The Catalogue.  
Every Man in his Humour, 
To Mr. CAMBDEN.  Every Man out of his Humour, 
To the inns of COURT.  Cynthia's Revels, 
To the COURT.  Poētaster, 
To Mr. RICH. MARTIN.  Sejanus, 
To ESME Lo. Aubigny.  The Fox, 
To the universities.  The silent Woman, 
To Sir FRAN. Stuart.  The Alchemist, 
To the Lady WROTH.  Catiline, 
To the Earl of Pembroke.  Epigrams, 
To the same.  The Forest, 
 Entertainments, 
 Panegyre, 
 Masques, 
 Barriers. 
   


Ad V. CL. BEN JONSONIUM, Carmen protrepticon.  
Raptam Thrëicij lyram Neanthus  
Pulset; carmina circulis Palaemon  
Scribar; qui manibus facit Deabus  
Illotis, metuat Probum. Placere  
Te doctis innat auribus, placere  
Te raris innat auribus. Camaenas  
Cùm totus legerem tuas (camaenae  
Nam totum rogitant tuae, nec ullam  
Qui pigrè trabat oscitationem,  
Lectorem) & Numeros, Acumen, Artem,  
Mirum Iudicium, quod ipse censor,  
Ionsoni, nimiùm licet malignus,  
Si doctus simùl, exigat, viderem,  
Sermonem & nitidum, Facetiásque  
Dignas Mercurio, nouásque Gnomas  
Morum sed veterum, tuíque iuris  
Quicquid Dramaticum tui legebam,  
Tam semper fore, támque te loqwium,  
Vt nec Lemnia notior sigillo  
Tellus, nec maculâ sacrandus Apis,  
Non cesto Venus, aut comis Apollo,  
Quàm Musâ fueris sciente notus,  
Quàm Musâ fueris tuá notatus,  
Illâ, quae unica, sydus vt refulgens,  
Stricturas, superat comis, Minorum:  
In mentem subijt Stolonis illud,  
Lingua Pieridas fuisse Plauti  
usuras, Ciceronis atque dictum,  
Saturno genitum phrasi Platonis,  
Musae si Latio, jovisque Athenis  
Dixissent. Fore iam sed hunc & illas  
jonsonI numeros puto locutos,  
Anglis si fuerint utrique fati.  
Tam, mi, tu sophiam doces amaenè,  
Sparsìm támque sophos amaena sternis!  
Sed, tot delicias, minùs placebat,  
Sparsis distraherent tot in libellis  
Cerdoi caculae. Volumen vnum,  
Quod seri Britonum terant nepotes,  
Optabam, & thyasus chorúsque amantum  
Musas hoc cupiunt, tui laborum  
Et quicquid reliquum est, adhuc tuísque  
servatum pluteis. Tibi at videmur  
Non tàm quaerere quàm parare nobis  
Laudem, dum volumus palàm merentis  
To laurus cupidi reposta scripta;  
Dum secernere te tuásque Musas  
Audemus numero ungulae liquorem  
Gustante, vt veteres nonem sorores  
Et sirenibus & solent cicadis;  
Dum & secernere posse te videmur,  
Efflictìm petimus nonúmque librum,  
Qui nullo sacer haùt petatur aevo,  
Qui nullo sacer exolescat aevo,  
Qui curis niteat tuis secundis;  
Vt nos scire aliquid simùl putetur.  
Atqui hoc macte sies, velútque calpar,  
Quod dijs inferium, tibi sacremus,  
Vt nobis benè sit, tuámque frontem  
Perfundant ederae recentiores  
Et splendor nows. invident coronam  
Hanc tantam patriae tibique (quantà  
Aeternùm à merito tuo superbum  
Anglorum genus esse possit olìm)  
tantum qui penitùs volunt amaenas  
Sublatas literas, timéntue lucem  
jonson I nimiam tenebriones.  
I. Selden I. C.   

TO BEN JONSON, on his works.  
MAy I subscribe a name? dares my bold quill  
Write that or good or ill,  
Whose frame is of that height, that, to mine eye,  
It's head is in the sky?  
Yes. Since the most censures, believes, and saith  
By an implicit faith:  
lest their misfortune make them chance amiss,  
I'll waste them right by this.  
Of all I know thou only art the man  
That dares but what he can:  
Yet by performance shows he can do more  
Than hath been done before,  
Or will be after. (such assurance gives  
Perfection where it lives.)  
Words speak thy matter; matter fills thy words;  
And choice that grace affords  
That both are best: and both most fitly placed,  
Are with new VENUS graced  
From artful method all in this point meet,  
With good to mingle sweet.  
These are thy lower parts. what stands above  
Who sees not yet must love,  
When on the Base he reads BEN JONSON's name,  
And hears the rest from Fame.  
This from my love of truth: which pays this due  
To your just worth, not you.  
Ed. Heyward.   

Upon Sejanus.  
SO brings the wealth-contracting jeweller  
Pearls and dear stones, from richest shores and streams,  
As thy accomplished travail doth confer  
From skill-enriched souls, their wealthier gems;  
So doth his hand enchase in enamelled gold,  
Cut, and adorned beyond their native merits,  
His solid flames, as thine hath here enrolled  
In more than golden verse, those bettered spirits;  
So he entreasures Princes cabinets,  
As thy wealth will their wished libraries;  
So, on the throat of the rude sea, he sets  
His venturous foot, for his illustrious prize:  
And through wild deserts, armed with wilder beasts,  
As thou adventurest on the multitude,  
Upon the boggy, and engulfed breasts  
Of hirelings, sworn to find most right, most rude:  
And he, in storms at sea, doth not endure,  
Nor in vast deserts, amongst wolves, more danger;  
Then we, that would with virtue live secure,  
Sustain for her in every vices anger.  
Nor is this Allegory unjustly racked,  
To this strange length: Only, that jewels are,  
In estimation merely, so exact:  
And thy work, in itself, is dear and rare.  
Wherein MINERVA had been vanquished,  
Had she, by it, her sacred looms advanced,  
And through thy subject woven her graphic thread,  
Contending therein, to be more entranced;  
For, though thy hand was scarce addressed to draw  
The semicircle of Sejanus life,  
The Muse yet makes it the whole sphere, and law  
To all State lives: and bounds ambition's strife.  
And as a little brook creeps from his spring,  
With shallow tremblings, through the lowest vales,  
As if he feared his stream abroad to bring,  
lest profane sect should wrong it, and rude gales;  
But finding happy channels, and supplies  
Of other fords mix with his modest course,  
He grows a goodly river, and descries  
The strength, that maned him, since he left his source;  
Then takes he in delight some meads, and groves,  
And, with his two-edged waters, flourishes  
Before great palaces, and all men's loves  
Build by his shores, to greet his passages:  
So thy chaste Muse, by virtuous self-mistrust,  
Which is a true mark of the truest merit;  
In virgin fear of men's illiterate lust,  
Shut her soft wings, and durst not show her spirit;  
Till, nobly cherished, now thou let'st her fly,  
Singing the sable orgies of the Muses,  
And in the highest pitch of tragedy,  
Makest her command, all things thy ground produces.  
Besides, thy Poëme hath this due respect,  
That it lets pass nothing, without observing,  
Worthy instruction; or that might correct  
Rude manners, and renown the well deserving:  
Performing such a lively evidence  
In thy narrations, that thy hearers still  
Thou turn'st to thy spectators; and the sense  
That thy spectators have of good or ill,  
Thou inject'st jointly to thy reader's souls.  
So dear is held, so decked thy numerous task,  
As thou puttest handles to the Thespian bouls,  
Or stuck'st rich plumes in the Palladian cask.  
All thy worth, yet, thyself must patronize,  
By quaffing more of the Castalian head;  
In expiscation of whose mysteries,  
Our nets must still be clogged, with heavy lead,  
To make them sink, and catch: For cheerful gold  
Was never found in the Pierian streams,  
But wants, and scorns, and shames for silver sold.  
What? what shall we elect in these extremes?  
Now by the shafts of the great CYRRHAN Poet,  
That bear all light, that is, about the world;  
I would have all dull Poet-haters know it,  
They shall be soul-bound, and in darkness hurled,  
A thousand years (as Sathan was, their fire)  
Ere any, worthy the poetic name,  
(Might I, that warm but at the muse's fire,  
Presume to guard it) should let deathless Fame  
Light half a beam of all her hundred eyes,  
At his dim taper, in their memories.  
Fly, fly, you are too near; so, odorous flowers  
Being held too near the sensor of our sense,  
Render not pure, nor so sincere their powers,  
As being held a little distance thence.  
O could the world but feel how sweet a touch  
The Knowledge hath, which is in love with goodness,  
(If Poesy were not ravished so much,  
And her composed rage, held the simplest woodness,  
Though of all heats, that temper humane brains,  
Hers ever was most subtle, high, and holy,  
First binding savage lives, in civil chains:  
Solely religious, and adored solely,  
If was felt this) they would not think a love,  
That gives itself, in her, did vanities give;  
Who is (in earth, though low) in worth above,  
Most able t'honour life, though least to live.  
And so good Friend, safe passage to thy freight,  
To thee a long peace, through a virtuous strife,  
In which, let's both contend to virtue's height,  
Not making fame our object, but good life.  
GEOR. CHAPMAN.   

To his worthy friend, the Author, H. HOLLAND.  
IN that, this book doth deign Sejanus name,  
Him unto more, than Caesar's love, it brings:  
For, where he could not with ambition's wings,  
One quill doth heave him to the height of fame.  
Ye great-ones though (whose ends may be the same)  
Know, that, however we do flatter kings,  
Their favours (like themselves) are fading things,  
With no less envy had, then lost with shame.  
Nor make yourselves less honest than you are,  
To make our author wiser than he is:  
x of such crimes accuse him, which I dare  
By all his Muses swear, be none of his.  
The men are not, some faults may be these times:  
He acts those men, and they did act these crimes.   

Amicissimo, & meritissimo BEN: JONSON.  
QVod arte ansus et hic tuâ, Poeta,  
Si anderent hominum Deique iuris  
Consulti, veteres sequi aemulariérque,  
O omnes saperemus ad salutem.  
His sed sunt veteres araneosi;  
Tam nemo veterum est secutor, vt tu  
Illos quòd sequeris novator audis.  
Factamen quod agis; tuique primâ  
Libricanitie induantur horâ:  
Nam chartis pveritiae est neganda,  
Nascuntúrque senes, oportet, illi  
Libri, queis dare vis perennitatem.  
Priscis, ingenium facit, labérque  
Te parem; hos superes, vt & futuros,  
Ex nostrâ vitiositate sumas,  
Quâ priscos superamus, & futuros.  
I. D.   

AD utramque ACADEMIAM, DE Benjamin JONSONIO.  
HIc ille est primus, qui doctum drama Britannis,  
Graiorum antiqua, & Latij monimenta Theatri,  
Tanquam explorator versans, foelicibus ausis  
Prebebit: Magnis coeptis Gemina astra favete.  
Alterutrâ veteres contenti laude: Cothurnum hic,  
Atque pari soccum tractat Sol scenicus arte,  
Das VOLPONE iocos, fletus SEIANE dedisti.  
At si IONSONIAS mulctatas limit Musas  
Angustâ plangent quiquam: Vos, dicite, contrà,  
O nimiùm miseros quibus ANGLIS ANGLICA lingua  
Aut non sat nota est; aut queis (sen trans mare natis)  
Hand nota omnino: Vegetet cum tempore Vates,  
Mutabit patriam, fiêtque ipse ANGLUS APOLLO.  
E. BOLTON.   

To my dear friend, M. BEN: JONSON.  
IF it might stand with justice, to allow  
The swift conversion of all follies; now,  
Such is my mercy, that I could admit  
All sorts should equally approve the wit  
Of this thy even work: whose growing fame  
Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name.  
And did not manners, and my love command  
Me to forbear to make those understand,  
Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doom  
Long since, firmly resolved, shall never come  
To know more than they do; I would have shown  
To all the world, the art, which thou alone  
Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time of place,  
And other rites, delivered, with the grace  
Of comic style, which only, is far more,  
Than any English stage hath known before.  
But, since our subtle gallants think it good  
To like of nought, that may be understood,  
Lest they should be disproved; or have, at best,  
Stomachs so raw, that nothing can digest  
But what's obscene, or barks: Let us desire  
They may continue, simply, to admire  
Fine clothes, and strange words; & may live, in age,  
To see themselves ill brought upon the stage,  
And like it. Whilst thy bold, and knowing Muse  
contains all praise, but such as thou wouldst choose  
FRANC BEAUMONT.   

UPON THE SILENT WOMAN.  
Hear you bad writers, and though you not see,  
I will inform you where you happy be:  
Provide the most malicious thoughts you can,  
And bend them all against some private man,  
To bring him, not his vices, on the stage,  
Your envy shall be clad in so poor rage,  
And your expressing of him shall be such,  
That he himself shall think he hath no touch.  
Where he that strongly writes, although he mean  
To scourge but vices in a laboured scene,  
Yet private faults shall be so well expressed  
As men do act hem, that each private breast,  
That finds these errors in itself, shall say,  
He meant me, not my vices, in the play.  
FRANC BEAUMONT.   

