THE SPRING'S GLORY.  
VINDICATING LOVE by temperance against the tenant, Sine Cerere & Baccho friget Venus.  
Moralised in a Mask. With other Poems, Epigrams, Elegies, and Epithalamiums of the Authors THOMAS NABBES.  
LONDON, Printed by I.D. for Charles Greene, and are to be sold by Nicolas Fussell at the sign of the white Lion in Paul's Churchyard. 1638.   

Optimae spei juveni  
Domino BENEDICTO ROBERTS, filio natu minori NICOLAI ROBERTS Armigeri, amoris ergò, & observantiae erga parents, sequentia poemata humillimè dedicat  
Thomas Nabbes.   

To his intimate and learned friend Master THOMAS NABBES on his ensuing Poems.  
LEt those who to the world often publish forth  
Their own deserts, in praising others worth,  
Throng for a room; and pride themselves to be  
Ranked in the front of thy learned poesy.  
It shall suffice me (who have never yet  
Studied to humour others, nor have sweat  
Like some, two hours in plodding jests, which may  
At the first sight their author's wits betray)  
To have a meaner room: for I nor come  
To beg the reader mitigate thy doom;  
Nor with intent to praise thy work or thee:  
For that would seem a plain Tautology.  
Those, whose diviner souls Phoebean flame  
Hath thoroughly kindled, such as have a name  
I'the list of Phoebu's darlings, will admire  
The eager flames of thy poetic fire.  
None will dislike aught here, but such dull things  
Whose souls are out of tune; When Phoebus sings  
Some bayards will be bold to judge his strain  
Harsh and unpleasing; yet applaud the vain—  
— Confused sound of some hoarse pipers voice,  
And say 'tis rare, and makes an excellent noise.  
If that it chance some fancy not thy strain  
they're dull and ignorant; the wiser train  
Will praise thee for't, and utter still with fame  
The often mention of thy honoured name.  
Let critics censure, and these lines condemn,  
Secured by thy own bays▪ their rage contemn.  
C.G. Oxon.   

To his honoured friend Master THOMAS NABBES.  
HAd I the massy wealth of Cheops, than  
I'd raise a Pyramid unto thy pen  
That should for State put down the empty fame  
Of Mausoleus' tomb, blot out the name  
The Sun's Colossus had in that same day  
When it bestrid the spacious Rhodian bay.  
Let Momus prate; thou art above him fare:  
The cur that barks at, cannot hurt the star.  
But why should I presume? for me to praise  
Thy winged raptures, rhapsodies and lays  
Were with dark Lantern up and down to run,  
And show th'admiring world the glittering Sun.  
Robert Chamberlains.   

