A NEW SPRING SHADOWED In sundry Pithy POEMS.  MUSOPHILUS. Quid nescis, si teipsum noscas? 
LONDON, Printed by G. Elder, for Thomas bailie, and are to be sold at his Shop, in the middle-row in Holborn, near Staple-Inne. 1619.   

TO MY WORTHY AND judicious Friend, Sir Francis Ducket Knight; his best wishes.  
SO many kind respects have I had shown  
From You and Yours, that if you were mine own  
As You are mine; for what can be more near,  
Then Love and Blood contracted in one Spheere?  
I could not prise Love at a higher rate,  
Nor to myself more kindness vindicate:  
In am whereof, (but 'lasse th' requitall's small)  
I tender you this SPRING, and this is all:  
Wherein, if ought tune fitly with the Time,  
I've styled it Yours, it shall no more be mine.  Yours in all respective love MUSOPHILUS.  

In Militem Scientem DISTICHON.  
NOn titulo Militis, Militis sed nomine tanti  
Gaudeo, nam Milites curo quid intus habent.  
Cor non corticem.   

Upon the New SPRING.  
A New Spring's found which cureth most diseases;  
It clears the Eyesight, and the Bladder eases,  
It cools the Stomach, and it cheers the Heart,  
And gives free passage to th' digestive part,  
It recombines the Sinews too, some say,  
And makes the Cripple throw his Crutch away.  
So as there's none that justly can complain them,  
Since both a 
* Sir Edward Bellingam, a Knight of extended bounty and courtesy.  Knight and's Spring do entertain them.  
He, out of Love and Bounty mixed together,  
It by its Virtue healing such come thither.  
O that the Reader could like Virtue find  
In my New Spring, to cure the griefs of Mind,  
But much I fear me, if it had like force,  
The Bodies care would make my Spring taste worse.  
PHILO   

A NEW SPRING.  

PHILO to PHILEMON.  
Non Vltra.  
EAch day and hour (my friend) that shines on thee  
Esteem it as thy Lives Epitome;  
Nor need I by a Precept further show it,  
Since 'tis so well advised us by the Poet:  
" Amongst hopes, cares, fears, and all the griefs thou hast,  
" Imagine every day to be thy last:  
So shall the sight of each approaching Day  
Summon thee hence that thou may hast away:  
Mean while contend in virtue and in grace,  
Hastening to th' end of this thy Pilgrim's race,  
This weavers Shuttle, grass, Post, Shadow, Span,  
So short's the course, so small's the time of man..   

Man's security, the devils opportunity.  
MAn thinks the shade of Night can cover sin,  
But Night and Day be all alike to Him,  
Whose eyes as they are piercing, so they be  
Pure, and do loath the least impiety.   

MORAL.  
HOw oft have I (O Lord) erred in this,  
Thinking thee blind when Night approached is;  
Where if I rightly did distinguish light,  
I'd think Man's Day far darker than thy Night:  
For there's no Night with Thee; but such a Day,  
As needs no Sun to chase the Night away.   

Annotation upon the precedent MORAL.  
IT is observed by the Learned, that Adam after his fall or defection from God, seeing his own nakedness which he procured to himself by his own disobedience, being borne in a Primitive freedom of will, to have fled for refuge, or covert rather, to a shady Grove in the Garden, imagining to exempt himself from the punishment due to his Sin, by flying to the shade to cover his Sin; implying (say they) that Man no sooner erreth, than he seeketh some sconce, some defence for the sin which he committeth. But he that rewardeth in public, discusseth the secrets of our hearts in private: The Night is to him as the Day, for he seeth not as Man seeth; he that securely pretendeth darkness for a covert to his sin, and in the presumption of his own security expostulates with his Creator, saying, Who seeth me? shall receive his reward in the Land of Darkness; for the secrecy of his sin cannot avoid the piercing and searching eye of the Lord. Let him therefore stand in fear of God's judgement both in the Morning and Evening, that he may shun the Arrow that flieth at the noonday, and the Pestilence that killeth in the Evening.   

A Divine EMBLEM.  
Nosce et tace.  
Tu te time si vives tute.  

THou Better part of Man: the inward Eye,  
Extended far 'bove sense;  
how should the path  
(Erring and straying from Humanity)  
Have guidance but by thee?  
where each Man hath  
A native proneness to Obliquity,  
subjecting Reason to  
unbounded wrath,  
Reaching as high by's Eye, as by his Faith.   

Where Truth lies hid, curbed by injurious time,  
As in a Cave obscured:  
till th' glorious Sun  
Disperse this mist of Error by his shine,  
Discovering that which was  
in darkness done:  
Still cheerful be that fair Aspect of thine  
By whose refulgent beams  
such acts be shown  
As but for thee (Dear Light) had near been known.   

