Bosworth-field: WITH A TASTE OF THE VARIETY OF OTHER POEMS, LEFT by Sir John Beaumond, Baronet, deceased: SET FORTH BY HIS SON, SIR JOHN BEAUMONT, Baronet; And dedicated to the Kings most Excellent Majesty.  
LONDON, Printed by Felix Kyngston for Henry Seile, and are to be sold at the Tiger's head in Saint Paul's Churchyard. 1629.   


Academioe Cantabrigiensis Liber   bookplate   

TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY.  
Most Gracious Sovereign,  
I Here present at the feet of your Sacred Majesty these Orphan Verses, whose Author (had he survived) might have made this Gift somewhat more correspondent to so Great a Pa●ron. I have only endeavoured without Art, to set this jewel, and render it apt for your Majesty's acceptance; to which boldness I am led by a filial duty in performing the will of my Father, who, whilst he lived, did ever intend to your Majesty these Poems: Poems, in which no obscene sport can be found (the contrary being too frequent a crime among Poets,) while these (if not too bold I speak will challenge your Majesty for their Patron, since it is most convenient, that the purest of Poems should be directed to You, the Vertuousest & most untouched of Princes, the Delight of Britain, and the Wonder of Europe; at the Altar of whose judgement, brigh● erected flames, not troubled fumes, dare approach. To your Majesty must be directed the most precious offsprings of each Muse which though they may well be esteemed Stars, yet how can they subsist without the aspect of You their Sun? Receive then, Great King, these my Father's Verses, and let them find, (what his Son hath found) your Princely clemency. Effect on them (I beseech your Majesty) a Kingly work, give them life, and withal graciously please to accept the sincere wishes for your felicity, and the humble vows of  
Your Majesties ever loyal Subject, john Beaumond.   

An Elegy to the living memory of his deceased Friend, Sir john Beaumond, Knight, Baronet.  

TO tell the World what it hath lost in thee,  
Were but in vain; for such as cannot see,  
Would not be grieved to hear, the morning light  
Should never more succeed the gloomy night.  
Such only whom thy Virtue made, or found  
Worthy to know thee, can receive this wound:  
Of these each man will duly pay his tears  
To thy great Memory, and when he hears  
One famed for Virtue, he will say, So blest,  
So good his Beaumond was, and weep the rest.  
If Knowledge shall be mentioned, or the Arts,  
Soon will be reckon up thy better parts:  
At naming of the Muses, he will straight  
Tell of thy Works, where sharp and high conceit,  
Clothed in sweet Verse, give thee immortal Fame,  
Whilst Ignorance doth scorn a Poet's Name:  
And then shall his imagination strive,  
To keep thy grateful Memory alive,  
By Poems of his own; for that might be,  
Had he no Muse by force of knowing thee.  
This maketh me (who in the Muse's Choir  
Sing but a Mean) thus boldly to aspire,  
To pay sad duties to thy honoured Hearse,  
With my unpolished lines, and ruder Verse.  
Yet dream I not of raising amongst men  
A lasting fame to thee by my frail Pen:  
But rather hope, something may live of me,  
(Perhaps this Paper) having mentioned thee.   
Thomas Nevil.   

An Elegy, dedicated to the memory of his much honoured friend, Sir john Beaumond, Knight and Baronet.  

I Write not Elegies, nor tune my Verse,  
To wait in mourning notes upon thy Hearse  
For vain applause, or with desire to rank  
My slender Muse'mongst those, who on the bank  
Of Aganippe's stream can better sing,  
And to their words more sense of sorrow bring.  
That stirs my Genius, which should excite  
Those powerful wits: to do a pious Right  
To noble virtue, and by verse convey  
Truth to Posterity, and show the way  
By strong example, how in mortal state  
We heavenly Worth may love, and imitate.  
Nay, 'twere a great Injustice, not to save  
Him from the ruins of a silent Grave,  
Who others from their Ashes sought to raise,  
To wear (given from his hand) eternal Bays.  
It is by all confessed, thy happy Strains,  
Distilled from milky streams of native veins,  
Did like the living source of Naso's Song,  
Flow to the Ear, thence gently glide along  
Down to the Heart, in notes so heau'nly-sweet,  
That there the Sister-graces seemed to meet,  
And make thy Breast their Seat for soft retire,  
And place from whence they fetched Promethean Fire,  
To kindle other hearts with purest Flame  
Of modest Verse, and unaffected Fame:  
While pedant Poetasters of this Age,  
(Who style their saucy Rhymes, Poëtique Rage)  
Lose humours vent, and Ballad-lines extrude,  
Which grieve the Wise, captive the multitude,  
And that thy▪ Poems might the better take,  
Not with vain sound, or for the Author's sake,  
Which often is by servile spirits tried,  
Whilst heau'n-bred souls are left unsatisfyde▪  
Like to the Bee, thou didd'st those Flowers select,  
That most the tasteful palate might affect,  
With pious relishes of things Divine,  
And discomposed sense with peace combine.  
Which (in thy Crown of Thorns) we may discern,  
Framed as a Model for the best to learn:  
That Verse may Virtue teach, as well as Prose,  
And minds with native force to Good dispose,  
Devotion stir, and quicken cold Desires,  
To entertain the warmth of holy Fires.  
There may we see thy Soul exspaciate,  
And with true fervour sweetly meditate  
Upon our Saviour's sufferings; that while  
Thou seekest his painful torments to beguile,  
With well-tuned Accents of thy zealous Song,  
Breathed from a soul transfixed; a Passion strong,  
We better knowledge of his woes attain,  
Fall into Tears with thee, and then again,  
Rise with thy Verse to celebrate the Flood  
Of those eternal Torrents of his Blood.  
Nor less delight (Things serious set apart)  
Thy sportive Poems yield with heedful Art  
Composed so, to minister content,  
That though we there think only Wit is meant,  
We quickly by a happy error, find  
In cloudy words, clear Lamps to light the mind.  
Then bless that Muse, which by untrodden ways  
Pursuing Virtue, meets deserved Bays  
To crown itself, and wand'ring souls reduce  
From paths of Ignorance, and wits abuse;  
And may the best of English Laureates strive,  
Thus, their own Funeral Ashes to survive.   
Thomas Hawkins.   

To the worthy Muse of his Noble Friend, Sir john Beaumond, Knight Baronet.  

WE do not usher forth thy Verse with these,  
That thine may by our praise the better please:  
That were impertinent, and we too weak,  
To add a grace, where every line doth speak,  
And sweetly Echo out in this rich store,  
All we can any way pretend, and more.  
Yet since we stand engaged, we this make known,  
Thy Lays are unaffected; Free; Thine own;  
Thy Periods, Clear; Expressions, Genuine;  
Muse most Emphatical; and Wit, Divine.   
Thomas Hawkins.   

A Congratulation to the Muses, for the immortalising of his dear Father, by the sacred Virtue of Poetry.  

YE heavenly Sisters, by whose sacred skill,  
Sweet sounds are raised upon the forked hill  
Of high Parnassus: You, whose tuned strings  
Can cause the Birds to stay their nimble wings,  
And silently admire: before whose feet,  
The Lambs, as fearless, with the Lions meet.  
You, who the Harp of Orpheus so inspired,  
That from the Stygian Lake he safe retired;  
You could Amphion's Harp with virtue fill,  
That even the stones were pliant to his will.  
To you, you therefore I my Verse direct,  
From whom such beams celestial can reflect  
On that dear Author of my life inspired  
With heavenly heat, and sacred Fury fired;  
Whose Vigour, quenched by death, you now revive,  
And in this Book conserve him still alive.  
Here lives his better part, here shines that Flame,  
Which lights the entrance to eternal Fame.  
These are his Triumphs over death, this Spring  
From Aganippe's Fountains he could bring  
Clear from all dross, through pure intentions drained,  
His draughts no sensual waters ever stained.  
Behold, he doth on every paper strew  
The loyal thoughts he did his Sovereign owe.  
Here rest affections to each nearest friend,  
And pious sighs, which noble thoughts attend;  
Parnassus him contains, placed in the Choir  
With Poets: what then can we more desire  
To have of him? Perhaps an empty voice,  
While him we wrong with our content less choice,  
To you I this attribute, Sisters nine;  
For only you can cause this Work divine;  
By none but you could these bright fires be found;  
Prometheus is not from the Rock unbound,  
No Aesculapius still remains on earth,  
To give Hippolytus a second birth.  
Since then such Godlike powers in you remain,  
To work these wonders, let some soul contain  
His spirit of sweet music, and infuse  
Into some other breast his sparkling Muse.  
But you perhaps, that all your power may speak:  
Will choose to work on subjects dull and weak:  
Choose me, inspire my frozen breast with heat,  
No Deed you ever wrought, can seem more great.   
john Beaumond.   

Upon the following Poems of my dear Father, Sir john Beaumond, Baronet, deceased.  

YOu, who prepare to read grave Beaumont's Verse,  
And at your entrance view my lowly strains,  
Expect no flattering praises torcherse  
The rare perfections, which this Book contains.   

But only here in these few Lines, behold  
The debt which I unto a Parent owe;  
Who, though I cannot his true Worth unsold,  
May yet at least a due affection show.   

For should I strive to deck the Virtue's high,  
Which in these Poems (like fair Gems) appear;  
I might as well add brightness to the sky,  
Or with new splendour make the Sun more clear.   

Since every Line is with such beauties graced,  
That nothing further can their praises sound:  
And that dear Name which on the Front is placed,  
Declares what ornaments within are found.   

That Name, I say, in whom the Muses meet,  
And with such heat his Noble spirit raise,  
That Kings admire his Verse, whilst at his feet,  
Orpheus his Harp, and Phoebus casts his Bays.   

Whom, though fierce death hath taken from our sights  
And caused that curious Hand to write no more;  
Yet marvel not if from the fun'r all Rites  
Proceed these branches never seen before.   

For from the Corn arise not fruitful Ears,  
Except at first the earth receive the same:  
Nor those rich Odours which Arabia bears,  
Send forth sweet smells, unless consumed with flame.   

So from the ashes of this Phoenix fly  
These offsprings, which with such fresh glory shine;  
That whilst time runneth, he shall never dye,  
But still be honoured in this famous Shrine:  
To which, this Verse alone I humbly give;  
He was before: but now begins to live.   
Francis Beaumond.   

Upon these Poems of his dearest Brother, Sir john Beaumond, Baronet.  

WHen lines are drawn greater than Nature, Art  
Commands the Object, and the Eye to part,  
Bids them to keep at distance, know their place,  
Where to receive, and where to give their grace;  
I am too near thee, Beaumond, to define  
Which of those Lineaments is most divine,  
And to stand farther off from thee, I choose  
In silence rather to applaud thy Muse,  
And lose my censure; 'tis enough for me  
To joy, my Pen was taught to move by thee.   
George Fortescue.   

On the honoured Poems of his honoured Friend, Sir john Beaumond, Baronet.  

THis Book will live; It hath a Genius: This  
Above his Reader, or his Prayser, is.  
Hence, then profane: Here needs no words expense  
In Bulwarks, Rau'lins, Ramparts, for defence,  
Such, as the creeping common pioneers use  
When they do sweat to fortify a Muse.  
Though I confess a Beaumont's Book to be  
The Bound, and Frontier of our poetry;  
And doth deserve all muniments of praise,  
That Art, or Engine on the strength can raise.  
Yet, who dares offer a redoubt to rear?  
To cut a Dike? or stick a Stake up, here,  
Before this work? where Envy hath not cast  
A Trench against it, nor a Battery placed?  
Stay till she make her vain Approaches. Then  
If maimed, she come off, 'tis not of men  
This Fort of so impregnable access,  
But higher power, as spite could not make less,  
Nor flattery! but secured, by the Author's Name,  
D●●ies, what's cross to Piety, or good Fame.  
And like a hallowed Temple, free from taint  
Of Ethnicisme, makes his Muse a Saint.   
Ben▪ jonson.   

To the dear Remembrance of his Noble Friend, Sir john Beaumond, Baronet.  

THis Posthumus, from the brave Parents Name,  
Likely to be the heir of so much Fame,  
〈◊〉 have at all no portion by my praise:  
●●●ly this poor Branch of my withering Bays  
offer to it; and am very glad,  
●et have this; which if I better had,  
●●y Love should build an Altar, and thereon  
●ould offer up such Wreaths as long agone,  
●●ose daring Grecians, and proud Romans crowned;  
●●●ing that honour to their most Renowned.   

But that brave World is past, and we are light,  
After those glorious days, into the night  
Of these base times, which not one Heröe have,  
Only an empty Title, which the grave  
Shall soon devour; whence it no more shall sound,  
Which never got up higher than the ground.   

Thy care for that which was not worth thy breath,  
Brought on too soon thy much lamented death.  
But Heaven was kind, and would not let thee see  
The Plagues that must upon this Nation be,  
By whom the Muses have neglected been.  
Which shall add weight and measure to their sin;  
And have already had this curse from us,  
That in their pride they should grow barbarous.   

There is no splendour, that our Pens can give  
By our most laboured lines, can make thee live  
Like to thine own, which able is to raise  
So lasting pillars to prop up thy praise,  
As time shall hardly shake, until it shall  
Ruin those things, that with itself must fall.   
Mi. Drayton.   

Ad posthumum opus D. Io. Bello-Montij Equitis aurati & Baronetti, viri Nobilissimi, H●ndecasyllabon.  

LEctum discubui; biceps gemello  
Parnassus bijugo imminebat: unde  
Fontes desiliunt leues, loquaces;  
Pellucent vitreo liquore sontes.  
Sudo sub loue, sydere & secundo  
Discumbo. Teneras rosas pererro  
Narcissum, Violas odore gratas,  
Vnguento Ambrosio has & has refectas.  
Quas inter Philomela cantitillat  
Praepes, blandula, mellilinguis ales.  
Quas inter volitant Apollinesque,  
Et Musae Veneresque mille, mille.   

Insomne hoc sibi somnium quid audet?  
Altum effare noëma bello-montis:  
Effatum euge! Poëma Bello-montî est  
Dium, castalium nitens, politum;  
Libatum salibus, lepore tinctum.  
Decurrens velut amnis alti monte  
Feruet delicijs, ruit profundo  
Beaumontus latice. Altiùs resultat  
Fertur, nec tenui nec usitatâ  
Pennâ per liquidam aetheram, biformis.  
Hic Phoebi deus est, decus cohortis  
Summum Palladiae, iubar sororum,  
Ipse & flos Venerum, resurgo; legi.   
Ph. Kin.   

Upon the Honoured Poems of his Unknown Friend, Sir john Beaumond, Baronet.  

I Knew thee not, I speak it to my shame:  
But by that clear, and equal Voice of Fame,  
Which (with the Sun's bright course) did jointly bear  
Thy glorious Name, about each Hemisphere.  
While I who had confined myself to dwell  
Within the straight bounds of an obscure Cell,  
●oke in those pleasing beams of Wit and Worth,  
Which, where the Sun could never shine, break forth:  
Wherewith I did refresh my weaker sight,  
●hen others bathed themselves in thy full light.  
●●t when the dismal rumour was once spread,  
●●at struck all knowing souls, of Beaumond dead:  
Above thy best Friends 'twas my benefit,  
〈◊〉 know thee only by thy living Wit;  
And whereas others might their loss deplore,  
Thou livest to me just as thou didst before.  
In all that we can value Great or Good,  
Which were not in these clothes of flesh and blood,  
Thou now hast laid aside, but in that mind,  
That only by 〈…〉 could be confined,  
Thou livest to me, and shalt for ever rain,  
In both the issues of thy Blood and Brain.   
ja. Cl.   

Bosworth Field: WITH CERTAIN OTHER POEMS, etc.  

THe Winter's storm of Civil war I sing,  
Whose end is crowned with our eternal Spring,  
Where Roses joined, their colours mix in one,  
And armies fight no more for England's Throne.  
Thou gracious Lord, direct my seeble Pen,  
Who (from the actions of ambitious men,)  
Hast by thy goodness drawn our joyful good,  
And made sweet flowers, & Olives grow from blood,  
While we delighted with this fair release,  
May climb Parnassus, in the days of peace.   

The King (whose eyes were never fully closed,  
Whose mind oppressed, with fearful dreams supposed,  
That he in blood had wallowed all the night)  
Leaps from his restless bed, before the light:  
Accursed Tirell is the first he spies,  
Whom threatening with his dagger, thus he cries;  
How dar'st thou, villain, so disturb my sleep,  
Were not the smothered children buried deep?  
And hath the ground again been ripped by thee,  
That I their rotten carcases might see?  
The wretch astonished, hastes away to slide,  
(As damned ghosts themselves in darkness hide)  
And calls up three, whose counsels could assuage  
The sudden swellings of the Prince's rage:  
Ambitious Lovel, who to gain his grace,  
Had stained the honour of his Noble race:  
Perfidious Catesby, by whose curious skill,  
The Law was taught to speak his Masters will:  
And Ratcliff, deeply learned in courtly Art,  
Who best could search into his Sovereign's hart;  
Affrighted Richard, labours to relate  
His hideous dreams, as signs of hapless Fate:  
Alas (said they) such fictions children fear,  
These are not terrors, showing danger near,  
But motives sent by some propitious power,  
To make you watchful at this early hour;  
These prove that your victorious care prevents  
Your slothful foes, that slumber in their tents,  
This precious time must not in vain be spent,  
Which God (your help) by heavenly means hath lent.  
He (by these false conjectures) much appeased,  
Contemning fancies, which his mind diseased,  
Replies: I should have been ashamed to tell  
Fond dreams to wise men: whether Heaven or Hell,  
Or troubled Nature these effects hath wrought:  
I know, this day requires another thought,  
If some resistless strength my cause should cross,  
Fear will increase, and not redeem the loss;  
All dangers clouded with the mist offeare,  
Seem great far off, but lessen coming near.  
Away, ye black illusions of the night,  
If ye combined with Fortune, have the might  
To hinder my designs: ye shall not bar  
My courage seeking glorious death in war.  
Thus being cheered, he calls aloud for arms,  
And bids that all should rise, whom Morpheus charms.  
Bring me (saith he) the harness that I wore  
At Teuxbury▪ which from that day no more  
Hath felt the batteries of a civil strife,  
Nor stood between destruction and my life.  
Upon his breastplate he beholds a dint,  
Which in that field young Edward's sword did print:  
This stirs remembrance of his heinous guilt,  
When he that Prince's blood so foully spilt.  
Now fully armed, he takes his helmet bright,  
Which like a twinkling star, with trembling light  
Sends radiant lustre through the darksome air;  
This mask will make his wrinkled visage fair.  
But when his head is covered with the steel,  
He tells his servants, that his temples feel  
Deepe-piercing stings, which breed unusual pains,  
And of the heavy burden much complains.  
Some mark his words, as tokens framed t'express  
The sharp conclusion of a sad success.  
Then going forth, and finding in his way  
A soldier of the Watch, who sleeping lay;  
Enraged to see the wretch neglect his part,  
He strikes a sword into his trembling heart,  
The hand of death, and iron dulness takes  
Those leaden eyes, which natural ease forsakes:  
The King this morning sacrifice commends,  
And for example, thus the fact defends;  
I leave him as I found him, fit to keep  
The silent doors of everlasting sleep.   

Still Richmond slept: for worldly care and fear  
Have times of pausing, when the soul is clear,  
While Heaven's Director, whose revengeful brow  
Would to the guilty head no rest allow,  
Looks on the other part with milder eyes:  
At his command an Angel swiftly flies  
From sacred truths perspicuous gate, to bring  
A crystal vision on his golden wing.  
This Lord thus sleeping, thought he saw and knew  
His lamblike Uncle, whom that Tiger slew,  
Whose powerful words encourage him to fight:  
Go●●n just scourge of murder, virtues light,  
The combat, which thou shalt this day endure,  
Makes England's peace for many ages sure,  
Thy strong invasion cannot be withstood,  
The earth assists thee with the cry of blood,  
The heaven shall bless thy hopes, and crown thy joys,  
See how the Fiends with loud and dismal noise,  
〈◊〉 Presaging Vultures, greedy of their prey)  
On Richard's tent their scaly wings display.  
The holy King then offered to his view  
A lively tree, on which three branches grew:  
But when the hope offruit had made him glad,  
All fell to dust: at which the Earl was sad;  
Yet comfort comes again, when from the root  
He sees a bough into the North to shoot,  
Which nourished there, extends itself from thence,  
And girds this Island with a firm defence:  
There he beholds a high, and glorious Throne,  
Where sits a King by Laurel Garlands known,  
Like bright Apollo in the Muse's quires,  
His radiant eyes are watchful heavenly fires,  
Beneath his feet pale Envy bites her chain,  
And snaky Discord whets her sting in vain.  
Thou seest (said Henry) wise and potent james,  
This, this is he, whose happy Union tames  
The savage Feudes, and shall those lets deface,  
Which keep the Bordrers from a dear embrace;  
Both Nations shall in Britain's Royal Crown,  
Their differing names, the signs of faction drown;  
The silver streams which from this Spring increase,  
Bedew all Christian hearts with drops of peace;  
Observe how hopeful Charles is borne t'assuage  
The winds, that would disturb this golden age.  
When that great King shall full of glory leave  
The earth as base, then may this Prince receive  
The Diadem, without his Father's wrong,  
May take it late, and may possess it long;  
Above all Europe's Princes shine thou bright,  
O Gods selected care, and man's delight.  
Here gentle sleep forsook his clouded brows,  
And full of holy thoughts, and pious vows,  
He kissed the ground as soon as he arose,  
When watchful Digby, who among his foes  
Had wandered unsuspected all the night,  
Reports that Richard is prepared to fight.   

Long since the King had thought it time to send  
For trusty Norfolk, his undaunted friend,  
Who hasting from the place of his abode,  
Found at the door, a world of papers strowed;  
Some would affright him from the Tyrant's aid,  
Affirming that his Master was betrayed;  
Some laid before him all those bloody deeds,  
From which a line of sharp revenge proceeds  
With much compassion, that so brave a Knight  
Should serve a Lord against whom Angels fight,  
And others put suspicions in his mind,  
That Richard most observed, was most unkind.  
The Duke awhile these cautious words revolues  
With serious thoughts, and thus at last resolves;  
●f all the Camp prove traitors to my Lord,  
Shall spotless Norfolk falsify his word;  
Mine oath is past, I swore t'uphold his Crown,  
And that shall swim, or I with it will drown.  
It is too late now to dispute the right;  
Dare any tongue, since York spread forth his light,  
Northumberland, or Buckingham defame,  
Two valiant Cliffords, Roos, or Beaumont's name,  
Because they in the weaker quarrel die?  
They had the King with them, and so have I.  
But every eye the face of Richard shuns,  
For that foul murder of his brother's sons:  
Yet laws of Knighthood gave me not a sword  
To strike at him, whom all with joint accord  
Have made my Prince, to whom I tribute bring:  
I hate his vices, but adore the King.  
Victorious Edward, if thy soul can hear  
Thy servant Howard, I devoutly swear,  
That to have saved thy children from that day,  
My hopes on earth should willingly decay;  
Would Glouster then, my perfect faith had tried,  
And made two graves, when noble Hastings died.  
This said, his troops he into order draws,  
Then doubled haste redeems his former pause:  
So stops the Sailor for a voyage bound,  
When on the Sea he hears the tempests sound,  
Till pressing hunger to remembrance sends,  
That on his course his households life depends:  
With this he clears the doubts that vexed his mind,  
And puts his ship to mercy of the wind.   

The Duke's stout presence and courageous looks,  
Were to the King as falls of sliding brooks,  
Which bring a gentle and delightful rest  
To weary eyes, with grievous care oppressed:  
He bids that Norfolk and his hopeful son,  
(Whose rising fame in Arms this day begun)  
Should lead the vanguard: for so great command,  
He dares not trust, in any other hand;  
The rest he to his own advice refers,  
And as the spirit, in that body stirs,  
Then putting on his Crown, a fatal sign,  
(So offered beasts near death in Garlands shine,)  
He rides about the ranks, and strives t' inspire  
Each breast with part of his unwearied fire,  
To those who had his brother's servants been,  
And had the wonders of his valour seen,  
He saith: My fellow Soldiers, though your swords  
Are sharp, and need not whetting by my words;  
Yet call to mind those many glorious days,  
In which we treasured up immortal praise,  
If when I served, I ever fled from foe▪  
Fly ye from mine, let me be punished so:  
But if my Father, when at first he tried,  
How all his sons, could shining blades abide,  
Found me an Eagle, whose undazled eyes  
Affront the beams, which from the steel arise,  
And if I now in action, teach the same,  
Know then, ye have but changed your Gen'ralls' name,  
Be still yourselves, ye fight against the dross  
Of those, that oft have run from you with loss:  
How many Somersets', dissensions brands  
Have felt the force of our revengeful hands?  
From whom this youth, as from a princely flood,  
Derives his best, yet not untainted blood;  
Have our assaults made Lancaster to droop?  
And shall this Welshman with his ragged troop,  
Subdue the Norman, and the Saxon line,  
That only Merlin may be thought divine?  
See what a guide, these fugitives have chose?  
Who bred among the French our ancient foes,  
Forgets the English language, and the ground,  
And knows not what our drums, & trumpets sound.  
To others minds, their willing oaths he draws,  
He tells his just decrees, and healthful laws,  
And makes large proffers of his future grace.  
Thus having ended, with as cheerful face,  
As Nature, which his stepdame still was thought,  
Could lend to one, without proportion wrought,  
Some with loud shouting, make the valleys ring,  
But most with murmur sigh: God save the King.   

