POEMS' DIVINE, AND human. BY THOMAS BEEDOME.  
LONDON, Printed by E. P. for John Sweeting, and are to be sold at his Shop, at the sign of the Angel in Popes-Head-Alley, near Cornhill. 1641.   

To the Reader.  
Books are the pictures of men's lives delineated, first by fancy, and by judgement drawn to the life. Such is this piece, the living Idea of him that writ it, who though now dead, has a living Monument to his worth. His book, which despite of fire, can never con●ert to ashes, 'Tis Lentum Ilium, slow Troy; that will not be easily consinned; he shall live in Paper, which shall make him live in's Marble. And in this good Reader, his worth shall be Emergent, he has done many things well, and nothing ill. Therefore receive him as an absolute testimony of wit and fancy, or else deceive thyself, since his works are as excellent, as singular.  HEN. GLAPTHORNE:  

On the deceased author, Master Thomas Beedom, and his Poems.  
REader it grieves mee● that I cannot bring,  
A fresh Encomion, but am forced to sing,  
A withered elegy, and only boast,  
The wealth and treasure of a friend that's lost.  
Beedom, I do admire thy verse; The sweet,  
And gentle cadence of their ordered ●eet,  
Whose couplets kiss, with so divine an Art,  
As if the Sibyls had about thy heart,  
Laid their prophetic Spells and every line,  
Dear Beedom, I do season with my brine,  
Though there was salt enough in them before,  
To keep thy bays still fresh: But I deplore,  
As others do, for there thy Art is shown,  
In stealing pity thus from every one.  
For unless tribute of some sigh● are paid.  
Thy jealous Lover, and thy constant Maid,  
Cannot be read, and these all sadly vie,  
As true oblations, to thy obsequy.  
But when I wander in thy other walks,  
And see the flowers of poesy on their stalks,  
Flourish in pride of fancy, I begin,  
Almost to think Idolatry no sin.  
For such a perfume breaks the yielding Ayr●,  
I am urged to offer for thy soul a prayer,  
And think in that sweet incense, may arise,  
My love, and wishes, as a sacrifice.  
Thou'lt gain a ●trange advantage of thy fate,  
That's forced to value thee at equal rate,  
With the s●le phoenix; for fr●m thy pure dust,  
Thy fame takes wing, and perching on the trust  
Of thy firm friend, (though round with envy hurled)  
Dares with a broad eye look upon the world,  
He being best known Beedom, to thy wit  
Thou wisely mad'st executor to it.  
Who not defrauding of the world its due,  
Presents thy work unto the wiser few.  
Me thinks I hear from thy most grateful clay,  
Soft murmurs break, and speaking seem to say,  
Thanks my dear Wilbore, for thy love and care.  
By this my Genius claims an ample share,  
For by the Elixir of thy friendly art,  
My memory, (which is my better part)  
Shall live, which ages hence shall gladly see,  
Wrought by the wonder of love's chemistry.  
And such a tomb Beedom, thy friend will make,  
That all consuming time can never shake,  
Let others build, I by that friend am sent,  
To bring this first stone to his Monument.  Ed. May:  

On the death and Poems, of his most dear friend, Master I homas Beedome.  
Why did thy muse display her eaglets wing,  
And ●ale a flight at heaven? why did she sing,  
Like to the early lark, when she begun,  
Glad carols in the ear o'the listening sun.  
Till heaven's inhabitants did even conspire,  
To snatch thee as a chanter to their choir,  
But glorious Beedome, ere he left the earth,  
Did give to fame a Monument, a birth.  
To such a living fancy, as in spite,  
Of fate, shall like a precious ray of light,  
Dwell 'bout his urn, where all the muses sit,  
Wailing the loss of his emergent wit.  
And weeping o'er his ashes till their eyes,  
Instead of tears, shed mournful El●gies.  
Penei ●n Daphne, there her arms displays,  
As if she would entomb him in her bays.  
And she who Phoebus hot pursuit did shun,  
Embraces the old ashes of his son.  
There a bright troop of Virgins that from far,  
Appear, resembling every one a star,  
Drowned in a see of pearl, do sadly rise,  
From his loved true, each one without their eyes.  
Wept out, or burning left there, as they'd meant,  
Those lights for tapers to his Monument.  
Where shall we find at such a time a soul,  
That could in flowing numbers even control,  
Arts nimblest currents, and most swiftly glide,  
Without least noise, admired before espied.  
So have I seen a gentle stream, with sweet,  
And fluent motion, softly hast: to meet,  
Its mother Ocean, and enrich her store,  
With a more grateful tribute then before.  
A thousand violent torrents p●id, whose waves,  
Though louder, brought less music to their graves,  
His life was all one harmony, and in's death,  
Numerous, and full of sweetness was his breath,  
Expanded like the Swans concluding lays,  
In lasting accents, that shall speak his praise,  
While Feather-footed time does swiftly pass,  
Or has a sand left in his plenteores● glass,  
This is my vote, which to thy book shall be,  
A just applause● to thee an elegy.  Hen. Glapthorne.  

On his deserving Friend, Master Thomas Beedom, and his Poems.  
HOw fond is this age grown! 'twill fierce admit,  
Distinction between ignorance and wit,  
Each wears the others' habit, neither's known,  
By the wanted proper dress, that was its own.  
And every day new Authors do appear,  
As they the paper merchant's factors were,  
And boast themselves the muse's sons, when they,  
Rhyme only for some life-preserving pay.  
Expect here no such Author, if thou'lt look,  
On th' inside more than th'outside of the book,  
Put on thy judgements eyes, and thou shalt find,  
This author's fancy rich, as was his mind.  W. C.  

To his Friend the Author, Master Thomas Beedom before his death, on these his Poems.  
THis is the rhyming Age, no wonder now  
To hear Thalia whistling at the plow.  
All traffi●ke with the Muses, 'tis well known  
The sculler's boat can touch at Helicon.  
Who quass●s not there? do we not daily see,  
Each guarded footboy belch out poetry?  
Who so illiterate now, that will r●fu●e,  
For some slight Minion to invoke a muse?  
Yet honoured friend do not imagine I,  
In the lest tax● by great ability.  
I know thee worthy of a ●etter fame,  
Then my best study can afford thy name,  
I only would thy reader this inform,  
Such empty nothings are thy muse's scorn.  
Nor do I wish ●im slightly to o'relooke,  
The big●borne fancy, of thy laboured book;  
For he that scans the Poems that are thine,  
Must call them raptures, sacred, and divine.  
Thou darling of the muses, in whose qui●e,  
Thou shalt sing paeans, to Apollo's lyre,  
And with his best loved Priests in equal state,  
Sit justly crowned, a Poet ●aureate.  Em. D.  

To the Memory of his Ingenious friend, Master Thomas Beedom, and on these his Poems.  

TH●●'s no just reason Friend that I should write,  
Unless I ●ould in swelling sighs indite,  
My pregnant grief, till every line appears,  
A volume of my sorrow writ in tears.  
Each syllable, each accent should afford,  
Plenteous expression, as the fullest word,  
Of ●●ple and unforced laments, till all,  
I write attend upon thy funeral,  
As Epice les, till every accen● be  
An Epitaph, each word an elegy.  
And were't not for the life of this thy book,  
(Which gives me hopes, all life has not forsook.  
Thy much loved Memory) I like thee should grow,  
Ashes, and never henceforth strive to know,  
●ifes painted glories, but to enjoy thee come;  
●ith eager haste into Elysium.  
But this fair offspring of thy fancy which,  
Is great in j●●gement, in Invention rich,  
Makes me behold thee glorious, and I view,  
By intel●●ctuall eyes in it, thy true  
Vns●ained Idea, from her spicy pile,  
●●e n●w borne phoenix rises to beguile,  
the amazed spectators, whose admiring frame,  
the old ones figure, and believe't the same.  
●his difference twixt thy book, and thee must b●e,  
●hou didst with it, and now it lives for thee.  H. S.  
Vie● of thy shining and illustrious wit,  
Where all the precious attributes are writ,  
That might adorn thy youth, or add true grace,  
To thy lamented memory; the face,  
Of the bright rising Sun, so fresh appears,  
When straight 'tis drowned, in heavens o'erflowing tears.  
As did thy wit, which like a comet gave  
A suddnime flash, then vanished to a grave,  
Where we thy friends, and I among the rest,  
As a chief mourner, in the ensigns dressed  
Of hearty sorrow, sadly, seek to pay,  
This as a grateful tribute, to thy bay,  
Which being watered with our briny dew,  
Shall still spring up more, flourishing and new.  
Till in thy book, thy blessed memorial be,  
As is thy soul, fraught with eternity.  
And Beedom, shall survive in it with glory,  
It being his own accomplished perfect story.  R. W.  

On the Memory of his most Ingenious friend, Master Thomas Beedome, and his Poems.  
SO many great names fixed before thy book,  
It cannot Beedome now descend, to look,  
For my more humble strains, but love in Art,  
Is not comprised, its Mansion is the heart.  
And a small grain of incense, which is given,  
With a pure zeal, sure better pleaseth heaven,  
Than a vast pile of rich Sabean gums,  
Or Altars smoking with fat hecatombs.  
From feigned devotion, I must therefore say,  
All that my infant Muse, now strives to pay,  
Unto thy work, shall only boast to be  
A sacrifice to thy loved memory.  
Nor do I hope (as others) to adorn,  
With my quaint lines thy book, mine were but borne,  
As subjects to thy worth, from whence they strive,  
Their utmost fame, and glory to derive.  
Their sole ambition being to attend  
Thee, with the true devotions of a friend.  
Though for thy death I grieve, for this I joy,  
That thy fair issue lives, which to destroy,  
Time is unable, for thy name shall have,  
A glorious life, and triumph o'er thy grave.  J. S.  

Elegy, on his Ingenious friend, the deserving Author, Master Thomas Beedome.  
HOw silent are the groves? No air doth move,  
To make the boughs each other kiss in love,  
Nor do the leaves (as they had jealous fears)  
Whisper into each others joining ears.  
Upon the branches perch no airy quires,  
Whose untaught music art itself admires,  
And by an imitation of those notes,  
Strained from the slender organs of their throats,  
Adds to itself perfection, and thereby,  
Shows nature's weak to artful industry.  
The listening heard their quick sense do apply,  
Not to the wonted use of ear or eye;  
As when harmonious echoes do invite  
Attention both to wonder and delight.  
All creatures have their active moti●n left,  
As if an apoplexy had beref●  
Their limbs of use, and time meant to conclude,  
His being in a general solitude,  
Such great effects great causes cannot miss,  
And both are equall, both a●ke in this.  
Not Winte●s Is●e band (the c●illy birth,  
Of bl●●ke North-winds) h●ve grayed the verdant earth,  
Or shorn the trees eronnes m●king them look old,  
Nor are the tuneful birds grown● hoarse with cold.  
But Beedome loss hath won on their consent,  
To share a voluntary punishment;  
The air in boisterous gusts● the stout oak bends,  
And his large spreading arms from th'body r●nds.  
That gro●ne for Beedome as they fall away,  
Who in his bark carved many a learned lay,  
The birds are voicelesse 'cause they cannot hear  
The wonted music of his well-inned sphere.  
Whence they derive our skill knowing na●u●e can  
Less wonder show in them, than Art in man,  
For him sense-grieved beasts, sad mourners be,  
By an instinct or hidden sympathy.  
And had all-changing time heard Beedome sing,  
He would have known no season but the Spring,  
Nor would he sure have suffered death to be,  
Judge in the cause of his mortality.  
But have reprieved his loved parts from the Bar,  
Till by translation they were made a Star.  
Muse's unite your tear●s, now he is gone,  
With them creating a new Helicon.  
Whose streams may the defect of yours supply,  
Which Beedome whilst he lived, drank almost dry:  
And by the power of his own active fire,  
Sublimed to that yourselves may well admire,  
Which to his virtue j●yn'd conclude him thus,  
Still l●ving through them, both to heaven and us;  Tho. Nabbes.  

In obitum Lachrymabilem, Thomas Beedome, nuper defuncti, et in praeclara ingenii sui Monumenta, jam primum edita.  
SIccine crudeli cecidisti morte peremptus?  
siccine in extremos, juslus es ire rogos?  
Et vix ingressus teneros lanuginis annos;  
Corruis ante diem, blande Bedome, tuum.  
Quid iuvat, ut tremulis cecinisti docta Camae●is  
●a●mina? Threiciae digna legenda lyrae?  
Quidve quod auricomum cinxisset pennula frontem?  
Vmbrassetque tuas laurus amica g●nas;  
Omnia cum nostri sint haec monumenta doloris:  
Quantaque virtus erat, tantus eritque dolour.  
Sic in Erithreo pretiosam littore concham  
Cum perdat; Lach●ymis prostruit Indus humum.  
Si●q●e super tumulum plorantia lumina salsis  
Opprimimus fluviis: noxque fit atradles;  
〈◊〉 tamen irriguis guttas sol●amus o●ellis?  
Curve fluit gemitus noster ab ore citus,  
Tene pe● altithroni sequerentur gaudia luctus?  
Tere pe● astri●eram quaereret unda domum!  
Non petit assiduos sanctorum mansio planctus;  
Convenit haud liquidis flamifer ignis aquis.  
Non opus interea est tantam destere ruinam  
Opprimet et tantum multa runia virum  
I nunc magni●icos jactato tyrant triumphos,  
Mors, et depictis pende trophoea tholis,  
Quam fragiles ictus contemptibilesque sagittae  
Sunt, nec vulneribus laedis ut ante tivis  
Dulcisoquis volutans juvenis super aethera scriptis  
Vivit in aurato nomen opusque libro.  
Atque triumphales redimunt sua tempora vittae;  
Victor adest mortis, fame perenn●s erit.  
Vivit enim certi Immutato pectore amici  
Nec potuit tumulo nobiliore frul.  Henry Glapthorne.  

