THE FANCIES THEATER.  
BY JOHN TATHAM Gent.  HORAT 
Quòd si me Lyricis vatibus inseris,  
Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.  
LONDON, Printed by JOHN NORTON, for RICHARD BEST, and are to be sold at his Shop near Grays-inn-gate in Holborn. 1640.   

TO THE HONOURABLE AND THE MOST WORTHY MAECENAS, SIR John Winter Knight, Secretary of State, and Master of Requests to the Queen's most excellent Majesty.  
HONOURED SIR,  
THe confidence I have of your Native goodness (of which the World is sufficient Dilater) has prompt me to this audacious presumption, which with some would have been held a crime insufferable. But I know your Honour is so fare from a Censurer, that you had rather cherish endeavours than destroy 'em: Besides, there's a certain Sect of self-affecters, that will (unless some judicious Patron be fixed to the frontispiece, as the beams of the Sun, to correct their saucy peering, with blindness) not only disgorge their Envy, but wrist the sense to be succinct; I (knowing your Name to be such, as among the discerning Spirits deserves the highest Attributes of worth; and of such singular power, 'twill extirp the Malevolent thoughts that reign in the vulgar and most infectious Traducers) tender this, as my first Sacrifice, at the Altar of your mercy. And if it may obtain the reflection of your acceptance, 'twill so much encourage your poor Admirer, that I shall be Ambitious in the continuance of your favours: These are the Maiden-blossoms of my Muse, which (without your protection) may (in their infancy) be destroyed by the breath of Zoïlus; but sheltered by your Honour, they shall live, and dare the Critics rancour, retorting to their own shame. Sir, the fostering this Orphan will make you famous for Charity, and impose an obligation beyond expression, upon  
Your Honours truly devoted, JO. TATHAM.   

To the honoured Patron of his Book.  
SIR,  
AS my service binds me and my love,  
(May your fair self so of the same approve)  
As your deserve, I have placed you here  
Equal with Phoebus in his Hemisphere,  
Where your refulgent brightness casts a light  
Into these twinkling Lamps, and give's them sight.  
Minerva bade me tell you she is proud  
Of those deserts which in your breast do crowd  
As in a throng, which our capacity  
Not able to find out, leave's to her eye.  
Thrice worthy Hero, may your Haltion days  
Be never extinct till crazy Time decays.  
Jo. Tatham.   

Fancy, to the Reader.  
REaders of all sorts, when you have surveyed  
Each room within this Theatre, and paid  
Sufficient for admittance, you'll allow  
To tender me accounted of all, and how  
You like the fabric, if it be well reared;  
The thought of falling is not to be feared,  
Though he that did erect it, has not served  
Seven years to the Profession, nor deserved  
The Attribute of Architect, yet he  
Expects by your fair hands to be made free;  
he'll than set up in the City, and in spite  
Of Suburb power, or Corporation's might:  
Use his best skill to please you. Faith, be just,  
Do not enscale his Freedom with the aust,  
he's pressed to obey you howsoe'er, and will  
Without a grumble, serve you, and fulfil  
Forsooth, your precepts being pressed so low,  
I hope you'll raise him, Charity teacheth so:  
Yet, he'll not beg your favours, to assist  
Him, by Certificate, do what you list;  
He knows the worst on't, if you do refuse,  
'tis but the having (to the Hall) his Muse  
To have the gentle notch; and so to try  
If he in time can gain the Mystery;  
He swears he will defy you, when that he  
Achieves to the Warden of the Company.   

To his friend the Author on his Fancies Theatre.  
Fancy, in all his Colours never appeared  
So variously delightful, as in this  
Magnificent Theatre, which thou hast reared  
Out of thy Genuine brain, and call'st it His.  
Here does he take all shapes, and act all parts;  
The noble Hero, and the humble Swain;  
The jocund Lovers, and lamenting hearts.  
As well the Buskined, as the Comic strain.  
Fancy has something here for every one,  
From Reveller to Mourner; still provided,  
Each brings a proper apprehension;  
And one not by another's humour guided.  
But let all come and welcome: The severe  
Cato himself may have free entrance here.  
R. Broome.   

To his friend the Author, on his ingenious Theatre of Fancies.  
A Theatre is built, and every part  
Ordered with various Workmanship and Art,  
The Scenes with Protean transformation move,  
Presenting Buskins, Socks, and Themes of love:  
A Mourners tears, and joy of a fair Bride;  
Smart Satire, and a world of change beside.  
'tis not the Building only Men should see,  
But what's prepared for Action in't by thee.  
Upon the outward form let not Man look,  
But search the richer inside of thy Book.  
And if their humours do not judgement blind,  
they'll most things pleasing, none offending find.  
Sic censet Amicus. THO. NABBES.   

To his loving friend the Author, on his Fancies Theatre.  
'tis worth enough to have so many friends,  
Who do applaud with judgement thy fair ends▪  
Which raise thy Towering Fancies to such height,  
That every line affords us a conceit  
Fare different from the Whimsies of the time,  
Where 'tis their chiefest praise to troth in Rhyme,  
And thunder out their meaning in a Phrase,  
Would strike a Martial spirit in a maze:  
But let the world judge if what thou hast done,  
Deserve not good man's approbation?  
For my part, I shall deem thee worthy praise,  
When such a troop as these extol thy Bays.  
When Fancy in thy Theatre doth play,  
And wins more credit than a second day;  
When thy pure Helicon so high doth flow,  
It outbraves jordan or the swelling Poe.  
Let not thy Fancy ebb, but more and more  
Enlarge it's limits, and encroach the Shore.  
And let the Seaborn Goddess ever be  
Propitious to thy strains of Poesy.  
And may'st thou in thy Verse so happy prove,  
That Cupid may affect thy beauteous Love  
Dearer than Psyche, till thou make her be  
Fairer than thy, jest he should Rival thee.  
Thy Friend C. G.   

To his Friend the Author, on his Fancies Theatre.  
FRiend, since the choice and most Emphatic phrase  
Appears too slender to enrich thy praise;  
How shall the discord of my jarring skill  
Aught but detract from th'honour of thy Quill?  
But yet, so just an interest in my love  
Thy merits claim, that should I not approve  
The rich Exchequer of thy pregnant Brain  
To it's true worth, I should appear a stain.  
Come all you Youths filled with Phoebean fire,  
(As tribute to the Music of his Lyre)  
Bring each with willing Palms a Daphnean Bough,  
And make a Chaplet to impale his Brow,  
Into whose Breast Apollo's self hath rayed  
Such lofty Raptures, as may well persuade  
The transmigration which Pythagoras  
Maintained for truth, may for authentic pass.  
For, when th'enticing pleasure of thy Line,  
And teeming Fancies unexhausted Mine  
I view, me thinks the Genius of those Three  
Admired Laureates are ensphered in Thee,  
Smooth Shakespeare, neat Randolph, and witty Ben,  
Flow in a mutual sweetness from Thy Pen:  
Nature in Thee seems Arts parallel,  
For Thou-babes art both her Pride and Miracle.  
May th'Virgin Candour of thy infant Bays,  
Unravished, spring, spite of our Critic days;  
And from Thee such Nectarean Dew distil,  
As may the world with admiration fill.  
Geo. Lynn.   

To his good friend M. john Tatham upon his Fancies Theatre.  
TO see what upstart Scribblers strive in Rhyme,  
To be the Paper-blu●rers of the time,  
Makes me amazed; yet if they would but see  
The flowery Raptures that are done by thee,  
They would not question blush to see the Bulls,  
And rabbling Ballads of their windy sculls.  
Here they may see composed a spicy-nest  
Of flaming Fancies, all in spangles dressed:  
For here each line that to the eye appears,  
May sing a Lullaby unto the Spheres.  
Poor Fancies mar a Theatre, but see  
The Fancies Theatre is made by thee.  
Robert Chamberlain.   

To his friend M. john Tatham on his Fancies Theatre.  
TO show myself in Print I never had thought,  
But that thy Fancies has my thoughts outwrought.  
What shall I say? 'tis this I do admire,  
And think thy wits like to th'aspiring fire,  
Will never descend; thy brain from vulgar strains  
Is clarified so neatly, it contains  
th'Epitome of smooth and well scanned verse,  
And though in future times thy aged he●se,  
Shall be enthroned with Laurel; yet this age  
May blame my zealous friendship, and in rage  
Both carp at thee, and me: But it shall never  
Make me strike sail, but rather make my steer  
Bear stiff with malice for to think that men  
Would make abortive this thy Infant Pen.  
But yet my hopes are confident, that they  
Cannot but give thy worth a branch of Bay,  
Though not a Laurel, which slow-paced Time  
Shall bring, and humbly offer at thy Shrine.  
H. Davison.   

To his friend john Tatham Gent. upon his Fancies Theatre.  
THou didst not mean thy Theatre should be  
Common (though public) to th'Obliquity  
Of every duller eye: 'tis raised too near,  
(Propped by thy Fancies Atlas) to the sphere  
Of purest wit, which the dull sons of Earth  
(Should they afflict the Universe with dearth  
Of Ignorance and Envy, pile it up  
In envious heaps for their ascent to crop  
Thy Bays) can never aspire to: Attempt they may,  
And pass our duller air; But the clear Ray  
Of thy bright worth appearing, will deprive  
Their terrified soul of sense; deceive  
Their hopes through their own ruin And what they have  
Now for their steps, anon shall be their grave,  
Pressed by the weight of Ignorance: But than  
Their guilty blushing shame shall rise again  
To scornful memory, whose black name shall give  
Moore lustre to thy praises, to survive  
Till Time hath lost himself: And this great All  
Be brought to its confused Funeral.  
Pass not a Zoylist's envy, since thoust known  
Thy censure through their breath, whose pleasure none  
Can without sacrilege dispute. But if  
Thy fearful soul cannot retain belief  
Of safety, jove shall to secure thy fear,  
Displace his Bird from's bosom-nest, and there  
Harbour thy Muse: But what injustice can  
Refuse the God's, and take the word of Man,  
thoust had a Jury of Immortals, that  
Have given their censure: find not guilty; what  
Bold Heaven-condemners than dare contradict,  
When the Divine Votes publish their Edict?  
The Daphnean Bay grasped by the Frosts cold hand,  
Doth grow more freshly green; thy Muse shall stand  
As firm against Envies storm, till Fame shall be  
Proud to record thy still green memory.  
james jones.   

Upon his Dream and Censure of the Gods.  
ANd canst thou dream so well? than never wake,  
Unless it be that so thou may'st partake  
The real substance of thy thoughts, and than  
thou'lt make a subject for the rarest Pen  
To treat on: But having at a venture  
Invoked th'th'Immortals for to have their censure  
Upon thy Fate; Sol sooner shall stand still,  
And fire the Orbs, but thou shalt hate thy william  
H. Davison.   

To his friend M. Io. Tatham on his Fancies Theatre.  
WHen I beheld and viewed each several line  
Appearing a full fraughted Magazine  
Of choice conceits; such as our Fancies now  
(Differing from what they were) must needs allow:  
How sweet and how delicious to the taste:  
How pleasing to the eye, how trimmed, how chaste;  
And where thy Fancy hits upon a crime,  
Thy Verse doth mask it, suiting with the Time;  
How eloquent thou art, how thy own phrase  
Becomes an Orator, and tells thy praise;  
The faults I found were few, the greatest was  
(And yet for some known reasons it may pass)  
Where thou dost court thy Mistress, and doth wipe  
Each word with gold, enough for to invite  
All eyes, all hearts; our greatest fear was, we  
Should suffer by th'enchanting Oratory.  
I know thy Muse is chaste, and will not strive,  
T'attract all Beauties to her pleasing hive.  
My wishes bid go on, and may thy Rhyme  
Flourish beyond the utmost date of Time.  
William Barnes.   

On the Author of the Fancies Theatre.  
Among the rest, Friend, Tatham, I an come,  
To do thy Fancies right, and quit the sum  
I stand engaged for: since my forward youth  
Signed Love a Bond, for currant Coin of Truth,  
To pay at several times▪ the world shall be  
Thy Secretary; and take this truth from me,  
In all thy Shop of Fancies, not a Line  
(I emulate thee so) but I wish mine;  
'Twill be sufficient portion for thy Name  
To live by; for Time's Treasurer, winged Fame,  
Shall, as thy worth deserves, speak thee as high  
As any filled her Trump with Poesy.  
Tho. Rawlins.   

To his friend M. john Tatham, upon his Fancies Theatre.  
MY Muse composed more of love than fire,  
Would spare her Pen, and silently admire  
Thy worth, which her expressions cannot raise,  
Unless she borrow thy own stile and phrase,  
And from thy proper heaps purloin a store,  
Which pays one debt to make a thousand more;  
Did not thy friendship and thy sacred merit  
Conjure up flames even in a frozen spirit.  
Though last in number, think me not the lest,  
I thought as much as all thy Friends expressed;  
But our sincere desires suffer much wrong,  
Since the sad difference betwixt the heart and tongue;  
My thoughts soar high, though my expression's weak,  
True friends think out their tale, when others speak.  
Yet writ I this not for peculiar ends,  
To cast aspersion on your other friends;  
I in that Consort jointly do prefer  
My offering to thy Fancies Theatre.  
An. Newport.   

To his friend the Author, on his Fancies Theatre.  
Dear friend, my infant Muse will be  
Obscured, when as the Readers see  
Thy amorous strains, and thou'lt be found  
To be with greater glory crowned  
By my weak Lines, which to thy praise  
Affords a Coronet of Bays.  
In this I an thy friend, to be  
Thy foil, that plainly men may see  
Thy greater lustre, and may spend  
Their Censures gently on thy friend.  
R. Pynder.   

To his friend the Author.  
HAd I Chapman's Line or Learning, johns●ns' Art,  
Fletcher's more accurate Fancy, or that part  
Of Beaumond that's divine, Donne's profound skill,  
Making good Verses live, and damning ill:  
I than would praise thy Verses, which should last  
Whilst Time has sands to run, or Fame a blast.  
But  a Brain so dull, that though I beaten  
The Anvil never so often, there's naught but sweat  
And empty vapours crown my long lost pain.  
I writ, 'tis bad, disliked, rubbed out again;  
And in this serious folly I abuse  
The patience of my Lamp, my Oil I lose;  
Nor is it fit, that each unworthy Line  
Should court the light, but only such as thy.  
Than since I cannot writ what I desire,  
May thy for ever live, mine's for the fire.  
W. Ling.   

21 Aprilis, 1640.  
Imprimatur,  
JOHANNES HANSLEY.   

A DIALOGUE between Momus, Time, and the Author.  Momus. 
HOw now presumptuous Lad, thinkest thou that we  
Will be disturbed with this thy Infancy  
Of wit:—  
Or does thy amorous thoughts beget a flame  
(Beyond it's merit) for to court the name  
Of Poet; or is't common now adays  
Such slender wits dare claim such things as Bays:  
Or does thy sickly Fancy think to get  
Some fool to be enamoured on thy wit?  
Thy reason, prithee, why, ambitious Boy,  
Thou-babes dost present the world with such a toy;  
Yet giv'st it such a title, that 'tis sin  
To view the outside, and not look within;  
The Fancies Theatre, a Title we  
Dared never assume to reach, much less for thee:  
It is the very Prologue, to invite  
A Puritan to covet for it's sight.  
And than again I wonder, what mad vain  
Did prompt thy Fancy, to present a strain  
(So fare unworthy) to so bright an eye,  
Where all deserts and true perfections lie.  
When I behold his name, me thinks I see  
Phoebus himself, the God of Poesy,  
— By whose judicious eye deserts shall live,—  
And spite of kill Envy, shall survive.  
I should mistrust myself, should I but think  
His judgement will at thee connive, or wink;  
To him, forgetful Lad, dared thou present  
These weak conceits; or was it to prevent  
Our rasher censure; thinking thou mightst sing  
At peace, once sheltered underneath his wing?  
I laugh to see thy follies, yet I swear  
I hearty could wish thy Fancies were  
Such as might well deserve him; for, know, I  
Do envy at thy blessed prosperity.  
Is not the world crammed full of wits? why than  
Shouldst thou be favoured thus above those men,  
Whose high and rare deserts, doth claim to be  
The Kingdom's best and richest Treasury?  
Yet all their fortunes, and their merits, they  
Would level at his feet; and, well they may.  Time. 
IT is confessed, that Time's old age could yet  
Never glory in a world, so full of wit,  
Nor was his snowy hairs crowned with delight  
Of sweeter choicer Raptures, such as might  
(Like gold-tongued Orpheus) make stones follow men:  
Their Verse extinct, Stones propagate again,  
And though the world doth boast of such, yet we  
Do find it stained with base impiety;  
Such as thyself proud Momus, that dost strive  
To damn young wits, to keep thy own alive.  
Time must amend this fault I say, unless  
The world is weary of the big swollen Press,  
And her deliver; When our Wits are dead,  
Shall only their great Names be registered,  
And not their works; or shall not th'Muses heirs  
Increase and multiply as Time, and Years?  
For now adays our younger wits are quite  
Disheartened by the venom of thy spite;  
Whose base detraction would have none to be  
Enrolled within the List of Poetry,  
But of thy Sect; whose numbers still increase,  
Belching out foul-mouthed words, derision's ease;  
For could your Sect make what you'd mend, 'tis well,  
'tis better prate than do: But let me tell  
The world my humour, though  often been  
Taxed as being guilty of this Critic sin,  
In giving leave to your profane intent,  
(A thing Heaven knows, my judgement never meant)  
I do pro●est, though Opportunity  
You have engrossed and bribed, yet, 'twas not 1  
I hate thy do, so I'll henceforth be  
A scorner of thy base dishonesty.  
Is it not time that Time should urge the air  
Of such gross putrefaction; and repair  
The almost lost deserts of many, which  
Dare not presume their senses to enrich  
With the Divine instinct of Poesy:  
Fearing thy Carping and thy Blasphemy.  
There cannot now a Rapture be put forth;  
But thou detract'st the substance of their worth.  
Is thy wit rare, or dost thou think there's none  
Can equalise thy Fancies, but thy own?  
Misguided self-conceited Idiots, see,  
But your own ignorance and simplicity;  
And than you'll yield 'tis better mend, than make;  
This without Bribe, or favour, I have spoke  
For him whose wit's (as yet) but raw, till Time  
And years hath taught him higher for to climb.  
Than forward (Youth) let not the Critics eye  
Be th'cause ●o stay thy ingenuity.  Author. 
LEt me first crave from thee gray-headed Time,  
Thy absolution, ever I put my Rhyme  
To be a Courtier in the wanton air,  
Making their Progress to each witty fair.  
And courteous Mistress, unto whose white hand  
I wish them happy journey, while I stand  
Devoted for their service: I have been  
Too, too, too prodigal, and have not seen  
My errors: but have wilfully run on,  
As Steward to some liberal Gentleman?  
Where I have been too lavish, and have spent  
What was my Masters, freely to me lent.  
And though the Steward hath but little now  
Left for to show his Master, yet I vow  
I have some remnants left, although they be  
But shreds to what I might have gained from thee.  
If I have used thee ill. I'll be thy Slave,  
And henceforth dote on nothing but my grave.  
Yet let me thus much tell thee; my desire  
Never kindled from a base ambitious fire  
Of an applause, though carping Momus he  
Murmurs, and bites my Title Page and me.  
I have obseru●d his envy▪ and I say,  
I do not this in hope to get a pay,  
Reward, or such base mercenary gain;  
Let them that gape for't, have it for their pain.  
I will not cell that little mite of wit,  
If so (without offence) I dare term it,  
At any rate; Nor do I care the while,  
If at the Title they do lend a smile;  
I willingly would please them, yet if they  
Will not be pleased, I weigh not what they say.  
My Title Momus, let me tell thee true,  
Is for to please myself, not to please you.  
Nor do I strive to gain a Poet's name;  
A title my weak soul dared never aim  
To court at; For, I may as soon aspire,  
To kiss the Sun, as warm me at that fire.  
To end expostulation, thus much know,  
What my deserts can merit, I do own  
To him whose kind acceptance makes me blessed,  
Lifting me higher than the Eagles' nest.  
And if my wit increase (as years in me)  
I shall aspire not higher than to be  
Accounted as his Servant; and will lay  
My offerings at his feet as well as they,  
Whom you allege deserved him better; why?  
They can but give their store, and so will I  
Than why should you as cankered, so deject  
That, which his wisdom's pleased with to protect:  
But I'll not bar your custom, for 'tis known  
You will detract all Write but your own.   

