessed it first.  
While I have Life here, I am but Life's Ward;  
And by my Nonage from my right debarred.  
Death gives me that's so long kept from my Hand  
I'm now at Age, and come unto my Land.  
Nor think my Purchase too soon gained, but call  
My eight and twenty Climacterical.  
My Graue's my long-sought Inn to which at most  
It can be said, that I have ridden Post.  
Whither retired some perhaps will fear  
The saucy Worms will be intruders there  
To feed upon me, whilst my Faith protests  
It is not so, they be my bidden Guests.  
What Man is he, that having in the Time  
Of life, committed some foul heinous crime.  
And knowing that the Fame of it's enrolled  
In characters of Brass, yea were't of Gold,  
That would not praise the hand, and friendly call  
Which scratches out the sad Memorial  
Wherein doth live his Infamy: what soul  
That knows this fleshly Table doth enrol  
The Memory of our Faults, that would not call  
Worms and the Grave Redressers of our Fall.  
The one of which doth hide, the other devours  
All that was guilty, shameful, bad of ours.  
Our Graue's the veil, which shadows from the eyes  
Of Posthume Malice our Iniquities.  
This wretched thing you mourn for and behold  
The dreary Linen, and the Earth to fold.  
This thing compact of sinews, Bone and Blood  
The Receptacle both of Sin, and Food  
Death's ready Executioners, This  
This is not Holland, but's Effigies  
Which when 'twas best, and by the Soul could move  
Was but a lively shape of God above  
And only blessed in that, but now, alas!  
That chief Ingredient of the curious Mass  
That gave it Active Life is ta'en away  
And Nothing left but ruin, and Decay:  
A thing so despicable, base, and vile  
That lest it should surviving Men defile  
We Prison's first in Linen, then in Wood  
Then ram it deep in Earth, and to make Good  
The rest, lest it again approach the Day  
Make marble Bulwarks o'er the wretched clay.  
Egyptians hence did their dead King's embowre  
In tombs as big as their blaspheming Tower.  
Raising in weaker minds sometimes a doubt  
How they at th'Resurrection will get out.  
Of these strong Prisons, whose unwieldy Frames  
Seem rather to oppress, than raise their Names.  
Doubtless this wretched thing called Man whose curse  
Light upon all things, is than all things worse  
When once his soul is gone; The silly Flower  
Though dead, and withered, yet retains some Power  
Available in Physic; Cattles when  
theyare dead themselves, nourish the lives of Men  
And dead Grasse theirs; And Corn is never good  
Until it be cut down, and used for food.  
No tree so rude, no shrub so base, no beast  
So vile, but dead serves for some use, at least  
For ornament, we love to see by skill  
A curious limbed Picture, and stand still  
To gaze upon it, yea we can endure  
To see Death's shadow, and grim Portraiture  
Though ne'er so ugly, when against a wall  
Set a dead man indeed, amongst us all  
You scarcely shall find one that will not fly  
As at a Monster or grim Prodigy.  
Do you then grieve to see this Bugbear toy  
This scarecrow laid aside, to shun th'annoy  
Of the beholders? or for my Soul is it  
That you do mourn, which now do throned sit  
Surfeiting with pure joys, and holy mirth  
And smiles at that for which you weep on earth  
That 'tis dislodged from that debauched Inn  
Which helped it ne'er in aught, but only sin.  
I would have given you leave to mourn if then  
I had by sudden Death, been summoned, when  
Wretched man I laboured to the height of sin  
And bolder grew the deeper I grew in;  
When Vice was turned to custom, and each deed  
Though ne'er so impious, did persuade with speed  
Another worse, as if Despair had been  
The beastly Pander to unbrideled sin.  
But Heaven be blessed, Heaven better loved my soul  
Than without stay to let it headlong roll  
To everlasting Death, and so did Kill  
The Body sooner to retain that still.  
The Soul as he inspired it pure, nor at all  
Conscious of sin, no not Original.  
Think you I fear those things which you do call  
By such black names? The Griefly Funeral  
The Fatal beer, sad Flowers and dreary Hearse  
The mournful Followers, and the weeping Verse?  
Think you already I do not disdain  
The mighty tapers, and the sable train?  
Or e'er I do expire, think you my soul  
Will be so cowardly, to fear the toll  
Of a sad bell, whose heavy language goes  
Deadly as if it did intent to close  
Its voice with mine? Think you I do not spy  
The doleful silence of the standers by  
As if they all were speechless, and from me  
Did draw one general stupid sympathy?  
Me thinks I hear the silly Women say  
He is whole chested, and will go away  
By dying upward, and some other try  
If that my legs be cold, and strait do lie.  
Here's one doth judge my feeble Pulse, and cries  
'Cause she must be the Friend to close mine eyes.  
Another maketh Trial of my Breath  
Thus do I hear 'em furnish me for Death.  
But o let me not hear them, let my spirit  
Be busy then in purchasing a light:  
More sweet than Life itself, may wholly I  
Be fixed in thoughts of Immortality.  
Let me then an audacious Client stand  
Pressing to Kiss my unseen Saviour's hand,  
And let me be so busy in my Prayers  
That not the Fear of Death, nor ugly cares  
Thronged in the memory may disturb the Soul  
Which now is near to Heaven her capitol  
In the last Triumph, after Conquest won  
O'er Death and Hell; and grim Perdition.  
'tis a toy to think when life is past  
That Fate did lag, or else made too much haste  
When we die quickly, or by tedious Age  
Fulfil the circuit of Life's Pilgrimage  
In my opinion a Day-aged Child  
Hath when it dies a race as well fulfilled  
As Clymacterick Old men; I confess  
Not with so many out-rodes, yet no less  
Exactly. Nature doth aver the same  
And a day Rose, aswell an Age may claim  
As the long lived Oak: Though Time devour  
The one so slowly th'other in an Hour.  
If'cause I die before you, you repine  
I'll think you envy at this bliss of mine  
And wished your own, there's nought but sin in me  
That could deserve long life, and misery:  
Which Sin, the God of Mercy quelled, and checked  
The cause, and after took away th'effect  
Long life; or if because I die so soon  
And come into mine Evening at the Noon  
And full Meridian of mine age, you err  
And do not know what bliss the Fates confer  
On me hereby, by which I shall obtain  
As I now dye to rise at last again  
In fresher youth: The Mariner behold  
To gather up a little Pelf and Gold  
Contemned Death; If he do chance to find  
A nearer Cut to China, or to Ind  
Rejoiceth, and shall we who through this vale  
And gulf of misery in Life do sail,  
Grudge if the Fates do show a nearer Haven,  
Our Purchase being no Gold nor Pelf but Heaven?  
FINIS.   