Elegy on the death of his ingenious friend, the deserving Author, Mast●r Thom●s Beedome.  
ONce I resolved a silence, was comment,  
With the rare fabric ●f thy Monument,  
Viewed it complete, how every friend had strove,  
T'exceed each other in a zealous lo●e  
To thy blessed memory, and I smil●d to see,  
Thy name thus rap●in immortality,  
Yet payd●the 〈◊〉 tribute, tears let fall  
As numerous drops at thy sad funeral.  
As did that friend whose pregnant Muse dares vie,  
With grief itself to weep thy Ele●ie;  
Yet durst not write, my jealousy was such,  
It wisely prompt me, I should wrong too much  
Thy greater merit● had me rather mourn,  
In grief loved silence o'er thy quiet urn;  
Which I had done, had I not seemed to hear,  
(Once at the offering of a tribute tear.  
To thy loved ashes) a strange murmuring breath,  
Break forth from the still tenement of death,  
Thy dismal grave, and in a Language full,  
Of incensed anger, vow to disan●●ll  
All former friendship, if I should deny,  
'mongst other friends to write thy elegy;  
When thus ambiguous twixt my love and fears,  
I vented this, attended with my tears.  
Strong course of Fate, could he whose generous quill  
Bestowed a life on others, which else still,  
Had lain death's ruins, die himself; could he,  
Whose powerful Art spite of stern destiny,  
Broke up forgotten Monuments, and made  
The entombed Heroes live again, that swayed  
O'er others Fates, yet could this half-god creepe,  
Into a grave, and in cold Marble sleep.  
What tribe of Angels did invite thee hence,  
Their glorious guest? If not, what cursed offence,  
Hath fond earth given thee? That thou needs must flye,  
So young from us, to heaven's eternity.  
Or did thy precious soul shake off its clay,  
Cause nought below was worthy of her stay,  
And being matchless here, did upward move,  
There to be ranked with equal Saints above.  
Sure thus it was, and undeserving we,  
May tax our merit; not thy destiny,  
Yet glorious Beedome, though each friend appears,  
Almost thy Emblem, made so by his tears,  
For thy lamented loss, yet when we look  
On this immortal child of wit, thy book;  
Smiles from our ●h●ekes, all suner all tears do drive,  
Seeing in it thy fame shall ever live.  
Time and thy Memory, which no fate can sever,  
Shall last like ages, both conclude together.  Em. D.  

On the Poems of the Author, his dear Brother, Master Thomas Beedom deceased.  
SIlence would best become me, and I fear,  
I spoil the consort by intrusion here.  
'tis true, I need not add unto his praise,  
Nor bring my sprig to compliment his bays;  
But that the nearness of our birth and name,  
Calls me to stick my pinion to his fame.  
Then Reader know, we have not used our brains,  
To usher in absurd, uncivil strains;  
Such as might pale the Paper, black the ink,  
And cause the ghost of our dead friend to shrink.  
When judgements eye, his Poems shall discern:  
No no, 'tis otherwise here thou mayst learn  
Thy moral duty, and it will appear,  
Mayst please thy God, as well as please thine ear.  
He needs must say, that will his worth commend,  
He was an academy in his friend.  
And ready was (requested) to supply,  
His need with soul, or body's remedy.  Fran. Beedome.  


THE jealous LOVER, OR, THE CONSTANT MAID. Written by T. B.  — Sat est pro laude Voluptas.— 
LONDON: Printed by E. P. for John Sweeting, and are to be sold at his Shop, at the sign of the Angel, in Popes-head-Alley, near Cornhill. 1641.   

THE AUTHOR, TO the READER.  

WHen Johnson, Drayton, and those happier men  
That can drop wonders from their fluent Pen:  
Have with their miracles of Poetry  
Feasted thy ears and satisfied thy eye;  
Then turn aside, and 'mongst the vulgar things,  
Place what my newborn Muse abruptly sings.  
Which though it be but mean (as 'tis confessed)  
'T hath ventured hard to please thee, since 'tis pressed.  
If thou smile on it, I shall think my brain  
Hath laboured for this issue not in vain,  
If otherwise thou do contemn my lays,  
My pleasure's more to me, than all thy praise.   

— Sat est pro laude Voluptas.—  
Vale. THOMAS BEEDOME.    

THE jealous LOVER, OR, THE CONSTANT MAID.  

WHat time the noble Britain did resist,  
And va●quish Roman Caesar with his host,  
Who when he felt their fu●y did desist,  
And fled from Albion's white-wave-washed coast:  
Where the stout Britons' died with Roman blood,  
The seagreen face of the tumultuous stood.   

There dwelled an ancient honourable man,  
Near Sabrin's shore who was Cremillus height,  
In two fair twins his Offa spring fi●st began,  
A son and daughter brought at once to light:  
Whose beau●ies with their virtues vied in growth,  
Which should most grace their infancy and youth.   

His son Cherillus, but his fairer daughter,  
He named Pandora: did you never view,  
The liquid Ch●istall of a running water,  
Stream through some guilded field, where all things new,  
The spring had made, to such a place this Maid  
Unhappily (now grown a great one) st●ai'd.   

And while her eyes on the moist Element  
Did cast their be●mes, another sh●pe she spied,  
Far above hers, on whom such lives were spent,  
In Troy, for whom so many Hero's died:  
This shape the fairest sure, that e'er was shown,  
Was but a mere reflection of her own.   

While thus she gazed on her own shade, she thought,  
Oh that I might leap in, and seize yond prize!  
It were by death an easy purchase bought,  
For who would live, if not in yonder eyes?  
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,  
A●d died to see his shadow in a brook.   

As yet the toy we call a looking-glass,  
Wherein our siner Dames behold their faces,  
Did rest unknown, else t''ve not com● to pass,  
That this bright Maid replete with all the graces,  
Had in an ecstasy thus stood amazed,  
While only on her lively self she gazed.   

Still as she looked, she wish● some gentle fish  
Might now as once Arion it did, bear  
Her on the friendly waves, but oh her wish  
Could not implore an aid from any there.  
For they stood wondering that the earth could show  
A ●righter Nymph than Neptune could below.   

One while she was resolved t' assay the water,  
And so salute the thing she thought alive:  
But than she poised the danger that came after,  
Lest she perhaps might never more survive:  
Thus between joy and fear amazed she stood,  
Viewing the wonders of the silver stood.   

And as it chanced to shade her from the Sun,  
Unto her brighter face she rayed her hand,  
She thought her shade did beckon her to come  
To Theti● A●bor, and fors●ke the Land:  
Who had done so, had not a neighbouring brier,  
Seized her loved coat, and made her so retire.   

Injurious weed (quoth she) why hast thou stayed  
Me from a happiness I might have had?  
Receive the just curse of a spotless Maid,  
Mayst thou be henceforth held a thing so bad,  
So rough, that all may hate thee: thus having said,  
It since remains with prickles overspread.   

By this, Cherillus, who had long time since  
Followed stern Mars, in the black field of wars,  
Was home returned from service of his Prince,  
But wearing the true soldier's colours, scars:  
And time, to do him now the greater grace,  
Had grafted well-set hairs upon his face.   

Who as he passed along, and seeing her,  
Whom he not knew, (such difference time had made)  
●e took her to be Cupid's messenger,  
To teach him after war the wooing trade:  
He leans his hand upon his p●m●ll straight,  
And eased his ●●●●●er of its noble weight.   

Fairer then I can sp●●ke (thus he began)  
Whose presence make● th●● place the Elysian fields,  
Why hast thou robbed all whiteness from the Swan,  
And stole that colour which the coral yields?  
Why from thy head flows such a golden train,  
That thou alone are all thy sex's stain?   

Why doe those- balls thy breasts appear,  
Whiter than Leda; in her Vi●gin hew?  
Why dost thou 〈…〉 spring through all the year,  
And by thy presence make the earth still new?  
Why do those 〈◊〉 thy eyes, exceed yo● higher,  
And Phoe●us thence draw all his light and fire?   

Why art thou all so ●xquisite, that art  
Though joined with 〈…〉 height of ●kill,  
Would draw so●ne 〈◊〉 formed in every part,  
Not worth description from the meanest quill,  
If bu● compared with that rare so me of thine?  
For thou ca●st be no less than all divine.   

Deign goddess, (for I know thou art no less)  
't immortelize me in thy heavenly love,  
By thy 〈◊〉 grant thy Deity express,  
So thou shalt make me happier than love:  
Could make himself, when in a golden shower,  
He pierced the roo●e of his loved Danacs Tower.   

Thus as he spoke, he seized her Lilly hand,  
Which s●em'd within his warming palm to melt,  
But with us s●owy touch h● 〈◊〉 stand,  
As it had 〈◊〉 into his bosom de●●:  
Her modest face like the now dro●ping Rose,  
Looked toward earth from whence is first a●ose.   

And have you never seen the ty●ed Hare,  
Stand trembling at the hunter's hollow cry,  
Cha●'t by the dogs, could nowhere now repair,  
Where it conceived not certainly to die:  
Even so Pandora trembles while she hears  
His words, which moved nothing but her feare●.   

She fears the strangers heats, begot from lust,  
And so might dare t'infringe her virgin's Zone,  
And 'tis no small addition to mistrust,  
To think how n●w th●y only are alone.  
At such a time ●oule Tarquin ravishe thee,  
Fair Lucrece, backed by opportunity.   

●hou needest not fear fond girl a wanton flame,  
●ome live in him who is indeed no other,  
Than the joint partner that with thee came,  
From the rich womb of thy all virtuous mo●he●:  
'tis rare one spring should send forth various wa●e  
He's a chaste son, and thou as chaste a daughter.   

Thus after many a pause, her panting spirit,  
Which all this while lay secret and retired,  
Gave leav●, ●s ears should now her breath inherir,  
Than which, Cherillus nothing more desired:  
Twice she began, still f●om her purpose broke,  
At last she oped her coral lips, and spoke.   

Sir, you much injure others in the worth,  
Which yo●'r misprizing judgement sets on me,  
Since thousands more are every way set forth,  
With richer beauties than you here can see.  
'tis less than just, your compliment should raise  
Me past the Centre of a common praise.   

If this were true, Philorus had small cause,  
To fly from what herwisheth to embrace,  
For still his love finds some reserved clause,  
(Perhaps some strains in my less comely face)  
Or else perhaps suspicion may move  
His thoughts to run the jealous maze of love.   

B●t as it will, know Sir, tha● I have vowed,  
My faith shall still lay anchor in his heart,  
Nor other love shall ever be allowed,  
To claim in me the meanest, smallest, part:  
But only my Philorus, to whose eyes  
My panting heart doth offer sacrifice.   

'tis not my aim to train you in a hope,  
That you may conquer what I ne'er will yield:  
My leave is free, 〈…〉 your scope,  
To win the honour of som● o●her field:  
My fort already summoned, did accord,  
To be the captive of another Lord.   

Therefore if you are noble, as you seem,  
Surrender what you k●ep● so fast, my hand:  
No better than a thief we him esteem,  
Who wrongfully keeps back another's Land:  
The crime's augmented, wh●n 'tis clearly known,  
That what he doth detain, is not his own.   

Look how a guilty p●isoner a● the bar,  
Is startled with the sentence of his death:  
So poor Cherillus, or more fearful far,  
Shakes at the so and of her condemning breath:  
Her voice astonish'● valot deep then,  
Than ●ertofore an armed host of men.   

Denial from some other might admit,  
At least the party power to reply;  
But in this ra●e posi●ion of her wit,  
All adverse contradictions seem to die.  
For if Pandora once deny thee, know,  
All negatives are bounded in her no.   

He whose bold hand durst venture for a prize,  
Against opposed Armies clad in steel,  
Quakes like a coward, while her conquering eyes  
Enforce his recreant courage backward reel.  
Her powerful looks dart forth such awful charms,  
As might subdue wars God, though in his arms.   

Cupid, thy force is foi●●d, not all thy might  
Can m●ke thy new-made Champion on to venture;  
O if he durst, her frown in thy despite,  
Would kill me youngster ere he once could enter:  
There 's not an arrow from thy bow doth fly,  
Can pierce, if 〈◊〉 not pointed with her eye.   

Leave off thy dolorous way of pricking hearts,  
Why dost thou put poor lovers such pain?  
Why d●st thou spend thy stock to purchase darts?  
Hadst thou thy sight, thou've ne'er do so again.  
Were there a world of Cupid's, by her eyes  
she'd bring to every one a several prize.   

Cherillus thus by chaste Pandora taught  
Nobly desists, from what he durst not claim;  
Nor did he now so much as own a thought,  
Of what before he m●de his greatest aim.  
Only in pa●ting 'twas his chiefest bliss,  
When words were useless, to obtain a kiss.   

Which modestly was granted, for the name  
Of 〈…〉 infringed, had the denied:  
Hap'es● I h●to us in the instant came  
VVho swe●'d 〈◊〉 another man divide  
H● joys in h●●, who having this obtained  
His thoughts possess him he might more have gained.   

wherefore (the other being gone) he said,  
D●luding Siren, angel, but 〈◊〉 show;  
Thou hast in this thy slaming lust betrayed  
〈◊〉 in a hope that I should never know.  
Yet frehe Go●s h●ve ●ustly six● the time  
That thy false lip● gave seal unto my crime.   

As if thy leave were li●●nst to abuse●  
Thy friend, so he might satisfy by lust:  
Oh tell me, what delasions didst thou use  
To work him to the mischie●e; son he durst  
Naked as well have hugged a Scorpion  
As thee, hadst thou not trained the tray●or on.   

Oh! who durst sacrile giously steal  
Aught from that heavenly temple of thy face,  
Wert thou not privy, didst ●hou not reveal  
How he might do to rob thee of thy grace?  
And yet me thinks that face keeps still in store  
Sufficient graces for a thousand more.   

But oh it is too manifest! my eyes  
Are able witnesses of the deceit,  
And this yet more suspi●ion satisfies,  
How at my onset he made his retreat  
And 'tis the act of guilt to take its flight  
When once it is discovered by our sight.   

Accurst creator of thy lasting shame,  
Why hath thy last out-wo●n● thy fleeting love?  
Why dost thou willing wound my bleeding fame  
And afte● all thy oathes a recreant prove?  
Gape earth, receive this Candid devil in,  
Lest the infect more angels with her sin.   

Oh! hadst thou been ambitious, to have tasted  
Variety in pl●●sures then, oh then,  
Thou mightst have st●died how to have them lasted,  
By yielding up thy fame to several men:  
And ne'er have falsely vowed thy faith to one,  
Which impudence dar'st swear was me alone.   

