Ben: Jonson's Execration against Wlcan. With divers Epigrams by the same Author to several Noble Personages in this kingdom. Never Published before.  
LONDON: Printed by I. O. for John Benson, and are to be sold at his shop at St. Dunstan's churchyard in Fleetstreet. 1640.   

To the Right Honourable THOMAS Lord WINDSOR, &c.  
My LORD:  
THE assurance the Author of these Poems received of his Worth from your Honour, in his life time, was not rather a mark of his desert, than a perfect demonstration of your Noble love to him: Which consideration, has raised my bold desire to assume presumption, to present these to your Honour, in the person of one deceased; the form whereof somewhat dispersed, yet carry with them the Prerogative of truth to be Mr. Ben: Jonsons'; and will so appear to all, whose Eyes, and Spirits are rightly placed. You are (my Lord) a Person who is able to give value and true esteem to things of themselves no less deserving: such were his, strong, and as far transcendent ordinary imagination, as they are conformable to the sense of such who are of sound judgement: his Strenuous Lines, and sinewey Labours have raised such Piramydes to his lasting name, as shall outlast Time. And that these may, without any diminution to the glory of his greater works, enjoy the possession of public favour, (by your honour's permission) I shall be glad by this small Testimony account it a fit opportunity to assure your Honour, my Lord, that I am  
Your most humble and affectionate Servant, JOHN BENSON.   

Imprimatur  
Matth. Clay. Decemb. 14. 1639.   