Age, which in some is as a Tale that's told,  
Wherein we rather be  
then seem to live,  
Tells me that it's not many years make old;  
But hours how well disposed,  
since we must give  
Account for every Talon which we hold;  
And though the Lord seem this  
account to drive:  
Time will approach when there is no reprieve.   

Then may my number be in hours, not years,  
How good, and not how many,  
lived, not spent;  
Where may my sins force sighs, my Errors tears,  
Living on Earth, yet leaving  
Earth's content  
To Earthly-minded Moles, who sum their fears  
By loss of goods, and give  
no free assent  
To aught, save what is to their profit meant.   

My Eyes not fixed but moving in their Sphere,  
Transcend frail Objects,  
nor can they behold  
Aught worthy loving or affecting here,  
Where best of Nature's treasures  
is but mould;  
Which in the World's eye how fair so ere,  
They show their gaudy lustre  
is but gold,  
Which when the Miser has is only told.   

Let me have Riches inward; for the rind  
Of Earth's exterior Beauty,  
my desire  
Rests well contented, howsoe'er I find:  
And further should our soule-rapt  
thoughts aspire  
Then to content the Body; for the Mind,  
As in her rank of honour  
she is higher,  
She scorns (pure Mirror) to be soiled with mire.   

How hard is't to be good, and not decline  
From that small share of goodness,  
where the Age  
In which we live, bids us to suit the time  
And make no mention of  
a Pilgrimage?  
It's true indeed, we seldom see the prime,  
Of Virtue made continuate;  
for the Page  
Which lackeys Patience oft ends with rage.   

He lives the best who hath the least account,  
Accounting every day  
to be his last:  
That when he comes unto his final point,  
To make recourse unto  
the years be past,  
And sees to what the total sum doth mount:  
He may rejoice, t'have made  
so little waist  
Of precious Time, while he on Earth was placed.   

How est offend we? and as rocked asleep  
Secure of judgement, in  
the bed of Sin  
Lie we as men exempt from vengeance; Sheep  
Strayed from their Shepherd, which  
hath ever been  
So kind t'his Flock, as he hath sought to keep  
Them safe by his own harm;  
yet leave we him,  
Pursuing th' path of error we are in.   

If there be Hell, why do we live on earth  
As if there were none? yea,  
if common sense  
Tells us a Pilgrimage hath no true mirth;  
Where this day we are he ere,  
next calls us hence:  
Why live we here as if we near should forth  
From this vast Grate of grief?  
our residence  
Is short on Earth; then let us hasten hence.   

Th'unseemliest Object Man's eye can behold  
Is Age attended on  
by nought but years;  
Where his gray-hayres may tell us he is old,  
But there's no other sign  
of Age appears:  
Wherefore his Age seems as a Tale that's told,  
His life a Medley of  
desires and fears,  
Desire of life to welcome Death with tears.   

What is this curious model Man? whose shape  
Divinely featured  
includes all fair  
In Him as in her Abstract, but an Ape,  
That imitates all forms,  
in habit, hair,  
Carriage of Body, and whatsoever may make  
His vanity admired,  
now here now there.  
Distasting most the taste of's Country air.   

If Man consist of Body and of Soul,  
And that the being of  
the first relies  
Upon the latter; why should it control  
The first by which it lives?  
or why despise,  
Or strive to make her: chiefest Beauty foul  
With her seducing  
trifling vanities,  
Which press the Soul so low it cannot rise▪   

That Know thyself, derived her first birth  
And Pedigree from Heaven,  
and did appear  
On Earth to make it seem an heavenly Earth;  
But see what chanced: Men so  
besotted were,  
Of their defective Knowledge, as a dearth  
Fell amongst humble men,  
learning to err  
And fall by Pride, as did that ᵃ Lucifer. 
Quare ista omnia, nisi quia in montem illum ascenderunt, in quem primus ascendit Angelus, & descendit Diabolus. August. in Soliloq. Cap. 29.    

O let us then confess, (as well we may)  
Our Knowledge it is nothing;  
and the good  
That's in us is not ours; nor can we say  
Aught proper ours save Sin,  
so rank's the blood  
Of our corrupted Nature: where each day  
Paints out our frailty,  
which if understood,  
Man has no cause at all for to be proud.   

If every Even were as it ought to be,  
It should keep count of all  
the day that's past;  
Ask our sin-surcharged soul, what she  
Hath done? which reckoning should  
be never raced  
Out of the Table of our Memory:  
But have it so, o'er all  
our actions placed,  
That th' form we have may never be defaced.   