Now careful Henry sends his servant Bray  
To Stanley, who accounts it safe to stay,  
And dares not promise, lest his haste should bring  
His son to death, now prisoner with the King.  
About the same time, Brakenbury came,  
And thus, to Stanley saith, in Richard's name,  
My Lord, the King salutes you, and commands  
That to his aid, you bring your ready bands,  
Or else he swears by him that sits on high,  
Before the armies join, your son shall die.  
At this the Lord stood, like a man that hears  
The judge's voice, which condemnation bears  
Till gathering up his spirits, he replies:  
My fellow Hastings death hath made me wise,  
More than my dream could him, for I no more  
Will trust the tusks of the angry Boar;  
If with my George's blood, he stain his throne,  
I thank my God, I have more sons then one:  
Yet to secure his life, I quiet stand  
Against the King, not lifting up my hand.  
The Messenger departs of hope denied.  
Then noble Stanley, taking Bray aside,  
Saith: Let my son proceed, without despair  
Assisted by his mother's alms, and prayer,  
God will direct both him, and me to take,  
Best courses, for that blessed woman's sake.  
The Earl by this delay, was not inclined,  
To fear nor anger, knowing Stanleyes' mind,  
But calling all his chief Commanders near,  
He boldly speaks, while they attentive hear.  
〈◊〉 is in vain, brave friends, to show the right  
●hich we are forced to seek by civil fight.  
●ur swords are brandished in a noble cause,  
●o free your Country from a Tyrant's jaws.  
●hat angry Planet? What disastrous Sign  
●irects Plantagenets afflicted Line?  
●h, was it not enough, that mutual rage  
〈◊〉 deadly battles should this race engage,  
●ill by their blows themselves they fewer make,  
And pillars fall, which France could never shake?  
But must this crooked Monster now be found,  
To lay rough hands on that unclosed wound?  
His secret plots have much increased the flood,  
He with his brothers, and his nephews blood,  
Hath stained the brightness of his Father's flowers,  
And made his own white Rose as red as ours.  
This is the day, whose splendour puts to flight  
Obscuring clouds, and brings an age of light.  
We see no hindrance of those wished times,  
But this Usurper, whose depressing crimes  
Will drive him from the mountain where he stands,  
So that he needs must fall without our hands.  
In this we happy are, that by our arms,  
Both York and Lancaster revenge their harms.  
Here Henry's servants join with Edward's friends,  
And leave their private griefs for public ends.  
Thus ceasing, he implores th' Almighty's grace,  
And bids, that every Captain take his place.  
His speech was answered, with a general noise  
Of acclamations, doubtless signs of joys  
Which soldiers uttered, as they forward went,  
The sure forerunners of a fair event;  
So when the Winter, to the Spring bequeathes  
The rule of time, and mild Favonius breathes,  
A choir of Swans, to that sweet Music sings,  
The Air resounds, the motion of their wings,  
When over plains, they fly in ordered ranks,  
To sport themselves, upon Caïsters' banks,   

Bold Oxford leads the vanguard up amain,  
Whose valiant offers, heretofore were vain,  
When he his love to Lancaster expressed,  
But now, with more indulgent Fortune blest,  
His men he toward Norfolk's quarter drew,  
And strait the one, the others Ensigns knew,  
For they in several armies, were displayed,  
This oft in Edward's, that in Henry's aid:  
The sad remembrance of those bloody fights,  
Incensed new anger, in these noble Knights,  
A marish lay between, which Oxford leaves  
Upon his right hand, and the Sun receives  
Behind him, with advantage of the place,  
For Norfolk must endure it on his face,  
And yet his men, advance their spears, and swords,  
Against this succour, which the heaven affords,  
His horse, and foot possessed the field in length,  
While bowmen went before them, for their strength:  
Thus marching forth, they set on Oxford's band,  
●e fears their number, and with strict command,  
●is soldiers closely, to the standard draws:  
●hen howard's troops amazed, begin to pause,  
●hey doubt the slights of battle, and prepare,  
●o guard their valour, with a trench of care.  
●his sudden stop, made warlike Vere more bold,  
●o see their fury, in a moment cold,  
●is ranks he in a larger form displays,  
Which all were Archers, counted in those days,  
The best of English soldiers, for their skill,  
Could guide their shafts, according to their will,  
The feathered wood, they from their bows let fly,  
No arrow fell, but caused some man to die:  
So painful Bees, with forward gladness strive,  
To join themselves, in throngs before the hive,  
And with obedience, till that hour attend,  
When their commander, shall his watchword send:  
Then to the winds, their tender sails they yield,  
Depress the flowers, depopulate the field:  
Wise Norfolk to avoid these shafts the more,  
Contrives his battle thin, and sharp before,  
He thus attempts to pierce into the hart,  
And break the orders of the adverse part,  
As when the Cranes direct their flight, on high,  
To cut their way, they in a Trigon fly,  
Which pointed figure, may with ease divide  
Opposing blasts, through which they swiftly glide.   

But now the wings make haste to Oxford's aid,  
The left by valiant Savage was displayed,  
His lusty soldiers were attired in white,  
They move like drifts of snow, whose sudden fright  
Constrains the weary passenger to stay,  
And beating on his face, confounds his way.  
Brave Talbot led the right, whose Grandsires name  
Was his continual spur, to purchase fame:  
Both these rushed in, while Norfolk like a wall,  
Which oft with engines cracked, disdains to fall,  
Maintains his station by defensive fight,  
Till Surrey pressing forth, with youthful might,  
Sends many shadows to the gates of death.  
When dying mouths had gasped forth purple breath,  
His father follows: Age and former pains  
Had made him slower, yet he still retains  
His ancient vigour; and with much delight  
To see his son do marvels in his sight,  
He seconds him, and from the branches cleaves  
Those clusters, which the former Vintage leaves.  
Now Oxford flies (as lightning) through his troops,  
And with his presence cheers the part that droops:  
His brave endeavours, Surreyes' force restrain  
Like banks, at which the Ocean storms in vain.  
The swords and armours shine as sparkling coals,  
Their clashing drowns the groans of parting souls;  
The peaceful neighbours, who had long desired  
To find the causes of their fear expired,  
●re newly grieved, to see this scarlet flood,  
●nd English ground bedewed with English blood.  
rout Rice and Herbert lead the power of Wales,  
●heir zeal to Henry, moves the hills and dales  
●o sound their Countryman's beloved name,  
Who shall restore the British offsprings fame;  
●hese make such slaughter with their galues & hooks,  
●hat careful Bards may fill their precious books  
With praises, which from warlike actions spring,  
●nd take new themes, when to their Harps they sing.  
●esides these soldiers borne within this I'll,  
We must not of their part, the French beguile,  
Whom Charles for Henry's succour did provide,  
● Lord of Scotland, Bernard, was their guide,  
● blossom of the Stuarts happy line,  
Which is on Britain's Throne ordained to shine:  
The Sun, whose rays, the heaven with beauty crown,  
From his ascending to his going down,  
Saw not a braver Leader, in that age;  
And Bosworth field must be the glorious stage,  
In which this Northern Eagle learns to fly,  
And tries those wings, which after raise him high,  
When he beyond the snowy Alps renowned,  
Shall plant French Lilies in Italian ground;  
And cause the craggy Apennine to know,  
What fruits on Caledonian mountains grow.  
Now in this civil war, the troops of France,  
Their banners dare on English air advance,  
And on their lance's points, destruction bring,  
To fainting servants of the guilty King,  
When heretofore, they had no power to stand,  
Against our armiees in their native land,  
But melting fled, as wax before the flame,  
Dismayed with thunder of Saint George's name.   

Now Henry, with his uncle Pembroke moves,  
The rearward on, and Stanley then approves  
His love to Richmond's person, and his cause,  
He from his army of three thousand, draws  
A few choice men, and bids the rest obey  
His valiant brother, who shall prove this day,  
As famous as great Warwick, in whose hand,  
The fate of England's Crown, was thought to stand:  
With these he closely steals, to help his friend,  
While his main forces stir not, but attend  
The younger Stanley, and to Richard's eye  
Appear not parties, but as standers by.  
Yet Stanleyes' words, so much the King incense,  
That he exclaims: This is a false pretence:  
His doubtful answer, shall not save his son,  
Young Strange shall die: see, Catesby, this be done.  
Now like a Lamb, which taken from the folds,  
The slaughterman, with rude embraces holds,  
And for his throat, prepares a whetted knife,  
So goes this harmless Lord, to end his life,  
The axe is sharpened, and the block prepared,  
But worthy Ferrer, equal portion shared,  
Of grief and terror which the prisoner felt,  
His tender eyes in tears of pity melt,  
And hasting to the King, he boldly said;  
My Lord, too many bloody stains are laid  
By envious tongues upon your peaceful reign;  
〈◊〉 may their malice ever speak in vain:  
Afford not this advantage to their spite,  
None should be killed to day, but in the fight:  
●our Crown is strongly fixed, your cause is good▪  
●ast not upon it drops of harmless blood;  
His life is nothing, yet will dear cost,  
●f while you seek it, we perhaps have lost  
Occasions of your conquest, thither fly,  
Where Rebels armed, with cursed blades shall die,  
And yield in death to your victorious awe:  
Let naked hands be censured by the Law.  
●uch power his speech and seemly action hath,  
●● mollifies the Tyrant's bloody wrath,  
And he commands, that Stranges' death be stayed.  
The noble Youth (who was before dismayed  
At deaths approaching sight) now sweetly clears  
His cloudy sorrows, and forgets his fears.  
As when a Steare to burning Altars led,  
Expecting fatal blows to cleave his head,  
●s by the Priest for some religious cause  
Sent back to live, and now in quiet draws  
The open air, and takes his wont food,  
And never thinks how near to death he stood:   

The King, though ready, yet his march delayed,  
To have Northumberlands expected aid.  
To him, industrious Ratcliff swiftly hies;  
But Percy greets him thus: My troubled eyes  
This night beheld my father's angry ghost,  
Advising not to join with Richard's host:  
Wilt thou (said he) so much obscure my shield,  
To bear mine azure Lion in the field  
With such a General? Ask him, on which side  
His sword was drawn, when I at Towton died.  
When Richard knew that both his hopes were vain,  
He forward sets with cursing and disdain,  
And cries: Who would not all these Lords detest?  
When Percy changeth, like the Moon his crest.  
This speech the heart of noble Ferrer rend:  
He answers: Sir though many dare repent,  
That which they cannot now without your wrong,  
And only grieve they have been true too long,  
My breast shall never bear so foul a stain,  
If any ancient blood in me remain,  
Which from the Norman Conqueror's taken descent,  
It shall be wholly in your service spent;  
I will obtain to day alive or dead,  
The Crowns that grace a faithful soldier's head.  
Blessed be thy tongue (replies the King,) in thee  
The strength of all thine Ancestors I see,  
Extending warlike arms for England's good,  
By thee their heir, in valour as in blood.   

But here we leave the King, and must review  
●●ose sons of Mars, who cruel blades imbrue  
Rivers sprung from hearts that bloodless lie,  
●nd ●●aine their shining arms in sanguine die.  
●●re valiant Oxford and fierce Norfolk meet,  
●nd with their spears each other rudely greet;  
●bout the air the shiverd pieces play,  
●●en on their swords their noble hands they lay,  
●●d Norfolk first a blow directly guides  
〈◊〉 Oxford's head, which from his helmet slides  
●pon his arm, and biting through the steel,  
●flicts a wound, which Vere disdains to feel,  
〈◊〉 lifts his falchion with a threatening grace,  
●nd hews the beaver off from howard's face.  
●his being done, he with compassion charmed,  
retires, ashamed to strike a man disarmed:  
〈◊〉 strait a deadly shaft sent from a bow,  
Whose Master, though far off, the Duke could know  
●ntimely brought this combat to an end,  
●nd pierced the brain of Richard's constant friend.  
When Oxford saw him sink, his noble soul  
Was full of grief, which made him thus condole:  
●●rewell, true Knight, to whom no costly grave  
●●n give due honour: would my tears might save  
●●ose streams of blood, deserving to be spilt  
〈◊〉 better service: had not Richard's guilt  
●●ch heavy weight upon his fortune laid,  
〈◊〉 glorious virtues had his sins out weighed.  
Courageous Talbot had with Surrey met,  
And after many blows begins to fret,  
That one so young in Arms should thus unmoved,  
Resist his strength, so oft in war approved.  
And now the Earl beholds his father fall;  
Whose death like horrid darkness frighted all:  
Some give themselves as captives, others fly,  
But this young Lion casts his generous eye  
On Mowbrayes' Lion, painted in his shield,  
And with that King of beasts, repines to yield:  
The field (saith he) in which the Lion stands,  
Is blood, and blood I offer to the hands  
Of daring foes; but never shall my flight  
Die black my Lion, which as yet is white.  
His enemies (like cunning Huntsmen) strive  
In binding snares, to take their prey alive,  
While he desires t'expose his naked breast,  
And thinks the sword that deepest strikes, is best.  
Young Howard single with an army fights,  
When moved with pity, two renowned Knights,  
Strong Clarindon, and valiant Coniers try  
To rescue him, in which attempt they die;  
For Savage red with blood of slaughtered foes,  
Doth them in midst of all his troops enclose,  
Where though the Captain for their safety strives,  
Yet base hands deprive them of their lives.  
Now Surrey fainting, scarce his sword can hold,  
Which made a common soldier grow so bold,  
To lay rude hands upon that noble flower;  
Which he disdaigning (anger gives him power)  
sects his weapon with a nimble round,  
●●d sends the Peasant's arm to kiss the ground.  
●●is done, to Talbot he presents his blade,  
●●d saith, It is not hope of life hath made  
●●is my submission, but my strength is spent,  
●nd some perhaps, of villain blood will vent  
My weary soul: this favour I demand,  
●●at I may die by your victorious hand.  
●ay, God forbid that any of my name,  
Quoth Talbot) should put out so bright a flame,  
As burns in thee (brave Youth) where thou hast erred,  
〈◊〉 was thy father's fault, since he preferred  
Tyrants crown before the juster side.  
●●e Earl still mindful of his birth, replied,  
wonder (Talbot) that thy noble hart  
●ults on ruins of the vanquished part:  
〈◊〉 had the right, if now to you it flow,  
●●e fortune of your swords hath made it so:  
●euer will my luckless choice repent,  
●or can it stain mine honour or descent,  
〈◊〉 England's Royal Wreath upon a stake,  
●●ere will I sight, and not the place for sake:  
●nd if the will of God hath so disposed,  
●●at Richmond's brow be with the Crown enclosed,  
●hall to him, or his give doubtless signs,  
●hat duty in my thoughts, not faction, shines.  
The earnest soldiers still the chase pursue:  
But their Commanders grieve they should imbrue  
Their swords in blood which springs from English vein  
The peaceful sound of trumpets them restrains  
From further slaughter, with a mild retreat  
To rest contented in this first defeat.   

The King intended at his setting out,  
To help his Vanguard, but a nimble scout  
Runs crying; Sir, I saw not far from hence,  
Where Richmond hovers with a small defence,  
And like one guilty of some heinous ill,  
Is covered with the shade of yonder hill.  
The Raven almost famished, joys not more,  
When restless billows tumble to the shore  
A heap of bodies shipwrackt in the seas,  
Then Richard with these news himself doth ple●●  
He now diverts his course another way,  
And with his Army led in fair array,  
Ascends the rising ground, and taking view  
Of Henry's soldiers, sees they are but few:  
Imperial courage fires his noble breast,  
He sets a threatening spear within his rest,  
Thus saying: All true Knights, on me attend,  
I soon will bring this quarrel to an end:  
If none will follow, if all faith be gone,  
Behold▪ I go to try my cause alone.  
He strikes his spurs into his horse's side,  
With him stout Lovel and bold Ferrer ride;  
To them brave Ratcliff, generous Clifton haste,  
Old Brakenbury scorns to be the last:  
As borne with wings, all worthy spirits fly,  
Resolved for safety of their Prince to dye;  
And Catesby to this number adds his name,  
Though pale with fear, yet overcomne with shame.  
Their boldness Richmond dreads not, but admires;  
He sees their motion like to rolling fires,  
Which by the wind along the fields are borne  
Amidst the trees, the hedges, and the corn,  
Where they the hopes of husbandmen consume,  
And fill the troubled Air with dusky fume.  
Now as a careful Lord of neighbouring grounds,  
He keeps the flame from entering in his bounds,  
Each man is warned to hold his station sure,  
Prepared with courage strong assaults t'endure:  
But all in vain, no force, no warlike Art,  
From sudden breaking can preserve that part,  
Where Richard like a dart from thunder falls:  
His foes give way, and stand as brazen walls  
On either side of his enforced path,  
While he neglects them, and reserves his wrath  
For him whose death these threatening clouds would clear,  
Whom now with gladness he beholdeth near,  
And all those faculties together brings,  
Which move the soul to high and noble things.  
e'en so a Tiger having followed long  
The Hunter's steps that robbed her of her young:  
When first she sees him, is by rage inclined  
Her steps to double, and her teeth to grind.   

Now horse to horse, and man is joined to man  
So strictly, that the soldiers hardly can  
Their adversaries from their fellows know:  
Here each brave Champion singles out his foe.  
In this confusion Brakenbury meets  
With Hungerford, and him thus foully greets:  
Ah traitor, false in breach of faith and love,  
What discontent could thee and Bourchier move,  
Who had so long my fellows been in Arms,  
To fly to Rebels? What seducing charms  
Could on your clouded minds such darkness bring,  
To serve an Outlaw, and neglect the King?  
With these sharp speeches Hungerford enraged,  
T'vphold his honour, thus the battle waged:  
Thy doting age (saith he) delights in words,  
But this aspersion must be tried by swords.  
Then leaving talk, he by his weapon speaks,  
And drives a blow, which Brakenbury breaks,  
By lifting up his left hand, else the steel  
Had pierced his burgonet, and made him feel  
The pangs of death: but now the fury fell  
Upon the hand that did the stroke repel,  
And cuts so large a portion of the shield,  
That it no more can safe protection yield.  
Bold Hungerford disdains his use to make  
Of this advantage, but doth strait forsake  
His massy Target, rendered to his Squire,  
And saith: Let cowards such defence desire.  
This done, these valiant Knights dispose their blades,  
And still the one the others face invades,  
●●ll Brakenburies' helmet giving way  
●o those fierce strokes that Hungerford doth lay,  
unbruised and gapes, which Bourchier fight near,  
Perceives and cries: Brave Hungerford, forbear,  
Bring not those silver hairs to timeless end,  
He was, and may be once again our friend.  
But oh too late! the fatal blow was sent  
From Hungerford, which he may now repent,  
But not recall, and digs a mortal wound  
In Brakenburies' head, which should be crowned  
With precious Metals, and with Bays adorned  
For constant truth appearing, when he scorned  
To stain his hand in those young Prince's blood,  
And like a rock amidst the Ocean stood  
Against the Tyrant's charms, and threats unmoved,  
Though death declares how much he Richard loved.  
Stout Ferrer aims to fix his mighty Lance  
In Pembroke's heart, which on the steel doth glance,  
And runs in vain the empty air to press:  
But Pembroke's spear, obtaining wished success,  
Through Ferrer breastplate, and his body sinks,  
And vital blood from inward vessels drinks.  
Here Stanley, and brave Lovel try their strength,  
Whose equal courage draws the strife to length,  
They think not how they may themselves defen●  
To strike is all their care, to kill their end.  
So meet two Bulls upon adjoining hills  
Of rocky Charnwood, while their murmur fills  
The hollow crags, when striving for their bounds,  
They wash their piercing horns in mutual wound   

If in the midst of such a bloody fight,  
The name of friendship be not thought too light,  
Recount my Muse, how Byron's faithful love  
To dying Clifton did itself approve:  
For Clifton fight bravely in the troop,  
Receives a wound, and now begins to droop:  
Which Byron seeing, though in arms his foe,  
In heart his friend, and hoping that the blow  
Had not been mortal, guards him, with his shield  
From second hurts, and cries, Dear Clifton, yield  
Thou hither cam'st, led by sinister fate,  
Against my first advice, yet now, though late,  
Take this my counsel. Clifton thus replied:  
It is too late, for I must now provide  
To seek another life: live thou, sweet friend,  
And when thy side obtains a happy end,  
Upon the fortunes of my children look,  
Remember what a solemn oath we took,  
That he whose part should prove the best in fight,  
Would with the Conqueror try his utmost might,  
To save the others lands from ravenous paws,  
Which seize on fragments of a luckless cause.  
My father's fall our house had almost drowned,  
But I by chance aboard in shipwreck found.  
May never more such danger threaten mine:  
●eale thou for them, as I would do for thine.  
This said, his senses fail, and powers decay,  
While Byron calls; Stay, worthy Clifton, stay,  
And hear my faithful promise once again,  
Which if I break, may all my deeds be vain.  
But now he knows, that vital breath is fled,  
And needless words are uttered to the dead;  
Into the midst of Richard's strength he flies,  
Presenting glorious acts to Henry's eyes,  
And for his service he expects no more,  
Than Clifton's son from forfeits to restore.   

While Richard bearing down with eager mind,  
The steps by which his passage was confined,  
Lays hands on Henry's Standard as his prey,  
Strong Brandon bore it, whom this fatal day  
Marks with a black note, as the only Knight,  
That on the conquering part forsakes the light.  
But Time, whose wheels with various motion run,  
Repays this service fully to his son,  
Who marries Richmond's daughter, borne between  
Two Royal Parents, and endowed a Queen.  
When now the King perceives that Brandon strives  
To save his charge, he sends a blow that rives  
His skull in twain, and by a gaping hole,  
Gives ample scope to his departing soul,  
And thus insults; Accursed wretch, farewell,  
Thine Ensigns now may be displayed in hell:  
There thou shalt know, it is an odious thing,  
To let thy banner fly against thy King.  
With scorn he throws the Standard to the ground  
When Cheney for his height and strength renowned,  
Steps forth to cover Richmond, now exposed  
To Richard's sword: the King with Cheney closed,  
And to the earth this mighty Giant felled.  
Then like a Stag, whom fences long withheld  
From meadows, where the Spring in glory reigns,  
Now having levelled those unpleasing chains,  
And treading proudly on the vanquished flowers,  
He in his hopes a thousand joys devours:  
For now no power to cross his end remains,  
But only Henry, whom he never deigns  
To name his foe, and thinks he shall not brave  
A valiant Champion, but a yielding slave.  
Alas? how much deceived, when he shall find  
An able body and courageous mind:  
For Richmond boldly doth himself oppose  
Against the King, and gives him blows for blows,  
Who now confesseth with an angry frown,  
His Rival, not unworthy of the Crown.   

The younger Stanley than no longer stayed,  
The Earl in danger needs his present aid,  
Which he performs as sudden as the light,  
His coming turns the balance of the fight.  
So threatening clouds, whose fall the ploughmen fear,  
Which long upon the mountain's top appear,  
Dissolve at last, and vapours than distil  
To watery showers that all the valleys fill.  
The first that saw this dreadful storm arise,  
Was Catesby, who to Richard loudly cries,  
No way but swift retreat your life to save,  
This no shame with wings t'avoid the grave.  
This said, he trembling turns himself to fly,  
And dares not stay, to hear the King's reply,  
Who scorning his advice, as foul and base,  
Returns this answer with a wrathful face,  
Let cowards trust their horses nimble feet,  
And in their course with new destruction meet,  
Gain thou some hours to draw thy fearful breath:  
To me ignoble flight is worse than death.  
But at th'approach of Stanleyes' fresh supply,  
The King's side droops: so generous Horses lie  
Unapt to stir, or make their courage known,  
Which under cruel Masters sink and groan.  
There at his Prince's foot stout Ratcliff dies,  
Not fearing, but despairing, Lovel flies,  
For he shall after end his weary life  
In not so fair, but yet as bold a strife.  
The King maintains the fight, though left alone:  
For Henry's life he fain would change his own,  
And as a Lioness, which compassed round  
With troops of men, receives a smarting wound  
By some bold hand, though hindered and oppressed  
With other spears, yet shghting all the rest,  
Will follow him alone that wronged her first:  
So Richard pressing with revengeful thirst,  
Admits no shape, but Richmond's to his eye,  
And would in triumph on his carcase die:  
But that great God, to whom all creatures yield,  
Protects his servant with a heavenly shield,  
His power, in which the Earl securely trusts,  
Rebates the blows, and falsifies the thrusts.  
The King grows weary, and begins to faint,  
It grieves him that his foes perceive the taint:  
Some strike him, that till then durst not come near,  
With weight and number they to ground him bear,  
Where trampled down, and hewed with many sword  
He softly uttered these his dying words,  
Now strength no longer Fortune can withstand,  
I perish in the Centre of my Land.  
His hand he then with wreathes of grass infolds,  
And bites the earth, which he so strictly holds,  
As if he would have borne it with him hence,  
So loath he was to lose his rights pretence.   
FINIS   

An expression of Sibylls Acrostiches.  

〈…〉 sign that judgement comes, the Earth shall sweat:  
〈…〉 times, behold the Prince, whose might  
〈…〉 censure all within his Kingdom great:  
〈◊〉 ●rue and faithful shall approach his sight,  
〈◊〉 fear this God, by his high glory known,  
〈◊〉 combined with flesh, and compassed with his Saints,  
〈◊〉 words dividing souls before his Throne,  
〈◊〉 ●eeme the world from Thorns and barren taints.  
〈◊〉 vain then mortals leave their wealth, and sin  
●●●ong force the stubborn gates of Hell shall tame:  
●he Saints, though dead, shall light and freedom win:  
sword thrive not wicked men, with wrathful flame  
●pprest, whose beams can search their words and deeds,  
●o darksome breast can cover base desires,  
●ew sorrow, gnashing teeth and wailing breeds;  
●●empt from Sunny rays, or Starry quires,  
〈◊〉 heaven thou art rolled up the Moon shall die,  
●●om vales he takes their depth, from hills their height,  
●●eat men no more are insolent and high:  
〈◊〉 Seas no nimble ships shall carry weight:  
〈◊〉 thunder armed with heat the earth confounds,  
●weet Springs and bubbling Streams their course restrain,  
〈◊〉 heavenly trumpet sending doleful sounds,  
●pbraydes the world's misdeeds, and threatens pain,  
〈◊〉 gaping earth infernal depths are seen;  
Our proudest ●●ngs are summoned by his call  
●nto his seat, from heaven with anger keen  
revengeful floods of fire and brimstone fall.   
VIRGIL.   

VIRGIL. ECLOG. 4.  