To my friend M. BEN: JONSON.  
IF thou hadst itched after the wild applause  
Of common people, and hadst made thy laws  
In writing, such, as catched at present voice,  
I should commend the thing, but not thy choice.  
But thou hast squared thy rules, by what is good;  
And art, three ages yet, from understood:  
And (I dare say) in it, there lies much wit  
Lost, till thy readers can grow up to it.  
Which they can ne'er outgrow, to find it ill,  
But must fall back again, or like it still.  
FRANC BEAUMONT.    

EPIGRAMS. I BOOK.  
The Author B. I  
LONDON,  
M. DC. XVI.   

TO THE GREAT EXAMPLE OF HONOUR AND VIRTUE, THE MOST NOBLE WILLIAM, EARL OF PEMBROKE, L. CHAMBERLAYNE, etc.  
MY LORD. While you cannot change your merit, I dare not change your title: It was that made it, and not I Under which name, I here offer to your Lo: the ripest of my studies, my Epigrams; which, though they carry danger in the sound, do not therefore seek your shelter: For, when I made them, I had nothing in my conscience, to expressing of which I did need a cypher. But, if I be fallen into those times, wherein, for the likeness of vice, and facts, every one thinks another's ill deeds objected to him; and that in their ignorant and guilty mouths, the common voice is (for their security) Beware the Poet, confessing, therein, so much love to their diseases, as they would rather make a party for them, than be either rid, or told of them: I must expect, at your Lo: hand, the protection of truth, and liberty, while you are constant to your own goodness. In thankss whereof, I return you the honour of leading forth so many good, and great names (as my verses mention on the better part) to their remembrance with posterity. Among whom, if I have praised, unfortunately, any one, that doth not deserve; or, if all answer not, in all numbers, the pictures I have made of them: I hope it will be forgiven me, that they are not ill pieces, though they be not like the people. But I foresee a nearer fate to my book, than this: that the vices therein will be owned before the virtues (though, there, I have avoided all particulars, as I have done names) and that some will be so ready to discredit me, as they will have the impudence to belie themselves. For, if I meant them not, it is so. Nor, can I hope otherwise. For, why should they remit any thing of their riot, their pride, their self-love, and other inherent graces, to consider truth or virtue; but, with the trade of the world, lend their long ears against men they love not: and hold their dear Mountebank, or jester, in fare better condition, than all the study, or studiers of humanity? For such, I would rather know them by their visards, still, than they should publish their faces, at their peril, in my Theatre, where CATO, if he lived, might enter without scandal.  
Your Lo: most faithful honourer, BEN. JONSON.   

EPIGRAMS.  

I TO THE READER.  
PRay thee, take care, that tak'st my book in hand,  
To read it well: that is, to understand.   

II TO MY BOOK.  
IT will be looked for, book, when some but see  
Thy title, Epigrams, and named of me,  
Thou-babes shouldst be bold, licentious, full of gall,  
Wormwood, and sulphur, sharp, and toothed withal;  
Become a petulant thing, hurl ink, and wit,  
As madmen stones: not caring whom they hit.  
Deceive their malice, who could wish it so.  
And by thy wiser temper, let men know  
Thou-babes art not covetous of lest self fame,  
Made from the hazard of another's shame:  
Much less with lewd, profane, and beastly phrase,  
To catch the world's lose laughter, or vain gaze.  
He that departs with his own honesty  
For vulgar praise, doth it too dear buy.   

III TO MY BOOKSELLER.  
THou, that makest gain thy end, and wisely well,  
Call'st a book good, or bad, as it doth cell,  
Use mine so, too: I give thee leave. But crave  
For the luck's sake, it thus much favour have.   

By that one spell he life's, eats, drinks, arrays  
Himself: his whole revenue is, god pays.  
The quarter day is come; the hostess says,  
She must have money: he returns, god pays.  
The tailor brings a suit home; he it 'ssayes,  
Looks o'er the bill, likes it: and says, god pays.  
He steals to ordinaries; there he plays  
At dice his borrowed money: which, god pays.  
Than takes up fresh commodity, for days;  
Signs to new bond, forfeits: and cries, god pays.  
That lost, he keeps his chamber, reads Essays,  
Takes physic, tears the papers: still god pays.  
Or else by water goes, and so to plays;  
Calls for his stool, adorns the stage: god pays.  
To every cause he meets, this voice he brays:  
His only answer is to all, god pays.  
Not his poor cockatrice but he betrays  
Thus: and for his lechery, scores, god pays.  
But see! th'old bawd hath served him in his trim,  
Lent him a pocky whore. She hath paid him.   

XIII. TO DOCTOR EMPIRICK▪  
WHen men a dangerous disease did scape,  
Of old, they gave a cock to AESCULAPE;  
Let me give two: that doubly an got free,  
From my diseases danger, and from thee.   

XIIII. TO WILLIAM CAMDEN▪  
CAMDEN, most reverend head, to whom I own  
All that I an in arts, all that I know.  
(How nothing's that?) to whom my country owes  
The great renown, and name wherewith she goes.  
Than thee the age seas not that thing more grave,  
Moore high, more holy, that she more would crave.  
What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things!  
What sight in searching the most antique springs!  
What weight, and what authority in thy speech!  
Man scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.  
Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty,  
Which conquers all, be once overcome by thee.  
Many of thy this better could, than I,  
But for their powers, accept my piety.   

XU. ON COURT-WORME.  
ALL men are worms: But this not man In silk  
'Twas brought to court first wrapped, and white as milk;  
Where, afterwards, it grew a butterfly:  
Which was a caterpillar. So 'twill die.   

XVI. TO BRAYNE-HARDIE.  
HARDIE, thy brain is valiant, 'tis confessed,  
Thou-babes more; that with it every day, darest jest  
Thyself into fresh brawls: when, called upon,  
Scarce thy weeks swearing brings thee of, of one.  
So, in short time, thou'rt in arrearage grown  
Some hundred quarrels, yet dost thou fight none;  
Nor needest thou: for those few, by oath released,  
Make good what thou darest do in all the rest.  
Keep thyself there, and think thy valour right,  
He that dares damn himself, dares more than fight.   

XVII. TO THE LEARNED CRITIC.  
MAy others fear, fly, and traduce thy name,  
As guilty men do magistrates: glad I,  
That wish my poems a legitimate fame,  
Charge them, for crown, to thy sole censure hie.  
And, but a sprig of bays, given by thee,  
Shall outlive garlands, stolen from the chaste tree.   

XVIII. TO MY MERE ENGLISH CENSURER.  
TO thee, my way in Epigrams seems new,  
When both it is the old way, and the true.  
Thou-babes sayest, that cannot be: for thou hast seen  
DAVIS, and WEEVER, and the best have been,  
And mine come nothing like. I hope so. Yet,  
As there's did with thee, mine might credit get:  
If thou'dst but use thy faith, as thou didst than,  
When thou wert want t'admire, not censure men.  
Pray thee believe still, and not judge so fast,  
Thy faith is all the knowledge that thou hast.   

XIX. ON SIR COD THE PERFUMED.  
THat COD can get not widow, yet a knight,  
I sent the cause: He woos with an ill spirit.   

XX. TO THE SAME SIR COD.  
TH'expense in odours is a most vain sin,  
Except thou couldst, Sir COD, wear them within.   

XXI. ON REFORM GAMESTER.  
LOrd, how is GAMESTER changed! his hair close cut!  
His neck fenced round with ruff! his eyes half shut!  
His clotheses two fashions of, and poor! his sword  
Forbid 'his side! and nothing, but the word  
Quick in his lips! who hath this wonder wrought?  
The late'tane bastinado. So I thought.  
What several ways men to their calling have!  
The body's stripes, I see, the soul may save.   

XXII. ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER.  
HEre lies to each her parents ruth,  
MARY, the daughter of their youth:  
Yet, all heaven's gifts, being heavens due,  
It makes the father, less, to rue.  
At six month's end, she parted hence  
With safety of her innocence;  
Whose soul heaven's Queen, (whose name she bears)  
In comfort of her mother's tears,  
Hath placed among her virgin-traine:  
Where, while that severed doth remain,  
This grave partakes the fleshly birth.  
Which cover lightly, gentle earth.   

XXIII. TO JOHN DONNE.  
DONNE, the delight of PHOEBUS, and each Muse,  
Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse;  
who's every work, of thy most early wit,  
Came forth example, and remains so, yet:  
Longer a knowing, than most wits do live.  
And which not affection praise enough can give!  
To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,  
Which might with half mankind maintain a strife.  
All which I meant to praise, and, yet, I would;  
But leave, because I cannot as I should!   

XXIIII. TO THE PARLIAMENT.  
THere's reason good, that you good laws should make●  
Man's manners never were viler, for your sake.   

XXV. ON SIR VOLUPTVOUS BEAST.  
WHile BEAST instructs his fair, and innocent wife,  
In the past pleasures of his sensual life,  
Telling the motions of each petticoat,  
And how his GANYMEDE moved, and how his goat,  
And now, her (hourly) her own cucqueane makes,  
In varied shapes, which for his lust she takes:  
What doth he else, but say, leave to be cha●t,  
Just wife, and, to change me, make woman's haste.   

XXVI. ON THE SAME BEAST.  
THen his cha●t wife, though BEAST now know not more,  
He'adulters still: his thoughts lie with a whore.   

XXVII. ON SIR JOHN ROE.  
IN place of scutcheons, that should deck thy hearse,  
Take better ornaments, my tears, and verse.  
If any sword could save from Fates, ROES could;  
If any Muse outlive their spite, his can;  
If any friends tears could restore, his would;  
If any pious life ere lifted man  
To heaven; his hath: OH happy state! wherein  
We, sad for him, may glory, and not sin.   

XXVIII. ON DON SURLY.  
DONE SURLY, to aspire the glorious name  
Of a great man, and to be thought the same,  
Makes serious use of all great trade he knows.  
He speaks to men with a Rhinocerotes nose,  
Which he thinks great; and so reads verses, too:  
And, that is done, as he see great men do.  
HE has tympanies of business, in his face,  
And, can forget man's names, with a great grace.  
He will both argue, and discourse in oaths,  
Both which are great. And laugh at ill made clotheses;  
That's greater, yet: to cry his own up neat.  
He doth, at meals, alone, his pheasant eat.  
Which is main greatness. And, at his still board,  
He drinks to not man: that's, too, like a lord.  
He keeps another's wife, which is a spice  
Of solemn greatness. And he dares, at dice,  
Blaspheme god, greatly. Or some poor hind beaten,  
That breathes in his dog's way: and this is great.  
Nay more, for greatness sake, he will be one  
May hear my Epigrams, but like of none.  
SURLY, use other arts, these only can  
Style thee a most great fool, but not great man   

XXIX. TO SIR ANNVAL TILTER.  
TILTER, the most may'admire thee, though not I:  
And thou, right guiltless, may'st pled to it, why?  
For thy late sharp device. I say 'tis fit  
All brains, at times of triumph, should run wit.  
For than, our water-conduits do run wine;  
But that's put in, thou'lt say. Why, so is thy.   

XXX. TO PERSON GVILTIE.  
GVILTIE, be wise; and though thou knowest the crimes  
Be thy, I tax, yet do not own my rhymes:  
'Tis madness in thee, to betray thy fame,  
And person to the world; ere I thy name.   

XXXI. ON BANK THE USURER.  
BANK feels not lameness of his knotty gout,  
His money's travail for him, in and out:  
And though the soundest legs go every day,  
He toils to be at hell, as soon as they.   

XXXII. ON SIR JOHN ROE.  
WHat two brave perils of the private sword  
Can not effect, not all the furies do,  
That selfe-divided Belgia did afford;  
What not the envy of the seas reached too,  
The cold of Moscow, and fat Irish air,  
His often change of clime (though not of mind)  
What could not work; at home in his repair  
Was his blessed fate, but our hard lot to found.  
Which shows, where ever death doth please t'appear,  
Seas, serenes, swords, shot, sickness, all are there.   

XXXIII. TO THE SAME.  
I'll not offend thee with a vain tear more,  
Glad-mentioned ROE: thou art but go before,  
Wither the world must follow. And I, now,  
Breathe to expect my when, and make my how.  
Which if most gracious heaven grant like thy,  
Who wets my grave, can be not friend of mine.   

XXXIIII. OF DEATH.  
HE that fears death, or mourns it, in the just,  
Shows of the resurrection little trust.   

The children, that he keeps, GILES swears are none  
Of his begetting. And so swears his JOAN.  
In all affections she concurreth still.  
If, now, with man and wife, to will, and nill  
The self-same things, a note of concord be:  
I know not couple better can agreed!   