A LETTER, Savouring of Mortification, written and sent in the time of the late Visitation of the Plague, to his dear Brother H. H. in LONDON.  
Dear Brother, I am sorry your other occasions would not permit me to enjoy your company longer, at my last being at London; especially, in this time of sorrow, when the dearest friends are not able to say to day, we will meet to morrow: which me thinks cannot choose but put every man in mind how careful he ought to be, that though in our Kindred and Friendship we be separated on Earth, we may by true repentance, and relinquishing our sins, gain that bliss that at the reunion again of soul and body, in that happy communion of Saints we may meet again with joy. Our small Village here as an out-member of your great City suffers proportionably with it the heavy stroke of God's wrath, insomuch that whole Families of the most curious preventers have been woefully swept away: especially a Gentleman lest to keep the Countess of Nottinghams' 
* This house is called, the King's Nursery.  House, who with his Wife a beautiful Gentlewoman, and four most sweet and lovely Children, and their Man, are all gone, I hope to bliss, and their Maid that is only left, lying at the mercy of God: Wretch that I am, why delay I one minute, to cast myself prostrate at the feet of Mercy, and prepare myself for the like passage? Within these few days most of this house in the judgement of men were likely to outlive me, whose wild and loser youth threatens a too timely old-age: They lived in a beauteous House, a refined and pure Air, wanted neither Antidote nor assisting Physic, and yet alas they now are not, they are dust, and ashes, and the food of Worms. O! the depth of the wisdom of our great GOD: he saw that it was good for them to dye to gain a better life, and for us, that by their deaths we may learn and prepare ourselves to dye. Ah Brother! think not this is a time Rhetorically to set forth a sorrow, or passion, think not but my heart speaks what I writ; I know the reward of Sin, I know the value of a Soul, think not but while it is in my power, by the merits of CHRIST, I will have a care and providence for the price of my Saviour's blood, my Soul.  
Dear Brother, I doubt not but you are so well prepared and armed against this Visitation of God, that my weak devotion is either needless, or unable to assist you: Yet I desire you not any way to deject yourself (only in the humiliation for sin) in this great Assizes of Almighty God where we all are brought to our Trials. For myself I thank the comforting Spirit of God, I have not been these many years in so great security as I am in this time of imminent danger: When every minute telling me I must die, and that God knows how soon, I now and but now begin to live; alas the time that I spent before was but death, and I lived but in a dream. A man in my judgement never more lives than when he is most mortified; I persuade myself that man shall never die who died while he lived. Brother, I am resolved so soon as this heavy Storm is over to enter myself into the Orders of the Ministry, wherein I doubt not but to find such Friends as quickly to provide myself of an honest and competent living, God is my judge I shall not be at quiet till by truly labouring to save others Souls I assure mine own salvation. If God lend me a longer life, this is my resolution; if otherwise, it be his will to take me from hence, though I could not in my Life, I beseech God that I may glorify him in my Death. I pray you when you writ to Coventry to remember my humblest duty to my dear and aged Parents, to whom I doubt not yet but by adding some comfort to their grey-hayres, to requite partly my former disobedience: desire both them and my Brothers and Sisters to pray for me, as I do for them. Brother, I must confess you have been more like a Father than a Brother unto me; God be with you, remember me to your Wife, and let us hearty pray for one another and be cheerful. I rest;  
Your loving Brother: ABRAHAM HOLLAND. Chelsey, August, 24. 1625.   

A Confession of my Sins to GOD, and a testimony of my Faith.  
TO number my sins O Lord is impossible, for they have been infinite; to measure them our, past humane skill, for they have been immense, and ah! too great: to repent truly for them not in my power, without the grace of thy holy Spirit: to obtain pardon for them incredible, but through the infiniteness of thy still ready mercy, and the all-sufficient-merits of my dear Saviour and Redeemer: yet (o good Lord) were my sins numberless as the Sands, or Atoms that flit through the air; yet should they never compare in number with thy Mercies; were they for quantity not to be comprehended, thy goodness should surpass them: for quality not to be mentioned, foul and abominable, thy Pureness is able to make them clean, and turns the blackest of them into whiteness of Snow, their deepest grain of scarlet into wool. I have sinned, I have highly sinned, (o Lord) I have long sinned, and shall still sin unless thou help (o Lord) unless thy grace prevent. To amend my life (o Lord) I have made many and earnest vows, when thou hast but gently afflicted me; in my health I have ever slipped back, and trodden in the steps of my former sins, what then (o Lord) can I expect but a continual misery that I may know thee? Yet (o Lord) knowing that thy Will is not to destroy, but preserve, thy Glory to forgive, not punish, and my Saviour as willing as able to be a powerful Mediator with thee, for us Sinners the price of his bitter Passion. In the name of it, in the name of thy Goodness, thy Mercy, have mercy good Lord upon me, who require many drops of my Saviour's blood to cleanse my Sins, so shall I praise thee in the Land of the living before I go into the Grave, and there be no more remembrance of me.   

A metrical Version of part of PSALM, 73.  

Sure GOD love's Israel, and all  
Whose hearts are clean, yet I  
Had like t'have let my feet to fall  
And trodden in iniquity:  
Because I did the bad ungodly see  
Stand still and flourish in Prosperity.   

2.  
Death's peril they do never fear,  
But strong and lusty do remain:  
Nor like to us misfortunes bear,  
Nor suffer equal plagues and pain.  
This is the cause that they are swollen with Pride  
And overwhelmed, in Cruelty abide.   

3.  
Their eyes with fatness swell, and they  
Do whatsoever they can devise  
Others they do Corrupt, and say  
Most vile and wicked blasphemies:  
Nor stick they to revile the God of might  
And against Heaven pour forth malicious spite.   

4.  
Thus all the world they do infect  
Which makes the silly people go  
Aside, and fall unto their Sect  
Thinking that they are blessed so:  
Tush how, say they, shall God perceive what we  
Do here, shall he from high our actions see?  
etc. etc.    

Mr. T. C. the Author's endeared Friend his Poetical Version on the 91. PSALM.  

1.  
MAke the great God thy fort and dwell  
In him, by Faith, and do not care  
(So shaded) for the fires of Hell  
Nor for the cunning Fowler's snare  
Nor Poison of th'infected Air.   

2.  
His Plumes shall make a Downy bed  
Where thou shalt rest, he shall display  
His wings of Truth over thy head  
Which as a Shield shall chase away  
The Dreads of Night, the Darts of Day.   

3.  
The winged Plague that flies by night,  
The Murdering Sword that kills by Day,  
Shall not thy Peaceful sleeps affright  
Though, on thy right and left hand, they  
A thousand and ten thousand slay.   

4.  
Only thine eyes shall see the fall  
Of Sinners; but because thy Heart  
Dwells with the Lord; not one of All  
Those Ills, nor yet the Plaguy dart  
Shall dare approach near where thou art.   

5.  
When thou art troubled he shall hear  
And help thee, for thy love embraced,  
And knew his name; wherefore he'll rear  
Thy honours high; and when thou hast  
Enjoyed them long; save thee at last.   
T. C.   

A MEDITATION ON, PSALM, 6. Vers. 4.5.  
Return: deliver my Soul, etc.  
ALL this Psalm of DAVID is Prayer; and as one said, the very dreams of the righteous be prayers to GOD: So the very Songs of DAVID be Prayers; In the beginning of the Psalm he useth only a deprecatory prayer, Rebuke me not, etc. but afterwards he comes to that Importunity of prayer, that Impudence, that violence of prayer, as Austin saith, When we earnestly Pray, Quasi agimus facto Obsidemus Deum, and as the Mathematician said, He could device an Instrument would remove the whole fabric of the world, if any one could but device him a place where to settle it. So DAVID having as it were settled this great instrument of Prayer upon GOD, turns and as it were steers him which way he will. Return: which implies that he had been there before, for as God first made Flowers and Trees before he made the Sun, but after a Paradise when the Sun did vivificate it; so God makes Man before the Sun of Grace shine upon him, but then makes him a living Paradise, when he inspires the Sun of righteousness into our Souls; and that is one kind of returning to us; yea, when by many relapses of sin we fall from God, he gives us again grace to repentance, that is another returning. There be three manner of significations of the original word Shuba, here used. The first, Redire in locum suum, as heavy things to the Centre and light to their exhausion upward; so man returneth to the dust from whence first he came; thus God returneth In terram suam, when he revisireth the soul of a sinful man. The second, in withdrawing his judgements from us. The third, when we by his corrections return to him; as it said Tyre and Sidon would have returned in Sackcloth and Ashes, where the same word Shuba in the Syriack translation is used. The second, Eripe animam. The third, Salvum me sac, which implies such a Salvation as comes by CHRIST JESUS, the Original being jashag, whence JESUS comes.  
The knowledge of God, is as job says of his friends (to speak with reverence) a miserable consolation, without we know him to be our Saviour; the very Atheists though they would deny it, the Lord will by the terrors of night move them to confess there is a GOD; yea, they shall confess there is a God, but shall not know him a Saviour.  
It is strange how in all the Old Testament the Ancients did abhor, distaste and pray against Death, although they did know it was the way to their bliss; and indeed if we consider death as it is, life and it may be put in an equal balance, as when Paul thought with himself how good and glorious it would be for him to be quit of this miserable pilgrimage of Life, and the glory he should receive by Death, than fell he to his Cupio Dissolvi, and the balance weighed on Death's side; but considering the good that the Church was to receive by his staying, then otherwise. So was it with them of old to whom the joys of Heaven were but shadowed by MOSES and the rest not so openly revealed as to us.  
But diverse expound this place mystically, for the death and hell of sin. For without doubt in our natural death we praise God better than in this dying life. Yea, it is said that DIVES knew ABRAHAM in Hell, and had a Charitable care of his Brethren on earth, etc.   

