CHOICE POEMS, BEING SONGS, SONNETS, SATYRS and ELEGIES.  
By the Wits of both UNIVERSITIES.  
LONDON, Printed for Henry Brome at the Gun in Ivy-lane. 1661.   


SONG.  

THree strange humours make me laugh,  
The Married man that's froward,  
The Miser thinks he's never safe,  
And the Temperate man's untoward;  
No friendship these, nor honour have,  
Strict Diet, Wealth, and Wives enslave,  
And make poor man a Coward.   

Sancta Cruse may thank the Grape,  
And not their solemn Masses,  
'Twas Wine that made their General scape,  
Though he lost his Gally-asses;  
Blake for grief expired his last,  
That having fought, he could not taste  
Canary, in full Glasses.   

On the Russians cast your Eye,  
Cossack's, Poles, and Tartars,  
How like Sheep they live and die  
In their water Winter Quarters,  
Whereas the Swede, that takes a Drench  
Of Brandwine, in Field or Trench,  
Expires as bold as Martyrs.   

Chocolet's an arrant Cheat,  
Cantharideses, and Eringo,  
Nothing gives dull spirits heat  
Like a dose of Wine or Stingo, 
Strong Cheshire Ale.   
Which if Venables had sipped,  
He like Lightning would have skipped,  
And ransacked St. Domingo.   

Ask Jack Moston, and Will. Hooks,  
How their Comrade turned Hectar,  
They'll affirm his blood and looks  
Both took fire from bowls of Nectar,  
That in time inflamed the Realm,  
'Twas drinking placed him at the Helm,  
And made him Lord Protector.    

A Ballad against the Opera.  

NOw Heaven preserve our Realm,  
And him that sits at th' Helm.  
I will tell you of a new Story  
Of Sir William and his Apes,  
With full many merry Japes,  
Much after the rate of John Dorie.   

This sight is to be seen  
Near the Street that's called Queen,  
And the People have called it the Opera.  
But the Devil take my Wife,  
If all days of my life  
did ever see such a Foppery.   

Where first one gins  
With a trip and a cringe,  
And a face set in starch to accost 'em,  
I, and with a Speech to boot  
That had neither head nor foot,  
Might have served for a Charterhouse Rostrum.   

Oh, he looked so like a Jew,  
Would have made a man spew,  
When he told 'em here was this, here was that,  
Just like him that shows the Tombs,  
For when the Sum Total comes,  
'tis two hours of I know not what.   

Neither must I here forget  
The Music there, how it was set,  
Dise two Ayers and an half and a Jove,  
All the rest was such a Gig,  
Like the squeaking of a Pig,  
Or Cats when they're making their love.   

The next thing was the Scene,  
And that as it was laid,  
But no man knows where in Peru,  
With a story for the nonce  
Of Raw head and Bloody bones,  
But the Devil a word that was true.   

There might you have seen an Ape  
With his follow for to gape,  
Now dancing and turning over and over,  
What cannot Poets do  
They can find out in Peru,  
Things no man ever saw before.   

Then presently the Spaniard  
Struts with his Vineyard,  
Now Heaven of thy mercy how grim,  
Who'●d have thought that Christian men  
Would have eat up Children,  
Had he not seen 'em do it limb by limb.   

Oh greater cruelty yet,  
Like a Pig upon a spit,  
Here lies one, there another boiled to a Jelly;  
Just so the people stare  
At an Ox in the Fair,  
Roasted whole with a Pudding in's Belly.   

I durst have laid my head  
That the King there had been dead,  
When I saw how they basted and carved him;  
Had he not come up again  
Upon the Stage, there to complain  
How scurvily the Rogues had served him.   

A little further in  
Hung a third by the Chin,  
And a forth cut out all in Quarters;  
Oh that Fox had now been living,  
They had been sure of Heaven,  
Or at the least been some of his Martyrs.   

But which was strange again,  
The Indians that they had slain,  
Came dancing all in a Troop,  
But oh give me the last,  
For as often as he passed,  
He still tumbled like a Dog in a Hoop.   