Ben: Jonson's Execration against Vulcan.  
ANd why to me this; (thou lame god of fire)  
What have I done that night call on thine ire?  
Or urge thy greedy flames, thus to devour  
So many my years labours in one hour!  
I ne'er attempted aught against thy life,  
Nor made less line of Love to thy loose wife:  
Or in remembrance of thy affront and scorn,  
With clowns & tradesmen kept thee close in horn:  
'Twas Jupiter that hurled thee headlong down,  
And Mars that gave thee a lantern for a crown.  
Was it because thou wert of old denied,  
By Jove, to have Minerva for thy Bride.  
That since thou tak'st all envious care and pain,  
To ruin every issue of her brain?  
Had I wrote Treason there, or heresy,  
Impostures, Witchcraft, charms, or Blasphemy,  
I had deserved then thy consuming looks,  
Perhaps to have been burned with my books:  
But on thy Malice tell me, didst thou spy  
Any least loose, or scurrile paper lie  
Concealed, or kept there; that was fit to be,  
By thy own vote, a Sacrifice to thee?  
Did I there wound the honour of the crown?  
Or tax the glory of the Church, or gown?  
Itch to defame the state, or brand the Times,  
And myself most in lewd self-boasting rhymes?  
If none of these, why then this fire? or find  
A cause before, or leave me one behind.  
Had I compiled from Amadis de Gaul  
Th'Esplandians, Arthurs, Palmerins, and all  
The learned Library of Don Quixot,  
And so some goodlier Monster had begot:  
Or spun out Riddles, or weaved fifty Tomes  
Of Logogriphes', or curious Pallindromes;  
Or pumped for those hard trifles, Anagrams,  
Or Ecrosticks, or your finer flames  
Of eggs, and Halberds, Cradles and a hearse,  
A pair of scissors and a comb in verse  
acrostics, and Tellesticks, or jump names,  
Thou then hadst had some colour for thy flames,  
On such my serious follies: But thou'lt say,  
There were some pieces of as base a Lay,  
And as false stamp there: parcels of a play  
Fitter to see the fire-light, than the day:  
Adulterate moneys, such as would not go,  
Thou shouldst have stayed, till public fame said so.  
She is the judge, thou Executioner:  
Or if thou needs will trench upon her power,  
Thou mightst have yet enjoyed thy cruelty,  
With some more thirst and more variety!  
Thou mightst have had me perish piece by piece,  
To light Tobacco, or save roasted Geese,  
Sing Capon, or crisp pig, dropping their eyes▪  
Condemned them to the Ovens with the Pies;  
And so have kept me dying a whole age,  
Not ravished all hence in a minute's rage:  
But that's the mark whereof thy right doth boast,  
To sow Consumption everywhere thou go'st.  
Had I foreknown of this thy least desire,  
T'have held a triumph, or a feast of fire;  
Especially in paper, that that steam  
Had tickled thy large nostrils, many a ream,  
To redeem mine I had sent in; enough  
Thou shouldst have cried, & all been proper stuff.  
The Talmond and the Koran had come  
With pieces of the Legend: the whole sum  
Of Errant knighthood, with their Dames & dwarves,  
The charmed Boats, and their enchanted wharves:  
The Tristeams, Lancelot's, Turpins', and the peers,  
All the mad rowland's, and sweet Oliver's,  
With Merlin's Marvailes, and his cabals loss,  
With the chimaera of the rosy cross,  
Their charms, their Characters, Hermetticke Rings,  
Their gems of Riches, and bright stone that brings  
Invisibility, and Strength, and Tongues,  
The art of kindling the true coal by Lungs.  
With Nicholas Pasquil's, meddle with your match,  
And the strong Lines that do the times so catch:  
On captain Pamphlets Horse and Foot that sally,  
Upon the Exchange still out of Pope's head Alley,  
The weekly Currants, with Paul's seal, and all  
The admired Discourses of the Prophet Baal,  
These (hadst thou pleased either to dine or sup)  
Had made a meat for Vulcan to lick up.  
But in my desk, what was there to excite  
So ravenous and vast an appetite?  
I dare not say a Body, but some parts  
There were of search and mystery in the Arts:  
And the old Venusine in Poetry,  
And lighted by the Staggerite could spy,  
Was there made English, with a grammar too,  
To teach some that, their Nurses could not do;  
The purity of Language; and (among  
The rest) my journey into Scotland Sung,  
With all the adventures: three Books not afraid  
To speak the Fate of the Sicilian Maid  
For our own Ladies: And in story there  
Of our fift Henry, eight of his nine year.  
In which was oil, besides the succours spent,  
Which Noble Cotton, Carew, Selden sent.  
And twice twelve years' stored-up-humanity,  
And humble gleanings in Divinity,  
After the Fathers; and those wiser guides,  
Whom Faction had not drawn to study sides.  
How in these ruins Vulcan dost thou lurk:  
All Soot and Embers, odious, as thy work?  
I now begin to doubt, if ever grace,  
Or goddess could be patient at thy face.  
Thou woe Minerva, or to wit aspire,  
'Cause thou canst halt with us in Art and Fire.  
Son of the wind; for so thy Mother gone  
With Lust conceived thee, Father thou hadst none:  
When thou wert born, & that thou look'st at best:  
She durst not kiss, but flung thee from her breast.  
And so did Jove, when near meant thee his cup:  
No mar'le the Clowns of Lemnos took thee up.  
For none but Smiths would have made thee a god,  
Some alchemist there may be yet, or odd:  
Squire of the Squibs against the Pageant day,  
May to thy Name a Vulcanale say,  
And for it lose his eyes by gunpowder,  
As the other may his brains by quicksilver:  
Well fare the wise men yet on the Banks-side,  
(Our friends the watermen) they could provide  
Against thy fury, when to serve their needs,  
They made a Vulcan on a sheaf of Reeds.  
Whom they durst handle in their holy day coats,  
And safely trust to dress, not burn their boats:  
But oh these Reeds, thy mere disdain of them,  
Made thee beget that cruel stratagem:  
(Which some are pleased to style but thy mad prank)  
Against the Globe, the glory of the bank,  
Which though it were the Fort of the whole parish,  
Fenced with a Ditch and forked out of a Marish:  
I saw with two poor Chambers taken in,  
And raised ere thought could urge: this might have been.  
See the world's ruins, nothing but the piles.  
Left, and wit since to covet it with tiles  
The Brethren they straight noised it out for news,  
'Twas verily some relic of the stews:  
And this a sparkle of that fire let loose,  
That was raked up: the Winchestrian Goose  
Bred on the bank in time of Popery,  
When Venus there maintained the mystery:  
But others fell with that conceit by th' ears,  
'twas verily a threatening to the bears;  
And that accursed ground, the Paris Garden:  
Nay, (Sighed a sister) 'twas the Nun Kate Arden  
Kindled the fire: but than did one return;  
No fool would his own Harvest spoil, or burn;  
If that were so, thou rather wouldst advance  
The place that was thy wife's inheritance.  
O no, cried all, Fortune for being a whore,  
Scaped not his justice any jot the more.  
He burned that idol of the revels too:  
Nay let Whit●-hall with revels have to do,  
Though but in Dances) it shall know thy power,  
There was a judgement too showed in an hour;  
He was right Vulcan still, he did not spare  
Troy, though it were so much thy Venus' care:  
Fool wilt thou let that in example come?  
Did she not save from thence to build a Rome?  
And what hast thou done in these petty spites,  
More than advanced the horses and their Rites,  
I will not argue thee from them of guilt,  
For they were burnt but to be better built:  
'Tis true, that in thy wish they were destroyed,  
Which thou hast only vented, not enjoyed.  
So wouldst th' have run upon the rolls by stealth,  
And didst invade part of the commonwealth:  
In those Records (which were our Chroniclers gone)  
Would be remembered by six clerks to one.  
But say all six good men, what answer ye,  
Lies there no Writ out of the chancery  
Against this Vulcan? no injunction?  
No Orders? no Decree? though we be gone  
At Common Law, me thinks in his despite,  
A Court of Equity should do us right.  
But to confine him to the Brew-houses,  
The glass-house, Die-fates, and their Furnaces:  
To live in sea-coal, and go out in smoke,  
Or lest that vapour might the City choke,  
Confine him to some Brickhills, or some Hill-  
Foot out in Sussex to an Iron-Mill:  
Or in small Faggots have him blaze about,  
Vile taverns, and the Drunkards piss him out:  
Or in the bell-mans' lantern, like a spy,  
Waste to a snuff, and then stink out and die.  
I could invent a sentence yet more worse,  
But i'll conclude all in a civil curse:  
Pox on your flame-ship (Vulcan) if it be  
To all as fatal as t'hath been to me;  
And to Paul's Steeple, which had been to us  
'Bove all your fireworks: had not Ephesus,  
Or Alexandria, which though a Divine  
Loss yet remains as unrepaird as mine:  
Would you had kept your forge at Aetna still,  
And there made swords, bills, glaves, & arms your fill;  
Maintained a trade at Bilbo, or elsewhere,  
Struck in at Milan with the Cutlers there:  
Or stayed where the friar and you first met,  
That from the devils Ars did guns beget:  
Or fixed in the Low Countries, where you might  
On both sides do your mischiefs with delight:  
Blow up and ruin, Mine, and countermine,  
Use your Petarres, and Granats, all your fine  
Engines of murder, and enjoy the praise  
Of massacring mankind so many ways:  
We ask your absence here, we all love peace,  
And pray the fruits thereof and the increase,  
So doth the King, and most of the King's men,  
That have good places: therefore once again  
Pox on thee Vulcan; thy Pandora's Pox,  
And all the ills that flew out of her Box  
Light on thee: or if those plagues will not do,  
Thy wife's pox take thee, and Bess Braughtons' too.  
Ben: Jonson.   