XLIII. TO ROBERT EARL OF SALISBURY.  
WHat need hast thou of me? or of my Muse?  
Whose actions so themselves do celebrated?  
Which should thy country's love to speak refuse,  
Her foes enough would fame thee in their hate.  
'Tofore, great men were glad of Poets: Now,  
I, not the worst, an covetous of thee.  
Yet dare not, to my thought, jest hope allow  
Of adding to thy fame; thy may to me,  
When in my book, men read but CECILL'S name,  
And what I writ thereof found fare, and free  
From servile flattery (common Poet's shame)  
As thou standest clear of the necessity.   

XLIIII. ON CHUFFE, BANKS THE VSVRER'S KINSMAN.  
CHUFFE, lately rich in name, in chattels, goods,  
And rich in issue to inherit all,  
E'er blacks were bought for his own funeral,  
See all his race approach the blacker floods:  
He meant they thither should make swift repair,  
When he made him executor, might be heir.   

XLV. ON MY FIRST SON.  
FArewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;  
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy,  
Seven years tho'wert lent to me, and I thee pay,  
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.  
OH, could I lose all father, now. For why  
Will man lament the state he should envy?  
To have so soon scaped worlds, and flesh's rage,  
And, if not other misery, yet age?  
Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lie  
BEN. JONSON his best piece of poetry.  
For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such,  
As what loves may never like too much.   

XLVI. TO SIR LUCKLESS WOO-ALL.  
IS this the Sir, who, some waste wife to win,  
A knighthood bought, to go a wooing in?  
'Tis LUCKLESS he, that taken up one on band  
To pay at's day of marriage. By my hand  
The knight-wright's cheated than: he'll never pay.  
Yes, now he wears his knighthood every day.   

XLVII. TO THE SAME.  
SIr LUCKLESS, troth, for luck's sake pass by one:  
He that woos every widow, will get none.   

XLVIII. ON MONGREL ESQUIRE.  
HIs bought arms MUNG 'not liked; for his first day  
Of bearing them in field, he threw'hem away:  
And hath not honour lost our Due'llists say.   

XLIX. TO PLAY-WRIGHT.  
PLAY-WRIGHT me reads, and still my verses damns,  
He says, I want the tongue of Epigrams;  
I have not salt: not bawdry he doth mean.  
For witty, in his language, is obscene.  
PLAY-WRIGHT, I loathe to have thy manners known  
In my chaste book: profess them in thy own.   

L. TO SIR COD.  
Leave COD, tabacco-like, burned gums to take,  
Or fumie clysters, thy moist lungs to bake:  
Arsenike would thee fit for society make.   

    

LVIII. TO GROOM IDIOT.  
IDIOT, last night, I prayed thee but forbear  
To read my verses; now I must to hear:  
For offering, with thy smiles, my wit to grace,  
Thy ignorance still laughs in the wrong place.  
And so my sharpness thou not less dis-joints,  
Than thou didst late my sense, losing my points.  
So have I seen at Christmas sport's one lost,  
And, hoodwinked, for a man, embrace a post.   

LIX. ON SPIES.  
SPIES, you are lights in state, but of base stuff,  
Who, when  burned yourselves down to the snuff,  
Stink, and are thrown away. End fair enough.   

LX. TO WILLIAM LORD MOUNTEAGLE.  
Lo, what my country should have done (have raised  
An obeliske, or column to thy name,  
Or, if she would but modestly have praised  
Thy fact, in brass or marble written the same)  
I, that an glad of thy great chance, here do!  
And proud, my work shall outlast common deeds,  
Dared think it great, and worthy wonder too,  
But thy, for which I do't, so much exceeds!  
My country's parents I have many known;  
But saver of my country thee alone.   

LXI. TO FOOL, OR KNAVE.  
THy praise, or dispraise is to me alike,  
One doth not struck me, nor the other strike.   

LXII. TO FINE LADY WOULD-BEE.  
FIne MADAM WOULD-BEE, wherefore should you fear,  
That love to make so well, a child to bear?  
The world reputes you barren: but I know  
Your 'pothecary, and his drug says no.  
Is it the pain affrights? that's soon forgot.  
Or your complexions loss? you have a pot,  
That can restore that. Will it hurt your feature?  
To make amendss, you're thought a wholesome creature.  
What should the cause be? O, you live at court:  
And there's both loss of time, and loss of sport  
In a great belly. Writ, than on thy womb,  
Of the not born, yet buried, here's the tomb.   

LXIII. TO ROBERT EARL OF SALISBURY.  
WHo can consider thy right courses run,  
With what thy virtue on the times hath wone,  
And not thy fortune; who can clearly see  
The judgement of the king so shine in thee;  
And that thou seekest reward of thy each act,  
Not from the public voice, but private fact;  
Who can behold all envy so declined  
By constant suffering of thy equal mind;  
And can to these be silent, Salisbury,  
Without his, thy, and all times injury?  
Cursed be his Muse, that could lie dumb, or hide  
To so true worth, though thou thyself forbidden.   

LXIIII TO THE SAME. Upon the accession of the Treasurer-ship to him.  
NOt glad, like those that have new hopes, or suits,  
With thy new place, bring I these early fruits  
Of love, and what the golden age did hold  
A treasure, art: contemned in th'age of gold.  
Nor glad as those, that old dependants be,  
To see thy father's rites new laid on thee.  
Nor glad for fashion. Nor to show a fit  
Of flattery to thy titles. Nor of wit.  
But I an glad to see that time suruive▪  
Where merit is not sepulchred alive.   

Delay is bad, doubt worse, depending worst;  
Each best day of our life escapes us, first.  
Than, since we (more than many) these truths know:  
Though life be short, let us not make it so.   

LXXI. ON COURT-PARRAT.  
TO pluck down mine, POLL sets up new wits still,  
Still, 'tis his luck to praise me against his william   

LXXII. TO COURT-LING.  
I Grieve not, COURTLING, thou art started up  
A chamber-critick, and dost dine, and sup  
At MADAM'S table, where thou makest all wit  
Go high, or low, as thou will't value it.  
'Tis not thy judgement breeds the prejudice,  
Thy person only, COURTLING, is the vice.   

LXXIII. TO FINE GRAND.  
WHat is't, fine GRAND, makes thee my friendship fly,  
Or take an Epigram so fearfully:  
As't were a challenge, or a borrowers letter?  
The world must know your greatness is my debtor.  
Inprimis, GRAND, you own me for a jest;  
I lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast.  
Item, a tale or two, some fortnight after;  
That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter.  
Item, the babylonian song you sing;  
Item, a fair greek poesy for a ring:  
With which a learned Madam you belie.  
Item, a charm surrounding fearfully,  
Your partie-per-pale picture, one half drawn  
In solemn cypress, the other cobweb-lawn.  
Item, a gulling imprese for you, at tilt.  
Item, your mistress anagram, i your hilt.  
Item, your own, sewed in your mistress smock.  
Item, an epitaph on my lords cock,  
In most vile verses, and cost me more pain,  
Than had I made 'em good, to fit your vain.  
Forty things more, dear GRAND, which you know true,  
For which, or pay me quickly', or I'll pay you.   

LXXIIII. TO THOMAS LORD CHANCELLOR.  
Whilst thy weighed judgements, EGERTON, I hear,  
And know thee, than, a judge, not of one year;  
Whilst I behold thee live with purest hands;  
That not affection in thy voice command's;  
That still thou'rt present to the better cause;  
And not less wise, than skilful in the laws;  
Whilst thou art certain to thy words, once go,  
As is thy conscience, which is always one:  
The Virgin, long-since fled from earth, I see,  
T'our times returned, hath made her heaven in thee.   

LXXV. ON LIP, THE TEACHER.  
I Cannot think there's that antipathy  
Betwixt puritanes, and players, as some cry;  
Though LIP, at PAUL'S, ran from his text away,  
T'inueigh against plays: what did he than but play?   

LXXVI. ON LUCY COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.  
THis morning, timely rapt with holy fire,  
I thought to form unto my zealous Muse,  
What kind of creature I could most desire,  
To honour, serve, and love; as Poets use.  
I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,  
Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;  
I meant the daystar should not brighter rise,  
Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat.  
I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,  
Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride;  
I meant each softest virtue, there should meet,  
Fit in that softer bosom to reside.  
Only a learned, and a manly soul  
I purposed her; that should, with even powers,  
The rock, the spindle, and the shears control  
Of destiny, and spin her own free hours.  
Such when I meant to feign, and wished to see,  
My Muse bad, Bedford writ, and that was she.   

LXXVII. TO ONE THAT DESIRED ME NOT TO NAME HIM.  
BE safe, nor fear thyself so good a fame,  
That, any way, my book should speak thy name:  
For, if thou shame, ranked with my friends, to go,  
I'm more ashamed to have thee thought my foe.   

LXXVIII. TO HORNET.  
HORNET, thou hast thy wife dressed, for the stall,  
To draw thee custom: but herself gets all.   

LXXIX. TO ELIZABETH COUNTESS OF RUTLAND.  
THat Poets are far rarer births than kings,  
Your noblest father proved: like whom, before,  
Or than, or since, about our Muse's springs,  
Came not that soul exhausted so their store.  
Hence was it, that the destinies decreed  
(Save that most masculine issue of his brain)  
Not male unto him: who could so exceed  
Nature, they thought, in all, that he would feign.  
At which, she happily displeased, made you:  
On whom, if he were living now, to look,  
He should those rare, and absolute numbers view,  
As he would burn, or better fare his book.   

LXXX. OF LIFE, AND DEATH.  
THe ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds:  
Through which, our merit leads us to our meeds.  
How wilful blind is he than, that would stray,  
And hath it, in his powers, to make his way!  
This world death's region is, the other life's:  
And here, it should be one of our first strifes,  
So to front death, as men might judge us passed it.  
For good men but see death, the wicked taste it.   

LXXXI. TO PROULE THE PLAGIARY.  
Forbear to tempt me, PROULE, I will not show  
A line unto thee, till the world it know;  
Or that  by two good sufficient men,  
To be the wealth witness of my pen:  
For all thou hearest, thou swearest thyself didst do.  
Thy wit life's by it, PROULE, and belly too.  
Which, if thou leave not soon (though I an loath)  
I must a libel make, and cousin both.   

LXXXII. ON CASHIERED CAPT. SURLY.  
SVRLY'S old whore in her new silks doth swim:  
He cast, yet keeps her well! Not, she keeps him.   

LXXXIII. TO A FRIEND.  
TO put out the word, whore, thou dost me woe,  
Throughout my book. 'Troth put out woman too.   

LXXXIIII. TO LUCY COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.  
MADAM, I told you late how I repent,  
I asked a lord a buck, and he denied me;  
And, ere I could ask you, I was prevented:  
For your most noble offer had supplied me.  
Strait went I home; and there most like a Poet,  
I fancied to myself, what wine, what wit  
I would have spent: how every Muse should know it,  
And PHOEBVS-selfe should be at eating it.  
OH Madam, if your grant did thus transfer me,  
Make it your gift. See whither that will bear me.   

LXXXV. TO SIR HENRY GOODYERE.  
GOODYERE, I'm glad, and grateful to report,  
Myself a witness of thy few day's sport:  
Where I both learned, why wisemen hawking follow,  
And why that bird was sacred to APOLLO,  
She doth instruct men by her gallant flight,  
That they to knowledge so should tower upright,  
And never stoop, but to strike ignorance:  
Which if they miss, they yet should readvance  
To former height, and there in circle tarry,  
Till they be sure to make the fool their quarry.  
Now, in whose pleasures I have this discerned,  
What would his serious actions me have learned?   

LXXXVI. TO THE SAME.  
WHen I would know thee GOODYERE, my thought looks  
Upon thy wel-made choice of friends, and books;  
Than do I love thee, and behold thy ends  
In making thy friends books, and thy books friends:  
Now, I must give thy life, and deed, the voice  
Attending such a study, such a choice.  
Where, though't be love, that to thy praise doth move  
It was a knowledge, that begat that love.   

LXXXVII. ON CAPTAIN HAZARD THE CHEATER.  
Touched with the sin of false play, in his punk,  
HAZARD a month forswear his; and grew drunk,  
Each night, to drown his cares: But when the gain  
Of what she had wrought came in, and waked his brain,  
Upon th'accompt, hers grew the quicker trade.  
Since when, he's sober again, and all play's made.   

LXXXVIII. ON ENGLISH MOUNSIEUR.  
WOuld you believe, when you this MOUNSIEUR see,  
That his whole body should speak french, not he?  
That so much scarf of France, and hat, and feather,  
And shoe, and tie, and garter should come hither,  
And land on one, whose face dared never be  
Toward the sea, farther than halfway tree?  
That he, vntrauelled, should be french so much,  
As frenchmen in his company, should seem dutch?  
Or had his father, when he did him get,  
The french disease, with which he labour's yet?  
Or hung some MOUNSIEURS' picture on the brickwall,  
By which his damn conceived him clotheses and all?  
Or is it some french statue? Not: IT doth move,  
And stoop, and cringe. OH than, it needs must prove  
The new french-taylors' motion, monthly made,  
Daily to turn in PAUL'S, and help the trade.   