Speak, traitor to thy honour and thy friend,  
What plaster canst thou make to heal this sore?  
Or what excuse can on thy crime attend?  
Oh see thy guile now blushes more and more!  
As if that ●●●ne which thou worldst fain deny,  
Were printed there before my reading eye.   

Wherefore I now will study to be free,  
My thralled heart shall stand no longer bound,  
The despised servant of thy faith and thee,  
I leave neglected what with joy I found.  
This fatal m●nu●e shall our loves dissever,  
So false Pandora, here farewell for ever.   

This said, Philorus from the Virgin flies,  
While the (poo●e hear●) was drowned in the flou●  
Of ●eares, 〈◊〉 like a sea sprung from her eyes,  
And watered all the earth whereon she stood.  
Who like poor stone-turned Niobe did stand,  
A floating statue on the moving Land.   

The neighbouring river mourned to hear her fate,  
The blustering winds did chide the hollow trees,  
While they consulting to participate  
Her grief, do all their verdant garments lose.  
The bi●ds tell heaven, and heaven to show its pity.  
Bid Philomela sing a mournful Ditty.   

A Poet then imploring of the Nine,  
To lend him aid her story to indite;  
Melpomene said, no, this work is mine,  
But grief deni●s me power how to write.  
Thus she that can write buskin-deep in blood,  
Is drowned with our Pandora in this flood.   

Oh grief, if ever mourning did become  
Thy meager face, 'twas when Pandora wept;  
She numbered up her sighs beyon● all sum,  
And sorrow's Court within her countenance kept,  
She was composed of dolour, and in brief,  
The liveliest Emblem of the perfectest grief.   

Ah false Philorus, didst thou see those tears,  
Which thy chaste love pours forth in thy dislike;  
The obj●ct would a f●right thy jealous fears,  
And to thy heart an awful reverence strike.  
●arth never bore a subject of more ru●h  
Than this, who suffers only for her truth.   

When the salt flood had drawn the fountain dry,  
That scarce another tear could find a vent,  
Nor was there hope of any new supply,  
Since all her moisture was consumed and spent:  
Sill to her grief fresh matter she affords,  
As then in tears, so now she weeps in words.   

wherefore (quoth she) blind Love didst thou enthrall  
My faith so namely to Philorus soul?  
On if thou canst, my sealed pledge recall,  
Since my Philorus thinks Pandora foul.  
Yet witness heaven, I am as pure as air,  
Diana's not more chaste, although more fair.   

The congealed snow upon the Alpin mountain  
Retains as much of her as my breast,  
And in the cool spring of a crystal fountain  
As much desire, as in my heart doth ●est.  
Oh jealousy, why should Philorus think  
The Candid paper blacker than the ink?   

What sin (good Gods) have wretched: committed,  
That you should thunder vengeance on my head?  
Yet all my sufferings of my Love unpitied:  
Blush Sol, at this unjustice hide thy head:  
For if thou spy my wrongs, they would require  
Thou shouldst in their revenge scourge earth by fire.   

Why nature did thy choicer hand create  
Me to a form by some 〈◊〉 excellent?  
Since what was purposed to my best of fate  
Preposterously turns to my detriment?  
Oh who then me was ever more accursed,  
Whose seeming best is changed to real worst   

Oh hadst thou cheated me of some one limb,  
De●orm'd my face, or robbed me of an eye,  
I ne'er had been thought guilty of a sin,  
Nor given occasion to this jealousy.  
Those that are foul still unsuspected go,  
While fair ones (though more chaste) are not thought so.   

Happy are you in whose creation  
Banished perfection was an absent stranger:  
But think how much hath beauty of temptation,  
And then you'll bless the Gods you're out of danger.  
Where various flowers in the garden grow●e,  
We pass the bramble, but pluck up the ●ose.   

Yet grant that ●orme be thought a happiness  
Which doth against temptations batteries vie,  
Beauty though it come off with good success,  
〈◊〉 wounded straight by poisonous jealousy.  
Thus like a Monster mischief doth pursue it.  
And no endeavours can at all eschew it.   

Now sorrowful Pandora takes her way  
Through the thick woods (which is a large procession  
No matter where, grief cannot go astray,  
Since she hath vowed perpetual progression  
Till the may once more her P'bilorus spy,  
Which but performed, it were a bliss to die.   

Death now were welcome, were Philorus pleased;  
To die ere that, were torture in the grave,  
Lest angry he by jealousy diseased,  
Should after death against her ashes rave,  
Or lest her ghost which hourly must come see him,  
He fright with frowns, and so enforce it slay him.   

Here unfrequented, save with savage beasts,  
She spends the ●●a●ous minutes of her age;  
Her eyes upon the several sights she feasts,  
While sorrow triumphs in her equipage:  
The greedy earth cast off her covering grass,  
To look upon her as she by did pass.   

The savage tiger when it came her near,  
Stooped to the splendour of her conquering eyes:  
The tusked Bore that broke Adon●s sp ●are,  
Crouched down to her, whose mercy bid it rise:  
Who then in duty gently to her came,  
And hence it is that some have since been tame.   

The winged birds from heaven came down in qui●es,  
Each one by turn did sing his ●ounde-lay,  
Whose a●ery notes still up again aspires,  
Which being ended each bird flies away,  
To g●t n●w Songs: thus by their various lays,  
Each steals a little sorrow from the days.   

The ●ow-growne gentle satyrs did invite  
The wood nymphs to compose a measured dance,  
Each thing affords some matter of delight,  
As glad her downcast look●s they might advance:  
The little E●min can afford its skin,  
From the cold air to wrap her hands therein.   

The trees did gladly spread their open arms,  
To sh●de her roses from the blowing wind,  
And leapt their leaves so close, no sco●ching harms  
Could burn her lilies when Apollo shined.  
The pitying ●ezor when it heard her groan,  
Lest she should faint, bites out his cordial stone.   

By chance a pin her tender finger prick●,  
At which there startled out a drop of blood,  
The which as soon as from it she had licked,  
The trees wept balsam for her greater good.  
Still as she sighed, the friendly unicorn  
Osters that precious Antidote, his horn.   

The hunger-bitten lion greedy came,  
Thinking to seize her body for a pray,  
But when he saw her, straight was turned tame,  
And at her feet for mercy prostrate lay.  
While his dumb reve●ence seemed to tell the Mai●,  
He mourned to think how he made her afraid.   

Thus like the Queen of earth she sat admired  
By these, the senseless subjects of the wood,  
only the monster-grief had not retired,  
But by its fury feasted on her blood.  
While thus to give these notice of her wrong,  
She vents her sorrow in this following Song.   

The Song.  

My Philorus is unkind  
H●w should I choose b●● g●ieve at that  
What joy, what comfort can I have,  
Save in a wished-for, timeless grave.  
Since all my hop●s are dead in him●  
He can giv●●ase to this my m●oan,  
And bu● in him I can have none.   

Pity, pity, gentl● Love,  
For grief enough torm●nts my heart.  
Why shouldst tho ● pity me since I  
Wi●hout Philo●us living dye?  
There is no hope I m●y revive,  
For jealous thoughts possess his mind:  
How should Philorus then be kind?   

Answe● heaven, is this just,  
That he that ●●ves should jealous be?  
Is there union with the Gods  
That place in mortal souls such odds?  
Mortality will curse the Fates.  
Let all chaste Lovers weep with me,  
And in these streams drown jealousy.   

Overcoming so the siend  
Love may knit our hearts in one;  
Oh that the conquest now were won●  
So were all my sorrows done,  
Which must else for aye abide;  
Then might I enjoy my love,  
Whose neglect these passions move.   

Otherwise it' the decreed●  
That grief in love must end my life,  
Let (gentle Gods) I hilorus know  
Though thought unchaste, I am not so.  
So when I sleep within my V●n●  
'Twill be my comfort to have dy'd,  
Since his suspition's satisfied.   

Some two yards hence a neighbouring thicket grew,  
Where languishing Philorus used to lie,  
Who when he heard this Dirty, straightway knew,  
Love-wrohged Pandora did complain thereby.  
Wherefore once more to try her constant saith,  
Disguised he enters to her, and thus saith.   

Why darlng mortal, art thou bold to press  
Ne'er these untrodden kingdoms? in these Groves  
Can savage creatures succour the distress  
Of whining Virgins for their absent Loves?  
Can senseless earth tell how to ease thy grief,  
Or can the blust●●ing winds blow thee relief?   

Where canst thou house thyself, where wilt thou dwell?  
When Hye●● rageth, whence wilt thou get fi●e?  
In all these woods I know, save my one Cell,  
No place where thou distressed canst retire.  
Canst thou eat grass, or look '●t thou to be fed  
With le●●s ●or flesh, and rocks or stones for bread?   

〈◊〉 love me ●●est, and by strength of arm  
From the wild creatures I will rend their prey,  
By sacred spells of my enchanting charm.  
He force Pomona her sweet fruits to pay.  
C●●e● shall now study to make a birth  
Of ripened corn in this untilled earth.   

To gratify this Love young Ganymede,  
When love's a 〈◊〉 shall steal a ●ou●ny down:  
And at thy gorgeous table when 'tis spread,  
Shall thy full cups with heavenly Nectar crown.  
Instead of oaks round whom the Ivy twines,  
Bacchus shall plant the Wine-begetting Vines.  
Thou shalt drink Lethe and forget thy love,  
Since he so coldly m●eres thy zealous fires,  
What reason is't thou shouldst so constant prove,  
To him that sees, and yet slights thy desires?  
Fair Maid unlock thy lips, and let me know  
Thy instant grant, for 〈◊〉 admit no ●o.   

First then (quoth she) let death dispatch a d●●t,  
And aim the fatal p●y●t against my breast,  
Or else swell high my grief and split my heart,  
So shall my virgin ghost in quiet rest,  
Ah my Philorus, wherefoere thou be,  
This woe's begotten from thy jealousy.   

●ase man desist, or els● w●a● you style fair,  
Your foaming lust shall hideously ass●ight,  
He hang myself within my flowing ha●e,  
Ere thou shalt touch Philorus dear delight●  
And after death my ghost shall ●ack● thy sense,  
there's no worse plague than guilt of conscience   

At this he backward moved his gentle pace,  
And scarce his manly eyes from tears forbear,  
His sor●ow now was w●●tten in his face,  
The which he had lest ●h● might read it there.  
His heart now 〈◊〉 to see the mo●●ning Maid,  
While thus unto himself he softly said.   

Heaven's milky way may sooner be p●oph●●'d  
By spurious ●eet, the Phoenix though but ●ne  
Be found no virgin, and 〈◊〉 is named,  
Sacred, may suffer profanation,  
The Sun forget his way into the West,  
And drive his team into the North to rest.  
The Swan may change his whiteness with the Crow,  
Diana be a common prostitute,  
And dirt may wear a whiter face than snow,  
Vesta may Vesta's Temple now pollute.  
Preposterous Nature may bring forth a birth  
Of fishes swimming in the solid earth.   

Fire and water may embrace each other,  
And then u●i●ed both make up one flame.  
And Jove may change his throne with his black brother,  
The Furies may obtain a milder name.  
The wolf and Lamb may from the selfsame dug  
Draw milk, and then each other friendly hug:   

The generous Lion may exchange his heart,  
For the weak courage or the ●●morous Hate,  
The fixed stairs may from their stations part,  
And falsehood upon earth may become ra●e.  
What e'er is called impossible, may spring  
To be as copious as the commonest thing.   

Chastities self may yield to strong temptation,  
Ice may be tickled with a wanton heat,  
the Aethiop changed to a milk white Nation,  
●nd Manna may become the damned's meat:  
E●e my Pandora can give up her name  
To be the common place of public sham●.   

〈◊〉 ●all Affections that are placed in man.  
〈◊〉 is jealousy that makes him most accurst:  
●●at makes a Raven of the snowy Swan,  
●●d what is simply pure, that feigneth worst.  
Hence loathed suspicion thou no more shalt find,  
An easy welcome to my credulous mind.   

●r if Pandora should decline from good,  
●nd entertain one single thought of sin,  
●hould the least warmth dissolve her frozen blood,  
〈◊〉 in one breath should she draw poison in,  
Heavens finding spots in this rich pearl of theirs,  
Would give me notice of it by their tears.   

The glorious Sun who heretofore was proud  
●n his swift course, to stand and gaze upon her,  
Would frown, and wrap his beauty in a cloud,  
To give me notice of her great dishonour.  
Her crime though private, cannot scape my sense,  
Since heaven-must needs give me intelligence.   

With that he turning to her (fai●e● quoth he,)  
Could you forgive Philorus j●aloasie,  
Did her repent? while straight replied she,  
Else let me heaven without thy mercy die.  
Lo than his perfect shape I here discover,  
Who now grows proud of such a constant Lover●   

Blessed Heaven! in what an amorous twine th●y twist,  
As if both bodies were compact in o●●:  
And while she wept, joyful Philorus kissed  
The chastest lips that ere crea●ion  
Could boast: else all these storms had driven  
Her faith from him as far, as hell from heaven.   

When love and wonder gave them leave to speak,  
Each did ●ety their souls to th'others breast,  
Which knot suspicion shall want power to break,  
Since he doth now his former thoughts detest.  
Now joy lends wings while both together fly  
And tell her father all this history.   

Which having heard, he pays heavens thanks in tears,  
That had resto●'d the jewel which he lost,  
And now acquitted all those dismal fears,  
Which had so many we●ping minutes lost.  
Blushing Cherillus now salutes his sister,  
And ●hanks the God● that he unknown had missed her.   

All so●row now is wiped from every eye,  
The●'s not a face that wears a mournful look.  
laughed triumphs, while meager grief doth die,  
As if fate had displayed some ●o●und book●,  
Which the bystanders reading, joy to see  
How there their joy's writ for eternity.   

Her father now 〈◊〉 their equal fires,  
Since Hymen pi●e of Fate did ●o command.  
All union lived in their conjoint desires,  
Each soul lay pawned in to' the●s plighted hand,  
Where they rest happy; thus those Loves do thrive,  
Whom Chastity through storms s●ill keeps alive.   

〈…〉  
〈…〉  
〈…〉  
〈…〉  
〈…〉  
〈…〉  
〈…〉  
〈…〉  
〈…〉    
FINIS.    

POEMS.  