CIcilian Muses, sing we greater things,  
All are not pleased with Shrubs, & lowly Sp●●●  
More fitly to the Consul, Woods belong,  
Now is fulfilled Cumaean Sibyls Song,  
Long chains of better times begin again,  
The Maid returns, and brings back Saturn's rai●●  
New progenies from lofty Heaven descend,  
Thouchaste Lucina, be this Infant's friend,  
Whose birth the days of Ir'n shall quite deface,  
And through the world the golden age shall place▪  
Thy brother Phoebus wears his potent Crown,  
And thou (O Pollio) know thy high renown,  
Thy Consulship this glorious change shall breed,  
Great months shall then endeavour to proceed:  
Thy rule the steps of threatening sin shall clear,  
And free the earth from that perpetual fear:  
He with the Gods shall live, and shall behold,  
With heavenly spirits noble souls enroled,  
And seen by them shall guide this worldly frame,  
Which to his hand his father's strength doth tame.  
To thee (sweet Child) the earth brings native dow●  
The wand'ring Iuy, with fair B●cchars flowers,  
●nd Colocasia sprung from Egypt's ground,  
With smiling leaves of green Acanthus crowned,  
●he Goats their swelling udders home shall bear,  
The Droves no more shall mighty Lions fear:  
For thee thy cradle pleasing flowers shall bring,  
Imperious Death shall blunt the Serpent's sting,  
No herbs shall with deceitful poison flow,  
And sweet Amomum every where shall grow.  
But when thou able art to read the facts  
Of Worthies, and thy Father's famous acts,  
To know what glories, virtue's name adorn,  
The fields to ripeness bring the tender corn;  
Ripe Grapes depend on careless Brambles tops;  
Hard Oaks sweat honey, formed in dewy drops,  
Yet some few steps of former frauds remain,  
Which men to try, the Sea with ships constrain?  
With strengthening walls their Cities to defend,  
And on the ground long surrowes to extend,  
A second ●●phys, and ●ew Argo then,  
Shall lead to brave exploits the best of men,  
The war of Troy that Town again shall burn,  
And great Achilles thither shall return.  
But when firm age a perfect man thee makes,  
The willing Sailor strait the Seas forsakes,  
The P●●e no more the use of trade retains,  
Each Country breeds all fruits, the earth disdains  
The Harrows weight, and Vines the sickles strokes;  
Strong Ploughman let their Bulls go free from yokes,  
Wool fears not to dissemble colours strange,  
But Rams their fleeces then in pastures change  
To pleasing Purple, or to Saffron die,  
And Lambs turn ruddy, as they feeding lie.  
The Fates, whose wills in steadfast end agree,  
Command their wheels to run such days to see,  
Attempt great honours, now the time attends,  
Dear Child of Gods, whose line from jove descends  
See how the world with weight declining lies;  
The Earth, the spacious Seas, and arched Skies:  
Behold again, how these their grief assuage  
With expectation of the future age:  
O that my life and breath so long would last  
To tell thy deeds! I should not be surpassed  
By Thracian Orpheus, nor if Linus sing,  
Though they from Phoebus and the Muse's spring:  
Should Pan (Arcadia judging) strive with me,  
Pan by Arcadia's doom would conquered be.  
Begin thou, little Child; by laughter own  
Thy Mother, who ten months hath fully known  
Of tedious hours: begin, thou little Child,  
On whom as yet thy Parents never smiled,  
The God with meat hath not thy hunger fed,  
Nor Goddess laid thee in a little bed.    

An Epigram concerning Man's life composed by Crates, or Posidippus.  

WHat course of life should wretched mortals take?  
In Courts, hard questions, large contention make,  
Care dwells in houses, Labour in the field,  
Tumultuous Seas affrighting dangers yield.  
In foreign Land, thou never canst be blest;  
If rich, thou art in fear; if poor, distressed▪  
In wedlock, frequent discontentments swell:  
Unmarried persons, as in Deserts dwell.  
How many troubles are with children borne?  
Yet he that wants them, counts himself forlorn.  
Young men are wanton, and of wisdom void:  
Grey hairs are cold, unfit to be employed.  
Who would not one of these two offers choose:  
Not to be borne, or breath with speed to lose?    

The answer of Metrodorus.  

IN every way of life, true pleasure flows,  
Immortal Fame, from public action grows:  
Within the doors is found appeasing rest;  
In fields, the gifts of Nature are expressed.  
The Sea brings gain, the rich abroad provide,  
To blaze their names, the poor their wants to hide  
All households best are governed by a wife;  
His cares are light, who leads a single life.  
Sweet children, are delights, which marriage bless  
He that hath none, disturbs his thoughts the less.  
Strong youth, can triumph in victorious deeds:  
Old age the soul, with pious motion feeds.  
All states are good, and they are falsely led,  
Who wish to be unborn, or quickly dead.    

HORAT. LIB. 2. SAT. 6.  

THis was my wish: no ample space of ground,  
T'include my Garden with a mod rate bound,  
And near my house a Fountain never dry,  
A little Wood, which might my wants supply,  
The gods have made me blest with larger store:  
It is sufficient, I desire no more,  
O son of Maia, but this grant alone,  
That quiet use may make these gifts mine own.  
If I increase them by no lawless way,  
Nor through my fault will cause them to decay.  
If not to these fond hopes my thoughts decline,  
O that this joining corner could be mine,  
Which with disgrace deforms, and maims my field,  
Or Fortune would a pot of silver yield,  
(As unto him who being hired to work,  
Discovered treasure, which in mould did lurk,  
And bought the Land, which he before had till▪ d,  
Since friendly Hercules his bosom filled)  
If I with thankful mind these blessings take,  
Disdain not this petition which I make.  
Let ●at in all things, but my wit, be seen,  
And be my safest guard as thou hast been.  
When from the City I myself remove  
Up to the hills, as to a tower above,  
I find no fitter labours, nor delights  
Then Satyrs, which my lowly Muse indites.  
No foul ambition can me there expose  
To danger, nor the leaden wind that blows  
From Southern parts, nor Autumns grievous rain,  
Whence bitter Libitina reaps her gain.  
O father of the morning's purple light!  
Or if thou rather wouldst be janus' height,  
From whose divine beginning, mortals draw  
The pains of life, according to the law,  
Which is appointed by the God's decree,  
Thou shalt the entrance of my verses be.  
At Rome thou drivest me, as a pledge to go,  
That none himself may more officious show.  
Although the fury of the Northern blast  
Shall sweep the earth; or Winter's force hath cast  
The snowy day, into a narrow Sphere,  
I must proceed, and having spoken clear  
And certain truth, must wrestle in the throng,  
Where by my haste, the slower suffer wrong,  
And cry, What ails the mad man? whither ten●  
His speedy steps? while mine imperious friend  
Entreats, and chafes, admitting no delay,  
And I must beat all those, that stop my way.  
The glad remembrance of Maecenas lends  
A sweet content: but when my journey bends,  
To black Esquiliae, there a hundred tides  
Of strangers causes press my head and sides.  
You must, before the second hour, appear  
In Court to morrow, and for Roscius swear.  
The Scribes desire you would to them repair,  
About a public, great, and new affair,  
Procure such favour, from Maecenas hand,  
As that his seal may on this paper stand.  
I answer, I will try: he urgeth still,  
I know you can perform it if you will  
seven years are fled, the eighth is almost gone,  
Since first Maecenas took me for his own,  
That I with him might in his chariot sit,  
And only then would to my trust commit  
Such toys as these: what is the time of day?  
The Thracian is the Syrians match in play.  
Now careless men are nipped with morning cold:  
And words which open ears may safely hold.  
In all this space for every day and hour  
I grew more subject to pale envy's power  
This son of Fortune to the Stage resorts,  
And with the favourite in the field disports.  
Fame from the pulpits runs through every street,  
And I am strictly asked by all I meet:  
Good Sir (you needs must know, for you are near  
Unto the Gods) do you no tidings hear  
Concerning Dacian troubles? Nothing I.  
You always love your friends with scoffs to try,  
If I can tell, the Gods my life confound.  
But where will Caesar give his soldier's ground,  
In Italy, or the Trinacrian Isle?  
I swear I know not, they admire the while,  
And think me full of silence, grave and deep,  
The only man that should high secrets keep,  
For these respects (poor wretch) I lose the light,  
And longing thus repine: when shall my sight  
Again be happy in beholding thee  
My country ●●rme? or when shall I be free  
To read in books what ancient writers speak,  
To rest in sleep, which others may not break,  
To taste (in hours secure from courtly strife)  
The soft oblivion of a careful life?  
O when shall beans upon my board appear,  
Which wise Pythagoras esteemed so dear?  
Or when shall fatness of the Lard anoint  
The herbs, which for my table I appoint?  
O suppers of the Gods! O nights divine!  
When I before our Lar might feast with mine,  
And feed my prating slaves with tasted meat,  
As every one should have desire to eat.  
The frolic guest not bound with heavy laws,  
The liquor from unequal measures draws:  
Some being strong delight in larger draughts,  
Some call for lesser cups to clear their thoughts.  
Of others house and lands no speeches grow,  
Nor whether Lepos danceth well or no.  
We talk of things which to ourselves pertain,  
Which not to know would be a sinful stain,  
Are men by riches or by virtue blest?  
Of friendship's ends is use or right the best?  
Of good what is the nature, what excels?  
My neighbour Ceruius old wife's fables tells,  
When any one arelius wealth admires,  
And little knows what troubles it requires.  
He thus begins: Long since a country Mouse  
Received into his low and homely house  
A City Mouse, his friend and guest before;  
The host was sharp and sparing of his store,  
Yet much to hospitality inclined:  
For such occasions could dilate his mind.  
He Chiches gives for winter laid aside,  
Nor are the long and slender Oats denied:  
Dry Grapes he in his liberal mouth doth bear,  
And bits of Bacon which half eaten were:  
With various meats to please the stranger's pride,  
Whose dainty teeth through all the dishes slide.  
The Father of the family in straw  
Lies stretched along, disdaigning not to gnaw  
Base corn or darnel, and reserves the best,  
To make a perfect banquet for his guest▪  
To him at last the Citizen thus spoke,  
My friend, I muse what pleasure thou canst take,  
Or how thou canst endure to spend thy time  
In shady Groves, and up steep hills to climb.  
In savage Forests build no more thy den:  
Go to the City, there to dwell with men.  
Begin this happy journey, trust to me,  
I will thee guide, thou shalt my fellow be.  
Since earthly things are tied to mortal lives,  
And every great, and little creature strives,  
In vain the certain stroke of death to fly,  
Stay not till moments past thy joys deny.  
Live in rich plenty, and perpetual sport:  
Live ever mindful, that thine age is short.  
The ravished fieldmouse holds these words so sweet▪  
That from his home he leaps with nimble feet.  
They to the City travail with delight,  
And underneath the walls they creep at night.  
Now darkness had possessed heavens middle space,  
When these two friends their weary steps did plac▪  
Within a wealthy Palace, where was spread  
A scarlet covering on an Iu'ry bed:  
The baskets (set far off aside) contained  
The meats, which after plenteous meals remained  
The City Mouse with courtly phrase entreats  
His Country friend to rest in purple seats;  
With ready care the Master of the feast  
Runs up and down to see the store increased:  
He all the duties of a servant shows,  
And tastes of every dish, that he bestows.  
The poor plain Mouse, exalted thus in state,  
Glad of the change, his former life doth hate,  
●●d strives in looks and gesture to declare  
With what contentment he receives this fare.  
〈◊〉 strait the sudden creaking of a door  
●●kes both these Mice from beds into the floor.  
●●ey run about the room half dead with fear,  
●●rough all the house the noise of dogs they hear.  
〈◊〉 stranger now counts not the place so good,  
●● bids farewell, and saith, The silent Wood  
●●●ll me hereafter from these dangers save,  
Well pleased with simple Vetches in my Cave.    

HORAT. CARM. LIB. 3. ODD. 29.  

Maecenas, (sprung from Tuscan Kings) for thee  
Mild Wine in vessels never touched, I keep  
Here Roses, and sweet odours be,  
Whose dew thy hair shall steep:   

O stay not, let moist Tibur be disdained,  
And Aesulaes' declining fields, and hills,  
Where once Telegonus remained,  
Whose hand his father kills;   

Forsake that height where loathsome plenty cloys,  
And towers, which to the lofty clouds aspire,  
The smoke of Rome her wealth and noise  
Thou wilt not here admire.   

In pleasing change, the rich man takes delight,  
And frugal meals in homely seats allows,  
Where hangings want, and purple bright  
He clears his careful browe●.   

Now Cepheus plainly shows his hidden fire,  
The Dogstar now his furious heat displays,  
The Lion spreads his raging ire,  
The Sun brings parching days.   

●he Shepheard now his sickly flocke restores,  
With shades, and Rivers, and the Thickets finds  
Of rough Silvanus, silent shores  
Are free from playing winds.   

To keep the State in order is thy care,  
Solicitous for Rome, thou fearest the wars,  
Which barbarous Eastern troops prepare,  
And Tanais used to jars.   

The wise Creator from our knowledge hides  
The end of future times in darksome night;  
False thoughts of mortals he derides,  
When them vain toys affright.   

With mindful temper present hours compose,  
The rest are like a River, which with ease,  
Sometimes within his channel slows,  
Into Etrurian Seas.   

Oft stones, trees, flocks, and houses it devours,  
With Echoes from the hills, and neighbouring woods,  
When some fierce deluge, raised by showers,  
Turns quiet Brooks to Floods.   

He master of himself, in mirth may live,  
Who saith, I rest well pleased with former days,  
Let God from heaven to morrow give  
Black clouds, or Sunny rays.   

No force can make that void, which once is passed,  
Those things are never altered, or undone,  
Which from the instant rolling fast,  
With flying moments run.   

Proud Fortune joyful sad affairs to find,  
Insulting in her sport, delights to change  
Uncertain honours: quickly kind,  
And strait again as strange.   

I praise her stay, but if she stir her wings,  
Her gifts I leave, and to myself retire,  
Wrapped in my virtue: honest things  
In want no dowry require.   

When Lybian storms, the mast in pieces shake,  
I never God with prayers, and vows implore,  
Lest precious wares addition make  
To greedy Neptune's store.   

Then I contented, with a little boat,  
Am through Aegean waves, by winds conveyed,  
Where Pollux makes me safely float,  
And Castor's friendly aid.    

HORT. EPOD. 2.  

HE happy is, who far from busy sounds,  
(As ancient mortals dwelled)  
With his own Oxen tills his Father's grounds,  
And debts hath never felt.  
〈◊〉 war disturbs his rest with fierce alarms,  
Nor angry Seas offend:  
〈◊〉 shuns the Law, and those ambitious charms,  
Which great men's doors attend.  
The lofty Poplers with delight he weds  
To Vines that grow apace,  
And with his hook unfruitful branches shreds,  
More happy sprouts to place,  
huelse beholds, how lowing herds astray,  
In narrow valleys creep,  
●● in clean pots, doth pleasant honey lay,  
Or shears his feeble Sheep.  
When Autumn from the ground his head upreares,  
With timely Apples chained,  
●●w glad is he to pluck engrafted Pears,  
And Grapes with purple stained?  
Thus he Priapus, or Syluanus pays,  
Who keeps his limits free,  
His weary limbs, in holding grass he lays,  
Or under some old tree,  
Along the lofty banks the waters slide,  
The Birds in woods lament,  
The Springs with trickling streams the Air divide,  
Whence gentle sleeps are lent.  
But when great jove, in winter's days restores  
Unpleasing showers and snows,  
With many Dogs he drives the angry Boars  
To snares which them oppose.  
His slender nets disposed on little stakes,  
The greedy Thrush prevent:  
The fearful Hare, and foreign Crane he takes,  
With this reward content.  
Who will not in these joys forget the cares,  
Which oft in love we meet:  
But when a modest wife the trouble shares  
Of house and children sweet,  
(Like Sabines, or the swift Apulians wives,  
Whose cheeks the Sunbeams harm,  
When from old wood she sacred fire contrives,  
Her weary mate to warm,  
When she with hurdles, her glad flocks confines,  
And their full udders dries,  
And from sweet vessels draws the yearly wines,  
And meats unbought supplies;  
No Lucrine Oysters can my palate please,  
Those fishes I neglect,  
Which tempests thundering on the Eastern Seas  
Into our waves direct.  
No Bird from Africa sent, my taste allows,  
Nor Fowl which Asia breeds:  
The Olive (gathered from the fatty boughs)  
With more delight me feeds.  
Sour Herbs, which love the Meads, or Mallows good,  
To ease the body pained:  
A Lamb which sheds to Terminus her blood,  
Or Kid from Wolves regained.  
What joy is at these Feasts, when well-fed flocks  
Themselves for home prepare?  
Or when the weak neck of the weary Ox  
Draws back th'inverted share?  
When Slaves (the swarms that wealthy houses charge)  
Near smiling Lar, sit down,  
This life when Alphius hath described at large,  
Inclining to the Clown,  
He at the Ides calls all that money in,  
Which he hath let for gain:  
But when the next month shall his course begin,  
He puts it out again.    

PER. SAT. 2.  

MAcrinus, let this happy day be known  
As white, and noted with a better stone,  
Which to thine age doth sliding years combine:  
Before thy Genius pour forth cups of wine,  
Thy prayers expect no base and greedy end,  
Which to the gods thou closely must commend:  
Though most of those whom honours lift on high,  
In all their offerings silent Incense fry,  
All from the Temple are not apt to take  
Soft lowly sounds, and open vows to make.  
The gifts of mind, fame, faith he utters clear,  
That strangers may far off his wishes hear:  
But this he mumbles underneath his tongue;  
O that mine Uncle's death expected long,  
Would bring a funeral which no cost shall lack!  
O that a pot of silver once would crack  
Beneath my harrow by Alcides sent!  
Or that I could the Orphans hopes prevent,  
To whom I am next heir, and must succeed!  
(Since swelling humours in his body breed,  
Which threaten oft the shortness of his life.)  
How blest is Nerius, thrice to change his wife!  
Those are the holy prayers for which thy head  
(When first the morning hath her mantle spread)  
Is dipped so many times in Tiber's streams,  
Where running waters purge the nightly dreams.  
I thus demand: in answer be not slow,  
It is not much that I desire to know:  
Of jove what think'st thou? if thy judgement can  
Esteem him juster than a mortal man?  
Then Staius? doubtest thou which of these is best  
To judge aright the fatherless oppressed?  
The speech with which thine impious wishes dare  
Profane Ioues ears, to Staius now declare:  
O jove, O good jove, he will strait exclaim,  
And shall not jove cry out on his own name?  
For pardon canst thou hope, because the Oak  
Is sooner by the sacred Brimstone broke,  
When Thunder tears the Air, than thou and thine,  
Because thou liest not, as a dismal sign  
●n Woods, while entrailes, and Ergennaes' Art,  
Bid all from thy sad carcase to depart,  
Will therefore jove his foolish beard extend,  
For thee to pull? what treasure canst thou spend  
To make the ears of Gods, by purchase thine?  
Can lights and bowels bribe the powers divine?  
Some Grandam, or religious Aunt, whose joy  
●s from the cradle to take out the Boy,  
●n lustral spittle her long finger dips,  
And expiates his forehead and his lips.  
Her cunning from bewitching eyes defends,  
Then in her arms she dandles him, and sends  
Her slender hope, which humble vows propound  
To Crassus' house, or to Licinius ground.  
Let Kings and Queens wish him their son in law;  
Let all the wenches him in pieces draw;  
May every stalk of grass on which he goes,  
Be soon transformed into a fragrant Rose.  
No such request to Nurses I allow,  
jove (though she pray in white) refuse her vow,  
Thou wouldst firm sinews have, a body strong,  
Which may in age continue able long,  
But thy gross meats, and ample dishes stay  
The gods from granting this, and jove delay.  
With hope to raise thy wealth, thou killest an Ox,  
Invoking Hermes: bless my house and flocks.  
How can it be (vain fool) when in the fires  
The melted fat of many Steers expires?  
Yet still thou think'st to overcome at last,  
While many offerings in the flame are cast;  
Now shall my fields be large, my sheep increase;  
Now it will come, now, now; nor wilt thou cease,  
Until deceived, and in thy hopes depressed,  
Thou sighest to see the bottom of thy chest,  
When I to thee have cups of silver brought,  
Or gifts in solid golden metal wrought,  
The left side of thy breast will dropping sweat,  
And full of joy thy trembling heart will beat.  
Hence comes it, that with gold in triumph borne,  
Thou dost the faces of the gods adorn,  
Among the brazen brethren they that send  
Those dreams, where evil humours least extend,  
The highest place in men's affections hold,  
And for their care receive a beard of gold:  
The glorious name of gold hath put away  
The use of Saturn's brass, and Numaes' clay.  
This glittering pride to richer substance turns  
The Tuscan earthen pots, and vestal urns.  
O crooked souls, declining to the earth,  
Whose empty thoughts forget their heavenly birth:  
What end, what profit have we, when we strive  
Our manners to the Temples to derive?  
Can we suppose, that to the gods we bring  
Some pleasing good for this corrupted Spring?  
This flesh, which Casia doth dissolve and spoil,  
And with that mixture taints the native oil:  
This boyles the fish with purple liquor full,  
And stains the whiteness of Portuguese wool.  
This from the shell scrapes out the Pearl, and strains  
From raw rude earth the fervent Metals veins.  
This sins, it sins, yet makes some use of vice:  
But tell me, ye great Flamens, can the price  
Raise Gold to more account in holy things,  
Then Babies, which the maid to Venus brings?  
Nay rather let us yield the gods such gifts,  
As great Messallaes' offspring never lifts,  
In costly Chargers stretched to ample space,  
Because degenerate from his noble race:  
A soul, where just, and pious thoughts are chained;  
A mind, whose secret corners are unstained:  
A breast, in which all generous virtues lie,  
And paint it with a neverfading die.  
Thus to the Temples let me come with zeal,  
The gods will hear me, though I offer meal.    

AUSON. IDYLL. 16.  

A Man, both good and wise, whose perfect mind  
Apollo cannot in a thousand find,  
As his own judge, himself exactly knows,  
Secure what Lords or vulgar breasts suppose:  
He, like the World, an equal roundness bears;  
On his smooth sides no outward spot appears:  
He thinks, how Cancers star increaseth light;  
How Capricornes cold Tropic lengthens night,  
And by just scales will all his actions try,  
That nothing sink too low, nor rise too high,  
That corners may with even parts incline,  
And measures err not with a faulty line,  
That all within be solid, lest some blow  
Should by the sound the empty vessel show,  
Ere he to gentle sleep his eyes will lay,  
His thoughts revolve the actions of the day,  
What hours from me with dull neglect have run,  
What was in time, or out of season done?  
Why hath this work, adorning-beauty lacked,  
Or reason wanted in another fact?  
What things have I forgotten, why designed  
To seek those ends, which better were declined,  
When to the needy wretch I gave relief,  
Why was my broken soul possessed with grief?  
In what have my mistaking wishes erred,  
Why profit more, than honesty preferred?  
Could my sharp words another man incense,  
Or were my books composed to breed offence?  
How comes it, that corrupted nature-drawes  
My will from disciplines amending laws?  
Thus going slowly through his words and deeds,  
He from one evening to the next proceeds:  
Perverting crimes he checks with angry frowns,  
Strait levelled Virtues he rewards with Crowns.    

Claudians Epigram of the old man of Verona.  

THrice happy he, whose age is spent upon his own,  
The same house sees him old, which him a child hath known,  
He leans upon his staff in sand where once he crept,  
His memory long descents, of one poor cote hath kept,  
He through the various strife of fortune never passed,  
Nor as a wandering guest would foreign waters taste,  
He never feared the seas in trade, nor sound of wars,  
Nor in hoarse courts of law, hath felt litigious jars,  
Unskilful in affairs, he knows no City near,  
So freely he enjoys the sight of heaven more clear,  
The years by several corn, not Consuls he computes,  
He notes the Spring by flowers, and Autumn by the fruits,  
One space put down the Sun, and brings again the rays.  
Thus by a certain Orb he measures out the days,  
Remembering some great Oak from small beginning spread,  
He sees the wood grow old, which with himself was bred.  
Verona next of Towns as far as India seems,  
And for the ruddy Sea, Benacus he esteems:  
Yet still his arms are firm, his strength untamed and green;  
The full third age hath him a lusty Grandsire seen.  
Let others travail far, and hidden coasts display,  
This man hath more of life, and those have more of way.    

Upon the two great Feasts of the Annunciation and Resurrection falling on the same day, March 25. 1627.  

THrice happy day, which sweetly dost combine  
Two Hemispheres in th'equinoctial line:  
The one debasing God to earthly pain,  
The other raising man to endless reign.  
Christ's humble steps declining to the womb,  
Touch heavenly scales erected on his Tomb:  
We first with Gabriel must this Prince convey  
Into his chamber on the marriage day,  
Then with the other Angels clothed in white,  
We will adore him in this conquering Night:  
The Son of God assuming humane breath,  
Becomes a subject to his vassal Death,  
That Graves and Hell laid open by his strife,  
May give us passage to a better life.  
See for this work how things are newly styled,  
Man is declared, Almighty, God, a Child;  
The Word made Flesh, is speechless, and the Light  
Begins from Clouds, and sets in depth of night;  
Behold the Sun eclipsed for many years,  
And every day more dusky robes he wears,  
Till after total darkness shining fair,  
No Moon shall bar his splendour from the Air.  
Let faithful souls this double Feast attend  
In two Processions: let the first descend  
The Temples stairs, and with a downcast eye  
Upon the lowest pavement prostrate lie,  
In creeping Violets, white Lilies shine  
Their humble thoughts, and every pure design;  
The other troop shall climb with sacred heat,  
The rich degrees of Salomon's bright seat,  
In glowing Roses fervent zeal they bear,  
And in the Azure Flower de▪ lis appear  
Celestial contemplations, which aspire  
Above the sky, up to th'immortal Quire.    

Of the Epiphany.  