THE SPRING'S GLORY; Within an Arch of agreeable workmanship, a Scene of Winter presents itself, the Trees and Earth covered with Snow, and in the middle thereof a prospect of a fair house as the Mansion of Christmas.  Venus and Cupid descend. Venus. 
WIthout good meat and drink must Venus frieze?  
Must I derive my flames and my desire  
From Ceres and from Bacchus? shall the fire  
That burns in hearts, and pays me solemn rites  
Kindle from fullness and gorged appetites?  
It shall not Son. Learn of thy Seaborn mother  
Never to borrow power from any other.  
The virtue that's our own, who dares to claim?  
Are not both Gods and men by thy sure aim,  
When at their bosoms thou direct'st a Dart.  
Wounded with passion past the cure of art?  
Did not the god of Medicine himself want;  
(When he was struck by thee) a sovereign plant  
To heal his hurt? nor did it rancour by  
Abundance of choice cates and luxury?  
'Twas merely thy effect. Why than should we  
To Ceres or to Bacchus' deity  
Assign our rights?  Cupid. 
In part we must; for they  
Are aiders in our work, and therefore may  
Share in the attributes of power. If wine  
Did not the spirits and the blood refine,  
Making them warm and active, I should throw  
My shafts at rocks of ice, and from my Bow  
The winged arrows of desire would fly  
With empty and successless battery.  
If Ceres bounties flowed not, where should I  
Found any flame to light my torches by?  
Fullness and ease assist me more than all  
The helps I have besides.  Venus. 
And therefore shall  
They be preferred? Thou-babes art a foolish boy.  
Their base effects are lust; they love to joy  
In what is sensual only. Our pure heat  
Borrows not activeness from drink or meat;  
It moves more in the soul. God Bacchus shall  
Have his due attributes, and Ceres call  
The plough, crooked sickle, flail and many more  
Her own admired inventions, and the store  
She gathers for man's use. But should the mind  
Make these her only objects, what a blind  
And dangerous issue of effects would grow  
From such a seed! high spirits strive to know  
Moore than a common eye seas, and aspire  
Still upwards like the Pyramid of fire,  
When earth tends to its centre. We must move  
Moore than the sense; else 'tis not perfect love.  To them Ceres and Bacchus. 
here's Ceres and Lyaeus.  Ceres. 
We are told  
By Maia's son that you intent to scold  
With me and Bacchus.  Venus. 
I have cause to chide.  
you'd rob me of my titles, and beside  
Make it a glutton's tenant, there can be  
Not love without you.  Ceres. 
And your Deity  
Hath summoned us for this: 'tis very good.  
I must confess you made your father wood  
To ravish fair Europa. Having seen  
Trains of Arcadian Virgins on the green  
Tread their chaste measures, or with nimble pace  
Through the Parthenian groves, and thickets chase  
A well-breathed Stag, one of them straightways must  
Be tempted to her ruin by his lust:  
And this employment Venus still is thy.  Venus. 
Ceres is mad still for her Proserpina:  
Whose rape hath made her queen of the Abyss.  
Who to be so rewarded would not kiss  
The black lips of hell's king? and to his bed  
Bring the short pleasures of a Maidenhead?  
Repined not at it than.  Ceres. 
I must whilst day  
Hath any light, or heavens bright eye a ray.  
It was your son's great act to boast of; he  
That suffers not th'infernalsto go free  
Of his diseases.  Bacchus. 
Rather Ceres' mine:  
For if the God had never tasted wine,  
Not all the heat of his infernal fire  
Can ever have thawed him into one desire;  
Or kindled the lest flame in his cold breast  
Without my virtue.  Venus. 
'tis an idle jest.  
Doth Bacchus think he can with heat of wine  
Light the bright flame of love, that is divine,  
And burns not from such causes, but takes fire  
From th'elemental part of pure desire  
Unmixed with grossness? Thy effects are foul;  
And motions of the sense, not of the soul.  
Subscribe than to our power; my son and I  
Must have the attributes.  Ceres. 
Let him lay by  
His quiver rather. Ceres' means to be  
The Queen of Love, and Bacchus' deity  
Include all that is Cupid's.  Venus. 
First I'll leave  
To be immortal, and myself bereave  
Of all that I can claim above the sky,  
Or under heavens arched roof, if destiny  
May give it confirmation. Take a Dart  
And aim it at her proud imperious heart  
To show in thy revenge what thou canst do.  Cupid. 
I must not Mother. we'll refer it to  
Another trial, and if Bacchus can  
Confirm what he so saucily begun  
To argue, by example, we'll deny  
Nothing that's due unto his deity.  Bacchus. 
Content.  To them Christmas and Shrovetide Enter. Christmas is personated by an old reverend Gentleman in a furred gown and cap, etc. And Shrovetide by a fat Cook with a frying-pan, etc. 
And see occasion hath complied  
Even with our wish. It cannot be denied  
But these share both our bounties; have free use  
Of all our gifts: and if you'll not refuse  
A trial from them—  Venus. 
Let them speak, whilst we  
To their dispose refer the victory.  Shrovetide. 
I say Christmas you are past date, you are out of the Almanac. Resign, resign. Let the Oven give place to the Frying-pan, and Minc't-pies yield superiority to pancakes and Fritters.  Christmas. 
Resign to thee! I that an the King of good cheer and feasting, though I come but once a year to reign over baked, boiled, roast, and plumporridge, will have being in despite of thy lard-ship. Thou-babes art but my fag-end, and I must still be before thee.  Shrovetide. 
But thou will't never be beforehand. Thou-babes art a prodigal Christmas; and Shrovetide hath seen thee many times in the Poultry.  Christmas. 
Dost scorn my liberality, thou rasty bacon, tallow-faced scullion? Though thou be as fat as a Fleming, I'll have Lent choke thee with a red-herring.  Shrovetide. 
I'll arm myself for that. In three days I can victual my garrison for seven weeks: and it shall go hard but I will domineer in Lent despite of the thin-chapped surgeon that makes men skeletons.  Christmas. 
As how?  Shrovetide. 
At any Nobleman's house, I can lick my fingers in a privy kitchen. Though I be out of commons in the hall, there's flesh to be had sometimes in a chamber besides a Laundress. The very threepenny ordinary will keep me in an upper gallery, and I can be invisible even in the pie-house. Should all fail, the wenches I got with child shall long, and have the Physician's ticket.  Christmas. 
Thou-babes get children!  Shrovetide. 
Yes more than Christmas, and better too: for thy are all unthrifts, whores, or murderers. Thy son In and in, undid many a Citizen. Thou-babes hast a Daughter called my Lady's hole, a filthy black slut she is; and Put is common in every Bawdy house. 'tis thought Noddy was none of thy own getting, but an Alderman's, that in exchange cuckolded thee, when thou waste a Courtier. Thou-babes hast one son bread up in the Country called Christmas gambols, that doth nothing but break man's necks; and many more that would undo the Commonwealth, were it not for the Groom porter.  Christmas. 
Dost see these sirrah?  Shrovetide. 
Ceres and Bacchus: I an their worshipper. Were Stews tolerated, and Venus the Grand Bawd of them, without good meat and drink, your young Factors would never be able to break their Masters or Mistresses, nor your she-silk-worm in Cheap care a button for her foreman.  Ceres. 
Venus' being overcome, I hope will yield,  
Now she is vanquished in the open field,  
And her weak forces scattered: nor can they  
Gather new head to make a second fray.  To them Lent enters. He is figured in a lean Man, his habit like trousers, and what other antic devices may be thought proper▪ Venus. 
Yes: with this champion; and his fresh supply  
I'll wage new war, and call backe victory.  Shrovetide. 
This leave thin-gut starveling, begotten by a Spaniard▪ and nursed at the lower end of Friday-street.  Lent. 
Why thou Helluo of hens and bacon, th●●●●rder houst of collops and eggs; thou that makest the kitchen proclaim its employment through the neighbourhood, with the sent of thy Lard and crumpets, what canst thou boast often?  Christmas. 
Children, children, thou parched starveling: thou can●t g●t nothing but Anatomies.  Lent. 
Children! I get more (I maintain not their lawfulness) than Christmas and Shrovetide. O the virtue of Oysters, Lobsters, Sturgeon, Anchovies, & Caviary. Why thou groutheaded bladder, puffed with the windiness of pared apples coffered in batter: for every Brawn or hog, either Christmas or thyself have demolished; I have a thousand Herrings, despite of the Dutchman's wasteful theft, let them rob the four Seas never so often. Besides, I couple more than the Parson of Pancras: I mean City woodcocks, with Suburb-wagtails.  Christmas. 
Thou-babes couple!  Lent. 
Who more? Is not S. Valentine's day mine? are not Cod's mine, thou codshead, and Maids mine? put them together thou will't found they are things—  Shrovetide. 
Thou-babes art a thing of emptiness, and Lent was ever a jack by conversion.  Lent. 
Such a jack as can come aloft, and do Venus more credit than thy fullness. Do not I share of Aries, Taurus, and Gemini; the Inns I lie at in my progress. Yet not cuckold can deny but Aries and Taurus should follow Gemini. And it follows, or should, that I having two fathers myself, should get most children.  Christmas. 
Who were thy fathers prithee?  Lent. 
Devotion and Policy; and I have begotten Hypocrisy on a holy sister, that despite of all Informers would have flesh, her belly full. Let Christmas and Shrovetide eat and drink; I'll be for Venus, though I feed upon nothing but herring-cobs.  Venus. 
who's now the conqueror? Will Ceres now  
Subscribe unto my power? and Bacchus' bow  
To Cupid's awful strength?  Ceres. 
Not till it is  
Confirmed by better evidence than his.  Lent. 
Than mine! Observe.  Here the Scene suddenly changes into a Prospect, with trees budded, the earth somewhat green, and at one side an old Barn, out of which issue's a company of beggars, with a Bagpipe. 
See you these good fellows, that prefer the warm Sun, before the scraps which niggardly Christmas and Shrovetide feast them with; and would get a better race under a hedge to people New England, than the Separatists that possess it. Whilst they entertain ye, I'll summon the Spring, and she shall moderate.  The Beggars dance. Exeunt. After the dance, is herded the chirping of birds; and whilst the following Song is singing, the Scene again changes into a pleasant Arbour, in which the Spring in a green robe wrought over with flowers presents herself. 