To his Mistress, when she was going into the Country.  
YEs, yes, it must be so, but must there be,  
When you depart, no memory had of me,  
My soul being racked as large a distance too  
To meet you there, as I must be from you,  
While the glad spring for joy you shall be seen  
Meet your approach, and clothe herself in green.  
And the fresh morning to salute your rise,  
Bedews the ground from it's o'rejoyed eyes,  
For joy like grief, we know, sometimes appears,  
Writ on our cheeke●, with characters of tears.  
Go and be happy, go, and when you see  
The trusty Ivy clasp it's much loved tree,  
And with its amorous in twinings cover  
The welcome waste of it's embraced lover:  
Think it our emblem then, and proved to be  
The happy shadow of my love and me.  
Go and be happy, and when some sweet brooks  
(Calm as thy thoughts, and smooth as are thy looks)  
Show thee thy face, thou let thy thoughts supply  
And though I be not think that I am by;  
For if●the hear● b● taken for whole ●an,  
I must be by thee, be thou where thou can.  
Go, and when pretty birds on some small spray,  
near to thy window welcome in the day:  
Awake, and think, when their sweet notes you hear.  
I was beforehand, and had sung them there.  
Go, and whate'er thou chance to hear or see,  
Be it bird, or brook, or shade of tree;  
If it delights thee, may my soul in it  
Move thy true joys under that counterfeit.  
So, ask not how I do when you are there,  
For at your mercy well or ill I fare.  
For now me thinks my heart so high doth swell,  
It must enforce a breath, farewell, farewell.   

The Knell.  
When the sad tolling of my bell you hear,  
Think ●is some angel's trump, and judgements near  
Then if but to repent, you take the pain,  
Your judgements past, lie down and sleep ag●ine.   

The Perfume.  
Not that I think thy breath less sweet than this,  
Thy breath, in which no pleasant sweets I miss,  
Not that I think thy whi●e, than this less fair,  
Thy white, to which all whites but blackness are:  
Not that I think thy heart, than this less pure,  
Thy heart, which ●o dull mixture can endure,  
Send I this to th●●, but as gold well tried,  
Admi●s allay when it is purified,  
So by this foil I would to thee impart  
What is thy breath, thy whiteness, and thy heart,  
Thy breath, all perfumes, doth as save outgo,  
As doth thy whiteness, the descending, snow;  
The snow descends, but by the winds being blown,  
Thy sweeter breath, and whiter snows, thine own:  
Thy heart less mixed than the sole Phoenix bed,  
Proclaims thee Mistress of a Maiden head,  
And so there were no ashes after ●ire,  
Would that were conquered in my love● desire  
But if there be, why can it not suffice?  
That one being dead another Phoenix rise.  
Thy maiden head being gone, we still shall prove,  
Both being one unparalleled in love,  
But I have riddled, let me now unfold,  
What is the perfume, what the snow, what gold;  
All this, and each of these, thou know●st thou art,  
And I should know more, did I know thy heart.   

To his Mistress on her scorn.  
Resolve me dearest, why two hea●ts in one  
Should know the sin of separation.  
Must the sweet custom of our oft stolen kiss,  
Be lost, and we live empty of those blisses:  
Or do the stownes of some old over seer  
Nourish thy fear, or make thy love less freer?  
Why didst thou suffer me those sweets to steal,  
Which but thine own, no tongue can e'er reveal,  
And prompt me to a daring, to believe,  
That my sad heart should find no cause to grieve:  
Yet now at last hast mocked my hope so far,  
That I have ●ot a cloud● though meant a starre●  
Well, take thy triumph, study but to be  
True to thyself, as thou art false to me.  
And thou shalt meet a conquest, yet when I  
Have groaned unto the world my Elegy,  
And thy unjust disdain, perhaps I shall  
Obtain this honour in my funeral.  
Thy poisonous guilt mixed with thy purged breath,  
May make thee with●● with me unto death:  
So shall I triumph in my Ashes too,  
In that my innocence hath conquered you,  
And then my eye rejoice, in that I have  
Thy scorn, to be a mourner at my grave.   

The Question and Answer.  

WHen the sad ●ines of that face  
In its own wrinkles buried lies,  
And the stiff pride of all its grace  
By time undone, ●als ●lacke and dies:  
Wilt not thou sigh, and wish in some vexed fit,  
The it were now as when I courted it.   

And when thy glass shall it present,  
Without those smiles which once were there,  
Showing like some stale monument,  
A scalp departed from its hair,  
At thyself frighted wilt not start and swea●e  
That I believed thee, when I called thee fair?   

Yes, yes, I know thou wilt, and so  
Pity the weakness● 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
That now hath humbled thee to know,  
Though fai●e it was, it is forlorn,  
Loves sweets, thy aged corpse, embalming not,  
What marvel if thy carcase beauty ●ot.   

Then shall I live, and live to be  
Thy envy, thou my pity; say  
When ere thou see me, or I thee,  
(Being nighted from thy beauty's day)  
'Tis he, and had my pride not withered me,  
I had, perhaps, been still as fresh as he.   

Then shall I smile, and answer 〈◊〉 thy scorn  
Left thee thus wrinkled, slacked, corrupt, ●orlorne.    

The new Petition.  
Apollo once disdained not to keep,  
So he might keep, his love Admetu● sheep.  
The distaff Hercules did exercise,  
T'extract a smile from his dear Ladies eyes:  
Olympic Joan disdained not to take  
A bull's effigies for Europus sake:  
A chill fitter far to deal with steel,  
Did labour for his Mistress at the reel.  
Love spared Leander his pledged saith to save,  
Died., hugging in his arms the murdering wave,  
Whilst a new death his hero doth devise,  
And drowned herself i'th' Ocean of her eyes.  
By Pyramus, the world did understand  
That love and life, lay linked hand in hand.  
When one was lost in Thisbe, th'other flew,  
Through the pierced po●tals of his wound, yet new;  
Which when his Thisbe saw, 'tis hard to say,  
Whose spirit posted fastest on the way.  
Thus some dejection, others did invade  
Great opposition, and have willingly laid,  
Their lives at needless hazard, some have died,  
And so have to the utmost satisfied  
What tyrant love could force, and beyond this,  
The great and true non ultra fixed is.  
Yet happy this, since what so c're they tried,  
Was on their Mistress part regratified.  
Oh who would, when he saw an equal flame  
Of love in her he loved, ow● so much shame  
As to 〈◊〉 his life, if her least grief,  
Did but invite his blood for her relief  
But this lorenamed courteous Ghost; can bear  
Me witness, I have shed full many a teat,  
Spoke the best language, rhetoric affords,  
I ●mb●d out my heart even to the life in words,  
Would, what they did, did like occasion proffer,  
And till that, do I can no more, but offer.  
And yet for all my sufferings, she that is,  
If I 〈◊〉 reach to call her so, my bli●se,  
Slights all my sorrows; Oh what eye could now  
Forbear to yield a tea●e, when seeing how  
I love, I am neglected; weep with me  
All you the read my wrongs, so if you be  
Comp●ssionate, perhaps your tears may move  
The frozen Mercy of my ice-white love.  
Which if they do, if you at any time  
Shall 〈◊〉 drop, I'll lend you some of mine.  
Methinks I see you weep dear Mistress then,  
Behold a Noble sea of pitying men  
Doth waft me to your favour, if you deign,  
Yet now at last to ease me of my pain,  
This glory shall unto your mercy rise,  
That you have wiped all tears from lovers eyes.   

Fool's Paradise, or Reason bewitched.  
— & apta  
Spicula sent nobis puris—  
Simple as are the Elements unmixed,  
Steadfast as is the earth, whose footing's fixed  
Untainted like the silver suit of Swan,  
Alone like truth, well ordered like a man.  
Like these in each of these was I, until  
Upon a time, Reason fell foul with Will,  
Who backed with sense, that it might battle move  
Implored the aid of all commanding Love,  
Love by his mother taught, doth soon comply  
To be an Actor in this treachery.  
The battle's waged, and Reason flies the field,  
While sense and Will to Love the Conquest yield.  
I now, loves subject, am enforced to do  
What ever his designs commands me too.  
See, see (quoth he) do you behold that maid,  
Whose equal doth not breathe; and there he stayed  
To draw fresh air. So quick was he to give  
Me notice that I must no longer live  
In my own self, but her whom when I spied,  
Me thought I had been happy to have dy'd.  
Since I at once saw severally in one  
What joined together made perfection.  
Th●● was Horella, that bright shining sta●●e,  
Who might have caused a second Trojan war.  
Were there a second Paris, for her face,  
The world might strive, but then there sat a grace  
So chaste, that might expel each spurious thought.  
Such as soul Helen to her Paris brought.  
There I might read in my Florella's looks,  
(Such are indeed beauties most perfect books)  
Loves pleasant Lecture, where I might espy  
How Cupid once sought 〈◊〉 at her eye,  
Whom the repelled, like snow the chaste and cold  
Could not 〈◊〉 Sympathy to hold,  
With his hot 〈◊〉, but melting quite put out  
That 〈◊〉 which warmed her round about.  
Cupid denied of this did backward start,  
And ran for haste to hide him in her heart,  
Where he renewed fresh flames, and by delay,  
So 〈◊〉 his wings he could not fly away.  
Thus force perforce in her my conquered breast  
〈◊〉 the poor inn of such a god-born guest,  
Whom while I harbour, it is hard to tell  
Whether his presence be a Heaven or Hell.  
Such pleasurable pain, such painful pleasure  
Sometimes below, and sometimes above measure.  
Mars on a time forsook his Venus' bed,  
Protesting he no longer would be led  
To those embraces, which like Circ●s charm●,  
Made him forget the heroic use of arms.  
Venus heard this, whiles half in anger she  
Did thrust her darling Cupid off her knee.  
Down fall, the youngster, and in falling so.  
Broke all his Arrows, quiver and his bow,  
His granda●●e Nature pitying the mischance,  
Wipes the wags eyes, told him she would advance  
Him to his former office: 〈◊〉 a dart  
That should transfix the most obdurate heart.  
She would create an eye, and for a bow  
She'd make a brow, whose art inclining so,  
Should shoot such shafts, that deity should yield  
Themselves glad prisoners in the maiden field,  
When straight she made Florella, such a maid,  
Who being named, need there ought else be said?  
'Tis not long since that I heard I overs whine  
At those deep wounds, which from their Mistress ●yne  
They bleeding had received, cause they could win  
No mercy from them, whilst I thought some pin  
Had s●●atch't their tender hands, till I too late  
Grew sensible they were unfortunate  
In their lost loves, cause when Florella s●ound,  
She like a comet struck me to the ground,  
Till she was pleased to clear her glorious eyes,  
Which summoned me from death to life to rise.  
Wherefore you speedy Merchant; d●e y●u run  
Beyond the bounds of the all-bounding sun,  
To seek for Rubies, pearl, and Ivory,  
Adventuring hazard both of Land and ●kie,  
When my ●lorella can afford all this  
Without your search in the tumultuous Seas.  
Rubies and pearl, her lips and teeth, her skin,  
Like hollow Ivory, locks those g●ms within,  
For which you sondly up and down do room,  
When you may better find this wealth at home,  
What would the Northern Clim●te hold too dear  
To purchase my Florella to live there?  
That where the niggard sure denies to shine,  
They might receive more lustre from her eyen.  
But that I know she loves Religion best,  
She had long since, seen India the West,  
But least those Pagans, who adore the rise  
Of the bright sun, should dote upon her eyes,  
She was resolved to stay: woe had I been  
Had she gone thither to increase their sin.  
East India nothing holds that's worth her view,  
There's nothing there, that she can take for new;  
Their aire-perfuming spices, precious gum,  
Their siagrant odours, pleasant, Cinamum.  
All these and sweeter far, she breathes whose smell  
Doth all thing; but itself, highly excel:  
Once to my friend I did these lines rehearse,  
Who straight way smiled, and did applaud my verse.  
But Al●! I fear 'twas my Florella's name  
That 〈◊〉 his tongue, so to belie my ●ame.  
Once, and but once, I 〈◊〉 to have the sight  
Of my Florella, who makes darkness light:  
When leaden Morph●us did her sense surprise,  
In the locked casket of her closed eyes,  
Fain● would I steal a kit●●, but as I strove,  
Those sear●● 
* Her lips.  Judges of my sleeping love  
Did swell ag●inst my pride, and angry red,  
Charged me stand back from her forbidden bed.  
While they her precious breath did seem to smother,  
Each privately did steal a touch from th'other,  
● enviou● at their new begotten bliss  
Was bold on her soft lips to print a kiss.  
At which she waked: And have you ever seen  
How ●aire Aurora, heaven● illustrious Queen.  
Shakes off her ●able Robe, and with a grace  
Smiles in the front of a fair morning face.  
Just so my love, as if night had been noon,  
Discards the element of the useless moon:  
And from her glorious tapers sent a ●i●e,  
To light the darkest thoughts to quick de●i●e.  
While thus from forth her to ●all gate she sent,  
Breath formed in words, the marrow of content.  
And have you Sir, at such a tempting time  
Bet●ayd my honour, to this welcome crime,  
By stealing pleasure from me, 'twas thy Love  
I know, that did thee to this trespass move,  
For I have proved thy faith, which since I find  
The trusty Inmate of a loyal mind,  
Of force I must accept it; and in part  
Of recompense, afford thee all my heart,  
Thus having ceased my prize; I told her, sweet,  
As by no fouler name we ere may greet,  
So what is mine I tender, all, myself,  
The poorest part of thy unvalued wealth.  
Thou hast won much in this, thy mercy shown,  
That thus at last thou dost receive thy own  
lest they who after me like fate shall prove,  
Should say: See what it is to be in Love.  I am in portu.  

love's apostasy to his friend M●. E.D.  
Tut, let her go, can I endure all this,  
Yet die, to dote upon a maiden's kiss?  
Is there such magic in her looks, that can,  
Into a fool, transfigurate a man?  
Didst thou not love her? true● and she disdain  
To meet thy virtue? let her meet her shame●  
Were she as ●ane as she herself would be,  
Adorned with all the cost of bravery:  
Could she melt hearts of flint, and from her eye  
Give her beholder's power to live or die.  
I' I'd rather beg she would pronounce my death,  
Then behe● scorn, though that preserved my breath.  
Rise 〈◊〉 and be not fooled: S'soote what a shame  
Were it for thee to reincense one flame  
From the declining spa●ke? dost thou not know  
As she's a woman, her whole sex doth owe  
To thine all honour? her false heart and pride  
Dare not oppose thy faith: then turn high tide,  
And let her, since her scorn● doth so disease thee  
By her repentance strive again to please thee.   