Upon King CHARLES his birthday.  

THis is King Charles his birth day, speak it the Tower  
Unto the Ships, and they from Tire to Tire,  
Discharging 'bout the island in an hour,  
As loud as Thunder, and as swift as fire.   

Let Ireland meet it out at Sea half way,  
Repeating all Great Britain's joy and more,  
Adding her own glad accents to this day,  
Like echo playing from another shore.   

What Drums, or Trumpets, or great Ordnance can,  
The Poetry of Steeples with the Bells.  
Three kingdom's mirth in light and airy man,  
Made loftier by the winds all noises else.   

At bonfires, Squibs, and mirth, with all their shouts,  
That cry the gladness which their hearts would pray  
If they had leisure, at these lawful routs,  
The often coming of this Holy day:  
And then noise forth the burden of their song.  
Still to have such a Charles, but this Charles long.   
B. Jonson.   

To the Queen on her birthday.  

Up public joy, remember  
The sixeteenth of November  
Some brave uncommmon way.  
And though the parish Steeple  
Be silent to the people,  
Ring thou it Holy day.   

What though the thirsty tower,  
And Guns there spare to pour  
Their noises out in thunder:  
As fearful to awake  
The City, as to shake  
Their guarded Gates asunder.   

Yet let the Trumpets sound,  
And shake both air and ground  
With beating of their Drums:  
Let every lyre be strung,  
Harp, Lute, Theorbo sprung  
With touch of learned thumbs,   

That when the choir is full,  
The harmony may pull  
The Angels from their spheres:  
And each intelligence,  
May wish itself a sense,  
Whilst it the Ditty hears.   

Behold the royal Mary,  
The daughter of great Harry,  
And sister to just Lewis,  
Comes in the pomp and glory  
Of all her father's story,  
And of her brother's Prowis.   

She shows so far above  
The feigned Queen of Love;  
This Sea-girt ground upon,  
As here no Venus were  
But that she reigning here,  
Had put the Ceston on.   

See, see our active King,  
Hath taken twice the Ring  
Upon the pointed Lance,  
whilst all the ravished rout  
Do mingle in a shout,  
hay for the flower of France.   

This day the Court doth measure  
Her joy in state and pleasure:  
And with a reverend fear,  
The revels and the play  
Make up this Crowned day  
Her one and twenty year.   
B. Jonson.   

On the Prince's birthday. An Epigram.  
ANd art thou borne, brave Babe, blessed be thy birth,  
That so hath crowned our hopes, our spring on earth;  
The bed of the chaste lily and the Rose,  
What month than May was fitter to disclose  
This Prince of flowers? soon shoot thou up, and grow  
The same that thou art promised; but be slow,  
And long in changing: let our Nephews see  
Thee quickly come, the garden's eye to be,  
And still to stand so: Haste now envious moon,  
And interpose thyself, care not how soon,  
And threat the great eclipse two hours but run,  
Sol will reshine, if not, Charles hath a son.  
Non Displicuisse meretur  
Festinat Caesar, qui placuisse tibi.  
B. Jonson.   

Another on the Birth of the Prince.  
ANother Phoenix, though the first is dead,  
A second's flown from his immortal bed,  
To make this our Arabia to be  
The nest of an eternal progeny.  
Choice Nature framed the former but to find  
What error might be mended in mankind:  
Like some industrious workman, which affect  
Their first endeavours only to correct:  
So this the building, that the model was,  
The type of all that now is come to pass:  
That but the shadow, this the substance is,  
All that was but the prophecy of this:  
And when it did this after birth forerun,  
'Twas but the morning star unto this sun;  
The dawning of this day, when Sol did think  
We having such a light, that he might wink,  
And we ne'er miss his lustre: nay so soon  
As Charles was borne, he and the pale-faced Moon  
With envy then did copulate, to try  
If such a Birth might be produced i'th' sky.  
What Heavenly favour made a star appear,  
To bid wise Kings to do their homage here,  
And prove him truly Christian? long remain  
On Earth, sweet Prince, that when great Charles shall reign  
In Heaven above, our little Charles may be  
As great on Earth, because as good as he.  
B. Jonson.   

A parallel of the Prince to the King.  
SO Peleus when he fair Thetis got,  
As thou thy sea-queen; so to him she brought  
A blessed Babe, as thine hath done to thee:  
His worthiest proved of those times, ours may be  
Of these; his had a Pallas for his guide,  
Thy wisdom will as well for ours provide:  
His Conquered Countries, Cities, Castles, Towers,  
A worthy foe; hereafter so may ours.  
His all his time, but once Patroclus finds,  
But this of ours a world of faithful friends:  
He's vulnerable in no place but one,  
And this of ours (we hope) be hurt of none.  
His had his Phoenix, ours no teacher needs,  
But the example of thy Life and Deeds.  
His Nestor knew, in arms his fellow was,  
But not in years, (too soon run out his glass)  
Ours, though not Nestor knew, we trust, shall be  
As wise in arms, as old in years as he.  
His after Death had Homer his reviver:  
And ours may better merit to live ever,  
By Deeds farre-passing: but (oh sad despair)  
No hope of Homer, his wit left no heir.  
B. Jonson.   