If every hour we spend must bear record  
When we shall summoned be;  
how careful should  
Man be of every work, and every word,  
Done, to be done, or spoke?  
for how shall mould,  
Clay, and corruption stand against the Lord?  
On whom we all are truly  
said to hold:  
Seeing the crimes we act so manifold.   

Where each Man's Conscience shall his Tophet be,  
His sins his Testates, and  
his last farewell  
To Earth, his entrance into misery:  
Where his own Soul appears  
his only Hell,  
Th' Companions that attends him, doubts and fears,  
Moving Despair to sound  
her alarm Bell,  
To warn him to the place where he must dwell.   

Mansion of horror, where the quenchless fire  
Burns without ceasing, where  
the gnawing worm  
Eats without resting, and that woeful hire  
Death never dead, though dying;  
where the form  
Of all confusion formeth her retire;  
Thrice happy he if he  
had near been borne  
That's marked to come to such a place forlorn.   

No Life but shade of Life; for what is Life,  
But a continual Death,  
wherein we die  
Each day a little? where dissension, strife,  
Restless Ambition,  
Treason, Perjury,  
Oppression, violence be only rife:  
Where outward objects daze  
the inward eye,  
And ill's made good by sins impunity.   

Live may I neither to myself nor Time,  
Since time-observers now  
prove Parasites;  
But to make straight that great account of mine,  
After so many days,  
so many nights,  
Past in neglect: so may my Soul in fine  
Possess (than happy she)  
those pure delights  
Which do include of comforts infinites.   

Muse do I much when I do hear men call  
(Whether Experience tell  
them, or their Art)  
Some years more safe, some Climacterical;  
Where if we look into  
our human part:  
In hours, days, years, we shall perceive how all  
Summon alike Death's  
parley to our heart;  
From whom to get we strive, but cannot start   

I have long sought that Essence of my being,  
A faithful friend; and I,  
have found in Some,  
A vein of protestation well agreeing  
With Friend, if Christian, but  
when I should come  
To take a surer trial, he was fleeing,  
Proving a Summer Swallow;  
this's my doom  
My friend's in Heaven, on Earth he has no room.   

When I observe Earth's as a Ball in th' air,  
I asked myself what may  
I seem to be,  
That lives as if I had my Mansion there,  
Planting my hopes on  
mutability?  
And I do find who otherwise lives here  
Then as a foreign Traveler  
though he  
Seem wise to some, he seems a fool to me.   

This House I live in, like a shaking frame  
Threatens each day a fall;  
yet I secure  
Where I must go to, or from whence I came  
Live so, as if this Building  
would endure,  
And to eternity extend her name:  
But 'las how weak am I,  
seeming most sure,  
While sin wounds deep and doth despair of cure.   

Some, far less wise than curious, do delight  
To glaze their windows with  
Perspective glass,  
Presenting sundry objects to the sight,  
As Hills, Dales, Seas, and  
whatsoe'er shall pass  
Within an equal distance: but the light  
Which the Bay-windore of  
my Mansion has,  
Hath no such various Prospect, though it might,  
But opens wide that she may see what's right.   

May Goodness be the Abstract of my Fair,  
My best advice, Direction  
of the word:  
May Worlds-care be still my least of care,  
May my Self-love be now  
to love the Lord:  
May I observe a time to spend, to spare,  
Not taking thought to waste,  
or how to hoard,  
But in expense to keep me on even board.   

Rich had I rather than accounted be,  
Says the Worldling: But I am  
not of his mind;  
For my Account is dearer unto me  
Then this same Bark of man,  
this outward rind;  
Yet Rich are men of most account we see;  
It's true indeed, we by  
experience find,  
Oft goes the Cart before, the Horse behind.   

Arise to judgement, is a doom of fear  
To Flesh; for why she could  
contented be  
To build herself a Tabernacle here,  
Living to be her own  
posterity;  
But th'soul mounts upward to an higher Sphere  
Striving to break from her  
captivity.  
Nor can she joy till she's at liberty.   

Her Nunc dimittis, is her cheerefulst Song,  
Her passage th'entrance to  
a safe repose,  
Her comfort this, (though her restraint was long)  
Griefs passed be counterpoised  
with present joys.  
Her hope that she shall make her party strong,  
Being both rid of her  
perfidious foes,  
And sphered there where sacred comfort flows▪   

In our first Birth we shriek, in death we sigh,  
Thus discontent is Man,  
in birth and death;  
In Birth we shriek because affliction's nigh,  
In Death we sigh, sigh, sith  
we cannot breathe:  
Thus both in Death and Birth there's misery;  
And more in Death then Birth,  
if so his wreath  
Of glory be reduced to wrath beneath.    