The broken heart song.  
Coun● the sigh●, and count the tea●es,  
Which have in 〈◊〉 my budding years:  
Comment on my wo●ull look,  
Which i● now black sorrows book.  
Read how love is overcome,  
Weep an ● sigh, and then be dumb.  
Say it was your charity  
To help him wh●●● eyes 〈◊〉 dry.  
Here paint my Cleora's name,  
Than a 〈◊〉, and then a flame,  
Then mark how the heart doth fry  
When Cl●o●a is so nigh.  
I hough the flame did do its part,  
'T was the name that broke the hea●●  
Peace, no more, no more you need  
My sad history ●o read.  
Fold the paper up again,  
And report to other men  
These complaints can justly prove  
Hearts may break, that be in love.   

Women are men's shadows.  

1.  
FOllow a shadow, it flies you,  
Seem to fly it, it will pursue.  
So court a Mistress, she denies you,  
Let her alone, she will cou●t you.  
Say, are not women truly then  
Styled but the shadows of us men?   

2.  
At morn and even, sl●des are longest,  
At noon they are, or short or none.  
So men at weakest, they are strongest,  
But grant us perfect th' are not known.  
Say are not women truly then  
Styled but the shadows of us men.  Per Ben. Johnson.   

Women are not men's shadows. E Contra.  

1.  
The sun absented, shadows than  
Cease to put on the forms of men.  
But wives, their husband's absent, may  
Bear best their forms (they being away)  
Say, are no● women falsely then  
Styled but the shadows of us men.   

2.  
Shadows at morn and Even are strong,  
At noon they are, or weak, or none:  
Women at noon are ever long,  
At night so weak they ●all along.  
Say, are not won ●n ●●●●ly then  
Styled but the shadows of us men?   

3.  
As bodies are contracted, shadows so  
Contract themselves to forms as bodies do:  
Let men be bounded near so close: I wis●.  
Women will rove and ●amble where they list.  
Say, are not women falsely then  
Styled but the shadows of us men?    

To his worthy friend Mistress.  

I charge thee by those eyes of thine,  
Give me my heart:  
Those eyes that stole it out of mine,  
I felt the smart.  
And lest the the●t you should deny,  
Look where you keep it in your eye.   

And now I have espied it there,  
Thinking to catch it,  
You chain and wind it in your hair,  
But still I watch it.  
And so got loose from thence, it flies,  
And sports again upon your eyes.   

Though now to cozen me you seek  
Thinking to hide  
It in the dimple of your cheek  
I have diseryed:  
How now discovered it doth skip  
twixt the soft prison of each lip.   

Yes, yes, I see it stealing, go  
lest I should find it,  
Through the long gallery of snow,  
And still I mind it.  
How you have shuffled it between  
Your breasts, not thinking it is seen.   

See, see, I see it creeping in  
(Near you I fear)  
Through the small 〈◊〉 of your skin  
to shelter there.  
As if that 〈◊〉 could 〈◊〉 me,  
Alas, I know things I not see.   

But if, nor eye, nor hair, nor cheek,  
Nor lip, nor breast, nor heart it keep:  
Give me them all, for every part  
Thou hast, has part of me; my heart    

To Mistress.  
While a the locks of time, and smother fa●●e  
Than sliding streams thy skin and ●●esses are,  
Sweet a A●abian odours, when in fire  
Their struggling spirits upwards do expire,  
(When as the courteous wind doth court our sense.  
And ra●ish it with sweet intelligence)  
Is thy pure breath only this difference know,  
That sent is 〈◊〉, but thine is natural s●,  
Soft as the plumy mos●e that over-spreads  
The tender circle of young Turtles heads,  
Are thy two breasts, which enviously do swell  
To think that that should this, this that excel:  
And yet ashamed such strife their pride hath bred,  
Both blush and tip themselves with bashful red.  
Types, locks, streams, odours, down, nor blushes are  
So red, so soft, so sweet, so smooth, so fair.   

On a lily now withered in her bosom.  

Blessed in thy happy bed fair lily lie  
To shade thee from the sun of her bright eye:  
But do not in a wanton pride preferte  
Thyself, as adding whiteness unto her.  
Alas! what glory could in thee appear  
So eminent, if not transplanted there?  
But see, thou fadest already, poor, proud flower,  
Whose fate is limited to one short hour:  
And since thou wouldst for such a beauty vie,  
Thy conquered envy makes thee pale and die.   

Come sit thee down, and with a mislyn charm  
Cease my encircled arm,  
Till locked in fast, embraces we discover  
In every eye a lover,  
Then lost in that sweet apostasy of blisses,  
we'll speak our thoughts in kisses.  
In which we'll melt our souls, and mix them so,  
That what is thine or mine, there's none shall know:   

Rare mystery of love, and wonders too,  
Which none but we can do:  
Nor shall the leaden spirits of all those,  
Who speak of love in tame prose:  
Believe our joys: but dully censure us●  
Only for loving thus.  
Ah! how I smile, that doubtly blessed, we do  
Enjoy ourselves, and all their envy too.    

The choice.  
WHat care I though she be 〈◊〉  
Hair, snow-like hand, or sunlike eye,  
If in that beauty I not share,  
Were she deformed, what care I.  
What care I though she be foul,  
Hair swa●thy hand, or sun burnt eye,  
So long as I enjoy her soul,  
Let her be so, why what care I.  
Dim sight is cozened with a glass,  
Of gaudy gown, or humorous hair,  
Such gold in melting leave more dross  
Than some unpolished prices share,  
Be she ●aire, or soul, or either,  
Or made up of both together,  
Be her heart mine, have, hand, or eye  
Be what it will, why what care I.    

EPITAPHS.  

Epitaphium Regis Swedorum.  

HEre sleeps he who was and is  
The subject of eternal bliss.   

Religion, and no other end,  
Caused him his blood & means to spend.   

He conquered all, only his breath,  
He lost, by which he conquered death.   

Now wouldst thou know whom we deplore  
'Tis Sweaden, Reader, hushed no more:   

● est while thou read, thou and this stone  
Be both alike, by death made one.   

For death and grief are near of kin,  
So thou might'st die, being grieved for him.  〈…〉. Tho. ●eedome.   

An Elegy on the death of the renowned, and victorious Gu●tav●s Adolphus King of Sweathland.  
Can the dry sound, he's dead, no more affright  
The world with ter●our, than had some mean knight,  
Languished to death in down? or can the sound,  
That Sweaden hath received a fatal wound  
Pass by, and like the bullet, hurt no more  
Than his stout breast, that felt the mortal sore?  
Oh no! it rankles in each weak'ned part,  
And strikes a chill amazement to the heart  
Of feeble Christendom, that by his loss,  
Puts on its titles badge, The Christian cross:  
And 'twas a great one too, yet let none wonder  
That heaven forbo●● to ring his knell in thunder:  
Or tha● some angry Meteor did not stare,  
And to the world their public loss declare.  
No, no, some such Ambassador as this  
Had been too merciful, land made us miss  
Our just deserved punishment, ●or we  
Knowing our sin begot this misery,  
Might by a feigned repentance have procured  
A pardon for the Prince: but now assured  
Of our own weakness, we with tears may say,  
We are losers, though our army won the day.  
His death begot his conquest, and his foes  
Mourned at his fate, witness those death winged blows  
Which heaven by means of his impressure steel,  
Did make their bleeding carcases to feel.  
Then what remains? but that ou● prayers gain  
This be the latest loss we may sustain.  
And that no more of Heavens great Champions fall  
Through our default, to so sad funeral.   

To the truly worthy, and his worthily honoured friend Mris Judith Dyke, on the death of her brother Mr John Dyke, obiit ult. Martii 1636.  
TAmely, and soft as the prophetic breath,  
That pants, the ●atall passing bull of death  
Move my sad soul, and to his happy hearse,  
Pay the deserved tribute of thy verse:  
And you blessed maid, whose grief hath almost won  
Death by your grief to make you both but one,  
Cease your laments, for how can you be crossed  
In this, since what God finds, can ne●r● be lost?  
And wisely think you may offend in this,  
Love hath its errors, and may do, amiss.  
Death may look dreadful in an ill man's eye,  
'Tis no great thing to live, but less to die  
To die indeed, as Common people do,  
That with perplexed souls bid earth adieu,  
And by necessity of late compelled,  
Their struggling spirits to the Coffin yield,  
Were matter worthy grief, and only they  
Are like the houses that entomb them, clay:  
But where the soul (like his) rapt with desire,  
Disdains dull earth, and aims at glories higher:  
And by a bright angelic fire inflamed,  
Mounts towards heaven, as o●t as hears it named;  
Like a sweet odour upward as it goes,  
It yields a presume to th'almighty's nose:  
And hence ascended, 'tis' not just that we  
Lament at its exalted dignity.  
And sure no matter if we must away,  
Whether it be to morrow, or to day;  
And if to day, at morn, or night, or noon,  
So we die well, what need we care how soon.  
I know the fertile soil of his pure heart  
Gave warmth to every virtuous root of Ait:  
And had the August of his age been come  
They had been crowned with a blessed harvest home.  
But now he's clouded from your eyes to show,  
That none but Angels worthy are to know  
What he shall aged be: Oh! 'tis a ●a●e  
Worth your best thanks; that day deserves its date,  
Be registered to Glory, when his Maker  
Made him, of him and all his bliss partaker.  
Now dare you lose a tear, unless it be,  
Because you are not happy yet as he?  
'Tis charity to wish you so: but then  
As you know how, yet God knows better when,  
Death comes to call, yet not to call as one;  
Though all men die, yet good men well alone.  
The sun's not lost, but set, the approaching day  
Shall make its light more glorious by delay:  
If then in death such differences consist,  
Desire so to dissolve to be with Christ.  So prays for you, your true friend The. Beedome.  

Encomium Poetarum ad fratrem Galiel Scot.  
TWice I began, and twice my trembling hand  
Startled from what my Genius did command,  
Lest harmel●sse ● should hazard all my fame,  
And my attempt win nothing but self shame.  
It deemed the praise of poet's worth the pen,  
Rather of Angels, than of mortal men.  
My bolder heart b●d on: for blind men may,  
Although not see, yet know there is a day,  
And said (perhaps) my credit I might save,  
The proverb says, nought venture nothing have.  
Then come, yea Muses were you nine times nine,  
I could employ you in this work of mine.  
Fill my wide ●ailes, that while you stand my friend,  
I may swim safe unto my journey's end.  
Since the first mystic Chaos did entomb  
The earth's fair sabricke in confusions womb.  
There is no art can plead antiquity  
Before the heavenly birth of poesy:  
I speak of those arts which this day we call,  
As witness to their nature: liberal.  
Next by th'ffect the worth of things is known,  
They in respect of this seem to have none.  
The end of verse is to preserve from death  
What ever from a Poet took its breath:  
Witness that golden age, whose fame lives still  
By some few drops, from Naso's golden quill:  
He rescued Satu●nes Godhead from the ground,  
And by his lines his aged temples crowned.  
He in a brass-outlasting paper page,  
Created thee, Great Jove, a silver age:  
Apollo for his Daphne, to his lays  
Owes a rich wreath of thunder-scorning bays.  
One petty blast from his immortal breath,  
Preserved Diana's chastity from death:  
Nor need Act●on take it much in scorn,  
That Ovid did co●nute him with a horn.  
Homer yet lives, whose pen for want of eyes,  
Did point his name the way to kiss the skies.  
Young scholars in the dark might grope like fools,  
Were not he placed the lantern of the schools.  
The world had lost among it's Worthies, one Ale●dos.  
Who had not Homer sung, had near been known.  
Ulysses act had perished like a toy,  
Had this blind guide not led him out of Troy,  
And rapt his memory up so safe in rhyme,  
That it shall equal, if not outlive time.  
Maro, thy lines great Caesar hath extolled,  
That paid each several verse a piece of gold,  
Yet thought his purchase easy, and did more  
Esteem thy wit, than all his wealth and store,  
And justly too, since what thy labour spent  
On him, lasts longer than his monument.  
This (Rome being fired) is ashes, but his name  
Lives Salamander-like, spite of the flame.  
Didst thou not snatch A●neas from that fire,  
That up to Illion's Turrets did aspire,  
And borest his feeble father by thy pen  
On his sons shoulders, through an host of men?  
For which, thyself, great Virgil shalt remain  
To endless times, even till thou rise again.  
No envious fire thy able skill shall burn,  
Till fire and earth into one substance turn,  
Yill when (that I may come to speak● our days)  
Daniel thou livest circled with breath for bays.  
Nor Spencer to whose verse the world doth owe  
Millions of thanks can unremembered go:  
Nor thou great Johnson, who know'st how to write  
Such lines as equal profit with delight,  
Whilst thy untired readers wish each sheet  
Had been a volume, 'tis so neat, so sweet.  
Next, fame seems charily to spread her wings,  
O'er what the never dying Drayton sings,  
Still lives the muse's Appollinean son,  
The phoenix of his age, rare Harrington,  
Whose Epigrams when time shall be no more,  
May die (perhaps) but never can before.  
This cloud can witness that a Poet may  
Bring darkness out of light, make night seem day.  
These can make laws, and kingdoms, alter States,  
Make Prince; Gods, and poor men Potentates.  
An amorous verse (●aire Ladies) ● inns your loves,  
Sooner than busk points, ●arthingalls, or gloves:  
A poet's quill doth stand in greater stead,  
Than all such ●oyes to gain a maiden head.  
A line well writ, and by a Potent skill,  
Charms the rapt soul with music of a quill  
whilst the by standers deem't a bliss to die,  
Tickled to death by such sweet harmony.  
Again, if thou deserve the muse's frown  
(Wretch that thou art) a quill can hurl thee down,  
To that abyss of ignomy, that fate,  
Cannot condemn thee to a baser state,  
I will make each finger point at thy disgrace,  
And like a Monster each man sh●n thy face:  
while thou thus branded, finding no relief,  
With a strong halter choakest thy stronger grie●e  
Thus Poets like sates factors here do hold  
All power underneath their pens controlled.  
Lastly dear brother, think not I forgot,  
Amongst this learned ●ile to rank my Scot:  
Thy early Muse sings in so swee●e a strain,  
As if Apollo had composed thy vain;  
Superlatively taking, while each letter  
Disdains our modern Poets should sing better.  
Now saints my pen, and fainting fears that I  
Myself may perish, if wi●h clemency,  
My reader censure not, yet hopes to raise  
A memory to itself, though not of praise;  
That I being earth, something may live of m●e  
Perhaps this paper if approved by thee.   