CERTAIN MEDITATIONS, By ABRAHAM HOLLAND.  
Commended and bequeathed to his dearest Mother, Mrs. ANNE HOLLAND, his dear Sisters, A. H. M. H. and E. A.  
Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be always acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer.  
From this hour, O Lord, I have vowed to serve thee, in holiness and righteousness all the days of my life.  
I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief.  

MEDITAT. 1.  
LORD! let me carefully examine myself what I was, now am, and what I may be. I was (O Lord) before the inspiring of thy powerful breath into a dead piece of clay, Nothing: I am by the malice of Sin in ready way to Perdition: I may be suddenly through the reward of sin worse than Nothing: I was (O Lord) before I was, Predestinate by thy depth of wisdom, either to eternal Glory, or everlasting Sorrow: I am almost uncertain, poor worm as I am, by the innumerable heap of mine own sins, and the infinite goodness, and mercies of CHRIST, which shall light on me: I may be by a too late and false, or a true and contrite repentance, subject to either. I was (O Lord) in my Mother's womb conceived in the foulness of Sin: I am (O good Lord!) a daily heaper of actual Sin upon original Corruption: What can I then expect but that I justly may be the aim & mark of thy impartial vengeance? But (O Sweet Lord!) I was loved of thee before I was borne: am daily preserved by thee though in the midst of my iniquities: and am in hope that through the all-sufficient Merits and Suffering of thy blessed Son, to be saved after death from the power of Sin and Hell, and with him glorified eternally: Let me then with shame remember what I was, and blush with sorrow what I am, and repent with sorrow what I may be, and tremble.   

MEDITAT. 2.  
LEt me (O Lord) judicially both contemn and fear this thing called Death: Let me (O Lord) fear it as a man may, being the separation of his best acquaintance the Soul and Body; let me contemn the ugliness of it as being a Minister to bring both soul and body to a more sweet familiarity: Let me fear it as it is the way to Hell, but contemn it being the gate of Heaven; Fear it, as the ways of Sin; Contemn it, being the reward and pay of a long misery: Let me fear not the Arrest of it, but the Exetion: let me contemn it, knowing CHRIST is my Common-Bayle: Fear it, as a Monster; but Contemn it as being Natural. Let me not see the face of it without trembling, but embrace with contempt, etc.   

A Brief Meditation.  
MY heart is broken (O Lord) and my distracted thoughts wander up and down to find out thy Mercy, mercy I seek (O Lord;) judgement sitteth at thy feet (just God) and Mercy on thy right hand, merciful Father: give her leave a little (O God) to show her pleasing countenance unto me the most vile, heinous, and presumptuous of all sinners.  
O LORD, we have sinned, and thou hast punished (O Lord) we still sin and thou still dost punish, give us Grace (Good Lord) that we may sinne no more, that thou mayst desist from punishing. Let us die (O Lord) that we may not die, and so strictly by the witness of our Consciences judge and Condemn ourselves that we be neither severely judged nor justly condemned by thee: who both canst, and desirest, if we will truly repent show thy judgement mild, and thy Mercy infinite. Lord, as of me have Mercy on all and show the light of thy Countenance, and we shall (O Lord) be whole. AMEN.   

A Meditation against the fear of Death.  
ON the sudden I cannot choose but think them madmen or children, who stand in fear of Death, and yet me thinks even thus they are wrong-named, since neither Mad men, Fools nor Children, fear Death; alas! shall simplicity, and senseless Folly do more with them, than reason or Religion can do with us? Shall the Sea-tossed Mariner be sorry that from ten thousand dangers of the Sea he is arrived at his safe and long-desired Haven? Shall the sterved Prisoner repine if after many years woeful Captivity he be at last set at wished Liberty? Shall the tormented Sick-man grudge if from a long and languishing Disease, a speedy medicine restore him to his former perfect health? Is not our Life a sea of troubles? A loathsome dungeon? A lingering sickness? Is not Death the skilful Pilot that guides us to Heaven? Is not he the good judge that sets us at liberty? The skilful Physician that cures our Mortality, and restores us to Eternal life? What do we else by desiring long life, but like the ingrateful Israelites, desire to Continue at their former fleshpots, in making Brick and Clay under hard taskmasters, in the Egypt of this sinful world, and so keep from the Canaan of never-decaying happiness?  
Is it not madness in desiring Long life to refuse Eternal life? Shall we be such cowards to fear a shadow? the separation of the Soul from God only indeed is Death, the separation of the Soul from the Body is but the shadow of Death. Shall we be such fools to seek to shun that which never man could scape? Shall we be so faint-hearted to fear a thing so common and certain? Was ever poor Labourer sorry after his painful days work to repose himself in sleep? Shall we then overlaboured by a toilsome life grudge to go to our sweet, long and Care-ending sleep? Shall we desire still to be in our Nonage, and not like heirs of Eternity, receive our everlasting Inheritance? Our life is a Banishment from the heavenly jerusalem; shall we be grieved by Death to return from Exile? Why fear we Death which is but the Funeral of our Vices, the resurrection of our Graces, and the day wherein God pays us our wages. Life is never sweet to them that fear Death: neither can he fear any Enemy that fears not death? Did some of the Heathen, but reading an uncertain Discourse of Life hereafter, seek their own Death to come unto it; and shall we, certain that there is a Life hereafter full of unspeakable felicity, be afraid of the way which GOD hath ordained as a passage to it? Death is our year of jubilee, and shall we not rejoice in it? Let every one then (O Lord) who desires to be freed from sinning and offending thee, cry out with PAUL, I desire to be dissolved and to be with CHRIST.    

A PRAYER Made and used with Company in the aforesaid Visitation.  
O Eternal GOD! to whom by Creation we own our Being from nothing: by Sanctification of thy holy Spirit a better being from worse than nothing: by Redemption and Adoption a joint Inheritance and Brotherhood with the King of Glory JESUS CHRIST, by whom we are bold to call thee Father, neither art thou ashamed to acknowledge us Sons. For all thy benefits (O Lord) we give thee most humble thankes, in that it hath pleased thee to preserve us to this time from the dangers of Hell and Death: but especially (O good Lord) that thou hast given us a sense and feeling of our own sins and misery, so that we may call for Mercy before we go into the Grave and be seen no more: We most humbly and upon the Knees of our souls do thank thee (O Lord!) that in this thy great Visitation, this great Assizes of thine, this fearful Plague wherein the Grave hath swallowed up so many thousands; that it hath pleased thee to command thy raging Minister the Destroying Angel but gently to touch us, with an Arrow that was not pointed with Death, as if he had said to us: Go away Sin no more lest a worse thing fall upon you. We confess (O Lord) that our sins deserved equally, yea more than theirs, whom thou hast taken away, and yet (O Lord) we still remain to praise thy Name in the land of the Living. Which if thou dost continue (O Lord) thou hast engaged us to a sudden and speedy newness of life, with true Contrition for our former most heinous sins, and a living in Holiness and Righteousness all the days of our life. But if so be this be but a gleam of thy mercy to try our Faith and Constancy, and that thou hast ordained at this time to make an end of our lives most wretched Pilgrimage, thy will be done (O lord) But o speak Peace unto our Souls that they need not tremble at this great Separation. O Lord, we know Death is but a shadow, and the fear of it more terrible than itself. Let neither the ugliness of it nor of our sins distract our minds when they have most need to be busy in obtaining thy grant of a better life. Blot out all our offences (O Lord) and the manifold sins of our youths, make them (O Lord) though they be red as Scarlet, yet, as White as the wool of thy immaculate Lamb CHRIST JESUS. Wash them (O Lord) in his Blood and by his wounds let us be healed from the stinking sores and ulcers of putrified and festered Sin: So that (O Lord) we may smile at Death and embrace the very terror of it. Repel (O Lord) the Devil and all his ministers, who in these times of affliction are most ready to lay before our weak souls a large Catalogue and bill of our most heinous offences, telling us that thou art a just GOD, and wilt not hear the prayers of such great offenders: but (O Lord) there is Mercy with thee that thou mayest be feared; yea, that thou mayest be loved. Grant (O Lord) that though we be even swallowed up of death and desperation, yet we may lay hold upon the precious Merits of thy dear Son and our loving Saviour, so that either in life or death, we may cry with a true Faith and Comfort. Come Lord JESUS, come quickly. To whom with thee the Father and the Holy Ghost be all honour and glory, now and ever. AMEN.   