An Elegy which the Author entitleth Bound yet free; Speaking of the benefit of imprisonment.  

THou, whom we call life's death, Captivity,  
Yet canst contemplate in the darkest Cell  
Of things above the reach of Vanity,  
Dost in my judgement Liberty excel;  
In that thou teachest man to mortify  
His indisposed passions; and canst well  
Direct him how to manage his estate,  
Confined to th'narrow prospect of thy Grate.   

He sees the passage of this Globe of earth,  
And makes right use of what his sight partakes:  
Some he observes express a kind of mirth,  
Of which he this due application makes;  
If they did know the misery of Birth  
With Death's approach, they would not hazard stakes  
Of Souls eternal glory, for a day  
Of present joy, which one hour takes away.   

Others he hears bemoaning of the loss  
Of some dear friend; or't may be not so well,  
Decrease of fortune, or some other cross,  
Which to forego they deem a second hell,  
(So firmly fixed be their minds on dross)  
As nought smells well but what of gain doth smell.  
These he condemns, and proves it every way,  
The captiu'st wretch's in better state than they.   

Others he notes observing of the time,  
Mere Fashion-mongers, shadows of the great;  
And these attendance give where th'sun doth shine,  
And like to Isis' Ass admire the Seat,  
More than the Person, cause the robes be fine  
That hang about it: and he doth entreat  
Their absence; for, These cannot well (saith he)  
By living, leave name to posterity.   

Others as base and far more dangerous,  
Notes he, as Politician Machavels,  
Who count that gain which is commodious  
Adhering to themselves, and to none else:  
For these make ancient houses ruinous,  
And Charity from out the Realm expels,  
Reducing th'Orphans tear and widows curse  
To th'damned Elixie of their well-crammed purse.   

Others he notes, and they would noted be;  
For painting, purfling, smoothing, cerusing,  
Show they would be observed for vanity,  
Starving their Souls by bodies cherishing.  
And these he laughs at for their foolery;  
For while they put the Case to garnishing,  
That Shell of frailty, they're indifferent  
What shall become of th'soul the Instrument.   

Others there be which seem least what they are,  
Pretending truth in falsehood, and do gull  
The World with shadow, yet doth he compare  
the passage of events, and finds at full  
Their end's attended with an endless care,  
And th'pregnant wit which seems so smooth proves dull,  
When thousand Testates shall produced be,  
For to disclose their close hypocrisy.   

Others he sees and taxeth, for they hold  
proportion with the World, being made  
After a better Image, yet they're sold  
to all collusion, making in their trade  
This wild Position: Who'll be rich when old  
must cheat being young: but see how they're displayed,  
So oft have they deceived as now they must,  
Persorce deceive themselves by men's distrust.   

Others as Prollers of the time he sees,  
but scorns to take acquaintance; for their fate  
Presageth worst of ills, whose best increase  
proceeds from good men's falls: yet mark their state  
As indirectly got, so little peace  
accrues in state to any, for the hate  
Of God and man attends them; and how then  
Should there be peace where's war with God & Men?   

More he beholds, and he observes them too,  
and numbers their dimensions as they pass  
The compass of his Prospect too and fro,  
for this same Grate he makes his Looking-glass,  
In which he sees more than the world can show,  
conferring what is present with what was;  
Extracting this from times experienced School,  
The Captiue's freer than the World's fool.   

For by the first we show but what we are,  
and Moralise ourselves in being penned  
Close from the World's eye, which we compare  
Unto a Prison, since th'enfranchisement  
We haue's in Heaven: then howsoe'er we fare,  
though bound, if free in mind, th'imprisonment  
We suffer, cannot so our spirits depress,  
That th' freedom of our minds should seem aught less:   

Ought less; nay more! for we approve as true  
What th'divine Moral taught: That one may have  
A fuiler and more perfect interview  
of the Stars beauty in a hollow Cave,  
Then on the Superficies; for the show  
of pomp distracts our passions, and doth slave  
Our reason to our sense; whence we may know,  
The dangers of high states are seen below.   

Below; and what more low then to be shut  
from open air, stranged from the sight of Men,  
Closed in oblivion, linked hand and foot  
lest their escape gain liberty? what then  
Shall this enthrall my soul? it cannot do't,  
it does aspire above the thoughts of them  
Who shed their Childish tears when they are sent  
By higher powers to take them to restraint.   