The Song.  

See, see a Metamorphosis,  
The late grey field now verdant is.  
The Sun with warm beams glads the earth,  
And to the springing flowers  
He gives a new and lively birth  
By th'aid of gentle showers.  
The Lambs not longer bleat for cold,  
Nor cry for succour from the old:  
But frisk and play with confidence  
Like Emblems of true innocence.   

Chorus.  
The cheerful birds their voices straine●  
The cuckoo's hoarse for want of rain.  
The Nightingale doth sweetly sing,  
To welcome in the joyful Spring.    Spring. 
Thus break my glories forth that late lay hide  
Within the icy earth, and were forbidden  
By Winter's nipping cold to show their heads  
Above the snowy covering of their beds.  
The winds not rugged now, but calm and fair,  
Sweep flowery Gardens, and perfume the air.  
The woods shrill Choristers (whose frozen throats  
Late wanted motion,) now have found their notes;  
Straining their little organs to sound high,  
And teach men art from Nature's harmony.  
Come you to welcome me?  Ceres. 
Yes lovely Maid;  
And to have judgement from you, who most aid  
In Love's great work.  Spring. 
Is there a strife between  
The goddess of desire, and plenty's Queen?  
Will they subscribe, I'll moderate.  All. 
Content.  Spring. 
First hear my reasons; than my sentence: bend  
Against neither's honours, for I must comply  
Wi●●●●th as vertu●●. Venus' Deity  
Is powerful over all; and Ceres gives  
Each that hath being that by which he 〈◊〉  
Yet many times excess perverts the end  
Of pure intentions; and extremes extend  
Their powers to undo those acts are free  
In their own natures from impurity▪  
Love aught to be Platonic, and Divine▪  
Such as is only kindled, and doth shine  
With beams, that may all dark effects control  
In the refined parts of the glorious soul.  
Men do abuse your gifts, when they delight  
Only to please their sensual appetite,  
And heat the blood from fulnesse; whence there grows  
Not perfect love, but such as only knows  
The coursest difference, and therefore must  
Presume to own not other name but lust.  
In me let Temperance teach you to apply  
Things to their best ends; and to rectify  
All motions that intent effects, beside  
What may run clear and currant with the side  
Of purest love: in which let all your jars  
Be reconciled, and finish your stern wars.  All. 
Thus we embrace in peace.  Spring. 
And I 〈◊〉 Spring  
Will lead a moderate measure. Chirps sing  
Your choicest airs; and as our ears they great,  
Unto the Music we'll apply our feet.  The Spring leads them a measure; after which they retire backe to the Scene. 

Epilogue.  
I That of all the seasons an the lest,  
Though first in time, and usher in the rest,  
Impart my pleasures freely, ●ut desire  
you'll not abuse them with excess. My choir  
Shall sing as every fair one doth become  
A chaste Bride, her Epithalamium.  
Though they are short be plea●ed with these, to you  
I yearly will return and bring you new.  
The Spring being received into the Scene it closeth.  
The end.    

An Encomium on the le●den Steeple at Worcester, repaired after a long time of neglect in the year 1628. by the than Deane, who is now the right Reverend, and right Honourable the Lord Bishop of London, and Lord high Treasurer of England.  
IF ever the Thespian Maidens did inspire  
A breath of raptures warmed with sacred fire,  
Let them assist. And you whose songs have raised  
The● fames above their ●oiness, and so praised  
Th'Aegyptian Pyramid; The Delian Fane;  
Th'Ephesian Te●ple holy to Diane;  
With Rome's vast wonder; Mansoleus shrines;  
The Sun's G●●oss●ss; thus to make them shine  
In their dead a●●reses, may you G●nij●  
Pass all by transmigration into me.  
But chief thou blessed 
* The Founder canonised for his sancti●y.  Saint, now made divine,  
Crowned with rewards of glory sweetly shine  
On these submissive vows. Let me invite  
Thy holy freeness to accept the ●uite  
Of his devotion, who doth only show  
His will to pay what thousand ab●er owe.  
And thou rare fabric, who dost comprehend  
Proportionsbeauty in a perfect end  
Of all her elements, which form stand  
On thy octaedra base, let not black hand  
Blot out thy name; for thou deservest the skill  
Of all that ever climbed the Muse's hill.  
Since thy Hi●●a's' strength for many an age  
Hath conquered storms, and the 〈◊〉  
Of bur●ing 〈…〉  
Have taught prevention to thei● 〈…〉 friend  
I'll sing thy fame; and tell the 
* One that begged the Steeple to have sold th● timber and lead; which was opposed by the Citizens.  Northern spy  
That would have raised himself by beggary  
 