A Vale to his best Part.  
DId not Religion control  
I would say; Farewell my Soul,  
But so much as may departed,  
Farewell, I say, my soul and heart!  
Since from thee I'm forced to fly  
I'll enter no mean Heresy,  
But will think it may agree  
A Body without Soul, that's thee:  
Thou hast my soul (and so behaved)  
I am in hope it may be saved:  
My heart's in thee, or me, or both,  
And yet if separate, I am loath  
Thou hast not all, know for thy part,  
I am a niggard of my heart.  
Farewell I say, and though 'tis pain  
To say this word, Farewell again,  
Farewell, yea so that thou may'st live  
A thousand Vales I will give.  
That this Vale true appear  
Take a Farewell, and a Tear,  
From thy A. H.   

Abraham Holland, Having made many EPITAPHS for others, made this Epitaph for himself, and on his Death bed, dictated it to his Brother, H. H.  
PAssenger that wilt bestow  
So much time to read this, know,  
Here's one a lasting sleep doth take  
Till Christ's Trumpet bid him wake:  
This is that Goal whereto the man  
That lieth here interred ran,  
This the Race-end, to which at most,  
It can be said that he road Post.  
Let Him sleep quiet, and do Thou  
Leave Sin, not by and by, but now,  
Delay not hours which swiftly glide  
As a full Torrent or quick Tide.  
Knowing thus much, good Christian, pass,  
But with this Thought, I am, He was.  
Denatus 18. Februarij, 1625.   

Unto these Post-humes is added:  
NAUMACHJA.  
OR, A POETICAL DESCRIPTION OF the cruel and bloody Sea-fight or Battle of LEPANTO: (Most memorable.)  
BY ABRAHAM HOLLAND.  
Revised by the Author, and now again Published.  
Printed for HEN: HOLLAND. M.DC.XXVI.   

TO THE READER, that asketh, what, when, and where, was this Battle of LEPANTO?  
IN the year of CHRIST JESUS, 1571. His open Archenemie the Great Turk, having had many Victories by Land in sundry Nations, as well in subduing whole Countries as in taking many strong Cities and Castles from the Christians, which confined near his Territories, enforcing the Christians either to renounce their holy Faith, or to endure unspeakable Slavery themselves, their Wives and Children, being daily bought and sold in open Markets, like Horses, Oxen, and Asses.  
The Turk by this time had Conquered many Lands and Cities bordering upon the Sea: by means whereof he was greatly enriched and strengthened with Galleys and other main Forces. And in this year, 1571. knowing a Division amongst diverse Christian Princes, as well for matters of Religion as for affairs of State: Upon hope of which advantage, he assembled and furnished a mighty Army of Galleys, presuming thereby to become Sovereign of the Sea, and Lord of the Land, at one instant.  
But such was the great Mercy of Almighty GOD that he stirred up the hearts of many Christian Princes, (the Queen of England's aid being not wanting) who conjoined together, and furnished a very strong defensible Navy of Ships, Galleys, and Galliass: And encountered with the Turks at Lepanto (which lieth in part of Albania in Turkey:) And at the time of Battle, the Wind changed on the Turks side, and came on the back of the Christian Navy, and carried the smoke of all their Shot upon the Turks Galleys, Foists, and Brigandines: so as they could not well see how to defend themselves or offend their Enemies: which the Christians well observing, with all religious Resolution, right bravely gave Charge and chase upon the Miscreants; and sunk and took of Turkish Galleys full Two hundred and thirty, and at that Fight slew above Thirty thousand Mahometists, besides a great number of Prisoners taken by the Christians: and above Twelve thousand redeemed by force from Turkish-slaverie. In this blessed Victory, the Christians lost not above seven or eight Galleys, nor of them above Eight thousand persons slain.  
This Overthrow to CHRIST'S Enemies was done, the sixth day of October, 1571.  
And the Ninth of November following, amongst other Christian Princes the News being brought over land to Queen ELIZABETH (of ever blessed and immortal memory.) She commanded the Citizens of London, to give Almighty GOD humble and hearty thankes, Her Sacred self performing the same: The Londoners also made Bonfires, and showed other pleasant signs of rejoicing.  
Now followeth the Patheticall-poeticall Description of the same:  
Vale. H. H.   

NAUMACHIA, Or the Poetical Description of a Bloody Sea-fight.  

AS the Sun once lift up his burning Lamp  
On top of hills, and fiery steeds 'gan stamp  
Along the blew-floored sky, the Charriotier  
Made his fierce horses run a full Carreir:  
He whipped 'em on, so that their blood there shed,  
Made the clear Balcon of the East look red.  
He posted on as if he meant not stay  
To make a Summer, but a winter's day:  
Or as if he had wagered that his team,  
Sooner than wont should souse in western stream:  
The steeds themselves with speed unusual fly,  
As frighted at this sea-bred Prodigy.   