LXXXIX. TO EDWARD ALLEN.  
IF Rome so great, and in her wisest age,  
Feared not to boast the glories of her stage,  
As skilful ROSCIUS, and grave AESOP, men,  
Yet crowned with honours, as with richeses, than;  
Who had not less a trumpet of their name,  
Than CICERO, whose every breath was fame:  
How can so great example die in me,  
That, ALLEN, I should pause to publish thee?  
Who both their graces in thyself hast more  
Outstripped, than they did all that went before:  
And present worth in all dost so contract,  
As others speak, but only thou dost act.  
Wear this renown. 'Tis just, that who did give  
So many Poet's life, by one should live.   

XC. ON MILL. MY LADY'S WOMAN.  
WHen MILL first came to court, the unprositing fool,  
Unworthy such a mistress, such a school,  
Was dull, and long, ere she would go to man:  
At last, ease, appetite, and example won  
The nicer thing to taste her lady's page;  
And, finding good security in his age,  
Went on: and proving him still, day by day,  
Discerned not difference of his years, or play.  
Not though that hair grew brown, which once was amber,  
And he grown youth, was called to his lady's chamber,  
Still MILL continued: Nay, his face growing worse,  
And he removed to gentleman of the horse,  
MILL was the same. Since, both his body and face  
Blown up; and he (too'vnwieldie for that place)   

Willing to expiate the fault in thee,  
Wherewith, against thy blood, they'offenders be.   

XCIIII. TO LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD, WITH Mr. DONNES' SATYRS.  
LUCY, you brightness of our sphere, who are  
Life of the Muse's day, their morningstar!  
If works (not th'author's) their own grace should look,  
Whose poems would not wish to be your book?  
But these, desired by you, the makers ends  
Crown with their own. Rare poems ask rare friends.  
Yet, Satyrs, since the most of mankind be  
Their un-avoided subject, fewest see:  
For none ere taken that pleasure in sin's sense,  
But, when they herded it taxed, taken more offence.  
They, than, that living where the matter is bread,  
Dare for these poems, yet, both ask, and read,  
And like them too; must needfully, though few,  
Be of the best: and amongst those, best are you.  
LUCY, you brightness of our sphere, who are  
The Muse's evening, as their morningstar.   

XCV. TO SIR HENRY SAVILE.  
IF, my religion safe, I dared embrace  
That stranger doctrine of PYTHAGORAS,  
I should believe, the soul of TACITUS  
In thee, most weighty SAVILE, lived to us:  
So hast thou rendered him in all his bounds,  
And all his numbers, both of sense, and sounds.  
But when I read that special piece, restored,  
Where NERO falls, and GALBA is adored,  
To thy own proper I ascribe than more;  
And gratulate the breach, I grieved before:  
Which Fate (it seems) caused in the history,  
Only to boast thy merit in supply.  
OH, wouldst thou add like hand, to all the rest!  
Or, better work! were thy glad country blessed,  
To have her story woven in thy thread;  
MINERVA'S loom was never richer spread.  
For who can master those great parts like thee,  
That livest from hope, from fear, from faction free;  
That hast thy breast so clear of present crimes,  
Thou-babes needest not shrink at voice of aftertimes;  
Whose knowledge claimeth at the helm to stand;  
But, wisely, thrusts not forth a forward hand,  
Not more than SALUST in the Roman state!  
As, than, his cause, his glory emulate.  
Although to writ be lesser than to do,  
It is the next deed, and a great one too.  
We need a man that knows the several graces  
Of history, and how to apt their places;  
Where brevity, where splendour, and where height,  
Where sweetness is required, and where weight;  
We need a man, can speak of the intents,  
The counsels, actions, orders, and events  
Of state, and censure them: we need his pen  
Can writ the things, the causes, and the men.  
But most we need his faith (and all have you)  
That dares nor write things false, nor hid things true.   

XCVI. TO JOHN DONNE.  
WHo shall doubt, DONNE, where I a Poet be,  
When I dare sand my Epigrams to thee?  
That so alone canst judge, so'alone dost make:  
And, in thy censures, evenly, dost take  
As free simplicity, to dis-avow,  
As thou hast best authority, t'allow.  
Read all I sand: and, if I found but one  
Marked by thy hand, and with the better stone,  
My title's sealed. Those that for claps do writ,  
Let pui'nees, porters, players praise delight,  
And, till they burst, their backs, like ass' load:  
A man should seek great glory, and not broad.   

XCVII. ON THE NEW MOTION.  
SEe you yond Motion? Not the old Fa-ding,  
Nor Captain POD, nor yet the Eltham-thing;  
But one more rare, and in the case so new:  
His cloak with orient velvet quite lined through,  
His rosy ties and garters so o'erblown,  
By his each glorious parcel to be known!  
He want was to encounter me, aloud,  
Where ere he met me; now he's dumb, or proud.  
Know you the cause? H'has neither land, nor lease,  
Nor bawdy stock, that travels for increase,  
Nor office in the town, nor place in court,  
Nor'bout the bears, nor noise to make lords sport.  
He is not favourites favourite, not dear trust  
Of any Madams, hath neadd squires, and must.  
Nor did the king of Denmark him salute,  
When he was here. Nor hath he got a suit,  
Since he was go, more than the one he wears.  
Nor are the Queen's most honoured maids by th'ears  
About his form. What than so swells each limb?  
Only his clotheses have overleavened him.   

XCVIII. TO SIR THOMAS ROE.  
THou hast begun well, ROE, which stand well too,  
And I know nothing more thou hast to do.  
He that is round within himself, and straight,  
Need seek not other strength, not other height;  
Fortune upon him breaks herself, if ill,  
And what would hurt his virtue makes it still.  
That thou at once, than, nobly mayst defend  
With thy own course the judgement of thy friend,  
Be always to thy gathered self the same:  
And study conscience, more than thou wouldst fame.  
Though both be good, the latter yet is worst,  
And ever is ill got without the first.   

XCIX. TO THE SAME.  
THat thou hast kept thy love, increased thy will,  
Bettered thy trust to letters; that thy skill;  
Hast taught thyself worthy thy pen to tread,  
And that to writ things worthy to be read:  
How much of great example wert thou, ROE,  
If time to facts, as unto men would own?  
But much it now avails, what's done, of whom:  
The self-same deeds, as diversely they come,  
From place, or fortune, are made high, or low,  
And even the praisers judgement suffers so.  
Well, though thy name less than our great one's be,  
Thy fact is more: let truth encourage thee.   

C. ON PLAY-WRIGHT.  
PLAY-WRIGHT, by chance, hearing some toys I'had written,  
Cried to my face, they were the elixir of wit:  
And I must now believe him: for, to day,  
Five of my jests, than stolen, passed him a play.   

CI. INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER.  
TO night, grave sir, both my poor house, and I  
Do equally desire your company:  
Not that we think us worthy such a guest,  
But that your worth will dignify our feast,  
With those that come; whose grace may make that seem  
Something, which, else, could hope for not esteem.  
It is the fair acceptance, Sir, creates  
The entertainment perfect: not the cates.  
Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,  
An olive, capers, or some better salad  
Ushering the mutton; with a short-leged hen,  
If we can get her, full of eggs, and than,  
Lemons, and wine for sauce: to these, a coney  
Is not to be despaired of, for our money;  
And, though fowl, now, be scarce, yet there are clerks,  
The sky not falling, think we may have larks.  
I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:  
Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some  
May yet be there; and godwit, if we can:  
Knat, rail, and ruff too. How so ere, my man  
Shall read a piece of VIRGIL, TACITUS,  
LIVY, or of some better book to us,  
Of which we'll speak our minds, amid our meat;  
And I'll profess not verses to repeat:  
To this, if aught appear, which I know not of,  
That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.  
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;  
But that, which most doth take my Muse, and me,  
Is a pure cup of rich Canary-wine,  
Which is the Mermaids, now, but shall be mine:  
Of which had HORACE, or ANACREON tasted,  
Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted.  
Tobacco, Nectar, or the Thespian spring,  
Are all but LUTHER'S beer, to this I sing.  
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,  
And we will have not Pooly', or Parrot by;  
Nor shall our cups make any guilty men:  
But, at our parting, we will be, as when  
We innocently met. Not simple word,  
That shall be uttered at our mirthful board,  
Shall make us sad next morning: or affright  
The liberty, that we'll enjoy to night.   

CII. TO WILLIAM EARL OF PEMBROKE.  
I Do but name thee PEMBROKE, and I found  
It is an Epigram, on all mankind;  
Against the bad, but of, and to be good:  
Both which are asked, to have thee understood.  
Nor could the age have missed thee, in this strife  
Of vice, and virtue; wherein all great life  
Almost, is exercised: and scarce one knows,  
To which, yet, of the sides himself he owes.  
They follow virtue, for reward, to day;  
To morrow vice, if she give better pay:  
And are so good, and bad, just at a price,  
As nothing else discerns the virtue 'or vice.  
But thou, whose noblêsse keeps one stature still,  
And one true posture, though besieged with ill  
Of what ambition, faction, pride can raise;  
Whose life, even they, that envy it, must praise;  
That art so reverenced, as thy coming in,  
But in the view, doth interrupt their sin;  
Thou-babes must draw more: and they, that hope to see  
The commonwealth still safe, must study thee.   

CIII. TO MARY LADY WROTH.  
HOw well, fair crown of your fair sex, might he,  
That but the twilight of your spirit did see,  
And noted for what flesh such souls were framed,  
Know you to be a SIDNEY, though unnamed?  
And, being named, how little doth that name  
Need any Muse's praise to give it fame?  
Which is, itself, the imprese of the great,  
And glory of them all, but to repeat!  
Forgive me than, if mine but say you are  
A SIDNEY: but in that extend as fare  
As loudest praisers, who perhaps would found  
For every part a character assigned.  
My praise is plain, and where so ere professed,  
Becomes none more than you, who need it lest.   

CIIII TO SUSAN COUNTESS OF MONTGOMERY.  
WEre they that named you, prophets? Did they see,  
Even in the dew of grace, what you would be?  
Or did our times require it, to behold  
A new SUSANNA, equal to that old?  
Or, because some scarce think that story true,  
To make those faithful, did the Fates sand you?  
And to your Scene lent not less dignity  
Of birth, of match, of form, of chastity?  
Or, more than born for the comparison  
Of former age, or glory of our one,  
Were you advanced, passed those times, to be  
The light, and mark unto posterity?  
judge they, that can: Here I have raised to show  
A picture, which the world for yours must know,  
And like it too; if they look equally:  
If not, 'tis fit for you, some should envy.   

CV. TO MARY LADY WROTH.  
MADAM, had all antiquity been lost,  
All history sealed up, and fables crossed;  
That we had left us, nor by time, nor place,  
Lest mention of a Nymph, a Muse, a Grace,  
But even their names were to be made anew,  
Who could not but created them all, from you?  
He, that but see you wear the wheaten hat,  
Would call you more than CERES, if not that:  
And, dressed in shepherd's tire, who would not say:  
You were the bright OENONE, FLORA, or May?  
If dancing, all would cry the Idalian Queen,  
Were leading forth the Graces on the green:  
And, armed to the chase, so bore her bow  
DIANA'alone, so hit, and hunted so.  
There's none so dull, that for your stile would ask,  
That see you put on PALLAS plumed cask:  
Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,  
There JUNO sat, and yet not Peacock by.  
So are you Nature's Index, and restore,  
I'your self, all treasure lost of th'age before.   

CVI TO SIR EDWARD HERBERT.  
IF men get name, for some one virtue: Than,  
What man art thou, that art so many men,  
All-vertuous HERBERT! on whose every part  
Truth might spend all her voice, Fame all her art.  
Whether thy learning they would take, or wit,  
Or valour, or thy judgement seasoning it,  
Thy standing upright to thyself, thy ends  
Like strait, thy piety to God, and friends:  
Their latter praise would still the greatest be,  
And yet, they, all together, less than thee.   

CVII. TO CAPTAIN HUNGRY.  
Do what you come for, Captain, with your news;  
That's, sit, and eat: do not my ears abuse.  
I often look on false coin, to know't from true:  
Not that I love it, more, than I will you.  
Tell the gross Dutch those grosser tales of yours,  
How great you were with their two Emperors;  
And yet are with their Princes: Fill them full  
Of your Moravian horse, Venetian bull.  
Tell them, what parts yo'haue ta'en, whence run away,  
What States yo'haue gulled, and which yet keeps yo'in pay.  
Give them your services, and embassies  
In Ireland, Holland, Sweden, pompous lies,  
In Hungary, and Poland, Turkey too;  
What at Leghorn, Rome, Florence you did do:  
And, in some year, all these together heaped,  
For which there must more sea, and land be leaped,  
If but to be believed you have the hap,  
Than can a flea at twice skip i'the Map.  
Give your young Statesmen, (that first make you drunk▪  
And than lie with you, closer, than a punk,  
For news) your Ville-royes, and Silleries,  
I●nin's', your Nuncio's, and your Tu●llerieses,  
Your Archduke's Agents, and your Beringhams',  
That are your words of credit. Keep your Names  
Of Hannow, Shieter-huissen, Popenheim,  
Hans-spiegle, Rotteinberg, and Boutersh●im,  
For your next meal: this you are sure of. Why  
Will you part with them, here, unthriftely?  
Nay, now you puff, tusk, and draw up your chin,  
Twirl the poor chain you run a feasting in.  
Come, be not angry, you are HUNGRY; eat;  
Do what you come for, Captain, There's your meat●.   