To the truly worthy and his much honoured friend, Sir Edward Savage.  
HOw some will err in making that seem good,  
Scarce has allowance to be understood!  
Honour consists in Virtues, nor is't fit  
Each worthless faun should claim a share in wit.  
It wrongs the Poet's Genius, whose pure fire  
Will suffer not privation, when the Choir  
Of Fancy-propping Muses does distil  
The oily-drops of merit from the hill  
Of Noble-worth, to tell the erring sense  
Of credulous Man, that Truth's pre-eminence  
Keeps not alliance with such motions, tends  
To soothing flattery, the bad Man's friends.  
And to that end sends me Ambassador,  
To make the world acquainted what you are:  
With vows unfeigned, Noble Sir, you're one,  
That shares on Nature's distribution.  
And I would say, but that your modest ears  
Are wooled against your own praises, though't appears  
Robed in reality itself, you can  
Distinguish betwixt the best and worst of Man:  
One who may claim the Attributes of wise,  
Noble, and courteous, and from these does rise  
The living Emblems, Charity and Love,  
The Orbs by which each faculty do move,  
That claims a being in you. You appear  
The spacious bliss where Virtue keeps her Sphere,  
In a sweet temperature; the thought of Pride  
(As Omen to your Virtues) you deride,  
Exiled from that bosom which inherits▪  
The uncorrupted wishes to your merits.  
May health still crown you with felicity,  
Till you desire to change Mortality,  
For th'reserved bliss in Elysium,  
When as your Dovelike expirations come.  
And may your better part transferred be  
Into a constellatious Sovereignty:  
While Virtues-lovers Requiems sing, and I  
Have vital motion, study for the eye  
Of your devoted Servant.   

A Newyeares' gift to Clarinda.  
FAshions are now a days so often used,  
That meanest Peasants have the same abused.  
Each servile creature can command their Rings,  
Gloves, or the like, (such b●se mechanic things)  
Reason must guide you than; such toys as those  
Are subject still to losing; I'll repose  
Moore confidence in you, and will impart  
A fare transcendent Gift, my loyal Heart:  
Embrace it than, and let not envious fate  
Cross our united loves, nor derogate  
From what you former were; such Gifts as this  
Deserve the keeping, nay, some future bliss.   

Upon an old rich Woman in love with a young Gentleman.  

MOre rich than wise, and yet more wise than fair,  
Years add grey Trophies to enrich thy hair;  
Rather than live to love, die with despair.   

When as sad Comets in the Skies appear,  
Some strange disaster than approacheth near,  
Which in our doubtful Souls begets a fear.   

Thy Nose is that disaster; for, in thee,  
Not less than thousand Comets we may see,  
As symptoms to ensuing misery.   

Below thy Nose, a Hill we may descry,  
Darkening the light appearing from thy eye,  
Within that hollow Concave where they lie.   

Eye, Nose, and Chin, since you in darkness be,  
Premeditate before you visit me,  
And raise young Cinders to your Venery.   

And in Night's shade meet with your shadow, where  
Some Incubus by chance may get an heir,  
Making the World accursed with such a pair.   

Or if thy withered Hand (begotten by Time)  
Should with thy Eye, Nose, Chin, and Face combine,  
Without discordant, for to make me thy:   

Know gumless-wooer that diseases thirst,  
To seize thy hand, where th'Apoplexy must  
Bring thee ever long, unto thy neighbour's dust.   

Or if thy withered thigh desire's to know  
The sweet contents that in our Youth do flow,  
Convert a tear into a flood below.   

So may some Cripple wanting Alms, supply,  
Thy almost desperate necessity:  
And please both nose, gums, chin, thigh, hands, & eye.   

Covet not more when that you are so sped  
Nor die your cheeks with colour from your bed,  
Since afore th'Ark you lost your Maidenhead.    

The Superscription of a Letter sent to Clarinda.  
FRom my Master here I'm come,  
To embrace your Martyrdom▪  
Let not other hand come near me,  
You alone have power to tear me.  
If you like not what's within,  
Than your frowns may purge my sin:  
But if he or I can please,  
Friendly let me rest at ease.   

The Letter.  
Go palefaced Paper to my Dear,  
And whisper this into her ear:  
Though I absent an, yet she  
Keeping thee, embraces me.  
Let not rude hand dare to touch thee,  
Care not though a thousand grutch thee  
Of that bliss which in her Hive  
Thou-babes enjoyest till I arrive,  
And be sure thou dost not fly  
From the glances of her eye.  
Where she goes, be thou about her,  
Gad not thou abroad without her;  
Nor let any dare to see  
what's between my Love and thee.  
Nay, and when she chance to sleep,  
Gently to her Bosom creep,  
Where I charge thee, rest till she,  
With her kisses waken thee.  
Go and prospero for a space,  
Till I rob thee of thy place.   

To Clarinda.  
PRetty Wanton, prithee say,  
Did you see my Heart to day?  
Marks to know it, you shall find  
Always constant, true, and kind;  
Wounds about it, it doth bear,  
Drops are trickling here, and there,  
●n which wound you'll find, a Dart  
Shot by you into my hart,  
●f you see it; do not blush,  
th'wounds are fresh, and blood will gush  
●nto your face, and you be known,  
To covet more than is your own.  
Sand it back, but let it be  
Sound as when it came to thee.  
Do not think for to deny it;  
These are tokens will descry it.  
How can I subsist and live,  
When my own you will not give?  
Yet if you will sand to me,  
Yours in fair exchange, I'll be  
Mute, and not report that I  
Suffer by your cruelty.  
●hen I prithee let me know,  
If you will exchange, or no.   

In praise of Sack.  
TO writ thy praise, let every Poet's Quill  
Flow with sweet Dew, sucked from Parnassus Hill.  
Sack, I adore thee; nay, the Muses nine  
Count thee the Fabric of their heavenly Chime:  
And in their choice inventions strive to gain  
Thy liking, ere the World peruse a strain.  
Aged thou art, by which thou dost possess  
Of Noble Spirits, Poets numberless:  
And to thy Cistern's head do all resort,  
Admire thee, as they do admire the Court.  
The very Children, ere they scarce can say  
Their Paternoster, or their Christ-cross A,  
Will to their Parents prattle, and desire  
To taste that Drink, which Gods do so admire:  
So by degrees, ere Time can count their years,  
Thy strength doth make them Ovid's witty heirs.   

To Clarinda, walking with her in his Garden.  

SAy, my Clarinda, is the Rose  
Not proud to have thy sweet repose,  
Since they derive their dye from those,   

Those precious Colours, Read and White,  
Devil in thy Cheques, may Gods invite  
To feed, not surfeit with delight.   

'Twere sin, Clarinda, to believe,  
From thee they could such harm receive;  
Yet should they, thou canst Cordials give.   

●ay, my Clarinda, why the Air  
Appears thus fresh, soft, clearly fair,  
Yet cloudy Vapours yonder are?   

Why does the injured Philomel  
Hither retire, her moan to tell,  
Yet Woodmen want her doleful knell?   

Why does she altar now her Vote,  
Purging the Quinsy in her throat,  
Pays sorrow with a pleasing note?   

Why Violets in Purple dressed,  
The Damask thus the Rose invest,  
Whose perfumed Mantles grace the East?   

Why do the humble Pebbles rise  
Like Opals, to outbrave the Skies,  
And Iris various Clouds despise?   

Tell me, Clarinda, why the Sun  
Is set before his course is run,  
Ready to fire his Region?   

And why does his beloved Flower  
Forget her Cue, her time and hour,  
And shuts not, when he shows his power?   

Each spicy Child, whose crisped Bed  
Entwines the Earth's Spring Maidenhead,  
Are blessed, in kissing where you tread.   

Or why does every thing beside,  
that's good, in this small place abide,  
When other Gardens want such pride?   

'tis thou, Clarinda, makest this place  
So fertile glorious; when you place  
This Walk, each Evil shuns your Chase.   

When you appear, th'amorous Air  
With modest breath salutes your hair,  
And whispers out their zeal in prayer.   

The Nightingale confines her woe,  
And gives mirth liberty to go,  
As Echoes to your Beds of Snow.   

The Violet, Rose, and Pebbles have  
Not other Liveries than you gave,  
Yet such as may the World outbrave.   

The Sun does melt to see thy face,  
The perfect Model of pure Grace;  
he'd rather burn than mend his pace.   

The Marigold knows none but thee,  
To whom she owes observancy,  
Opens and shuts at your bright eye.   

Though now this place is trim and fine,  
When you departed, all will decline,  
And others seem more rich than mine.   

O than! Clarinda, stay and bring  
Night into Day, the Winter, Spring;  
We need not than a Wintering.    

Clarinda described.  

CLarinda! O, that very Name  
Includes such worth, that he but dares  
Without a Reverence speak the same,  
Commits a sin his tears and prayers  
Can never wash of: it is so foul,  
'tis her pure sighs must cleanse his Soul.   

Who says, that Leda's Swan is white,  
Or sweetness dwells in Hybla's Trees,  
Or Roses balmy breath delight  
The Palates of the active Bees,  
Deceives himself; they all appear  
Not worth our thoughts, Clarinda near.   

Her Hair our Appetites entice,  
Her Front a Mount of bleached Snow,  
Her Eyes are Nature's Paradise,  
Her Lips are Ours where Rubies grow:  
Her Breath perfumes the chequered fields,  
They have not sweet, but what she yields.   

Her Neck the polished Ivory wears,  
Her Breasts the Valleys of Desire.  
When Love cuts through the circled Spheres,  
There lights, to cool the scorching fire  
His Breast received from her: whose art  
Without his aid can smite a Hart.   

In every part she is most rare,  
All good in her contracted is,  
Nature's whole stock's involved in her,  
th'Epitome of heavenly bliss;  
Her Voice can stay the hand of Fate,  
Her Smiles young Cupids can created.   

Her excellence Metaphysical,  
Partakes not of old Nature's stamps,  
For she is supernatural,  
Her Luminaries, Heavens Lamps:  
I will conclude, she's all divine,  
For else I never had written her mine.    

On Clarinda smiling.  
HAve you beheld the Orient Sun appear,  
Casting his splendour to each neighbouring Sphere?  
When cold-blood Winter copulated Ice,  
Congealed a Frost, covering each Bough with Spice  
As white as Winter's hairs; how he displays  
His youthful heat, auspicious to his Rays;  
How each tree melts, or to a jelly turns;  
Such was Clarinda's smile, that ever burns,  
And melts my yielding Heart, that I till now  
Cloistered with Ice, could not of heat allow.   

A Contemplation of Liberty and Love.  
What is that freedom which men call  
A blessedness to sport withal:  
Or what those joys which Lovers deem,  
To equalise their best esteem,  
I long to know, that I may see,  
The difference betwixt those joys and me.   

Responsio.  
THen know, Love's joys are such as still  
Are subject to Fates supreme william  
And every hour the Lover finds  
Cross friends, cross stars, and crosser winds.  
Till Seas grow calm, and we arrive  
At Love's eternal peaceful Hive.  
If Patience than may bring me ease,  
Swell big a while you boisterous Seas▪   

Upon the hindrance of meeting by rain, sent to his friend Mr. W. B.  
WHen last we did encounter with the GLOBE,  
The Heavens' was pleased to grace us with his robe  
Of settled motions; but Aquarius, he,  
Like an ambitious Churl, disdains that we  
Should have another meeting; Bacchus smiled,  
But not prevailed, because an Infant child:  
Nor could we get a Venus to embrace,  
Mars strives to keep them back, and hold them chase.  
jove stamps, Apollo frowns, th'Heavens all o'er,  
Seem as contentious, and are in uproar.  
Mercury doth seem to clog his feathered h●eleses,  
With weighty lead▪ in stead of flying, reels  
Into great Taurus' centre, the BULLHEAD,  
Where, with dull Claret we our senses fed,  
Delaying time, till the roboisterous rain  
Ceased its unmatched course, than up again  
To walk; th'Heavens not yet appeased, cast down  
Their urmost Envy in that flood to drown  
Our than expected hopes, in that poor we  
Were forced to keep our centre, not to fly.  
Great Bishop●gate can witness in what hour,  
We did arrive within its hapless Bower.  
The Gods did seem thus angry, thinking we  
Should by our mirth consume their Treasury.  
what's best to do? we must not now contend  
Against their power, and so farewell my friend.   

Upon Inconstancy.  
Inconstancy, how chance that thou of late,  
Art grown the chiefest Minion to my Kate?  
Can your ambition find not other room,  
Or secret place, but make her breast your Tomb  
Of airy motions, filling so each vein  
With swelling pleasures mixed with base disdain:  
That now there's not a corner scarce left free,  
To lodge a thought of hidden secrecy?  
Hence thou insatiate Monster, Lovers hate.  
The Commons envy, and the scorn of th'State;  
Get thee to Court, use there thy tyranny:  
Let Lovers sports alone; base Infamy,  
Think not to harbour in a breast so fair;  
I banish thee, and do conjure thee, never  
Usurp that centre yields us such delight:  
But usher thou the obscure and darkened night  
Of ever gnawing conscience▪ in such souls  
Whose base and impure actions, still controls  
Their pale-checked Lovers▪ on whose fickle state,  
Despair and horror doth attend and wait.  
Go base Neglect, and scorn, presume not more  
T'assail those Virtues, that her choicest store  
She may impart to me; if thou be thence▪  
I know I shall not want her excellence▪   

Upon Clarinda's coming to Town, and departure.  
NOW comes the pride of Earth, the glorious Spring;  
And Philomela, to welcome her, doth sing.  
The pretty birds do play,  
And make a Holiday.  
And I with them present my offering:  
The Arabian Bird presents to her, her kind,  
Never seen before; on whose sweet face, the wind  
Sucked in his breath  
For fear of death;  
And Phoebus in his Majesty than shined:  
And on her head cast his perfumes: but they,  
As fare unworthy, to her breath give way.  
The odours which  
The World enrich,  
Did to her breath their choicest scents convey;  
The Queen of Love ashamed, did hid her head,  
And Cynthia in a cloud bemuffled,  
Did murmur there,  
And in her Sphere  
Waxed pale to see her lips and cheeks so read.  
The humble Pebbles where her feet did light,  
Were strait made Jacinths, Saphires, Rubies bright,  
Who wantonly did kissed  
At such a change as this.  
And blessed the coming of this glorious light.  
If any Objects pleased her, with a glance  
They should be Ours of Diamonds; but Chance  
The fickle Goddess would not be  
Propitious to our hopes, 'cause we  
She feared, with her, might outvie Spain and France:  
Nay, both the Indieses: None need plough the Seas  
To purchase wealth with toil; for, here with ease  
They might obtain  
A world of gain,  
Had she but written in smiles to them, I please.  
But o! she's go, and every thing has now  
His courser Nature on; Winters rough brow,  
And Boreas blast  
With envious haste  
Rends every tree, disleaves each twig and bough;  
The Phoenix too retired unto her nest,  
And pining for her absence, pierced her breast  
With sighs, and died,  
Left none beside  
Clarinda, with her worth to be possessed.   

On the first leaf of a Psalm. Book presented to Clarinda.  
TO her fair hand I this direct;  
Good Angels guide, and her protect  
That keeps my heart; OH, may she be  
But touched with flames of Love, like me!   

Another vacant leaf in the same Book.  
SHine little Book, more glorious than the Sun,  
In her fair heart that hath thy Masters won:  
May'st thou procure in her relenting tears,  
To pity him whose thoughts breed naught but fears.  
I know that thou hast power enough, and Art  
To wound, rewound, and cure a wounded hart.  
Thou-babes art her chief delight, whose virtuous mind,  
To study thee from childhood hath inclined:  
Tell her thy Master sent thee, for that she  
Might think on him, by often reading thee.   

To Clarinda, walking with her in the night in a Wood or Grove, she being fearful.  
Fear not Clarinda, though th'emulous Night,  
Doubting his forked Queen should lose her light,  
Retires behind a Cloud; horn-mad to see,  
Her glorious lamps extinguished by thee.  
Yet did she know the good she might embrace  
At her full rising, on her mealy face  
(Viewing thy exquisite beauty) would be drawn  
Mantles of crimson blushes, t'grace the lawn  
Of her complexion, till the angry Morn,  
Grown pale with Envy, sues they may adorn  
Her cheeks.—  
But the pride of Heavens' eclipsed, this peaceful Grove  
Enjoys their Cynthia, every st●rre does move  
(As your attendants.) Here, what need I crave  
Twilight from Heaven, that such a Guider have?  
Do you not see each harmless creature hies  
With early haste to view those Radiant eyes,  
As Heavens' bright Tapers? th'active Fairies do  
Trip from their Glow-worm, and resort to you:  
But having seen you, vanish, thinking day  
Was sent their tardy errors to betray;  
Repined, and die for anger. The Nai●deses  
Seeing themselves surpassed in Beauty, please  
Their Fancies with adoring you, desire  
Not greater bliss, than warmth from your pure fire.  
Why weeps my dear Clarinda? here is none  
Dare injure thy known purity, thou'rt alone  
In naught but singularity; See, The skies  
Offer their stock of tears, to save thy eyes.  
Mix not thy, with corruption; they can be  
Not less (my Fair) till puri●ed by thee.  
Each tear that falls from that celestial fount▪  
Is of more price, than Croesus' wealth can mount  
To by Arithmetic; 'tis of that store,  
One drop will buy the world when it grows poor.  
See, they have left with thee, ambitious rain,  
To watch thy opportunity to gain  
Such undeserved happiness▪ I'll seek  
Anon for every pearl upon thy cheek:  
There shall not one be lost; each tree does shake  
Their sappy heads; drops falling down do take  
Hold with thy breath, compounded nectar's made,  
Which by Favonian winds is strait conveyed  
To joves' Imperial Palace; to the brink  
They fill their Bowls, and Healths about they drink  
To us, and our success; the blinking Boy  
Recovering sight by thee, is drunk for joy,  
And vows unto his Mother, and the rest,  
To build his Paradise upon thy breast;  
So proves my Rival: but, I know, thy might  
Has power to blind him; as thou gav'st him sight,  
So drown his expectation in the flood  
Of the incensed Justice of the good.  
The Graces wait for thee; and Cedars now,  
As you passed by, their lofty tops they bow,  
To do you reverence, while you sooty Hall  
Stays your approach to gild it, than it shall  
Resemble heaven for brightness. Fancy die,  
If what thou speakest be an Hyperbole.   

To Clarinda singing and playing on the Lute, she being bashful upon the sight of him.  
BLush not Clarinda, though my senses steal  
Upon thy modesty; I prithee seal  
My welcome with a smile. Oh! stop not Sweet,  
Let once again thy air and singers meet  
In blessed contention; I prote it, my ears  
Were rapt into attention, and the Spheres  
Wantonly tripped to hear 'em; sure, there lies  
Some power above Magic in those Starlike eyes;  
Whose swift pursuit gives life unto each string,  
I'obey the touch of thy soft fingering.  
The amorous cordage of thy Lute conveys,  
Unto the Heavens' such Harmony, that stays  
The Planets to admire it: But thy breath  
Despite of Nature, can enlive pale death.  
Sing than Clarinda, ravish every sense,  
With the choice concord of thy excellence.  
Outdo the Lybian Harper, touch thy Lute,  
And doom the world to silence, Angels mute,  
While thou chant'st Madrigals, whose flight may tell  
The world thou'rt Heaven's only miracle;  
For that the Earth till now has never been  
Possessed of such a glorious Seraphin.  
O happy room that has achieved more  
Grace by her voice, than ever thou knewest before,  
Or thy first Master hoped for; she has made  
Thee by her presence an Elysian shade.  
The dumb Effigies dance, and th'hangings do  
Shake of their gravity, and congee to  
The motion of your body (which till now  
Made grey with sorrow, wore a sullen brow)  
And youthfully do move; my fair One, see,  
Thy power's above the reach of Poetry,  
Or Art, or Fancy; live to cure the world  
Of Lethargies, and when cursed clouds are hurled,  
T'oppresed—  
Sand forth thy breath; 'twill purify the air  
From Plague's infection, full, as well as prayer.   