There came along cutting deep Neptune's brow,  
A misty mass, to call't I know nor how:  
Whether a running Town, or waving Wood,  
Or moving Delos tumbling on the Flood.  
Which seen a fare scud on the watery way,  
Prodigious Africa seemed, or Asia.  
Who getting Neptune's Passport, came to see  
Their Sister Europe in her bravery.  
At whose approach the curled billows roar,  
And as it comes fearfully roll before.  
Th' oppressed tower-like Whales lie bellowing under,  
That Neptune seems t' usurp his brother's thunder.  
The silent Fish presaging future blood,  
Against their kind run frighted into th' mud:  
And had they wings, would from the Sea have broken,  
And but for churlish nature would have spoken  
To manifest their fear, yet what they might,  
They fled apace to shun the dreadful sight.  
And flying from the Sea in trembling shivers,  
With their thick shoals pestered the lesser rivers.  
The Ocean's King feeling such weight on's back,  
With leaning on his Trident made it crack.  
Had it not been immooveable, they say,  
The earth this time would fain have fled away.  
Th'amazed shore as the fleet near sounds,  
Almost forgot to keep's ordained bounds.  
The earth and shore so trembling, you'd ha' said,  
Fear, not enclosed winds, this Earthquake made.  
Fame with her feet on earth, and head i'th' spheres,  
With wings plumed full of wonderment and fears,  
Flies over the land, and forth her rumours blazes,  
And with increasing dire reports amazes.  
The stoutest courages still as she goes,  
Sh'augments the power and valour of the foes.  
Tells of strange engines, instruments, and whips,  
Framed to act their cruelty, and ships  
Prodigious big, vizards, and murdering Knives,  
Butcherly mals for slaughter, Halters, Gives,  
And all the men like Giants: Thus she flies  
Increasing still the Terror, and with lies  
Makes a true fear: and ere it was well spied,  
She swears the fleet in such a place did ride.  
And all the men were landed: such a town,  
Was battered, and such a castle down.  
Another City without doubt was ta'en,  
And at the winning of it, more men slain  
Then it contained: Thus monstrous Fame doth range her,  
And maketh fear more fearful than the danger.  
And thus as Fame her flying terror doubles,  
Each diverse state is wrecked with diverse troubles.  
Great men do fear that they hereby shall fall,  
Which the poor man doth hope to rise withal.  
The peaceable do hereby fear annoyment,  
The needy Ding-thrift hereby hopes employment.  
The Coward this way feareth he shall die:  
The valiant look for immortality.  
The loving Wife doth fear her Husband's life,  
And he as much is troubled for his Wife.  
Stout old men wish that they were young again,  
Base young men wish that they in age were ta'en:  
Women for fear weep out their tender eyes,  
Dumb Infants almost answer to their cries.  
In all the disagreement, which is here,  
They all agree in this, that all do fear.  
The Beacons now were fired: as if the flame  
Even here a contrarity did claim  
Against the water, whose prodigious light,  
Men feared on land, as in a stormy night  
The Sailor's fear Orion, which but seen,  
Pronounces unto Mariners, the teen  
Of angry clouds. And now those noble Spirits,  
Whose only aim is by their haughty merits  
To outlive fate, and for their Country's good  
Think it a glory to pour forth their blood,  
Meet all together, as devote to give  
Their own lives that their Countrymen may live,  
Thus in all ages, and we still may try  
Of life the worthiest, readiest are to die.  
Who hasting to their ships in speed, begin  
To show the adverse party should not win  
Without resistance, showing there were made  
Men as well to defend as to invade.  
Our Admiral breath's forth a stout Alarm,  
The adverse fleet Echoed rebounding, Arme.  
As when by sound of hollow brass, or tin  
The scattered bees, buzzing with murmurous din,  
Throng in one heap, to some well-branched tree,  
Leaving their sweet, and harmless the every;  
And so by craft betrayed, are in a trice  
Captived all in their narrow Edifice.  
Thus at their Captain's voice, the vulgar sort  
To their assigned stations resort▪  
With quick confused haste the tumult's led,  
And speed, by too much speed, is hindered,  
All to their charge with trembling boldness run,  
With quaking hand one charges first his Gun,  
Another girds his threatening sword on's side;  
Some clasps their steely Helmets; shields are tied  
On trembling arms apace, that one might then  
Have thought th' had been all moving Iron men.  
And now the Martial steely-pointed staffs  
Were snatched in haste: the heavy murdering Glaves:  
Bows bend to slaughter: weighty Courtelaxe:  
And Darts Death's Harbingers; the black bill, axe.  
And other arms which before rusting stood,  
But now are brought forth to be skoured with blood.  
Our saile-winged fleet launcheth fro'th'shore now eased  
Of its dread burden, nor was th'earth more pleased  
To see from her one hideous terror passed,  
That grieved to see another come as fast.  
One might have thought the battle was begun  
To see how Neptune first was through run,  
How the stern brass his curled forehead tore,  
And trembling waves were struck by cruel oar.  
Each Fleet the Captains had divided soon,  
Into the forms of the halfe-circled Moon;  
But as their furious horns together met,  
These two halfmoons a full Moon did beget;  
Which like to that in Heaven, as it did go,  
Made the fleet waters strangely Ebb and Flow.  
Now as with proud advance they nearer came,  
Those beasts which gave the saile-ruled vessels name,  
With an aspect more grim than is their life,  
As breathing nought but bate, and baleful strife,  
Come fiercely forward all, as if from thence  
They meant to move their painted Residence.  
The Lion, Elephant, and savage Hog,  
The Libard, Tiger, Ounce, and cruel Dog  
Sternly affront each other, one might guess  
In midst of Sea a savage Wilderness,  
Wherein with admiration, one might see  
So many a fierce wild beast, so many a Tree.  
But now our valiant General traversing  
About the fleet encouraged them, rehearsing  
This speech, wherein he bravely did exhort  
To th' Fight, which ready cut th' Oration short.  
Courage brave friends, and that is all I pray,  
Strength cannot want, where Courage leads the way,  
But what need I th' undaunted hearts excite,  
Of them whose eyes me thinks already fight;  
Look as ye do, and ye shall never need  
Weapons, or hands to make your foes to bleed.  
Your looks shall strike'em dead, and warlike sight  
Shall put your fearful enemies to flight.  
What ere ye aim at, here before you lie,  
Honour, Revenge, Spoil, Riches, Victory:  
Which if they move not, see your Native Land,  
Your Nurse, your Mother, see how she doth stand  
A fare to mark, which of you best shall render  
The Meed of Nurture, who shall best defend her,  
Them will she honour; bravely then drive back  
This vast Sea-monster, which is come to rack  
Your Nurses' entrailes, com't but once to Land,  
The very Earth will be afraid to stand  
It's cruel brunt, whither if reach it can,  
The blood and tears will make an Ocean  
Deeper than this: I see'em now repair  
(O let my Omen vanish into air.)  
Unto our Land; see how like Wolves they rage  
About the coasts, sparing nor sex, nor age.  
See how they pull strong walls of Cities down,  
Leaving the men as naked as the Town.  
They raze your sacred Temples, and not leave  
A hallowed place, where after ye may heave  
Your hands for aid to heaven: Your Altars frames,  
These wicked wretches, with profaned flames  
Sacrifice to their anger; yea they dare  
To open Ghostly Tombs, and thence lay bare  
Your Ancestors sad Coffins: whose dead ashes  
In stead of tears, their children's blood be-dashes.  
They drag our ancient Parents unto slaughter,  
Answering their dying groans with cruel laughter.  
Our younger Wives and Sisters they deflower,  
And basely make our nearest kinsmen, our  
Most hated foes; our tender infants rawle  
Scarce borne, being borne unto their funeral.  
These things, which, heaven be thanked, I but suppose,  
Unless ye help will once advance our foes.  
Say that our Navy be fare less than theirs,  
Have not great ships, amids their swift carriers  
Been stayed by little Remoraes': Then on,  
And let not this cold Element, whereon  
We are to fight, quench those courageous flames  
Which burn in every manly breast, that aims  
At immortality, but strike so stern,  
That the dumb fishes may hereafter learn  
To speak your praises, and each wave report  
Unto its neighbour, in how valiant sort  
Ye fought, till that the Ocean's utmost bound,  
And farthest Thule with your fame shall sound:  
Yea that the Sun, when he at night shall press  
This way, may go and tell th' Antipodes  
What acts he saw; nor yet of aid despair,  
The Sea itself, if need shall ask, will spare  
A thousand of his streaming arm's for you,  
All fish prove swordfish to fight for our due.  
Think for no refuge here to fly, your hand  
Not feet must bring you back again to land:  
No longer will the time with us dispense,  
What my speech wants, my sword shall recompense.  
Now 'twixt a thousand lives, a thousand death's  
Of time one little winged minute breath's  
The loud-mouthed Gun, only expects the fire,  
At touch of which, as burnt, it should expire  
It's skrieking voice, groaning that so much death  
Should be accomplished by th'infectious breath  
Of its dire mouth; Darts ready are to part  
To hide their heads in some ill fortuned hart.  
Arrows, and Muskets levelled, seem to kill,  
Before they can in act, in fiery will.  
One might have thought viewing this fearful sight,  
'Thad been the picture of a Naval Fight.  
But hark th' amazing signs of battle sound,  
Making the lands remote, and rocks rebound:  
The shrill voiced Trumpet and courageous drum,  
In barbarous language bid the foes to come.  
Death's horrid vizard now gins t' appear,  
In their pale faces; terror, and ghastly fear  
In their amazed hearts doth panting rise,  
And future blood bath's in their fiery eyes.  