Fair Eastern Star, that art ordained to run  
Before the Sages, to the rising Sun,  
Here cease thy course, and wonder that the cloud  
Of this poor Stable can thy Maker shroud:  
Ye heavenly bodies, glory to be bright,  
And are esteemed, as ye are rich in light:  
But here on earth is taught a different way,  
Since under this low roof the Highest lay;  
jerusalem erects her stately Towers,  
Displays her windows, and adorns her bowers:  
Yet there thou must not cast a trembling spark.  
Let Herod's Palace still continue dark,  
Each School and Synagogue thy force repels,  
There pride enthroned in misty errors dwells.  
The Temple where the Priests maintain their quite,  
Shall taste no beam of thy Celestial fire.  
While this weak Cottage all thy splendour takes,  
A joyful gate of every chink it makes.  
Here shines no golden roof, no Iu'ry stair,  
No King exalted in a stately chair,  
Girt with attendants, or by Heralds styled,  
But straw and hay inwrap a speechless Child,  
Yet Sabaes' Lords before this Babe unfold  
Their treasures, offering Incense, Myrrh and Gold.  
The Crib becomes an Altar; therefore dies  
No Ox nor Sheep, for in their fodder lies  
The Prince of Peace, who thankful for his bed,  
Destroys those Rites, in which their blood was shed:  
The quintessence of earth, he takes and fees,  
And precious gums distilled from weeping trees,  
Rich Metals, and sweet Odours now declare  
The glorious blessings, which his Laws prepare  
To clear us from the base and loathsome flood  
Of sense, and make us fit for Angel's food,  
Who lift to God for us the holy smoke  
Of fervent prayers, with which we him invoke,  
And try our actions in that searching fire,  
By which the Seraphims our lips inspire:  
No muddy dross pure Min'ralls shall infect,  
We shall exhale our vapours up direct:  
No storms shall cross, nor glittering lights deface  
Perpetual sighs, which seek a happy place.    

Of the Transfiguration of our Lord.  

Ye that in lowly valleys weeping sat,  
And taught your humble souls to mourn of la●●  
For sins, and sufferings breeding griefs and fears,  
And made the River's bigger with your tears;  
Now cease your sad complaints, till fitter time,  
And with those three beloved Apostles climb  
To lofty Thabor, where your happy eyes  
Shall see the Sun of glory brightly rise:  
Draw near, and ever bless that sacred hill,  
That there no heat may parch, no frost may kill  
The tender plants, nor any thunder blast  
That top, by which all mountains are surpassed.  
By steep and briery paths ye must ascend:  
But if ye know to what high scope ye tend,  
No let nor danger can your steps restrain,  
The crags will easy seem, the thickets plain.  
Our Lord there stands, not with his painful Cross  
Laid on his shoulders, moving you to loss  
Of precious things, nor calling you to bear  
That burden, which so much base worldlings fear.  
Here are no promised hopes obscured with clouds,  
No sorrow with dim veils true pleasure shrowds,  
But perfect joy, which here discovered shines,  
To taste of heavenly light your thoughts inclines,  
And able is to wean deluded minds  
From fond delight, which wretched mortals blinds:  
Yet let not sense so much your reason sway,  
As to desire for ever here to stay,  
Refusing that sweet change which God provides,  
To those whom with his rod and staff he guides:  
Your happiness consists not now alone  
In those high comforts which are often thrown  
In plenteous manner from our Saviour's hand,  
To raise the fallen, and cause the weak to stand:  
But ye are blest, when being trodden down,  
Ye taste his Cup, and wear his thorny Crown.    

On Ascension day.  

YE that to heaven direct your curious eyes,  
And send your minds to walk the spacious skies,  
See how the Maker to yourselves you brings,  
Who sets his noble marks on meanest things:  
And having Man above the Angels placed,  
The lowly Earth more than the Heaven hath graced.  
Poor Clay, each Creature thy degrees admires;  
First, God in thee a living Soul inspires,  
Whose glorious beams hath made thee far m●●● bright  
Then is the Sun, the spring of corporal light:  
He rests not here, but to himself thee takes,  
And thee divine by wondrous union makes.  
What Region can afford a worthy place  
For his exalted Flesh? Heaven is too base,  
He scarce would touch it in his swift ascent,  
The Orbs fled back (like jordan) as he went:  
And yet he deigned to dwell a while on earth,  
As paying thankful tribute for his birth:  
But now this body all God's works excels,  
And hath no place, but God, in whom it dwells.    

An Ode of the blessed Trinity.  

Muse, that art dull and weak,  
Oppressed with worldly pain,  
If strength in thee remain,  
Of things divine to speak:  
Thy thoughts a while from urgent ears restrain,  
And with a cheerful voice thy wont silence break.   

No cold shall thee benumb,  
Nor darkness taint thy sight;  
To thee new heat, new light,  
Shall from this object come,  
Whose praises if thou now wilt sound a right,  
My pen shall give thee leave hereafter to be dumb.   

Whence shall we then begin  
To sing, or write of this,  
Where no beginning is?  
Or if we enter in,  
Where shall we end? The end is endless bliss;  
Thrice happy we, if well so rich a thread we spin.   

For Thee our strings we touch,  
Thou that are Three, and One,  
Whose essence though unknown,  
Believed is to be such;  
To whom what ere we give, we give thine own,  
And yet no mortal tongue can give to thee so much.   

See how in vain we try  
To find some type, t' agree  
With this great One in Three,  
Yet can none such descry,  
If any like, or second were to thee,  
Thy hidden nature then were not so deep and high▪   

Here fail inferior things,  
The Sun whose heat and light  
Make creatures warm and bright,  
A feeble shadow brings:  
The Sun shows to the world his Father's might,  
With glorious rays, from both our fire (the spirit) spring▪   

Now to this topless hill,  
Let us ascend more near,  
Yet still within the Sphere  
Of our connat'rall skill,  
We may behold how in our souls we bear  
An understanding power, joined with effectual will▪   

We can no higher go  
To search this point divine;  
Here it doth chiefly shine,  
This Image must it show:  
These steps as helps our humble minds incline,  
T' embrace those certain grounds, which from true Faith must flow.   

To him these notes direct,  
Who not with outward hands,  
Nor by his strong commands,  
Whence creatures take effect:  
While perfectly himself he understands,  
Begets another self, with equal glory decked.   

From these, the Spring of love,  
The holy Ghost proceeds,  
Who our affection feeds,  
With those clear flames which move  
From that eternal Essence which them breeds,  
And strike into our souls, as lightning from above.   

Stay, stay, Parnassian Girl,  
here thy descriptions faint,  
Thou humane shapes canst paint,  
And canst compare to Pearl  
White teeth, and speak of lips which Rubies taint,  
Resembling beauteous eyes to Orbs that swiftly whirl.   

But now thou mayst perceive  
The weakness of thy wings;  
And that thy noblest strings  
To muddy objects cleave:  
Then praise with humble silence heavenly things,  
And what is more than this, to still devotion leave.    

A Dialogue between the World, a Pilgrim, and Virtue.  

Pilgrim.  
WHat darkness clouds my senses? Hath the day  
Forgot his season, and the Sun his way?  
Doth God withdraw his all-sustaining might,  
And works no more with his fair creature light,  
While heaven and earth for such a loss complain,  
And turn to rude unformed heaps again?  
My paces with intangling briers are bound,  
And all this forest in deep silence drowned,  
Here must my labour and my journey cease,  
By which in vain I sought for rest and peace:  
But now perceive that man's unquiet mind,  
In all his ways can only darkness find.  
Here must I starve and die, unless some light  
Point out the passage from this dismal night.   

World.  
Distressed Pilgrim, let not causeless fear  
Depress thy hopes, for thou hast comfort near,  
Which thy dull heart with splendour shall inspire,  
And guide thee to thy period of desire.  
Clear up thy brows, and raise thy fainting eyes,  
See how my glittering Palace open lies  
For weary passengers, whose desperate case  
I pity, and provide a resting place.   

Pilgrim.  
O thou whose speeches sound, whose beauties shine▪  
Not like a creature, but some power divine,  
Teach me thy style, thy worth and state declare,  
Whose glories in this desert hidden are.   

World.  
I am thine end, Felicity my name;  
The best of wishes, Pleasures, Riches, Fame,  
Are humble vassals, which my Throne attend,  
And make you mortals happy when I send:  
In my left hand delicious fruits I hold,  
To feed them who with mirth and ease grow old,  
Afraid to lose the fleeting days and nights,  
They seize on times, and spend it in delights.  
My right hand with triumphant crowns is stored,  
Which all the Kings of former times adored:  
These gifts are thine: then enter where no strife,  
No grief, no pain shall interrupt thy life.   

Virtue.  
Stay, hasty wretch, here deadly Serpents dwell,  
And thy next step is on the brink of hell:  
Wouldst thou, poor weary man, thy limbs repose?  
Behold my house, where true contentment grows:  
Not like the baits, which this seducer gives,  
Whose bliss a day, whose torment ever lives.   

World.  
Regard not these vain speeches, let them go,  
This is a poor worm, my contemned foe,  
Bold threadbare Virtue; who dare promise more  
From empty bags, than I from all my store:  
Whose counsels make men draw unquiet breath,  
Expecting to be happy after death.   

Virtue.  
Canst thou now make, or hast thou ever made  
Thy servants happy in those things that fade?  
Hear this my challenge, one example bring  
Of such perfection; let him be the King  
Of all the world, fearing no outward check,  
And guiding others by his voice or beck:  
Yet shall this man at every moment find  
More gall than honey in his restless mind.  
Now Monster, since my words have struck thee dumb,  
Behold this Garland, whence such virtues come,  
Such glories shine, such piercing beams are thrown,  
As make thee blind, and turn thee to a stone.  
And thou, whose wandering feet were running down  
Th'infernal steepness, look upon this Crown:  
Within these folds lie hidden no deceits,  
No golden lures, on which perdition waits:  
But when thine eyes the prickly thorns have past,  
See in the circle boundless joys at last.   

Pilgrim.  
These things are now most clear, thee I embrace:  
Immortal Wreath, let worldlings count thee base,  
Choice is thy matter, glorious is thy shape,  
Fit Crown for them who tempting dangers scape.    

An act of Contrition.  

WHen first my reason, dawning like the day,  
Dispersed the clouds of childish sense away:  
God's Image framed in that superior Tower,  
Divinely drew mine understanding power  
To think upon his Greatness, and to fear  
His darts of thunder, which the mountain's tear.  
And when with feeble light my soul began  
T' acknowledge him a higher thing than man,  
My next discourse erected by his grace,  
Conceives him free from bounds of time or place,  
And sees the furthest that of him is known,  
All spring from him, and he depends of none.  
The steps which in his various works are sealed,  
The doctrines in his sacred Church revealed,  
Were all received as truths into my mind,  
Yet durst I break his laws, O strangely blind:  
My festering wounds are passed the lancing cure,  
Which terror gives to thoughts at first impure:  
No help remains these ulcers to remove,  
Unless I scorch them with the flames of love.  
Lord, from thy wrath my soul appeals, and flies  
To gracious beams of those indulgent eyes,  
Which brought me first from nothing, and sustain  
My life, lest it to nothing turn again,  
Which in thy Son's blood washed my parent's sin▪  
And taught me ways eternal bliss to win.  
The Stars which guide my Bark with heavenly calls,  
My boards in shipwreck after many falls:  
In these I trust, and winged with pleasing hope,  
Attempt new flight to come to thee, my scope,  
Whom I esteem a thousand times more dear,  
Then worldly things which fair and sweet appear.  
Rebellious flesh, which thee so oft offends,  
Presents her tears: alas, a poor amends,  
But thou accept'st them. Hence they precious grow,  
As living waters which from Eden flow.  
With these I wish my vital blood may run,  
Ere new Eclipses dim this glorious Sun:  
And yield myself afflicting pains to take  
For thee my Spouse, and only for thy sake.  
Hell could not fright me with immortal fire,  
Were it not armed with thy forsaking ire:  
Nor should I look for comfort and delight  
In heaven, if heaven were shadowed from thy sight.    

In Desolation.  

O Thou, who sweetly bend'st my stubborn will,  
Who send'st thy stripes to teach, and not to kill:  
Thy cheerful face from me no longer hide,  
Withdraw these clouds, the scourges of my pride;  
I sink to hell, if I be lower thrown:  
I see what man is being left alone.  
My substance which from nothing did begin,  
Is worse than nothing by the weight of sin:  
I see myself in such a wretched state,  
As neither thoughts conceive, or words relate.  
How great a distance parts us? for in thee  
Is endless good, and boundless ill in me.  
All creatures prove me abject, but how low,  
Thou only knowst, and teachest me to know:  
To paint this baseness, Nature is too base;  
This darkness yields not but to beams of grace.  
Where shall I then this piercing splendour find?  
Or found, how shall it guide me being blind?  
Grace is a taste of bliss, a glorious gift,  
Which can the soul to heavenly comforts lift.  
It will not shine to me whose mind is drowned  
In sorrows, and with worldly troubles bound.  
It will not deign within that house to dwell,  
Where dryness reigns, and proud distractions swell▪  
Perhaps it sought me in those lightsome days  
Of my first fervour, when few winds did raise  
The waves, and ere they could full strength obtain,  
Some whispering gale strait charmed them down again▪  
When all seemed calm, & yet the Virgin's child,  
On my devotions in his manger smiled;  
While then I simply walked, nor heed could take,  
Of complacence, that sly deceitful Snake;  
When yet I had not dangerously refused  
So many calls to virtue, nor abused  
The spring of life, which I so oft enjoyed,  
Nor made so many good intentions void,  
Deserving thus that grace should quite depart,  
And dreadful hardness should possess my heart:  
Yet in that state this only good I found,  
That fewer spots did then my conscience wound,  
Though who can censure, whether in those times,  
The want of feeling seemed the want of crimes?  
If solid virtues dwell not but in pain,  
I will not wish that golden age again,  
Because it flowed with sensible delights  
Of heavenly things: God hath created nights  
As well as days, to deck the varied Globe;  
Grace comes as oft clad in the dusky robe  
Of desolation, as in white attire,  
Which better fits the bright celestial Quire.  
Some in foul seasons perish through despair,  
But more through boldness when the days are fair.  
This than must be the medicine for my woes,  
To yield to what my Saviour shall dispose:  
To glory in my baseness, to rejoice  
In mine afflictions, to obey his voice,  
As well when threatenings my defects reprove,  
As when I cherished am with words of love,  
To say to him in every time and place,  
Withdraw thy comforts, so thou leave thy grace.    

In spiritual comfort.  

ENough delight, O mine eternal good!  
I fear to perish in this fiery flood:  
And doubt, lest beams of such a glorious light  
Should rather blind me, then extend my sight:  
For how dare mortals here their thoughts erect  
To taste those joys, which they in heaven expect?  
But God invites them in his boundless love,  
And lifts their heavy minds to things above.  
Who would not follow such a powerful guide  
Immid'st of flames, or through the raging tide?  
What careless soul will not admire the grace  
Of such a Lord, who knows the dangerous place  
In which his servants live; their native woes,  
Their weak defence, and fury of their foes:  
And casting down to earth these golden chains,  
From hell's steep brink their sliding steps restrains?  
His dear affection flies with wings of haste;  
He will not stay till this short life be passed:  
But in this vale where tears of grief abound,  
He oft with tears of joy his friends hath drowned.  
Man, what desir'st thou? wouldst thou purchase health▪  
Great honour, perfect pleasure, peace and wealth?  
All these are here, and in their glory reign:  
In other things these names are false and vain.  
True wisdom bids us to this banquet haste,  
That precious Nectar may renew the taste  
Of Eden's dainties, by our parents lost  
For one poor Apple, which so dear would cost,  
That every man a double death should pay,  
But mercy comes the latter stroke to stay,  
And (leaving mortal bodies to the knife  
Of justice) strives to save the better life.  
No sovereign medicine can be half so good  
Against destruction, as this Angel's food,  
This inward illustration, when it finds  
A seat in humble, and indifferent minds.  
If wretched men contemn a Sun so bright,  
Disposed to stray, and stumble in the night,  
And seek contentment where they oft have known  
By dear experience, that there can be none.  
They would much more neglect their God, their end,  
If aught were found whereon they might depend,  
Within the compass of the general frame:  
Or if some Sparks of this Celestial flame  
Had not engraved this sentence in their breast:  
In him that made them is their only rest.    

An Act of Hope.  

SWeet Hope is sovereign comfort of our life:  
Our joy in sorrow, and our Peace in strife:  
The Dame of Beggars, and the Queen of Kings:  
Can these delight in height of prosperous things,  
Without expecting still to keep them sure?  
Can those the weight of heavy wants endure,  
Unless persuasion instant pain allay,  
Reserving spirit for a better day?  
Our God, who planted in his creatures breast,  
This stop on which the wheels of passion rest,  
Hath raised by beams of his abundant grace,  
This strong affection to a higher place.  
It is the second virtue which attends  
That soul, whose motion to his sight ascends.  
Rest here, my mind, thou shalt no longer stay  
To gaze upon these houses made of clay:  
Thou shalt not stoop to honours, or to lands,  
Nor golden balls, where sliding fortune stands:  
If no false colours draw thy steps amiss,  
Thou hast a Palace of eternal bliss,  
A Paradise from care, and fear exempt,  
An object worthy of the best attempt.  
Who would not for so rich a Country fight?  
Who would not run, that sees a goal so bright?  
O thou who art our Author and our end,  
On whose large mercy, chains of hope depend;  
Lift me to thee by thy propitious hand:  
For lower I can find no place to stand.    

Of Tears.  

BEhold what Rivers feeble nature spends,  
And melts us into Seas at loss of friends:  
Their mortal state this Fountain never dries,  
But fills the world with worlds of weeping eyes.  
Man is a creature borne, and nursed in tears,  
He through his life the marks of sorrow bears;  
And dying, thinks he can no offering have  
More fit than tears distilling on his grave.  
We must these floods to larger bounds extend;  
Such streams require a high and noble end.  
As waters in a crystal Orb contained  
Above the starry Firmament, are chained  
To cool the fury of those raging flames,  
Which every lower Sphere by motion frames:  
So this continual Spring within thy head,  
Must quench the fires in other members bred.  
If to our Lord our Parents had been true,  
Our tears had been like drops of pleasing dew:  
But sin hath made them full of bitter pains,  
Untimely children of afflicted brains:  
Yet they are changed, when we our sins lament,  
To richer Pearls, then from the East are sent.    

Of Sinne.  

WHat pencil shall I take, or where begin  
To paint the ugly face of odious sin?  
Man sinning oft, though pardoned oft, exceeds  
The falling Angels in malicious deeds:  
When we in words would tell the sinner's shame,  
To call him Devil is too fair a name.  
Should we for ever in the Chaos dwell,  
Or in the loathsome depth of gaping hell:  
We there no foul and darksome forms shall find  
Sufficient to describe a guilty mind.  
Search through the world, we shall not know a thing,  
Which may to reasons eye more horror bring,  
Then disobedience to the highest cause,  
And obstinate aversion from his Laws.  
The sinner will destroy God, if he can.  
O what hath God deserved of thee, poor man,  
That thou shouldst boldly strive to pull him down  
From his high Throne, and take away his Crown?  
What blindness moves thee to unequal fight?  
●ee how thy fellow creatures scorn thy might,  
Yet thou prouok'st thy Lord, as much too great,  
As thou too weak for his Imperial seat.  
Behold a silly wretch distracted quite,  
Extending towards God his feeble spite,  
And by his poisonous breath his hopes are fair  
To blast the skies, as it corrupts the air.  
Upon the other side thou mayst perceive  
A mild Commander, to whose Army cleave  
The sparkling Stars, and each of them desires  
To fall and drown this Rebel in their fires.  
The Clouds are ready this proud Foe to tame,  
Full fraught with thunderbolts, and lightning's flame.  
The Earth, his Mother, greedy of his doom,  
Expects to open her unhappy womb,  
That this degenerate son may live no more,  
So changed from that pure man, whom first she bore.  
The savage Beasts, whose names his Father gave,  
To quell this pride, their Maker's licence crave.  
The Fiends his Masters in this warlike way,  
Make suit to seize him as their lawful prey.  
No friends are left: then whither shall he fly?  
To that offended King, who sits on high,  
Who hath deferred the battle, and restrained  
His soldiers like the winds in fetters chained:  
For let the Sinner leave his hideous mask,  
God will as soon forgive, as he shall ask.    

Of the miserable state of Man.  

IS man, the best of creatures, grown the worst?  
He once most blessed was, now most accursed:  
His whole felicity is endless strife,  
No peace, no satisfaction crownes his life;  
No such delight as other creatures take,  
Which their desires can free, and happy make:  
Our appetites, which seek for pleasing good,  
Have oft their wane and full; their ebb and 'slud;  
Their calm and storms: the never-constant Moon,  
The Seas, and nimble winds not half so soon  
Incline to change, while all our pleasure rests  
In things which vary, like our wavering breasts.  
He who desires that wealth his life may bless,  
Like to a jailer, counts it good success,  
To have more prisoners, which increase his care;  
The more his goods, the more his dangers are:  
This Sailor sees his ship about to drown,  
And he takes in more wares to press it down.  
Vain honour is a play of diverse parts,  
Where feigned words and gestures please our hearts;  
The slatt'red audience are the Actors friends;  
But lose that Title when the Fable ends.  
The fair desire that others should behold,  
Their clay well featured, their well tempered mould  
Ambitious mortals make their chief pretence,  
To be the objects of delighted sense:  
Yet oft the shape, and hue of basest things,  
More admiration moves, more pleasure brings.  
Why should we glory to be counted strong?  
This is the praise of Beasts, the power of wrong:  
And if the strength of many were enclosed  
Within one breast, yet when it is opposed  
Against that force▪ which Art or Nature frame,  
It melts like wax before the scorching flame.  
We cannot in these outward things be blest;  
For we are sure to lose them; and the best  
Of these contentments no such comfort bears,  
As may weigh equal with the doubts and fears,  
Which fix our minds on that uncertain day,  
When these shall fail, most certain to decay.  
From length of life no happiness can come,  
But what the guilty feel, who after doom  
Are to the loathsome prison sent again,  
And there must stay to die with longer pain.  
No earthly gift lasts after death, but Fame;  
This governs men more careful of their name,  
Then of their souls, which their ungodly taste  
Dissolves to nothing, and shall prove at last  
Fair worse than nothing: Praises come too late,  
When man is not, or is in wretched state.  
But these are ends which draw the meanest hearts:  
Let us search deep and try our better parts:  
O knowledge, if a heaven on earth could be,  
I would expect to reap that bliss in thee:  
But thou art blind, and they that have thy light,  
More clearly know, they live in darksome night.  
See, man, thy stripes at school, thy pains abroad,  
Thy watching, and thy paleness well bestowed:  
These feeble helps can Scholars never bring  
To perfect knowledge of the plainest thing:  
And some to such a height of learning grow,  
They die persuaded, that they nothing know.  
In vain swift hours spent in deep study slide,  
Unless the purchased doctrine curb our pride.  
The soul persuaded, that no fading love  
Can equal her embraces, seeks above:  
And now aspiring to a higher place,  
Is glad that all her comforts here are base:    

Of Sickness.  

THe end of Sickness, Health or Death declare  
The cause as happy, as the sequels are.  
Vain mortals, while they strive their sense to please▪  
Endure a life worse than the worst disease:  
When sports and riots of the restless night,  
Breed days as thick possessed with fenny light:  
〈◊〉 oft have these (compelled by wholesome pain)  
Returned to suck sweet Nature's breast again,  
And then could in a narrow compass find  
Strength for the body, clearness in the mind?  
And if Death come, it is not he, whose dart,  
Whose scalp and bones afflict the trembling heart:  
(As if the Painters with new art would strive  
For fear of Bugs, to keep poor men alive)  
But one, who from thy mother's womb hath been  
Thy friend and strict companion, though unseen,  
To lead thee in the right appointed way,  
And crown thy labours at the conquering day.  
Ungrateful men, why do you sickness loath,  
Which blessings give in Heaven, or Earth, or both?    

Of true Liberty.  

HE that from dust of worldly tumults flies,  
May boldly open his undazled eyes,  
To read wise Nature's book, and with delight  
Surveys the Plants by day, and stars by night.  
We need not travail, seeking ways to bliss:  
He that desires contentment, cannot miss:  
No garden walls this precious flower embrace:  
It common grows in every desert place.  
Large scope of pleasure drowns us like a flood,  
To rest in little, is our greatest good.  
Learn ye that climb the top of Fortune's wheel,  
That dangerous state which ye disdain to feel:  
Your highness puts your happiness to flight,  
Your inward comforts fade with outward light,  
Unless it be a blessing not to know  
This certain truth▪ left ye should pine for woe,  
To see inferiors so divinely blest  
With freedom, and yourselves with fetters pressed,  
Ye sit like prisoners barred with doors and chains,  
And yet no care perpetual care restrains.  
Ye strive to mix your sad conceits with joys,  
By curious pictures▪ and by glittering toys,  
While others are not hindered from their ends,  
Delighting to converse with books or friends,  
And living thus retired, obtain the power  
To reign as Kings, of every sliding hour:  
They walk by Cynthia's light, and lift their eyes  
To view the ordered armies in the skies.  
The heavens they measure with imagined lines,  
And when the Northern Hemisphere declines,  
New constellations in the South they find,  
Whose rising may refresh the studious mind.  
In these delights, though freedom show more high:  
Few can to things above their thoughts apply.  
But who is he that cannot cast his look  
On earth, and read the beauty of that book?  
A bed of smiling flowers, a trickling Spring,  
A swelling River, more contentment bring,  
Then can be shadowed by the best of Art:  
Thus still the poor man hath the better part.    

Against inordinate love of Creatures.  