An excusive Letter made by the Author, for a friend of his ●o his Father.  
AS one who having robbed, fearing not Law,  
Till hue and cry assaults him, and doth draw  
Perforce his body to the Gaol, where long  
Enduring all extremes, at last is stung  
With some remorse of conscience, doth relent  
His wicked life, a reformed penitent.  
He goes fare that never back returns,  
An angry fire 'tis that ever burns  
Within the heart of man Oh! than be pleased  
To let your anger pass, and be appeased,  
Though all this while, my Infant years did stray,  
And trod the path of follies baiting way:  
Though all this while I was in blindness led,  
And all my senses unto fondness wed:  
My unripened years had not the wit to find  
The vain delights that still provokes the mind,  
Till buying wit now at the dearest rate,  
I gained experience through my best friends hate:  
Witness the daily tears I shed at last,  
In true repentance for my follies past.  
Than worthy Sir, your pardon let me crave;  
Without your pardon I not life can have:  
For better 'tis that life from body fled,  
Than in your deep disdains lie buried.  
Let my repentance pled for mine offence,  
And my reform life my innocence.   

To Clarinda upon her absence from her window.  

FAirest, if passions might express my love,  
If my unfeigned sighs might force belief:  
If that my nightly watch could but move  
Your Adamantine heart, and give relief;  
Though now I praise your beauty, I should more,  
Make you my Idol, as my Saint adore.   

O what unworthy actions have you seen?  
What cause, or why, an I thus slighted now?  
And held so little in your want esteem?  
Has my youth broken a syllable, or vow  
Which once I willing made? speak, and be sure,  
To find a spotless heart, as chaste, as pure.   

Why should you now withdraw that heavenly light,  
Which struck amazement in each living creature?  
The lustre of your beauty from my sight;  
A grace bestowed on you, by choice dame Nature.  
You are her only choice, OH prithee why  
Shouldst thou thus derogate, to let me die?   

Was it because my longing eyes did still  
Covet to view thy beauty every day,  
Glutting with surfeits, yet had not it's fill,  
But begs a pleasing smile, and than away,  
Leaving behind a heart so full of woe,  
That I could better stay than thence to go?   

SATURN'S was't because my love to thee was such,  
That I each minute set thy praises forth;  
And never thinking that I loved too much  
A soul of such rare beauty, and pure worth,  
Hoping at last to purchase such a prize,  
That should jove see, he might eternalise?    

To Clarinda, having had not answer to the former Letter.  
NOt yet an answer! has your well-●●ned Muse  
Forsook her pleasing Pamphlets, and refuse  
To grace me, as the subject of her Verse?  
Or do you please to keep 'em for my Hearse;  
Thinking your studies (whilst living) were ill spent,  
Unless in jesting sort and merriment?  
Not as a solid Lover, but as one  
Who never fetched sighs, shed tears, or lent a groan,  
Which I, poor I, have done. O, why has Heaven  
Graced you with such a feature, and not given  
A correspondent heart? or, if it be  
That you retain your Lyric Verse for me,  
To grace my sable Hearse; I'll pray not more;  
You need not, Lovers shall my case deplore;  
Such as have known what 'tis to loose a heart,  
They, they shall pity me, and bear a part.  
And if thy studies be to such an end,  
Live happy, and embrace another friend,  
Whom you can fancy better, while poor I  
In peace forsake this Earth's mortality.   

To Fortune.  
GReat Queen of Mutability, to thee  
I sand my Votes; nor beg I smiles from thee;  
My low and humble thoughts shall never aspire  
To climb unto an Earldom, or Empire;  
Nor are they swelled with strong Ambition so,  
To beg a Lordship, or thy favours: not;  
Since begging is so useful, I'll forbear  
To beg, jest whipping fall unto my share.  
I will not ask thee any thing, but what  
Thou-babes canst not give, that only is my lot.  
First, I would have from thee thy massy store,  
Whereby I may extend it to the poor;  
Nor should it court your fawning Parasite,  
Or kiss rich Dives wealth, that's infinite▪  
Give me thy eyes, and with thy eyes I'll see,  
To give desert its due, scorn flattery.  
But thou art blind, they say, and dost not know  
On what, or whom thou dost thy wealth bestow.  
Thy judgement rather than thy eyes are blind,  
In my opinion, else thou couldst not found  
Such ominous distinctions betwixt true worth  
And dunghill Doublets, musk and scented forth:  
The Gallants Feather, and his tattling Spur,  
The City Miser wrapped in's Neighbours Fur,  
The Country-dolthead Mongrel brought to Land,  
Though illegitimate, is by thy hand  
Advanced above the rank of Carters son,  
(Reserved for laughter till his wealth is done)  
Gulls were ordained wits pastime, 'tis their fate  
To be wits slave, though on wits gold they bate.  
How aptly thou hast fancied out their Mates?  
On vicious Gallants still diseases waits,  
Accompanied with pride and infamy,  
Base son and daughter to civility.  
On your engrossing Usurer attends  
Legions of timorous heartquakes, that portends  
Some eminent danger, masqued with Veils of gold,  
Immured in dung that doth his conscience hold.  
Your plodding Countryman, whose subtle shift  
Employed to vex his neighbours by his thrift;  
Continual suits in Law, a Term's vexation  
Consumes more angels than a long Vacation.  
His misery's in this, his painful evil  
Can never gain above factor for the devil.  
Than what are all these blessed in, save the Ore  
That guilds their lives, yet leaves their souls most poor?  
Should I with strict severeness use my skill  
In the deep search of folly, wade my quill  
Through pitchy Seas of Satirism, I might  
Rip up thy parched entrailss, and incite  
Each sense we master, to grow fat, and swell  
With uncurbed laughter; let my whispers tell,  
Thou-babes dost reside in ignorance, and brags  
Most in thy gorgeous vestments, when the rags  
Of poverty's more precious: what upholds  
Thy pride but indiscretion? Will controls  
The Law of reason, and when these do reel,  
Thy state is unsupported, and thy wheel  
Broken in despite of frowns; thou canst not see  
(As we do) into thy own misery.  
Wrack not thy wealth on errors, but require  
Moore brawny-nerved assistance, whose pure fire  
Cohabits with true judgement; wisdom can  
Involved in reason, make the soul of man  
Run up the Pyramids of praise, and show  
The world new ways to honour thee. Than know  
Thy choice of Votaries; the Poet will  
Practise his Arts Enconiums, and distil  
His rich harmonious Raptures that shall raise  
A Fabric to thy name, above the reach of praise,  
Virtue's white essence next in order shall▪  
Accompanied with Patience, offer all  
Her stock of goodness, and the Scholar turn  
His books to Martyrs, at thy Altar burn.  
Europe must needs adore thee; wonder more  
To see the Scholar rich, the Miser poor.  
Poet's shall than disdain th● threadbare Bride,  
When silver-faced Pecunia is allied  
To their ingenious Pockets; O 'twould be,  
Me thinks a glorious metamorphosy▪  
But why an I thus passionate, and speak  
Of such impossibilities, to break  
My Optic Science? Well, the world may see,  
I would have't so; though Fortune lours on me,  
Not matter, use your Envy, thou shalt be  
Enriched with nothing▪ save inconstancy.   

To Clarinda upon her inconstancy.  
I Find; you are not Changeling, for indeed  
You can dissemble neatly, and still feed  
My hopeless comforts with your hearty vows,  
That neither Faith, nor Constancy allows:  
I blush to speak thy weakness, prithee why  
Dost thou make black thy tongue with perjury?  
Wantoness do often use it, canst thou be  
A faithless Wanton, and so fair a She?  
I dare not say you love me, your reply  
Will than ungently give my tongue the lie.  
You are not true as I an, but still prove  
A seeming Saint, in vowed dissembling love.  
Yet know, I love you, and would have you do  
A miracle in Woman, to be true.  
What constancy canst thou expect from any,  
That art so fickle, and canst love so many?  
I prithee leave dissembling, do not gloze,  
Or gild thy words with vows, make silver dro●●e;  
Thy vows are fare more precious; gold to them,  
Is as a Leaden Crown to a Diadem:  
Which vows you'll use so often, that they'll be  
The chiefest witness against thy guilt and thee.   

To his much honoured friend Master Robert Newsteade Gent.  
TO rank thee friend, among my best of friends,  
For thy Quotidian favours, makes amendss,  
In part, though not in all; and than again,  
When I conceive the fickle state of men,  
How soon their faith's extinct, how quickly go,  
Like to a thing but newly thought upon:  
My fear begets a passion, and doth strive  
To hug my friends, and keep their names alive.   

To his good friend M. H. D.  
FRiend, I must blame thee, yet I thank thee too:  
Thou-babes hast done that which many would not do;  
For when my lines lay open to your view,  
Begotten by me, yet fetched their breath from you,  
Through your persuasions, and entreaty, I  
Have thrust my Rhymes into the world's wide eye,  
Where I expect their censure, yet I swear,  
Be't good, or bad, thou shalt embrace thy share.  
Thy verse my Verse to th'world doth Usher in;  
Not to requited thee than 'tis held a sin:  
Nor will I be too lavish in thy praise,  
(Thy worth alone may gain Poetic bays)  
All that I'll do, if any count me rude,  
Is to repel the brand, Ingratitude.  
Io. Tatham.   

An Ode Acrostick-wise on the Virtuous Gentlewoman, Mistress A. P.  

Among so many, whose desire  
Life's fresh thy goodness to admire,  
I do present my Votes, to be  
Crowned with thy Resplendency.  
Enjoy thou Beauty, whose deserts  
Proclaim thee Mistress of all hearts,  
Virtue's blessing, with those Graces  
Reigning in their proper places,  
Deigning now to wait on thee,  
Yielding to thy Sovereignty.   

And while the stars shall grace the Skies,  
Like sparks of light from Cynthia's eyes,  
Embrace more blessings than can be  
Cast by Arithmetic on thee,  
Enrich thy Nuptials with a Guest,  
Proud to harbour in thy Breast;  
Vesta with her Virgin Crew,  
Richly decked, to wait on you,  
Devoted comes, and at your Shrine  
Issues forth her Offering.   

Aurora's sense-delighting Flowers  
Leave to deck her fragrant Bowers,  
Endeared to your ever Spring,  
Courting Philomela to sing  
Encomiastics, as your due,  
Purchased by those gifts which you  
Vouchsafed to lend them, to adorn  
Rose-cheeked and nixious-fingered Morn;  
Distilled Pearls from your bright eyes,  
Yields them their Morning Sacrifice.   

And now the Music of the Spheres  
Lent by you, invites all ears;  
juventa 'mazed from whence it came,  
Comes to meet your Pophian flame,  
Early brings to please your sense,  
Pauch●ian Fumes, rich Frankincense,  
Vestituted with delight,  
Resplendent as the Morning bright,  
Disrobes herself, and leaves in truth  
You the only Queen of Youth.   

Aglaia, with her Sisters two,  
Likewise comes to wait on you;  
Injured Virgins to you fly,  
Craving shelter from your eye,  
Eternised by those Blessings which  
Presaged their Virtues should enrich,  
Uniting there an ardent Zone,  
Reason tells is you alone;  
Dryads, with all their powers  
You command, and they are yours▪   

Arabian Phoenix needs must be  
Less rare than Fly, compared to thee;  
jove in revenge, and envying me●,  
Chained himself, to dote on thee;  
Imperious Love hath lost his heart,  
Pretending thou hast got his Dart;  
Vows must be only made to thee,  
Releasing Love's captivity;  
Deny not your perfections true;  
Youths Queen (and all) doth rest in you.   

All Beauties, Graces, Virtues be  
Lively pencilled out in thee:  
In thy hair we may descry  
Chased Love sit in majesty;  
Eyes thou hast, by which the Sun  
Plies his course, ere day be done;  
Voice? the Nightingale's sweet throat,  
Runs hoarsely to thy Doric note:  
Dance? did the rare Penelope  
Yet live, she needs must yield to thee:   

As in the Sphere of Goodness, every Sense  
Hath by instinct in you their Residence.    

To Philomela.  
LEave Philomela, to make thy moan,  
'tis I have cause to grieve alone:  
Thy Woes had periods; mine must be  
Invaded with fresh Cruelty.  
The Joys I have, are such as may  
Make the green Spring a Winter's day▪  
Or such as when desired, do take  
A course to kill, for pity sake.  
Cease than thy noise of woe, unless  
thou'lt grieve for my unhappiness.   

To Clarinda.  
THat I did love thee, summon up my Vows,  
As uncorrupted witnesses allows  
Not partiality; peruse my truth,  
Unspotted, as th'immaculate zeal of youth,  
Unfeigned, as the Orisons of Saints,  
Expired, as Altars Incense, that acquaints  
Heaven with sincere devotion; that I did  
Adore each feature, as well seen as hide;  
Examine each particular line and phrase  
My doting fancy offered to thy praise;  
That every smile enlivened my dull sense;  
Search but the custom of thy influence,  
And it appears in Characters of bliss,  
Not Paradise so pleasing as a kiss;  
That I did deem thy polished Ivory brow,  
A firmament, wherein twin-stars allow  
A greater lustre than the pride of Heaven,  
Contracted t'a full sky-light, could have given  
Us Mortals Ask the World, and than o'er which  
A Mount of Alabaster does enrich  
Thy smooth Ermin-like forehead, to thy cheeks,  
The stock of Flora for a refuge seeks.  
Those Tresses which thou wear'st are golden snares,  
Though falsely some did nominate them hairs.  
The Africa Corals on thy ruby lips  
Mix their perfections, ●nd in Nuptial skips  
Trip to the Sphere-like Music of thy voice  
Able to charm a Seraphin; the choice  
Electrum in your neck; your azure veins  
On snowy beds decipher to the Swains  
The Tempe of true happiness, when they  
By my command did to 'em homage pay.  
I set thee forth in Verse, raised thee so high,  
All sinned, that breathed thee less than Deity.  
My praises outdid Nature, thou wert than  
The only subject for my Muse and Pen.  
The world shall likewise testify; but here—  
Yet wisdom bids me stop: I will not swear,  
Though I have cause to execrate thy faith,  
Which is a blessing your sex seldom hath.  
I will omit all rashness, only this,  
Confute thy soul even in its hope of bliss.  
False and neglectful Woman, hadst thou been  
Deformed in thy person, as thy sin,  
I should have than abhorred thee, and my eyes  
Perceived the strong infection in thee lies.  
Thou-babes art not fair; 'twas only Fancy led  
Me to Hyperboles; thy cheeks once read  
Coloured by me, thy eyes, lips, hands and all,  
In Lethe have deserving Funeral.  
Thy breath infects as-killing pestilence;  
Not more Panchayan Gums, choice Frankincense,  
Shall grace it with resemblance; thou art  
Of an AEthiopian colour every part;  
Pencilled by Shame and Infamy: thy name  
Razed forth the Role of Constancy and Fame.  
The world only records thy falsehood; try  
If thou canst win me to credulity,  
That thou didst love me once, and check each tongue,  
For it's aspersion 'tis not potent wrong,  
Less vindicated; but my faculties  
Abjure thee now, though once thy Votaries,  
And cannot retain belief Collusive you  
Were ever real, but in being untrue;  
That only thou wert made for; else thy breast  
Would never have coveted a new impressed:  
But, like the constant Emerald, have kept  
It's primitive, stamp, and purity; falsehood slept  
In ignorance: OH ye powers, can there be  
An absolution for impiety?  
If you'll decline from Justice, than you may  
Flatter her erring hopes with a long day  
Of fatal trial, whose conviction must  
Precipitate her glories into dust  
Sure, though prolonged, the difference than will be;  
th'insulting freedom chained, my bondage free.   