Against prejudicate opinion.  
THe humble soul, the mind oppressed,  
Shall find unto his conscience rest:  
The clear in heart, the single eye,  
Laughs at his neighbours jealousy,  
Then let men censu●e what they can,  
The inside makes the honest man.  
Who'd think a clod of earth should hold  
Within, a mass of splendent gold?  
So silly woods have fragrant smells,  
And pearls are sound in sordid shells,  
Base s●●bards hold approved swords;  
And 〈◊〉 covers golden words.  
Dig up the earth, ●nd burn the wood,  
The gold, and smell will both be good;  
Unsheathe the blade, the book untie,  
One takes your heart, to●her your eye,  
Had these laid still they might have gone,  
Thought hardly worth the looking on:  
Then judge what folly there had been  
To c●nsure any thing unseen.   

— Mors aequo pede pulsat Pauperum taber●as, Regumque turres.  
Man's life's a game, each hath his card in's hand,  
And death a while a looker on doth stand:  
At last he shu●fles in a gamester too;  
Then cuts, deals, rubs, and wins, and so adieu.  
(The King like common creatures) in death must  
Find no respect, nor reve●ence in the dust:  
Their royalty put off, their state laid down,  
There sits a clod o● dirt, where once a crown.  
Their eyes like expired tapers drop, and fall,  
And leave the●t Sockets empty; for the Ball,  
Or golden Globe, which once their hands did keep,  
A knot of worms doth role about, and creep,  
Who ●ast no difference twixt their flesh and those  
Who fed less dainty, wore fatre course● clothes.  
In his dominion: Death impartial known,  
The King and beggar there are all but one.  
Rejoice then rich men, and your game pursue,  
In death I'll be as good a man as you.   


To the Noble Sir Francis Drake.  
DRake, perreratinovit quem terminus orbis,  
Et cujus faciem vidit uterque polus.  
Si taceant bomines facient te Sydera notam,  
Sol●escit conctis non memor essesui.   

The Translation.  
DRake, who the world hast conquered like a scroll;  
Who saw'st the Arctic, and Antarctic Pole;  
If men were silent, sta●res would make thee known,  
Phoebus forgets not his companion.    

To his friend Mr Em. D. on a rich vaporing sot, whom he styles Ignoramus.  
Bless us! why here's a thing as like a man,  
As Nature to our fancy fashion can.  
Besh●ew me, but he has a pretty face,  
And wears his tapier with indifferent grace.  
Makes a neat congee, dances well, and swears:  
And wears his Mistress pendant in 〈◊〉 ears:  
Has a nea● foot as ever kissed the ground,  
His shoes and roses cost at least five pound.  
Those hose have not a peer, for by relation,  
They're cut a month at least since the last fashion.  
He knows two Ladies that will vow there's none  
At Court, a man of parts, but he alone.  
And yet this ●op, scarce ever learned to know  
The mixture of the disjoined Christ-cross row.  
Strip off his rags, and the poo●e thing is then  
The just contempt of understanding men.  
Being fortune's minion, Nature thought it fit,  
Since he had wealth enough, he should want wit.   

To my matchless friend, my dearest William Scot, a new-year's gift.  
How shall I thank my fate that wrought this end  
To my best wishes? that thou art my friend.  
I may lose all (if I have any) wealth,  
My sickness may bereave me of my health.  
Bondage may steal my freedom, but my love,  
Which is a sacred blessing from above  
Can near be wanting, since 'tis locked in thee,  
Who art true friendship's safest treasury.  
It joys me that my soul so well did light  
To dwell with thine, thou that dost speak, and write,  
And think the same with me, as if my spirit,  
Did nothing else but what is thine, inherit.  
If e'er (which heaven descend and still uphold)  
Our league should break: Oh! horror to be told,  
And that the knot of our strong amity,  
Should be dissolved by any crime in me,  
Then count me lighter than my fleeting breath,  
Show by this paper, and I'll blush to death.  
But I fear no such mischief, since ou● love  
So aptly in each others souls doth move.  
No rhetoric can my zeal to thee impart,  
So well I love thee, that thou hast my heart;  
And that my action may concord with time,  
Be this thy new-year's gift, and call me thine  Ever till death, T. B.  

The Corner stone.  
'TWas a fair stone, though it was abused,  
And by the senseless builder was refused;  
Alas their sin blind souls, and blinder eyes,  
Sought by the pride of all their industries  
To polish ma●tle, porphyry, or that  
On which proud folly set so high a 
* Diamonds, or other precious stones.  rare,  
And with such earth-bred trifles to refine  
Material Temples to the power divine.  
Whilst that bright stone from th'heavenly square taken,  
Lies on the mountain by these fool's forshaken.  
Ah! had they known the value of this gem,  
It had not been so under prized by them.  
Oh! when that Babel building of their sin  
Shall ruined dash upon themselves again:  
And wanting props to under-set it shall  
Upon the builders' head with te●●our fall.  
How will they wish this abject stone had been  
By faith well laid, them and their sins between:  
Then had it like a storme-contemning rock,  
Secured their Mansions from their heavy shock  
Of wrath and judgement, both the which unjust,  
Shall make them roar with woe: Oh! had I wist.  
Lord be the Basts of my hopes high Throne,  
And then I'll build on that strong cornerstone.   

The royal Navy.  
WHat's breath? a vapour: glory? a vain chat:  
What's man? a span: what's life? shorter than that:  
What's death? a key: for what? to ope heavens door,  
Who keeps it? time: for whom? both rich and poor:  
What's heaven? a haven: what's ship's anchor there?  
Hope, faith, and love, with one small pinnace fear.  
What are those? men of war, how fraught? with arms:  
What burden? weighty, suiting their alarum?  
Whose ships? the Kings: what colours? the red cross:  
What ensigns? bloody from their Prince's loss:  
And whither bound? to earth: Oh! what's their strife?  
To conquer breath, and glory, man and life.  
Oh! I foresee the storm, Lord I confess,  
Then vapour, or vain chat, or span I'm less,  
Save a relenting ●oe; thy glories are  
More excellent in peace, than death and war;  
For to that time, that time his key shall lend,  
And to thy tent my yielding spirit send:  
I will strike sail to these, and strive to prove  
Thy Captive, in my hope, faith, fea●e and love.    

EPIGRAMS.  

Epigram 1.  
To my dear friend. William Harrington.  
'tIs true (my Will.) and I confess I owe  
Thy friendship more than this: yet to be●●ow  
A 〈◊〉 upon a ●rend, hath sometimes been  
A 〈◊〉 worth th'acceptance of a ●ing,  
Though my pen-seath●r'd Muse yet cannot teach  
My feeble quill to that ●ap't height to reach,  
'T will be no less content to me, if she  
Be but well entertained (Dear friend of thee)  
Thou art a King in friendship: and I may,  
Then thus to my no little comfort say,  
That too good Wills my worthless Muse hath won,  
My Scot: and my no less-loved Harrington.  Thy friend Th. Beed.  

Epigram 2.  
Of one Mary frail, who lay with Mr Reason.  
Marry was long desirous for to marry,  
And vowed that past fifteen she would not tarry;  
I am su●e this vow of modesty did fail,  
Alas yet pardon her for flesh is frail.  
No suitors came, nor could her longing eyes  
Mee●e any that might seize her as his prize;  
But making conscience not to break her vow,  
She is (as then the promised) no maid now.  
Though thou know'st not why she so young did sport,  
I'd have thee think, frail had some Reason ●or't.   

Epigram 3.  
On the same Mary a great lover of marrowbones.  
WHy she doth Mary-●ones af●ect, wouldst know?  
I think the reason is not hard to show:  
The bone she cannot ea●e that's hard as flin●,  
Oh than I guess the cause! there's something in't●  
Well what's that something? Oh my Muse there stick,  
She that loves marrow likely loves a—   

Epigram 4.  
To the excellent poet's Mr George Withers●  
I Never saw thee: but should grossly lie  
To say I know thee not, for ●illy I,  
Or one that is more stupid, well may guess  
At what thou art by what tho● dost express.  
Oh that blessed day when first my willing hand  
Oped the remembrance of this Sinsicke land:  
Trust me, I grieved to think that now my age,  
Had sixteen summers acted on this stage:  
Yet was a stranger to so ra●e a soul  
As thine; whose heaven-bred boldness durst control  
Without respect of persons, every sin.  
That to thy knowledge had committed been.  
Then next thy satyrs, and thy Motto, I  
Made hast to purchase, where I might espio,  
How some too base for earth, not worth a name,  
Sought by their mire and dirt to cl●y thy same.  
And credit me, I hardly could forbear,  
Upon these pitied lines to drop a tear.  
But that I know virtue opposed by fate,  
Looks greatest (like the sun) in lowest stare:  
When other wits, who have in some base time,  
Employed of ●ate, that they might conquer time;  
Shall like those paper toys, in which they trust,  
Be eat by worms, or moulded into dust,  
And want a name: thou by thy virtues graced,  
Shall live till earth by fire be imb●ac't  Thy unknown wellwisher Th. Beed.  

Epigram 5.  
By way of consolation to his dear friend William Scot, on the death of his brother Gilman Scot.  
SUffer me (dearest friend) to bring a verse,  
Though uninvited to attend the hearse:  
Of him whose memory death cannot blo●,  
Since he yet lives in thee (my friendly Scot)  
I know the ●ertile soil of his pure heart,  
Gave warmth to every virtuous root of Art.  
And had the August of his age been come,  
Y''ve seen him crowned with a rich harvest home.  
But now he's clouded, from your eyes to show,  
That none but angels worthy are to know  
What he shall aged be: Oh! 'tis a fate  
Worth your best thanks, that day deserves its date,  
Be registered to glory, when heaven pleased  
Him of his earthly flesh-encumbrance eased  
Yet da●e you lose a tear? unless for joy,  
That heaven in mercy gave him for the toy  
Which we call breath, a life that shall outlive,  
What e'er dull earth, or all your love could give.  
I know the fates have lopped off from your tree  
Many fai●e branches: which I doubt not be  
Again, sarre fairer than his muddy ●oyle,  
Could suffer them to grow too: for the ●oyle  
Of living was their trouble, but that care  
They wisely did contemn, and so repair  
To that blessed palace, which for pious men  
The maker framed, and now is oped again  
For this new entrance: do not then once more  
Spend any useless tear, behold thy ●●ore  
Of heavenly friends do seem to smile and say,  
Will, thou must follow, we but lead the way.  
Which that thou Mayst, heaven fit thee with such grace,  
As may prepare thee to that hallowed place,  
Where thou with these shalt never cease to cry,  
Hosanna: Glory be to God on high.  Thine T. B.  

Epigram 6.  
To his friend Mr Thomas Beedom, of single life.  
HAppy is he that leads a single life,  
He's not perplexed with the daily strife  
Of c●pled bondage, not can tortured be  
With Hymen's ague, the disparity  
Of mind which bodies joined, neither doth know  
What hell it is, hal●e of himself to owe  
Unto a wi●e: thus happy's he alone,  
Can ●ell himself that he is all his own.  Em. D.  

Epigram 7.  
Econtra, of Marriage.  
MAn was not to himself bo●ne, nor can he  
Subsist in death, but by posterity.  
Women the wombe● of men are, and that man  
Might after death survive, when nothing can  
K●epe him alive but issue: Nature gave  
Woman to him, his vain name to save:  
Happy the man then, who enjoys a wife,  
By whom he gives himself a second life.  per Th. Beedom.  

Epigram 8.  
Of good women.  
OFt have I wondered, but no more I shall,  
Why womens' wit sometimes saves men a fall.  
Alas 'tis thus: I now the cause do scan,  
They were the ribs, which is the strength of man.   

Epigram 9  
E Contrario.  
I Oft admired have why womens' mind  
Is so perverse and crooked to mankind:  
Man's rib at first to them a being gave,  
And they like it a crooked nature have.   

Epigram 10.  
Being a Translation of this Latin verse, composed by Dr Hensloe.  
Herode● pro uno ●runcavit mille, nec unu●,  
Quem petiit, cecidit, ●am bene rem detegit.   

The Translation.  
HErod for one a thousand slew,  
Yet of that one did sail,  
For he from Herod's fury flew,  
There Herod hit the nail.   

Epigram 11.  To the worthy honoured, Sir Henry Wootten Knight. 
IS there eternity? or is there ●ame?  
Rests there a glory to a virtuous name?  
Is there a wreath for Poets? is there bliss  
To a condign descent? yes, sure there is.  
Can man (whose soul 'tis true, is active) rise  
To such a height, not here, but when he dies?  
Nay further is it in the might of man  
To acquire all this? yes, by defect he can.  
Then 'tis some joy to know it, but suppose  
Some were so stupid that they durst oppose  
This tener, nay, and further would imply,  
That 'tis in posse for best wits to die.  
How when thy clay shall sleep, shall thy just same  
Brand these erroneous? and convince with shame  
Their then grieved so●les, to think thy loss hath lent  
To their dull Tribe that dear experiment.  
Whilst thou when Earth shall mourn to miss thee here,  
Above to Monarchs, shalt become a peer,  
And make the next age blush to think that she  
Retains no equal to thy wit or thee.   

Epigram 12.  To the same Knight being President of Eton college. 
Why should men wonder so, that Eton Boy●●,  
Do by their learning purchase same: not noise?  
Doth not that Male-Minarva Wootten grace  
With pollilht Eloquence 'bove all, that Place?  
Oh! if each college still had resident,  
But half so rare a witted President●  
'Twere to be hoped (like this) that graeed by them,  
Each college might become an Accadem.  Yours in all service Th. Beed.  