AH! who would love a creature? who would place  
His heart, his treasure in a thing so base?  
Which time consuming, like a Moth destroys,  
And stealing death will rob him of his joys.  
Why life we not our minds above this dust?  
Have we not yet perceived that God is just,  
And hath ordained the objects of our love  
To be our scourges, when we wanton prove?  
Go, careless man, in vain delights proceed,  
Thy fancies, and thine outward senses feed,  
And bind thyself, thy fellow-servants thrall:  
Love one too much, thou art a slave to all.  
Consider when thou follow'st seeming good,  
And drownest thyself too deep in flein and blood,  
Thou making suit to dwell with woes and fears,  
Art sworn their soldier in the vale of tears:  
The bread of sorrow shall be thy repast,  
Expect not Eden in a thorny waste,  
Where grow no fair trees, no smooth rivers swell,  
Here only losses and afflictions dwell.  
These thou bewayl'st with a repining voice,  
Yet knewest before that mortal was thy choice.  
Admirers of false pleasures must sustain  
The weight and sharpness of ensuing pain.    

Against abused Love..  

SHall I stand still, and see the world on fire,  
While wanton Writers join in one desire,  
To blow the coals of Love, and make them burn,  
Till they consume, or to the Chaos turn  
This beauteous frame by them so foully rend?  
That wise men fear, lest they those flames prevent,  
Which for the latest day th' Almighty keeps  
In orbs of fire, or in the hellish deeps.  
Best wits, while they possessed with fury, think  
They taste the Muse's sober Well, and drink  
Of Phoebus' Goblet (now a starry sign)  
Mistake the Cup, and write in heat of wine.  
Then let my cold hand here some water cast,  
And drown their warmth, with drops of sweeter taste,  
Mine angry lines shall whip the purblind Page.  
And some will read them in a chaster age;  
But since true love is most divine, I know,  
How can I fight with love, and call it so?  
Is it not Love? It was not now: (O strange!)  
Time and ill custom, workers of all change,  
Have made it love, men oft impose not names  
By Adam's rule, but what their passion frames.  
And since our Childhood taught us to approve  
Our Father's words, we yield and call it love.  
Examples of past times our deeds should sway;  
But we must speak the language of to day:  
Use hath no bounds, it may profane once more  
The name of God, which first an Idol bore.  
How many titles fit for meaner grooms,  
Are knighted now, and marshal d in high rooms!  
And many which once good, and great were thought,  
Posterity, to vice and baseness brought,  
As it hath this of love, and we must bow,  
As States usurping Tyrants reigns allow,  
And after ages reckon by their years:  
Such force Possession, though injurious, bears:  
Or as a wrongful title, or foul crime  
Made lawful by a Statute for the time,  
With reverend estimation blinds our eyes,  
And is called just, in spite of all the wise.  
Then heavenly love, this loathed name forsake,  
And some of thy more glorious titles take:  
Sun of the Soul, clear beauty, living fire,  
Celestial light, which dost pure hearts inspire,  
While Lust, thy Bastard brother, shallbe known  
By love's wronged name that Lovers may him own.  
So oft with Heretics such terms we use,  
As they can brook, not such as we would choose:  
And since he takes the throne of Love exiled,  
In all our Letters he shall Love be styled:  
But if true Love vouchsafe again his sight,  
No word of mine shall prejudice his right:  
So Kings by caution with their Rebels treat,  
As with free States, when they are grown too great.  
If common Drunkards only can express  
To life the sad effects of their excess:  
How can I write of Love, who never felt  
His dreadful arrow, nor did ever melt  
My heart away before a female flame,  
Like waxen statues, which the witch's frame?  
I must confess if I knew one that had  
Been poisoned with this deadly draught, and mad,  
And afterward in Bedlam well reclaimed  
To perfect sense, and in his wits not maimed:  
I would the fervour of my Muse restrain,  
And let this subject for his task remain:  
But aged wanderers sooner will declare  
Their Eleusinian rites, than Lovers dare  
Renounce the Devil's pomp, and Christians die:  
So much prevails a painted Idols eye.  
Then since of them like jews we can convert  
Scarce one in many years, their just desert,  
By self confession, never can appear;  
But on presumptions we proceed, and there  
The judge's innocence most credit wins:  
●iue men try thieves, and Saints describe foul sins.  
This Monster love by day, and lust by night,  
〈◊〉 full of burning fire, but void of light,  
Left here on earth to keep poor mortals out  
Of error, who of Hell-fire else would doubt.  
Such is that wand'ring nightly flame, which leads  
Th'vn wary passenger, until he treads  
His last step on the steep and craggy walls  
Of some high mountain, whence he headlong falls.  
A vapour first extracted from the Stews,  
(Which with new fuel still the lamp renews)  
And with a Panders sulphurous breath inflamed,  
Became a Meteor, for destruction framed,  
Like some prodigious Comet which foretells  
Disasters to the Realm on which it dwells.  
And now hath this false light prevailed so far  
That most observe, it is a fixed star,  
Yea as their load star, by whose beams impure,  
They guide their ships, in courses not secure,  
Be witched and dazzled with the glaring sight  
Of this proud Fiend, attired in Angel's light,  
Who still delights his darksome smoke to turn  
To rays, which seem t'enlighten, not to burn:  
He leads them to the tree, and they believe  
The fruit is sweet, so he deluded Eue.  
But when they once have tasted of the feasts,  
They quench that spark, which severs men from beas●●▪  
And feel effects of our first Parents fall  
Deprived of reason, and to sense made thrall.  
Thus is the miserable Lover bound  
With fancies, and in fond affection drowned.  
In him no faculty of man is seen,  
But when he sighs a Sonnet to his Queen:  
This makes him more than man, a Poet fit  
For such false Poets, as make passion wit.  
Who looks within an empty cask, may see,  
Where once a soul was, and again may be,  
Which by this difference from a Corpse is known:  
One is in power to have life, both have none:  
For Lovers slippery Souls (as they confess,  
Without extending rack, or straining press)  
By transmigration to their Mistress flow:  
Pythagoras instructs his Scholars so,  
Who did for penance lustful minds confine  
To lead a second life, in Goats, and Swine.  
Then Love is death, and drives the soul to dwell  
In this betraying harbour, which like hell  
Gives never back her booty, and contains  
A thousand firebrands, whips, and restless pains:  
And which is worse, so bitter are those wheels,  
That many hells at once, the Lover feels,  
And hath his heart dissected into parts,  
That it may mere with other double hearts.  
This love stands never sure, it wants a ground,  
It makes no ordered course, it finds no bound,  
It aims at nothing, it no comfort tastes,  
But while the pleasure, and the passion lasts.  
Yet there are flames, which two hearts one can make;  
Not forth ' affections, but the objects sake▪  
That burning glass, where beams dispersed incline  
Unto a point, and shoot forth in a line.  
This noble Love hath Axletree, and Poles  
Wherein it moves, and gets eternal goals:  
These revolutions, like the heavenly Spheres,  
Make all the periods equal as the years:  
And when this time of motion finished is,  
It ends with that great Year of endless bliss.    

A description of Love..  

Love is a Region full of fires,  
And burning with extreme desires,  
An object seeks, of which possessed,  
The wheels are fixed, the motions rest,  
The flames in ashes lie oppressed:  
This Meteor striving high to rise,  
(The fuel spent) falls down and dies.   

Much sweeter, and more pure delights  
Are drawn from fair alluring sights,  
When ravished minds attempt to praise  
Commanding eyes, like heavenly rays;  
Whose force the gentle heart obeys:  
Then where the end of this pretence  
Descends to base inferior sense.   

Why then should Lovers (most will say)  
Expect so much th' enjoying day?  
Love is like youth, he thirsts for age,  
He scorns to be his Mother's Page:  
But when proceeding times assuage  
The former heat, he will complain,  
And wish those pleasant hours again.   

We know that Hope and Love are twins;  
Hope gone, Fruition now begins:  
But what is this? unconstant, frail,  
In nothing sure, but sure to fail:  
Which, if we lose it, we bewail;  
And when we have it, still we bear  
The worst of passions, daily Fear.   

When Love thus in his Centre ends,  
Desire and Hope, his inward friends  
Are shaken off: while Doubt and Grief,  
The weakest givers of relief,  
Stand in his council as the chief:  
And now he to his period brought,  
From Love becomes some other thought.   

These lines I write not, to remove  
United souls from serious love:  
The best attempts by mortals made,  
Reflect on things which quickly fade;  
Yet never will I men persuade  
To leave affections, where may shine  
Impressions of the Love divine.    

The Shepherdess.  

A Shepherdess, who long had kept her flocks  
On stony Charnwoods' dry and barren rocks,  
In heat of Summer to the vales declined,  
To seek fresh pasture for her Lambs half pined.  
She (while her charge was feeding) spent the hours  
To gaze on sliding Brooks, and smiling flowers.  
Thus having largely strayed, she lifts her sight,  
And views a Palace full of glorious light.  
She finds the entrance open, and as bold  
As Country Maids, that would the Court behold,  
She makes an offer, yet again she stays,  
And dares not dally with those Sunny rays.  
Here lay a Nymph, of beauty most divine,  
Whose happy presence caused the house to shine;  
Who much conversed with mortals, and could know  
No honour truly high, that scorns the low:  
For she had oft been present, though unseen,  
Among the Shepherd's daughters on the Green,  
Where cu'ry homebred Swain desires to prove  
His Oaten Pipe, and Feet before his Love,  
And crownes the cu'ning, when the days are long,  
With some plain Dance, or with a Rural song.  
Nor were the women nice to hold this sport,  
And please their Lovers in a modest sort.  
There that sweet Nymph had seen this Country Dame  
For singing crowned, whence grew a world of fame  
Among the Sheepecotes, which in her rejoice,  
And know no better pleasure than her voice.  
The glittering Ladies gathered in a ring,  
Entreat the silly Shepherdess to sing:  
She blushed and sung, while they with words of praise,  
Contend her songs above their worth to raise.  
Thus being cheered with many courteous signs,  
She takes her leave, for now the Sun declines,  
And having driven home her flocks again,  
She meets her Love, a simple Shepherd Swain;  
Yet in the Plains he had a Poet's name:  
For he could Roundelays and Carols frame,  
Which, when his Mistress sung along the Downs,  
Was thought celestial Music by the Clowns.  
Of him she begs, that he would raise his mind  
To paint this Lady, whom she found so kind:  
You oft (saith she) have in our homely Bowers  
Discoursed of Demigods and greater powers:  
For you with hesiod sleeping learned to know  
The race divine from heaven to earth below.  
My Deer (said he) the Nymph whom thou hast seen,  
Most happy is of all that live between  
This Globe and Cynthia, and in high estate,  
Of wealth and beauty hath an equal mate,  
Whose love hath drawn uncessant tears in floods,  
From Nymphs, that haunt the waters and the woods.  
Of Iris to the ground hath bend her bow  
To steal a kiss, and then away to go:  
Yet all in vain, he no affection knows  
But to this Goddess, whom at first he chose:  
Him she enjoys in mutual bonds of love:  
Two hearts are taught in one small point to move.  
Her Father high in honour and descent,  
Commands the Sylvans on the Northside Trent.  
He at this time for pleasure and retreat,  
Comes down from Beluoir his ascending seat,  
To which great Pan had lately honour done:  
For there he lay, so did his hopeful Son.  
But when this Lord by his access desires  
To grace our Dales, he to a house retires,  
Whose walls are watered with our silver Brooks,  
And makes the Shepherd's proud to view his looks.  
There in that blessed house you also saw  
His Lady, whose admired virtues draw  
All hearts to love her, and all tongues invite  
To praise that air where she vouchsafes her light.  
And for thy further joy thine eyes were blest,  
To see another Lady, in whose breast  
True Wisdom hath with Bounty equal place,  
As Modesty with Beauty in her face.  
She found me singing Flora's native dowres,  
And made me sing before the heavenly powers:  
For which great favour, till my voice be done,  
I sing of her, and her thrice-noble son.    

On the Anniversary day of his Majesty's reign over England, March the 24. written at the beginning of his twentieth year.  

THe world to morrow celebrates with mirth  
The joyful peace between the heaven & earth:  
To day let Britain praise that rising light,  
Whose titles her divided parts unite.  
The time since safety triumphed over fear,  
Is now extended to the twenti'th year.  
Thou happy year with perfect number blest,  
O slide as smooth and gentle as the rest:  
That when the Sun dispersing from his head,  
The clouds of Winter on his beauty spread,  
Shall see his Equinoctial point again,  
And melt his dusky mask to fruitful rain,  
He may be loath our Climate to forsake,  
And thence a pattern of such glory take,  
That he would leave the Zodiac, and desire  
To dwell forever with our Northern fire.    

A thanksgiving for the deliverance of our Sovereign, King james, from a dangerous accident, january 8.  

O Gracious Maker, on whose smiles or frowns  
Depends the Fate of Sceptres and of Crowns  
Whose hand not only holds the hearts of Kings,  
But all their steps are shadowed with thy wings.  
To thee immortal thanks three Sisters give,  
For saving him, by whose dear life they live.  
First, England crowned with Roses of the Spring,  
An offering like to Abel's gift will bring:  
And vows that she for thee alone will keep  
Her fattest Lambs, and Fleeces of her sheep.  
Next, Scotland triumphs, that she bore and bred  
This Isle's delight, and wearing on her head  
A wreath of Lilies gathered in the field,  
Presents the Min'rals which her mountains yield.  
Last, Ireland like Terpsichore attired  
With neverfading Laurel, and inspired  
By true Apollo's heat, a Paean sings,  
And kindles zealous flames with silver strings.  
This day a sacrifice of praise requires,  
Our breasts are Altars, and our joys are fires.  
That sacred Head, so oft, so strangely blest  
From bloody plots, was now (O fear!) depressed  
Beneath the water, and those Sunlike beams  
Were threatened to be quenched in narrow streams.  
Ah! who dare think, or can endure to hear  
Of those sad dangers, which then seemed so near?  
What Pan would have preserved our flocks increase  
From Wolves? What Hermes could with words of peace,  
Cause whetted swords to fall from angry hands,  
And shine the Star of calms in Christian Lands?  
But Thou, whose Eye to hidden depths extends,  
To show that he was made for glorious ends,  
Hast raised him by thine All-commanding arm,  
Not only safe from death, but free from harm.    

To his late Majesty, concerning the true form of English Poetry.  

GReat King, the Sovereign Ruler of this Land,  
By whose grave care, our hopes securely stand:  
Since you descending from that spacious reach,  
Vouchsafe to be our Master, and to teach  
Your English Poets to direct their lines,  
To mix their colours, and express their signs.  
Forgive my boldness, that I here present  
The life of Muses yielding true content  
In pondered numbers, which with ease I tried,  
When your judicious rules have been my guide.   

He makes sweet Music, who in serious lines,  
Light dancing tunes, and heavy prose declines:  
When verses like a milky torrent flow,  
They equal temper in the Poet show.  
He paints true forms, who with a modest heart,  
Gives lustre to his work, yet covers Art.  
Vneven swelling is no way to fa●●●,  
But solid joining of the perfect frame:  
So that no curious finger there can find  
The former chinks, or nails that fastly bind.  
Yet most would have the knots of stitches seen,  
And holes where men may thrust their hands between.  
On halting feet the ragged Poem goes  
With Accents, neither fitting Verse nor Prose:  
The style mine care with more contentment fills  
In Lawyers plead, or Physician's bills.  
For though in terms of Art their skill they close,  
And joy in darksome words as well as those:  
They yet have perfect sense more pure and clear  
Then envious Muses, which sad Garlands wear  
Of dusky clouds, their strange conceits to hide  
From humane eyes: and (lest they should be spied  
By some sharp Oedipus) the English Tongue  
For this their poor ambition suffers wrong.  
In every Language now in Europe spoke  
By Nations which the Roman Empire broke,  
The relish of the Muse consists in rhyme,  
One verse must meet another like a chime.  
Our Saxon shortness hath peculiar grace  
In choice of words, fit for the ending place,  
Which leave impression in the mind as well  
As closing sounds, of some delightful bell:  
These must not be with disproportion lame,  
Nor should an Echo still repeat the same.  
In many changes these may be expressed:  
But those that join most simply, run the best:  
Their form surpassing far the fettered staffs,  
Vain care, and needless repetition saves.  
These outward ashes keep those inward fires,  
Whose heat the Greek and Roman works inspires:  
Pure phrase, fit Epithets, a sober care  
Of Metaphors, descriptions clear, yet rare,  
Similitudes contracted smooth and round,  
Not vexed by learning, but with Nature crowned.  
Strong figures drawn from deep inventions springs,  
Consisting less in words, and more in things:  
A language not affecting ancient times,  
Nor Latin shreds, by which the Pedant climbs:  
A noble subject which the mind may lift  
To easy use of that peculiar gift,  
Which Poets in their raptures hold most dear,  
When actions by the lively sound appear.  
Give me such helps, I never will despair,  
But that our heads which suck the freezing air,  
As well as hotter brains, may verse adorn,  
And be their wonder, as we were their scorn.    

To the glorious memory of our late Sovereign Lord, King james.  

Weep, O ye Nymphs: that from your caves may flow  
Those trickling drops, whence mighty rivers flow.  
Disclose your hidden store: let every Spring  
To this our Sea of grief some tribute bring:  
And when ye once have wept your Fountains dry,  
The heaven with showers will send a new supply.  
But if these cloudy treasures prove too scant,  
Our tears shall help, when other moisture's want.  
This I'll, nay Europe, nay the World bewails  
Our loss, with such a Stream as never fails.  
Abundant floods from every letter rise,  
When we pronounce great james, our Sovereign dies.  
And while I write these words, I trembling stand,  
A sudden darkness hath possessed the Land.  
I cannot now express myself by signs:  
All eyes are blinded, none can read my lines;  
Till Charles ascending, drives away the night,  
And in his splendour gives my Verses light.  
Thus by the beams of his succeeding flame,  
I shall describe his Father's boundless Fame.   

The Grecian emperors gloried to be borne,  
And nursed in Purple, by their Parents worn.  
See here a King, whose birth together twines  
The Britain, English, Norman, Scottish lines:  
How like a Princely Throne his Cradle stands;  
White Diadems become his swathing bands.  
His glory now makes all the Earth his Tomb,  
But envious Fiends would in his Mother's womb  
Inter his rising greatness, and contend  
Against the Babe, whom heavenly troops defend,  
And give such vigour in his childhoods-state,  
That he can strangle Snakes, which swell with hate.  
This conquest his undaunted breast declares  
In Seas of danger, in a world of cares:  
Yet neither cares oppress his constant mind,  
Nor dangers drown his life for age designed.  
The Muses leave their sweet Castalian Springs  
In form of Bees, extending silken wings  
Wi●h gentle sounds, to keep this Infant still,  
While they his mouth with pleasing honey fill.  
Hence those large Streams of Eloquence proceed,  
Which in the hearers strange amazement breed;  
When laying by his Sceptres and his Swords,  
He melts their hearts with his mellifluous words.  
So Hercules in ancient pictures feigned,  
Could draw whole Nations to his tongue enchained.  
He first considers in his tender age,  
How God hath raised him on this earthly Stage,  
To act a part, exposed to every eye:  
With Solomon he therefore strives to fly  
To him that gave this Greatness, and demands  
The precious gift of Wisdom from his hands:  
While God delighted with this just request,  
Not only him, with wondrous Prudence blest,  
But promised higher glories, new increase  
Of Kingdoms circled with a Ring of Peace.  
He thus instructed by divine commands,  
Extends this peaceful line to other Lands.  
When wars are threatened by shrill Trumpets sounds,  
His Olive stauncheth blood, and binds up wounds.  
The Christian World this good from him derives,  
That thousands had untimely spent their lives,  
If not preserved by lustre of his Crown:  
Which calmed the storms, & laid the billows down:  
And dimmed the glory of that Roman wreath  
By soldiers gained for saving men from death.  
This Denmark felt, and Swethland, when their strife  
Ascended to such height, that loss of life  
Was counted nothing: for the daily sight  
Of dying men made Death no more than night.  
Behold, two potent Princes deep engaged  
In several interests, mutually enraged  
By former conflicts: yet they down will lay  
Their swords, when his advice directs the way.  
The Northern Climates from dissension barred,  
Receive new joys by his discreet award.  
When Momus could among the Godlike-Kings,  
Infect with poison those immortal Springs  
Which flow with Nectar; and such gall would cast,  
As spoils the sweetness of Ambrosiaes' taste;  
This mighty Lord, as Ruler of the Choir,  
With peaceful counsels quenched the rising fire.  
The Austrian Archduke, and Batavian State,  
By his endeavours, change their long-bred hate  
For twelve years' truce: this rest to him they owe  
As Belgian Shepherds, and poor Ploughman know.  
The Muscovites oppressed with neighbours, fly  
To safe protection of his watchful eye.  
And Germany his ready succours tries,  
When sad contentions in the Empire rise.  
His mild instinct all Christians thus discern:  
But Christ's malignant foes shall find him stern.  
What care, what charge he suffers to prevent,  
Lest Infidels their number should augment,  
His ships restrain the Pirates bloody works;  
And Poland gains his aid against the Turks.  
His powerful Edicts stretched beyond the Line,  
Among the Indians several bounds design;  
By which his subjects may exalt his Throne,  
And strangers keep themselves within their own.  
This Isle was made the Sun's ecliptic way;  
For here our Phoebus still vouchsafed to stay:  
And from this blessed place of his retreat,  
In different Zones distinguished cold and heat,  
Sent light or darkness, and by his Commands  
Appointed limits to the Seas and Lands,  
Who would imagine, that a Prince employed  
In such affairs, could ever have enjoyed  
Those hours, which drawn from pleasure, and from rest,  
To purchase precious knowledge were addressed?  
And yet in learning he was known t'exceed  
Most, whom our houses of the Muses breed.  
Ye English Sisters, Nurses of the Arts,  
Unpartial judges of his better parts;  
Raise up your wings, and to the world declare  
His solid judgement, his Invention rare,  
His ready Elocution, which ye found  
In deepest matters, that your Schools propound.  
It is sufficient for my creeping Verse,  
His care of English Language to rehearse.  
He leads the lawless Poets of our times,  
To smother cadence, to exacter Rhymes:  
He knew it was the proper work of Kings,  
To keep proportion, e'en in smallest things.  
He with no higher titles can be styled,  
When Servants name him liberal, Subjects, Mild.  
Of antonine fair time the Romans tell,  
No bubbles of ambition than could swell  
To foreign wars; nor ease bred civil strife:  
Nor any of the Senate lost his life.  
Our King preserves for two and twenty years,  
This Realm from inward and from outward fears.  
All English Peers escape the deadly stroke,  
Though some with crimes his anger durst provoke.  
He was severe in wrongs, which others felt;  
But in his own, his heart would quickly melt.  
For then (like God, from whom his glories flow)  
He makes his Mercy swift, his justice slow.  
He never would our general joy forget,  
When on his sacred brow the Crown was set;  
And therefore strives to make his Kingdom great,  
By fixing here his Heirs perpetual Seat:  
Which every firm and loyal heart desires,  
May last as long as heaven hath starry fires.  
Continued bliss from him this Land receives,  
When leaving us, to us his Son he leaves,  
Our hope, our joy, our treasure: Charles our King,  
Whose entrance in my next attempt I sing.    

A Panegyric at the Coronation of our Sovereign Lord King Charles.  

AVrora come: why should thine envious stay  
Defer the joys of this expected day?  
Will not thy master let his horses run,  
Because he fears to meet another Sun?  
Or hath our Northern Star so dimmed thine eyes,  
Thou know'st not where (at East or West) to rise?  
Make haste, for if thou shalt deny thy light;  
His glittering Crown will drive away the night.  
Debar not curious Phoebus, who desires  
To gild all glorious objects with his fires.  
And could his beams lay open people's hearts,  
As well as he can view their outward parts;  
He here should find a triumph, such as he  
Hath never seen, perhaps shall never see.   

Shine forth, great Charles, accept our loyal words,  
Throw from your pleasing eyes those conquering swords,  
That when upon your Name our voices call,  
The Birds may feel our thundering noise, and fall:  
Soft Air rebounding in a circled ring,  
Shall to the Gates of Heaven our wishes bring:  
For vows, which with so strong affection fly  
From many lips, will doubtless pierce the sky:  
And God (who knows the secrets of our minds,  
When in our breasts he these two virtues finds,  
Sincerity and Concord, joined in prayer  
For him, whom Nature made undoubted Heir  
Of three fair Kingdoms) will his Angels send  
With blessings from his Throne this pomp t'attend  
Fair City, England's Gem, the Queen of Trade,  
By sad infection lately desert made:  
Cast off thy mourning robes, forget thy tears,  
Thy clear and healthful jupiter appears:  
Pale Death, who had thy silent streets possessed,  
And some foul damp, or angry Planet pressed  
To work his rage, now from th' Almighty's will  
Receives command to hold his javelin still.  
But since my Muse pretends to tune a song  
Fit for this day, and fit t'inspire this throng;  
Whence shall I kindle such immortal fires?  
From joys or Hopes, from Praises or Desires?  
To praise him, would require an endless wheel;  
Yet nothing told but what we see and feel.  
A thousand tongues for him all gifts entreat  
In which Felicity may claim her seat:  
Large Honour, happy Conquest, boundless Wealth,  
Long Life, sweet Children, unafflicted Health:  
But chiefly, we esteem that precious thing  
(Of which already we behold the Spring)  
Directing Wisdom; and we now presage  
How high that virtue will ascend in age.  
In him, our certain confidence unites  
All former worthy Princes spreading lights;  
And adds his glorious Father to the sum:  
From ancient times no greater Name can come.  
Our hopeful King thus to his Subjects shines,  
And reads in faithful hearts these zealous lines;  
This is our Country's Father, this is He  
In whom we live, and could not live so free,  
Were we not under him; his watchful care  
Prevents our dangers: how shall we declare  
Our thankful minds, but by the humble gift  
Of firm obedience, which to him we lift?  
As he is God's true Image choicely wrought,  
And for our joy to these Dominions brought:  
So must we imitate celestial bands,  
Which grudge not to perform divine commands.  
His breast transparent like a liquid flood,  
Discovers his advice for public good:  
But if we judge it by deceiving fame,  
Like Semele, we think Ioues piercing flame  
No more, then common fire in ashes nursed,  
Till formelesse fancies in their errors burst.  
Shall we discuss his counsels? We are blest  
Who know our bliss, and in his judgement rest.    

Of the Prince's journey.  