The truth of things, (saith sage Democritus)  
lies hid in certain Caves, that is, the Cell  
Of Thraldom which restrains and limits us,  
which makes us happy if we use it well;  
For we're sequestered from th'pernicious  
objects of earth, and may in private tell,  
What we in public were, where we do find,  
The freest man may have the slauish'st mind.   

For my experience tells me th' Act of Sin,  
proceeds from sins occasion, which restrained,  
To meditate soul's freedom we begin,  
and fly from earth when th'Body is enchained,  
Making our thoughts contemplators of Him,  
whom if we get we have sufficient gained:  
So as the Grate of our Captivity,  
Is th' Gate that opens to soul's liberty.   

Whence 'tis we see so many taste the air  
of freedom, with neglect of what they are;  
Making their will their Law; but when they share  
their portion in affliction, than their care  
Is in the honour of that inward fair,  
and they lament the state wherein they were:  
For Man in state forgets himself and his,  
Till his Affliction tells him what he is.   

If life indeed were such a jubilee,  
that every hour, day, year, did promise us  
Continuate health, and wealth, and liberty,  
than had we better reason to excuse  
The love we have to our mortality:  
but since we see we cannot will nor choose,  
But must be rest of these, why should we grieve,  
To leave as men what men are forced to leave?   

Nor skills it much where we be reft of these,  
whether in Thrall or Freedom, but of th'two  
I'd rather lose my fortune where I cease,  
to make resort to any, and must know  
No more of th'World or the World's press;  
but am retired from the public show  
Of this frail Theatre; and am confined  
In Flesh to taste true liberty of Mind.   

A Mind as free as is the Body thrall,  
transcendent in her being, taking th' Wings  
Of th' Morning to ascend, and make that all  
of hers immortal, sphearing it with Kings;  
Whose glory is so firm it cannot fall:  
where every Saint in their reposure sings  
Th'triumphant Paean of eternity,  
To Him whose sight gives perfect Liberty.   

Then whether my restraint enforce or no,  
I'll be myself, but more in my restraint;  
Because through it I see the end of woe,  
tasting in grief the Essence of content:  
That when from this same double-ward I go,  
this same entangled Prison; th' continent  
Of heavenly Freedom may receive my Soul,  
Which Flesh imprison might, but not control.   

Rest then (Retired Muse) and be thy own,  
though all thy own forsake thee, that when Friends,  
Fortune and Freedom are but small or none,  
thy hopes may aim at more transcendent ends;  
So by the Body in straight durance thrown  
thy unconfined Soul may make amends,  
For that which she had in her Freedom lost,  
In that most blest wherein she seemed most crossed.    

The Statue of AGATHOCLES.  

The Argument.  
AGATHOCLES, a Tyrant of Syracuse, caused his Statue to be composed in this manner: 
Caput de auro innuendo Regis dignitatem, Brachia de ebore intimando eius venustatem, caetera lincae menta de aere, denotando strenuitatem; pedes ver● de terra indicando eius fragilitatens.  The Head of Gold, Arms of ivory, and other of the lineaments of purest Brass; but the Feet of Earth: intimating of what weak and infirm subsistence this little-World Man was builded. Whence we may collect what divine considerations the Pagan's themselves observed and usually applied to rectify their moral life; where instructions of Nature directed them not only in the course of human society; but even in Principles above the reach and pitch of Nature; as may appear in many Philosophical Axioms, and divinely-inserted sentences in the Works of Plato, Plutarch, Socrates, and amongst the Latins, in the inimitable Labours of Seneca, Boaethius, Tacitus and Plinius secundus. Upon the Moral of this Statue of AGATHOCLES, insists the Author in this Poem, concluding with this undoubted Position: that as foundations on sand are by every tempest shaken; so Man standing on feet of Earth, hath no firmer foundation than mutability to ground on.   