An Elegy on the Lady Jane Paulet, marchioness of Winchester.  
What goodly Ghost besprint with April dew,  
Halls me so solemnly to yonder Yeugh?  
And beckoning woos me from the fatal tree,  
To pluck a Garland for herself, or me.  
I do obey you beauty; for in death  
You seem a fair one; O that I had breath  
To give your shade a name! stay! stay! I feel  
A horror in me, all my blood is steel  
stiff stark; my joints 'gainst one another knock:  
Whose daughter? ha? great Savage of the Rock!  
He's good, as great! I am almost a stone,  
And ere I can ask more of her she's gone!  
Alas I am all Marble: write the rest,  
Thou wouldst have written fame upon my breast,  
It is a large fair Table, and a true,  
And the disposure will be somewhat new:  
When I who would her Poet have become,  
At least may bear th'inscription to her tomb:  
She was the Lady Jane, and marchioness  
Of Winchester, the Heralds can tell this:  
Earl Rivers grandchild, serve not titles, Fame  
Sound thou her virtues, give her soul a name.  
Had I a thousand mouths, as many tongues,  
And voice to raise them from my brazen Lungs,  
I durst not aim at, the Dotes thereof were such,  
No Nation can express how much  
Their carat was: I or my trump must break,  
But rather I, should I of that part speak,  
It is too near of kin to God the soul  
To be described, fame's fingers are too foul  
To touch those mysteries; we may admire  
The heat and splendour, but not handle fire:  
What she did by great example well,  
T'inlive posterity, her fame may tell;  
And calling truth to witness, make it good  
From the inherint graces in her blood.  
Else who doth prayle a person by a new,  
But a feigned way doth spoil it of the true:  
Her sweetness, softness, her fair courtesy,  
Her wary guards, her wise simplicity,  
Were like a ring of virtues 'bout her set,  
And Piety the centre where all met:  
A reverend state she had, an awful eye,  
A darling, yet inviting majesty;  
What Nature, Fortune, Institution, Fact,  
Could heap to a perfection, was her act:  
How did she leave the world, with what contempt?  
Just as she in it lived, and so exempt  
From all affection: when they urged the Cure  
Of her disease, how did her soul assure  
Her sufferings, as the Body had been away:  
And to the torturers her Doctors say,  
Stick on your Cupping-glasses, fear not, put  
Your hottest caustics to burn, lance, or cut:  
'tis but a body which you can torment,  
And I into the world, with my soul was sent.  
Then comforted her Lord, and blessed her son,  
Cheered her fair sisters in her race to run.  
Which gladness tempered her sad parents tears,  
Made her friends joys to get above their fears.  
And in her last act taught the standers by,  
With admiration and applause to die:  
Let Angels sing her glories, who did call  
Her spirit home to her original,  
That saw the way was made it, and were sent  
To carry and conduct the compliment  
twixt death and life: where her mortality  
Became her birthday to eternity!  
And now through circumfused lights she looks  
On nature's secrets there as her own books;  
Speaks heavens language, and discourses free  
To every Order, every Hierarchy.  
Beholds her Maker, and in him doth see  
What the beginning of all beauties be,  
And all beatitudes that thence doth flow,  
Which the Elect of God are sure to know.  
Go now her happy parents and be sad,  
If ye not understand what child you had;  
If you dare quarrel heaven, and repent  
To have paid again a blessing was but lent,  
And trusted so as it deposited lay  
At pleasure to be called for every day.  
If you can envy your own daughter's bliss;  
And wish her state less happy than it is;  
If you can cast about your either eye,  
And see all dead here, or about to die.  
The Stars that are the jewels of the night,  
The day deceasing with the Prince of light  
The Sun. Great Kings & mightiest kingdoms fall,  
Whole nations; nay, mankind, the world, & all  
That ever had beginning to have end;  
With what injustice can one soul pretend  
T'escape this common known necessity,  
When we were all borne we began to die:  
And but for that brave contention and strife,  
The Christian hath t'enjoy a future life;  
He were the wretchedest of the race of men,  
But as he soars at that, he bruiseth then  
The serpent's head; gets above Death and sin▪  
And sure of heaven rides triumphing in.  
B. Jonson.   

ODE Pindaric On the the Death of Sir Hen. Morison.  

BRave Infant of Saguntum clear,  
Thy coming forth in that great year,  
When the prodigious Hannibal did crown  
His rage, with razing your immortal Town.  
Thou looking then about,  
Ere thou wert half got out:  
Wise Child didst hastily return,  
And mad'st thy mother's womb thine urn,  
How summed a Circle didst thou leave mankind,  
Of deepest lore could we the centre find.   

The counter-turn.  
Did wiser Nature draw thee back,  
From out the horror of that sack?  
Where shame, faith, honour, and regard of right  
Lay trampled on the deeds of death and night.  
Urged, hurried forth, and hurled  
Upon th' affrighted world:  
Sword, fire, famine, with full fury met,  
And all on utmost ruin set:  
As could they but lives miseries foresee,  
No doubt all Infants would return like thee.   

The Stand.  
For what is Life, if measured by the space,  
Not by the Act?  
Or masked man, if valued by his face,  
Above his Fact?  
Here's one outlived his peers,  
And told forth fourscore years,  
He vexed time, and busied the whole State,  
Troubled both foes and friends,  
But ever to no ends:  
What did this stirrer but die late?  
How well at twenty had he fall'n or stood,  
For three of his fourscore he did no good.   