How into rounds he might convert thy squares▪  
Transgressing thus a Geometric rule,  
He proved himself ● true proportioned fool.  
When ●rom thy altitude I do surveyed  
The distant rise of th'unequall way  
That leads beyond perceptio●● marry eye;  
th'exalted mountains joining to the sky:  
The confluence of so ●any various ●eamess  
Do drown my seeing 〈◊〉 ga●e● with their 〈◊〉  
And stupefy the s●●se. Sometimes ●●aine  
I view the subject regious▪ wh●● my 〈◊〉  
With a 〈◊〉 labours; and 〈◊〉  
Beyond all comprehension, till the Si●●●●  
Seems to decline, and with his g●lden chin  
To kiss thy bowl, and fire him●elfe therein▪  
When freed from this 〈…〉 I descend  
To contemplate thy wonders e●ery end  
Gives new beginning to a second birth  
Of artful prodigies to fright the earth:  
And make thy fo●me seem a demonstrative  
Of those Platonic worlds in ●●mber five▪  
Containing angles infinite ●n show  
As those small puncts, f●om whose concretion grow  
What else may be divided. Let such dreams  
(Raised from opinions fancy) be the themes  
Of their fanatic founders; whilst to thee  
I attribute not immortality,  
As part of what must perish▪ such a trick  
Would make me seem ● wilful heretic  
Against Nature's doctrine and de●ase thy glory  
By false allusi●●● 〈◊〉 thy st●ry  
Be drawn from what thou art: a perfect frame  
To figure out the greatness of his name,  
That did at thy erection justify  
By miracles his blessed 
* At the building thereof ● workman falling from aloft lay for dead: Whom the Founder passing by revived and made whole by praying over him. Recorded in the window of the Cloister.  sanctity.  
A pile exalted stands thy bulk within,  
(Which doth uphold thy superficial skin)  
Of consecrated Oaks: Olympian jove  
Had none so fair in's Dodonean grove.  
In these each regularitie doth design  
By a transverse, or a perpending line  
Some principle of Art; which shows the eye  
Of understanding what's Geometry.  
As thou dost climb thy form contracts each side  
Into a point, which makes a Pyramid:  
And than a Globe corrects thy high ascent  
From joining with the fiery element,  
Fearing your correspondence. There doth sit  
The watchful Cock (of care an Emblem fit)  
To guard thee from surprisals, and to show  
From what bad coast the envious winds do blow▪  
Who with their batteries have assailed thee long;  
And would enforce thy chastity (though strong)  
To a base prostitution; and unite  
Thee with thy 
* A steeple joining to it, upon which it seemed to be falling.  sister steeple by their might  
In fatal ruins. But thy conquests prove  
Time hath been kinder: and (for age may love  
Fair beauties, raising heats from cold desires)  
He means to clasp thee in his latest fires.  
Thy 
* The outside being all lead.  ponderous outside now weighs down my skill,  
Though it sustain itself. Some learned will  
Disposed it so for fear the weight might crack  
The earth's strong axletree, or sinewed back.  
So had our glory with the rest been lost;  
And all in new confusion had been tossed:  
Unless thy beauty once again might move  
A reconcilement by the power of Love  
That he might thee enjoy. But why in vain  
Do I dilate what's greater than the strain  
Of my weak powers; ●ince what I so desire  
To comprehend I only can admire.  
Yet I will be thy champion to defend  
Thy fame against opposers, and contend  
With 
* Some that written base libels upon it.  those that Satire thee; that vainly spend  
Their froth collections for the hated end  
Of scorn and laughter, and neglect to pay  
Their talents lent them by the King of day.  
And though 
* The repairing thereof neglected, till the Deans coming thither.  some lately striven to rust thee more  
Than times continuance ever did before.  
Virtue hath sent good spirits from her clime  
Who will preserve thee to the length of time:  
Repair thy breaches, and adorn thy brow,  
And make thee shine again to us below.  
And for these vows which I have paid thy worth,  
O might I beg, that when my soul goes forth  
Of this foul earth, to climb above thy head,  
And that the rest be reckoned with the dead,  
Thou-babes wouldst preserve my dust within thy womb:  
So should poor Irus have a Celsus tomb.   