Epigram 13.  
Of a fresh water soldier.  
DAnus was much in debt, and knew no way  
A long forbearing creditor to pay;  
And when he pressed him hard: Good Sir quoth he,  
A while desist, I hope his majesty  
Will in the Navy, when a place doth ●all,  
Make me a captain, then I'll pay you all.  
But mark, while he the honest man would gull  
His new coined lie, scarce had he ended ●ull,  
But him an Officer i'th' King's name did greet,  
And dubbed him captain i'th' fre●h-water fleet.   

Epigram 14.  
Being a meditation to myself.  
WHy wouldst thou live (fond soul) dost thou not  
know  
From whence thou cam'st, and whither thou must go?  
Can walls of clay so much thy sense delight,  
As to deba●re thee from that glorious slight,  
Which thou ●houldst cove●? canst thou idly prize  
The ●ire, that loads thy wings unfit to rise?  
Shouldst thou still live, it were but still to see  
Some new scene Acted of thy tragedy:  
Thou couldst but do to morrow, as this day  
Commit fresh ●inne, sleep, eat, or drink, and play.  
No matter then how soon thou die: then come  
Prepare thyself to wait thy Judges dumb  
Thou cam●st from heaven, then labour to draw near  
Thy quiet c●nte●, if thou once rest there,  
Thy walls of clay, the mire that loads thy wings,  
Shall be a Mansion for the King of Kings.  
Thy Tragedy shall end, thy sin shall cease,  
And thou rest ever in an endless peace;  
Be't when thou please, good God, at morn or noon,  
So I die well, no matter, Lord, how soon.   

Epigram 15.  
To himself of his Mistress.  
What though thou merit not? why know there lies  
Veiled in the Courteous candour of her eyes,  
A saving mercy, that can lend a wing  
For dull despair to monnt on, 'tis a thing  
Beyond the common reach, to know how sweet  
He lives, that doth in death a pardon meet.  
But thou art poor, true: but her better part,  
near looked upon the habit but the heart.  
She that has virtue cannot doa●e on those  
Whose best perfection is a suit of clothes.  
Who Court th' attracting beauties of the age  
With some coned stuff brought from the Cockpit stage,  
Or gull their Mistress by some poem shown  
Which, 'cause they paid for, they dare call their own.  
When, if their brains were ransacked you might know,  
They ne'er commenced beyond their cri●s-cro●se row.  
Then hope (Poor heart) and strongly that she will  
At last embrace thee, for she hath the skill  
To school the first with frowns; that so her ●avour  
May, when she smiles, last with the sweeter ●avour.   

Epigram 16.  
To his Superlative Mistress.  
COmpare the Bramble to the sta●ely Pine;  
The fruit less Thistle, to the virtuous Vine.  
Compare the charcoal to the Snow-white down,  
The wreath of Rushes to th'imperial crown.  
Compare the Raven to the Turtle Dove;  
The moors of India to the Queen of Love.  
Compare the Candle to the splendent moon  
The ●ogges of nigh●, to Phoebus' eye at ●●one.  
Compare the Kite to sweet breathed Philomel,  
The Lerman Lake to th'heliconian Well.  
If these admit comparison, than she  
That can admit of no equalyty,  
May find a parallel: but let some men  
Rack their dull brains to praise their Mistress, when  
The utmost of their language they have spent,  
Let them sit down, and sigh, and be content:  
Their Idols eyes to sunbeams to compare  
Or by the rose her blazed lips declare.  
My Mistress must beyond their Saints survive  
In that unequalled height, superlative.   

Epigram 17.  
To his intim●te friend William pearl.  
'TWas not a slight acquaintance that could move,  
This ●alutation to thy m●●ch less love.  
I do not use to ground affection where  
A complem●nt alone invites the ●a●e.  
No, I have proved thee, and thy pre●ious name  
Confirms thy n●ture to be like the same.  
A glorious G●m, whose lustre doth out shine  
All those poor merits that I dare call mine.  
And I must prize thee, since thy wor●h is shown  
Superl●●ive and far above mine own.  
Suffice it that my friendship, and my Art  
S●●●ves still to wear thee pearl, upon my heart.   

Epigram 18.  
To the heroical captain Thomas Jam●s, of his discovery made by the Northwest pass●ge towards the South Sea. 1631.  
Heroic soul, thy memory must live,  
Beyond those stone built structures, that can give  
Their earth an Ages talk; or can assure  
The effigies of some money Gull shall dure,  
Till spiders eat his memory: Oh poor glory,  
T'inscrible a Marble with the tedious story  
Of some stout Sir, whose virtue near was more  
Than how to quarr●ll● for (perhaps) a whore,  
But thou (great James) hast by thy Actions framed  
A trophy, that hereafter thou being named,  
Men shall rise up with ●everence, and keep  
Thy ●ame from freezing, when thy Ashes sleep.   

To the same captain on his courageous, and pious behaviour in the said voyage.  
MArchles●e Commander, when fierce winds did hurl  
Water to air, and made the old waves curl  
To mounts of solid liquour, when strong streams  
Of moving marble did assault thee James.  
Did not thy conquered courage, like the rest  
Flag, and sit heavy on thy hopeless breast?  
Didst thou not faint to hear the Thunder roar,  
And ●urious seas rebel against the shore?  
Didst thou not quake at this? why than I see  
Thy soul (though prisoned in thy flesh) was free,  
Thou werr above a man, thy zeal like fire  
Dissolved th' opposing Ice, and did aspi●e,  
Through all the storms of dark condensed air,  
Wrapped in a shee●e of storme-contemning prayer;  
These were prevaili●g blows, and broke more Ice  
At once, than all your hands at ten-times twice.  
This manned your ship securely through the main,  
And steered you safely to your home again.  I. B.  

Epigram 19  
A Complaint of his separation from his Mistress, caused by his friend's injunction.  

Dear Heart, remember that sad hour,  
When we were forced to part,  
How on thy cheeks I wept a shower,  
With sad and heavy heart;  
About thy waste my arms did twist,  
Oh! than I sight, and then I kissed:   

Ten thousand feats and joys in one,  
Did such distraction frame,  
As if the liveless world would run  
To Chaos back again,  
Whilst my poor heart, amidst these fears;  
Lay bath●d in my milk warm tears.   

Ah than I thought, and thinking wept,  
How friends and fate di●ower,  
On thee I eander, how they kept  
Thee from thy hero's Tower,  
While thunder gro●nd, and heaven did weep  
To rock thy sense in silent sleep.   

But fate must unresisted stand,  
Oh who can it oppose?  
Necessiti's a Tyrant, and  
No mean in mischief knows;  
Else might my fairer Love and I  
Unsevered live, till one did die.   

Just so the hungry In●ant from  
His Mothe●s dug is ta'en,  
When his weak arm's yet spread along.  
More dulcet milk to gain;  
And nothing brings the babe to rest,  
Until he sleep upon her breast.   

Thus being banished from my Love,  
And for●'t to leave her sight.  
No thoughts but those of her can move  
In me the least delight;  
But like true steel my heart doth pant,  
To touch the longed-for Adamant.   

Oh let no storm of discontent  
Be clouded in your brows,  
Dear friends that have my being l●nt,  
Give being to my vowes●  
I will much engage my heart, if when  
I say she's mine, you' ●e say Amen.  
Such kindness● to our true love shown,  
Shall bind u●doubly then your own.    

Epigram 20.  
To the memory of his honoured friend Master John Donne, an Eversary.  
Blessed dust, and better soul, to you alone,  
I raise this structure, not in Jet or Stone,  
Whose ●●aile●y in its luster only can,  
Tell us below, there lies a s●●ayler man.  
But heigh●ned by those several glories which  
Do ●qually your better self in rich,  
In those ●ude lines, if such poor things can live,  
I would a memory to your being give.  
Burst open thy Cell, blessed shade, and ●ise, that we  
May do some homage to thy excellency.  
Or that thy g●●ar example may invite,  
Us to a wish of everlas●ing night,  
In which thy Sun of virtue shall appear,  
S●●ull, as if earth had no darkness there.  
Oh happy spring of thine, whose seed and flower  
Was sowed and bloomed, and withered in an hour,  
For if long age be counted but a span,  
Thy inch of time scarce measured half a man.  
But sleep, sleep best of spirits, why should I  
Disturb thy ashes? 'tis a misery,  
To know thou wert, and art not, for so men,  
Mourn, Jewels they once had, but lost again,  
So he, whose bitter fate is forced to prove,  
The misery of a memorable Love.  
Remembering what it was, and since no more  
He may enjoy it as he did before,  
Weeps the sad consequence, and prints thereby  
His sorrows, offered to the Readers eye.  
But I must leave thee thus, and think of thee,  
To the mad world, a just Antipathy.  
Thou were not of those men whose gown and hood,  
Must plead a wisdom, though not understood.  
Nor of the tribe of such as easily can,  
Drop jests, or vapours upon any man.  
These are the Indians, that do fr●ske and r●n,  
To the false rays of each supposed sun:  
Simple Americans that do engross  
The ●oyes of every noble genius.  
Nor were you such whose cunning had the ●kill,  
To murder a friend closely, nor to kill  
With a pretence of safety; your just ends  
Depended not on liking of your friends.  
But if the opposites of vice may be,  
Expressed by any contrariety,  
Let all men know, what all men wish, which is  
But a content on earth, and after bliss,  
Which thou art crowned with, thus some stones are set  
At greater rate, than some whole Cabinet,  
When thy triumphant spirit once did inn,  
At the poor cottage of thy ●rayler skin,  
Though every thought was payment of a rent,  
To high, and worthy such a tenement,  
Yet as it had a knowledge did dispia●e,  
Because thou wouldst not ●arry longer there.  
It droops and ruinates itself, and ●alls,  
In every glory o● its principals.  
So Princes in a journey having been  
The honoured guests of some poor village inn  
Are mourned at their departure, and now more  
Grieves the sad host, than he was glad before.  
Come Virgins, you whose innocency can  
Embalm the mem●ry of a divine man;  
Y●u whose unspotted glories as your faces  
Preserve your fame and multiply its graces:  
Whose easy goodness never did affect  
To wound obedient spirits with neglect,  
No● triumph in the fall of former loves,  
Come, come, blessed Virgins bring your peaceful Doves,  
And at the Al●a● of his sacred ●hrine,  
Present them and your zeal, as I do mine.  
That to the world hereafter may be read,  
Here innocency by virgin's wound lies dead.   

An elegy on the death of his loving friend. I: C:  
WHy should the labour of my mournful Verse,  
Find so sad subject as thy timeless hearse?  
My soul, which now is not, but where thou art,  
Stays but to tell the world we will no● part.  
And the glad Casket which thy ashes bears,  
Sh●ll tied me after thee in mi●e own tears,  
And then rejoice that we whose hearts were one,  
In death shall celebrate Communion.  
Wisdom of fate: that early did remove,  
Thee hence, that I in heaven might seek my love,  
And so assure me that time thou couldst die,  
No beauty but must taste mortality.  
I know my bounded every Grace  
In the strict limits of thy well built face,  
And thought those principles of beauty there  
Unchangeable, as bodies in their sphere;  
But I recant, and tell the world this truth,  
There is no privilege in blood or youth  
Else how couldst thou, whose every smile: or breath  
Was a su●ficient antidote 'gainst death,  
Have met a grave; and like a drooping flower,  
Have wi●hered to nothing in an hour?  
Sleep while some angel with a peace●ull wing,  
Curtains thy ashes here, and hovering  
O'er thy innocuous breast by that display,  
Informs me where my dust must take its way,  
Than my enfranchised spirit up shall fly,  
To our just wedding for eternity,  
And pity all those enmities below,  
That did with hold us from uniting so,  
And smile to know that all our envious friends,  
Have lost their plot, and we obtained our ends:  
But we will marry here in spite of those  
That would our much wished meeting interpose;  
Death shall be pressed, lie closer sweet, make room  
That we may make our marriage bed thy tomb.   

My son give me thy heart.  

ANd why my heart, since I have none,  
Or if I have perhaps 'tis stone,  
And rather than have such a one,  
Better have none.   

Lord canst thou chu●e no other part●  
The world alas hath stole my hea●●  
Pleasure enticed it by strange Art  
From me to part.   

One angel lust, and all the rest  
Possesses it, or else as bad a guest,  
And in the midst there is a nest  
For sloth to rest.   

Envy would have it all, but pride  
Disdaining, any should divide  
Possession there.   

Enter and then, as tyrants who,  
By blood are raised, their states undo,  
Doth dominee●e.    

The Petition.  

Heat me my God, and hear me soon,  
Because my morning toucheth noon,  
Nor can I look for their delight,  
Because my noon lays hold on night:  
I am all circle, my morn, night, and noon,  
Are individable, then hear me soon.  
Thou art all time my God, and I  
Am part of that eternity:  
Yet being made, I want that might  
To be as thou art, Infinite:  
As in thy flesh, so he thou Lord to me,  
That is, both infinite, and eternity,  
But I am dust, at most, but man,  
That dust extended to a span:  
A span indeed, ●or in thy hand,  
Stretched or contracted, Lord, I stand,  
Contract and stretch me too, that I may be  
Straightened on earth, to be enlarged to thee.  
But I am nothing, then how can,  
I call myself, or dust, or man?  
Yet thou from nothing all didst frame,  
That all things might exalt thy name,  
Make me but something, than my God to thee,  
Then shall thy praise be all in all to me.   

When first of linne I took survey,  
Sin that first wrought poor man's decay,  
Me thought the seeming pleasures that it wore  
Betrayed a face  
So full of grace  
That I desired it more and more.   

As ra●●les babies, and such ●oyes,  
Are the ●ull bundles of childhoods joys  
I rested in appearance little knowing,  
That such vain things,  
Which sorrow bring,  
An alteration in their growing.   

As warning once descried from sarre,  
Through some dark cloud a glimeting star,  
That lead me on to seek its lustre out;  
He that makes all  
Answered his call,  
Had turned my er●or qui●e about.   

Didst thou not God, divide those' seas,  
Egypt and Israel's death and ease,  
When sepa●ated waves like mountains swelled  
On either side  
To quench their pride  
That 'gainst thy edict did ●ebell.   