The turn.  
He entered well by virtuous parts,  
Got up and thrived with honest Arts,  
He purchased friends, and fame, and honours then,  
And had his Noble Name advanced with men.  
But weary of that flight,  
He stooped in all men's sight  
To sordid flatteries, acts of strife,  
And sunk in that dead Sea of life  
Too deep: as he did than death's waters sup,  
But that the cork of Title boyed him up.   

The counter-turn.  
Alas but Morison fell young;  
He never fell, thou trip''st my tongue:  
He stood a soldier to the last night end,  
A perfect Patriot, and a noble friend.  
But most a virtuous son,  
All offices were done  
By him so ample, full, and round,  
In weight, and measure, number sound,  
As though his Age imperfect might appear,  
His life was of Humanity the sphere.   

The Stand.  
Go now and tell out days, summed up with fears,  
And make them years:  
Produce thy mass of miseries on the Stage,  
To swell thine Age,  
Repeat of things a throng,  
To show thou hast been long,  
Not lived: for life doth her great actions spell,  
By what was done, and wrought  
In season, and so brought  
To light: her measures are how well:  
Each sillib' Answered, and was formed how fair;  
These make the lines of life, and that's her air.   

The turn.  
It is not growing, like a Tree,  
In bulk, doth make man better be,  
Or standing long an oak, three hundued year,  
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:  
A lily of a day,  
Is fairer far in May,  
Although it fall and die at night,  
It was the plant and flower of light;  
In small proportions we just beauty see,  
And in short measures life may perfect be.   

The counter-turn.  
Call Noble Lucius then for wine,  
And let thy looks with gladness shine,  
Accept this Garland, plant it on thy head,  
And think, nay know thy Morison's not dead.  
He leapt the present age,  
Possessed with holy rage,  
To see the bright eternal day,  
Of which we Priests and Poets say  
Such truths as we expect for happy men,  
And there he lives with memory: and Ben   

The Stand.  
Jonson! who sung this of him ere he went  
Himself to rest,  
Or taste a part of that full joy he meant  
To have expressed,  
In this bright asterism,  
Where it was friendship's schism,  
Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,  
To separate these twi-  
Lights, the Dioscuri,  
And keep the one half from his Harry;  
But Fate doth so alternate the design,  
whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine.   

The turn.  
And shine as you exalted are,  
Two names of friendship, but one star  
Of hearts the union: and those not by chance,  
Made or indentured, or leased out to advance  
The profits for a time,  
No pleasures vain did chime  
Of rhymes, or riots at your feasts,  
Argues of drink, or feigned protests,  
But simple Love, of greatness and of good,  
That knits brave minds, and manners more than blood.   

The counter-turn.  
This made you first to know the why  
You liked: then after to apply  
That likening; and approach so one to th'other,  
Till either grew a portion of the other,  
Each styled by his end,  
The copy of his friend;  
You lived to be the great surnames,  
And titles by which all made claims  
Unto the virtue: nothing perfect done,  
But as a Cary or a Morison.   

The Stand.  
And such a force the fair example had,  
As they that saw  
The good, and durst not practise it, were glad  
That such a Law  
Was left yet to mankind,  
Where they might read, and find  
Friendship indeed was written not in words:  
And with the Heart, not Pen,  
Of two so early men,  
Whose Lines her rolls were, and records  
Who ere the first down; bloomed on the Chin,  
Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.   
B. Jonson.   

To Jerome Lord Weston upon his return from his Embassy.  

Such pleasures as the teeming earth  
Doth take in easy nature's birth,  
When she puts forth the life of every thing,  
And in a dew of sweetest rain,  
She lies delivered without pain,  
Of the prime beauty of the year and spring.   

That Rivers in their shores do run,  
The Clouds rack clear before the sun,  
The rudest winds obey the calmest air;  
Rare plants from every bank do rise,  
And every plant the sense surprise,  
Because the order of the whole is fair.   

The very verdure of her nest,  
Wherein she sits so richly dressed,  
As all the wealth of season there were spread,  
Have showed the graces and the hours,  
Have multiplied their arts and powers,  
In making soft her stromaticke bed.   

Such joys, such sweets doth your return,  
Bring all your friends, fair Lord, that burn  
With joy to hear your modesty relate  
The business of your blooming wit,  
With all the fruits that follow it,  
Both to the honour of the King and state.   

O how will the Court be pleased,  
To see great CHARLES of travel eased,  
When he beholds a graft of his own hand,  
Spring up an Olive, fruitful, fair,  
To be a shadow of the air;  
And both a strength and beauty to the Land.   
B. I.   

To the right Honourable the L. Treasurer. An Epigram.  
IF to my mind, great Lord, I had a state,  
I would present you with some curious Plate  
Of Norimberg, or Turkey hang your rooms,  
Not from the Arras, but the Persian Looms.  
I would (if price or prayer) could them get  
Send in what or Romano, Tintaret,  
Titian, or Raphaell, Michael Angelo,  
Have left in Fame to equal, or outgo  
The old Greek hands, in picture, or in stone,  
This would I do, could I think Weston one  
Catched with these Arts, wherein the judge is wife,  
As far as sense, and only by his eyes.  
But you I know, my Lord, and know you can  
Discern between a Statue, and a man:  
Can do the things that Statue do deserve,  
And act the business which these paint or carve.  
What you have studied are the Arts of Life,  
To compose men and manners, stint the strife  
Of froward Citizens; make Nations know,  
What world of Blessings to good Kings they owe;  
And mightiest Monarchs feel what large increase  
Of Fame and Honour you possess by peace.  
These I look up at with a measuring eye,  
And strike Religion in the standers by.  
Which, though I cannot, like as an Architect,  
In glorious Piles and pyramids erect  
Unto your Honour; I can voice in song  
Aloud; and (haply) it may last as long.  
B. Jonson.   