Stern Cruelty advanceth in their lids,  
With headlong fury stalking in the mids:  
Apelles present here or one so skilled,  
Might have made pictures hence that would have killed.  
The thundering Ordinance now began to rend  
Th' amazed air, the flames before it sent,  
Seem lightning, and as deadly bullets fly:  
Prodigious hail seemed to pour down the sky,  
Smoke made a cloudy mist, and all together  
Seem on the sea to make tempestuous weather.  
To call for aid here, stands as much in stead,  
As in that place, when from a doubtful head.  
The seven-mouthed Nilus, with a desperate shock,  
Headlong doth tumble from th' amazed rock;  
Making the people on the neighbouring shelves,  
That hearing him, they cannot hear themselves;  
Thus the fights noise made many a man to fall  
In troublous death, a silent Funeral.  
Alas those Elements which use it up hold  
Our crazy lives, with their just heat, and cold,  
Making compact our body's constitution,  
Strive now to cause it's utter dissolution  
The quick and piercing fire, as it doth burn  
Their woeful carcases, doth freezing turn  
Their minds to quaking fear, and I'll despair,  
The liquid, flitting, and all-searching air  
Admits remorseless shot, and murdering darts  
Denying breath at last to cool their hearts.  
The thievish water though it ran away  
With subtle shifts, did notwithstanding slay  
And swallow most, with a devouring flood,  
Only poor earth, stark, still, astonished stood.  
Who viewing this would not have thought a wonder  
That without rain, wind, lightning, hail, or thunder  
Or hidden shelves, or rocks sea-ambusht back  
Or any temrest, ships should suffer wrack?  
That one might here have termed it, choose you whether  
A strong Calm, or calm tempestuous wether.  
See winged arrows posting through the sky  
How quick they hast froth ' battles rage to fly  
The trembling spears, as soldiers do them shake,  
Seem at their Master's dangrs that they quake:  
The flashing swords, which sheathed once they ware,  
Seem now to fear, being unarmed and bare.  
But now each fleet, each ship with hopeful pride  
Clash altogether, furious, side to side.  
As when two winds in black tempestuous wether,  
With boisterous wings impetuous meet together  
With their untamed and resistless justle,  
Making high turrets shake, and cedars rustle,  
Where in light shirmish they remain contending,  
Till out of breath th' are fain to make an ending  
Now death's at hand, and night together keep  
Clear life, and dreadful death's black iron sleep,  
Fierce rage, sad grief, blind Fury now grow higher,  
Good cause when sense of touch and hearing nigher  
Men now with men contend, and ships with ships,  
One body 'gainst another; here one skips  
Into his enemies deck, but beaten back  
He leaps to's own, of which if so he lack,  
He falls in sea; much like a wave, whose head  
By urging winds unto the shore is led,  
And thence by breast of the oft-drowned shore  
Taking a blunt repulse, for spite doth roar,  
And staggering runs back; and is this all  
Ambition aims at, in the way to fall?  
Their tired senses laboured in such wise,  
That they grew dull with too much excercise  
Their troubled eyes, viewing such ghastly sights,  
Wished that sad darkness cancelled all their heights▪  
That horrid noise the battle made, was such,  
Hearing heard nothing, ' 'cause it heard so much  
Taste is of death, rank blood pollutes the smell,  
What feeling felt they all did feel too well.  
Such a confusion racks their senses here  
Th' had Reason now to wish they senseless were.  
Grim death in purple, stalks upon the hatches,  
With pale and grisly looks see how he snatches  
Hundreds a once unto him, till the dreary  
Lean-faceed ill-favord Death of death grew weary.  
See on the sea how thousand Bodies float  
From their great ships hasting to Charon's Boat,  
Which crabbed Scholar now might think it meet  
His old-torne Boat should be new-changed a Fleet.  
The tumults noise pierced the blew-arched sky  
The crystal Aire filled with a deadly cry,  
Only in this was blest, as blows abounded,  
It could be ever cut, yet never wounded.  
The silent Earth glad that she was debarred  
From this sad Fight, yet inwardly was heard  
The dreadful strokes rebounding loud, to moon  
And Echo made her yield a hollow groan,  
But this cause chief made her most to rave,  
That to her due the sea should prove a grave.  
Never did strong-breathed Aeolus disturb  
The sea so much, When he can hardly curb  
His madding pages, when they raging muster  
To quarrel with the waves, or whistling bluster  
Among the well-set trees, and branched bowghs  
Singing through chinks of some decayed house:  
Nor stern Orion with his stormy light  
Appalling shipmen, doth so much affright  
The soon moved sea, as did this battle's noise,  
Which Neptune answered with his bellowing voice,  
Who as the Fleet's urged nearer to the strand  
Which tumbling pace, ran frighted up the sand,  
That had not bounds restrained his element,  
His watery veil had clothed the Continent.  
The fearful winds on th' Ocean durst not room,  
But lest they should be smothered kert at home.  
And there sat sighing: Clouds their rane do keep,  
Though ready at the battle's sight to weep,  
Lest their pure drops with gore-blood should be stained  
So that no winds blue, nor from heaven it reigned;  
Marvel not yet at tempests on the flood  
So many tears streamed, and such streams of blood,  
Nor without winds are waves to be admired,  
So many groans and die brea'ths expired.  
The Ocean's skaly, silent wand'ring nation  
Seeing pale armed troops invade the station  
Of their vast kingdom, down the sanguine flood  
Fearfully glide, fearing their future food.  
The tender Nymphs who with their silver feet  
Use on the plains of crisped Thetys' meet,  
Where tripping prettely th' are wont to dance  
Themselves, into a heavenly slwmbring trance  
Of sweet repose, at these inhuman shocks  
With hair all torn creep into th' hollow rocks  
Where shrouded they to meditate began,  
No rock so flinty as the heart of man,  
The rocks though always struck by water's fury,  
The rocks yet patiented bear this injury;  
Yea Thetis self whose womb enriched bare  
That fearful Thunder of the Trojan war  
Stubborn Achilles, who in fight did win  
Such glory, wished that war's had never been.  
So she, with all her trembling watery peers  
Augment the brinish sea, with brinish tears.  
Ships now begin to burn, that one might see  
Neptune's and Vulcan's consangunity  
Yea now these ships, which free from water stood,  
Strangely begin to sink with humane blood,  
Which as from thence with fearful gush it ran,  
Filled up the wrinkles of the Ocean,  
Making with purpose ghastly gored hue,  
Of one Red sea which was before, now two:  
Which sea so full of Dead, it hence might come  
Well to be called, Mare Mortuum.  
The quaking ships with murmuring guns are rend,  
Whose wounded sides the gored streams do vent  
Of dead and wounded men, who lay therein,  
As if they had their Beeres or coffin's been:  
They lay therein and as the ships did go  
Seemed bloody, bloodless, dead, and moving too.  
The furious fire with flames doth undermine  
The towering Mast, made of the lofty Pine,  
So that same tree which oft hight's Nuptiall's,  
Now Cypresse-like doth burn at Funerall's.  
And eaten by the galling flames, at last  
Falls down the huge, high, heavy weighted Mast,  
And as great things are wont, fell not alone  
Killing a troop nor of its foes, but own.  
The tackle, sail's, and cables now do burn,  
And fire casts Anchors, never to return.  
About their ears the whistling bullets sung,  
And wand'ring wildfire made th' affrighted throng  
Crowd into corners speedily, and they  
That durst stand men, to senseless fire give way.  
As when with in the fat Trinacrian soil,  
Inflamed Aetna doth begin to boil,  
When naked Pyracmon, with his round-eyed fellows,  
Sweatinh heave up their huge strong-breathed bellowes,  
Thundering upon their steeled Anviles' top  
To furnish armour for their smoky shop;  
Their ponderous hammers, and redoubling, makes  
Enceladus belch out his sulphury flakes  
Of vengeful wrath, then may you see black smoke  
Vomiring out, wrapped, in a pitchy cloak,  
And the hard bowels of the mountain, torn  
By settered fire, with a strange bounding borne  
Up to the cloulds, whose fearful fall to shun,  
The neighbouring people with a maz'ment, run  
To shroudin'g Dens, hiding them closely under,  
Fearing from high, and from below a thunder.  
Then did th' inhuman battle's fury rage,  
Nor could the sea th' increasing flames assuage.  
And Mars himself, in Adamantine arms,  
With a hoarse voice rores out against alarms.  
He that would now have travailed to hell,  
Might have seen weary sweeting Charon well  
In fervent labour, with his mossy oars  
Tugging pale shadows to th' ore-swarmed shores;  
Which on the banks as they lamenting crept,  
Wailing Cocytus in compassion wept.  
Acheron flowed with grief, and as they say,  
Lethe itself could never forget this day,  
The Furies whined, by Pluto's judgement cast,  
Who swore their rage was fare by men surpassed,  
One coming here might tired Clotho spy,  
How she could searse her weary arm's apply  
To turn the wheel; and Lachesis repine  
Who swore she could not threads of mortals twine  
So fast as they were cut; you might have seen  
Atropos raging with remorseless teen  
And seeking each where for some greetty stone  
To whet her shears, whose edge was dulled grown  
With too much cutting of their fatal thread,  
Whose hapless lives this gastfull battle shed.  
Fire now and water did not each contend,  
But seem their power so mutually to lend,  
That at this time there many a one became  
Burnt in the sea and drowned in the flame.  
This one good hap to carcases did fall,  
Th' had fire to burn'em at their funeral.  
The mangled ships not fearing to be drenched,  
Gladly take breaches, thereby to be quenched.  
But now thou Tisiphonc, infernal Muse  
Rousing thyself from Stygian sleep, peruse  
The various Images of dreary Fate  