CVIII. TO TRUE SOLDIERS.  
STrength of my Country, whilst I bring to view  
Such as are miscalled Captains, and wrong you;  
And your high names: I do desire, that thence  
Be nor put on you, nor you take offence.  
I swear by your true friend, my Muse, I love  
Your great profession; which I once, did prove:  
And did not shame it with my actions, than,  
Not more, than I dare now do, with my pen  
He that not trusts me, having vowed thus much,  
But's angry for the Captain, still: is such.   

CIX. TO SIR HENRY NEVIL.  
WHo now calls on thee, NEVIL, is a Muse,  
That serves nor fame, nor titles; but doth choose  
Where virtue makes them both, and that's in thee:  
Where all is fair, beside thy pedigree.  
Thou-babes art not one, seekest miseries with hope,  
Wrestlest with dignities, or feign'st a scope  
Of service to the public, when the end  
Is private gain, which hath long guilt to friend.  
Thou-babes rather strivest the matter to possess,  
And elements of honour, than the dress;  
To make thy lent life, good against the Fates:  
And first to know thy own state, than the States.  
To be the same in root, thou art in height;  
And that thy soul should give thy flesh her weight.  
Go on, and doubt not, what posterity,  
Now I have sung thee thus, shall judge of thee.  
Thy deeds, unto thy name, will prove new wombs,  
Whilst others toil for titles to their tombs.   

CX. TO CLEMENT EDMOND, ON HIS CAESAR'S Commentaries observed, and translated.  
NOt CAESAR'S deeds, nor all his honours won,  
In these west-parts, nor when that war was done,  
The name of POMPEY for an enemy,  
CATO'S to boot, Rome, and her liberty,  
All yielding to his fortune, nor, the while,  
To have engraved these acts, with his own stile,  
And that so strong and deep, as't might be thought,  
He written, with the same spirit that he fought,  
Nor that his work lived in the hands of foes,  
Vnargued than, and yet hath fame from those;  
Not all these, EDMOND, or what else put too,  
Can so speak CAESAR, as thy labours do.  
For, where his person lived scarce, one just age  
And that, midst envy, and parts; than fallen by rage:  
His deeds too dying, but in books (whose good  
How few have read! how fewer understood?)  
Thy learned hand, and true Promethean art  
(As by a new creation) part by part,  
In every counsel, stratagem, design,  
Action, or engine, worth a note of thy,  
T'all future time, not only doth restore  
His life, but makes, that he can die not more.   

CXI. TO THE SAME; ON THE SAME.  
WHo EDMOND, reads thy book, and doth not see  
What th'antique soldiers were, the modern be?  
Wherein thou show'st, how much the latter are  
Beholding, to this master of the war;  
And that, in action, there is nothing new,  
Moore, than to vary what our elders known:  
Which all, but ignorant Captains will confess:  
Nor to give CAESAR this, makes ours the lesse.  
Yet thou, perhaps, shalt meet some tongues will grutch,  
That to the world thou shouldst reveal so much,  
And thence, deprave thee, and thy work. To those  
CAESAR stands up, as from his urn late risen,  
By thy great help: and doth proclaim by me,  
They murder him again, that envy thee.   

CXII. TO A WEAK GAMESTER IN POETRY.  
WIth thy small stock, why art thou venturing still,  
At this so subtle sport: and play'st so ill?  
Thinkest thou it is mere fortune, that can win?  
Or thy rank setting? that thou darest put in  
Thy all, at all: and what so ere I do,  
Art still at that, and thinkest to blow me'vp too?  
I cannot for the stage a Drama lay,  
Tragic, or Comic; but thou writ'st the play.  
I leave thee there, and giving way, intend  
An Epic poem; thou hast the same end.  
I modestly quit that, and think to writ,  
Next morn, an Ode: Thou-babes makest a song ere nigh▪  
I pass to Elegies; Thou-babes meetest me there:  
To Satyrs; and thou dost pursue me. Where,  
Where shall I scape thee? in an Epigram?  
OH, (thou criest out) that is thy proper game.  
Troth, if it be, I pity thy ill luck;  
That both for wit, and sense, so often dost pluck,  
And never art encountered, I confess:  
Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is less.  
Pray thee, yet save thy rest; give over in time:  
There's not vexation, that can make thee prime.   

CXIII. TO SIR THOMAS OVERBURY.  
SO PHOEBUS makes me worthy of his bays,  
As but to speak thee, OVERBURY, is praise:  
So, where thou livest, thou makest life understood!  
Where, what makes others great, doth keep thee good!  
I think, the Fate of court thy coming craved,  
That the wit there, and manners might be saved:  
For since, what ignorance, what pride is fled!  
And letters, and humanity in the stead!  
Repent thee not of thy fair precedent,  
Can make such men, and such a place repent:  
Nor may'any fear, to lose of their degree,  
Who'in such ambition can but follow thee.   

CXIIII. TO M rs. PHILIP SIDNEY.  
I Must believe some miracles still be  
When SYDNYES name I hear, or face I see:  
For CUPID, who (at first) taken vain delight,  
In mere out-formes, until he lost his sight,  
Hath changed his soul, and made his object you:  
Where finding so much beauty met with virtue,  
He hath not only gained himself his eyes,  
But, in your love, made all his servants wise.   

CXV. ON THE TOWNS HONEST MAN  
YOu wonder, who this is! and, why I name  
Him not, aloud, that boasts so good a fame:  
Naming so many, too! But, this is one,  
Suffers not name, but a description:  
Being not vicious person, but the vice  
About the town; and known too, at that price.  
A subtle thing, that doth affections win  
By speaking well o the company'it's in.  
Talks loud, and bawdy, has a gathered deal  
Of news, and noise, to sow out a long meal.  
Can come from Tripoli, leap stools, and wink,  
Do all, that longs to the anarchy of drink,  
Except the duel. Can sing songs, and catches;  
Give every one his dose of mirth: and watches  
Whose name's un-welcome to the present ear,  
And him it lays on; if he be not there.  
Tell's of him, all the tales, itself than makes;  
But, if it shall be questioned, under-takes,  
It will deny all; and forswear it too:  
Not that it fears, but will not have to do  
With such a one. And therein keeps it's word.  
'Twill see it's sister naked, ere a sword.  
At every meal, where it doth dine, or sup,  
The cloth's not sooner go, but it gets up  
And, shifting of it's faces, doth play more  
Parts, than the Italian could do, with his door.  
Acts old Iniquity, and in the fit  
Of miming, gets th'opinion of a wit.  
Executes men in picture. By defect,  
From friendship, is it's own fame's architect.  
An engineer, in slanders, of all fashions,  
That seeming praises, are, yet accusations.  
Described, it's thus: Defined would you it have?  
Than, The towns honest Man's her errant'st knave.   

CXVI. TO SIR WILLIAM JEPHSON.  
JEPHSON, thou man of men, to whose loved name  
All gentry, yet, own part of their best flame!  
So did thy vertue'enforme, thy wit sustain  
That age, when thou stoodst up the master-braine:  
Thou-babes wert the first, mad'st merit know her strength,  
And those that lacked it, to suspect at length,  
'Twas not entailed on title. That some word  
Might be found out as good, and not my Lord  
That Nature not such difference had impressed  
In men, but every bravest was the best:  
That blood not minds, but minds did blood adorn:  
And to live great, was better, than great born.  
These were thy knowing arts: which who doth now  
Virtuously practise must at lest allow  
Them in, if not, from thee; or must commit  
A desperate solecism in truth and wit.   

CXVII. ON GROIN.  
GROIN, come of age, his state sold out of hand  
for'is whore: GROIN doth still occupy his land.   

CXVIII. ON GUT.  
GUT eats all day, and lechers all the night,  
So all his meat he tasteth over, twice:  
And, striving so to double his delight,  
He makes himself a thoroughfare of vice.  
Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin  
Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.   

CXIX. TO SIR RALPH SHELTON.  
NOt he that fly's the court for want of clotheses,  
At hunting rails, having not gift in oaths,  
Cries out against cocking, since he cannot bet,  
Shuns press, for two main causes, pox, and debt,  
With me can merit more, than that good man,  
Whose dices not doing well, to'a pulpit run,  
Not, SHELTON, give me thee, canst want all these,  
But dost it out of judgement, not disease;  
Darest breath in any air; and with safe skill,  
Till thou canst find the best, choose the least ill.  
That to the vulgar canst thyself apply,  
Treading a better path, not contrary;  
And, in their errors maze, thy own way know:  
Which is to live to conscience, not to show.  
He, that, but living half his age, dies such;  
Makes, the whole longer, than 'twas given him, much.   

CXX. EPITAPH ON S. P. A CHILD OF Q. EL. CHAPEL.  
Weep with me all you that read  
This little story:  
And know, for whom a tear you shed,  
Death's self is sorry.  
'Twas a child, that so did thrive  
In grace, and feature,  
As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive  
Which owned the creature.  
Years he numbered scarce thirteen  
When Fates turned cruel,  
Yet three filled Zodiacs had he been  
The stage's jewel;  
And did act (what now we moan)  
Old men so duly,  
As, sooth, the Parcaes thought him one,  
He played so truly.  
So, by error, to his fate  
They all consented;  
But viewing him since (alas, too late)  
They have repent.  
And have sought (to give new birth)  
In baths to steep him;  
But, being so much too good for earth,  
Heaven vows to keep him.   

CXXI. TO BENJAMIN RUDYERD.  
RUDYERD, as lesser dames, to great one's use,  
My lighter comes, to kiss thy learned Muse;  
Whose better studies while she emulates,  
She learns to know long difference of their states.  
Yet is the office not to be despised,  
If only love should make the action prized:  
Nor he, for friendship, to be thought unfit,  
That strives, his manners should proceed his wit.   

CXXII. TO THE SAME.  
IF I would wish, for truth, and not for show,  
The aged SATVRNE'S age, and rites to know;  
If I would strive to bring backe times, and try  
The world's pure gold, and wise simplicity;  
If I would virtue set, as she was young,  
And hear her speak with one, and her first tongue;  
If holiest friendship, naked to the touch,  
I would restore, and keep it ever such;  
I need not other arts, but study thee:  
Who provest, all these were, and again may be.   

CXXIII. TO THE SAME.  
WRiting thyself, or judging others writ,  
I know not which thoust most, candour, or wit:  
But both thoust so, as who affects the state  
Of the best writer, and judge, should emulate.   

CXXIIII. EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L. H.  
Wouldst thou hear, what man can say  
In a little? Reader, stay.  
Underneath this stone doth lie  
As much beauty, as could die:  
Which in life did harbour give  
To more virtue, than doth live.  
If, at all, she had a fault,  
Leave it buried in this vault.  
One name was ELIZABETH,  
Th'other let it sleep with death:  
Fitter, where it died, to tell,  
Than that it lived at all. Farewell.   

CXXV. TO SIR WILLIAM WEDALE.  
VV'DALE, thou piece of the first times, a man  
Made for what Nature could, or Virtue can;  
Both whose dimensions, lost, the world might find  
Restored in thy body, and thy mind!  
Who seas a soul, in such a body set,  
Might love the treasure for the cabinet.  
But I, not child, not fool, respect the kind,  
The full, the flowing graces there enshrined;  
Which (would the world not miscalled flattery)  
I could adore, almost t'idolatrie.   

CXXVI. TO HIS LADY, THAN M rs. Carry.  
Retired, with purpose your fair worth to praise,  
Amongst Hampton shades, and PHOEBUS grove of bays,  
I plucked a branch; the jealous god did frown,  
And bade me lay th'usurped laurel down:  
Said I wronged him, and (which was more) his love.  
I answered, DAPHNE now not pain can prove.  
PHOEBUS replied. Bold head, it is not she:  
Carry my love is, DAPHNE but my tree.   

CXXVII. TO ESME, LORD 'AUBIGNY.  
IS there a hope, that Man would thankful be,  
If I should fail, in gratitude, to thee  
To whom I an so bond, loved AUBIGNY?  
Not, I do, therefore, call Posterity  
Into the debt; and reckon on her head,  
How full of want, how swallowed up, how dead  
I, and this Muse had been, if thou hadst not  
Lent timely succours, and new life begotten:  
So, all reward, or name, that grows to me  
By her attempt, shall still be owing thee.  
And, than this same, I know not abler way  
To thank thy benefits: which is, to pay.   