To Mr. Jonson upon these Verses.  
YOur Verses were commended, as 'tis true,  
That they were very good, I mean to you:  
For they returned you Ben I have been told,  
The seld seen sum of forty pound in gold.  
These Verses then, being rightly understood,  
His Lordship, not Ben: Jonson, made them good.  
I. E.   

To my Detractor.  
MY Verses were commended, thou didst say,  
And they were very good; yet thou thinkst nay.  
For thou objectest, as thou hast been told,  
Th'envied return of forty pound in gold.  
Fool do not rate my rhymes, I have found thy vice  
Is to make cheap the Lord, the Lines the Price:  
But bark thou on; I pity thee poor Cur,  
That thou shouldst lose thy noise, thy foam, thy stir,  
To be known what thou art, thou blatent beast;  
But writing against me, thou thinkst at least  
I now would write on thee: no wretch, thy name  
Cannot work out unto it such a Fame:  
No man will tarry by thee as he goes  
To ask thy name, if he have half a nose;  
But fly thee like the Pest. Walk not the street  
Out in the dog-days, lest the Killer meet  
Thy Noddle with his Club; and dashing forth  
Thy dirty brains, men see thy want of worth.  
B. Jonson.   

To William Earl of Newcastle on the Backing of his Horse.  
When first, my Lord, I saw you back your Horse,  
Provoke his mettle, and command his force  
To all the uses of the field and race,  
Me thought I read the ancient Art of Thrace,  
And saw a centaur past those tales of Greece;  
So seemed your Horse and You, both of a piece:  
You showed like Perseus upon Pegasus,  
Or Castor mounted on his Cillarus:  
Or what we hear our home-born Legend tell,  
Of bold Sir Bevis, and his Arundel,  
And so your seat his beauties did endorse,  
As I began to wish myself a horse.  
And surely had I but your Stable seen  
Before, I think my wish absolved had been:  
For never saw I yet the Muses dwell,  
Nor any of their household half so well.  
So well! as when I saw the floor and room,  
I looked for Hercules to be the groom.  
And cried away with the Caesarian Bread,  
At these immortal Mangers Virgil fed.  
B. Jonson.   

To William Earl of Newcastle. An Epigram on his Fencing.  
THey talk of Fencing, and the use of arms,  
The Art of urging, and avoiding harms;  
The Noble Science, and the Mastering skill,  
Of making just approaches, how to kill,  
To hit in Angles, and to clash with time,  
As all defence, or offence, were a chime.  
I hate this measured: give me mettled fire,  
That trembles i'th'blaze, but than mounts higher,  
A swift and darling motion, when a pair  
Of men do meet like rarified air:  
Their weapons darted with that flame and force,  
As they outdid the lightning in the course:  
This were a spectacle, a sight to draw  
Wonder to valour: no, it is a Law  
Of daring, not to do a wrong: 'tis true,  
Next to despise it being done to you:  
To know all heads of danger; where 'tis fit  
To bend, to break, provoke, or suffer it:  
And this my Lord is valour: this is yours,  
And was your Fathers, and your Ancestors;  
Who durst live great, when death appeared, or bands,  
And valiant were with, or without, their hands.  
B. Jonson.   

To Sir Kenelme Digby. An Epigram.  
THough happy Muse thou know my Digby well,  
Yet take him in these Lines: he doth excel  
In Honours, courtesy, and all the parts  
Court can call hers, or man would call his Arts:  
He's prudent, valiant, just, and temperate,  
In him all action is beheld in state.  
And he is built, like some imperial room,  
For those to dwell in, and be still at home.  
His breast is a brave palace, a broad street,  
Where all heroic ample thoughts do meet;  
Where Nature such a large survey hath ta'en,  
As others souls, to his, dwell in a lane:  
Witness his birthday, the eleventh of June,  
And his great action done at Scanderoone.  
That day; which I predestined am to sing,  
For Britain's honour, and to Charles, my King:  
Go Muse in, and salute him, say he be  
Busy, or frown at first, when he sees thee,  
He will cheer up his forehead, think thou bringest  
Good Fortune to him in the Note thou singest:  
For he doth love my Verses, and will look  
Upon them, next to Spencer's Noble book;  
And praise them too: O what a Fame 'twill be?  
What reputation to my Lines and me,  
When he doth read them at the treasurer's board,  
The knowing Weston, and that learned Lord  
Allows them? then what copies will be had?  
What transcripts made? how cried up, & how glad  
wilt thou be Muse, when this shall then befall,  
Being sent to one, they will be read of all.  
B. Jonson.   

His Mistress drawn.  
SItting, and ready to be drawn,  
What make these Velvets, Silks, and lawn?  
Embroideries, Feathers, Fringe, and Lace,  
When every limb takes like a face?  
Send these suspected helps to aid,  
Some form defective, and decayed:  
This beauty without falsehood fair,  
Needs nought to clothe it but the air:  
Yet something to the painter's view,  
Were fitly interposed, so new  
He shall (if he can understand)  
Work by my fancy with his hand.  
Draw first a Cloud, all save her neck,  
And out of that make day to break:  
Till like her face it do appear,  
And men may think all light rose there.  
Then let the beams of that disperse  
The Cloud, and show the universe:  
But at such distance, as the eye  
May rather it adore than spy:  
The Heavens designed, draw next a Spring,  
With all that youth, or it may bring:  
Four Rivers, branching forth like seas,  
And Paradise confined in these.  
Last draw the Circle of this Globe,  
And let there be a starry Robe  
Of Constillations 'bout her hurled,  
And thou hast painted beauty's world.  
But Painter see you do not sell  
A copy of this Piece, nor tell  
Whose 'tis: but if it favour find,  
Next sitting we will draw her mind.  
B. Jonson.   