The Author's Dream.  
WHen as my dull and wearied eyes, had long  
With tedious watch, about my temples hung;  
The vale of sleep like a long wasted Lamp,  
Smothered, went out, and fallen into a damp:  
My senses tasting of some happiness,  
Ambition rose, and striven for further bliss,  
Till that me thought, an Echo in my ear,  
Bad, rise and follow me, why sleepest thou here?  
With that a Winter-sweat did overspread  
My bloodless cheeks as in amazement dead;  
Each limb did shake, my panting heart did knell  
death's sad unwelcome tone, Nights-passing-bell;  
The selfsame voice again did seem to be  
The comforter of my sad hopes and me.  
Music possessed mine ears, in that I than  
Contemned my fears, and seemed awake again.  
Not sooner had my ears enjoyed so rare  
Unlooked for pleasures, but did strait repair  
A Lady of that beauty (clad in white)  
As seemed to outface Day, and conquer Night.  
Her hair dishevelled hung, about her brows  
A wreath of Laurel; on her garments, vows  
Of perjured Lovers, mingled with the blood  
Of some poor injured creature, that withstood  
Not ill-tempestuous storm in hope to gain  
For her pure constancy the Elysian Plain;  
When as their spotted souls as black as hell,  
Shall choke themselves with vows in Pluto's Cell.  
Her breasts not bore, but in a modest manner,  
Show the pure colour of true Lover's Banner.  
Under the which they hold their second faith,  
(Those spongy peerless Twins the females hath)  
About which blood a precious stone was placed,  
Such, as had Venus worn, it would have graced  
Her wanton beauty, and have forced the Boy  
T'a'left his dallying, and the sport enjoy.  
On th'other side whereas black vows do make  
A darkness shadow, brightness does partake  
Of golden Characters, that who so see,  
Must by those golden letters guided be.  
Rich Sandals fetched from fare, of purest gold,  
Did her valued feet in pleasure hold,  
As white as is the purest morning milk,  
And seemed ensnared with fine Arabian silk.  
With her two Virgins also clad in white,  
Supporting on each side this Queen of light.  
Upon each garment artificially  
Was interweaved a pearl distilled eye,  
Sad, discontented, languished, broken hearts,  
Fears, tears, sighs, sobs, laments, and piercing darts.  
Cross Fates, friends frowns (in gold) the Parents hate,  
Seemed their contentions to expostulate,  
With that their souls sweet Organs tuned. Forbear;  
Let thy fears vanish, we shall bring thee where  
Death keeps his Court, the sable irksome Cell  
Of murdering souls, where sins with Furies devil:  
There thou shalt see each broken Vow to have  
Deserved punishment: dead, want a Grave.  
Yet fear not Youth, for through the air we'll hover,  
And with our robes of truth thy doubts will cover.  
My fears than left me, and we mounted strait  
On a winged Chariot they enjoined to wait  
For us, drawn with four milk-white Doves;  
Such as dame Venus' pleased with, when her Loves  
She means to visit; through the air than we,  
Swifter than nimble-footed Mercury  
Did fly.— At length  
Such shrill confusions beaten into my ears,  
As would have sunk the world, dissolved the spheres:  
But Truth my still supporter, bade me be  
Not whit yet daunted, for I soon should see  
Horrors of worse affrightments; with that shake  
The lower earth, and from a Sulphurous lake  
Flew flames of quenchless fire, with the smoke  
Of loathsome brimstone, eating trees of Oak.  
The dismal noise of screech-owls, hissing Snakes,  
Toads, Adders, Monsters, and what else partakes  
Of ugly poison, seemed a Cavalere,  
And fellow partner with all creatures there:  
In that fal● tears made furrows in my cheeks,  
And for some reconciliation seeks;  
With that demanding of my guider Truth,  
What place that was? she answered, pretty Youth,  
A place where false neglectful Lovers be;  
Such as have cancelled faith and loyalty.  
This is the place where thy disdainful Fair  
Shall be created new; tear her bright hair;  
Rejoice to have a Serpent to her bed,  
And by deformed monsters ravished.  
My panting soul than sunk, but tender she  
Raised me again, demanding strait of me  
The reason of that passion; I replied,  
I loved her still: though Reason it denied:  
Shall she for whom my studies I have spent,  
(Fair Truth) receive this doom and punishment?  
Shall Monsters than enjoy what I before  
Did Idolise, and as my Saint adore?  
Shall they suck honey from so rich a Hive,  
And glut themselves with that each soul alive  
Would humbly kneel for: OH, shall they than be  
The only means t'enlarge my misery?  
truth's answer was, we'll leave this doleful place;  
Banish distrust, we'll mend our slow-winged pace,  
And drive thee to the Tempe of content,  
Where Love shall laugh at Falsehoods banishment,  
And in despite of Envy, shall obtain  
The feeling welcome of his heart again.  
Where Pyramus and Thisbe live in bliss,  
And there enjoy each other with a kiss.  
Than did we drive our Chariot through a Grove  
Of Maiden-flowers, where the Queen of Love  
Met with her Martialist, and present came  
With due salutes, and homage to Truth's name.  
The Chariot stayed, we lighted, and than went  
Into a place called Love's true ravishment.  
Where every pretty Bird in warbling notes,  
Did give us entertainment with their Votes.  
Each Lover had his Mate, and on the Greene  
Did sport and play, and blush because o'erseen,  
Exchanging kisses, in so much that I  
Did emulate their candied jollity.  
The Virgins that did wait upon our Queen,  
Left her with me, and went into a Green,  
Where two sweet Youths, clad in a crimson dye,  
Did give 'em entertainment to the eye.  
Joys met with joys, the Choristers did sing,  
As welcoming the wanton youthful Spring,  
Where in an Arbour, crowned with Violets,  
Each with his Mate new happiness begets.  
truth's smiling Aspect with her Africa gems,  
Offered a whisper to me, and condemns  
My former incredulity, than gave  
Me her advice to purchase aught they have:  
Opens her richest Caskanet, and shows  
The bed of Odours, where the Elysian Rose,  
The sense-delighting Violets, and th'rest  
Of Flora's pride, are in a Garland dressed,  
Compassed about with little hoops of Glass,  
Reflecting on each cheek that by 'em pass.  
The groundwork honey, and the Juice of love,  
The Morn's refreshment. Nectar cast by jove,  
(Instead of dew) upon their coloured veins,  
With oil of Constancy to keep from stains  
Of every ruder hand, and there they lie  
Unplucked by any, save Maturity.  
Not marvel than Winter cannot afford  
Us such Redolent Miracles, when th'hoard  
And Closet that retains 'em, is a place  
Impaled with all contents, and Beauty's Chase,  
A Park where Hearts keep their Imperious way  
Without usurping Tyrants, they can pay  
Their Morn-devotion without loss of life,  
Exactions trouble, or a womb of strife:  
Here they like Doves, use Nature in her kind,  
Mutually live each with his Mate, refined  
From the gross errors devil in Mortals, who  
Think 'tis enough, in that they only woo,  
Without a thought of fervency, if one  
(A Woman, for none else would be a stone)  
Finds an incurable folly to invade  
Her Lover, called passion, sh'as a Trade,  
Though 'twill scarce get her living, yet she'll grow  
Fat with insulting o'er her Patient's woe,  
Which custom's here a Stranger; here, said Truth,  
Laws are enacted to entreasure Youth;  
Here Flora's Spring, Autumn, and chequered May,  
The pleasing Gales of Zephyrs do convey;  
And this their Winter Mansion: Yet they know  
Not frosty finger can assault 'em so.  
Here they inhabit without nipping pain,  
Till gentle Zephyrs post▪ 'em back again,  
To kiss the worlds known Wanton, than ensues  
th'unused rashness that their births abuse;  
Each wilful finger and depraving hand  
With Insolency robs, uses command  
(Instead of mild entreaties) tears from thence  
The infancy of their sprung influence:  
Crops the sweet Virgin flower before the age  
Makes it completely ripe, while the sad Bryer,  
Mother to those rich gems, embraces fire;  
Or else left destitute: who does become  
Barren in naught but grief, her martyrdom.  
O irreligious Mortals, see your error:  
Covetous in nothing but in hoarding Treasure,  
Which last like Roses, leaving once their Tree,  
Becomes inconstant through inconstancy.  
Than know the difference, and invest thyself  
With whiter thoughts, banish respect of pelf,  
That like a hellish Advocate delude  
Man's sense into a glittering servitude:  
Which chokes 'em in digestion; cut the tie  
Which binds thee to thy ruin, let 'em be  
Disjoined for ever, and deem constancy  
The only means of Fortune, for without  
Such resolutions never go about  
To style thyself a Lover; 'tis a thing  
Abhorred in real Actions, 'twill not bring  
Mortality to th'pleasure signed for thee,  
This sacred Tempe's true felicity:  
Where not tempestuous storm of Parents hate,  
Shall dare to cross thy ever propitious Fate.  
Thy Love and thee amongst th'rest in sweet content,  
Shall spin your times in endless merriment:  
But if that she be obstinate, and still  
Disdains our dread command and powerful will:  
I'll sand a summon by our blindfold Boy,  
That shall convert to terror every joy.  
Go tell the lower world what you have seen,  
As you do honour us a Maiden Queen:  
This have I shown you, that the world may know,  
What power we have, and what to us they owe.  
Than post you back, you winged Messengers,  
And leave him where we found him; Time refers  
Not other conference, for the gladsome Day  
Appears; than hence, pack on, make haste away,  
For fear our thievish frosty-bearded Time,  
Rushes through th'spears too fast, and Phoebus' shine.  
With that they mounted me, and in the space  
Of one poor minute brought me to the place  
Where first they found me, that my giddy brain  
Struck with amaze, known not from whence I came,  
Till gentle Morpheus, that did first surprise  
My weakened senses had unlocked mine eyes,  
And gave free passage to each stretching part,  
By the pure skill of his never failing Art  
Than kind Aurora graced me with a smile,  
And Phoebus welcomed me from my exile.  
In that my late dull spirits than were apt  
To entertain secrets in Riddles wrapped.  
Than did I think upon my former charge,  
Given by my guider Truth to me at large.  
And all those pleasures I that night did see,  
Grew fresh and pleasant in my memory:  
That I not disobeying her command,  
Like a true Subject, in another land  
In trust for her, must let her praises be  
Blazoned by Fame's guilt Trump of Poesy.  
And first unto my Dearest as a friend,  
I did unfold my Dream, and recommend  
Each passage I had seen, time, place, and where  
Of pain, joy, grief, or bliss, she might have share.  
But she not giving credit or belief  
To any such weak fictions, nor relief  
To me, or any others; but doth still  
Continued in her bad obdurate william  
Leave her I must; but let her know, that face  
Shall live to be the subject of disgrace.  
Nor shall one tear be shed in pity; she  
That lived disdainful, shall disdained be.   

To Cupid.  
CVpid, I'm inflamed with fear,  
Jest her beauty bribe's thy care;  
she's sufficient to entice  
Virtue out of Paradise;  
When her breathe kiss her lips,  
Expired Gums and Odours skips;  
Every Accent is a charm,  
And her circle is her arm,  
In the which she'll raise or lay,  
Man or spirit, flesh or clay;  
she's an Artist that delights  
Moore in Conquests than in fights,  
'tis her use to fetter those  
Icy-bodies she has choose  
(In her own reserved intent,  
T'appear by it more excellent)  
To her bright Phoebean hair,  
Where perfumed M●anders' are;  
In such a prison jove, or thee  
Would descend and Captive be.  
But, here's the glory crowns her most,  
She dissolves those lumps of frost,  
And gives it active blood and fire,  
(Rather wonder, than desire)  
Makes it form; for, from her eye,  
A hot Promethean flame does fly,  
And penetrates so every breast,  
th'augmenting flames can't be expressed.  
In that she only errs in part,  
'tis wilfulness, not want of Art  
She shoots her scorching beams too fast,  
Piles flame on flame, and blast on blast;  
And than she leaves him in his flame,  
Though one poor tear would quench the sam●▪  
Hircius oiled expressions she did gain,  
From the false Mercurian train.  
'tis a language winds the ●aress  
To admiration, gulls the Spheres;  
Yet all these, rarities are used  
To the contrary sense, therefore abused.  
Than Cupid, now thou knowest by me,  
How to shun her flattery:  
Be thyself, and let her know,  
Beauty does a reverence own  
To thy powerful frown: go play  
My part a while, and for me say,  
(If that her smiles don't bribe thy wit)  
Rather for scorn than praise she's fit.   

Cupid's Summons.  
FAirest Mortal, think not I  
Privilege a starlike eye,  
Or the choicest Fair on earth;  
I can blast 'em in their birth:  
Yet that you might feel desires,  
Quenching Love's Idalian fires.  
Amongst a many Beauties more,  
I preserved thee to adore  
My Deity: but now I see  
Thou-babes disdainest my power and me.  
Therefore by my Paphian Bow  
My commands must let you know,  
That a strange complaint of late,  
Beaten a parley at my Gate;  
And so entered, that the Gods  
With that uproar grew at odds:  
In so much that they me sent  
Messenger of punishment,  
In my Mother's sacred name,  
You a Traitor to proclaim  
Against the Laws of Love and Beauty.  
And to what you own by duty  
To th'ethereal powers and me,  
Cancelled through Inconstancy.  
By my Bow and flaming Dart,  
By the Lover's bleeding hart,  
By the hand, and by the glove:  
By the eye that captived jove,  
I command and summon thee,  
At Love's Bar to answer me,  
To what we shall there object,  
Against thy scorn and base neglect:  
Fail not creature, as you will  
Answer, your ensuing ill.   

The Oath after appearance.  
Pale-cheeked Mortal, now your eyes  
Return their lustre to the skies:  
Not hue of Rosie-red doth guide  
The welcome Lilies, as a Bride:  
Nor are th'lilies fresh, and gay,  
As they were the other day.  
The present guilt doth make it known,  
Beauty lent, is not your own.  
Venus now the Queen of Love,  
Is in presence, and must prove  
You a disobedient heir  
To her glorious Hemisphere.  
Paphos' Archer hate's to own  
You a sister to his throne:  
And must here as witness be  
To your black-mouthed perjury;  
Therefore on this gold-leafed book,  
In which Lovers often do look,  
Lay your hands, if you be free  
From usurping Tyranny,  
From the many sighs and tears  
Lovers use, their nightly fears:  
From their passions, folded arms,  
Lulled asleep with Siren's charms,  
From the murdering of a Hart,  
Glorying at th'excessive smart:  
From an angry lowering eye,  
Spying Lovers destiny,  
From a mock or scornful smile,  
That kills, though pleases for a while.  
From a heart that harbours scorn,  
Leaving witless Youths forlorn:  
You may freely swear, but see,  
The Rose has left his Treasury,  
Your stars are clouded; Rubies to  
Have left th'exchequered lips of you,  
And with sweet gales transported thence,  
To seek a better residence.  
Hence to trial Themis now  
Against thy guilt doth set her brow  
And Conscience calls; you must appear  
At Love's Bar, and answer there.   

His Allegations against Clarinda.  
TO you fair Cyprian Dame, I do present,  
A languished heart bond to imprisonment,  
(Without your fair releasement) to an eye  
Swelled with Ambition, flat Conspiracy,  
Whose still aspiring soul did think 'twas duty,  
That greatest Mortals should admire her beauty.  
Nay, to that height Ambition had conveyed  
A strong belief, she was not Earthly made,  
To entertain a Love that had not power,  
Like jove t'appear in an Argolian shower,  
And when bright Sol his glorious Rays displayed  
To grace the world, Conceit might soon persuade  
He● witless-fancy, his allseeing eye,  
Borrowed it's lustre from her brighter eye.  
Yourself whom Paris well did judge to be  
Heavens' only piece, the fairer of the three,  
She would not blush to say, had the Youth seen  
Her matchless Beauty, you had been not Queen▪  
And I in ignorance believed the same,  
Blinded with love, so woven into a frame  
Of doting passions, having not alliance  
To my own welfare, or her base defiance.  
For her I wasted all my hours in grief,  
Expecting comfort, yet found not relief;  
Often have I cursed the Boy that first betrayed  
My heart's security, forcing me to wade  
Through th'ever sable stream of cursed despair,  
Or crimson gulf of horror to the stair  
Of absolute madness, still engendering ill,  
Now sink, than rise, subject to Fates stern will:  
Not knowing thee to be of sacred line,  
Yet felt thy sting, but known it not divine,  
As now I do. But thought some Circe's might  
With charms bereave me of my bodies right,  
Forgive me sacred Deities; not more  
Will I blaspheme your goodness as before.  
Not oaths or vows of Hymenaean right  
Can move her mind, not liquid tears invite  
Her heart to pity, not disastrous fate  
Of future mischief could accelerate  
My present death. But in her scornful look,  
I read her meaning as in anger's book,  
Sometimes with a dissembling smile retains,  
Me longer to increase my Lovesick pains.  
As doth the cunning Doctor keep in ure,  
His queasy Patient, and prolongs the Cure;  
Either to make his skill the brighter shine;  
Or else for fear his Patient should combine  
With others, and he loose his Cure; e'en so  
My cunning fair with smiles would work too;  
Knowing that none but she had equal power,  
To crown my hopes, or blast 'em in an hour.  
And thus in endless passions did I lie,  
Lingering my breath, Death's bore Epitome.  
Nor would she pity that my springlike age  
Should dying, live, in Lover's Pilgrimage.  
When as th'impartial Maids have been at strife,  
Which first should cut my thread, and end my life,  
she'd tyrannize o'er my passions; nay, and more,  
Disdained your power, whose aid I did implore;  
Telling me, Beauty had more than Love,  
Beauty was that strong charm enchanted jove.  
Than would appear such lightning from her eye,  
As seemed to equal junos' Majesty.  
Here do I stand for to aver, and prove  
Her base, disloyal, and my constant love.  
Be just you Powers, and let your sentence be  
A punishment too good for perjury;  
That future times perusing of her shame,  
May praise your Justice, and abhor her name;  
Without your sentence, all will soon aspire,  
Like proud Prometheus for to steal your fire:  
For th'envy of their Sex it is so deep,  
they'll study nightly, and revenge in sleep.   

The Censure of the Gods. Present. 

jupiter  
Sol.  
Cupid  
Vulcan  
juno  
Venus  .....  Sol. 
We will not hear her answer, her reply  
Will but add torments to her misery.  
Her guilt is too apparent, therefore we  
For thy aspiring thoughts, do banish thee  
From that best light, which earthly creatures do  
Admire, and yearly pay a tribute to.  
Since from thy eye such sparks of lightning came,  
To blast our servant here we'll veil the same  
From thenceforth never—  Venus. 
Forbear; indeed you wrong me: her offence  
Requires a censure from our Excellence.  
Was she not Ours, till her presumptuous soul  
(Inflamed with Treason) sought for to control  
Our all-commanding power, has she not been  
Stained with the folly of Narcissus sin?  
Has not her Beauty made the world below  
Forget that duty which to us they own,  
Deeming our greatness but a fallacy,  
Mentioned by children in their infancy?  
Than know, to us, to us she has done wrong,  
Corrupting Mortals with her venomed tongue,  
To cast mists on our greatness; since than she  
Has not yet tasted of those sweets that we,  
And those that live to love, do still enjoy,  
All subject to the anger of my Boy:  
She shall be barren in that happiness,  
And never embrace what hidden sweets there is  
In Lovers glances; but shall live to be  
The only scorn to Love's posterity;  
She shall love one, and (living) love him so,  
Her love shall gain his ha●e; his hate, her woe.  jupiter. 
This must not be, your censure doth appear,  
Not from desert, but Envy; I dare clear  
The innocent soul. Why barren? cause, you know  
The sweets already; none can merit so.  
Forsooth a kiss is envied, and a glance  
That does unbreath, man's spirits with a trance.  
Denied embraces is forbidden: what if I  
Endeavour to salute lip, breast, or— why?  
Would blushes beaten me thence? woo her white hand  
To lead me to the fountain, where I'll stand  
As cold as Marble, till her lips do seal  
A Patent for my entrance, I'll appeal  
Not to your Will, but Love; ah, ''two'd arise  
Mutually sweet, when both hearts sympathise.  
Come, you forget yourself; is it not rare,  
To have a woman honest, while she's fair?  
Which by your Sentence must be; i'faith, and than  
she'll grow more famous, though less loved of men.  
Had you been chary of your Maidenhead,  
As you were of your Beauty, you'd have spread  
Your Ivory Leaves to Sparrows, and they'd peck  
Those Letters out, which do your Goddess deck.  
Fair Maid, for that thou hast a stirring thought  
Of Greatness, hating all but such as brought  
A Shower like Us, into our Danae's Lap,  
We fancy thee too much, to let a Clap  
Of raging Thunder pierce thee— lend thy ear—  
What, is't a match? Not: Why? thinkest thou they hear?  
We will adjourn the Court. Not? prithee say;  
I an incindered; kiss me, 'twill alloy  
My heat: come, I will have it so; we'll steal  
Into an obscure cranny, put the eye  
Of Phoebus out; my appetite does fry.  Vulcan. 
How jupiter does look now: 'tis a prey  
Would make all cell their happiness; by my faith  
A plump-cheeked wench, and does deserve not less  
Honour than Venus, were she of her Dress.  
I'll to her— don't believe him Lass, his Wife  
Will blast thee with her anger, entrap thy life,  
As she did poor Alomena's; lean to me  
Venus and I are out, I'll none but thee.  
And though I'm rough and sooty, yet I can  
Bestow on thee the pleasures rest in man,  
As well as he; my hoof shall be set right,  
If thou swear to let me taste delight;  
Or if thou will't not swear, or yield, yet be  
A woman; wink, and let me feed on thee.  jupiter. 
Thou-babes art a saucy Vulcan; go about  
To make me thunderbolts for th'Summer rout,  
Use your black-cru●ted hands i'th' Cyclops forge,  
Or die your Horns a sable hue; disgorge  
Your juicy stomach where our Horses lies;  
Your manlike action needs must please their eyes;  
Or make thy Wife turn honest: but I fear  
Mars has too late uncharmed her Hemisphere.  Vulcan. 
Why in this passion? alas, I will connive  
At all your do, provided I may thrive  
As well as you by it. What, not agreed?  
juno shall know thy folly than— d'ye see  
How brisk he is with th'piece of Venery?  
The match is made, and he must clip the thread  
That ties her beauty to her maiden bed.  juno. 
we'll make her feel our wrath. Why fall you not  
To Censure? where's our jupiter? Absent: What,  
Courting the trash of Beauty?  jupiter. 
Yes; but lose  
My labour: she's grown cunning, to refuse.  
Nay, use your pleasure now; she'll scarce be made  
Capable of Venus' traffic, Wantoness Trade.  juno. 
Than, Boy, 'tis thee we stay for; let thy Art  
And tongue agreed.  Cupid. 
Doubt not, I'll found her heart.  
Since I as Umpire stand; I will, that she  
A faithless Wanton shall from henceforth be;  
One, whose insatiate Womb not mean shall know,  
But prostitute her Body, till she grow  
Unuseful, and that time shall let her see  
A period to her hidden Venery.  
Her person shall be much desired of many,  
Nor chaste nor constant shall she prove to any,  
But covet to embrace new fashions still,  
Whereby to glut her base insatiate william  
Those that have long been practisers in sin,  
She shall instruct new ways to wallow in,  
And with her fair illusions shall invite  
All sorts of Nations to her seemed delight.  
But when her Face with furrows shall appear,  
And that her Cheeks not Rosy colour bear,  
When her soft Lip shall want the force to bind  
Thousand by adjuration to her mind;  
When as the youthful heat hath left to reign,  
And that her Nerves an Icy cold retain;  
Where Eyes begin to look into her Soul,  
Where they espy it spotted, wicked, foul;  
When as her Hands, so much admired, shall be  
Withered, and like a bore Anatomy;  
Than shall she lingering live without relief,  
Nor shall one prove a helper to her grief.  
Those whom her youth and time she spent withal,  
(When as her Beauty become prodigal)  
Shall loathe to hear her named; and more, her fight  
Shall be to 'em as poisonous Aconite:  
And when that Time shall, with his Neighbour Death,  
Steal unawares, and stop her vital breath,  
All that she leaves behind, is bu● her Name,  
And that life's only to enlarge her shame.  
So, while she life's, her life is but a hate,  
And yet her death proves more unfortunate:  
Wretched by birth, and so brought up to woe,  
In Life accursed, in Death her Souls chief foe.  
Than what remains, but only this to prove,  
A scorn to Time, a hatred unto Love?  
And on her Grave this Epitaph shall be  
Read, to condemn her vicious memory.  