THe happy ship that carries from the Land  
Great Britain's joy, before she knows her loss,  
Is ruled by him, who can the waves command.  
No envious storms a quiet passage cross:  
See how the water smiles, the wind breathes fair,  
The clouds restrain their frowns, their sighs, their tears,  
As if the Music of the whispering air  
Should tell the Sea what precious weight it bears.  
A thousand vows and wishes drive the sails  
With gales of safety to the Neustrian shore.  
The Ocean trusted with this pledge, bewails  
That it such wealth must to the Earth restore:  
Then France receiving with a dear embrace  
This Northern Star, though clouded and disguised,  
Beholds some hidden virtue in his face,  
And knows he is a jewel highly prized.  
Yet there no pleasing sights can make him stay;  
For like a River sliding to the Main,  
He hastes to find the period of his way,  
And drawn by love, draws all our hearts to Spain▪    

Of the Prince's departure and return.  

WHen Charles from us withdraws his glorious light,  
The Sun desires his absence to supply:  
And that we may nothing in darkness lie,  
He strives to free the North from dreadful night.  
Yet we to Phoebus scarce erect our sight,  
But all our looks, our thoughts to Charles apply,  
And in the best delights of life we die,  
Till he return, and make this Climate bright.  
Now he ascends and gives Apollo leave  
To drive his Horses to the lower part,  
We by his presence like content receive,  
As when fresh spirits aid the fainting heart.  
Rest here (great Charles) and shine to us alone,  
For other Stars are common; Charles our own.    

Of the Princes most happy return.  

Our Charles, whose Horses never quenched the●● heat,  
In cooling waves of Neptune's watery seat:  
Whose starry Chariot in the spangled night,  
Was still the pleasing object of our sight:  
This glory of the North hath lately run  
A course as round, and certain as the Sun:  
He to the South inclining half the year,  
Now at our Tropike will again appear.  
He made his setting in the Western streams,  
Where weary Phoebus dips his fading beams:  
But in this morning our erected eyes  
Become so happy as to see him rise.  
We shall not ever in the shadow stay,  
His absence was to bring a longer day;  
That having felt how darkness can affright,  
We may with more content embrace the light,  
And call to mind, how every soul with pain  
Sent forth her throws to fetch him home again:  
For want of him we withered in the Spring,  
But his return shall life in Winter bring:  
The Plants, which, when he went, were growing green,  
Retain their former Liu'ries to be seen,  
When he reviewes them: his expected eye  
Preserved their beauty, ready oft to die.  
What tongue? what hand can to the life display  
The glorious joy of this triumphant day?  
When England crowned with many thousand fires,  
Receives the scope of all her best desires.  
She at his sight, as with an Earthquake swells,  
And strikes the Heaven with sound of trembling bells.  
The vocal Goddess leaving desert woods,  
Slides down the vales, and dancing on the floods,  
Observes our words, and with repeating noise  
Contends to double our abundant joys.  
The World's clear eye is jealous of his name,  
He sees this He like one continual flame,  
And fears lest Earth a brighter Star should breed,  
Which might upon his meat the vapours feed.  
We marvel not, that in his Father's Land  
So many signs of love and service stand:  
Behold how Spain retains in every place  
Some bright reflection of his cheerful face;  
Madrid, where first his splendour he displays,  
And drives away the Clouds that dimmed his rays,  
Her joys into a world of forms doth bring,  
Yet none contents her, while that potent King,  
Who rules so far, till now could never find  
His Realms and wealth too little for his mind.  
No words of welcome can such Planets greet,  
Where in one house they by conjunction meet.  
Their sacred concord runs through many Signs,  
And to the Zodiakes better portion shines:  
But in the Virgin they are seen most far,  
And in the Lion's heart the Kingly Star.  
When toward us our Prince his journey moves,  
And feels attraction of his servant's loves,  
When (having open breasts of strangers known)  
He hastes to gather tribute of his own,  
The joyful neighbours all his passage fill  
With noble Trophies of his might and skill,  
In conquering men's affections with his darts,  
Which deeply fixed in many ravished hearts,  
Are like the starry chains, whose blazes play  
In knots of light along the milky way.  
He hears the news of his approaching Fleet,  
And will his Navy see, his Servants greet;  
Thence to the Land returning in his Barge,  
The waves leap high, as proud of such a Charge;  
The night makes speed to see him, and prevents  
The slothful twilight, casting dusky tents  
On roaring Streams, which might all men dismay,  
But him, to whose clear soul the night is day.  
The pressing winds with their officious strife,  
Had caused a tumult dangerous to his life.  
But their Commander checks them, and restrains  
Their hasty fervour in accustomed chains:  
This peril (which with fear our words decline)  
Was then permitted by the hand Divine,  
That good event might prove his person dear  
●o heaven, and needful to the people here.  
When he resolves to cross the watery maine,  
●ee what a change his absence makes in Spain!  
The Earth turns grey for grief that she conceives,  
Birds lose their tongues, and trees forsake their leaves.  
Now floods of tears express a sad farewell,  
Ambitious sails as with his greatness swell,  
To him old Ner●us on his Dolphin rides,  
Presenting bridles to direct the Tides,  
He calls his daughters from their secret caves,  
Their snowy necks are seen above the waves)  
And saith to them: Behold the only Son  
Of that great Lord, about whose Kingdoms run  
Our liquid currents, which are made his own,  
And with moist Bulwarks guard his sacred Throne:  
See how his looks delight, his gestures move  
Admire and praise, yet fly from snares of love:  
Not Thete's with her beauty and her dowry,  
Can draw this Peleus to her watery bower,  
He loves a Nymph of high and heavenly race,  
The evening Sun doth homage to her face.  
Hesperian Orchards yield her golden fruit,  
He took this journey in that sweet pursuit.  
When thus their Father ends, the Nereids throw  
Their Garlands on this glorious Prince, and strew  
His way with Songs, in which the hopes appear  
Of joys too great for humane ears to hear.    

Upon the anniversary day of the Prince's return October the fifth.  

WE now admire their doctrine, who maintains  
The World's creation under Autumn's reig●●,  
When trees abound in fruit, Grapes swell with juice,  
These meats are ready for the creatures use:  
Old Time resolves to make a new survey  
Of years and ages from this happy day,  
Refusing those accounts which others bring,  
He crownes October, as of months the King.  
No more shall hoary Winter claim the place,  
And draw cold proofs from janus' double face;  
Nor shall the Ram, when Spring the earth adorns,  
Unlock the gate of heaven with golden horns:  
Dry Summer shall not of the Dogstar boast  
(Of angry constellations honoured most,)  
From whose strong heat Egyptians still begun,  
To mark the turning circle of the Sun.  
Vertumnus, who hath Lordly power to change  
The Seasons, and can them in order range,  
Will from this Period fresh beginning take,  
Yet not so much for his Pomonaes' sake,  
Who then is richly dressed to please her Spouse,  
And with her Orchards treasure decks her brows.  
●t is our CHARLES, whose ever loved name,  
Hath made this point of heaven increase in fame:  
Whose long-thought absence was so much deplored,  
●n whom our hopes and all our fruits are stored.  
He now attains the shore (O blessed day)  
And true Achates waits along his way,  
Our wise Anchiseses for his son provides  
This chosen servant, as the best of guides.  
A Prince's glory cannot more depend  
Upon his Crown, then on a faithful friend.    

To the most illustrious Prince Charles, of the excellent use of Poems.  

Divine example of obedient heirs,  
High in my hopes, and second in my prayers:  
True Image of your Father to the life,  
Whom Time desired, and Fates in jealous strife,  
With cheerful voices taught their wheels to run,  
That such a Father might have such a Son;  
Since God exalts you on this earthly Stage,  
And gives you wisdom far above your age,  
To judge of men, and of their active powers:  
Let me lay down the fruits of private hours  
Before your feet, you never will refuse  
This gift, which bears the title of a Muse.   

Among your serious thoughts, with noble care  
You cherish Poets, knowing that they are  
The Stars which light to famous actions give,  
By whom the memories of good Princes live:  
You are their Prince in a peculiar kind,  
Because your Father hath their Art refined.  
And though these Priests of greatness quiet sit  
Amidst the silent children of their wit,  
Without access of sutours, or dispatch  
Of high affairs, at which th'ambitious catch;  
They are not idle, when their sight they raise  
Beyond the present time to future days;  
And brave examples, sage instructions bring  
In pleasing verses, which our sons may sing.  
They oft erect their flight above the Land,  
When grave Urania joining hand in hand  
With soft Thalia, mix their different strings,  
And by their music make celestial things;  
More fit for humane ears, whose winding round  
Are easily filled with well digested sounds.  
Pale Envy and dull Ignorance reprove  
This exercise, as only apt for love,  
Devised t'allure the sense with curious Art:  
But not t'enrich the understanding part.  
So might they say, The Sun was only framed  
To please the eye, and only therefore named  
The Eye of Heaven, conceiving not his wheel  
Of lively heat, which lower bodies feel.  
Our Muses strive, that Commonwealths may be  
As well from barbarous deeds, as Language free:  
The several sounds in harmony combined,  
Knit chains of virtue in the hearers mind:  
And that he still may have his teacher by  
With measured lines, we please his curious eye.  
We hold those works of Art, or Nature best,  
Where Orders steps most fully are expressed  
And therefore all those civil men that live  
By Law and rule, will to our numbers give  
The name of good, in which perfection rests;  
And feel their strokes with sympathyzing breasts.  
Not Orators so much with flowing words,  
Can sway the hearts of men, and whet their swords:  
Or blunt them at their pleasure, as our strains,  
(Whose larger Sphere the Orb of prose contains)  
Can men's affections lessen or increase,  
And guide their passions whispering war or peace?  
Tyrtaeus by the vigour of his verse,  
Made Sparta conquer, while his lines rehearse  
Her former glory, almost then subdued  
By stronger foes, and when the people rude  
Contend among themselves with mutual wrongs,  
He tempers discord with his milder songs:  
This poor lame Poet hath an equal praise  
With Captains, and with States men of his days:  
The Muses claim possession in those men,  
Who first adventured with a nimble pen;  
To paint their thoughts, in new invented signs,  
And spoke of Nature's works in numbered lines:  
This happy Art, compared with plainer ways,  
Was sooner borne, and not so soon decays:  
She safer stands from times devouring wrong,  
As better seasoned to continue long;  
But as the streams of time, still forward flow;  
So Wits, more idle and distrustful grow:  
They yield this Fort, and cowardly pretend  
Prose, is a castle easier to defend;  
Nor was this change effected in a day,  
But with degrees, ●nd by a stealing way,  
They pull the Muse's feathers one by one;  
And are not seen, till both the wings be gone.  
If man enjoying such a precious Mine,  
Esteemed his nature almost made Divine:  
When he beheld th' expression of his thought,  
To such a height, and Godlike glory brought:  
This change may well his fading joy confound,  
To see it naked, creeping on the ground;  
Yet in the lands that honoured learning's name,  
Were always some, that kept the vestal flame  
Of powerful Verse, on whose increase or end,  
The periods of the souls chief reign depend.  
Now in this Realm I see the golden age  
Return to us, whose coming shall assuage  
Distracting strife, and many hearts inspire,  
To gather fuel for this sacred fire:  
On which, if you, great Prince, your eyes will cast;  
And like Favonius, give a gentle blast:  
The lively flame shall never yield to death,  
But gain immortal spirit by your breath.    

To the Prince.  

IF every man a little world we name?  
You are a World most like the greatest frame:  
Your love of Learning spreads your glory far,  
Lifts you to heaven, and makes you there a Star.  
In active sports, and forms of martial deeds,  
Like Fire and Air your nimble courage breeds  
A rare amazement, and a sweet delight  
To Britons, who behold so dear a sight:  
Though higher Orbs such glorious signs contain,  
Do not (brave Prince) this lower Globe disdain.  
In pure and fruitful water we may see  
Your mind from darkness clear, in bounty free:  
And in the steady resting of the ground,  
Your noble firmness to your friend is found:  
For you are still the same, and where you love,  
No absence can your constant mind remove.  
So goodness spreads itself with endless lines,  
And so the Light in distant places shines:  
He that adventures of your worth to sing,  
Attempts in vain, to paint a boundless thing.    

An Epithalamium upon the happy marriage of our Sovereign Lord King Charles, and our gracious Lady Queen MARY.  

THe Ocean long contended (but in vain)  
To part our shore from France.  
Let Neptune shake his mace, & swelling waves advance:  
The former Union now returns again,  
This Isle shall once more kiss the Main  
Joined with a flowery bridge of love, on which the Grace's dance.   

Leander here no dangerous journey takes,  
To touch his Heros hand:  
Our Hellespont with Ships becomes as firm as Land,  
When this sweet Nymph her place of birth forsakes,  
And England signs of welcome makes  
As many, as our gladsome coasts have little grains of sand.   

That voice, in which the Continent was blest,  
Now to this Island calls  
The living Woods, and Rocks to frame new rising Walls:  
The moving Hills salute this happy guest,  
The Rivers to her service pressed,  
Seine into Thames, Garonne to Trent, and Loire to Severne falls.   

This Royal Pair, the Bridegroom and the Bride,  
With equal glory shine:  
Both full of sparkling light, both sprung from race divine  
Their Princely Fathers, Europa's highest pride,  
The Western World did sweetly guide:  
To them, as Fathers of their Realms we golden Crowns assign   

Great Henry never vanquished in the field,  
Rebellious foes could tame.  
The Wisdom of our James bred terror in his Name:  
So that his proudest Adversaries yield,  
Glad to be guarded with his shield,  
Where Peace with drops of heavenly dew suppressed Dissension flame▪   

Our Charleses and Mary now their course prepare,  
Like those two greater Lights,  
Which God in midst of Heaven exalted to our sights,  
To guide our footsteps with perpetual care,  
Times happy changes to declare:  
The one affords us healthful days, the other quiet nights.   

See how the Planets, and each lesser fire  
Along the Zodiac glide,  
And in this stately train their offices divide!  
No Star remains exempted from this Choir,  
But all are joined in one desire,  
To move as these their wheels shall turn, and rest where th●● abi●●   

What can these shouts and glit'tring shows portend,  
But never fading joys?  
The Lords in rich attire, the people with their noise,  
Express to what a height their hopes ascend,  
Which like a Circle have no end:  
Their strength no furious tempests shake, nor creeping age destroye●   

On this foundation we expect to build  
The Towers of earthly bliss.  
Mirth shall attend on Health, and Peace shall plenty kiss:  
The Trees with fruit, with Flowers our Gardens filled,  
Sweet honey from the leaves distilled,  
For now Astraeas reign appears to be a Type of this.   

O may our Children with their ravished eyes  
A race of Sons behold,  
Whose birth shall change our Ir'n to Silver, Brass to Gold.  
Proceed white hours, that from this stock may rise  
Victorious Kings, whom Fame shall prise  
More dear, than all other names within her Book enroled.    

At the end of his Majesty's first year. Sonnet first.  

YOur Royal Father james, the Good and Great,  
Proclaimed in March, when first we felt the Spring▪  
A World of bliss did to our Island bring:  
And at his Death he made his years complete,  
Although three days he longer held his seat,  
Then from that hour when he rejoiced to sing,  
Great Britain torn before, enjoys a King:  
Who can the periods of the Stars repeat?  
The Sun, who in his annual circle takes  
A days full quadrant from th'ensuing year,  
Repays it in four years, and equal makes  
The number of the days within his Sphere:  
james was our earthly Sun, who called to Heaven,  
Leaves you his Heir, to make all fractions e'en.    

Sonnet second.  

ABout the time when days are longer made,  
When nights are warmer, & the air more clear,  
When verdant leaves and fragrant flowers appear;  
Whose beauty winter had constrained to fade.  
About the time, when Gabriels' words persuade  
The blessed Virgin to incline her care,  
And to conceive that Son, whom she shall bear;  
Whose death and rising drive away the shade.  
About this time, so oft, so highly blest  
By precious gifts of Nature and of Grace,  
First glorious james, the English Crown possessed:  
Then gracious Charles succeeded in his place.  
For him his subjects wish with hearty words,  
Both what this world, and what the next affords.    

An Epithalamium to my Lord marquis of Buckingham, and to his fair and virtuous Lady.  

Severe and serious Muse  
Whose quill, the name of love declines,  
Be not too nice, nor this dear work refuse:  
Here Venus stirs no flame, nor cupid guides thy lines,  
But modest Hymen shakes his Torch, and chaste Lucina shines.   

The Bridegroom's stars arise,  
Maids, turn your sight, your faces hide:  
Lest ye be shipwrecked in those sparkling eyes,  
Fit to be seen by none, but by his lovely bride:  
If him Narcissus should behold, he would forget his pride.   

And thou fair Nymph appear  
With blushes, like the purple▪ morn;  
If now thine ears will be content to hear  
The title of a Wife, we shortly will adorn  
Thee with a joyful Mother's ●ame, when some sweet child's borne   

We wish a Son, whose smile,  
Whose beauty may proclaim him thine,  
Who may be worthy of his Father's style,  
May answer to our hopes, and strictly may combine  
The happy height of Villiers race, with noble Rutland's line.   

Let both their heads be crowned  
With choicest flowers, which shall presage  
That Love shall flourish, and delights abound,  
Time, add thou many days, nay ages to their age;  
Yet never must thy freezing arm, their holy fires assuage.   

Now when they join their hands,  
Behold, how fair that knot appears.  
O may the firmness of these Nuptial bands  
Resemble that bright line, the measure of the years.  
Which makes a league between the poles, and joins the Hemispheres.    

Of his Majesty's vow for the felicity of my Lord marquis of Buckingham.  

SEe what a full and certain blessing flows  
From him, that under God the Earth commands▪  
For Kings are Types of God, and by their hands  
A world of gifts and honours he bestows:  
The hopeful tree thus blest securely grows,  
Amidst the waters in a fertile ground;  
And shall with leaves, & flowers, & fruits be crowned,  
Abundant dew on it the Planter throws.  
You are this Plant, my Lord, and must dispose  
Your noble soul, those blossoms to receive;  
Which ever to the root of Virtue cleave,  
As our Apollo by his skill foreshows:  
Our Solomon, in wisdom, and in peace,  
Is now the Prophet of your fair increase.    

My Lord of Buckingham's welcome to the King at Burley.  

SIr, you have ever shined upon me bright,  
But now, you strike and dazzle me with light:  
You England's radiant Sun, vouchsafe to grace  
My house, a Sphere too little and too base,  
My Burley as a Cabinet contains  
The gem of Europe, which from golden veins  
Of glorious Princes, to this height is grown,  
And joins their precious virtues all in one:  
When I your praise would to the world profess;  
My thoughts with zeal, and earnest fervour press  
Which should be first, and their officious strife  
Restrains my hand from painting you to life.  
● write, and having written I destroy,  
Because my lines have bounds, but not my joy.    

A Congratulation to my Lord marquis of Buckingham, at the Birth of his Daughter.  

MY lines described your marriage as the Spring,  
Now like the Reapers, of your fruit I sing  
And show the Harvest of your constant love,  
In this sweet Armful which your joy shall prove:  
Her Sex is sign of plenty, and foreruns  
The pleasing hope of many noble Sons:  
Who far abroad their branches shall extend,  
And spread their race, till time receive an end.  
Be ever blest, (fair Child) that hast begun  
So white a thread, by hands of Angels spun:  
Thou art the first, and wilt the rest beguile;  
For thou shalt ravish with a cheerful smile  
Thy Parents hearts, not wont to such bliss:  
And steal the first fruits of a tender kiss.    

Of true Greatness: to my Lord marquis of Buckingham.  

SIr, you are truly great, and every eye  
Not dim with envy, joys to see you high:  
But chiefly mine, which buried in the night,  
Are by your beams raised and restored to light.  
You, only you have power to make me dwell  
In sight of men, drawn from my silent Cell:  
Where oft in vain my pen would have expressed  
Those precious gifts, in which your mind is blest.  
But you, as much too modest are to read  
Your praise, as I too weak your fame to spread.  
All curious forms, all pictures will disgrace  
Your worth, which must be studied in your face,  
The lively table, where your virtue shines  
More clearly, then in strong and weighty lines.  
In vain I strive to write some noble thing,  
To make you nobler for that prudent King:  
Whose words so oft, you happy are to hear,  
Hath made instruction needless to your ear:  
Yet give me leave in this my silent song,  
To show true Greatness, while you pass along;  
And if you were not humble, in each line  
Might own yourself, and say, This grace is mine.   

They that are great, and worthy to be so,  
Hide not their rays, from meanest plants that grow.  
Why is the Sun set in a Throne so high,  
But to give light to each inferior eye?  
His radiant beams distribute lively grace  
To all, according to their worth and place;  
And from the humble ground those vapours drain,  
Which are set down in fruitful drops of rain.  
As God his greatness and his wisdom shows  
In Kings, whose laws the acts of men dispose;  
So Kings among their servants those select,  
Whose noble virtues may the rest direct:  
Who must remember that their honour tends  
Not to vain pleasure, but to public ends:  
And must not glory in their style or birth;  
The Stars were made for man, the Heaven for end  
He whose just deeds his fellow-servants please,  
May serve his Sour'aigne with more joy and ease,  
Obeying with sincere and faithful love,  
That powerful hand, which gives his wheel to mo●●  
His Sphere is large, who can his duty know  
To Princes? and respect to us below!  
His soul is great, when it in bounds confines;  
This scale which raised so high, so deep declines:  
These are the steps, by which he must aspire  
Beyond all things which earthly hearts desire:  
And must so far dilate his noble mind,  
Till it in Heaven eternal honour find.  
The order of the blessed spirits there  
Must be his rule, while he inhabits here:  
He must conceive that worldly glories are  
Vain shadows, Seas of sorrow, springs of care:  
All things which under Cynthia lead their life,  
Are chained in darkness, borne and nursed in strife:  
None escapes the force of this destroying flood,  
But he that cleaves to God, his constant good:  
He is accursed that will delight to dwell  
In this black prison, this seditious hell:  
When with less pain he may embrace the light,  
And on his high Creator fix his sight,  
Whose gracious presence gives him perfect rest,  
And builds a Paradise within his breast:  
Where trees of virtues to their height increase,  
And bear the flowers of joy, the fruits of peace.  
No envy, no revenge, no rage, no pride,  
No lust, nor rapine should his courses guide;  
Though all the world conspire to do him grace:  
Yet he is little, and extremely base:  
If in his heart, these vices take their seat;  
(No power can make the slave of passions great.)    

Upon my Lord of Buckingham's Arms.  

BEhold, the Ensigns of a Christian Knight,  
Whose Field is like his mind, of silver bright:  
His bloody Cross supports five golden Shells,  
A precious Pearl, in every Scallop dwells:  
Five Virtues grace the middle and the bounds,  
Which take their light from Christ's victorious wounds:  
Upon the Top, commanding Prudence shines,  
Repressing Temperance to the foot declines;  
Brave Fortitude and justice, are the hands,  
And Charity as in the Centre stands:  
Which binding all the ends with strong effect  
To every Virtue, holds the same respect:  
May he that bears this Shield, at last obtain  
The azure Circle of celestial reign;  
And having past the course of sliding hours,  
Enjoy a Crown of neverfading Flowers?    

Upon my Lord of Buckingham's Shield at a Tilting, his Impress being a Bird of Paradise.  

SEe how this Bird erects his constant flight  
Above the Clouds, aspiring to the light:  
As in a quiet Paradise he dwells  
In that pure Region, where no wind rebels:  
And fearing not the thunder, hath attained  
The Palace, where the Demigods remained:  
This Bird belongs to you, thrice glorious King;  
From you the beauties of his Feathers spring:  
No vain ambition lifts him up so high,  
But raised by force of your attractive Eye;  
He feeds upon your Beams, and takes delight,  
Not in his own Ascent, but in your sight.  
Let them, whose motion to the Earth declines,  
Describe your Circle by their base lines,  
And envy at the brightness of your seat:  
He cannot live divided from your heat.    

To the Duke of Buckingham at his return from Spain.  

MY Lord, that you so welcome are to all;  
You have deserved it, never could there fall  
A fitter way to prove you highly loved,  
Then when yourself you from our sights removed:  
The clouded looks of Britain sad appear,  
With doubtful care (ah who can bridle fear!)  
For their inestimable gem perplexed;  
The good and graceful Buckingham is next  
In their desires: they to remembrance bring  
How oft, by mediation with the King  
You mitigate the rigour of the laws,  
And plead the orphans and the widow's cause.  
My Muse, which took from you her life and light  
Sat like a weary wretch, whom sudden night  
Had endeavoured: your absence casting down  
The flowers, and Sirens feathers from her crown,  
Your favour first th' anointed head inclines  
To hear my rural songs and read my lines:  
Your voice, my reed with lofty music rears  
To offer trembling songs to Princely ears.  
But since my Sovereign leaves in great affairs  
His trusty servant, to his Subject's prayers:  
I willing spare for such a Noble end  
My Patron and (too bold I speak) my friend.    

To the Duke of Buckingham.  

THe words of Princes justly we conceive,  
As Oracles inspired by power divine,  
Which make the virtues of their servants shine;  
And monuments to future ages leave.  
The sweet consent of many tongues can weave  
Such knots of Honour in a flowery line,  
That no injurious hands can them untwine,  
Nor envious blasts of beauty can bereave.  
These are your helps, my Lord, by these two wings  
You lifted are above the force of spite:  
For, while the public Choir your glory sings,  
The 〈…〉 rules them, keeps the Music right:  
Yo●●●●ppy name with noble praise to greet  
Gods double Voice, the King and Kingdom meet.    

To my gracious Lord, the Duke of Buckingham, upon the birth of his first Son.  