And now my Signior Strugge  
In good faith you may go Jog,  
For Sir Will. will have something to brag on  
Oh the English Boys are come  
With their Fife and their Drum,  
And still the Knight must Conquer the Dragon.   

And so now my story is done,  
And I'll end as I begun,  
With a word, and I care not who know it,  
Heaven keep us great and small,  
And bless us some and all,  
From every such a pitiful Poet.    

The dying Lover.  

SOme powers regard me, or my heart will burn  
Till it convert my bosom to an urn,  
I call not you Physicians: how you spread  
You fatal Curtains of a sick man's bed;  
Hang from about me; herbs nor minerals can  
Cure the Consumption of a Lovesick man,  
Not hills of Snow, nor Cakes of Ice the flood  
Bears down, can make a Julip for my blood.  
You climbing Waves, if happily at this hour  
There be some new Leander in your power,  
O let his voyage calmer fortune try,  
'Twere pity the beloved again should die,  
But you may well my scorned breast over flow,  
Yet would my heat make your cold billows glow.  
And you rude winds, troublers of both Seas and Skies,  
Before whose wrath the white fingd vessel flies,  
Cease persecuting wretches on the main,  
And cool me with a storm, but 'twere in vain,  
I sprinkle tears, and with my sighs add breath,  
To blow flames only to be quenched by death.  
See where he comes, how pale, how far unlike  
Her shape that sent him to me, wouldst thou strike?  
'Tis done already, look upon my heart,  
Alas, thou knowst not, when thou threw'st that dart.  
She mocks both thee and love, not as you will;  
As she doth guide your hands, you save or kill.  
Perhaps you reigned in times past, but in mine,  
Her smiles are loves darts, & her thoughts are thine  
I have seen her mix a sad look with a sweet,  
Then life and death, all joys, all torments meet  
Like twilight, that her lover could not say,  
Whether his fear brought light, or hope saw day,  
Which I must see no more, 'tis her decree,  
That adds one Sister to the other three.  
Another to the grates if you inquire  
What wonder this may be, please your desire,  
It is a beauty, such as might give breath,  
To senseless Pictures, but to me 'tis death.  
Farewell sweet Muses, your friends death deplore,  
Whom you were not Maedeas' to restore.  
Love let me kiss thy hand, by which I fall;  
Yet thou hast killed me with a Cordial.  
Death cry thee mercy, Loves command extends  
So far, I saw not thine, but we'll meet friends.  
I feel thee in my marrow, thy shaft lurks  
With a cold poison tipped, now, now it works.  
What Ague's this, but now my breath did glow,  
Aetna was not so fiery; now I grow  
More cold than are the Alps, I am like one  
Tossed from the torrid, to the frigid Zone.  
Winter's in my blood, my veins frieze over.  
It Snows upon my heart, I can no more  
Move my contracted sinews, if there be  
Of all that in their tears would bury me.  
Some poor forsaken Virgin that did mean  
All faith, and found no justice, let her glean  
The ruins of my heart, the rest convey  
To some dark grove, where the Turtle may  
Mourn out my Elegy, writ upon my tomb,  
I had a fair Judge, but a cruel doom.    


Friend.  