Her Epitaph.  
HEre remains a Piece, that shame  
Does forbidden to own, or name:  
She was once, as this, a Stone,  
Till Conversion made her none;  
Than her Beauty stained her Soul,  
Being fair, she was most foul:  
Loved, yet hated all; 'tis crossed,  
Whom she loved, she hated most.  
She was skilled in Language too,  
Every Nation did her woe;  
She could French interpret well,  
Till she fashioned how to spell  
Through the Nose. If any pass  
On this tender yielding Grass,  
To view this Piece, do not weep,  
'tis a passion they may keep;  
Only Charity bids us say,  
She is happy now she's Clay.   Omnes. 
We like thy Censure well, and are content  
She shall endure thy Doom and punishment.   

An Epithalamium on the two happy Pair, Thomas B. Esquire, the younger, and his fair Bride.  
UP lazy Morn, sand through the odorous air  
A blush, that may invite the Hemisphere  
To wonder, than look pale with spleen, deny  
To all, save to this Bride, supremacy.  
Wonder; in that the still usurping Night,  
Fat with the weight of sins dismounted, spite  
Of his assistant Horrors, ever his Reign,  
Fatal to erring Mortals, could obtain  
It's final course; and Day appear, before  
Thy Porter had unhinged his painted Door;  
And 'tis confessed, that Night two hours ha●s lost,  
Since her bright rising banished his Host;  
Stars hide themselves in Clouds, not Cynthia seen,  
The petty Lights would all have Cynthia's been,  
Can they have vanquished Nature; but the height  
Of their Ambition proved their Opposite,  
And sunk them in their Errors▪ Oh! to see  
A Heaven on Earth, yet Heaven not Heaven to be,  
'Less by her Light assisted; the Sky appear  
In sable dress, while Day did trip it here,  
A new Aurora broke, whose potent smiles  
Gilded the Eastern Morn, thawed Winter Isles  
Tiled o'er with plates of Ice; showed th'heavens grow poor  
In goodness, yet from her they may glean store,  
To furnish 'em for ever,' less they be  
Too prodigal of her liberality.  
Hamstead was made a Paradise, each Bush  
Retained a Springlike Coat; the chirping Thrush  
Grew proud and wanton, and did use their Note  
In fancying Anthems, which they got by Rote;  
The chanting Philomel's mellifluous strain,  
O'th'piked Eglantine revived again;  
The amorous Spring and Roses there were blown,  
That in their Chaos slept, forgot, unshown;  
The frosty-bearded Winter at her feet  
Dropped into Pearls his substance; and the Sheet  
That Earth of Nature borrows to lie in,  
Chequered with Flòra's beauties, did begin  
To prove abortive, came before their time;  
Yet safe delivered of its Spicy slime,  
Forced by her radiant lustre; every Tree  
Wore Fruit forbidden, 'cause her Livery.  
Can this stir Wonder in thee? Not; for 'tis  
Not wonder, didst thou know but what she is:  
she's all divine, whose Virgin influence  
Merit's the courtship of the days bright Prince,  
By whose amplexures, mixtures, Nuptial ties,  
Religious Votes shall from each Soul arise,  
To bless their bright Conjunction; for the which,  
Hymen, whose care is Virtue to enrich,  
Hath singled out her Consort, brought her one  
That outrays P●oebus through his Horizon;  
Adorned with Masculine Virtues he can be:  
Should I compare him to th'Heavens; but He,  
And in that He, consists such ample worth,  
We want a Homer's Pen to set it forth.  
he's tightly rare, should I say more,  
''two'd not enlarge his worth, but make me poor  
In fancy: for alas, what need I tell  
The world a story, which they know so well?  
I will conclude in prayers, not in praise,  
Though you deserve them both, while I have days  
Or minutes to unburden: may Increase  
For ever Crown the Harvest of your Peace;  
May you live like two Angels sent from Heaven,  
To teach the world examples, and run even  
In Virtue's progress, till your sacred Urn  
Claims its prerogative, your ashes turn  
The Phoenix Exequys to nothing. Why?  
Your lives extinct, Perfections with you die;  
Nor shall our Ages after mention one,  
Without committing Sacrilege, you go,  
But your Remembrance, which shall last, and be  
The only Phoenix to Posterity.  
Shine like the Twins of Miracle; for it's true,  
Nature complied with Wonder, framing you.  
Let your refulgent Beams afford more Light,  
For Turtle loyalty, than the wished sight  
Of Phoebus, roused from the Ocean,  
Ascends to his full Lines Meridian.  
Flourish in the blessed Concord's Unity,  
And spin your Lives into Eternity.   

An Epithalamium on the happy Nuptials of his much respected friend Geo. F. Gent.  
RIse wanton Phoebus, leave thy amorous play,  
And prune thyself, to grace this Nuptial Day;  
Shake of thy drowsy Looks, and let thy Eye  
Appear in its full height of Majesty.  
Let Hermes in his greatest glory shine,  
And Bacchus drink full Bowls of Helvian Wine:  
Let jove forget to play with Ganymede,  
And Mars once leave the Cyprian Goddess Bed;  
Vesta, with all thy Darlings, hither high,  
And crown our Wedding with thy company:  
Bring thou our Bride to Church, but leave her there;  
Nor blush not, if she chance to shed a tear;  
Fears do possess the tender years of one,  
Unapt to know th'untwining of her Zone.  
Hymen▪ Rites finished, let your Welcomes be  
To grace our Bridegroom with your Company.  
And now let chaste Desires adorn her Bed,  
Whose Blushes shows the Dye of Maidenhead;  
Wishes and sweet content may they possess,  
Each heart bring joy to th'other numberless.  
Who bids Good-night unto our Bride, be dumb,  
(And says not more) Such as shall hither come,  
Must not bring one Nights joy alone, but force  
Their throats to reach with Echoes, till they hoarse.  
Million of joys attend 'em both for ever;  
May they be cursed who shall their chaste hearts sever.   

Acrostic on the welldeserving Gentlewoman, Mistress Eliz. Hill.  

Enriched with Nature's choicest Excellence,  
Light to thy Sex, thou art rare Quintessence,  
joves' ever admired Creature, in whose face  
Zeal seems to keep account of woman's grace;  
A thousand joys attend thee, and may ever  
Beauty (adorned with Virtue) be thy share;  
Exquisite Creature, whose perfections lie  
Transparent to each well-discerning eye,  
Heaven sends you here, to grace Mortality.   

How much was Helen counted to be fair,  
In so much more thou art beyond compare;  
Love is thy Mirror; than be not too proud,  
Jest Heaven dims that Beauty with a Cloud;   

And so debar us Mortals of that bliss,  
Which each deserving Soul desires were his.    

Acrostic on Mistress Marie Rashley, in requital of her Musical entertainment.  
Many that know you not, may think that I  
An by affection led to flattery,  
Raising your Virtues to sublimest height,  
In hope to gain you as my purchased right,  
Inflamed by Love; ah not, my zeal is such,  
Rare Phoenix, that I cannot writ too much,  
As praises due; for should Apollo hear  
Such Doric Music, he would leave his Sphere;  
Hymen would boast, if you unto his Shrine  
Love, with your Virtue, bring as Offering;  
Each God would leave his Throne, could Nature frame  
Your equals to embrace their Paphian flame.   

On his very loving friend, Mistress Bridget Perk. Acrostic.  
Beauty with Virtues, doth enlarge the store,  
Richeses without those Virtues, are but poor;  
In thee both shine, to make thy brightness known,  
Dame Nature's glorious workmanship alone,  
Graced with her feature, and so highly prized,  
Immaculate, to be eternalized;  
Thou-babes peerless piece of Virtue, live to be  
Time's wonder, and Man's chief felicity.  
Prudence, the Soul of Wisdom, is in thy breast,  
Endued with all thy Graces, and there rest  
Courted. Urania in thy Breast doth found  
Kind Zeal, the true Companion to her mind.   

To his virtuous Kinswoman, Mistress S. B.  
IF to adore thee, were not held a sin  
Beyond the reach of mercy, I'd begin  
To tender up my Orisons to thee,  
And so by custom, writ thee Deity.  
If to admire thy Beauty, and thy Grace,  
And praise the Native Liveries of thy Face,  
Tell Stories of the whiteness of thy Breast,  
Thy Hand, thy Leg, thy Foot, and never rest,  
Till I had made thee famous with my Pen,  
And raised thy Name in great esteem amongst men;  
If with industry I sought to please;  
Yet thou would●st count 'em but Hyperboles;  
So modest is thy faith; thou canst endure  
Not strains of wit, that seems to be impure,  
Or stuffed with needless superstition,  
The knowing follies in some wanton one:  
Thou-babes art entirely virtuous; Pardon me  
If I transgress, speaking truth's Embassy:  
For he that's zealous, will confirm the same,  
Love blows the fire, but you can quench the flame.   

An Elegy on the virtuous Gentlewoman Frances Dixon.  
WHy smiled the Heavens? why did Sol display  
His golden beams to grace the slow-foot Day?  
What made th'aethereal power to clear the skies?  
And why did Venus scorn thy Obsequys?  
While Vesta's Darlings wearing black, did show  
What true devotion to chaste corpse they own,  
jove did appear, and court thee ever grim Death  
Had power to stop thy odorous balmy breath.  
And hadst thou yielded, than thy years had been  
Enlarged to feast the Gods with pleasures sin:  
But making sleight of's gifts, enraged he  
Leaves thee to what the Destiny's decree.  
Than 'tis not marvel that the Heavens' did smile,  
To see weak Mortals can their hopes beguile.  
Thou-babes mirror of true Chastity, let me  
Pay hourly tribute with my tears for thee.  
Nor think pure course as many use to do.  
I strive with them to mourn in fashion to.  
Ah not, I hate it: for my inward part  
Shall witness that the Mourner is my hart.  
Religion wept, and sung, and Virtue's score  
Was paid in tears, and sighs, her only store,  
Sending thy sable Hearse homeward to bliss,  
Where Chastity receives it's happiness.  
And the fresh ticture of thy virginity  
Shall wreathe thy brow with spotless memory.  
The Gods did smile for anger, 'cause poor we  
Enjoyed on earth so rich a prize as thee;  
And in a rage have taken thee from us here,  
To place thee in the Elemental sphere.   

On his loving friend M. John Day an Elegy.  
Done Phoebus now hath lost his light,  
And left his Rule unto the night:  
And Cynthia she hath overcome  
The day, and darkened the Sun:  
Whereby we now have lost our hope,  
Of gaining Day in's Horoscope.  
A strange Eclipse did late arise,  
Where naught but blood did deck the skies;  
And in that fight was ta'en away,  
Our thrice desired refulgent day;  
And only Phoebe does appear,  
To grace the mournful Hemisphere▪  
With her dew-eyed Hyadeses,  
Hoping with their lights to please  
The angry world; but 'tis in vain  
To think their light can longer rain,  
Since their chiefest aid is go  
Day: and left his Horizon.  
Yet from th'East we may descry,  
A new Day approaching nigh.  
To whom th'Heavens have given strength,  
And made his hours of equal length;  
Vowing that the Night shall never  
Displace him from his golden sphere,  
Till this Sun begets a Sun,  
And his Son another Son.   

Epigram 1.  
WIll the Perfumer, met me in the Street,  
I stood amazed, he asked me what I meant.  
In faith, said I, your Gloves are mighty sweet,  
And yet your breath doth cast a stronger scent.   

EBRIUS. Epigram 2.  
EBrius had long sick of a Fever been,  
And feeling the reward he had for sin,  
Did freely vow unto the powers Divine,  
(But at his meat) not to drink any wine.  
And being recovered, he begun to think  
How he might keep his vow, and safely drink.  
And wheresoever he came, commanded strait,  
That clot and meat should on the Table wait.   

A BRAZIER. Epigram 3.  
IOnas the Brazier and his wife fallen out,  
He called her Slut, and so it came about.  
Slut Knave she said, now in good sooth you lie.  
With whom (quoth he?) whereat she 'gan to cry,  
Replied; Enough; I'll yield in such a case,  
When you are still yourself a Brazen face.   

Epigram 4.  
A Youthful Lad matched with a wrinkled Dame,  
Whose gold did kindle in the Youth a flame;  
And being wedded, she with tears would say,  
I fear my Heart, that thou will't gad astray,  
Because my time with age is almost spent,  
And cannot yield to Youth its full content.  
Yet prithee Love let me this poor boon crave,  
That you on me a small respect will have.  
Fear you my love, said he? now I protest  
Thy tears have wrought impression in my breast;  
And here I vow, by Heaven, if thou would  
Desire to ear (thou shouldst not want) my gold.  
But this I swear, if he could so provoke her,  
His full intention was for to have choked her.  
FINIS.   

LOVE. Epigram 5.  
IF any Soul desire's to know  
How Love at first came blind,  
Before the Poet made him so,  
The Reason now he'll find:  
Which here to All I'll willingly impart.  
Love shot his eyes and lost 'em in my heart.   

LIPS. Epigram 6.  
I Was in company with two or three  
Disposed for Mirth; among us was a Lass  
Handsome enough: her Prodigality  
With frequent kissing on our lips did pass▪  
To one she'd say, How dost thou like that kiss?  
And to another (faith) thy was as sweet?  
Swearing her lips dissolved, the juice of bliss,  
Which between hers, and ours, did freely meet:  
Whereat, we all did laugh; I swear (quoth she)  
If you say otherwise, you say not well;  
I will refe●ed to you, Sir, meaning me:  
Are they not moist, pray taste again and tell.  
I did so, and replied▪ thus much I felt,  
Either thy Lips, or else thy Painting melt.   

DAME SULLEN. Epigram 7.  
PUtting some questions to a Sullen Dame,  
To each of them her answer still was, Well:  
The more I striven t'divert her from the same,  
The more she plagued me with her apish Well.  
Impertinent to my demands; at last  
Finding a way to search her folly out,  
And change her note which formerly had passed;  
I used my Art to bring the same about,  
Speaking but this, How doth thy Husband do?  
She fetched a sigh, and said, he does but ill;  
Pardon me Sir, for I must tell it you,  
The more's my grief, and much against my will,  
He is so frigid grown: He has not done  
Me right, (I vow) since the last Mornings-Sun.   

A Lawyer and his Wife. Epigram 8.  
A Beetleheaded Lawyer, one of those  
That leaves his Conscience in his other hose  
For fear of Bribing, and could never spell  
Vices imo jacobi perfect well,  
Known not more Latin, than his Clarks afford  
Him to encounter with the Kitchen-board;  
Some stolen unsavoury stuff, at second hand  
Which he will have, to never understand;  
He knows how many lines there's in a sheer,  
How Fairs are kept, and how his Fees do meet:  
And that's enough for him, the rest must be  
Supplied by his Clarks best industry.  
I name not man, but there was such a one,  
Lived in Tricesimo of good Queen joane.  
This man of worth was wedded to a fair  
And comely Creature, born near th'Northern air,  
By whom the Churl got wealth; yet he never thought  
On th'richness of the Jewel he had bought  
Almost with nothing; and would scarce allow  
Her Buttermilk, or strokings from the Cow:  
Yet the poor thing with patience did endure  
●ll this and more, saying to herself, that sure  
H● would one day remember, how he had  
Promised her often, the next Fees should clad  
Her pretty body: His Fees still came in,  
But still with his old Note he would begin,  
The next that comes is thy, in Sexto Girl  
Thou-babes shalt walk in, or say I an a Churl:  
Which the poor soul could have said long ago:  
But to be brief, the wool was yet to grow  
Should make her clot for Gowns and such like things  
She had occasion of; each day he sings  
One Note, and strives with words to put her by;  
Till need had found her out a remedy.  
And of his Client newly come to town  
She taken up Fees, and he taken up her Gown.   

To his much esteemed friend M. john Tatham on his Fancies Theatre.  
FRiend, let me honour thee, I did not think  
Till now, th'adst sipped at Agamppes' Brink,  
Though I confess thy Genius was so free  
At all times, that I feared thy Poetry  
Would with conveniency appear unto  
The World, and Friends; something I have to do,  
And this it is; I tell thee Friend, from me  
Thou-babes must expect not strains of flattery  
In too much praising; Thus much I dare say,  
I know thy Fancies each sense ravish may  
As well as  done mine, for I never known  
A line, but what was good, proceed from you;  
 said enough, and though I last an come  
To fill a Page, and take up Paper room;  
Yet with as free a Heart to these last lines  
Of thy, I offer as to those which shines  
Before, thy Friends have done; and proud an I  
To be a Spark amongst stars in such a sky.  
Geo. Spark.   

To the Honourable Sir John Wintour Knight, Secretary of State, and Master of Requests to the Queen's most excellent Majesty, The Honoured Patron of his Book.  
THe Vine and Figtree to the God did bring  
Their Maiden-tributes for their offering,  
In hope to purchase by their blessed Decree,  
Favours that should our last Man's memory,  
And to that end, pled Merit, show that Wine  
(Man's nourishment) without the Grape-sick vine  
Had never been thought on, nor the dimpled sun  
Of Semile sit crowned upon his Tun  
With the Grapes Chaplet; than the Figtree too  
Boasts of her worth, shows what her strength can do  
With foreign States, how great, how rich, how skilled  
In Languages: the Merchant's Coffers filled  
Partly by her large travels; how the sense  
Of man is cherished by their excellence:  
And both concluded if the Gods did please  
For a set-time to grant 'em Writs of ease  
From future transportation, that they might  
With more security enjoy their right,  
And be the select trees of all the rest,  
That by their sacred favours should be blessed,  
they'd tender duly to their Treasury,  
A full increase for perpetuity,  
And add unto their titles more than yet  
Was fancied in the Poet's vein of wit.  
The Laurel, Pine, and Poplar that could never  
Boast of a happy fruit to crown the year,  
Hearing th'others ostentation, th●ught  
There was not hopes for them, they had not brought  
Things meritorious; nor could they infer  
Large circumstance, to make the Gods confer  
Their choicest blessings on ●em, all their stor●  
Was in their naked selves, barren and poor.  
These Barren Plants doubting a sad success,  
By reason of the others happiness,  
Would have departed; but the pious Gods  
Knowing their faith was sure (how ever the odds  
Betwixt 'em in richeses made the others be  
In ●ore respect with Worldlings,) did agreed  
(For some reserved conditions) to supply  
Their poor defects by gracious clemency.  
The Vine and Fig tree straightway hereupon  
Stolen from the Presence, shamed at what they'd done;  
Those that were worthless trees of late, are now  
By the God's Patronage and gentle brow,  
Made happy, and the only trees that be  
Held famous, for their singularity.  
The moral's mine Sir; great one's favour men  
Of meaner quality, not for deserts that pen  
Them meriting Characters, but in favouring them  
They give them all their worth, esteem, and gem.  
So the reflection from your Honour's eye,  
On this weak piece, will awe base Critic;  
And so secure my freedom, that I may  
(Soaring above their spleen) your Will obey.   

To a Gentlewoman having been scandalised by some.  
GRieve not dear Mistress; faults that are undone,  
If but suspected, might as well be done  
Amongst souls of not capacity, that draw  
An envious breath, not ruled by Reason's law;  
They may more safely tax the Gods of sin,  
Than the composed strictness  lived in,  
Who rather are the Patroness of Truth,  
Spending in broken sighs your precious youth:  
Than one that gives way to those lose desires  
Our giddy Youth are prove to; such quick fires  
Never boiled your innocent blood, nor in your breast  
Did ever impure thoughts discompose your rest;  
You never were dressed like th'gaudy Queen of May,  
Swimming through th'streets in Coaches to a play;  
Nor did you ever wear in your fair looks  
Lascivious glances, Lust's entangling hooks:  
You never kept your bed to use your wit,  
To ape a fashion, which to pattern it  
Would puzzle all the Tailors save the French.  
OH fairest Mistress, would my tears might quench  
The flavour of your sorrow; I know you ●ree  
From this black, false, unheard of calumny,  
Or each particular Page or line that may  
Admit of blurs to wrong thee, or decay  
The lest of thy perfections; Think not than  
It lies in th'malice of the devil or men  
To stain thy Innocence, whose unspotted zeal  
Only to Heaven, not to the World appeal.  
There you are fixed a Saint already: why  
Than you'd waste yourself so pensively?  
These scandals wound you not, they'll heavy fall  
On their own heads, whose weight will sink 'em all.  
Temper your crosses Mistress, be more mild  
To your fair self, than vainly thus to strive  
Against your Nature's sweetness, and impose  
Such cruelty on yourself. Malice that throws  
Her venom at you, if I do not err,  
Shall with't be her own executioner:  
So did the spotless Damsel suffer wrong,  
By the sin-plotting Elders; but ever long  
Heaven did acquit her: And so Heaven pure Maid  
Doth acquit thee from this aspersion laid▪  
So have I seen a fierce-opposing cloud,  
With an intent bright Cynthia's light to shrowded  
Under its sable wings, in triumph stay  
For a set space, than dully move away,  
When with a sudden motion she'd appear  
Bright as herself, yet to our eyes more clear  
Than formerly she was: so is't with thee  
Whom Envy left in deep obscurity.  
But now shine forth, th'illustrious beams display,  
And make our night seem a continual day.   