Give leave (my Lord) to his abounding heart,  
Whose faithful zeal presumes to bear a part  
In every blessing which upon you shines,  
And to your glory consecrates his lines;  
Which rising from a plain and country Muse,  
Must all my boldness with her name excuse.  
Shall Burley only triumph in this Child,  
Which by his birth is truly Happy styled?  
Nay: we will strive, that Echo with her notes,  
May draw some joy into our homely Coats:  
While I to solitary bills retire,  
Where quiet thoughts my Songs with truth inspire,  
And teach me to foretell the hopes that flow  
From this young Lord, as he in years shall grow.  
First, we behold (and need not to presage)  
What pleasing comfort in this tender age  
He gives his Parents, sweetening every day  
With dear contentments of his harmless play.  
They in this glass their several beauty's place,  
And own themselves in his delightful face.  
But when this flowery bud shall first begin  
To spread his leaves which were concealed within;  
And casting off the dew of childish tears,  
More glorious than the Rose at noon appears,  
His mind extends itself to larger bounds;  
Instinct of generous Nature oft propounds:  
(Great Duke) your active graces to his sight,  
As objects full of wonder and delight:  
These in his thoughts entire possession keep,  
They stop his play, and interrupt his sleep.  
So doth a careful Painter fix his eyes  
Upon the pattern, which before him lies,  
And never from the board his hand withdraws,  
Until the Type be like th' Exemplar cause.  
To courtly dancing now he shall incline,  
To manage horses, and in Arms to shine.  
Such ornaments of youth are but the seeds▪  
Of noble Virtues, and Heroic deeds.  
He will not rest in any outward part,  
But strives t' express the riches of your heart  
Within a little model, and to frame  
True title to succession of your fame:  
In riper years he shall your wisdom learn,  
And your undaunted courage shall discern;  
And from your actions, from your words and looke●  
Shall gather rules, which others read in books:  
So in Achilles more those lessons wrought,  
Which Peleus showed, them those which Chiron taught    

Upon the Earl of Coventryes departure from us to the Angels.  

SWeet Babe, whose Birth inspired me with a Song,  
And called my Muse to trace thy days along;  
Attending riper years, with hope to find  
Such brave endeavours of thy noble Mind,  
As might deserve triumphant lines, and make  
My Forehead bold a Laurel Crown to take:  
How hast thou left us, and this earthly Stage,  
(Not acting many Months) in tender age?  
Thou cam'st into this world a little Spy,  
Where all things that could please the ear and eye,  
Were set before thee, but thou found'st them toys,  
And flew'st with scornful smiles t' eternal joys:  
No visage of grim Death is sent t' affright  
Thy spotless soul, nor darkness blinds thy sight;  
But lightsome Angels with their golden Wings  
o'er spread thy Cradle, and each spirit brings  
Some precious Balm, for heavenly Physic meet,  
To make the separation soft and sweet.  
The spark infused by God departs away,  
And bids the earthly weak companion stay  
With patience in that nurs'ry of the ground,  
Where first the seeds of Adam's limbs were found  
For time shall come when these divided friends  
Shall join again, and know no several ends,  
But change this short and momentary kiss,  
To strict embraces of Celestial bliss.    

To my Lord Viscount Purbeck: a Congratulation for his health.  

IF we enlarge our hearts, extend our voice,  
To show with what affection we rejoice,  
When friends or kinsmen wealth and honour gain,  
Or are returned to freedom from the chain:  
How shall your servants and your friends (my Lord)  
Declare their joy? who find no sound, no word  
Sufficient for their thoughts, since you have got  
That jewel Health, which Kingdoms equal not,  
From sickness freed, a Tyrant far more fell  
Than Turkish Pirates, who in Galleys dwell.  
The Muses to the friend of Music bring  
The signs of gladness: Orpheus strikes a string  
Which can inspire the dull, can cheer the sad,  
And to the dead can lively motion add:  
Some play, some sing: while I, whose only skill,  
Is to direct the organ of my Quill,  
That from my hand it may not run in vain,  
But keep true time with my commanding brain.  
I will bring forth my Music, and will try  
To raise these dumb (yet speaking) Letters high,  
Till they contend with sounds: till armed with wing  
My feathered pen surmount Apollo's strings.  
We much rejoice that lightsome calms assuage  
The fight humours, blind with mutual rage:  
So sing the Mariners exempt from fear,  
When storms are past, and hopeful signs appear.  
So chants the mounting Lark her gladsome lay,  
When night gives place to the delightful day.  
In this our mirth, the greatest joy I find,  
Is to consider how your noble mind  
Will make true use of those afflictions past,  
And on this ground will fix your virtue fast;  
You hence have learned th' uncertain state of man,  
And that no height of glittering honour can  
Secure his quiet: for almighty God,  
Who rules the high, can with his powerful rod  
Repress the greatest, and in mercy daignes  
With daug'rous joys to mingle wholesome pains:  
Though men in sickness draw unquiet breath,  
And count it worst of evils, next to death:  
Yet such his goodness is, who governs all,  
That from this bitter spring sweet rivers fall:  
Here we are truly taught ourselves to know,  
To pity others who endure like woe:  
To feel the weight of sin, the only cause  
Whence every body this corruption draws:  
To make our peace with that correcting hand,  
Which at each moment can our life's command.  
These are the blessed effects, which sickness leaves,  
When these your serious breast aright conceives  
You will no more repent your former pain▪  
Then we our joy, to see you well again.    

To the memory of the fair and thrice virtuous Gentlewoman, Mistress Elizabeth Nevell.  

ANymph is dead, mild, virtuous, young & fair,  
Death never counts by days, or months, or years:  
Oft in his sight the Infant old appears,  
And to his earthly mansion must repair.  
Why should our sighs disturb the quiet Air?  
For when the flood of Time to ruin bears,  
No beauty can prevail, nor parents tears.  
When life is gone, we of the flesh despair,  
Yet still the happy soul immortal lives  
In heaven, as we with pious hope conceive,  
And to the Maker endless praises gives,  
That she so soon this loathsome world might leave▪  
We judge that glorious Spirit doubly blest,  
Which from short life ascends the eternal rest.    

Of the truly Noble and Excellent Lady, the Lady marquis of Winchester.  

CAn my poor lines no better office have,  
But lie like Screech-owls still about the grave?  
When shall I take some pleasure for my pain,  
Commending them that can commend again?  
When shall my Muse in lovesick lines recite  
Some Lady's worth, which she of whom I write,  
With thankful smiles may read in her own days?  
Or when shall I a breathing woman praise?  
Onever! Mine are too ambitious strings,  
They will not sound but of eternal things;  
Such are freed-soules, but had I thought it fit,  
T' exalt a spirit to a body knit:  
I would confess I spent my time amiss,  
When I was slow to give due praise to this.  
Now when all weep, it is my time to sing,  
Thus from her ashes must my Poem spring:  
Though in the race I see some swiftly run,  
I will not crown them till the goal be won,  
●ill death ye mortals cannot happy be▪  
What can I then but woe, and dangers see,  
If in your lives I write, now when ye rest,  
I will insert your names among the blessed:  
And now, perhaps, my Verses may increase  
Your rising fame, though not your boundless peace▪  
Which if they ever could, may they make thine:  
Great Lady, further, if not clearer shine:  
I could thy husband's highest Styles relate,  
Thy Father's Earldom, and that England's state  
Was wholly managed by thy Grandsire's brow:  
But those that love thee best, will best allow  
That I omit to praise thy match and Line,  
And speak of things that were more truly thine:  
Thou thought'st it base to build on poor remains  
Of noble blood, which ran in others veins;  
As many do, who bear no flowers, nor fruit,  
But show dead stocks, which have been of repute,  
And live by mere remembrance of a sound,  
Which was long since by winds dispersed and drowned:  
While that false worth, which they suppose they have▪  
Is digged up new from the corrupting Grave:  
For thou hadst living honours, not decayed  
With wearing time, and needing not the aid  
Of Heralds, in the harvest of whose art  
None but the virtuous justly claim a part:  
Since they our Parent's memories renew,  
For imitation, not for idle view,  
Yet what is all their skill, if we compare  
Their paper works with those which lively are,  
In such as thou hast been, whose present looks,  
If many such were, would surpresse all books;  
For their examples would alone suffice:  
They that the Country see, the Map despise.  
For thee a Crown of Virtues we prepare,  
The chief is Wisdom, in thy Sex most rare,  
By which thou didst thy husband's state maintain,  
Which sure had fall'n without thee; and in vain  
Had aged Paulet wealth, and honours heaped  
Upon his House, if strangers had them reaped.  
In vain to height, by safe still steps he climbs,  
And serves five Princes in most different times.  
In vain is he a Willow, not an Oak,  
Which winds might easily bend, yet never broke.  
In vain he breaks his sleep, and is diseased,  
And grieves himself that others may be pleased:  
In vain he strives to bear an equal hand,  
'Twixt Somerset and bold Northumberland;  
And to his own close ends directing all,  
Will rise with both, but will with neither fall.  
All this had been in vain, unless he might  
Have left his heirs clear knowledge as their right.  
But this no son infallibly can draw  
From his Descent, by Nature, or by Law:  
That treasure which the soul with glory decks,  
Respects not birthright, nor the nobler Sex:  
For women oft have men's defects supplied,  
Whose office is to keep what men provide.  
So hast thou done, and made thy name as great,  
As his who first exalted Paulets seat:  
Near dew, yet not too near, the thunder's blow,  
Some stood 'twixt jove, and him, though most below.  
O well weighed dignity, selected place,  
Provided for continuance of his race,  
Not by Astrology, but Prudence far,  
More powerful than the force of any Star!  
The Dukes are gone, and now (though much beneath)  
His Coronet is next th'imperial Wreath,  
No richer sign his flowery Garland drown's,  
Which shines alone above the lesser Crowns.  
This thou inioyd'st, as sick men tedious hours,  
And thought'st of brighter Pearls, and fairer flowers,  
And higher Crowns, which heaven for thee reserves,  
When this thy worldly pomp decays, and starves.  
This sacred fervor in thy mind did glow:  
And though suppressed with outward state and show,  
Yet at thy death those hindering clouds it cleared,  
And like the lost Sun to the world appeared;  
Even as a strong fire under ashes turned,  
Which with more force long secretly hath burned,  
Breaks forth to be the object of our sight,  
Aims at the Orb, and joins his flame with light.    

Upon his Noble Friend, Sir William Skipwith.  

TO frame a man, who in those gifts excels,  
Which makes the Country happy where he dwells,  
We first conceive, what names his Line adorn,  
It kindles virtue to be nobly borne.  
This picture of true Gentry must be graced,  
With glittering jewels round about him placed;  
A comely body, and a beauteous mind;  
A heart to love, a hand to give inclined;  
A house as free, and open as the Air;  
A tongue which joys in Language sweet and fair;  
Yet can, when need requires, with courage bold,  
To public ears his neighbours griefs unfold.  
All these we never more shall find in one,  
And yet all these are closed within this stone.    

An Epitaph upon my dear Brother, Francis Beaumont.  

ON Death thy Murderer this revenge I take:  
I slight his terror, and just question make,  
Which of us two the best precedence have,  
Mine to this wretched world, thine to the grave:  
Thou shouldst have followed me, but death too blame,  
Miscounted years, and measured age by Fame.  
So dear hast thou bought thy precious lines,  
Their praise grew swiftly; so thy life declines:  
Thy Muse, the hearers Queen, the Readers love:  
All ears, all hearts (but Deaths) could please and move.    

Of my dear Son, Gervase Beaumond.  

CAn I, who have for others oft compiled  
The Songs of Death, forget my sweetest child,  
Which like a flower crushed, with a blast is dead,  
And ere full time hangs down his smiling head,  
Expecting with clear hope to live anew,  
Among the Angels fed with heavenly dew?  
We have this sign of joy, that many days,  
While on the earth his struggling spirit stays,  
The name of jesus in his mouth contains,  
His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains.  
O may that sound be rooted in my mind,  
Of which in him such strong effect I find.  
Dear Lord, receive my Son, whose winning love  
To me was like a friendship, far above  
The course of nature, or his tender age,  
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage;  
Let his pure soul ordained seven years to be  
In that frail body, which was part of me,  
Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show,  
How to this Port at every step I go.    

Tears for the death of the truly Honourable, the Lord Chandos.  

LEt him whose lines a private loss deplore,  
Call them to weep, that never wept before;  
My grief is more audacious: give me one  
Who every day hath heard a dying groan.  
The subject of my verses may suffice  
To draw new tears from dry and weary eyes.  
We dare not love a man, nor pleasure take  
In others worth for noble Chandos sake:  
And when we seek the best with reason's light,  
We fear to wish him longer in our sight.  
Time had increased his virtue and our woe,  
For sorrow gathers weight by coming slow:  
Should him the God of life, to life restore  
Again, we lose him, and lament the more.  
If Mortals could a thousand lives renew,  
They were but shades of death which must ensue.  
Our gracious God hath fitter bounds assigned,  
And earthly pains to one short life confined;  
Yet when his hand hath quenched the vital flame,  
It leaves some cinders of immortal fame.  
At these we blow, and (like Prometheus) strive  
By such weak sparks, to make dead clay alive:  
Breath flies to air, the body falls to ground,  
And nothing dwells with us but mournful sound.  
O, might his honoured Name live in my Song,  
Reflected as with Echoes shrill and strong!  
But when my lines of glorious objects treat,  
They should rise high, because the work is great.  
No Quill can paint this Lord, unless it have  
Some tincture from his actions free and brave:  
Yet from this height I must descend again,  
And (like the calm Sea) lay my Verses plain,  
When I describe the smoothness of his mind,  
Where reasons chains rebellious passions bind:  
My Poem must in harmony excel,  
His sweet behaviour and discourse to tell;  
It should be deep, and full of many Arts,  
To teach his wisdom, and his happy parts.  
But since I want these graces, and despair  
To make my Picture (like the pattern) fair;  
These hasty strokes unperfect draughts shall stand,  
Expecting life from some more skilful hand.    

Upon the untimely death of the Honourable, hopeful young Gentleman, Edward Stafford, Son and Heir to the Lord Stafford.  

DEad is the hope of Stafford, in whose line  
So many Dukes, and Earls, and Barons shine:  
And from this Edward's death his kindred draws  
More grief, then mighty Edward's fall could cause:  
For to this House his virtue promised more  
Than all those great Ones that had gone before.  
No lofty titles can securely frame  
The happiness, and glory of a Name:  
Bright honours at the point of Noon decay,  
And feel a sad declining like the day.  
But he that from the race of Kings is borne,  
And can their memories with his worth adorn,  
Is far more blest, than those of whom he springs,  
He from above the soul of goodness brings,  
T'inspire the body of his Noble birth,  
This makes it move, before but liveless earth.  
Of such I write, who showed he would have been  
Complete in action, but we lost him green.  
We only saw him crowned with flowers of hope:  
O that the fruits had given me larger scope!  
And yet the blooms which on his Hearse we strew,  
Surpass the Cherries, and the Grapes that grow  
In others Gardens. Here fresh Roses lie,  
Whose ruddy blushes modest thoughts descry,  
In Flowredeluces died with azure hue,  
His constant love to heavenly things we view:  
The spotless Lilies show his pure intent,  
The flaming Marigold his zeal present,  
The purple Violets his Noble mind,  
degenerate never from his Princely kind;  
And last of all the Hyacinths we throw,  
In which are writ the letters of our woe.    

To the Memory of the Learned and Religious, Ferdinando Pulton, Esquire.  

AS at a joyful Marriage, or the birth  
Of some long wished child; or when the earth  
Yields plenteous fruit, and makes the Ploughman sing:  
Such is the sound, and subject of my string:  
Ripe age, full virtue need no funeral Song,  
Here mournful tunes would Grace, & Nature wrong▪  
Why should vain sorrow follow him with tears,  
Who shakes off burdens of declining years?  
Whose thread exceeds the usual bounds of life,  
And feels no stroke of any fatal knife?  
The Destinies enjoin their wheels to run,  
Until the length of his whole course be spun.  
No envious cloud obscures his struggling light,  
Which sets contented at the point of night:  
Yet this large time no greater profit brings,  
Then every little moment whence it springs,  
Unless employed in works deserving praise,  
Most wear out many years, and live few days.  
Time flows from instants, and of these each one  
Should be esteemed, as if it were alone  
The shortest space, which we so lightly prise  
When it is coming, and before our eyes:  
Let it but slide into th' eternal Maine,  
No Realms, no worlds can purchase it again:  
Remembrance only makes the footsteps last,  
When winged Time, which fixed the prints, is past.  
This he well-knowing, all occasions tries,  
T' enrich his own, and others learned eyes.  
This noble end, not hope of gain did draw  
His mind to travail in the knotty Law:  
That was to him by serious labour made  
A Science, which to many is a Trade;  
Who purchase lands, build houses by their tongue,  
And study right, that they may practise wrong.  
His books were his rich purchases: his fees,  
That praise which Fame to painful works decrees:  
His memory hath a surer ground than theirs,  
Who trust in stately Tombs, or wealthy Heirs.    

To the immortal memory of the fairest and most virtuous Lady, the Lady Clifton.  

HEr tongue hath ceased to speak, which might make dumb  
All tongues might stay, all Pens all hands ben●●●▪  
Yet I must write, O that it might have been  
While she had lived, and had my verses seen,  
Before sad cries deafed my vntuned ears,  
When verses flowed more easily than tears.  
Ah why neglected I to write her praise,  
And paint her Virtues in those happy days!  
Then my now trembling hand and dazzled eye,  
Had seldom failed, having the pattern by;  
Or had it erred, or made some strokes amiss,  
(For who can portray virtue as it is?)  
Art might with Nature have maintained her strife,  
By curious lines to imitate true life.  
But now those Pictures want their lively grace,  
As after death none can well draw the face:  
We let our friends pass idly like our time,  
Till they be gone, & then we see our crime,  
And think what worth in them might have been known,  
What duties done, and what affection shown:  
Untimely knowledge, which so dear doth cost,  
And then begins when the thing known is lost;  
Yet this cold love, this envy, this neglect,  
Proclaims us modest while our due respect  
To goodness, is restrained by servile fear,  
Lest to the world, it flattery should appear:  
As if the present hours deserved no praise:  
But age is past, whose knowledge only stays  
On that weak prop which memory sustains,  
Should be the proper subject of our strains:  
Or as if foolish men ashamed to sing  
Of Violets, and Roses in the Spring,  
Should tarry till the flowers were blown away,  
And till the Muse's life and heat decay;  
Then is the fury slacked, the vigour fled,  
As here in mine, since it with her was dead:  
Which still may sparkle, but shall flame no more,  
Because no time shall her to us restore:  
Yet may these Sparks, thus kindled with her fame,  
Shine brighter and live longer than some flame.  
Here expectation urgeth me to tell  
Her high perfections, which the world knew well.  
But they are far beyond my skill t'unfold,  
They were poor virtues if they might be told.  
But thou, who fain wouldst take a general view  
Of timely fruits which in this garden grew,  
On all the virtues in men's actions look,  
Or read their names writ in some moral book;  
And sum the number which thou there shalt find:  
So many lived, and triumphed in her mind.  
Nor dwelled these Graces in a house obscure,  
But in a Palace fair, which might allure  
The wretch who no respect to virtue bore;  
To love It, for the garments which it wore.  
So that in her the body and the soul  
Contended, which should most adorn the whole.  
O happy Soul for such a body meet,  
How are the firm chains of that union sweet,  
Dissevered in the twinkling of an eye?  
And we amazed dare ask no reason why,  
But silent think, that God is pleased to show,  
That he hath works, whose ends we cannot know:  
Let us then cease to make a vain request,  
To learn why die the fairest, why the best;  
For all these things, which mortals hold most dear,  
Most slippery are, and yield less joy than fear;  
And being lifted high by men's desire,  
Are more perspicuous marks for heavenly fire;  
And are laid prostrate with the first assault,  
Because, our love makes their desert their fault.  
Then justice, us to some amends should move  
For this our fruitless, nay our hurtful love;  
We in their Honour, piles of stone erect  
With their dear Names, and worthy praises de●●●●▪  
But since those fail, their glories we rehearse,  
In better Marble, everlasting verse:  
By which we gather from consuming hours,  
Some parts of them, though time the rest devours;  
Then if the Muses can forbid to die,  
As we their Priests suppose, why may not I?  
Although the least and hoarsest in the choir,  
Clear beams of blessed immortality inspire  
To keep thy blessed remembrance ever young,  
Still to be freshly in all Ages sung:  
Or if my work in this unable be,  
Yet shall it ever live, upheld by thee:  
For thou shalt live, though Poems should decay,  
Since Parents teach their Sons, thy praise to say;  
And to posterity, from hand to hand  
Convey it with their blessing and their land.  
Thy quiet rest from death, this good derives  
Instead of one, it gives thee many lives:  
While these lines last, thy shadow dwelleth here,  
Thy fame, itself extendeth every where;  
In Heaven our hopes have placed thy better part:  
Thine Image lives, in thy sad Husband's heart:  
Who as when he enjoyed thee, he was chief  
In love and comfort, so is he now in grief.    

Upon the death of the most noble Lord Henry, Earl of Southampton, 1624.  

WHen now the life of great Southampton ends,  
His fainting servants, and astonished friends  
Stand like so many weeping Marble stones,  
No passage left to utter sighs, or groans:  
And must I first dissolve the bonds of grief,  
And strain forth words, to give the rest relief?  
I will be bold my trembling voice to try,  
That his dear Name, may not in silence die.  
The world must pardon, if my song be weak,  
In such a case it is enough to speak:  
My verses are not for the present age:  
For what man lives, or breathes on England's stage;  
That knew not brave Southampton, in whose sight  
Most placed their day, and in his absence night?  
I strive, that unborn Children may conceive,  
Of what a jewel angry Fates bereave  
This mournful Kingdom, and when heavy woes  
Oppress their hearts, think ours as great as those:  
In what estate shall I him first express,  
In youth, or age, in joy, or in distress?  
When he was young, no ornament of youth  
Was wanting in him, acting that in truth  
Which Cyrus did in shadow, and to men  
Appeared like Peleus' son from Chirons' Den:  
While through this Island Fame his praise reports,  
As best in martial deeds, and courtly sports,  
When riper age with winged feet repairs,  
Grave care adorns his head with silver hairs;  
His valiant fervour was not then decayed,  
But joined with counsel, as a further aid.  
Behold his constant and undaunted eye,  
In greatest danger when condemned to dye,  
He scorns th' insulting adversary's breath,  
And will admit no fear, though near to Death:  
But when our gracious Sovereign had regained  
This Light, with clouds obscured in walls detained:  
And by his favour placed this Star on high,  
Fixed in the Garter, England's azure sky;  
He pride (which dims such change) as much did hate,  
As base dejection in his former state:  
When he was called to sit, by Ioues command,  
Among the Demigods, that rule this Land,  
No power, no strong persuasion could him draw  
From that, which he conceived as right and Law.  
When shall we in this Realm a Father find  
So truly sweet, or husband half so kind?  
Thus he enjoy the best contents of life,  
Obedient Children, and a loving Wife.  
These were his parts in Peace; but O how far  
This noble soul excelled itself in War:  
He was directed by a natural vain,  
True honour by this painful way to gain.  
Let Ireland witness, where he first appears,  
And to the fight his warlike Ensigns bears.  
And thou O Belgia, wert in hope to see  
The Trophies of his conquests wrought in thee,  
But Death, who durst not meet him in the field,  
In private by close trech'ry made him yield.  
I keep that glory last, which is the best;  
The love of Learning, which he oft expressed  
By conversation, and respect to those  
Who had a name in Arts, in verse or prose:  
Shall ever I forget with what delight,  
He on my simple lines would cast his sight?  
His only memory my poor work adorns,  
He is a Father to my crown of thorns:  
Now since his death how can I ever look,  
Without some tears, upon that Orphan book?  
Ye sacred Muses, if ye will admit  
My name into the roll, which ye have writ  
Of all your servants, to my thoughts display  
Some rich conceit, some unfrequented way,  
Which may hereafter to the world commend  
A picture fit for this my noble Friend:  
For this is nothing, all these Rhymes I scorn;  
Let Pens be broken, and the paper torn:  
And with his last breath let my music cease,  
Unless my lowly Poem could increase  
In true description of immortal things,  
And raised above the earth with nimble wings,  
Fly like an Eagle from his Funeral fire,  
Admired by all, as all did him admire.    

An Epitaph upon that hopeful young Gentleman, the Lord Wriothesley.  

HEre lies a Soldier, who in youth desired  
His valiant Father's noble steps to tread,  
And swiftly from his friends and Country fled,  
While to the height of glory he aspired.   

The cruel Fates with bitter envy fired,  
To see wars prudence in so young a head,  
Sent from their dusky caves to strike him dead,  
A strong disease in peaceful Robes attired.   

This Murderer kills him with a silent dart,  
And having drawn it bloody from the Son,  
Throws it again into the Father's heart,  
And to his Lady boasts what he hath done.   

What help can men against pale Death provide.  
When twice within few days Southampton died?    

IWENAL. SAT. 10.  