FOr guilded Pill, and Pill was not,  
But powdered up i'th' Galley Pot;  
For Purge of Hameches rare Confection  
For stuff, by way of an Injection;  
Which Maid mistook for milk of Almond,  
And sucked an hearty draught, till qualm on  
Stomach came, and neighbours called in,  
She shit and spewed like Uncle Yalden;  
For instrument the Schoolmen call,  
By name of Mathematical;  
Others a Syringe, Squirt, or Engine,  
Which Robin Scudamore swears do send in  
Juice, with that force at Pintles snouts  
As if at Crown o'th' head 'twould out  
For visits late, and visits early  
I'th' mind I'm in I love thee dearly,  
And thank thee too.— But hark you wight!  
This does not set my Tail upright;  
I'm plaguy lose i'th' socket still,  
Maugre thy Potion, and thy Pill,  
And reign so slack (for all my cunning)  
Will never fadge with Nag that's running.  
The Spring that should uphold my Cock,  
Is shrewdly weakened, and my dock  
Is like th' abominable Rump,  
A rude and indigested lump;  
Gun-scowrers two I have beseeched,  
By their kind care to be new breeched.  
The Baggages o'th' Town (Pox rot 'em)  
Say, that for Arse, to get new bottom  
I must to Rumford ride (ud's nigs)  
I've rid myself quite off my legs.  
Jack Falstnffe vildly did abate,  
But never surely, at the rate  
That I have done, since action last  
I'm no man's length of life i'th' waste.  
My leg is not so big by th' half,  
I'm but ill Essexed in the Calf  
Only one member' cleped privy  
That thrives upon it: as I live I  
Can not but smile, (though indisposed)  
To see the youth so bottle-nosed.  
I need not like the lad throws twelve  
At tick-tack cry to Pintle, swell—  
As Parson erst; so great's my pain  
Grant mine a yard, I'll swear 'tis main  
With Swath, and clout to see me dress it;  
A wondrous hopeful thing; God bless it,  
In lap then having couched my Beagle,  
He looks like Babe that's under Eagle,  
Where let him lurk, and rest in quiet,  
Till thou send'st drink, and God sends diet.  
Friend, now I've told thee how 'tis with me,  
If thou hast any Goodness i' thee  
Call on me as thou goest to ' th' Devil,  
Or Major Mundens, who's so Civil  
To give the Ale, and bate the Smoke,  
Though first heed rather have me choke,  
Well, to be brief, I long to see Thee,  
Till when (Dear Val.) God's peace be with thee.   
March 27. 1660.   

The Answer.  

THanks to thy care Dear Valentine,  
thou'rt working Cures all in— time.  
I left out good, 'cause as times go,  
'tis ten to one we find it so.  
I'm safe, but not as fish so sound,  
Whom we term so, because not drowned  
I'th' Deluge when all went to wrack  
But Noah, and like shirt to back,  
Eight that stuck close, and gave no word,  
For fear of heaving over board.  
No (Friend) I am not yet like Roach,  
Or Bell, but dread a jumbling Coach,  
And walk i'th' streets, the stones upon,  
As with a suit of Wainscot on.  
Sure my disease (what are Dick says)  
Will teach a man to look to's ways.  
I walk upright, and tenderly,  
As if I trod on Conscience: why  
My foot slipped once, (howe'er it came)  
And put whole body out of frame.  
My arms were disarmed, and my legs  
Moved as if joints had wanted pegs.  
Sure this will warning be or none,  
How I strike foot against a stone;  
Though I'm not guilty of such tricks,  
'Twere better kick against the pricks.  
But hark you (Val.) worse news than this!  
A friend refused to stay my Piss-  
Ing while, indeed he found me tardy.  
Once (as it happed) before, for pardy,  
I was faint to unmuffle Pego,  
Who looked, liked, Ego non sum ego;  
Then with the prepuce make a Spout,  
For carrying of it clearly out;  
Or else howe'er the matter lurks,  
IT had run like Windsor water works:  
For holes it like a Skimmer proves,  
Or Orange that was stuffed with Cloves.  
YE have seen a Garden watering Pot  
Or Cullender, e'en just like that.  
Well, faces made, and making end  
Of making faces to my friend  
I hied, who wished me all bepissed,  
Swore he'd read Jonson's Alchemist  
In half that time, that I was leaking,  
'Twas twice as long, as I've been speaking.  
I must confess (who ere appoints)  
In less time, I'd truss twenty points.  
I've seen with swigging what, ore-sated  
A Barrow Pig as tedious as it,  
But (Val.) when amongst the Blades I come,  
After the word-Rogue, show a Room.  
How do the Youngsters stare dost think?  
When I cry faith, I dare not drink  
Wine, and speak low as Country Lass,  
Asked by the official how 'twas  
She got the Bastard lately whelped,  
Whispers-forsooth, I could not helped.  
Then plead I Physic, Drink, and Diet,  
Which for a while preserves me quiet,  
Till some stern Sr. unknown before,  
When Dish is clap't at wrong man's door,  
Cries, give him drink, what is't he ails?  
When all i'th' Room produce their Tails.  
And Friend as I may tell to you  
Compared to them on strict review.  
I find I'm pretty well to pass,  
So lay my violent hands on glass.  
And think on Moyle (as is my use)  
Then drink and glad of the excuse.  
Thus strive I to be blithe and frolic,  
As Virgil when he wrought Bucolick.  
But my Maecenas wondrous Moyle  
Is sick, and then I me not worth while.  
I'm a dead thing without, know 'tis he  
Gives life and vigour to my Muse and me.   