Her mind.  
Painter y'are come, but may be gone,  
Now I have better thought thereon,  
This work I can perform alone,  
And give you reasons more than one,  
Not that your Art I do refuse,  
But here I may no Colours use;  
Besides your hand will never hit  
To draw the thing that cannot sit.  
You could make shift to paint an eye,  
An Eagle towering in the sky,  
A Sun, a Sea, a Sandlesse pit,  
And these are like a mind, not it.  
No, to express this Mind to sense,  
Would ask a heaven's intelligence,  
Since that nothing can report that flame,  
But what's of kin to whence it came:  
Sweet mind, then speak yourself, and say  
As you go on, by what brave way,  
Our sense you do with knowledge fill,  
And yet remain our wonder still.  
I call you Muse, now make it true,  
Hence forth may every line be you,  
That all may say that see the frame,  
This is no Picture, but the same:  
A mind so pure, so perfect fine,  
As 'tis not radiant, but divine,  
And so disdaining any tire,  
'Tis got where it can try the fire.  
There (high exalted in the sphere,  
As it another Nature were)  
It moveth all, and makes a flight,  
As circular as infinite,  
Whose Notions when it would express  
In speech, it is with that excess,  
Of grace and music to the ear,  
As what it spoke it planted there.  
The voice so sweet, the words so fair,  
As some soft chime had stroked the air,  
And though the sound were parted thence,  
Still left an echo in the sense,  
But that a mind so rapt so high,  
So swift, so pure should yet apply  
Itself to us, and come so nigh  
Earth's grossness, there's the how, and why?  
Is it because it sees us dull  
And stuck in Clay here, it would pull  
Us forth by some celestial slight,  
Up to her own sublimed height?  
Or hath she here upon the ground,  
Some Paradise or palace found  
In all the bounds of Beauty fit  
For her t'inhabit? there is it.  
Thrice happy house that hast receit,  
For this so softly form, so straight,  
So polished, perfect, and so even,  
As it slid moulded out of Heaven.  
Not swelling like the Ocean proud,  
But stooping gently as a Cloud,  
As smooth as oil poured forth, and calm  
As showers, and sweet as drops of balm,  
Smooth, soft, and sweet, and all a flood,  
Where it may run to any good,  
And where it stays it there becomes,  
A nest of odours, spice, and gums.  
In action winged as the Wind▪  
In rest like spirits left behind,  
Upon a bank or field of flowers,  
Begotten by the wind and showers,  
In the fair mansion let it rest,  
Yet know with what thou art possessed,  
Thou entertaining in thy breast,  
But such a mind mak'st God a Guest.  
B. Jonson.   

Sir WILLIAM Burlase The Painter, to the Poet.  

TO Paint thy worth, if rightly I did know it,  
And were but Painter, half like thee a Poet,  
Ben: I would show it.   

But in this Art, my unskilful Pen will tire;  
Thou, and thy worth, will still be found far higher,  
And I a liar.   

Then what a Painter's here? and what an eater  
Of great attempts? whereas his skill's no greater,  
And he a Cheater.   

Then what a Poet's here, whom by Confession  
Of all with me, to Paint without digression,  
There's no expression.    

An Epigram to the Queen's Health.  
Hail MARY, full of grace, it once was said,  
And by an Angel, to the Blessed Maid,  
The Mother of our Lord: why may not I,  
Without profaneness, as a Poet, cry  
Hail Marry full of Honours, to my Queen,  
The Mother of our Prince? when was there seen  
(Except the joy that the first Mary brought,  
Whereby the safety of the world was wrought)  
So general a gladness to an Isle,  
To make the hearts of a whole Nation smile,  
As in this Prince? let it be lawful so  
To compare small with great, as still we owe  
Our thanks to God: then hail to Mary, spring  
Of so much health, both to our Land and King.  
Ben. Jonson.   

ODE To himself.  

I.  
COme leave the loathed Stage,  
And the more loathsome Age,  
Where pride and impudence in faction knit,  
Usurp the chair of wit:  
Inditing and arraigning every day,  
Something they call a Play.  
Let their fastidious vain  
Commission of the brain,  
Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn,  
They were not made for thee, less thou for them.   

II.  
Say that pourest them wheat,  
And they would acorns eat:  
'twere simple fury, still thyself to wast  
On such as have no taste:  
To offer them a surfeit of pure bread,  
Whose appetites are dead:  
No give them grains their fill,  
Husks, draff to drink, and swill:  
If they love Lees, and leave the lusty wine,  
Envy them not, their pallat's with the Swine,   

III.  
No doubt a mouldy Tale,  
Like Pericles, and Stale  
As the Shrives crusts, and nasty as his Fish,  
Scraps out of every Dish,  
Thrown forth and raked into the common Tub,  
May keep up the play Club.  
Brooms sweepings do as well  
There, as his Master's meal:  
For who the relish of these guests will fit,  
Needs set them but the almsbasket of wit.   

IV.  
And much good do't ye then,  
Brave Plush and Velvet men  
Can feed on Orts; and safe in your scene clothes,  
Dare quit upon your oaths  
The Stagers, and the stage-writes too; your Peers,  
Of stuffing your large ears  
With rage of comic socks,  
Wrought upon twenty Blocks;  
which if they're torn, and foul, and patched enough,  
The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff.   