A Wart on a Gentlewoman's arm.  
what's that so near your skin allied  
and will not thence,  
His head is in your colours died  
without offence.  
His perfect read and white hath mixed,  
So long with your pure blood he's fixed,  
and will not part  
Without much trouble to your heart:  
but why  
d'ye hid it now, and set a Dye  
upon your cheeks,  
As being bashful, 'cause it seeks  
the light,  
It cannot sure appear more white  
than on your arm;  
Nor wear a better coat of read,  
Than your chaste blood hath mingled  
most sweet and warm;  
So Strawberries suck the gentle stream  
Of fresh and most delicious Cream.   

To one professing and swearing love to all Women.  
'tis not Love thy pulses beaten,  
But the Itch of base desire;  
Whose impure unlawful heat  
Sets both life and soul on fire.  
Love delights not in those things  
Which disgrace and ruin brings.  
Love is figured as a Child,  
Emblem of pure Innocence:  
Passionate, but undefiled,  
Zealous, without a pretence.  
Love doth carry in his eye  
Constant flames that never die.  
Love's not subject unto change,  
Nor doth his affection move,  
Where time-pleasing Fancies range  
Epicures with freedom prove;  
'tis not to each face that's fair,  
He doth his allegiance bear.  
Nor is't Oaths that make a Lover:  
Flying vows to every she  
May intemperate lust discover,  
Where consuming follies be.  
Love is simple of himself,  
And respects nor praise, nor pelf.  
Love's not guided unto fear  
By the Tongues deceiving Art,  
Raptures that entrance the ear.  
What he covets, is the Heart,  
On the which he doth display  
Beams fare clearer than the day.  
At Love's sacred Altar lies  
Hearts as stainless as the Dove,  
Mutual in their sacrifice  
To the purity of love,  
Which with Nuptial kisses smother,  
Growing flames in one another.  
Than if thou intendest to aim  
At a Lover's part, be just;  
Punish that destroys the same,  
Prick thy sw●lling veins of Lust,  
Let thy rank pollution run,  
he'll adopt thee than his son,  
While thou seekest to please thy eye,  
Never hope to taste true bl●ss●ss,  
When the appetite doth fry,  
Surfeits so, it pleasures misses;  
For the blessed desire of Love,  
is by inspiration from above.   

A Song to the picture of a Lover in his absence.  
COme, o come away my Dear,  
Let me not for ever languish:  
Jest I buy my joys too dear;  
Sighs my tender Heart will vanquish;  
For thee I have outwatched the night,  
While angry stars did read my story,  
And silver Cynthia hide her light,  
As envying at my wished-for glory;  
When thus upon thy lips I played,  
Making a soft impression there,  
The jealous Goddess than dismayed  
For her Endym●on, left her sphere,  
And ever since hath harboured here.   

Seeing a Gentlewoman making her ready in a window.  
WHat new light's you that breaks and wraps man's sense  
Into a world of wonder, excellence  
Deciphered to the life; some good protect  
My eyes jest they transgress; I could affect  
Each amorous glance or gesture she bestows  
On the reflecting Flatterer, how she throws  
Odours against odours, and her snowwhite hands  
Distilleth oil of Roses, she command's  
The Sun's retirement, and for him does light  
My Fancy to rare objects infinite.  
See, see the Twins of Miracle, her Breasts  
Whiter than new fallen snow the spicy Nests,  
And Pillows for Love● lips to rest upon!  
Now she disrobes her night-clotheses, now goes on  
Her rich Carnation satin to entice  
Men to forsake their hope of Paradise.  
Delusion, vanish; do not think to win  
Me from that bliss I have possession in,  
Though my Clarinda's lost, I will not be  
Polluted with thy vile immodesty.  
Thy skin though white shall never infect my eyes,  
Or stain my cheeks with blushes, nor surprise  
A thought of mine; not Counterfeit; I do  
Abhor thy actions and thy colours too;  
Will't not yet leave t'allure me? by that power  
Dwells in my Mistress name, I do conjure  
Thy absence from that casement which let's in  
Naught but the straggling phantasms of sin:  
O: art thou slunk away, had her pure name  
Sufficient skill to make thee know thy shame,  
And now in some obscure unhallowed place  
Thou-babes pinest (unpitied) at thy own disgrace.  
Pardon me dearest Mistress, that I have  
Made use of your blessed name as aid to save  
Me, from the errors I was leaning to,  
And heretic-like forgot my faith in you.   

To a coy Mistress.  

THink not coy Mistress, I an one  
So fond, that can affect a stone,  
Or some such thing, unless I see  
there's something in't will pleasure me.   

I cannot tie my Heart on looks,  
Angle whole Summers in the Brooks.  
In expectation of a dish  
Of Salmon; 'cause a Princely fish.   

I cannot devil on such delays,  
Or stay in hope of Halcyon days;  
If I possess my pleasures now,  
Not happier days will I allow.   

Why should I hope for things to come,  
That may be had with ease of some;  
So trifle precious Tune away  
For empty hopes, and fruitless play?   

Because you're something fair, must I  
Wait your coy leisure to reply,  
When with some other long ever this,  
I might have felt a Lover's bliss?   

I can as well content my sense,  
With one of lesser excellence  
that's not so nice, nor will debate  
The time, when love should actuate.   

I'm earnest (Mistress); and must try  
(If you refuse) a remedy  
Elsewhere; you know that youthful blood  
Consumes itself, unless withstood.   

Than quickly let me know your mind;  
Delays are child's play; be kind  
As you are fair, and let's possess  
Our Loves, and pleasures numberless.   

A Cherry gathered in the Spring,  
Is a choice Present for a King;  
Those that till August hung, you know  
Are rotten, and than common grow.   

Those Roses too that have desire  
To devil still with their mother Bryer,  
Must at the last (though let alone)  
Fall of themselves, when overgrown.   

The Cherry and the Rose would be  
Of little value, did not we  
For novelty sake, allow them good,  
Their worth would scarce be understood.   

Women had long since lost their name,  
Had not we men revived the fame.  
You might like things neglected lie,  
As useless, were not men you nigh.   

Than think on this, and let us prove,  
There is not joy on earth but Love,  
That every simple Lass may find  
(As we did) fire of subtle kind.   

Those foolish Girls that feel a heat,  
Their bashfulness dare not repeat:  
When they by us know what to do,  
they'll banish fear, and fall to woe.   

And so by our example, they  
That have been stubborn, will obey;  
And Girls that stay till fifteen, will  
Repent the time they spent so ill.   

All sorts of people from the age  
Of twelve to thirty shall presage  
Our happiness, and jointly come  
To crown our Loves El●zium.    

Meeting a piece of Mortality vailed.  

Unveil thyself, and shine as bright  
As sun by day, or stars by night.  
What pity 'tis to hid a face  
Enriched with such a comely grace!   

Thy Hair like Hemlocks careless fall,  
To deck thy amorous eyes with all,  
As fiery as the evening, where  
We read the next day will be fair.   

Thy curious forehead to us show,  
Where Ca●buncleses in number grow;  
But the beauties of thy Nose  
Would fright a man out of his clotheses,   

To dance a naked round delay,  
When on th'Tobacco Pipe you play;  
And the pale brightness of thy lips,  
Would force the Sun to an eclipse.   

Thy cheeks of fat and foggy stuff,  
Like the running Dropsy, swell and puff:  
But o! the Apples on 'em grow,  
I think were rotten long ago.   

Thy precious neck and breasts display  
Thy skins antiquity, for they  
Like a dried dunghill, chop and break,  
Until thy snout gins to leak.   

Thy parched fists defy the Sun;  
For all the malice he hath done,  
Can't change thy hide, nor any stain  
Corrupt it, for it's died in grain.   

Thy spacious belly and thy waste,  
Have grease sufficiently to baste  
A Herd of Swine, the have such a store,  
A Shambleses cannot purchase more.   

Thy Thighs like two Colossuses seem  
Proportioned, with thy body's Teem,  
And those which bear thy ponderous Britch,  
Are mighty Columns full of itch.   

But some that have thy Hoofs espied,  
With fear the fools fallen down and died;  
Yet all this while I have forgot,  
Thy Tongue as still as Canonshot.   

All parts of thy I can't display,  
The rest unseen, the Devil may.  
Thou-babes art the Wonder of this age,  
And wantest nothing, but a Cage.   

Which thou in time, mayst purchase too,  
If that the Beadle will but do:  
Than come and join thy Vice with me,  
Bless Nature for her Prodigy.    

To his Friend upon saying his Mistress was not fair.  
WHy dost thou think my Mistress is not fair,  
Because she is not as most Women are,  
Unprofitably proud, nor will admit  
Of scorn, to tart the sweetness of her wit;  
'Cause she in actions (most irregular  
To Love's choice Edicts) will not, Will prefer  
Above her Reason, nor was ever known  
To boast of Beauty, more than was her own;  
she's not precisely coy, nor yet too free  
In her bestowing Favours, but to me.  
She never used a Dram of Vicious Art  
To take man's eye, and afterwards his Heart.  
She needs not Ivory Teeth, not Spanish Read,  
Or Powders of Enticement: she is sped  
In Nature's Properties; let it suffice  
I love her, 'cause she love's not a Disguise.  
Disdain did never usurp her Ebon Brow,  
Nor does she tip her language with a Thon  
In base derision; her sweet Lenity  
With her Minds object shares of Purity.  
Greece gloried much of Helen's beauteous Rays;  
But Troy lamented more at the decays  
And ruin followed it. Dost think that I  
Govern my actions solely by my eye;  
Beauty is but a Garment used to hid  
Some imperfection, which if once espied  
Discretion bids us eat; then't may appear.  
Beauty with V●rtue seldom does cohere;  
But where they're Relatives, 'tis so much rare,  
That Beauty is Divinely singular,  
And merits much; yet let my Mistress be  
Black as a Crow, she seems a Swan to me;  
she's not defamed, nor curtailed of that shape  
Nature bestows on any, your Court-Ape  
Is not contented with, and to appear  
Moore excellent, will buy their Painting dear,  
Which on their cheeks lies thick, to show their store  
Like parched Walls new whitened, Ochred ore.  
Was not her face I courted, but the refined  
Inestimable jewel of her mind.  
She has within her that which can declare  
A soul sufficient to created her fair;  
And her conditions sweetness to each eye  
Appears th'Appendix where felicity  
Doth sit enthroned; All these perfections dwells  
In her alone. Humanity excels,  
And is so much Divine, her firm faith can  
Translate to immortality frail man  
Punish thy errors friend, and that I may  
Assure myself thou'rt penitent, obey.  
By thy subscribing, that 'tis only she  
Employed on earth for our eternity.   

A Prologue spoken upon removing of the late Fortune Players to the Bull.  
WHo would rely on Fortune, when she's known  
An enemy to Merit, and hath shown  
Such an example here? We that have paid  
Her tribute to our loss, each night defrayed  
The charge of her attendance, now grown poor,  
(Through her expenses) thrusts us out of door.  
For some peculiar profit; she has taken  
A course to banish Modesty, and retain  
Moore din, and incivility than hath been  
Known in the Bearwards Court, the Beargarden.  
Those that now sojourn with her, bring a noise  
Of Rabbles, Apple-wives and Chimney-boys,  
Whose shrill confused Echoes loud do cry,  
Enlarge your Commons, We hate Privacy.  
Those that have plots to undermine, and strive  
To blow their Neighbours up, so they may thrive,  
What censure they deserve, we leave to you,  
To whom the judgement on't belongs as due.  
Here Gentlemen, our anchor's fixed; And we  
(Disdaining Fortune's mutability)  
Expect your kind acceptance; than we'll sing  
(Protected by your smiles our ever-spring;)  
As pleasant as if we had still possessed  
Our lawful Portion out of Fortune's breast:  
Only we would request you to forbear  
Your wont custom, banding Tyle, or Pear,  
Against our curtains, to allure us forth.  
I pray take notice these are of more Worth,  
Pure Naples silk, not Worsted; we have never  
An Actor here has mouth enough to tear  
Language by th'ears; this forlorn Hope shall be  
By Us refined from such gross injury.  
And than let your judicious Loves advance  
Us to our Merits, them to their Ignorance.   

To a Vow-breaker leaving this land.  

Go perjured Wanton, and invite  
With thy forged Language for a night,  
The ears of thy new-fangled Mate,  
Knowledge of thee begets a hate.   

Go, and with thee take all the sin  
Thy Sex's frailty have lived in  
Since Adam's fall; for thou art worse  
Than Eve, or serpent, Man's chief curse.   

What dire pretence, what feigned cause  
Has made thee violate Loves laws;  
And all those vows which once to me  
Thou-babes mad'st, before his Deity.   

What strange eclipse is in, thy Youth,  
Which once did shine as clear as Truth  
In her best lustre, to my eye,  
For it could not thy Faith descry?   

Has some new flame possessed thy blood,  
Which will consume, if not withstood,  
Thy souls chief portion, and strive  
To make thy shame alone survive?   

Or did the niceness of my love  
From those immodest Acts which move  
Perhaps in some, beget in thee  
A thought of such impiety?   

Some senseless Wretch that never known  
Lust's debts, and th'payments that ensue,  
'tis likely, has to please his sense,  
Deflowered thy Beauty's excellence.   

And thou made stupid with his praise,  
Regardless how thy Youth decays,  
By thy intemperate Will, dost run  
A course without Religion:   

Tendering to His unlawful suit,  
Each day that blessed forbidden fruit,  
Which Heaven did give thee, and ordained  
Thy Prayers should have kept unstained.   

How are our Beauties happy made,  
That thou hast left thy Native shade  
To wander to the Iberian Coast,  
Where thou may'st of thy falseness boast?   

Hadst thou continued longer here,  
Some strange infection we might fear;  
Our Beauties would have drawn from thee.  
Thou-babes banished, they from it are free.   

Each creature now with fresh desire,  
May safely warm 'em at Love's sire,  
And not suspect those flames unjust  
You used, consuming Hearts to dust.   

Dost think fond Woman, by thy flight,  
To hid thy shame from the quick sight  
Of thy own conscience? it alone  
Shall be thy Guilts companion:   

Which shall surround thy spotted breast  
With such black thoughts, that if expressed  
Either by Pen, or else by Breath,  
Would fright a timorous Maid to Death.   

The gentle winds that now appear,  
Mild as the breath of Lambs, shall bear  
Upon their wings in furious rage,  
Thy Crimes to every Foreign Stage.   

The tattling bushes in the Groves,  
Shall tell the Story of our Loves:  
Which well observed, they'll all conspire  
With Lightning, and consume with fire.   

Both thee and thy Familiar, so  
Unlooked for my revenge will grow,  
And thy example will so strike  
In some, they'll fear to do the like.   

Thou-babes canst not pass by Brook or Spring,  
But hearing their soft murmuring,  
Thy conscious soul will guess that strait  
It whispers thy unhappy Fate.   

Go where thou will't, and use thy charms,  
To circled him within thy arms;  
Thou-babes for a time will dote on, than  
Return unto thy Fate again.   

'tis passed my Creed, to think that you  
Now false to me, can long be true  
To him: for why? new faces breed  
New appetites, whereon to feed.   

Had he each various way to please,  
And held a surfeit not disease;  
Yet that thy custom still may swell,  
thou'lt mix, though with some Infidel.   

His faith with thy may best agreed,  
there's such a fatal sympathy  
In your affections, every part  
Resembles thy, when heart in heart.   

Than take my counsel and possess  
Some uncouth shaggy Wilderness.  
There take Plantation, and be wise;  
Both wanting faith, all faith despise.   

There mingle limbs, and procreate  
Some Prodigy may ruin Fate;  
So keep those dangers of, which they  
Intent shall be thy Youth's decay,   

And suddenly will fall on thee,  
For this thy vild Apostasy,  
Which a Nun's penance cannot call  
Merit, t'purchase Mercy withal.   

Thy travailing friend when he does find  
Thy want of faith, to the next Wind  
Will beg a waftage, to be rid  
Of thee, which sacred laws forbidden   

Conversing with; thy sins are grown  
So foul, they needs must be thy own  
For perpetuity; than he  
Is mad that stays to share with thee.   

When thoroughly thou hast dived into  
Thy own defects, 'twill puzzle you  
To hope forgiveness, when you see  
With blushes your deformity,   

And every spot which will declare  
Thee black as night, though once as fair  
As Summer's noontide in her pride,  
Thou-babes wert as near to Heaven allied;   

Hadst thou not lost that Essence, which  
By faith all Women doth enrich,  
And played away at one poor vie  
Thy souls entire security.   

Thou-babes which hast so profusely spent  
Thy Youth, and Beauty's Ornament,  
Canst hope to live, till age doth pour,  
Upon thy head a silver shower?   

Or if those hopes may have success,  
Thou-babes that hast tasted the excess  
Of pleasures, canst thou look to have  
Moore comfort than th'insatiate Grave?   

Our present pleasures vade away,  
But those to come will never decay,  
Reserved in Heaven; be not remiss  
In seeking (than) such future bliss.   

Farewell, And when that thou hast ta'en  
A full survey of what I feign  
Will follow:  
For all my wrongs, but teach thy eye  
To shed a tear; and so will 1    

To a Gentlewoman being fearful upon the water, by reason of the roughness of't.  
WHy do you tremble fair one, why has fear  
Displanted the best Beauties of the year  
From their warm beds your cheeks? what? does the sight  
Of the rough waves your timorous heart affright,  
'Cause in the conflict with the boisterous wind,  
You doubt they'll to your passage be unkind?  
Let not such thoughts invade you; though the sky  
Is with th'unruly stood in Mutinity:  
Yet your firm faith is of sufficient power,  
To calm the greatest tempest, in an hour,  
Should they mix elements, and every blast  
From the contentious North threaten a waste  
To the distempered water, so afflict  
The Universe with terror, we'd direct  
Our motions o'er 'em, where our Boat shall play  
As free as when an East wind guide's the way;  
Than be more confident of your own worth,  
While we as Prodigies admired, launch forth.  
Mistake me not, 'tis not a self-conceit  
Of my deserts, kindles in me this heat  
Of resolute boldness, but 'tis in you  
To whom all Attributes of worth are due.  
Under your blessed protection I shall be  
Fixed as a Rock, that scorns their injury.  
Do you observe, as soon as you appear,  
How they retreat as glad to see you here,  
To end their difference, Boreas does retire  
To use his force t'increase the Cyclops fire.  
Now with an amorous breath gins to move  
The golden trammels of your hair to love,  
Now mildly steals a kiss; it's not sin to say  
He court's you as his fair Orythia.  
The waves have smoothed their wrinkles to, and do  
(Learning by Boreas in what form to woo;)  
With smiling aspect, seek to reinvite  
You from your fears, to note how they delight  
To bear your blessed weight, and while they skip  
For joy, the sun is playing with your lip,  
All Rivals in such bliss, the streams dash in,  
Wantonly kiss your garments, not your skin:  
That as a thing forbidden, they adore,  
But dare not touch as warned from it before:  
they're all officious safely to convey  
Us to the place we look for, while sad they  
Mourn for your absence, each dissolve to tears,  
So drown themselves for drowning you with fears.   