This Isend thee hap what will,  
On the eleventh day of April.  
Named from wooden (morning dirty)  
Sixteen hundred and twice thirty.  
Far thee well, however far I.  
Hystoron Proteron bold Hatry.  
In affection ever fervant,  
Twice & once thine humble Servant.     

Ode. Sitting and drinking in a Chair made out of the relics of Sr. Francis Drakes Ship.  

1.  
Cheer up my Mates! the wind doth fairly blow,  
Clap on more Sails, and never spare,  
Farewell all Land! for now we are  
In the wide Sea of drink, and merrily we go.  
Bless me! 'tis hot, another Bowl of Wine,  
And we shall cut the burning Line;  
hay Boys! she sends it away, and by my head I know  
We round the world are sailing now.  
What dull men are those who tarry at home,  
When abroad they might wantonly roam?  
And gain such experience; and spy too  
Such Countries and wonders as I do?  
But prithee good Pilot take heed what you do,  
And fail not to touch at Peru,  
With Gold there the Vessel we'll store,  
And never, and never be poor,  
And never be poor any more.   

2.  
What do I mean? What thoughts do me misguide,  
As well upon a staff may Witches ride  
Their fancied journeys in the air,  
As I sail round the world in a Chair.  
'Tis true, but yet this Chair which here you see,  
For all its Quiet now and gravity,  
Has wandered and has travelled more  
Than ever Beast, or Fish, or Bird, or ever Tree before  
In every air, in every Sea 't'as been,  
'T'ad compassed all the earth, and all the heaven 't'as seen.  
Let not the Popes itself with this compare,  
This is the only universal Chair.   

3.  
The Pious wanderers Fleet saved from the flame  
(Which still the relics did of Troy pursue,  
And took them for its due)  
A Squadron of immortal Nymphs became,  
Still with their Arms they rowed about the Seas,  
And still made new, and greater Voyages:  
Nor has the first Poetic Ship of Greece,  
Though now a star, she so triumphant show,  
And guides her sailing Successors below,  
(Bright as her ancient freight the shining Fleece)  
Yet to this day a quiet Harbour found,  
The Tide of Heaven still carries her around;  
Only Drakes sacred Vessel (which before  
Had done, and had seen more  
Than those have done or seen,  
Even since they Goddesses, and this a Star has been,)  
As a reward for all her labours past,  
Is made the seat of rest at last.  
Let the case now quite altered be;  
And as thou wentest abroad the world to see,  
Let the world now come to see thee.   

4.  
The world will do't for curiosity,  
Does no less than Devotion, Pilgrims make.  
And I myself who now love quiet too,  
As much almost as any Chair can do,  
Would yet a Journey take.  
An old Wheel of that Chariot to see;  
Which Phaeton so rashly broke.  
Yet what could that say more, than these remains of Drake?  
Great relic! thou too in this Port of ease  
Hast still one way of making Voyages.  
The breath of Fame, like an auspicuous gale  
(The great Trade wind which never does fail)  
Still with full trim, and swelling Sail,  
Shall drive thee round the world, and thou shalt run  
As long around it as the Sun.  
The straits of time too narrow are for thee,  
Launch forth into an undiscovered Sea.  
And steer the endless course of vast eternity.  
Take for thy Sail this verse, & for thy Pilot me.