The POEM.  
AGathocles, me thinks, I might compare thee,  
(So rare thou art) to some choice Statuary,  
Who doth portray with Pencil he doth take,  
Himself to th'Image which he's wont to make.  
How artful Thou, and graceful to by birth,  
A King, yet shows that thou art made of earth;  
Not glorying in thy greatness, but would seem  
Made of the same mould other men have been:  
A Head of Gold, as thou art chief of Men,  
So chief of Metals make thy Diadem;  
Victorious Arms of purest ivory,  
Which intimates the persons purity;  
The other Lineaments composed of Brass,  
Implies th'undaunted strength whereof thou was:  
But Feet of Earth, show th'ground on which we stand,  
That we're cast down in turning of a hand.  
Of which, that we may make the better use,  
Me thinks I could dilate the Moral thus:  
Man made of Earth no surer footing can  
Presume upon then Earth, from which he came,  
Where firmness is infirmenesse, and the stay  
On which he builds his strongest hopes, is Clay:  
And yet how strangely confident he grows,  
In Heaven-confronting boldness, and in shows  
Bearing a giants Spirit, when in length,  
Height, breadth, and pitch he is of Pigmy's strength:  
Yea, I have known a very Dwarf in sight,  
Conceit himself a Pyramid in height,  
jetting so stately, as it were in's power  
To mount aloft unto the eyrie Tower.  
But when Man's proud, I should esteem't more meet,  
Not to presume on's strength, but look on's feet,  
Which Nature, we observe, hath taught the Swan,  
And aught in reason to be done by man..  
Weak are foundations that are reared on sand,  
And on as weak grounds may we seem to stand;  
Both subject to be ruined, split, and razed,  
One Billow shakes the first, one grief the last.  
Whence then or how subsists this Earthly frame,  
That merits in itself no better name  
Than Shell of base corruption? 'Tis not Brass,  
Marble, or ivory, which, when times pass,  
And our expired Fates surcease to be,  
Reserve in them our living memory;  
No, no, this metal is not of that proof,  
We live as Those under a shaking roof;  
Where every moment makes apparent show  
(For want of props) of final overthrow.  
Thus then me thinks you may, (if so you please)  
Apply this Statue of Agathocles.  
As he composed his royal Head of Gold,  
The purest of Metals; you are thereby told  
That th' Head whence Reason and right judgement springs  
Should not be pestered with inferior things:  
And as his active sinnewie Arms are said  
(To show their pureness) to be juored,  
Like Pelops milk-white shoulders; we are given  
To understand, our Arms should be to Heaven  
(As to their proper Orb) enlarged, that we  
Might there be made the Saints of purity:  
By rest of th' parts which were composed of Brass,  
(Being of bigger bone than others was)  
We may collect Men made of self same clay,  
May in their strength do more than others may.  
Lastly, on Earth as Men subsistence have,  
Their Earthly feet do hasten to their Grave.    

Of SLEEP.  
Sleep is the Prison that restrains the sense  
From due performance of her offices,  
Yet th'glorious Soul is of that excellence  
It mounts aloft, and scorns such Bonds as these;  
She acts when th' outward senses are asleep,  
Building fantastic Castles in the Air,  
And dives sometimes into th'obscurest Deep,  
Conferring things that are with things that were;  
She fills the labouring Senses with extremes,  
And dreams of Love if that she be in love,  
For what by day she thinks by night she dreams;  
Seeming all movelesse when she's known to move.  
Oft She betrays the action of the day,  
While th'labouring Sense blabs on the dead of night,  
And guilty of herself seems to bewray  
What we or did or thought, and though our sight  
Is fixed on no one object; yet the eye  
Of understanding has her proper Sphere  
Wherein she moves and has her sovereignty,  
And being once there, she is ever there.  
Nor can Man properly be said to rest,  
When sweet-charmd Morpheus shuts his leaden eyes:  
Unless it be by th' outward sense expressed,  
For th' Soul near rests, near sleeps, near vacant lies:  
But as we see in Martial policy  
While some do sleep some still keep Centinall,  
That they may notice give if ought they see  
Approaching near the breaches of the wall;  
So this same watchful spy is ever seen  
Cautive and circumspect lest th'foe should win,  
Her strait-beleaguered fort and vanquished clean  
The Body's power by letting Error in;  
Yet see we oft the temper of the Soul  
Follow the Bodies various temperature,  
And as foul water comes from Springlins foul,  
So if the Body be disposed pure  
Exempt from Passions, she will ever keep  
A calm retension of her faculties:  
For guilty minds are troubled still with these.  
And this we see in Passions of the mind  
Or her Affections rather, there is none  
But is to some one humour more inclined  
Then to another; as the Choleric one,  
Whose Passion spurns at Reason, and delights  
In nothing less than to be patient:  
And this he shows in darkest silent nights,  
When Sleep adviseth him to be content.  
Next is the sullen sallow Melancholy,  
Whose nature's Saint or Devil, and it dreams  
Either of Subjects pure or most unholy,  
For of all Humours this is in extremes.  
The third a marry crude, raw Phlegmatic,  
(A bedrid Humour) yet in youngest bloods,  
And he is spitting still and Rhewmaticke▪  
Whose Dreams are neither bad, nor greatly good.  
The last and best, for it doth show affection  
In red and white is Sanguine, and is mixed  
So equally of all, as this Complexion  
Is th' only one where Beauties Star is fixed;  
And th' Dreams her senses whisper are so clear  
From any thought of Passion, as her will  
Is o'er her Passions so to domineer,  
That no delight may train her unto ill;  
All these do dream; but there's no perfect rest  
To any these, save to a guiltless breast.   