To his friend, advising him from Love.  
WHen to my fair Clarinda I gave breath,  
My expectation was not present death,  
Her unjust doom on me, nor did I look  
For such a change, that had some freedom taken  
In her Hyperboles. All that have seen  
Her Beauty, and my Praises, would have been  
My witness against her, how much I deserved  
In her best thoughts, whose studies had preserved  
Her Name unto eternity, had not she  
Discovered her whole sex's infamy  
By her revolt, that my enforced Pen  
(Against its Nature, used for sonnets when  
I called her Mine) did charactize her shame  
Blacker than Ink could make it; for the flame  
My vitals once possessed, when it did know  
Hers was declining, would not stronger grow:  
But by degrees extinguished, else 'twould prove  
Our pains injustice, motives not of Love.  
Hadst thou but known her Will, thou wouldst have said  
She was a pretty, handsome, well-faced Maid,  
Though not endued with those perfections I  
Did boast of to the World; Poets may lie  
As well as seeming Prophets, for w●at she  
Enjoyed above Nature's bounty, she'd from me,  
My lines at first did polish every l●mb;  
But penciling her heart, my eyes grew dim;  
Both Pen and Fancy failed me, I gave o'er,  
Finding her heart stained with the leprous sore  
Of base deceit, and left her with that poor  
Implicit Beauty which she had, before  
My verse had nourished it; what canst expect  
For all thy service, more than such neglect?  
Shouldst thou make every line swell with conceit,  
And sing her praises in each Epithet;  
Yet thy reward at last will be like m●ne.  
O friend! all woman's Fancies do decline  
With hours and minutes, and the greatest bliss  
Poor Man can hope for, is but in a kiss  
The shadow of content, which having got,  
It fire's his soul, and yet it pleaseth not.  
Why should we make an Idol of a face  
Of the same mould as ours, and add a grace  
To't by our Homages; so enthrall our eye,  
When Heaven and Nature gives it liberty.  
What though the strange Ideas of our mind,  
Transform our thoughts to every shape and kind:  
That we approve that best that's worst of evils,  
Hold Women Saints, cause some are glorious devils?  
Shall we persist, committing sacrilege  
Against Heaven and goodness, give them privilege  
Above mother Nature, make that hand 'cause white  
A miracle: that eye 'cause clear and bright.  
The Deity I worship, so profane  
Heaven's purity and leave a lasting stain  
On our discretion, make a foolish toy,  
A Puppet to be played with, our chief joy  
And best of hopes, losing all the pride  
Rests in true manhood, and our youth beside,  
For one, framed our inferior, the weak thing  
Of peevish woman, which in mentioning  
Declares their first creation, and from whence  
They do derive (forsooth) their Excellence?  
What pleasure is't to dally with the Fan  
Of thy fine Mistress, or be less a man,  
And kiss her Glove, gain from her eyes a glance,  
That may thy easy heart a while entrance,  
Fettering with golden hopes thy giddy youth,  
Hanging Despair upon the heels of Truth?  
Their Loves are like one's breath on purest steel,  
Not sooner on, but of, they never feel  
Nor understand affection; what we call  
Beauty's a thing most prejudicial  
To our humanity, how ever it seem,  
A precious object in our eyes esteem,  
We gaze on it as th'Porcupine on th'stars,  
Till Ruin overtakes us in the Wars.  
We hold with our own errors, and should we  
Enjoy this new set up Idolatry,  
Our States were yet uncertain, for they still  
Would have some fetch to satiate their william  
They are infirm in loyalty, and be  
Like the golden Apples hanging on the tree  
O'er Tantalus, which if but touched, will fall  
Strait into ashes, so that little All  
Of good in Women is compounded so;  
The lest breath of temptation they'll yield to.  
There is so many sleights used by vild Woman,  
That th'custom (like themselves) is now grown common.  
They can instruct their eyes to weep, when they  
Like Crocodiles are readiest to betray  
Our lives to eminent danger; they do make  
Love SATURN'S knots of ●ushess, which in twisting break.  
The sweets they give us, treacherously assumes,  
To stifle up our senses with Perfumes.  
If we from Gall can extract Honey, than  
Sin may produce such Virtues. Simple men  
Aptly may credit: but believe me Friend,  
Those that are bad, their Mischiefs have not end.  
They are to their affections so unjust,  
They banish chaste Love to comply with Lust.  
I have been long a Scholar in Love's School,  
Experience made me a Proficient fool,  
I know the desperate effects ensue  
This apish love, and would advertise you  
(As one that friendship and your knowing merit  
Has fastened in a cordial tie;) inherit  
(Dear Sir) that blessed freedom, which the name  
Of Worth in Man can challenge, temper the flame  
You have received: let not your female creature  
(Knows how to work upon so good a Nature,)  
Take you up wholly, so your friends to be  
Deprived of what they love; Your company  
Which they hold precious to ''em. Gentle Sir  
Let not your course run so irregular:  
But limit so your passion, that we may,  
Despite of Love or Venus, have a day,  
Or two, or three to consecrated to mirth,  
And give our hopes in you a second birth.  
You that are one that shares in all the parts  
Of Nature's blessings, and sublimest Arts,  
You that know all, that Man should know, is good,  
As worthy in your actions, as by blood  
Of your prime Ancestors, you that justly can  
Instruct in knowledge the illiterate Man  
By exact rule; be so much now yourself,  
And let your judgement banish th'scurvy Elf,  
Your too much doting Love, a thing that none  
But fools and madmen will be seen to own:  
Dotage is incident to years fourscore;  
But you as yet have not seen twenty four:  
It dulls the sense, and stupifies the wit,  
And to reside with them it is most fit.  
I know thy wit's as active as the fire,  
And subtle as the air. Kill that desire  
Would list thee amongst such Idiots. I know  
A nobler way than that for thee. Than go  
Unto thy Study, see how ruinated  
it's grown, and through thy absence desolate.  
See how thy Books lie speechless, how they mourn  
(Like true observants) till thy sweet return.  
And see what Rendezvous the Mo●theses have made;  
Here lies a member of an Iliad,  
Compacted once, was Homer's: Now it lies  
Unto their spoil an humble Sacrifice.  
Correct these faults my friend, and thou shalt see,  
That childish love's not worth thy Library.  
But I have dived too deep, and may suspect  
(Your Temper being moved) you will correct  
Me as the rest, taking on me a task  
Which may be doubtful to you; yet I'll ask  
Not mercy from you; what  done, 'tis fit  
You should conceive was zeal, so tender it.   

To the truly virtuous and his much honoured Lady, the Lady jane S. an Ode.  

YOu, that are she  
Which every Woman aught to be,  
The glory of our age;  
Whose sweet demeanour shows  
Where Love and Virtue flows,  
Where Beauty and Delight doth devil,  
We cannot find your Parallel  
In all this Terren stage.   

You that are she  
Whose youth is from corruption free,  
My Fancy dare uphold.  
Were there more such as you,  
To noble Actions true,  
Men need not fear to say they did  
Possess some heavenly treasure, hide  
Ever since the age of gold.   

You that are she  
Composed of Nature's Rarity.  
Cherries in Winter grow  
Upon your lips, which tell  
How much you do excel  
The Summer's pride: but on your breast  
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest,  
Without dissolving snow.   

You that are she,  
The top branch of that glorious tree,  
for Pious acts renowned,  
Departed hence, but are  
Each of them fixed a star  
In Heavens bright firmament, while you  
Inherit here as your just due  
Honour with Virtue crowned.   

You that are she,  
Distinguish can formality  
From needless pride; when we  
Seek for some beauteous face,  
Adorned with modest Grace.  
A Lady that's so well inclined.  
She bears a Seraphinian mind;  
Whose sacred Meditations to us show,  
she's marked a Saint, we need not farther go,  
For you are only she.    

To the right Worshipful Sir I B. K. upon encouraging him in Poetry.  
MY Muse as cold as clay, from your quick Rays  
Promethean like grew Masculine, her Bays  
Received a freshness, your Etherial fire  
Ran through her faculties till her desire  
Met with my wishes jointly to begin  
Our votes to you; yet stay; it were a sin  
Should she omit your Lady, and your Race,  
The perfect figures of the sum of Grace.  
And honoured Sir, to you, whose powerful name  
Merit's above the Donatives of ●ame:  
You that are great in goodness, whose blessed Fate  
Makes you a Pillar of this British state:  
May you be free from sorrow, free from care,  
That may disturb your quiet, to declare  
You only mortal. May you live to see  
A Nestor's age in blessed felicity.  
May you continued ever in that seat  
Your merits, and not Fortune, have made great.  
May you enjoy your wishes full content,  
To crown your latter days till they are spent.  
May you embrace a Father's comfort, by  
Your children in successful Progeny,  
May they in it be happy, and may health  
Purchase the keeping you, and your just wealth  
From others deprivation, may Increase  
For ever crown the Harvest of your peace.   

A Sigh.  
POst happy sigh upon the wings  
Of some blessed Cherubin, that sings  
Continual Anthems in the Choir  
Of Heaven, there finish thy desire.  
Thou-babes wert not born for the poor use  
Of Mistress, but my sins abuse;  
And 'tis not fit thou shouldst endure  
A mixture with this air impure;  
Thou-babes drewest thy breath from me, and art  
The issue of a contrite heart.  
As Mothers, ever their time be run,  
With anguish bring a breathless son  
Into the world; so I did thee,  
With grief and unfeigned misery.  
thou'rt of as little use, unless  
Thy Innocence can win access  
To enter heavens ears; we need  
Some Cherubin to intercede  
For us; expense we need not fear,  
Bribes have not power to enter there:  
Or if thou doubtest (because but one)  
Thou-babes canst not well express a groan,  
Nor justly pled for mercy, I  
Will sand thee Legions more, shall buy  
My soul from death, When all agreed  
To fill the heavens with Harmony.   

To his friend J. W. a Meditation.  
DId we consider rightly what a store  
Of imperfections waits to ruin man  
From's infancy to's grave; Vice makes a sore  
Upon his soul incurable, that can  
Precipitate his glories to the Abyss,  
Once banished from the Paradise of Bliss.  
His first breath is a cry, His last a groan;  
Yet happy in that groan, if he died well,  
Angels shall wait his soul's ascension, none  
Of Virtue's instruments but shall excel  
In joy each other, that man's penitence  
Has brought him to that place of excellence.  
th'unbridled Youth giving his folly reins,  
Disclaims all council that his errors show,  
Until a second mischief binds in chains  
The giddy Colt, and than he finds his woe.  
All that his Parents left him once consumed,  
He will appear a Peacock, but unplumed.   

LOVE CROWNS THE END.  
A PASTORAL PRESENTED BY THE SCHOLLEES OF BINGHAM in the County of Nottingham, in the year 1632.  
Written by Io. Tatham Gent.  
LONDON: Printed by I N. for RICHARD BEST, and are to be sold at his Shop near Grays-inn-gate in Holborn. 1640.   


The Prologue.  
YOu stars of Honour, brighter than the day,  
Or new raised Phoebus in his morning Ray;  
A● rich in Wisdom as in Virtue's rare;  
Accept the choicest dish our wits prepare,  
As a third course to please your eye, which still  
Covets to have of novelties its fill.  
We have not bundled up some Kickshaws here  
To bid you welcome; We do hate such gear.  
Our brain's the Kitchen, and our wit's the meat,  
Preparative to which, we bid you eat,  
If liked, if not refrained; you Judges sit  
To damn or save our not yet ripened wit:  
So rest upon your goodness; if you frown,  
Our poor endeavours than are trodden down.   