Upon the losing of his way in a Forest parting from his company to go home, towards the evening.  
YOu that have ever wandered in the dark,  
And thinking to hit home, still missed the mark,  
Listen, whilst to the world I do relate  
A sad disaster, which the will of Fate  
Disposed me to through error. Gently blew  
The murmuring winds, and where th'earth's sweetness grew  
It scattered choice perfumes: which did invite  
To satisfy our senses appetite  
Myself and others. th'instrument of heat  
Clothed in his glory, from his azure seat  
Directed cheerful beams. So forth we went  
To suck the purer air, and Southward bend  
Our wanton course: when spongy clouds begun  
(As if the Sun had squeezed them) to drop rain.  
This made us to retire: by which we see  
All things are subject to incertainty.  
The golden tressed ruler of the day  
Had now for his bright beams made open way.  
Our number than increased, and so together  
We journied with delight; but known not whether.  
A house at length did entertain us, where  
We drank not English Ale, nor Germane Beer,  
Nor Welsh Metheglin; having stayed a while  
A 
* Perry.  pleasant juice was brought, made us beguile  
Time with more words than matter. Weary now  
And surfeited with pleasures, hast did blow  
The sails of my desires, nor would I stay  
For any guide to teach me loose my way.  
Th'inflating liquor having made me blind,  
I that came in before went out behind.  
Here Error first begun the Tragic jest:  
I taken the North for South, the East for West.  
Darkness increased; and night the aid to harms  
Hugged the world's fabric in her Ebon arms.  
When (o the fate of darkness) 'cause 'twas night;  
Or misled by that Error, or some spirit;  
Or the conceited mischief which men call  
The king of Fairies Post; or whether all  
Had met in counsel to contrive my harm;  
Or witched to't by some other envious charm;  
I mi●t the path, straying through unknown places;  
And always backward went with forward paces.  
O thou that art my life's commanding light  
Th'ascendent in my birth, was it thy might  
And powerful influence did direct my will  
To be the better means of a worse ill?  
And 
* An Astrologer in the company that maintained a nuncius inanimatus to be effected by the beams of the Moon, and many other ridiculous things.  Hermes thou whose understanding eye  
Seas all the secrets of Philosophy;  
Thou-babes cunning Moule that know'st to work thy way  
Through thickest mysteries to the clearest day  
Of radiant knowledge, was not this day's fate  
Written in thy book of Moons predestinate  
For grief and danger? Yes, thou knewest 'twas writ;  
And by prevention couldst have hindered it.  
But 'twas my error only: had she shone  
I should have read it plainly in the Moon:  
For such thy powerful art is, it can bind  
The stars in characters to speak thy mind.  
Now being thus from loving friends divided  
Into a desert Forrest was I guided,  
Where horror did present a thousand fears,  
But none of meeting Lions, Wolves, or Bears.  
Yet there were diverse beasts; and never a one  
But I would have been glad to feed upon.  
Yet my sharp hunger I was forced to brook:  
Unless the devil there was never a cook.  
And here some thoughts of him made me suppose  
That every tree I see had cloven toes.  
And when I spied the glimpses of a hill,  
I dared have sworn that walked, and I stood still.  
A Salamander I did often expect;  
A Pigmy or a Sylvan to direct  
My knowledge to some treasure: but my mind  
Was vainly bend on what I never could found.  
My friends that now had missed me, scatterdly  
Were go abroad with lights to search for me.  
But all in vain: their shouts I did mistake  
For Owls; and thought each light a flaming Drake.  
So that by shunning of their guidance thus  
I proved my ●elfe the ignis fatuus.  
Meeting a ragged colt, I feared the elf;  
And than I thought 'twas time to bless myself.  
But every thing I met with ran away  
As if I were a greater spirit than they.  
Armed with a mighty staff, but patience none,  
In silent language I begun to moan  
My sad mishap; which could not answered be  
By any there, but with like silencie.  
But ●ow at length it won my cruel fate  
To be a little more compassionate.  
Hearing a dog bark I lift up mine eye  
When through the foggy air I could descry  
A ragged chimney, and a roof that had  
Two truss of straw upon't: this made me glad.  
He that this weatherbeaten Mansion owned 
* A Smith● hou●e.   
Being newly go to bed, sweet slumbers crowned  
His labour with sound rest: the fire was than  
Newly put out; for had it burning been,  
Mixed with the noise of hammers, who can tell  
But that I might have taken it for hell.  
Only the doors were fast, and Hilax voice  
Was a shrill treble, not a hellish noise  
Like Cerberus. By this arrived, I herded  
The people snorting: Than I greatly feared  
A sharp repulse. But using gentle words,  
With, Friend I an a servant of my Lords,  
I entered; where the rest of night I nested,  
And m'almost tired spirits warmly rested.  
And after Chanti●lo●re had summoned day  
I paid some thankss, and homewards hit my way.  
And sure 'twas left behind; else in this fit  
'Twas ten to one but I had lost my wit.   

Upon excellent strong Beer which he drank at the Town of Which in Worcester shire where Salt is made.  
THou ever youthful god of wine,  
Whose burnished cheeks with rubies shine;  
And brows with ivye chaplets crowned,  
We dare thee here to pledge a round.  
Thy wanton grapes we do detest▪  
here's richer juice from barley pressed.  
Let not the Muses vainly tell  
What virtue's in the horse-hoofe well,  
That scarce one drop of good blood breeds,  
But with mere inspiration feeds:  
O let them come and taste this Beer,  
And water henceforth they'll forswear.  
If that the Paracelsian crew  
The virtues of this liquor known,  
Their endless toils they would give o'er,  
And never use extractions more.  
'tis Medicine; meat for young and old;  
Elixir; blood of tortured gold.  
It is sublimed; it's calcinate;  
'tis rectified; precipitate:  
It is Androgena Sols wife;  
It is the Mercury of life.  
It is the quintessence of Malt;  
And they that drink it want not Salt▪  
It heals; it hurts; it cures; it kills:  
Mens heads with proclamations fil●.  
It makes some dumb, and others speak;  
Strong vessels hold, and cracked one's leak.  
It makes some rich, and others poor●▪  
It makes, and yet mars many a scor●:   

On a black speck in form of a star under a fair Lady's eye.  
WHat prodigy is this to fright  
The well-pleased sense from its delight?  
To see a Star whose light is turned  
Into sad black, as if it mourned:  
When placed in such a heaven, where  
Nothing but gladness can appear.  
'tis Merope, who yet doth hid  
Her glory being stellified.  
And blushing at her mortal choice  
When all her sisters do rejoice  
By Gods embraced, hath left the sky  
To steal more lustre from this eye.  
But coming near that globe of light,  
By chance the lids close in the sight,  
And so prevent the theft, whereby  
She is eclipsed eternally.  
Nor will she ever more in heaven  
Be seen to make the number seven.  
Only if this fair one were  
But fixed a constellation there  
Whence she descended, 'tis a grace  
To be a dark star on that face  
Above the other six we see  
Shine on the Monsters crooked knee.   

An Elegy on the death of the hopeful Mr. WILLIAM ROBERTS, aged 11. Son to the Worshipful NICHOLAS ROBERTS Esquire.  
WHat subject hath Death brought for my sad Mu●●  
To practise art, and sorrow on? to use  
(Her lightsome lays, & spriteful airs laid by)  
Some mixture of Cromatick harmony:  
'tis a sad subject, and requires each tone  
And cadence to be finished in a groan.  
Words such as we from grief can only hear,  
Straining the heartstrings that restrain them there▪  
'tis a sad subject now, that living might  
Have been an equal object of delight  
With any one that fancy could device  
To please the inward, or the outward eyes.  
A youth in whose sweet face each grace did devil,  
As if there were their Acidalian well:  
And that they left Boetias' cooling streams  
To warm their naked beauties in his beams.  
A youth whose colours, symmetry and eye  
Made up a form to paint a Cupid by.  
Yet (against the tenant) Nature's livelier part  
Should still excel the workmanship of art.  
A youth whose fair and glorious mind become  
The Mansion of all virtues that have name.  
And by his inclination did express  
Moore age in's youth, than manyes age possess.  
But now Death's ashye hand hath changed the hue  
Of those bright cheeks where Roses lately grew:  
And triumphs o'er his earth, that yet will be  
In spite of Fate more conqueror than he.  
Come Libitina than; deck thy sad brows  
With wreathes of funeral Yough, and Cypress boughs.  
Command thy flaming altars to be dressed  
With spice stolen from a dying Phoenix nest.  
Let every tear that falls upon his urn  
Into a Pearl (and that most orient) turn,  
Till they have raised a pile, whose costly frame  
May make forgotten Mausoleums name.  
But why should empty wishes thus be spent?  
His corpses enough enrich his monument.  
And the long sacred clay is hallowed more  
By holding of his relics, than before.  
You than whom nature, or respects do tie  
T'express affection by the outward eye  
Weep not for's loss so much, since it hath given  
A shrine more to the earth, a Saint to heaven.   