IN all the Countries, which from Gades extend  
To Ganges, where the morning's beams ascend,  
Few men the clouds of error can remove,  
And know what ill t' avoid, what good to love:  
For what do we by reason seek or leave,  
Or what canst thou so happily conceive,  
But strait thou wilt thine enterprise repent,  
And blame thy wish, when thou beholdest th' event?  
The easy gods cause houses to decay,  
By granting that, for which the owners pray;  
In Peace and War we ask for hurtful things,  
The copious flood of speech to many brings  
Untimely death; another rashly dies,  
While he upon his wondrous strength relies:  
But most by heaps of money choked are,  
Which they have gathered with too earnest care,  
Till others they in wealth as much excel,  
As British Whales above the Dolphins swell:  
In bloody times by Nero's fierce commands,  
The armed troop about Longinus stands;  
Rich Senecaes' large gardens circling round,  
And Lateranus Palace much renowned.  
The greedy Tyrant's soldier seldom comes,  
To ransack beggars in the upper rooms.  
If silver vessels, though but few thou bearest,  
Thou in the night the sword and truncheon fearest;  
And at the shadow of each Reed wilt quake,  
When by the Moon▪ light thou perceivest it shake:  
But he that travails empty, feels no grief,  
And boldly sings in presence of the thief:  
The first desires, and those which best we know  
In all our Temples, are that wealth may grow,  
That riches may increase, and that our chest  
In public bank may far exceed the rest.  
But men in earthen vessels never drink  
Dyre poisons: than thyself in danger think,  
When cups beset with Pearls thy hand doth hold,  
And precious Wine burns bright in ample gold:  
Dost thou not now perceive sufficient cause,  
To give those two wise men deserved applause,  
Who when abroad they from their thresholds stepped,  
The one did always laugh, the other wept?  
But all are apt to laugh in every place,  
And censure actions with a wrinkled face;  
It is more marvel how the others eyes  
Could moisture find his weeping to suffice.  
Democritus did ever shake his spleen  
With laughters force; yet had there never been  
Within his native soil such garments brave,  
And such vain signs of Honour as we have.  
What if he saw the Praetor standing out  
From lofty Chariots in the thronging rout,  
Clad in a Coat with noble Palmtrees wrought,  
A sign of triumph, from Ioues Temple brought,  
And decked with an embroidered purple Gown,  
Like hangings from his shoulders trailing down:  
No neck can lift the Crown which then he wears,  
For it a public servant sweeting bears;  
And lest the Consul should exceed in pride,  
A Slave with him in the same Coach doth ride.  
The Bird which on the Iu'ry Sceptre stands,  
The Cornets, and the long officious Bands  
Of those that walk before to grace the sight,  
The troop of servile Romans clothed in white,  
Which all the way upon thy Horse attends,  
Whom thy good cheer & purse have made thy friends;  
To him each thing he meets occasion moves  
Of earnest laughter, and his wisdom proves,  
That worthy men, who great examples give,  
In barbarous Countries and thick air may live:  
He laughed at common people's cares and fears;  
Oft at their joys, and sometimes at their tears,  
He in contempt to threatening Fortune throws  
A halter, and his scornful finger shows.   

We rub the knees of gods with wax, to gain  
From them such things as hurtful are, or vain;  
Power subject to fierce spite, casts many down,  
Whom their large styles, and famous titles drown.  
The Statues fall, and through the streets are rolled:  
The wheels, which did the Chariot's weight uphold,  
Are knocked in pieces with the Hatchets stroke:  
The harmless Horses legs are also broke:  
The fires make hissing sounds, the bellowes blow,  
That head dissolved, must in the furnace glow,  
Which all with honours like the gods did grace.  
The great Sejanus cracks, and of that face,  
Which once the second in the world was named,  
Are basons, frying-pans, and dishes framed,  
Place bays at home to Ioues chief Temple walk,  
And lead with thee a great Ox, white as chalk.  
Behold Sejanus drawn upon a hook,  
All men rejoice, what lips had he, what look?  
Trust me (saith one) I never could abide  
This fellow; yet none asks for what he died:  
None knows who was the man that him accused;  
What proofs were brought, what testimony used;  
A large Epistle fraught with words great store,  
From Capri comes: 'tis well, I seek no more,  
The wavering people follow Fortune still,  
And hate those whom the State intends to kill.  
Had Nurtia favoured this her Tuscan child:  
Had he the aged careless Prince beguiled;  
The same base tongues would in that very hour  
Have raised Sejanus to Augustus' power.  
It is long since that we forbidden are,  
To sell our voices free from public care:  
The people which gave power in war and peace,  
Now from those troubles is content to cease,  
And every wish for these two ends bestows,  
For bread in plenty, and Circensian shows.  
I hear that many are condemned to dye;  
No doubt the flame is great, and swelleth high.  
Brutidius looking pale, did meet me near  
To Mars his Altar, therefore much I fear,  
Lest vanquished Aiax find out some pretence,  
To punish those that failed in his defence:  
Let us run headlong, trampling Caesar's foe,  
While on the bank he lies, our fury show:  
Let all our servants see, and witness bear,  
How forward we against the Traitor were,  
Lest any should deny, and to the Law,  
His fearful Master by the neck should draw.  
These were the speeches of Sejanus then,  
The secret murmurs of the basest men.  
Wouldst thou be flattered, and adored by such  
As bowed to him? Wouldst thou possess as much?  
Wouldst thou give civil dignities to these?  
Wouldst thou appoint them Generals who thee please?  
Be Tutor of the Prince, who on the Rock  
Of Capri sits with his Chaldean flock:  
Thou surely seekest it as a great reward,  
T' enjoy high places in the field or Guard.  
This thou defend'st for those that have no will,  
To make men die would have the power to kill:  
Yet what such fame or fortune can be found,  
But still the woes above the joys abound?  
Hadst thou then rather choose the rich attire  
Of this great Lord, now drawn through common mire,  
Or bear some office in the wretched State  
Of Gabijs, or Fidenae, and relate  
The Laws of measures in a ragged gown,  
And break small vessels in an empty Town;  
By this time I perceive thou hast confessed,  
That proud Sejanus could not wish the best:  
He that for too much wealth and honour cares,  
The heaped lofts of raised Towers prepares,  
Whence from the top his fall declines more steep,  
And headlong ruin draws him to the deep.  
This done, rich Crassus and the Pompey's threw,  
And him who Roman freedom could subdue,  
Because to height by cunning they aspire,  
And envious gods give way to their desire.  
Few Tyrants can to Pluto's Court descend,  
Without fierce slaughter, and a bloody end.   

Demosthenes and Tully's fame and speech,  
Each one that studies Rhet'rike, will beseech  
At Pallas hands, and during all the days  
Of her Quinquatria for this only preys,  
Though worshipping her picture basely wrought,  
Such as with brazen money he hath bought,  
While in a little chest his papers lie,  
Which one poor servant carries waiting nigh:  
Yet both these Orators whom he admires,  
Died for that eloquence which he desires:  
What did them both to sad destruction bring,  
But wit which flowed from an abundant Spring?  
The wit of Tully caused his head and hand  
To be cut off, and in the Court to stand.  
The Pulpits are not moistened with the flood  
Of any mean unlearned pleader's blood.  
When Tully wrote; O Rome most blessed by Fate,  
Newborn when I enjoyed the Consul's State:  
If he his Prose had like his verses shaped,  
He Antony's sharp swords might have escaped.  
Let Critics here their sharp derision spend,  
Yet those harsh Poems rather I commend,  
Then thee, divine Philippicke, which in place  
Art next the first, but hast the highest grace;  
He also with a cruel death expired,  
Whose flowing torrent Athens so admired,  
Who ruled th' unconstant people when he list,  
As if he held their bridles in his fist.  
Ah wretched man, begotten with the hate  
Of all the gods, and by sinister Fate,  
Whom his poor father, blear-eyed with the soot  
Of sparks which from the burning Ir'n did shoot,  
From Coals, Tongues, Anuile, and the Cutler's tools,  
And dirty Forge, sent to the Rhet'ricke Schools.   

The spoils of war some rusty Corslet placed  
On maimed Trophies cheeks of helms defaced;  
Defective Chariots conquered Navies decks,  
And captives, who themselves with sorrow vex,  
(Their faces on triumphant Arches wrought)  
Are things above the bliss of mortal thought:  
For these incitements to this fruitless end,  
The Roman, Greek, and Barbr'ous Captains tend.  
This caused their danger, and their willing pain,  
So much their thirst is greater for the gain  
Of fame than virtue: for what man regards  
Bare virtue, if we take away rewards?  
In ages past the glory of a few,  
Their Country rashly to destruction drew,  
Desiring praise and titles full of pride,  
Inscribed on gravestones which their ashes hide,  
Which perish by the savage figtrees strength:  
For tombs themselves must have their fate at length.  
Let Annibal be pondered in thy mind;  
In him thou shalt that weight and value find,  
Which fits a great Commander. This is he,  
Whose spirit could not comprehended be  
In afric, reaching from th' Atlantic streams,  
To Nilus heated with the Sunny beams;  
And Southward stretched as far as Ethiope feeds  
Huge Elephants, like those which India breeds:  
He conquers Spain, which cannot him enclose  
With Pyrenaean hills the Alpes and Snowes,  
Which nature arms against him, he derides,  
And Rocks made soft with Vinegar divides.  
He Italy attains, yet strives to run  
On further: Nothing yet, saith he, is done,  
Till Punic soldiers shall Rome's gates deface,  
And in her noblest streets mine Ensigns place.  
How would this one-eyed Generals appear  
With that Gentulian beast which did him bear,  
If they were set in picture? What became  
Of all his bold attempts? O dear-bought Fame,  
He vanquished, into exile headlong flies,  
Where (all men wondering) he in humble wise,  
Must at the Palace door attendance make,  
Till the Bythinian Tyrant please to wake.  
No warlike weapons end that restless life,  
Which in the world caused such confused strife.  
His Ring revengeth all the Romans dead  
At Cannae, and the blood which he had shed.  
Fool, pass the sharp Alps, that thy glories dream  
May Schoolboys please, & be their public theme.  
One World contents not Alexander's mind,  
He thinks himself in narrow bounds confined:  
It seems as straight as any little Isle,  
Or desert Rock to him, whom Laws exile:  
But when he comes into the Town, whose walls  
Were made of clay, his whole ambition falls  
Into a grave: death only can declare  
How base the bodies of all mortals are.  
The lying greeks persuade us not to doubt,  
That Persian Navies sailed round about  
The Mountain Athos severed from the Main,  
Such stuff their fabulous reports contain:  
They tell us what a passage framed was  
Of ships▪ that wheels on solid Seas might pass:  
That deepest Rivers failed we must think,  
Whose Floods the Medians at one meal could drink:  
And must believe such other wondrous things,  
Which Sostratus relates with moyst'ned wings.  
But that great King of whom these tales they frame,  
Tell me how back from Salamis he came,  
That barbarous Prince who used to whip the Winds,  
Not suffering strokes when Aeolus them binds,  
He who proud Neptune in his fetters chained,  
And thought his rage by mildness much restrained,  
Because he did not brand him for his slave;  
Which of the Gods would such a Master have.  
But how returned he with one slender boat,  
Which through the bloody waves did slowly float,  
Oft stayed with heaps of carcases: these pains  
He as the fruits of long-wished glory gains.   

Give length of life, O jove, give many years,  
Thou pray'st with upright countenance, pale with fears  
Not to be heard, yet long old age complains  
Of great continual griefs which it contains:  
As first a foul and a deformed face  
Unlike itself, a rugged hide in place  
Of softer skin, loose cheeks, and wrinkles made,  
As large as those which in the woody shade  
Of spacious Tabraca, the mother Ape  
Deep furrowed in her aged chaps doth scrape.  
Great difference is in persons that be young,  
Some are more beautiful, and some more strong  
Than others: but in each old man we see  
The same aspect; his trembling limbs agree  
With shaking voice, and thou may'st add to those  
A bald head, and a childish dropping nose.  
The wretched man when to this state he comes,  
Must break his hard bread with unarmed gums  
So loathsome, that his children and his wife  
Grow weary of him, he of his own life;  
And Cossus hardly can his sight sustain,  
Though wont to flatter dying men for gain.  
Now his benumbed palate cannot taste  
His meat or drink, the pleasures now are passed  
Of sensual lust, yet he in buried fires  
Retains unable and unfit desires.  
What joy can music to his hearing bring,  
Though best Musicians, yea, Seleucus sing,  
Who purchase golden raiments by their voice:  
In theatres he needs not make his choice  
Of place to sit, since that his deaf'ned ear  
Can scarce the Corners and the Trumpets hear:  
His Boy must cry aloud to let him know  
Who comes to see him, how the time doth go:  
A Fever only heats his wasted blood  
In every part assaulted with a flood.  
Of all diseases: if their names thou ask,  
Thou mayst as well appoint me for a task,  
To tell what close adulterers Hippia loves;  
How many sick-men Themison removes  
Out of this world within one Autumn's date:  
How many poor confederates of our State,  
Have been by griping Basilus distressed;  
How many Orphans Irus hath oppressed;  
To what possessions he is now preferred,  
Who in my youth scorned not to cut my beard:  
Some feeble are in shoulders, loins, or thighs,  
Another is deprived of both his eyes,  
And envies those as happy that have one.  
This man too weak to take his meat alone,  
With his pale lips must feed at others hands,  
While he according to his custom stands  
With gaping jaws like to the Swallows brood,  
To whom their hungry mother carries food  
In her full mouth: yet worse in him we find  
Then these defects in limbs▪ a doting mind;  
He cannot his own servants names recite,  
Nor know his friend with whom he supped last night;  
Not those he got and bred: with cruel spots  
Out of his will his doubtless heirs he blots,  
And all his goods to Phialè bequeathes:  
So sweet to him a common Strumpet breathes.  
But if his senses should not thus be spent,  
His children's fun'ralls he must oft lament,  
He his dear wives and brother's death bemoans,  
And sees the urns full of his sister's bones.  
Those that live long endure this lingering pain,  
That oft they find new causes to complain,  
While they mishaps in their own house behold,  
In woes and mournful garments growing old.  
The Pylian King, as Homer's verses show,  
In length of life came nearest to the Crow:  
Thou thinkst him blest whom death so long forbears,  
Who on his right hand now accounts his years  
By hundreds with an ancient num'rall sign,  
And hath the fortune oft to drink new wine.  
But now observe how much he blames the law  
Of Fates, because too large a thread they draw:  
When to Antilochus last Rites he came,  
And saw his beard blaze in the funeral flame,  
Then with demands to those that present are,  
He thus his gre'uous mis'ry doth declare:  
Why should I last thus long, what heinous crime  
Hath made me worthy of such spacious time?  
Like voices Peleus used, when he bewailed  
Achilles, whom untimely death assailed:  
And sad Laertes, who had cause to weep  
For his Ulysses swimming on the deep.  
When Troy was safe, than Priam might have gone  
With stately Exequys and solemn moan,  
T' accompany Assaracus his ghost,  
His funeral Hearse, enriched with Princely cost,  
Which Hector with his other brothers bears,  
Amidst the flood of Ilian women's tears.  
When first Cassandra practised to lament;  
And fair Polyx●na with garments rend:  
If he had died ere Paris placed his sails  
In venturous ships, see what long age avails:  
This caused him to behold his ruin'd Town,  
The swords and fires which conquered Asia drown;  
Then he, a trembling soldier, off doth cast  
His Diadem, takes armour; but at last  
Falls at Ioues Altar, like an Ox decayed;  
Whose pitiful thin neck is prostrate laid  
To his hard Master's knife, disdained now,  
Because not fit to draw th' ungrateful plough:  
Yet died he humane death; but his cursed wife  
Barked like a Dog, remaining still in life.  
To our examples willingly I haste,  
And therefore Mithridates have orepast;  
And Croesus whom just Solon bids t'attend,  
And not to judge men happy till the end.  
This is the cause that banished Marius flies,  
That he imprisoned is, and that he lies  
In close Minturnaes' Fens to hide his head,  
And near to conquered Carthage begs his bread.  
Wise nature had not framed, nor Rome brought forth  
A Citizen more Noble for his worth;  
If having to the view his captives led,  
And all his warlike pomp, in glory spread;  
Then his triumphant soul he forth had sent,  
When from his Cimbrian Chariot down he went.  
Campania did for Pompey's good provide  
Strong Fevers, which (if he had then espied  
What would ensue) were much to be desired.  
But many City's public vows conspired,  
And this so happy sickness could deface,  
Reserving him to dye with more disgrace:  
Rome's and his fortune only saved his head  
To be cut off when ouercom'n he fled.  
This pain the Traitor Lentulus doth scape:  
Cethegus not disfigured in his shape,  
Enjoying all his limbs unmaimed lies,  
And Catiline with his whole carcase dies.   

The careful Mother, when she casts her eyes  
On Venus' Temple in soft lowly wise,  
Demands the gift of beauty for her Boys,  
But asks it for her Girls with greater noise,  
At common forms her wish she never stays,  
But for the height of delicacy prays.  
And why shouldst thou reprove this prudent choice?  
Latona's in fair Phoebe doth rejoice.  
O but Lucretia's hapless fate deters,  
That others wish not such a face as hers▪  
Virginia her sweet feature would forsake,  
And Rutilaes' crooked back would gladly take.  
Where sons are beautiful, the parents vexed  
With care and fear, are wretched and perplexed.  
So seldom an exact consent between  
Well favoured shapes and chastity is seen.  
For should they be with holy manners taught  
In homely houses, such as Sabines wrought:  
Should bounteous natures liberal hand bestow  
chaste dispositions, modest looks, which glow  
With sanguine blushes, (what more happy thing  
To Boys can favourable nature bring?  
Whose inclinations far more powerful are,  
Then many keepers and continual care:)  
Yet are they never suffered to possess  
The name of man; such foul corrupters press,  
And by the force of large expenses trust,  
To make their Parents instruments of lust.  
No Tyrant in his cruel Palace gelded  
Deformed Youths; no Noble Child had felt  
Fierce Nero's rapes, if all wry legged had been;  
If in their necks foul swellings had been scene;  
If windy tumors had their bellies raised;  
Or Camels bunches had their backs dispraised:  
Go now with joy thy youngman's form affect,  
Whom greater dangers, and worse Fates expect;  
Perhaps he shortly will the title bear  
Of a professed adulterer, and will fear  
To suffer justly for his wicked fact,  
Such pains as angry husbands shall exact:  
Nor can he happier be than Mars his Star,  
T'escape those snares which caught the god of war.  
Yet oft that grief to sharper vengeance draws,  
Then is permitted by th' indulgent laws;  
Some kill with swords, others with scourges cut,  
And some th' offenders to foul torments put.  
But thine Endymion happily will prove  
Some Matron's Minion, who may merit love;  
Yet when Seruilia him with money hires,  
He must be hers against his own desires:  
Her richest ornaments she off will take,  
And strip herself of jewels for his sake.  
What will not Hippia and Catulla give  
To those, that with them in adultery live:  
For wicked women in these base respects  
Place all their manners, and their whole affects.  
But thou wilt say, Can beauty hurt the chaste?  
Tell me what joy Hippolytus did taste;  
What good severe Bellerophon received,  
When to their pure intents they strictly cleaved.  
Both Sthenobaea and the Cretan Queen,  
Ashamed of their repulse, stirred up their teen:  
For then a woman breeds most fierce debate,  
When shame adds piercing stings to cruel hate▪  
How wouldst thou counsel him, whom th' Emp'rors' wise  
Resolves to marry in her husband's life:  
The best and fairest of the Lords must dye;  
His life is quenched by Messallinaes' eye:  
She in her nuptial Robes doth him expect,  
And openly hath in her gardens decked  
A purple marriage bed, nor will refuse  
To give a dowry, and ancient Rites to use.  
The cunning Vizard who must tell the doom  
Of this success, with Notaries must come:  
Thou think'st these things are hid from public view,  
And but committed to the trust of few.  
Nay, she will have her solemn wedding dressed  
With show of Law: then teach him what is best,  
He dies ere night unless he will obey;  
Admit the crime, he gains a little stay,  
Till that which now the common people hears,  
May come by rumour to the Prince's ears:  
For he is sure to be the last that knows  
The secret shame which in his household grows:  
Thyself a while to her desires apply,  
And life for some few days so dear buy.  
What way soever he as best shall choose,  
That fair white neck he by the sword must lose.   

Shall men wish nothing? wilt thou counsel take,  
Permit the heau'aly powers the choice to make,  
What shall be most convenient for our Fates,  
Or bring most profit to our doubtful states,  
The prudent gods can place their gifts aright,  
And grant true goods in stead of vain delight.  
A man is never to himself so dear,  
As unto them when they his fortunes steer:  
We carried with the fury of our minds,  
And strong affection which our judgement blinds.  
Would husbands prove, and fathers, but they see  
What our wished children and our wives will be:  
Yet that I may to thee some prayers allow,  
When to the sacred Temples thou dost vow,  
Divinest entrailes in white Pockets found,  
Pray for a sound mind in a body sound;  
Desire brave spirit free from fear of death,  
Which can esteem the latest hour of breath,  
Among the gifts of Nature which can bear  
All sorrows from desire and anger clear,  
And thinks the pains of Hercules more blest,  
Then wanton lust the suppers and soft rest,  
Where in Sardanapalus joyed to live.  
I show thee what thou to thyself mayst give;  
If thou the way to quiet life wilt tread,  
No guide but virtue can thee thither lead.  
No power divine is ever absent there.  
Where wisdom dwells, and equal rule doth bear.  
But we, O Fortune, strive to make thee great,  
Placed as a Goddess in a heavenly seat.    

A funeral Hymn out of Prudentius.  

O God, the souls pure fi'ry Spring,  
Who different natures wouldst combine:  
That man whom thou to life didst bring,  
By weakness may to death decline,  
By thee they both are framed aright,  
They by thy hand united be;  
And while they join with growing might,  
Both flesh and spirit live to thee:  
But when division them recals,  
They bend their course to several ends,  
Into dry earth the body falls,  
The fervent soul to heaven ascends:  
For all created things at length,  
By slow corruption growing old,  
Must needs forsake compacted strength,  
And disagreeing webs unfold.  
But thou, dear Lord, hast means prepared,  
That death in thine may never reign,  
And hast undoubted ways declared,  
How members lost may rise again:  
That while those generous rays are bound  
In prison under fading things;  
That part may still be stronger found,  
Which from above directly springs.  
If man with base thoughts possessed,  
His will in earthly mud shall drown;  
The soul with such a weight oppressed,  
Is by the body carried down:  
But when she mindful of her birth,  
Herself from ugly spots debars;  
She lifts her friendly house from earth,  
And bears it with her to the Stars.  
See how the empty bodies lies,  
Where now no lively soul remains:  
Yet when short time with swiftness flies,  
The height of senses it regains.  
Those ages shall be soon at hand,  
When kindly heat the bones reviewes;  
And shall the former house command,  
Where living blood it shall infuse.  
Dull carcases to dust now worn,  
Which long in graves corrupted lay,  
Shall to the nimble air be borne,  
Where souls before have led the way.  
Hence comes it to adorn the grave,  
With careful labour men affect:  
The limbs dissolved last honour have,  
And funeral Rites with pomp are decked,  
The custom is to spread abroad  
White linens, graced with splendour pure,  
Sabaean Myrrh on bodies strowed,  
Preserves them from decay secure.  
The hollow stones by Carvers wrought,  
Which in fair monuments are laid,  
Declare that pledges thither brought,  
Are not to death but sleep conveyed.  
The pious Christians this ordain,  
Believing with a prudent eye,  
That those shall rise and live again,  
Who now in freezing slumbers lie.  
He that the dead (dispersed in fields)  
In pity hides, with heaps of moulds,  
To his Almighty Saviour yields,  
A work which he with joy beholds.  
The same Law warns us all to groan,  
Whom one severe condition ties,  
And in another's death to moon.  
All funerals, as of our Allies,  
That Reverend man in goodness bred,  
Who blest Tobias did beget,  
Preferred the burial of the dead  
Before his meat, though ready set;  
He, while the servants waiting stand,  
Forsakes the cups, the dishes leaves,  
And digs a grave with speedy hand,  
Which with the bones his tears receives.  
Rewards from heaven this work requite:  
No slender price is here repaid,  
God clears the eyes that saw no light,  
While Fishes gall on them is laid.  
Then the Creator would descry,  
How far from reason they are led,  
Who sharp and bitter things apply,  
To souls on which new light is spread.  
He also taught that to no wight,  
The heavenly Kingdom can be seen,  
Till vexed with wounds and darksome night,  
He in the world's rough waves hath been.  
The curse of death a blessing finds,  
Because by this tormenting woe,  
Steep ways lie plain to spotless minds,  
Who to the Stars by sorrows go.  
The bodies which long perished lay,  
Return to live in better years:  
That union never shall decay,  
Where after death new warmth appears.  
The face where now pale colour dwells,  
Whence foul infection shall arise,  
The flowers in splendour then excels,  
When blood the skin with beauty dies.  
No age by Times imperious law,  
With envious prints the forehead dims:  
No drought, no leanness then can draw  
The moisture from the withered limbs.  
Diseases, which the body eat,  
Infected with oppressing pains,  
In midst of torments than shall sweat,  
Imprisoned in a thousand chains.  
The conquering flesh immortal grows,  
Beholding from the skies above,  
The endless groaning of her foes,  
For sorrows which from them did move.  
Why are undecent howl mixed  
By living men in such a case?  
Why are decrees so sweetly fixed,  
Reproved with discontented face?  
Let all complaints and murmurs fail;  
Ye tender mothers stay your tears,  
Let none their children dear bewail,  
For life renewed in death appears.  
So buried seeds, though dry and dead,  
Again with smiling greenness spring:  
And from the hollow furrows bred,  
Attempt new ears of corn to bring.  
Earth, take this man with kind embrace,  
In thy soft bosom him conceive:  
For humane members here I place,  
And generous parts in trust I leave.  
This house, the soul her guest once felt,  
Which from the Maker's mouth proceeds:  
Here sometime fervent wisdom dwelled,  
Which Christ the Prince of Wisdom breeds.  
A covering for this body make,  
The Author never will forget  
His works; nor will those looks forsake,  
In which he hath his Picture set.  
For when the course of time is past,  
And all our hopes fulfilled shall be,  
Thou opening must restore at last,  
The limbs in shape which now we see.  
Nor if long age with powerful reign,  
Shall turn the bones to scattered dust;  
And only ashes shall retain,  
In compass of a handful thrust:  
Nor if swift Floods, or strong command  
Of Winds through empty Air have tossed  
The members with the flying Sand;  
Yet man is never fully lost,  
O God, while mortal bodies are  
Recalled by thee, and formed again.  
What happy seat wilt thou prepare,  
Where spotless souls may safe remain,  
In Abraham's bosom they shall lie  
Like Lazarus, whose flowery Crown  
The rich man doth far off espy,  
While him sharp fiery torments drown.  
Thy words, O Saviour we respect,  
Whose triumph drives black Death to loss,  
When in thy steps thou wouldst direct  
The Thief thy fellow on the Cross.  
The faithful see a shining way,  
Whose length to Paradise extends,  
This can them to those trees convey,  
Lost by the Serpent's cunning ends.  
To Thee I pray, most certain Guide:  
O let this soul which thee obeyed,  
In her fair birthplace pure abide,  
From which she, banished, long hath strayed.  
While we upon the covered bones  
Sweet violets and leaves will throw:  
The title and the cold hard stones,  
Shall with our liquid odours flow.   
FINIS.