God, didst not thou ●ebuke those seas:  
Natures great burden and disease  
When Peter's Faith, his failing strength did cherish:  
When calling loud  
I'th' watery cloud,  
He cried, ●ave Master or I perish.   

Thou didst my God, and thou the world,  
And sin my beaten bark have h●l'd  
In a more desperate storm, yet still I see,  
And hear the say,  
To thy poor clay,  
Is any thing too hard ●or me.    

The Inquisition.  

1.  
Where art tho● God, or where is he  
That can discover thee to me,  
The worlds without thee sure, for here  
Doth domineer  
Hell, flesh, and sin, thou art not there.   

2.  
Doth air thy blessed spirit hold,  
And ●●om our eyes thy sight unsold,  
Thou art not there my God, for here  
Doth domineer  
Satan, air's Prince, thou art not there.   

3.  
Or doth thy sac●ed essence keep  
Court in the Chamber o● the deep;  
No sure my God, ● not so, for here  
Doth domineer  
Leviathan, thou art not there.   

4.  
Doth flames too subtle for our ●ence  
So spy impaild thy excellence;  
No sure my God, not so, for here  
Doth domineer  
The fiery Prince, thou art not there:  
In none of these confined, yet thou dost scatter  
Thy presence, through both, earth, air, fire; & wate●   

5.  
Each place contains thee God, yet thou  
Art nowhere, nowhere dost remain:  
Though every place we thee allow,  
No place we know can thee contain.  
Then I have found thee now though here,  
Nor here thou art not yet, thou art  
Both there and here, be anywhere,  
So thou be in my heart;  
Where being Lord, let that thy closet be,  
To keep thee safe in me, and me in thee:    

A Proud man.  
Vile worm of dust, vain clay how durst thou vente●:  
To ●well thyself above the earth, thy centre;  
Vapours exhaled and lifted to the skies,  
Or dissipare or else prove prodigies:  
Why being nothing art thou Bold to Don  
The ingloriou● itch of exaltation,  
And by a pe●ulant pride disdainest to be  
More heightened by a self humility,  
As if the Babel of thy thoughts could shroud  
Th'aspi●ing battlements within a cloud,  
And so the mighty machine safely stand,  
Whose weaker basis is but moss and sand,  
Strange mystery of sin, that drives us on  
As fairy as heaven to ●ind perdition;  
For wert thou there, and proved to be so then.  
Heaven would ●ast down a devil once again:  
Yet thus perhaps thy pride might ●●●ed be,  
The Prince of Devils, doth but equal thee:  
Change but the subject and some sins admit,  
To h●mble minds a happy benefit.  
To kill the man o● sin, to cove● grace,  
To ●resse by violence to God's holy place,  
C●ntention for a crown, for blessing strife,  
Are sins that ●●ll mortalyty with life,  
But to be proud, not to be proud adds more  
Sin to that pride, than pride had sin before.   

Meditation.  

1.  
MY God came down in thunder once, but then  
The sons of men  
Affrighted at the dreadful crack,  
Sounded, fell back,  
Desiring not his presence so again.   

2.  
My God came down in whirlwinds too, and flame,  
But his great Name,  
So blazoned, did astonish more  
Than heretofore,  
When pointed thunder his loud herald came.   

3.  
My God came down in flesh and blood, and then  
The sons of men,  
To such familiar mercy call,  
Their spleen and gall  
To properate his haste to heaven again.   

4.  
My God comes daily down, in bread and wine,  
A feast divine:  
But grounds, and oxen hinder some,  
They cannot come;  
Exclude them then, says God, they are not mine.   

5.  
My God comes down in each repentant tear  
Which my sad fear,  
Of his displeasure, and my sin exhales  
'Tis that which bales  
My soul, for all the good she's in a●teare.   

6.  
Come to me still, my God, or else let me;  
So thou assist my footsteps, go● to thee.  
I know the way, for if to thee I come,  
Thou art as well the voyage as the home.  
If thou to me, my soul no passage fears:  
●y thunder whitle wind, flesh, or ●east, or tears.  T.B.   

The cross.  

1.  
THere is no bud, but has a good  
Art finds for basest-weedes an use:  
Bodies distempered with gross blood,  
Find prese●vation from abuse.  
For did not that enforce a breach,  
Who'd use incision, sweat, or leech?   

2.  
Did not my sin divine my ●all,  
And by my weakness show my want:  
Security would never call  
To God, nor for his merry pa●●.  
For where there is no sense of evil,  
The soul benumbed admits the devil●   

3.  
The heaviest cross had some ●enowne,  
And sharpest thorns this balsam had:  
That though they were my saviour's crown,  
They did produce a good from bad.  
The cause most vile, th'effect most good,  
That was my sin, but this his blood.   

4.  
Though bade my sin, it saved my ●al',  
My weakness too, my want did show:  
These did awake me, made me call  
And to my God for mercy go.  
Happy this 'larum of my evil,  
My soul awaked defy the devil   

5.  
Then happy cross and healing thorn,  
Light burden, and balsamicke flower:  
Eased by that, by this untorne,  
My new-erected soul hath power,  
To bless you both, whose good effects  
Spured up my stupid si●●es neglects:  
And making gain from such a loss,  
Unto a crown transfer a cross,  T. B.   

The Resurrection.  
IS no time certain when or how, yet m●st  
Some certa●ne time det●rmine I am dust?  
Must these full bones, and swelling ve●●es appear  
●aplesse and dry, as when the ●alling year  
Exhauste● the humour from the ●erdant bough,  
Whi●h did green liveries to the leaves allow?  
And must it be from my decay resolved,  
That my whole fabric once must be dissolved?  
'Tis true my soul, 'tis so: yet let no care  
Drive my anxious thought how thou shalt feat,  
There is a ●●ch preservative for thee,  
Above all balsam, called fidelity,  
And when my mass of congregated clay,  
Shall in Earth● Vinevard labour out the day,  
The penny shall be thine: and he that can  
From rocks and Stones, ●ai●e seed to Abraham,  
Shall raise thy dissipated dust: and glue  
Thee in coherence, with thy corpses anew.  
Strange miracle! yet La●a●us can tell,  
This Paradox in him, found parallel  
I do bele●ve it Lord: Oh! let me be,  
As happy to enjoy my faith as he,  T.B.  

Conscience.  
SEe the black clouds of my aspiring sin,  
Whose noxious exhalations begin  
To muffle up my hopes, and swelling high,  
Terminate nowhere till they touch the sky:  
Sh●ill clamma●ous Conscience, dost thou think my God  
Like Ba●ll, his chin upon his breast doth nod,  
And waken● not unless thy cry (which is  
A thousand Lar●ms) added be to his?  
Busy Recorder, know'st thou not I find,  
Through the whole series of a sinful mind,  
That 'tis enough to sin? the bu●●hen's more  
When after-checks tell what I did before:  
And gives ill relish to my sick condition.  
To taste such Viands by a repetition●  
Yet happy be (my soul) for stupid scence,  
Might ●o relax the in●entive Conscience,  
That from its prone ●ndeavour it might be  
No less than guilty by indulgency.  
Oh! prosecute 〈◊〉 still, quick Conscience, do  
And may I my repentance do● so too;  
That when my Judge doth find thy judgement passed  
App●as'd he say, lost sheep come home at last.  T. B.  

The Mercy seat.  

1.  
PAssing along, as I o●t pass that way,  
I heard one from the Sanctuary say,  
Ho! ho! come in  
All you that sin,  
And I will take the burden clean away.  
H●●ke soul said I, oh! hark, the Number's All,  
The mercy and the cry both general.   

2.  
With ●h● my soul and I, two that had been  
Long stale-companions in the sweets of sin.  
Approached that place  
Bright shine of grace,  
And ask● if such a mercy ●odg'd there in,  
Oh yes! says one, before your Throne appear,  
Take in your hear● a sigh, your eye a tear.   

3.  
Then to a spotless Altar I was brough●,  
Where God to Man is Cha●●acted in thought,  
Upon which stood  
A crimson blood.  
Whose every drop a thou and souls had bought.  
And there I kneeled, for oh! wh●● gesture is  
Or can be in this action too submiss?   

4.  
I ●ooke and ●asted from the field and vine,  
Their two best Elements of bread and wine,  
And my soul straight  
Had lost the weight,  
Which did before disease its rest and mine.  
I sound the cause was this, that I ●ed,  
My soul ●ooke in more God, than I did bread.   

5.  
Loud voice, large mercy, boundless ●●ood, sweet vine,  
Proclaim, forgive, wash, cleanse this soul of mine,  
That to thy glory  
I may story,  
Both work and subject of that mercy thine.  
Thine? thine my God, ●istrue: Oh! let me be  
As near that attribute, as that to thee.  T. B.   

The Present.  

What shall I do my God for thee?  
Thee, that hast done so much for me.  
For when I opened first the womb to live  
In this low soil  
Of sweat and ●oyle,  
Thou didst the means and guidance give.   

My age is but a span or two,  
A twist, which death can soon undo:  
A white, shot at by many an aiming dart,  
A restless ball,  
Banded by all,  
Advers●ies that toss a heart.   

Then search within me, and without,  
Employ thy not ●e round about:  
Survey me well, and find in which part lies.  
A thing so fit,  
That I may it  
Prefer to thee for sacrifice.   

Though some present thee gold; or some  
Rich Eastern smells, mirth, ●ynamum,  
Or some proclaim thee in a d●eper strain,  
Which dies before,  
'Tis twice read o'er,  
In its own womb, and ●ombe, their brain.   

Let me bring thee, my God, a heart,  
Entitled th●e in every pa●t,  
Next that, a Verse like this, on which mine  
Be longer set,  
Than ●o ●orge●,  
That such a present thou shouldst fine.   

Let others, so with men their credits prove,  
They show them wealth and wit; I thee my love,  T. B.   

Ad punctum mo●tis.  
IF this hou●e do the business of my age  
For being borne I must resolve to die,  
With what delight can I sup●ly the stage,  
M●●h cannot ●uite well with a ●ragedy;  
Leave me delight, and let my sorrows tell  
Heaven is my joy, the joy of earth my Hell.  
AEgypt's the way to Canaan, what though he●e  
The Pharaoh's of the time did me oppose,  
Yet thy deliverance shall protect me there,  
The greatest discord have the sweetest close;  
Let my assurance here my joys express,  
That's the good land, this but the wilderness.  
Onions and garlic, and the flesh-po●stoo,  
Let them desire that have a list to eate●  
My palate cannot relish what they do,  
Manna, my God, I know is angel's mea●e;  
But if this place affords it not to me,  
Take me to Canaan since it is with thee.  
Art thou not beauty Lord, to whom the sun,  
At height of glory is so dark a blot,  
That when tho● didst obscure thy blessed son  
The other had his wonted light forgot.  
Yet in that blessed eclipse, this turn d such light  
That earth saw heaven, though heaven was hid in night   

To the Angels.  

1.  
A Safe humility is wise,  
Both to it sel●e and others to,  
I know there's stars, but use mine eyes  
To find out what they cannot do,  
For though they both partake of light  
Both have not equal sense in ●ight,   

2.  
And is it safe you glor●ous lights,  
That this dull glimmering spark, my soul,  
A●●ect to know those boundless heights,  
Where your exal●ed spirits rule;  
Or were my wisdom better spent  
To ●each my heart at home content.   

3.  
Yet as in dungeons we behold,  
Through some small chink a glimmering ray,  
And thence assured we are bold,  
To think without there is a day,  
So you discover to our sense  
Your excellence by your influence,   

4.  
Blessed Children, of a more bl●st Father.  
I'll not discou●se your story,  
For my affections had much rather,  
Partake than speak your glory,  
Speak your own glory, you that can,  
Which no man ere shall know as man.   

5.  
And yet I care not I what Quite  
Of Che●ub's, Seraphin's, or Thrones.  
Or Angels, lower are or higher,  
Since all I know are holy ones,  
If I keep time with any Qui●e,  
I like the seat, I'll with no higher.   

6.  
Farewell sweet Qui●e, farewell I say,  
This glimpse at distance doth confute  
All my discourse, and makes me pray  
To know you there without dispute.  
And since I long to meet, lest I shall stray,  
Guide you your Lovet on upon his way.  T.B.   

On eternity.  
GOod God eternity, what can,  
A●●onish more the faith of man?  
When it shall please thee God that I  
On my unfriendly sick bed lie,  
And those about me shall descry,  
In my pale face death's livery.  
When breath shall fleet, and leave for me  
The relic of death's victory,  
A grim sad corpse, oh must my light,  
Astonished ●o●le, then take her flight,  
To that long home, where it shall see●  
Or blessed, or cursed eternity?  
Shall she for ever, ever dwell,  
Or Saint in heaven, or fiend in hell?  
When ages numberless are gone,  
Shalt be ●s if we had past none?  
'Tis so my God, which when I think;  
My staggered reason begin to sink:  
My brain turns giddy, and weak I  
Am rapt in wonders ecstasy:  
Forgive me Lord, that thus presume,  
To question thy eternal doom.  
And since our minute life must gain  
Pleasures eternal, or such pain:  
As●ist me so my God, that when  
I shall for sake the sons of men,  
My jocund soul may sainted be,  
In heaven, and thy eternity.  Em. D.  

On the death of M M. T.  
MIstaken virgins, do not drop a tear,  
She is not dead believe't, I'll make't appear:  
That which you call a hearse, is nought beside  
A heavenly chariot, in't a glorious bride.  
And that which you more fondly ●e●ne a grave,  
Mysterious heaven, for her bridebed gave  
Thus you mistaken, to a funeral haste,  
When you're invited to a marriage ●east:  
Heaven was her lover, would not be denied,  
The welcome promise of so fair a Bride.  
Which long since having, he now thought it best  
T'espouse, and take her to his happy rest.  
And as we see great Princes, ere they take,  
Their royal consorts, they by proxy make  
The ceremonious marriage; so did he,  
By proxy death, wed her immo●tally:  
And now enthroned, she doth ●it an● sing●  
Divinest Anthems to her Lord and King.  
'Mongst quires of Angels, she doth fill the skies,  
With sweet tuned notes of heavenly rhapsodies.  
Thus gloriously happy doth she still live,  
Whose death you ●ondly, and unkindly grieve.  Em. D.  
FINIS.