An Epigram on an old unhandsome, yet lustful woman; who was discovered to wear drawers of black taffeta.  
THe devil's in't: did ever Witch  
In mourning clot her wrinkled breech  
Unless the Incubus were dead  
That had her withered maidenhead?  
Why that part veiled? the face left free,  
That hath not less deformity?  
A pox on both, the reason's smelled:  
she'd have one seen, the other felt.  
That neither sense into mislike might grow,  
Though she be light, she keeps all dark below.   

On a fair Lady, whom a mean Gentleman hearing her sing, and play, fallen in love with.  
IN sure in heaven. Not mortal ear  
Did ever such sweet Music hear.  
A voice as if each ravishing note  
Were relished from an Angel's throat.  
Applied to cords are strooke so clear,  
As if each finger moved a sphere.  
So full expressing every part.  
That concord need not other art.  
Besides, my instruments of sight  
Are dazzell'd with a glorious light.  
The sun's but shadow to her eye;  
And day more dark than midnight's sky.  
Yet midst this heaven there is a hell:  
The spice she breathes I may not smell.  
Nor dare to quench my longing sipp  
One drop of Nectar from her lip.  
Nor touch her hand; much less what's hidden,  
And by a stricter law forbidden.  
But might I purge my earth to move  
In her high orb so fare above  
My pitch of flight; or but aspire  
To rarifie it with her fire,  
I'd in a perfect heaven be  
In spite of my mortality.   

An Epithalamium on the hopeful happy Marriage of Master BURLACYE, and Mistress ALICE BANKS married in December. 1637.  
UP grey-eyed morning, comb thy golden hair,  
And with thy blushes stain the freckled air.  
Rouse the forgetful Sun from Thetis bed,  
And bid him shake the tresses on his head;  
That flames of light may usher in his way,  
And give beginning to a glorious day.  
Upon the God of Unions altars see  
What piles are kindled of rich spicery.  
As when the Phoenix in her pregnant death  
Expires her soul with her Panchaian breath.  
Me thinks thou'rt lazy Phoebus. If thou please  
To devil so long with our Antipodes,  
Remain there still: thy radiance we'll supply  
With brighter beams shot from the Bride's fair eye:  
That shall created a day where thy light fails  
In darkest bottoms of Cimmerian vales:  
And through all seasons their effects dispense  
Above the power of thy weak influence.  
December shall translate himself to May,  
And with the Summer's sweets chequer her away.  
And 'tis his hope her lasting course will bring  
A change in time for him to lead the Spring.  
The Northern air that moved with waving ice  
Melted, as if 'twould quench the sacrifice,  
And cloud the day's pomp. But from those cold showers  
Shall grow new issues of most fragrant flowers,  
Warmed into life, and taking perfect birth  
Where her soft steps do fructify the earth.  
As she doth pass the birds shall strain their thro●●ss.  
And beat the air with artificial notes,  
Forgetting wildness. Yea, sad Philomela  
Shall cease the story of her fate to tell,  
And tone delightful airs, such as are song  
To Victory by a triumphing throng.  
Now Sir to meet your joys, yourself address,  
Clothed in the glory of a happiness,  
Which beauty, chastity, and constant love  
Make absolute, and is confirmed above.  
Take to your soft embraces a pure frame  
Where all the virtues devil that have a name.  
When every sense is filled, in them you'll found  
Endless delights to feast th'immortal mind.  
Being possessed of all that chaste desire  
Can warm your active souls to with his fire,  
Enjoy them without change: to such as you  
The repetition will present them new.  
Whilst all man's zealous wishes are to see  
Those pleasures blessed in a posterity.   

On a Mistress of whose affection he was doubtful.  
WHat though with figures I should raise  
Above all height my Mistress praise:  
Calling her cheek a blushing rose,  
The fairest june did ever disclose.  
Her forehead Lilies, and her eyes  
The luminaries of the skies.  
That on her lips Ambrosia grows,  
And from her kisses Nectar flows:  
Too great hyperboles; unless  
She love's me, she is none of these.  
But if her heart, and her desires  
Do answer mine with equal fires,  
These attributes are than too poor.  
She is all these, and ten times more.   

An Elegy on a lovely young child drowned at London Bridge, in the year 1335.  
where's funeral Goddess? why doth she delay  
The solemn rites belong to this sad day?  
Sleights she so small a Hearse? will she deny  
The deuce belong to every memory?  
Come and attend them, whence thou shalt derive  
A glory great as Fate did ever give  
Thy last respected Deity: shalt have  
As much true honour by his little grave,  
As if it were some great Colossus tomb  
Swelling a Mountain from the earth's stretched womb▪  
And thou unruly stream that didst deprive  
His parents of their chiefest joy alive,  
What sin of his made thee the instrument  
And means, of such a seeming punishment?  
His innocence never tempted heaven; his face  
Might move some wanton God to an embrace.  
Which makes me think thy amorous Geneus might  
Attempt him from us for his Catamite.  
If so, you were good waters, and do win  
Eternal songs for hindering such a sin.  
But this sufficeth not. Eyes flow amain,  
As if they meant to drown him once again.  
Or fearing you ashamed of what  done  
Should into Neptune's boundless bosom run,  
To hid yourselves leaving the channel dry,  
Their flood of tears should that defect supply.  
Or else congealed to Pearls, a shrine should be  
To keep his ashes, and his memory.   