CXXVIII. TO WILLIAM ROE.  
ROE (and my joy to name) thou'rt now, to go  
Countries, and climes, manners, and men to know,  
T'extract, and choose the best of all these known,  
And those to turn to blood, and make thy own:  
May winds as soft as breathe of kissing friends,  
Attend thee hence; and there, may all thy ends,  
As the beginnings here, prove purely sweet,  
And perfect in a circle always meet.  
So, when we, blessed with thy return, shall see  
Thyself, with thy first thoughts, brought home by thee,  
We each to other may this voice inspire;  
This is that good AENEAS, passed through fire,  
Through seas, storms, tempests: and embarked for hell,  
Came backe untouched. This man hath travailed well.   

CXXIX. TO MIME.  
THat, not a pair of friends each other see,  
But the first question is, when one see thee?  
That there's not journey set, or thought upon,  
To Braynford, Hackney, Bow, but thou makest one;  
That scarce the Town designeth any feast  
To which thou'rt not a week, bespoke a guest;  
That still thou'rt made the suppers flag, the drum,  
The very call, to make all others come:  
Thinkest thou, MIME, this is great? or, that they strive  
Whose noise shall keep thy miming most alive,  
Whilst thou dost raise some Player, from the grave,  
Outdance the Baboon, or out-boast the Brave;  
Or (mounted on a stool) thy face doth hit  
On some new gesture, that's imputed wit?  
OH, run not proud of this. Yet, take thy due.  
Thou-babes dost out-zany COKELY, POD; nay, Gue:  
And thy own CORIAT too. But (wouldst thou see)  
Men love thee not for this: They laugh at thee.   

CXXX. TO ALPHONSO FERRABOSCO, on his Book.  
TO urge, my loved ALPHONSO, that bold fame,  
Of building towns, and making wild beasts tame,  
Which Music had; or speak her known effects,  
That she removeth cares, sadness ejects,  
Declineth anger, persuades clemency,  
Doth sweeten mirth, and heighten piety,  
And is t'a body, often, ill inclined,  
Not less a sovereign cure, than to the mind;  
T'alledge, that greatest men were not ashamed,  
Of old, even by her practice to be famed;  
To say, indeed, she were the soul of heaven,  
That the eight sphere, not less, than planets seven,  
Moved by her order, and the ninth more high,  
Including all, were thence called harmony:  
I, yet, had uttered nothing on thy part,  
When these were but the praises of the Art  
But when I have said, the proofs of all these be  
Shed in thy Songs; 'tis true: but short of thee.   

CXXXI. TO THE SAME.  
WHen we do give, ALPHONSO, to the light,  
A work of ours, we part with our own right;  
For, than, all mouths will judge, and their own way:  
The learned have not more privilege, than the lay.  
And though we could all men, all censures hear,  
We aught not give them taste, we had an ear.  
For, if the humorous world will talk at large,  
They should be fools, for me, at their own charge.  
Say, this, or that man they to thee prefer;  
Even those for whom they do this, know they err:  
And would (being asked the truth) ashamed say,  
They were not to be named on the same day.  
Than stand unto thyself, not seek without  
For fame, with breath soon kindled, soon blown out.   

CXXXII. TO Mr. JOSVAH SYLVESTER.  
IF to admire were to commend my praise  
Might than both thee, thy work and merit raise:  
But, as it is (the Child of Ignorance,  
And utter stranger to all air of France)  
How can I speak of thy great pains, but err?  
Since they can only judge, that can confer.  
Behold! the reverend shade of BARTAS stands  
Before my thought, and (in thy right) command's  
That to the world I publish, for him▪ this;  
BARTAS doth wish thy English now were his.  
So well in that are his inventions wrought,  
As his will now be the translation thought,  
Thy the original; and France shall boast,  
Not more, those maiden glory's she hath lost.   

CXXXIII. ON THE FAMOUS VOYAGE.  
NOT more let Greece her bolder fables tell  
Of HERCULES, or THESEUS going to hell,  
ORPHEUS, ULYSSES: or the Latin Muse,  
With tales of Troy's just knight, our faiths abuse:  
We have a SHELTON, and a HEYDEN got,  
Had power to act, what they to feign had not.  
All, that they boast of STYX, of ACHERON,  
COCYTUS, PHLEGETON, our have proved in one;  
The filth, stench, noise: save only what was there  
Subtly distinguished, was confused here.  
Their wherry had not sail, too; ours had none:  
And in it, two more horrid knaves, than CHARON.  
Arses were herded to croak, in stead of frogs;  
And for one CERBERUS, the whole coast was dogs.  
Furies there wanted not: each scold was ten.  
And, for the cries of Ghosts, women, and men,  
Laden with plague-sores, and their sins, were herded,  
Lashed by their consciences, to die, afeard.  
Than let the former age, with this content her,  
She brought the Poets forth, but ours th'aduenter.   

THE VOYAGE ITSELF.  
I Sing the brave adventure of two wights,  
And pity 'tis, I cannot call 'em knights:  
One was; and he, for brawn, and brain, right able  
To have been styled of King ARTHUR'S table.  
The other was a squire, of fair degree;  
But, in the action, greater man than he:  
Who gave, to take at his return from Hell,  
His three for one. Now, lordings, listen well.  
It was the day, what time the powerful Moon  
Makes thee poor Bankside creature wet it'shoones,  
In it'owne hall; when these (in worthy scorn  
Of those, that put out monies, on return  
From Venice, Paris, or some inland passage  
Of six times to, and from, without embassage,  
Or him that backward went to Berwicke, or which  
Did dance the famous Morris, unto Norwich)  
At Bread-streets Mermaid, having dined, and merry,  
Proposed t● go to Hol'borne in a wherry:  
A harder task, than either his to Bristo',  
Or his to Antwerp. Therefore, once more, list ho'.  
A Dock there is, that called is AVERNUS,  
Of some Bridewell, and may, in time, concern us  
All, that are readers: but, me thinks 'tis odd,  
That all this while I have forgot some god,   

Or goddess to invoke, to stuff my verse;  
And with both bombard-stile, and phrase, rehearse  
The many perils of this Port, and how▪  
Sans'helpe of SIBYL, or a golden bough,  
Or magic sacrifice, they passed along!  
ALCIDES, be thou succouring to my song.  
Thou-babes hast seen hell (some say) and knowest all nooks there,  
Canst tell me best, how every Fury looks there,  
And art a god, if Fame thee not abuses,  
Always at hand, to aid the merry Muses.  
Great Club-fist, though thy back, and bones be sore,  
Still, with thy former labours; yet, once more,  
Act a brave work, call it thy last adventry:  
But hold my torch, while I describe the entry  
To this dire passage. Say, thou stop thy nose:  
'Tis but light pains: Indeed this Dock's not rose.  
In the first jaws appeared that ugly monster,  
Cleped Mud, which, when their oars did once stir,  
Belched forth an air, as hot, as at the muster  
Of all your night-tubs, when the carts do cluster,  
Who shall discharge first his merd-urinous load:  
Through her womb they make their famous road,  
Between two walls; where, on one side to scar men,  
Were seen your ugly Centaurs, ye call Carmen,  
Gorgonian scolds, and Harpies: on the other  
Hung stench, diseases, and old filth, their mother,  
With famine, wants, and sorrows many a dozen,  
The lest of which was to the plague a cousin.  
But they unfrighted pass, though many a privy  
Spoke to'hem louder, than the ox in LIVY;  
And many a sink poured out her rage anenst'hem;  
But still their valour, and their virtue fenced 'em,  
And, on they went, like CASTOR brave, and POLLUX:  
Ploughing the main. When, see (the worst of all luck's)  
They met the second Prodigy, would fear a  
Man, that had never herded of a Chimaera.  
One said, it was bold BRIAREUS, or the beadle,  
(Who hath the hundred hands when he doth meddle)  
The other thought it HYDRA, or the rock  
Made of the trull, that cut her father's lock:  
But, coming near, they found it but a litter,  
So huge, it seemed, they could by not means quite her.  
Back, cried their brace of CHARON'S: they cried, not,  
Not going backe; on still you rogues, and row.  
Of Hol'borne (three sergeants heads) looks over,  
And stays but till you come unto the door!  
Tempt not his fury, PLUTO is away:  
And MADAM CAESAR, great PROSERPINA,  
Is now from home. You loose your labours quite,  
Were you JOVE'S sons, or had ALCIDES might.  
They cried out PUSS. He told them he was BANKS,  
That had, so often, showed 'em merry pranks.  
They laughed, at his laugh-worthy fate. And passed  
The triple head without a sop. At last,  
Calling for RADAMANTHUS, that dwelled by,  
A soap-boiler; and AEACUS him nigh,  
Who kept an alehouse; with my little MINOS,  
An ancient purblind fletcher, with a high nose;  
They taken 'em all to witness of their action:  
And so went bravely backe, without protraction.  
In memory of which most liquid deed,  
The city since hath raised a Pyramid.  
And I could wish for their eternised sakes,  
My Muse had ploughed with his, that sung AJAX.    

THE FOREST.  

I WHY I WRIT NOT OF LOVE.  
SOme act of love's bond to rehearse,  
I thought to bind him, in my verse:  
Which when he felt, Away (quoth he)  
Can Poets hope to fetter me?  
It is enough, they once did get  
MARS, and my Mother, in their net:  
I wear not these my wings in vain.  
With which he fled me: and again,  
Into my ri'mes could never be got  
By any a●te. Than wonder not,  
That 〈◊〉, my numbers are so cold,  
When Love is fled, and I grow old.   

II TO PENSHURST.  
THou art not, PENSHURST, built to envious show,  
Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row  
Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold:  
Thou-babes hast not lantern, whereof tales are told;  
Or stair, or courts; but standest an ancient pile,  
And these grudged at, art reverenced the while.  
Thou-babes joyest in better marks, of soil, of air,  
Of wood, of water: therein thou art fair.  
Thou-babes hast thy walks for health, as well as sport:  
Thy Mount, to which the Dryads do resort,  
Where PAN, and BACCHUS their high feasts have made,  
Beneath the broad beech, and the chest-nut shade;  
That taller tree, which of a nut was set,  
At his great birth, where all the Muses met.  
There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names  
Of many a SYLVANE, taken with his flames.  
And thence, the ruddy Satyrs often provoke  
The lighter Fauns, to reach thy Lady's oak.  
Thy copp's, too, named of GAMAGE, thou hast there,  
That never fails to serve thee seasoned dear,  
When thou wouldst feast, or exercise thy friends.  
The lower land, that to the river bends,  
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, cows, and calves do feed:  
The middle grounds thy mares, and horses breed.  
Each bank doth yield thee coneys; and the tops  
Fertile of wood, ASHORE, and SYDNEY'S copp's,  
To crown thy open table, doth provide  
The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side:  
The painted partridge lies in every field,  
And, for thy mess, is willing to be killed.  
And if the high swollen Medway fail thy dish,  
Thou-babes hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish,  
Fat, aged carp, that run into thy net.  
And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,  
As loath, the second draught, or cast to stay,  
Officiously, at first, themselves betray.  
Bright eels, that emulate them, and leap on land,  
Before the fisher, or into his hand.  
Than hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,  
Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.  
The early cherry, with the later plum,  
Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come:  
The blushing apricot, and woolly peach  
Hung on thy walls, that every child may reach.  
And though thy walls be of the country stone,  
they're reared with not man's ruin, not man's groan,  
There's none, that devil about them, wish them down;  
But all come in, the farmer, and the clown:  
And not one empty-handed, to salute  
Thy lord, and lady, though they have not suit.  
Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,  
Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make  
The better cheeses, bring 'em; or else sand  
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend  
This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear  
An emblem of themselves, in plum, or pear.  
But what can this (more than express their love)  
Add to thy fr●e provisions, fare above  
The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow,  
With all, that hospitality doth know!  
Where comes not guest, but is allowed to eat,  
Without his fear, and of thy lords own meat:  
Where the same beer, and bread, and self-same wine,  
That is his Lordships, shall be also mine.  
And I not feign to sit (as some, this day,  
At great man's tables) and yet dine away.  
Here not man tells my cups; nor, standing by,  
A waiter, doth my gluttony envy:  
But gives me what I call, and let's me eat,  
He knows, below, he shall find plenty of meat,  
Thy tables hoard not up for the next day,  
Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray  
For fire, or lights, or livery: all is there;  
As if thou, than, wert mine, or I reigned here:  
There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.  
That found King JAMES, when hunting late, this way,  
With his brave son, the Prince, they see thy fires  
Shine bright on every hearth as the desires  
Of thy Penates had been set on flame,  
To entertain them; or the country came,  
With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here.  
What (great, I will not say, but) sudden cheer  
Didst thou, than, make'hem! and what praise was heaped  
On thy good lady, than! who, therein, reaped  
The just reward of her high housewifery;  
To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh,  
When she was fare: and not a room, but dressed,  
As if it had expected such a guest!  
These, PENSHURST, are thy praise, and yet not all.  
Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal.  
His children thy great lord may call his own:  
A fortune, in this age, but rarely known.  
They are, and have been taught religion: Thence  
Their gentler spirits have sucked innocence.  
Each morn, and even, they are taught to pray,  
With the whole household, and may, every day,  
Read, in their virtuous parents noble parts,  
The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.  
Now, PENSHURST, they that will proportion thee  
With other edifices, when they see  
Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,  
May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.   