Love crowns the end.  A Grove discovered, and in an obscure corner thereof Cliton as being a sleep. To him Alexis. ALEXIS. 
HOW still the morning is, as if it meant  
To steal upon us without Time's consent,  
And pry into our errors. I have been  
Searching in every Thicket, Wood, and Green  
To find my Lamb, and many doleful cries  
Entered my ears ever day. what's this that lies  
In such an obscure place, where none scarce tread,  
Unless the Ghosts of the disturbed dead?  
Bless me great Pan, I see it's Cliton's face  
With a sword drawn; how happy was my chase  
This way! I hope his folly has not made  
Himself a Beast, as butchered with this Blade;  
IT may be he sleeps: I'll speak to him, and try;  
Yet I half doubt him 'cause he here doth lie.  
Cliton, awake, the Night's dislodged, and now  
Bright Morn is trimming of her Virgin brow,  
To court the Sun, when from the Western deep  
And Thetis lap his glimmering beams do peep  
T'ascend his glorious Car. Cliton— awake,  
And with thy sleep all dreams of horror shake  
That may affright thee.  CLITON. 
Kind Alexis, thanks,  
How found you me?  ALEXIS. 
Walking those flowery banks,  
Betwixt the green valley, and the place which we  
Have consecrated to Love's Deity:  
Seeking a strayed Lamb, I did hear sad moans  
Proceed from some like peals of parting groans,  
Which I pursued, but in my search I found  
None but yourself: you resting on this ground  
I wondered much to see you!  CLITON. 
So you might.  
But when  herded the cause on't, 'twill affright  
Your easy breast. Do you observe this Hand,  
This fatal Hand, at my unjust command  
Did:— O, I could destroyed!  ALEXIS. 
For what offence?  CLITON. 
This hand has spilt the blood of Innocence,  
My Florida's.  ALEXIS. 
How?  CLITON. 
And when I'd done  
(As I might well) did hid me from the Sun,  
Fearing his eye would be the only cause  
To find me out; and here from men and laws  
I have obscured myself, and could not say  
'Twas justly night, when night: Nor day when day;  
My fact had sulled both.  ALEXIS. 
What urged thee to such inhumanity?  CLITON. 
Only suspicion of her loyalty,  
Dreaming Lysander had enjoyed her love,  
My jealousy to cruelty did move:  
I slay her three days since, and since have been  
Each night at that place I stained with my sin,  
To seek the body, but some sacred Power,  
For none else dared approach her purity,  
Has certainly made her immortal, and  
Conveyed the body to some holier land.  ALEXIS. 
Is the body go than?  CLITON. 
Or else my eyes do fail me as an▪ abject not worth their help.  ALEXIS. 
Thy crime requires contrition; to that end,  
Thou-babes shalt with me. Thy days to come shalt spend  
In holy uses; I'll prepare for thee,  
In the best form I can, each property  
Belonging to a pensive man You must  
Forget all youthful pleasures, think on dust,  
And penitence the only means to bring  
Thy soul to rest after this wandering.  
Will you with me?  CLITON. 
To death, or otherwise, since Florida is dead. Exeunt.  Cloe pursued by a lustful shepherd. Lustful Shepherd. 
●tay my darling, do not fly,  
This place is private, here's none nigh.  
Fear not Wench, I'll do not harm,  
But embrace thee in my arm;  
Cull and kiss, and do the thing  
Shepherds do at wrestling,  CLOE. 
O help, if any Shepherds, near,  
Hear my laments.  Lust. Shepherd. 
Yet creature, do not fear:  
But if you with coy disdain,  
Do think to leave me in my flame,  
I'll force those golden locks of thy  
To lie beneath these feet of mine;  
Than yield and here enjoy such sweet  
As with our embraces meet.  CLOE. 
O hapless Maid, not aid will come. Lysander steps forth.  LYSANDER. 
Fear not Virgin; here is some  
Nature's monster; Villain, why  
Does thy flame now burn so high?  
Will not other serve thy turn  
To quench the heats that in thee burn,  
But so fair a soul as she?  
Villain hence, or else I'll be Lustful shep. gazeth on him, than runs in.  
Thy Butcher.  CLOE. 
Kind Youth, to whom an I  
Bond for this fair courtesy?  LYSANDER. 
First unto Heaven fair Creature; next to me  
A poor unworthy Shepherd.  CLOE. 
May your Sweetest whom you love,  
Ever constant to you prove.  
Be she brighter than the Sun,  
Pleasing as our day at noon;  
Fresher than the morning dew:  
Sweeter than a new killed Ewe;  
Like Aurora decked with flowers,  
Or the welcome April showers.  
May she love you, and you be  
The mirror for true Constancy;  
Go gentle Youth, and this day prosperous be  
Among our Swains in your Activity. Exit.  LYSANDER. 
A thousand thanks reward you  
Pan be my guide, and thou fair Gloriana,  
Whose beauty has incindered my poor heart  
Almost to nothing this day; thou shalt find  
Thou-babes hast a power above our human kind.  DAPHNE'S. Exit. 
Bright sun, why dost thou shine on me?  
Is it to mock me? keep thy light; for I  
Had rather live in darkness, and so die.  
Or dost thou show thy lustre in disdain,  
Because I have so often with speech profane  
Blasphemed against thy goodness, And in praise  
Of a poor earthly creature spent my days?  
Dost thou yet smile? forgive me, and I'll be  
Not more her servant, but will honour thee.  
Keep thou thy brightness Phoebus, and this day  
From all our Swains I'll bring the prize away. Exit.  Leon, Gloriana, and Francisco. FRANCISCO. 
Fairest, this day, be pleased to smile on me,  
And let those hidden favours yet unshown,  
Flow in abundance, that Swains may see  
None ever can conquer me, but you alone.  GLORIANA. 
My favours friend is past, and you have tasted  
So much of my poor bounty, that it's wasted.  LEON. 
We stay too long son, pray make haste,  
Let us not spend time in waste.  
Daughter, you shall go with me,  
Where their pastime we may see.  
Hark, I hear 'em make a noise; A noise within.  
O my hearts my bonny boys,  
Play your parts; when I was young  
I was full as stout and strong.  FRAN. 
Dearest, I must part; this calls me hence.  
Father, I leave you. Exit Fra:  GLORIANA. 
For ever I hope, would I could prophesy,  
And be effectual; it should be so.  LEON. 
Daughter, this way let us high;  
I an old, I'll not come nigh:  
Nor shalt thou my dapper Girl,  
Jest those staffs that often whirl  
Hit thy face. What again! A●w● again.  
Nay than I fear we go in vain.  GLORIANA. 
Yet Father let us go, that w●  
May know who gained the victory. Exeunt.  The lustful shepherd like a Satire. 
Because Dame Nature, pox of all her tricks,  
Has not dealt so well with me as she aught,  
Making me but a lump of roughhewn stuff,  
The pettish Wenches will not play with me,  
Nor tick nor toy, and cause I'm apt for sport:  
How ever I'm formed,  put on this disguise,  
To fright the baggages, when getting some  
Betwixt these my arms, ●'le force 'em to my will,  
Yet pass unknown. Thus I my senses fill.  Scrub within. So ho, so ho, so ho. 
What noise is yond?  SCRUB. 
Through the Woods, and through the Woods have I run after the Runaway my Master.— What art thou in the devil's name?  Lust. shepherd. 
Sirrah, I an—  SCRUB. 
A devil, I knew't before: Thou-babes shouldst be a lecherous devil by thy hairy hide: but I an not Succubus goodman devil.  Lust. shepherd 
Dost thou fear me?  SCRUB. 
O Lord, me Sir. I have met such another devil as thou art, in my Porridge dish.  Lust. shepherd. 
And didst thou know him?  SCRUB. 
Know him? how do you mean know him? I should be loath to know him or thee, or he thee, or thy grand-Master me for any ill; for I have defied the devil and his works ever since the general Earthquake, and that my Mother's Cat miscarried in the horse Pond.  Lust. shepherd. 
Was thy Mother a Witch?  SCRUB. Offers to strike. 
How a Witch you devil— I'll witch you.  Lust. shepherd. 
Hold man: she was an honest woman.  SCRUB. 
Nay, now thou liest, and thou beest the devil's devil:  
For I have herded her soberly say, she had six—  
Bastards by a Sowgelder before she pigged me.  Lust. shepherd. Offers again. 
Hold, hold man  SCRUB. 
The devil afraid of blows! I'll make you spit fire.  Runs after him. A great sh●wt. Lysander with a Garland on's head, and scarves on's arms, Cloe following him. CLOE. 
Friendly Swain, the day is yours; you see  
My prayer it seems successful was to thee.  
Pity my maiden tears; till now, I never  
Sued to a shepherd, but the shepherds were  
My suitors.  
Nor deem me light▪ because my love is such;  
I love indeed, and fear I love too much.  
You saved my life, my chastity, what more?  
Take me as one that was your own before.  LYSANDER. 
How much I grieve fair Shepherdess, my Fa●●  
Will not allow me such a just proportion,  
To tender thee, as thy deserts have merited  
From me.  CLOE. 
O friend!  
I●le be your servant, and your flocks will keep.  
I'll nightly watch while you do sweetly sleep▪  
And in the morn I'll willingly to field,  
While you do taste the sweets Love's valleys yield,  
And with industrious labour against noon,  
Will get your dinner ready, so you will  
But smile on me, and say well done.  LYSANDER. 
To starve your hopes from further prosecution in this suit.  
Know  already fixed my resolution  
To love none but fair Gloriana, she  
Is the Commandress of my life, and fortunes:  
So much I pity you, that I could wish  
I had two hearts, that you might share in one  
As a just recompense for your love, but why do I  
Entertain such frivolous unnecessary talk.  
May you live happy, and enjoy as rare,  
And constant Shepherd as yourself is fair. Exit.  CLOE. 
Is my face withered? or has Nature so  
Deformed me lately that I an not Cloe?  
For thee poor Cloe Shepherds have pitched the Bar,  
Wrestled, and leaped, and shown the feats of War.  
For thee each striven to gain thee as his Dove;  
But thou didst sleight and scorn their simple love.  
How many Verses have the Shepherds made,  
In praising of thy Beauty, whilst thou laid  
Thy heart on him that hate's to hear thee named,  
And thy delight is still to have him famed?  
How many Rings and Gloves hast thou received  
From the poor Swains thou often times deceived?  
For thee on Holy days they often would  
Meet on the Heath next to the Pinders fold,  
Where they with Music, and such sweet content,  
Would spend their time to make thee merriment.  
Since than my love is not one mite rewarded,  
And that my Beauty is not more regarded:  
I'll tear these golden locks, that shepherds may  
Leave of their sport, and make not Holiday.  SINGS. 
I will follow through yond Grove,  
Where I soon shall meet my Love;  
Than with sweet embraces we  
Will clip, and cull, and none shall see.  
A willow Garland I will make,  
And sweetly wear it for his sake.  
Than through Thickets, Woods, and Plains,  
I will hid me from the Swains?  
High damn, high damn, what art thou? As she is running in, meets her.  DAPHNE'S. 
You were not want to question that; how fares my dearest Love?  CLOE. 
Hence thou coward, hence from me:  
Blush at thy disloyal●y.  
Didst not tell me thou wouldst gain  
Me reputation by thy fame;  
And sufferest now a stranger bear  
The prize, and thou to have not share?  DAPHNE. 
Your frowns my Fairest, and not he,  
Gained from me the victory.  
Had you smiled as you did frown,  
All his strength I'd maugred down.  
What has disturbed my Love? who has committed  
This injury to thy person?  CLOE. 
Ha', ha', ha'; fool, fool! see you now fool?  
Fool! kiss— kiss— kiss— Exit.  DAPHNE'S. 
What fickle things are women? yet they are such men cannot be without; our too much doting on 'em makes 'em proud; for loving them, they'd make us hate ourselves. I do suspect this bad distemper in her proceeds from some denial Lysander has given her to her unlawful suit, knowing my love to her. 'tis so. I must not let her suffer in too high a nature. Exit.  A place discovered all green myrtles, adorned with Roses, a Title written over't thus. LOVER'S VALLEY. Lysander and Gloriana. LYSANDER. 
Dearest Love, fair as the Eastern morn,  
When with her Summer's robe she decks the Plains,  
And hangs on every bush a liquid pearl,  
In May's triumphing month▪ sweet as the air,  
The Phoenix does expire in, sit while I play  
The cunning Thief, and steal thy heart away,  
And thou shalt stand as Judge to censure me,  
To recompense thy loss I must agreed;  
To give my heart, which being understood,  
'tis but exchange, I keep your heart, you mine.  GLORIANA. 
Content my Love thus, she would court thee,  
And thus and thus she'd play a Wantoness part:  
Do I not blush Adonis. Kiss him.  LYSANDER. 
O, you must not blush! you spoil the jest on't,  
I'll span thy Waste, and do as Wantoness use;  
I'll be Adonis, but will not refuse.  GLORIANA. 
Nay fie, you stray beyond your limits.  LYSANDER. Kiss. 
Modesty allows such undefiled mixtures.  To them FRANCISCO. 
Ah! where are my eyes? what cursed unruly winds Have blown 'em out, and in their stead placed these base counterfeits! O you Deities? you are unjust to suffer this? If these eyes be my own may they be blasted, that without my Licence 
Dared see this object: but yet let reason  
Sway my passion.  
Why do I wish a mischief on myself  
That must see their destruction? I have long  
Suspected him by reason of her Necios,  
And the continual scorn dwelled on her brow  
When I did proffer love, were I provided  
I'd rush upon 'em, and from his base arms  
Snatch the false Girl, but I'll stand secure  
A while and overhear ''em.   GLORIANA. 
'tis time to part,  dallied Time too long.  
Lysander, will you walk?  LYSANDER. 
Thinks Gloriana  
That Time is lost that's spent with her Lysander  FRANCISCO. 
Deluding devil  GLORIANA. 
I could Lysander.  
(Might it not stain my Maiden-years) live only  
By gazing on thy Beauty.  LYSANDER. 
Nay, now you mock me; but I hope ever long  
We shall with more security enjoy  
What our hearts wish for. Where shall we next meet?  GLORIANA. 
In this very place to morrow be sure you meet.  LYSANDER. Exeunt. 
I will not fail.  FRANCISCO. 
Nor I to meet you both. O my best stars!  
How I shall wove myself into revenge just, just Gods  
 stamped my brain for mischief▪ which on them  
I'll execute.  
And none shall pry into my faults within.  
Revenge has Coverts, fit to hid his sin.  Exit. CLOE mad. SINGS. 
Hey down a down derry,  
And shall not we be merry?  
A fire on thy hole,  
'tis as black as a coal,  
And thy nose is as brown as a berry.  
High ho. What a thing this love is?  
When Love did act a woman's part,  
She sings .She could have died with all her heart,  
It swelled her so in every part;  
She sworn 'twas wind, and than did—  
High, high, high, high,  
Nymphs to her  
Sing about her.  
Love cannot choose but pity yield,  
He never lived in tented field,  
Amongst iron hearted men,  
He knows both how, and when  
Thee to restore  
To what thou wert before.  
He has a tender breast, which knows  
Your wants by the tormenting woes  
he's subject to himself.  
Than do not you despair,  
That are both young and fair.  
Thus we convey you hence.  CLOE. Takes Cloe with ''em. 
Where do you lead me? Exeunt.  Lysander and Gloriana. LYSANDER. 
How blessed are we, that Fortune hath  
So much befriended us in this happy?  
Convenient opportunity?  GLORIANA. 
'tis an unaccustomed favour,  
And we aught in duty to acknowledge  
A thankfulness for it.  LYSANDER. She sits down. 
So sits the pride of Nature to outvie  
Each glorious Beauty of the chequered field,  
And Flora's richest Wardrobe.  GLORIANA. 
I perceive  
 practised long in th'flattering Rules of love.  
What will reward you?  LYSANDER. 
A kiss is more than I can merit.  
Will you sing.  GLORIANA. 
And you'll give me another for my pains.  LYSANDER. 
Put it to the trial,  
You shall not lose your labour.  SONG. GLORIANA. 
Sat while I do gather flowers,  
And depopulate the Bowers.  
here's a kiss will come to thee;  Lysander. 
Give me one, I'll give thee three.  BOTH. 
Thus in harmless sport we may,  
Pass all idle hours away.  GLORIANA. 
Hark, hark how fine  
The Birds do chime,  
And pretty Philomela  
Her moan doth tell.  BOTH. 
Than pity, pity love, and all is well.  GLORIANA. 
here's the Violet, Pink, and Rose,  
The sweetest breathe for the nose.  LYSANDER. 
Yet thy breath to me doth yield  
Moore fragrant scents than all the field.  GLORIANA. 
Love cares not for flowers or toys,  
Play games for your apish Boys.  
Nor superstition  
For his condition  
Is for to know  Lysander 
— if you love or not?  GLORIANA. 
Than answer, love I or no.  
But yet me thinks that face should be  
The Model of true constancy:  
Therefore not reason have I,  
To suspect thy loyalty,  
here's another kiss for thee.  LYSANDER. 
Give me one, I'll give thee three.  BOTH. 
Thus in harmless sport we may,  
Pass all idle hours away.  GLORIANA. 
Hark, hark how fine  
The Birds do chime,  
And pretty Philomela,  
Her moan doth tell▪  BOTH. 
Than pity, pity Love, and all is well.  LYSANDER. 
 sung me most a sleep, my eyes are dull and heavy,  
Faith I must make thy lap my pillow.  GLORIANA. 
Repose thy gentle head on't. Alas!  
I'm heavy too, and must obey my destiny. Sleep.  The Destinies. SING. 
Sleep on, sleep on,  
For we have so decreed,  
That thou must bleed:  
Sleep on, sleep on,  
And mayst thou never rise,  
For blood the shepherd cries.  
Sleep on, sleep on. Exeunt.  A heavenly messenger in white. 

SONG.  
Rise, rise Lysander to prevent  
What the Destinies decreed.  
Thou-babes art constant, permanent,  
And must not bleed▪  
Thy constant seed  
Shall be the shepherd's joy,  
Not annoy  
Shall attend  
Such a friend  
As the Lasses need.  
Rise, rise, awake!  
And sleep of shake;  
The Heavens are pleased thy part to take,  
For thy Love's sake. Exit:   GLORIANA. They stir. 
Lysander, where art? Lord how my fancy's troubled!  LYSANDER. 
How fares my Gloriana? I have had  
Strange thoughts that would have dispossessed  
Me of my rest, had I not taken it here  
On your sacred lap.  Francisco disguised with others▪ FRANCISCO. 
That is the man: upon him instantly  
While I attach his Mistress.  GLORIANA. 
Ah me Lysander, what means these sad spectacles▪  1. VILLAIN. 
We must have life and death.  GLORIANA. 
Both life and death: how can that be?  FRAN. 
Thy life, and thy Lysander's death.  GLORIANA. 
 herded that voice ever now  
Afford more milder language.  FRAN. 
Stop her mouth jest she does charm me  
Unto pity.  LYSANDER. 
Are you but men, and dare do this?  GLORIANA. 
O spare Lysander, sheath your swords in me.  FRAN. 
we'll not expostulate: take that.  2. VILLAIN. 
And that.  GLORIANA. They take her with them. 
O Lysander!  
Stay, stay, let me but breathe my last  
Upon her lips, and I'll forgive this Butchery.  
Cowards, Villains, Miscreants, have you left me?  
But o my fairest, whether art thou fled?  
Fear has made pale those cheeks that were so read.  
I'll follow thee: they shall not dare to touch  
The lest hem of thy garments. But o, I faint;  
And must surrender up to earth that part  
I taken from her. Gloriana, o Gloriana!  Claudia and Florida. CLAUDIA. 
We may for recreation walk,  
And use some pretty harmless talk.  
Religion does not tie us to  
A stricter course than we can do.  FLORIDA. 
'tis dangerous walking, every field  
Doth naught but sounds of horror yield,  
And to my fancy doth appear  
Poor slaughtered Maids; the Butchers bear  
The name of Lovers, and can find  
A way in kill to be kind. Lysander. Oh!  
Ah me, whence came that groan?  CLAUDIA. 
It is a Shepherd wounded sore.  FLORIDA. 
Sure  seen this face before!  
O 'tis Lysander the truest Swain,  
That ever breathed on Grove or Plaine.  CLAUDIA. 
What, is he marked for present death?  FLORIDA. 
Not, there is hopes of life: his breath  
I feel come coldly. Take him with ''em.  CLAUDIA. 
Help him in.  
Pan be just, reward this sin.  SCRUB. 
The devil and his dam I think have carried away my Master; I cannot find him in never a Wenches placuit, (pocket I should say) and yet I have been in a simple many since I came among these Mutton-Mongers, these sheep-eaters, unless they have hide him among their wool, I cannot imagine where he should be I will wear my shoes to pieces but I'll find him. Exit.  Lysander, Claudia, Florida, and Cloe. LYSANDER. 
Religious Matron, from your divine hand  
I have received my life next to heaven's providence:  
Sure my wounds were not desperate, or else  
Some Angel did afford a sovereign Balsam  
To cure 'em in such an instant: but howsoever,  
I must ascribe it to your pious care:  
For which I own you more than I can pay,  
Unless it be my life.  CLAUDIA. 
The Surgery I use is sent from Heaven,  
And you own them your life, not me.  LYSANDER. 
But Florida,  
Did you never hear of your Cliton since?  FLORIDA. 
Never.  
Yet I would gladly see him, did I know  
By what means to achieve it?  CLOE. 
Dear friend, the stories of us both if weighed  
In an equal balance, would poise each other  
Yet to put her love to the Test, I'll undertake your message.  LYSANDER. 
Thou-babes will't endear me to thee than, about it.  FLORIDA. Exit Cloe. 
You herded how Cloe came to our happy Cure.  LYSANDER. 
Never.  FLORIDA. 
The Wood Nymphs brought her to our Cell, finding  
Her strayed where ever since sh'as been.  LYSANDER. 
If you will with me, I'll promise' you, you shall see your Cliton:  FLORIDA. 
On those conditions I william  CLAUDIA. 
Whether now?  FLORIDA. 
Not farther than with your consent, and if you please, yo● may go with us.  Clau. 
I an contented. Exeunt.  Gloriana distracted. SINGS. 
I know Lysander's dead,  
Than farewell maidenhead;  
Thou-babes art but one:  
When I an go:  
It never shall be said— high ho, ho.  
O Lysander.  CLITON like a Hermit. 
Save you fair Maid, I wish you joy,  
Free from aught that may annoyed  
Your quiet, or disturb your sense;  
Sand you health and penitence.  GLORIANA. 
Ha', ha', ha', what, are you Lysander? what, with that beard there's a great beard indeed: hark you Friar Tuck, do you see you handsome shepherd Lysander?  
Why did you say he was dead?  CLITON. 
You are mistaken, I'm a Hermit that can cure  
All wounds, but what sin makes impure;  
And those are cured by one above:  
I can help those ills that move  
Man to distraction, jealous fears,  
In man or woman. I have years  
Has gained experience to apply  
For all sorts a safe remedy.  GLORIANA. SINGS. 
Do you see where he doth stand,  
With a Cross-bow in his hand.  
I will follow thee my Dear,  
Though the Goblins keepeth there.  CLITON. Offers to go in. 
Stay pure Maid.  GLORIANA. 
Why do you hold me old man? insooth you shall not.  CLITON. 
●f you will be ruled by me,  
You shall your Lysander see.  GLORIANA. 
●hall I indeed now?  CLITON. 
Come with me and you shall know  
Moore, if you will but patiented grow. Exeunt.  Leonand Alexis. 
Good Father, be patiented.  LEON. 
〈◊〉 not my daughter lost, my only daughter,  
●he only staff whereon my age did rest,  
And only comfort which I had on earth?  
Oh! I an miserable.  Leon and Alexis. 
●here's' hopes yet left to find her.  LEON. 
●ever. Some rude and savage hand has killed my Girl,  
●aving deflowered her of her virgin honour.  
Talk not of patience, 'tis the only means  
To cure a bad distemper, to grow worse,  
And fire it out of him. O my Alexis!  ALEXIS. 
I'm lost in losing her.  
Let us endeavour to find her,  LEON. 
I'll take thy counsel, goodness guide me still,  
Sometimes are Parents cross against their william  Exeunt. Lysander. Claudia. Florida. LYSANDER. 
we're almost at his Cell, where he does waste  
Himself away with grief, thinking you are  
A Citizen in Heaven, and that wrong  
He did you, has so defiled his soul,  
It cannot be purged of but by such penitence.  FLORIDA. 
 moved my heart that it dissolves to tears,  
Of blood, and water, for the strictness he  
Has undergone for me. Enter Cloe and Daphne's.  CLOE. 
I'm glad  found you; do you see we're coupled as  
Lovers aught to do: but your Gloriana is lost beyond  
Recovery.  LYSANDER. 
How?  DAPHNE'S. 
She hearing of your death fallen frantic, and  
Since I have not seen her never our Groves.  LYSANDER 
Let us put wings to our pursuit to find her;  
And first we'll search his Cell.  CLAUDIA. 
Great Pan sand all things well. Exeunt.  FRANCISCO. 
O Conscience, how thou dost buzz into my ears; despair  
The thing attends my guilt, Gloriana lost:  
For whose sweet sake I heaped new sins upon me?  
What has my fury purchased nothing? Yes!  
Hell, and destruction, which only by a hair hangs o'er my head, which blown by the lest wind, falls down and sinks me.  SCRUB. 
You sirrah, madcap, that creeps like a Crab there: Hark you, do not you know one Francisco and Pisander, two vagabonds, that cannot live in peace with Poultry, but they must fly after sheep?  FRANCISCO. 
I own that wretched name Francisco.  SCRUB. 
Who? you with that face! pray where's Pisander than?  FRANC. 
I left him at the Court when I came thence.  SCRUB. 
I see you shepherds will lie abominably, he has been from the Court ever since seven years before he was born.  Lysander. Leon. Gloriana. Claud. Florida. Cloe. Cliton. Daphne's. Alexis. LYSANDER. 
Friends, we are happy made, Fortune and Love reserved these blisses to crown the end of things.  CLITON. 
The story you related Florida.  
How this divine Matron did take your body,  
Finding it warm, and did apply such Balsams  
As hath preserved your life, makes me most happy.  LYSANDER. 
I'm blessed in my Gloriana.  DAPHNE'S. 
I in my Cloe.  CLITON. 
And I in Florida.  Leon, Alexis, Claudia, and Florida. 
And we to see you possess such bliss.  FRAN. 
Ah! Protect me some blessed power: keep farther of. I an yet reconciled with heaven. I do confess I killed you! O be merciful for their sweet sakes, whose innocence cannot see, or be disturbed by thee. There they are by thee; thy once dear Gloriana.  LYSANDER. 
What a distemper's this?  FRANCISCO. 
What will appease thy Ghost? give me but time to ask forgiveness of those sacred powers  most offended, by depriving thee of life and being, and thou shalt have my life for thy just sacrifice.  LYSANDER. 
I apprehended his guilt: shepherd, fear not; your hate grew not to such desperate effects as you expected. Feel, I live and breath!  FRAN. 
Delude me not, 'tis impossible.  LYSANDER. 
These shall witness it.  OMNES. 
We do.  FRAN. 
Can you forgive than my attempt?  LYSANDER. 
With a true heart.  OMNES. 
Lysander's still himself, noble and wise.  FRANCISCO. 
And can you Fairest wipe that Ignominy of, I deserved from you?  GLORIANA. 
My Lysander's word sufficeth for us both.  FRAN. 
Than may you both live happy many years:  
May your joys, never be disturbed by fears.  SCRUB. 
Hark you sir, now all your talk is over, I would know one thing of you?  LYSANDER. 
And what's that?  SCRUB. 
Have you met with one Pisander, Leon, and Francisco in your Travails?  
The Duke is dead that banished good old Leon, and could I find him; his lands shall be restored.  LEON. 
I an that Leon that with my son and daughter here have lived ever since in this Rural way.  OMNES. 
Blessings do follow blessings.  LYSANDER. 
Than I an that Pisander that left the Court, to gain thy Daughter's love by the name of Lysander. Scrub, dost thou know me now?  SCRUB. 
A pestilence on't, you are he indeed.  FRAN. 
Pisander, embrace thy friend Francisco.  LYSANDER. 
Francisco! thou cloyest me with joy. Embrace.  FRAN. 
I left the Court for the same end you did.  LYSANDER. 
she's mine now Sir, is she not?  LEON. 
As fast as the Priest can make her,  
Fortune has made all happy: Yet 'tis fit  
If they will wed, your hands should licence it.   Amor finem coronat.  

GEntle Reader, there are some faults which (through the obscurity of the Copy, and absence of the Author) have passed the Press; To particularise them were needless; But favourably look o'er them, and with thy Pen courteously correct such defects as thou shalt find, not condemning the Press or injuring the Author.