A PRESENTATION Intended for the Prince his Highness on his Birthday the 29 of May, 1638. annually celebrated.  A Curtain being drawn, an Alehouse is discovered, out of which Time drives certain ignorant, and yet Great undertaking Almanac-makers. Time. 
ANd must I still be vexed! shall my grey age  
Be played upon, as if I were a Page  
To your fond Art, not Nature: did not live  
But by the stipend which you yearly give.  
Your own's but forty shillings, and that price  
Binds you to order me by sage advice  
With Tycho Brach, and Ptolemy, so far  
You dare outdo a learned Albumazar.  
And with Predictions cheat the faith of men,  
That make your books their gods; and from your reign  
Or drought foretold enhance the price of grain,  
This is the end of your high practice.  1. Alm. 
we  
Do all by just rules of Astrology.  Time. 
Stargazing idiots, you Astrologers!  
That understand not what the name infers.  
You have not enough Grammar to conceive  
The words true Etymon; and therefore leave  
Your vain replies, lest I apply them to  
Another use.  2. Alm. 
What would Time have us do?  Time. 
Not fright credulity with this years' wonders;  
Eclipses; tempests; frosts; snows; storms and thunders.  
And you that sad fates sadly do report  
In borrowed Latin from the Inns a court;  
Let not great Princes; Statesmen, and whole Nations  
Suffer this year by your Prognostications:  
As if you could the fates of all men teach,  
When your conjecture hath obtained the reach  
Of probability: for which your ears  
May stand in time as fixed stars on the spheres  
Of some round pillory. 'Twill teach you how  
'Tis judgement to be silent, though you know.  3. Alm. 
Why Astra regunt homines.  Time. 
'Tis true:  
Stars govern men; but Time shall govern you;  
And regulate your studies: or he'll be  
No longer ruler o'er his Pentarchy.  
You shall not stuff your annual books with rhymes  
Bought of the Ballad-mongers of the times;  
In which (and that shows little Poetry)  
He must inveigh 'gainst wine and venery.  
Prescribe the fittest time for cutting corns:  
And when the Pigs should fear the gelder's horns.  
These are your labours; and by such as these  
Each of you shows himself Philomates.  
You likewise think 'tis grace your years works are  
Fixed on the backside of some chalky bar,  
Where's your own score, perhaps for Ale or Beer  
You will not pay till the Platonic year.  4 Alm. 
Time satyrs me.  Time. 
Indeed Time cannot lie:  
You know his Motto: {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}.  
'Tis well that you can make the country Squire  
For two pence yearly a Chronologer.  
Tell him how long 'tis since the world began;  
And since the Conquest every monarch's reign.  
Then with this store enabled he's complete;  
Can welcome friends with talk as well as meat.  
Before poor tenants have their rent to pay  
The Landlord's skilful in the quarter day:  
Knows every Terms returns, and when he's tied  
By a subpoena on his mare to ride  
To London; where he only learns to boast  
How much his journey, and his lawsuits cost.  2. Alm. 
Time knows that we are scholars.  Time. 
So you are;  
And learned ones too: whose speculations dare  
Reach at sublime things, when you cannot spy  
What snakes of folly at your own feet lie.  3. Alm. 
What would Time have us then?  Time. 
I'd have you be.  
Not vain prescribers of men's destiny;  
But Registers of actions, such as may  
Challenge deservedly a peculiar day  
To every owner. You methinks should show  
The executions done by th'English bow,  
When black Prince Edward bravely did advance  
His Ensigns through the very heart of France.  
I will have all the world observe this day,  
So glorious by the birth of him, that may  
Fill volumes with his acts, and challenge more  
Than all the great Heroes went before.  4. Alm. 
Such things as those Historians ought today.  Time. 
Be nothing, or be you Historians too.  
Practice a reformation, or (fond Elves)  
Changed into satyrs you shall lash yourselves. Exit.  1. Alm. 
Is the grey dotard gone?  
we are then alone:  
Good fellows every one  
Let's call my hostess Joan.  2. Alm. 
Well said rhymer; thy halting verses will hardly support the fat cripple any longer that begs with them. Would we had some Ale.  3. Alm. 
Hang this Time that would alter our profession, which is of equal antiquity with him. Suppose we have abilities; must we use them as he please? No: let us inspire ourselves with Ale, and compile an everlasting ephemerides.  1. Alm. 
Where's the stock-boy?  
Do not mock boy:  
Lest I knock boy  
Your learned block boy.  3. Alm. 
Hast thou none left of thy six years before hand? If the stationer's refuse to trust, our books shall never more credit the Company with rubrics in the title.  2. Alm. 
we'll try all the houses in the Zodiac; and if they will not trust, we'll pull down the signs.  3. Alm. 
Here is the sign of the Moon, the rendezvous of our fraternity. If the worst comes to the worst, we'll pawn Time for the reckoning.  4. Alm. 
By your favour we may more easily spend him.  Hostess enters. 3. Alm. 
Here comes she will fill us the comfortable liquour.  2. Alm. 
By the dozen?  3. Alm. 
By the score boy. Wilt not Hostess?  Host. 
No indeed sir. I'll hazard no more upon your next year's Almanac. You say there's a man in the Moon drinks Claret; keep him company. The woman at the Moon will keep her Ale for better customers.  3. Alm. 
Shall we have no Ale then?  Hostess. 
Not a cockleshell full without money beforehand.  3. Alm. 
Here's two groats; fetch every man his pot, and before we drink a health we'll curse thee.  Host. 
The Fox will fare the better. Exit.  3. Alm. 
mayst thou have always penniless guests like us, till thou pawn thy petticoat to pay the Brewer, and thy glorious shelves shine not so much as with an earthen platter. Instead of Shoelane hangings may the walls of thy house be painted with chalk; and the figures of no more value than cyphers. Mayst thou weekly be subject to informers, and thy forfeited licence be put to the last use of waste paper.  Host. Host enters with drink, and exit presently. 
Stop your mouth sir.  3. Alm. 
Hast thou brought Ale? cry thee mercy. Here's a health to the Prince, whose Birthday Time would have should be the whole subject of an Almanac.  4. Alm. 
Let him give the conceit to a Poet; it may be worth a day to him.  They drink, and are transformed into satyrs, horn growing out of their heads. 3. Alm. Time enters. 
Ha! hath Circe's given us an enchanted cup; or are our wives turned City Witches? These are fine jests.  Time. 
'Tis your own idle humour makes you beasts.  3. Alm. 
Forgive us Time.  Time. 
Nay dance a Hornpipe now.  
That done perhaps I'll crop your well-grown brow.  They dance: at the end whereof their horns fall away. 3. Alm. 
Ha! we are men again.  Time. 
Hence: since you sleight all counsel that is mine,  
I'll employ others in my great design.  Time drives them forth. A Symphony of Music with chirping of Birds, singing of Nightingales and cuckoos. The Scene changing into a pleasant Garden, Time brings in May, attended by Flora and Vertumnus, who sing the following Song. 