V.  
Leave things so prostitute,  
And take th' Alcaike Lute;  
Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's Lyre;  
Warm thee by Pindar's fire:  
And though thy Nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold,  
Ere years have made thee old,  
Strike that disdainful heat  
Throughout, to their defeat:  
As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,  
May blushing swear, no palsy's in thy brain.   

VI.  
But when they hear thee sing  
The glories of thy King;  
His zeal to God, and his just awe of men,  
They may be blood-shaken, then  
Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers,  
That no tuned harp like ours,  
In sound of Peace or wars,  
Shall truly hit the stars:  
When they shall read the Acts of Charles his reign,  
And see his Chariot triumph 'bove his wain.   
B J.   

BEN: JONSON The Poet, to the Painter.  

Why though I seem of a prodigious waste,  
I am not so voluminous and vast,  
But there are lines wherewith I might b'embrast.   

'tis true; as my womb swells, so my back stoops,  
And the whole part grows round, deformed & droops,  
But yet the Tun at Heidelberg had hoops.   

You were not tied by any painter's Law,  
To square my Circle, (I confess) but draw  
My Superficies, that was all you saw.   

Which if in compass of no Art it came,  
To be described by a Monogram,  
With one great Blot y''ve formed me as I am.   

But since you curious were to have it be  
An Archetipe for all the World to see,  
You made it a brave piece, but not like me.   

O had I now your Manner, majesty, Might,  
Your power of handling, shadow, air, & spirit,  
How I could draw, and take hold, and delight!   

But you are he can Paint, I can but write,  
A Poet hath no more than black and white,  
Ne knows he flattering Colours, or false Light.   

But when of friendship I would draw the face,  
A lettered mind, and a large heart would place,  
To all posterity, I would write Burlase.   
B. Jonson.   

Upon my Picture left in Scotland.  

I Now think Love is rather deaf than blind,  
For else it could not be  
That she  
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,  
And cast my suit behind.  
I'm sure my Language to her was as sweet,  
And every close did meet,  
In sentence of as subtle feet,  
As hath the wisest he,  
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.   

O but my conscious fears, that fly my thoughts between,  
Tells me that she hath seen  
My hundreds of grey hairs,  
Told six and forty years,  
Read so much wast, as she could not embrace  
My mountain belly, and my Rocky face.  
And all these through her eyes have stopped her ears.   
B. Jonson.   

On a Gentlewoman, working by an hourglass.  
Do but consider this small dust,  
Here running in the glass,  
By atoms moved:  
Would you believe that it the body was  
Of one that loved?  
And in his Mistress flames, playing like a fly,  
Was turned into cinders by her eye?  
Yes; as in life, so in their deaths unblessed:  
A lover's ashes never can find rest.  
B. I.   

To the Ladies of the Court. An Ode.  

COme Noble nymphs, and do not hide  
The joys for which you so provide;  
If not, to mingle with us men  
What do you here? go home again:  
Your dressings do confess,  
By what we see, so curious Arts,  
Of Pallas, and Arachne's Arts,  
That you could mean no less.   

Why do you wear the silkworms toils?  
Or glory in the shellfish spoils?  
Or strive to show the grains of Ore,  
That you have gathered long before,  
Whereof to make a stock,  
To graft the green Emrald on,  
Or any better watered Stone,  
Or Ruby of the rock?   

Why do you smell of ambergris?  
Whereof was formed Neptune's niece,  
The Queen of Love, unless you can,  
Like seaborn Venus, love a man?  
Try, put yourselves unto't:  
Your looks, your smiles, and thoughts that meet:  
Ambrosian hands, and silver feet,  
Do promise you will do't.   
B. J.   

A Sonnet.  

THough I am young, and cannot tell  
Either what Death, or Love is well,  
Yet I have heard they both bear Darts,  
And both do aim at human hearts.  
And then again I have been told,  
Love wounds with heat, and death with cold,  
So that I fear they do but bring  
Extremes, to touch and mean one thing.   

As in a ruin we it call,  
One thing to be blown up and fall,  
Or to our end like way may have  
By a flash of lightning, or a wave:  
So Loves inflamed shaft, or band,  
Will kill as soon as death's cold hand:  
Except Loves fires the virtue have    

To Mr. Jonson.  
been: the world is much in debt, & though it may  
Some petty reckonings to small Poets pay:  
Pardon if at thy glories sum they stick,  
Being too large for their arithmetic.  
If they could prize the genius of a Scene,  
The learned sweat that makes a language clean,  
Or understand the faith of ancient skill,  
Drawn from the tragic, Comoecke, lyric, quill:  
The Greek and Roman denisoned by thee,  
And both made richer in thy poetry.  
This they may know, & knowing this still grudge  
That yet they are not fit of thee to judge.  
I prophesy more strength to after time,  
Whose joy shall call this Isle the poet's clime,  
Because 'twas thine, and unto thee return  
The borrowed flames, with which thy Muse shall burn.  
Then when the stock of others Fame is spent,  
Thy Poetry shall keep its own old rent.  
Zouch Tounley.  
FINIS.    

COurteous Reader, some literal faults are escaped, by oversight of the Correcter to the press, which I entreat thee to mend with thy Pen as thou espiest them, which are these.  
PAge 1: read might for night, & least for less. P. 4. r. Tristrams for Tristeams. P. 5. r. who for when. P. 7. r. houses for horses. P. 16. r. hales for hals. P. 19 l. ult. r. aromatic for stromaticke.