Happening in this sad Fight, and Intimate  
Them to my mind, which well, I think, agree,  
Not with a sweet, and heavenly Muse, but thee.  
Th' Industrious Pilot sitting at the stern,  
Where in a little card, he can discern  
The vast uncertainty of Neptune's haunt  
Ruling swift ships by powerful Adamant,  
Here as he sits retired, and watchful minds  
The frequent change of two and thirty winds  
Comes an unruly shot, and him doth force  
To certain death, change his uncertain course,  
So he that want stern blasts in truce to bind,  
Can not foresee when he should lose his wind,  
From storms, and Mists of Death he could not free  
Himself, who want the Tempests curb, but he  
Who bearding Neptune, used on th' Ocean float,  
Is now controlled in Charon's little boat.  
The Master ranging up and down the Deck,  
And wounded mortally, to him doth beck  
His Mate, who hasting to his aid in vain  
Is there together with the Master slain,  
And at once ended with him his life's Date,  
Proving himself truly the Master's Mate.  
The Trumpeter, with brave reviving sound  
Quickening their dying hearts, is felled ●oth ' ground,  
And as in's mouth he still the brass did wield,  
His dying breath made it a dead march yield,  
And having lent his Trumpet so much breath  
In's life, it turned him some again at's death.  
The Drummer with his nimble hand repeating  
His doubled blows, without compassion beating  
His harmless drum, which seemed with groaning cry  
To murmur at his Master's cruelty,  
Suddenly two rash bullets rudely come  
Tearing both skin of drumer, and the Drum,  
Drummer of life, of sound the Drum's bereft:  
So Drum, and Drummer both are speechless left.  
The Gunner as with nimble hast he runs  
To fire his seldome-vaine-reporting Guns,  
His head a leaden-winged bullet hits  
And his hard brainpan into pieces splits,  
He of a thousand this alone might vaunt,  
That of his death he was not ignorant,  
And this true riddle might of him abide,  
He lived once by's Death, by's life now died.  
Here comes a Captain, with undaunted face,  
Encouraging his soldiers to the Chase,  
And being about to say, be brave and bold,  
An untaught bullet rudely bids him hold,  
And as death's mist in his dull eyes did wander,  
Beseeching aid he left to be commander,  
And he whose voice from fainting thought to call them,  
By's dying groan doth fearfully appall them:  
This leader faithful to his utmost breath  
Can only now lead them the way to Death.  
See how to steal the waving flag, one climbs  
Up by the cards, but being espied betimes  
Tangled i'th' ropes, he is of life bereft,  
And so is hanged for his intended Theft.  
But the cords burnt wherein his legs were bound,  
He gets a Pirate's death both hanged and drowned.  
Some under hatches closed, in despair  
Mount up their foes with powder into the air,  
Which done it seemed a strange prodigious sight  
A troop of armed men to mask the light:  
It seemeth yet that they no damage meant 'em,  
Who the next way up into heaven sent 'em  
Making them fly, beyond Dae'dalian skill,  
In the vast air, without a winged quill,  
Giving to them a strange unwonted death,  
Who having air too much yet wanted breath.  
See see the lot of sad Mortality,  
Our chiefest help's, help oft to Misery,  
Some men who came secure from future harms  
Enrolled in well-prooued steely clothed arms.  
Fall by mischance into the sea's dire hand,  
Whence being unarmed they might have swom to land:  
Their arms do sink, and without mercy end 'em  
So killed by that which chief should defend 'em.  
One with his Musket ready to give fire  
Aims at another adverse Muskettier,  
But his match missing fire, he's forced to die  
By the others matches true fidelity,  
By which he died, can scarc'ly well be known,  
Whether by th' others Musket or his own.  
See there a Coward wanting heart t' abide  
The daunting face of the fierce adverse side,  
Slinketh behind the next, not caring whither,  
Comes a mad shot, and kill's 'em both together;  
Praise him in this, for though his life outdared him  
To equal th' other, yet his death compared him.  
Nevertheless if truly ye do mind him,  
As in his life, in's death he came behind him.  
One seeming now his side begin to fail  
Shows them their colours, while himself looks pale,  
Sure by this man some Omen ill was shown,  
To keep their colours, who could lose his own.  
Those men who chanced in the ships to fall  
The cruel sea was made their buirall.  
And into th' waves without remorse were thrown,  
Poor men, slain by their foes, drowned by their own.  
A Fisherman who nigh them cut the Main  
Sitting in's boat was with a bullet slain,  
And the bark fired wherein he dead did fall.  
Which gratis, burnt, gave him his Funeral  
True to thy Master, kind boat, who with him  
Didst oft in life, and now in death dost swim  
With him alive in water that didst tyre  
Thy wave-beat sides, diest now with him in fire.  
Yet me thinks thou shouldest not deserve this turn  
Who so oft plunged with him which shouldest burn,  
Yet sail with him t' Elysium, sail the faster,  
In Charon's stead that thou mayst waft thy Master,  
Strange Boat which thus we not amiss may call.  
His Life, Death, Charon and his Funeral.  
A Noble man that was a Renegade,  
While he against his King doth boldly prate,  
A shot takes off his head, as if 'ttwere reason  
That he should be beheaded for his Treason.  
A base fellow while he dares complain  
And rail against his once own Sovereign,  
A true Liegeman, as he thus boldly brags,  
Striketh him up, and his vile body drags  
About the ship, and while he vainly begs,  
Remosles cutteth off his arms and legs,  
And thinking then to throw him in the tide  
he's caught upon an Anchor on the side,  
That one beholding rightly might have said,  
He justly was hanged, drawn, and quartered.  
Some fearing swords, into the sea do fly,  
And so for fear of death, fear not to die.  
Some fall into the Ocean stained with gore,  
Which from their former wounds had gushed before,  
Which killed not them, as it from them was spilled,  
But entering into them again, theyare killed.  
Heeres one about to strike, his foe doth fall  
Into the sea, before he can recall  
His erring stroke, striking the sea to stay him,  
The Ocean in revenge o'th' blow doth slay him.  
One fearing death doth fain to die and bleed,  
And while he is in feigning, dies indeed.  
Another being about to strike his foe  
Loseth at once his arm and threatening blow:  
His left arm shivering, reaches at the other,  
But cut atwaine, lies with its equal Brother,  
Both joined, though both divided, as in spite  
Of Death, they meant to part their last good-night,  
By shaking hands: the miserable trunk  
As loath to part, fainting upon them sunk.  
One seeing them together thus, might say,  
There a whole body, all in pieces lay.  
See two with sturdy grapple, striving whether  
Should overcome, both fall in sea together;  
Embracing both till they have lost their breath,  
And seem though foes in life, yet friends in death.  
Two brothers slain, as they together stood,  
One than might swear, they were allied in blood.  
Other two, who so nigh resembling, were  
A loved mistake unto the parents dear,  
(Cruel death severed them) and that one left  
Poor parents knew, of error now bereft:  
He left eternal cause of grief renowes,  
Who still alive, still his dead brother shows:  
And yet to them this comfort still he gives,  
Th'one cannot die, so long as th'other lives.  
The wounded soldiers, now that all else fails,  
To stop their wounds, do tear their woeful sails:  
Poor men who after they were overthrown  
Had torn those wings, whereby they might have flown.  
One with his bleeding ready to expire,  
Thinks with his blood, to quench the ship on fire:  
And so in mids of flames he bleeding stands,  
Tearing new wounds with his kind cruel hands.  
And grieved to see his blood so little profit,  
He oft adds tears to help the quenching of it,  
Till at last fainting he is fain to fall,  
Into the sea, which made his Funeral:  
And bleeding in it from each mangled limb,  
He quenched it, and it extinguished him.  
See a poor wretch with both arms cut asunder,  
Distracted leapt into the water under  
Meaning to swim, but see the woeful wretch  
With how much toil he laboureth to stretch  
His raw-veind stumps, which for his arms before  
Gush nothing now, but streams of deadly gore:  
Feign would he catch t'uphold his wavering life  
Some kind remain o'th' ship, but all his strife  
Doth make him sooner to be out of breath,  
And wanting arms he yet embraces death.  
One getteth this, by having lost his eyes,  
In that he cannot see his miseries,  
Another's legs are gone, that who him sees  
Might think he did beg pardon on his knees.  
What refuge now is left? when if they shun  
Th'approaching sword, into the fire they run:  
Shunning the fire, they into waterfall,  
So no way wants a certain Funeral.  
Thus after strange unheard of sort they lie,  
And death, by many deaths, makes one man die.  
The mangled ships no longer can with stand  
Th'intruding sea, and Mars his fiery brand;  
But sinking downward one might then have thought  
Them gone t' help Charon to waft over his fraught.  
The conquered fleet pricked now with desperate stings  
Of horror, wish their army did of wings  
Only consist; but now as if it stood  
Tied with fast anchors to the stubborn flood  
Moves not away, but void of all instruction,  
Venture their own, to hasten the destruction  
Of their once Masters, who into corners creep,  
As among Wolves, a flock of trembling sheep.  
Much like a silly Dove, whose broken wing  
Hath tried the Talons of the airy King,  
And lieth panting on the bloody ground  
Striving to fly from's enemies rebound.  
Alas poor bird, it wants that winged oar  
Which should its wont escape to it restore:  
And so at length with silent patience crouching,  
It's made a prey to the fierce bird encroaching.  
Thus fleet and bird lie i'th' same woeful plight,  
Whose only wish is to be put to flight.   