III TO SIR ROBERT WROTH.  
HOw blessed art thou, canst love the country, WROTH,  
Whether by choice, or fate, or both;  
And, though so near the city, and the court,  
Art ta'en with neither's vice, nor sport:  
That at great times, art not ambitious guest  
Of Sheriff's dinner, or Mayor's feast.  
Nor comest to view the better clot of state;  
The richer hang, or crowne-plate;  
Nor throng'st (when masking is) to have a sight  
Of the short bravery of the night;  
To view the jewels, stuffs, the pains, the wit  
There wasted, some not paid for yet!  
But canst, at home, in thy securer rest,  
Live, with un-bought provision blessed;  
Free from proud porches, or their guilded roofs,  
Amongst loughing herds, and solid hoofs:  
Alongst the curled woods, and painted meads,  
Through which a serpent river leads  
To some cool, courteous shade, which he calls his,  
And makes sleep softer than it is!  
Or, if thou list the night in watch to break,  
A-bed canst hear the loud stag speak,  
In spring, often roused for thy master's sport,  
Who, for it, makes thy house his court;  
Or with thy friends; the heart of all the year,  
Diuid'st, upon the lesser Deer;  
In autumn, at the Partridge makes a flight,  
And giv'st thy gladder guests the sight;  
And, in the winter, huntest the flying hare,  
Moore for thy exercise, than far;  
While all, that follow, their glad ears apply  
To the full greatness of the cry:  
Or hawking at the river, or the bush,  
Or shooting at the greedy thrush,  
Thou-babes dost with some delight the day outwear,  
Although the coldest of the year!  
The whilst, the several seasons thou hast seen  
Of flowery fields, of cop'ces green,  
The mowed meadows, with the fleeced sheep,  
And feasts, that either shearers keep;  
The ripened ears, yet humble in their height,  
And furrows laden with their weight;  
The apple-haruest, that doth longer last;  
The hogs returned home fat from mast;  
The trees cut out in log; and those boughs made  
A fire now, that lend a shade!  
Thus PAN, and SYLVANE, having had their rites,  
COMUS puts in, for new delights;  
And fills thy open hall with mirth, and cheer,  
As if in SATURNS reign it were;  
APOLLO'S harp, and HERMES lyre resound,  
Nor are the Muse's strangers found:  
The rout of rural folk come thronging in,  
(Their rudeness than is thought not sin)  
Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace;  
And the great Heroes, of her race,  
Sat mixed with loss of state, or reverence.  
Freedom doth with degree dispense.  
The jolly wassall walks the often round,  
And in their cups, their cares are drowned:  
They think not, than, which side the cause shall lose,  
Nor how to get the lawyer fees.  
Such, and not other was that age, of old,  
Which boasts t'have had the head of gold.  
And such since thou canst make thy own content,  
Strive, WROTH, to live long innocent.  
Let others watch in guilty arms, and stand  
The fury of a rash command,  
Go enter breaches, meet the cannon's rage,  
That they may sleep with scars in age.  
And show their feathers shot, and colours torn,  
And brag, that they were therefore born.  
Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the bar,  
For every price, in every jar,  
And change possessions, oftener with his breath,  
Than either money, war, or death:  
Let him, than hardest sires, more disinherit,  
And each where boast it as his merit,  
To blow up orphans, widows, and their states;  
And think his power doth equal Fates.  
Let that go heap a mass of wretched wealth,  
Purchased by rapine, worse than stealth,  
And brooding o'er it sit, with broadest eyes,  
Not doing good, scarce when he dies.  
Let thousand more go flatter vice, and win,  
By being organs to great sin,  
Get place, and honour, and be glad to keep  
The secrets, that shall break their sleep:  
And, so they ride in purple, eat in plate,  
Though poison, think it a great fate.  
But thou, my WROTH, if I can truth apply,  
Shalt neither that, nor this envy:  
Thy peace is made; and, when man's state is well,  
'Tis better, if he there can devil.  
God wishes, none should wrack on a strange shelf:  
To him, man's dearer, than t'himselfe.  
And, howsoever we may think things sweet,  
He always gives what he knows meet;  
Which who can use is happy: Such be thou.  
Thy morning's, and thy evening's vow  
Be thankss to him, and earnest prayer, to find  
A body sound, with sounder mind;  
To do thy country service, thyself right;  
That neither want do thee affright,  
Nor death; but when thy latest sand is spent,  
Thou-babes mayst think life, a thing but lent.   

FOUR TO THE WORLD. A farewell for a Gentlewoman, virtuous and noble.  
FAlse world, good-night: since thou hast brought  
That hour upon my morn of age,  
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,  
My part is ended on thy stage.  
Do not once hope, that thou canst tempt  
A spirit so resolved to tread  
Upon thy throat, and live exempt  
From all the nets that thou canst spread.  
I know thy forms are studied arts,  
Thy subtle ways, be narrow straits;  
Thy courtesy but sudden starts,  
And what thou call'st thy gifts are baits.  
I know too, though thou strut, and paint,  
Yet art thou both shrunk up, and old,  
That only fools make thee a saint,  
And all thy good is to be sold.  
I know thou whole art but a shop  
Of toys, and trifles, traps, and snares,  
To take the weak, or make them stop:  
Yet art thou falser than thy wares.  
And, knowing this, should I yet stay,  
Like such as blow away their lives,  
And never will redeem a day,  
Enamoured of their golden gyves?  
Or, having scaped, shall I return,  
And thrust my neck into the noose,  
From whence, so lately, I did burn,  
With all my powers, myself to lose?  
What bird, or beast, is known so dull,  
That fled his cage, or broken his chain,  
And tasting air, and freedom, will  
Tender his head in there again?  
If these, who have but sense, can eat  
The engines, that have them annoyed;  
Little, for me, had reason done,  
If I could not thy begins avoid.  
Yes, threaten, do. Alas I fear  
As little, as I hope from thee:  
I know thou canst nor show, nor bear  
Moore hatred, than thou hast to me.  
My tender, first, and simple years  
Thou-babes didst abuse, and than betray;  
Since stird'st up jealousies and fears,  
When all the causes were away.  
Than, in a soil hast planted me,  
Where breathe the basest of thy fools;  
Where envious arts professed be,  
And pride, and ignorance the schools,  
Where nothing is examined, weighed,  
But, as 'tis rumoured, so believed:  
Where every freedom is betrayed,  
And every goodness taxed, or grieved.  
But, what we're born for, we must bear:  
Our frail condition it is such,  
That, what to all may hap here,  
If't chance to me, I must not grutch.  
Else, I my state should much mistake,  
To harbour a divided thought  
From all my kind: that, for my sake,  
There should a miracle be wrought.  
Not, I do know, that I was born  
To age, misfortune, sickness, grief:  
But I will bear these, with that scorn,  
As shall not need thy false relief.  
Nor for my peace will I go fare,  
As wanderers do, that still do room,  
But make my strengths, such as they are,  
Here in my bosom, and at home.   

V Song. TO CELIA.  
COme my CELIA, let us prove,  
While we may, the sports of love;  
Time will not be ours, for ever:  
He, at length, our good will sever.  
Spend not than his gifts in vain.  
Suns, that set, may rise again:  
But if once we lose this light,  
'Tis, with us, perpetual night.  
Why should we defer our joys?  
Fame, and rumour are but toys.  
Cannot we delude the eyes  
Of a few poor household spies?  
Or his easier ears beguile,  
So removed by our wile?  
'Tis not sin, love's fruit to steal,  
But the sweet theft to reveal:  
To be taken, to be seen,  
These have crimes accounted been.   

VI TO THE SAME.  
Kiss me, sweet: The wary lover  
Can your favours keep, and cover,  
When the common courting jay  
All your bounties will betray.  
Kiss again: not creature comes.  
Kiss, and score up wealth sums  
On my lips, thus hardly sundered,  
While you breath. First give a hundred,  
Than a thousand, than another  
Hundred, than unto the t'other  
Add a thousand, and so more:  
Till you equal with the store,  
All the grass that Rumney yields,  
Or the sands in Chelsey fields,  
Or the drops in silver Thames,  
Or the stars, that gild his streams,  
In the silent sommer-nights,  
When youths ply their stolen delights.  
That the curious may not know  
How to tell'hem, as thy flow,  
And the envious, when they found  
What their number is, be pined.   

VII. Song. THAT WOMEN ARE BUT MAN'S SHADOWS.  
FOllow a shadow, it still fly's you;  
Seem to fly it, it will pursue:  
So court a mistress, she denies you;  
Let her alone, she will court you.  
Say, are not women truly, than,  
Styled but the shadows of us men?  
At morn, and even, shades are longest;  
At noon, they are or short, or none:  
So men at weakest, they are strongest,  
But grant us perfect, they're not known.  
Say, are not women truly, than,  
Styled but the shadows of us men?   

VIII. TO SICKNESS.  
WHy, Disease, dost thou molest  
Ladies? and of them the best?  
Do not men, enough of rites  
To thy altars, by their nights  
Spent in surfeits: and their days,  
And nights too, in worse ways?  
Take heed, Sickness, what you do,  
I shall fear, you'll surfeit too.  
Live not we, as, all thy stalls,  
Spitals, pest-house, hospitals,  
Scarce will take our present store?  
And this age will build not more:  
Pray thee, feed contented, than,  
Sickness; only on us men.  
Or if needs thy lust will taste  
Womankind; devour the waste  
Livers, round about the town.  
But, forgive me, with thy crown  
They maintain the truest trade,  
And have more diseases made.  
What should, yet, thy palate please?  
Daintiness, and softer case,  
Sleeked limbs, and finest blood?  
If thy leanness love such food,  
There are those, that, for thy sake,  
Do enough; and who would take  
Any pains; yea, think it price,  
To become thy sacrifice.  
That distill their husband's land  
In decoctions; and are manned  
With ten Emp'ricks, in their chamber,  
Lying for the spirit of amber.  
That for th'oil of Talk, dare spend  
Moore than citizens dare lend  
Them, and all their officers.  
That, to make all pleasure there's,  
Will by coach, and water go,  
Every stew in town to know;  
Dare entail their loves on any,  
Bald, or blind, or ne'er so many:  
And, for thee, at common game,  
Play away, health, wealth, and fame.  
These, disease, will thee deserve:  
And will, long ere thou shouldst starve  
On their beds, most prostitute,  
Move it, as their humblest suit,  
In thy justice to molest  
None but them, and leave the rest.   

IX. Song. TO CELIA.  
DRrinke to me, only, with thy eyes,  
And I will pledge with mine;  
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,  
And I'll not look for wine.  
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,  
Doth ask a drink divine:  
But might I of JOVE'S Nectar sup,  
I would not change for thy.  
I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,  
Not so much honouring thee,  
As giving it a hope, that there  
It could not withered be.  
But thou thereon didst only breath,  
And sentest it backe to me:  
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,  
Not of itself, but thee.   

X.  

ANd must I sing? what subject shall I choose?  
Or whose great name in Poet's heaven use?  
For the more countenance to my active Muse?   

HERCULES? alas his bones are yet sore,  
With his old earthly labours. T'exact more,  
Of his dull godhead, were sin. I'll implore   

PHOEBUS. Not? tend thy cart still. Envious day  
Shall not give out, that I have made thee stay,  
And foundered thy hot team, to tune my lay.   

Nor will I beg of thee, Lord of the vine,  
To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine,  
In the green circle of thy juy twine.   

PALLAS, nor thee I call on, mankind maid,  
That, at thy birth, mad'st the poor Smith afraid,  
Who, with his axe, thy father's midwife played.   

Go, cramp dull MARS, light VENUS, when he snorts,  
Or, with thy Tribade trine, invent new sports,  
Thou-babes, nor thy looseness with my making sorts.   

Let the old boy, your son, ply his old task,  
Turn the stolen prologue to some painted mask,  
His absence in my verse, is all I ask.   

HERMES, the cheater, shall not mix with us,  
Though he would steal his sisters PAGASUS,  
And riffle him: or pawn his PETASUS.   

Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake,  
(Though they were crushed into one form) could make  
A beauty of that merit, that should take   

My Muse up by commission: Not, I bring  
My own true fire. Now my thought takes wing,  
And now an Epode to deep ears I sing.    