The Song.  

On, gently on; the sky is fair:  
Arabian winds perfume the air,  
As they the Eastern gardens sweep,  
Or Amber floating on the deep.  
Such sweets do here the sense bewitch.  
The Phoenix pile is not so rich.   

Chorus.  
Here is a presence, from whose eyes  
An influence awes all destinies.  
A lantern that can with one bright ray  
Make where it shines 〈…〉   

Sing, sweetly sing. The chirping birds  
Have got new notes, and better words.  
What Nature wants Art doth supply,  
And makes it perfect harmony.  
Such sounds do here enrich the ears,  
Above the Music of the Spheres.   

Chorus.  
Here are presented to the tuft  
Ripe fruits and early, that will last.  
For such we banish Nectar hence,  
Here's perfect May in every sense.    Time. 
Welcome to Time thou comfort of the earth,  
That with the warm do we giv'st a lively birth  
To all her glories, which cold winter late  
Wrapped in his clouds of ice: she desolate  
Ungarnished then, wore nothing on her head  
But snow and barrenness, nor was her bed  
Covered with green: then heavens crystal eye  
Seldom peep out of his bright canopy.  
But now thou hast unto the infant Spring  
Given perfection; and thy blessings bring  
The Summer's hopes on. Thou Time's Queen shalt be  
Whilst Flora and Vertumnus wait on thee.  
Thou ownest a glory yet transcends the best  
Of these, as day light doth the the time of rest.  
This day, that makes Time young, in hope to see  
A thousand revolutions ere he be  
Dissolved, to gaze on Trophies shall adorn  
The PRINCE's life, and acts was this day borne.  
Go my delight, exhaust the treasury  
Of all thy pleasures; to his graciously  
Present the choicest.  May. 
I have none that are  
Worthy his high acceptance they are far  
Inferior to the things that should set forth  
The fullness of his glory and his worth.  
The pastimes which belong to me are rude,  
Fitter for course ones, and the multitudes  
Yet (so the error may be pardoned) they  
Shall enter to delight him as they may.  A Morisk Dance. Time. 
he's pleased with this greatness and goodness aim  
At such proportion in his Princely frame,  
That every part of him, his heart, his eyes,  
Express them in a due equality.  
I have another to present him, then  
we'll yield to change.  May. 
I'll never change whilst men  
Keep registers of Time. And though it be  
Custom, that they do chiefly welcome me  
At my first entrance, this shall be my day  
As th'only one that trownes the pride of May.  
I'll wear no other flowers upon my head  
But the Deluce; with Roses, white and red;  
And the stout Thistle: each of which implies  
An Emblem full of sacred Mysteries.  
The Lily and the Rose are beauty's flowers:  
They deck; the Thistle shall defend his bowers.  
The white and red Rose thornless, signify  
A gentle rule: The Lily, sovereignty.  
The Thistle strength and power to quell his foes  
That rudely dare attempt to gather those.  
Besides, these several flowers do appertain  
To Nations subject to his future reign.  
And this is all poor May can strain her powers  
To do; to make her Garland of his flowers.  
And cause men yearly on this day to see  
His name preserved unto posterity.  
Time hath some rich thing to present.  Time. 
I have  
(As Time is powerful) summoned from the grave  
Eight Princes all of Wales, whose histories  
Shall be instruction, and their memories  
Present Heroic actions so this mind,  
That though their fortunes were not always kind,  
Their virtues he shall strictly imitate,  
And make those virtues awful over Fate.  
Vertumnus you, and Flora you be gone.  
And if their airy forms are quite put on  
Let them appear; whilst lovely May and I  
Listen to th'Birds and Nature's harmony.  Another symphony with 〈…〉 the scene is varied into a glorious expression of Elysium in which appear the eight 〈…〉 eight Princes of Wales, distinguished by the several impresses, and inscriptions on their Shields. Who whilst the following song is singing, approach the Presence salute the Prince, then place themselves in a figure for the Dance. 

The Song.  

From th'Earth where honour long hath slept,  
And noblest dust (as treasure kept)  
By hallowing clay hath made it shine  
More glorious than an Indian mine,  
These brave Heroic shadows come  
To sport in this Elysium.   

Chorus.  
For theirs and this do both agree  
In all but the Eternity.   

From th'air, or from the Spheres above  
As they in perfect concord move.  
Let Music sound, and such is may  
Equal his hope that rules the day.  
Thus do we welcome you tonight  
Unto our Mansion of delight.   

Chorus.  
For yours and this do both agree  
In all but the Eternity.   The Dance ended they retire, whilst Time speaks the Epilogue.  Time. 
OLd Time leaves all his blessings that he may  
Here with this presence; and will every day  
Confirm possession. Sadly sets the Sun  
After his day's course cheerfully was run.  
The Moon looks pale; the Tapers dimly burn:  
The fear of your departure makes them mourn.  
Sweet rest attend ye all: Good night 'tis late,  
Many birthdays may you thus celebrate.  
Time being received into the Scene it closeth.  
The END