The Sun no longer could endure to see  
'Mongst humane men such inhumanity:  
Therefore his Horses, bathing in their foam,  
With posting speed hast to their watery home.  
Where yet a while they all amazed stood,  
Finding in stead of Sea, a Sea of Blood.   
FINIS.   

H. H. Authoris Fratis majoris (cujus cura ac impensa haec praemissa Posthuma edita sunt,)  
CHARACTER.  
SI quis praenomen cupiat cognoscere nostrum,  
HENRICI nomen Nympha Secrata dedit.  
Jnque tuo MICHAEL festo, sum natus & ortus, 
Septemb. 1583   
Christiadis sumpsi nomen in Aede tua.  
Jlla luce mihi dil●●ta adjungitur Vxor 
Septemb. 1615   
Cognovi socium nocte priore thorum.  
Hi● MICHAEL Magnus Princeps pessundabit omnes  
Papicolas istis Tart●ra tetra patent.  
Dei Pater Omnipotens, famulo mihi posse beatum  
Sortiri in Coelo, cum MICHAELE Locum.   

Aliud, CHARACTER ACROSTICON, vice EPITAPHIj.  
Hic, mihi ne totum delerent Funera Nomen,  
Ostendam vitae rem, Lo●a, Nomen, Avos.  
Laude vigent patres, vid●t COVENTRIA natum,  
Luce nouâ: HENRICUM nomine signat aqua.  
A patriae gr●mio, LONDINUM exc●pit adultum, 
Anno, 1599   
N ●●rit idem: C●ara cum Pare Liber ago:  
Divi●ico● est verbum: Mihi Roma perosa:  
Vita quidem ten●is, sit mihi grata tamen  
Solaque post Mortem Coelestia dona supersins.  
Mihi Roma perosa.  
FINIS.   

Page 80. l. 4. (a) Plus male facta nocent quam benedicta decent: praedicat viva voce qui praedicat vita & voce. Ib. p. l. 30. (b) Nemesis pedes habet: Lips. de Constant. & tarditatem judicii gravitate supplicii compenset.  
Page 81. l. 12. (a) Ecles. 7.18. Qui dicunt ne appropinq●es mihi quia immundus es. Es. 65.5. Ib. p. l. 23. (b) Valerio vobis derisoribus, cum venerit dies judicii & aperti fuerint libri conscientiarum: Cum dicetur vobis, ecce hos puritatis derisores & impura eorum opera. Quid facietis tunc, cum Caeli re ve labunt iniquitates vestras & terra adversus vos consurget. Ib. p. l. 29. (c) Dicunt non faciunt hoc magnum Crimen habetur. In linguis, pietas pectore nulla manet.  
Page 82. l. 9 (a) Mallet Deus multos: nocentes condonare quam unum innocentem condemnare. Ib. p. l. 19 (b) Vnguentum est unguentum itsi vultures defugiant. Theod.  
Page 84. l. 3. (a) Quam bent te ambitio mersit vanissima ventus & tumidos tumidae vos superastis aquae. Quam bene totius raptores orbis avaros. Hausit inexhausto justa vorago maris. Theod. Be●a in Psal. 27.2.124.3.6. Psal. 21.11.  
Page 85. l. 14. (a) Job 4.8. Psal. 27.2. Non est la● aequior ulla, Quam necis artifices arte perire suâ. Ib. page 17. (b) Anno 1602. in Londino de plaga. 38244. Consumptis tot peste viris, tot peste puellis, vix habuit nobis tum nova plaga locum.  
Ibid. page l. 21. Antigones rex amicis sun dentibus, ut si Athenas caperet, firmis eas & validis muniret praesidiis. Nullum inquit scio praesidium firmius aut stabilius, quam civium benevolentiam. Sic Periander summâ ope commitendum esse dixit iis, qui into regnare vellent ut benevolentia potius quam armis stiparentur. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, Sola benevolentia subditorum firmisissima est regis custodia. Synesius.   

Errata.  
IN the Eipistle to all the afflicted, page ●. line 5. for of, read and. Ib. p. l. 11. Maccheus. 2. p. Of the Subject, l. 25. leave out still. p. 3. l. 29. steams. p. 4. l. 7. this. p. 33. l. 5. him. p. 69 l. 25. trash. p. 79. l. 29. if.  
FINIS.