XI. EPODE.  
NOt to know vice at all, and keep true state,  
Is virtue, and not Fate:  
Next, to that virtue, is to know vice well,  
And her black spite expel.  
Which to effect (since not breast is so sure,  
Or safe, but she'll procure  
Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard  
Of thoughts to watch, and ward  
At th'eye and ear (the ports unto the mind)  
That not strange, or unkind  
Object arrive there, but the heart (our spy)  
Give knowledge instantly,  
To wakeful reason, our affection's king:  
Who (in th'examining)  
Will quickly taste the treason, and commit  
Close, the close cause of it.  
'tis the securest policy we have,  
To make our sense our slave.  
But this true course is not embraced by many:  
By many? scarce by any.  
For either our affections do rebel,  
Or else the sentinel  
(That should ring alarm to the heart) doth sleep,  
Or some great thought doth keep  
Back the intelligence, and falsely swears,  
they're base, and idle fears  
Whereof the loyal conscience so complains.  
Thus, by these subtle trains,  
Do several passions invade the mind,  
And strike our reason blind.  
Of which usurping rank, some have thought love  
The first; as prove to move  
Most frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests,  
In our inflamed breasts:  
But this doth from the cloud of error grow,  
Which thus we over-blow.  
The thing, they here call Love, is blind Desire,  
Armed with bow, shafts, and fire;  
Inconstant, like the sea, of whence 'tis born,  
Rough, swelling, like a storm:  
With whom who sails, rides on the surge of fear,  
And boils, as if he were  
In a continual tempest. Now, true Love  
Not such effects doth prove;  
That is an essence, fare more gentle, fine,  
Pure, perfect, nay divine▪  
It is a golden chain let down from heaven,  
Whose links are bright, and even.  
That falls like sleep on lovers, and combines  
The soft, and sweetest minds  
In equal knots: This bears not brands, nor darts,  
To murder different hearts,  
But, in a calm, and godlike unity,  
Preserves community.  
OH, who is he, that (in this peace) enjoys  
The Elixir of all joys?  
A form more fresh, than are the Eden bowers  
And lasting, as her flowers:  
Richer than Time, and as Time's virtue, rare.  
Sober, as saddest care:  
A sixed thought, an eye un-taught to glance;  
Who (blessed with such high chance)  
Would, at suggestion of a steep desire,  
Cast himself from the spire  
Of all his happiness? But soft: I hear  
Some vicious fool draw near,  
That cries, we dream, and swears, there's not such thing,  
As this chaste love we sing.  
Peace Luxury, thou art like one of those  
Who, being at sea, suppose,  
Because they move, the continent doth so:  
Not, vice, we let thee know  
Though thy wild thoughts with sparrow's wings do fly,  
Turtles can chastely die;  
And yet (in this t'express ourselves more clear)  
We do not number, here,  
Such spirits as are only continent,  
Because lust's means are spent:  
Or those, who doubt the common mouth of fame,  
And for their place, and name,  
Cannot so safely sin. Their chastity  
Is mere necessity.  
Nor mean we those, whom vows and conscience  
Have filled with abstinence:  
Though we acknowledge, who can so abstain,  
Makes a most blessed gain.  
He that for love of goodness hates ill,  
Is more crowne-worthy still,  
Than he, which for sin's penalty forbears.  
His heart sins, though he fears.  
But we propose a person like our Dove,  
Graced with a Phoenix love;  
A beauty of that clear, and sparkling light,  
Would make a day of night,  
And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys:  
Whose odorous breath destroys  
All taste of bitterness, and makes the air  
As sweet, as she is fair.  
A body so harmoniously composed,  
As if Nature disclosed  
All her best symmetry in that one feature!  
OH, so divine a creature  
Who could be false to? chief, when he knows  
How only she bestows  
The wealth treasure of her love on him;  
Making his fortunes swim  
In the full flood of her admired perfection?  
What savage, brute affection,  
Would not be fearful to offend a dame  
Of this excelling frame?  
Much more a noble, and right generous mind  
(To virtuous moods inclined)  
That knows the weight of guilt: He will refrain  
From thoughts of such a strain.  
And to his sense object this sentence ever,  
Man may securely sin, but safely never.   

XII. Epistle TO ELIZABETH COUNTESS OF RUTLAND.  
MADAM,  
Whilst that, for which, all virtue now is sold,  
And almost every vice, almighty gold,  
That which, to boot with hell, is thought worth heaven,  
And, for it, life, conscience, yea, souls are given,  
Toils, by grave custom, up and down the court,  
To every squire, or groom, that will report  
Well, or ill, only, all the following year,  
Just to the weight their this dayes-presents bear;  
While it makes ushers serviceable men,  
And some one apteth to be trusted, than,  
Though never after; while it gains the voice  
Of some grand peer, whose air doth make rejoice  
The fool that gave it; who will want, and weep,  
When his proud patrons favours are asleep;  
While thus it buys great grace, and hunt's poor fame;  
Runs between man, and man; between dame, and dame;  
Solders cracked friendship; makes love last a day;  
Or perhaps less: whilst gold bears all this sway,  
I, that have none (to sand you) sand you verse.  
A present, which (if elder writs rehearse  
The truth of times) was once of more esteem,  
Than this, our guilt, nor golden age can deem,  
When gold was made not weapon to cut throats,  
Or put to flight ASTREA, when her ingots  
Were yet unfound, and better placed in earth,  
Than, here, to give pride fame, and peasant's birth.  
But let this dross carry what price it will  
With noble ignorants, and let them still,  
Turn, upon scorned verse, their quarter-face:  
With you, I know, my offering will found grace.  
For what a sin against your great father's spirit,  
Were it to think, that you should not inherit  
His love unto the Muses, when his skill  
Almost you have, or may have, when you will?  
Wherein wise Nature you a dowry gave,  
Worth an estate, triple to that you have.  
Beauty, I know, is good, and blood is more;  
Richeses thought most: But, Madam, think what store  
The world hath seen, which all these had in trust,  
And now lie lost in their forgotten dust.  
It is the Muse, alone, can raise to heaven,  
And, at her strong arms end, hold up, and even,  
The souls, she love's. Those other glorious notes,  
Inscribed in touch or marble, or the coats  
Painted, or carved upon our great-man's tombs,  
Or in their windows; do but prove the wombs,  
That bread them, graves: when they were born, they died,  
That had not Muse to make their fame abide.  
How many equal with the Argive Queen,  
Have beauty known, yet none so famous seen?  
ACHILLES' was not first, that valiant was,  
Or, in an army's head, that, locked in brass,  
Gave kill strokes. There were brave men, before  
Ajax, or IDOMEN, or all the store,  
That HOMER brought to Troy; yet none so live:  
Because they lacked the sacred pen, could give  
Like life unto 'hem. Who heaved HERCULES  
Unto the stars? or the Tyndarides?  
Who placed JASON'S ARGO in the sky?  
Or set bright ARIADNE'S crown so high?  
Who made a lamp of BERENICE'S hair?  
Or lifted CASSIOPEA in her chair?  
But only Poets, rapt with rage divine?  
And such, or my hopes fail, shall make you shine.  
You, and that other star, that purest light,  
Of all LVCINA'S train; LUCY the bright.  
Than which, a nobler heaven itself knows not.  
Who, though she have a better verser got,  
(Or Poet, in the court account) than I,  
And, who doth me (though I not him) envy,  
Yet, for the timely favours she hath done,  
To my less sanguine Muse, wherein she'hath won  
My grateful soul, the subject of her powers,  
I have already used some happy hours,  
To her remembrance; which when time shall bring  
To curious light, to notes, I than shall sing,  
Will prove old ORPHEUS act not tale to be▪  
For I shall move stocks, stones, not less than he.  
Than all, that have but done my Muse lest grace,  
Shall thronging come, and boast the happy place  
They hold in my strange poems, which, as yet,  
Had not their form touched by an English wit.  
There like a rich, and golden pyramede,  
Born up by statues, shall I rear your head,  
Above your under carved ornaments,  
And show, how, to the life, my soul presents  
Your form impressed there: not with tickling rhymes,  
Or common places, filched, that take these times,  
But high, and noble matter, such as fly's  
From brains entranced, and filled with ecstasies;  
Moods, which the godlike SIDNEY often did prove,  
And your brave friend, and mine so well did love.  
Who wheresoever he be........  
The rest is lost.   

XIII. Epistle. TO KATHERINE, LADY AUBIGNY:  
'TIs grown almost a danger to speak true  
Of any good mind, now: There are so few.  
The bad, by number, are so fortified,  
As what th'haue lost t'expect, they dare deride.  
So both the praised, and praisers suffer: Yet,  
For others ill, aught none their good forget.  
I, therefore, who profess myself in love  
With every virtue, wheresoever it move,  
And howsoever; as I an at feud  
With sin and vice, though with a throne endued;  
And, in this name, an given out dangerous  
By arts, and practise of the vicious,  
Such as suspect themselves, and think it fit  
For their own cap'tall crimes, t'indite my wit;  
I, that have suffered this; and, though forsook  
Of Fortune, have not altered yet my look,  
Or so myself abandoned, as because  
Men are not just, or keep not holy laws  
Of nature, and society, I should faint;  
Or fear to draw true lines, 'cause others paint▪  
I, Madam, an become your praiser. Where,  
If it may stand with your soft blush to hear,  
Yourself but told unto yourself, and see  
In my character, what your features be,  
You will not from the paper slightly pass:  
Not lady, but, at some time, love's her glass.  
And this shall be not false one, but as much  
Removed, as you from need to have it such.  
Look than, and see yourself. I will not say  
Your beauty; for you see that every day:  
And so do many more. All which can call  
It perfect, proper, pure, and natural▪  
Not taken up o'th'doctors, but as well  
As I, can say, and see it doth excel.  
That asks but to be censured by the eyes:  
And, in those outward forms, all fools are wise.  
Nor that your beauty wanted not a dower,  
Do I reflect. Some alderman has power,  
Or cos'ning farmer of the customs so,  
T'advance his doubtful issue, and o'erflow  
A Prince's fortune: These are gifts of chance,  
And raise not virtue; they may vice enhance.  
My mirror is more subtle, clear, refined,  
And takes, and gives the beauties of the mind.  
Though it reject not those of FORTUNE: such  
As blood, and match. Wherein, how more than much  
Are you engaged to your happy fate,  
For such a lot! that mixed you with a state  
Of so great title, birth, but virtue most,  
Without which, all the rest were sounds, or lost.  
'Tis only that can time, and chance defeat:  
For he, that once is good, is ever great.  
Wherewith, than, Madam, can you better pay  
This blessing of your stars, than by that way  
Of virtue, which you tread? what if alone?  
Without companions? 'Tis safe to have none.  
In single paths, dangers with ease are watched:  
Contagion in the press is soon catched.  
This makes, that wisely you decline your life,  
Fare from the maze of custom, error, strife,  
And keep an even, and vnaltered gaite;  
Not looking by, or backe (like those, that wait  
Times, and occasions, to start forth, and seem)  
Which though the turning world may disesteem,  
Because that study's spectacles, and shows,  
And after varied, as fresh objects goes,  
Giddy with change, and therefore cannot see  
Right, the right way: yet must your comfort be  
Your conscience, and not wonder, if none asks  
For truth's complexion, where they all wear masks.  
Let who will follow fashions, and attires,  
Maintain their liedgers forth, for foreign wires,  
Melt down their husband's land, to pour away  
On the close groom, and page, on newyears day,  
And almost, all days after, while they live;  
(They find it both so witty, and safe to give.)  
Let 'em on pouldres, oils, and paintings, spend,  
Till that not usurer, nor his bawds dare lend  
Them, or their officers: and not man know,  
Whether it be a face they wear, or no.  
Let 'em waste body, and state; and after all,  
When their own Parasites laugh at their fall,  
May they have nothing left, whereof they can  
Boast, but how often they have go wrong to man:  
And call it their brave sin. For such there be  
That do sin only for the infamy:  
And never think, how vice doth every hour,  
Eat on her clients, and some one devour.  
You, Madam, young have learned to shun these shelves,  
Whereon the most of mankind wrack themselves,  
And, keeping a just course, have early put  
Into your harbour, and all passage shut  
Against storms, or pirates, that might charge your peace;  
For which you worthy are the glad increase  
Of your blessed womb, made fruitful from above,  
To pay your lord the pledges of chaste love:  
And raise a noble stem, to give the fame,  
To CLIFTON'S blood, that is denied their name.  
Grow, grow, fair tree, and as thy branches shoot,  
Hear, what the Muses sing about thy root,  
By me, their priest (if they can aught divine)  
Before the moons have filled their triple trine,  
To crown the burden which you go withal,  
It shall a ripe and timely issue fall,   

  

XU. TO HEAVEN.  
GOod, and great GOD, can I not think of thee,  
But it must, strait, my melancholy be?  
Is it interpreted in me disease,  
That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease?  
OH, be thou witness, that the reinss dost know,  
And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,  
And judge me after: if I dare pretend  
To aught but grace, or aim at other end.  
As thou art all, so be thou all to me,  
First, midst, and last, converted one, and three;  
My faith, my hope, my love: and in this state,  
My judge, my witness, and my advocate.  
Where have I been this while exiled from thee?  
And whither raped, now thou but stoop'st to me?  
Devil, devil here still: OH, being everywhere,  
How can I doubt to find thee ever, here?  
I know my state, both full of shame, and scorn,  
Conceived in sin, and unto labour born,  
Standing with fear, and must with horror fall,  
And destined unto judgement after all.  
I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground,  
Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound.  
Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death  
With holy PAUL, jest it be thought the breath  
Of discontent; or that these prayers be  
For weariness of life, not love of thee.   
THE END.