Upon the four Constitutions,  
AS cold and dry attend on Age,  
so hot and moist on Youth;  
But hot and dry distempers show,  
far more than any doth:  
The last (not worst) might well be first,  
is cold and moist together,  
Which gives digestion such free course,  
as it exceeds the other:  
All these appear both here and there,  
but no distempers worse  
Our Gallants think, and so think I,  
than Dryness of the Purse.   

Of HOSPITALITY.  
WHere art thou? no where? no, where's thy consort  
Of old Black-iacks, Blue-coats? They're flown to th' Court  
Where they're transformed. To what good Dyonise?  
To Pages like Pie-colourd Butterflies;  
Alas poor Country, thou hast nothing then  
But vast penurious houses without Men;  
A row of smoake-lesse Chimneys which agrees,  
With harm-less Hogsheads, empty Butteries,  
Worm-eaten Rafters, Windows Spider-woven,  
Walls Snaile-belimed, a Loome-mudded Oven  
Estranged from Bake-meats, nasty Dayeries,  
Halls hung with Cawls and forlorn Nurseries.  
And yet Panurgus thou art more to blame  
Then Court housekeepers, for thou thinks no shame  
When foot-bet travelers that's like to burst  
With heat, come to thy house to quench their thirst,  
To boult thy Buttry-dore and bid them go  
To th' Alehouse, where th' ave nothing to bestow:  
Wherhfore to save their money, thou dost bring,  
These wearied travelers to some wholesome Spring,  
Where they may drink their fill; whenced may appear  
Thou'lt rather waste thy water then thy Beer.  
And thou Cremutius that dost near display  
Thy Bounty but upon thy Marriage day:  
Where thou invites thy friends unto thy store  
Of Resty Bacon; for thou hast no more  
Of Cates, to make their welcoming expressed,  
With one reserved Kilderkin of th' best;  
Whose Key thou kept as I informed am,  
Till thy Feast-day, and then thou gaueed thy Man:  
The wily Porrus, who had so much wit  
As to appoint a time which might befit  
His jolly comrades to drink up thy Beer  
While thou and thy starved Guests conferring were:  
But by what hap I know not, he is found,  
With his Boon-socio's traversing their round,  
Which makes thee swear, fearing thy Beer should lack,  
To pull thy Blew-coate from poor Porrus back,  
But how did Porrus mitigate thy rage?  
Sir take your Coat, so you will pay my wage.  
But this doth little move thy worthless mind,  
He wears thy Coat, thou keeps his wage behind.  
And Luscu, thou that never made expense,  
In vain disbursements above eighteen pence  
In all thy time; me thinks I see in thee  
The Miser's Mirror or Anatomy  
Rightly depictured, who hath wealth at will,  
Yet (like th' Hydropticke Man) is thirsty still:  
Seest thou not Luscus how thou starves thyself,  
To Cram thy Coffers and increase thy Pelf?  
And yet how fond art thou, all thou dost save,  
Will in the end afford thee but a Grave,  
A Shroud, thus ends thy care, thus ends thy store:  
This Beggars have and Princes get no more.  
And yet, unhappy thou, drains golden streams,  
T'inhance thine own by indirectest means.  
Making this Axiom with thy humour fit,  
Thou cares not how thou get, so thou may get:  
But if thou knewst what wiser men do know,  
Thou wouldst not get before thou question how.   

The SHRIFT.  
A Time there was, and divers there be yet,  
Whose riper years can well remember it:  
When folk were shriven for th' sins they did commit  
And had their Absolution as was fit:  
'mongst which, as one crime doth another get,  
Where hope of Pardon doth authorize it,  
For Virtues Turtle-like do single sit,  
But th'troup of Vices still in squadrons meet;  
A Boone-Companion to his liquor given,  
Came thither with his Neighbours to be shriven.  
Steven (quoth Friar) for's Christian name was Steven,  
What sins hast done to grieve the Lord of Heaven?  
Speak freely man, and it is ten to seven,  
But by due Penance I will make all even:  
Confession is the way, when Man is driven  
Into Despair, that guides him unto Heaven.  
I have been drunk last day and this day to,  
And may be next day too for aught I know:  
Tell me then (holy Friar) directly how  
Or in what sort I may my Penance do?  
Drunk (quoth the Friar) now by the faith I owe  
I know not what it means, nor as I trow  
Under Confession had I't ere till now,  
Yet come next day thou's hear what thou shalt do.  
Mean while the Friar would not neglect his time,  
To know the secret of this drunken crime,  
Therefore betime, ere four a clock did chime,  
This profane practice grew to be divine:  
For Vpsefreese he drunk from four to nine,  
So as each Sense was steeped well in Wine,  
Yet still he kept his rouse, till he in fine,  
Grew extreme sick with hugging Bacchus' Shrine:  
Upward and downward it did work so sore,  
As if his vital spirits could work no more,  
Or that he were arriving on the Shore  
Where Mortals must arrive: but rid of store,  
That did oppress his stomach over and over,  
At last he got a nap upon the floor,  
Which having tempered his Brains, he swore  
To try conclusions with the Pot no more.  
Stephen kept his steaven, and to the time he gave,  
Came to demand what Penance he should have?  
What Penance (quoth the Friar?) I'll tell thee knave,  
I think it fit this Penance to receive:  
" Go and be drunk again; for if it have  
" Th'effect with thee it had with me, I'd crave  
" No sharper Penance to the sinfullst slave,  
" For soon it would possess me of my grave.  
" Thus in this Sea of Sodom where each shelf  
" Menaceth ruin to the forlorn Elf,  
" The Drunkard is a Penance to himself.   

Quidam erat.  
A Preaching Friar there was, who thus began,  
The Scripture saith, There was a certain Man:  
A certaine Man: but I do read no where  
Of any certain Woman mentioned there;  
A certain Man, a Phrase in Scripture common,  
But no place shows there was a certain Woman▪  
And fit it is that we should ground our Faith  
On nothing more than what the Scripture saith.   

The Sign in CANCER. An Epigram.  
A Crabbed Shrew, through sickness weakly brought,  
Wished by all means a Doctor should be sought;  
Who by his Art that he her grief might know,  
Felt both her pulse and cast her water too:  
Which done, he to her husband turned again,  
And wished him be content all was in vain:  
For when the sign's in Cancer, she would die;  
To whom her Husband answered merrily:  
" If that (my learned Doctor) had been so  
" She had been dead believe it long ago;  
" For these ten years and odd she has been mine,  
" And I near knew her yet out of that Sign.   

A PRIZE.  
THree Darlings have I, and I know not which  
To make a 〈◊〉 〈◊〉; First is mee●ly rich,  
Fair, ●●se, but we 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 be different,  
And where that is there can be no content.  
The Next as loving as the Turtle is,  
Whose Lip distilleth pure Nectar with her kiss,  
But this's my fear, her Nature is so prone  
To give content, she cannot keep to One.  
The Third is rich and wise and well adorned  
With inward graces, but she is deformed,  
So as for all that I do treasure lack,  
I would not get it on a camels back.  
Which should I have of these they all love me,  
One must I have, I cannot have all three?   

HYMEN'S Eglogue between Admetus and Menalchas.  MENALCHAS. 
WHat makes Admetus sad? What ere it be  
Some cause there is that thus hath altered thee.  
Is it the loss of Substance, or of Friends,  
Or thy content in discontentment ends?  
Is it some scruple in thy Conscience,  
Which unresolved doth leave thee in suspense?  
Is it that thou thy long wished love should lose?  ADMET. 
No, no Menalchas it is none of these.  MENAL. 
Thou art not sick?  ADMET. 
Nor sick, nor greatly well.  MENAL. 
Where lies thy grief?  ADMET. 
My Countenance can tell.  MENAL. 
Smooth is thy brow, thy countenance fresh enough.  ADMET. 
But Cares have made my wreakful mind as rough.  MENAL. 
Of Cares Admetus.  ADMET. 
Yes, I have my share.  MENAL. 
Yet hope of cure.  ADMET. 
No hope of cure to care.  MENAL. 
Nay then I see 'tis love that thee doth wring;  ADMET. 
Thou errst Menalchas, there is no such thing.  MENAL. 
If neither loss of friends nor loss of wealth,  
Want to enjoy thy Love, nor want of health,  
If neither discontent, nor grief, do show  
Care in thy face, nor sorrow in thy brow,  
If thou be free as we all know thee free,  
Engaged to none, what is it grieveth thee?  ADMET. 
Wouldst know Menalchas?  MENAL. 
Yes.  ADMET. 
I'll tell thee than;  
The Case is altered: I'm a Married-Man.   

THANKFULNESS.  
THe early Lark, from Earth to Heaven doth raise  
Her well-tuned Note to chant her Maker's praise,  
Why should not Men (endued with Reason) show  
Themselves more thankful, sith more thanks they owe?   
FINIS.