POEMS.  
BY J. C.  
WITH ADDITIONS.  
Printed in the Year 1651.   

TO THE STATE of LOVE, OR, The Senses Festival.  
I Saw a Vision yesternight  
Enough to tempt a Seeker's sight:  
I wished myself a Shaker there,  
And her quick pulse my trembling sphere.  
It was a She so glittering bright:  
You'd think her soul an Adamite.  
A person of so rare a frame,  
Her body might be lined with'same.  
Beauty's chiefest Maid of Honour:  
You'd break a Lent with looking on her.  
Not the fair Abbess of the skies,  
With all her Nunnery of eyes,  
Can show me such a glorious prize.  
And yet, because 't is more renown  
To make a shadow shine, she's brown;  
A brown, for which, Heaven would disband  
The Gallaxye, and stars be tanned.  
Brown by reflection, as her eye  
Dazzles the summer's livery.  
Old dormant windows must confess,  
Her beams their glimmering spectacles;  
Struck with the splendour of her face,  
Do th' office of a burning-glass.  
Now, where such radiant lights have shown,  
No wonder if her cheeks be grown  
Sunburnt with lustre of her own.  
My sight took pay, but (thank my charms)  
I now impale her in mine arms,  
(love's Compasses) confining you  
Good Angels, to a Compass too.  
Is not the Universe straitlaced,  
When I can clasp it in the Waste?  
My amorous folds about thee hurled,  
With Drake, I compass in the world.  
I hoop the Firmament, and make;  
This my Embrace the zodiac.  
How would thy centre take my Sense,  
When Admiration doth commense,  
At the extreme Circumference.  
Now to the melting kiss that sips  
The jellied Philtre of her lips  
So sweet, there is no tongue can phrased,  
Till transubstantiate with a taste,  
Inspited like Mahomet from above,  
By th' billing of my heavenly Dove;  
Love prints her Signets in her smacks,  
Those Ruddy drops of squeezing wax;  
Which, wheresoever she imparts,  
They're privy Seals to take up hearts.  
Our mouths encountering at the sport,  
My slippery soul had quit the fort,  
But that she stopped the Salley-port.  
Next to those sweets her lips dispense,  
As Twin-conserves of Eloquence;  
The sweet perfume her breath affords;  
Incorporating with her words;  
No Rosary this votaress needs,  
Her very syllables are beads.  
No sooner twixt those Rubies born▪  
But Jewels are in earrings worn.  
With what delight her speech doth enter,  
It is a kiss o'th' second venture.  
And I dissolve at what I hear,  
As if another Rosamond were  
Couched in the Labyrinth of my Ear.  
Yet, that 's but a preludious bliss;  
Two souls pickearing in a kiss.  
Embraces do but draw the Line,  
'Tis storming that must take her in.  
When Bodies whine, and victory hovers  
twixt the equal fluttering Lovers,  
This is the game, make stakes my Dear,  
Hark how the sprightly chanticleer,  
That Baron Tell-clock of the night,  
Sounds Boot-esel to Cupid's knight.  
Then have at all, the pass is got,  
For coming off, oh name it not:  
Who would not die upon the spot.   

THE HECATOMB TO HIS Mistress.  
BE dumb ye beggars of the rhyming trade,  
Geld the loose wits, and let the Muse be splaid.  
Charge not the parish with the bastard phrase  
Of Balm, elixir, both the India's,  
Of shrine, saint, sacrilege, and such as these  
Expressions, common as their Mistresses.  
Hence ye fantastic Postillers in song,  
My text defeats your art, ties nature's tongue,  
Scorns all his tinsiled metaphors of pelf,  
Illustrated by nothing but his self.  
As Spiders travel by their bowels spun  
Into a thread, and when the race is run,  
Wind up their journey in a living clew,  
So is it with my Poetry and you.  
From your own essence must I first untwine,  
Then twist again each panegyric line.  
Reach then a soaring Quill that I may write,  
As with a Jacob's staff to take the height.  
Suppose an Angel darting through the air,  
Should there encounter a religious prayer  
Mounting to Heaven, that Intelligence  
Should for a Sunday-suit thy breath condense  
Into a body. Let me crack a string  
In venturing higher; were the note I sing  
Above heavens Ela, should I undecline,  
And with a deep-mouthed Gammut sound again  
From pole to pole, I could not reach her worth,  
Nor find an Epithet to set it forth.  
Metals may blazon common beauties, she  
Makes pearl and planets humble herauldy.  
As than a purer substance is defined,  
But by an heap of Negatives combined;  
Ask what a spirit is, you'll hear them cry  
It hath no matter, no mortality:  
So can I not define how sweet, how fair,  
Only I say she's not as others are.  
For what perfections we to others grant,  
It is her sole perfection to want.  
All other forms seem in respect of thee  
The almanacs misshaped anatomy,  
Where Aries, head and face; Bull, neck and throat;  
The Scorpion gives the secrets; knees, the Goat:  
A brief of limbs foul as those beasts, or are  
Their name-saked signs in their strange character.  
As the Philosophers to every sense  
Marry its object, yet with some dispense,  
And grant them a polygamy withal,  
And these their common Sensibles they call:  
So is't with her, who stinted unto none,  
Unites all senses in each action.  
The same beam heats and lights; to see her well,  
Is both to hear and feel, to taste and smell.  
For can you want a palate in your eyes,  
When each of his contains a double prize,  
Venus his apple? can th'eyes want nose,  
When from each cheek buds forth a fragrant Rose?  
Or can the sight be deaf, if she but speak,  
A well-tuned face such moving rhetoric?  
Doth not each look a flash of lightning feel  
Which spare the body's sheath, and melts the steel?  
Thy soul must needs confess, or grant thy sense  
Corrupted with the objects excellence.  
Sweet magic, which can make five senses lie  
Conjured within the circle of an eye.  
In whom since all the Five are intermixed,  
Oh now that Scaliger would prove his fixed.  
Thou man of mouth, that canst not name a She  
Unless all nature pay a subsidy,  
Whose language is a Tax, whose Musk-cat verse  
Voids nought but flowers for thy muse's hearse,  
Fitter than Celia's looks, who in a trice  
Canst state the long disputed paradise:  
And with Divines hunt with so cold a sent,  
Canst in her bosom find it resident.  
Now come aloft, come, come and breathe a vein,  
And give some vent unto thy daring strain.  
Say the ginger, who spells the Stars,  
In that fair Alphabet reads Peace and Wars,  
Mistakes his Globe, and in her brighter eye  
Interprets heaven's physiognomy.  
Call her the metaphysics of her Sex,  
And say she tortures wits, as Quartans vex  
physicians: call her the Square Circle, say  
She is the very rule of Algebra.  
What ere you undertake not, say't of her,  
For that's the way to write her Character.  
Say this and more, and when thou hopest to raise  
Thy fancy so as to enclose her praise,  
Alas poor Gotham with thy Cookko hedge,  
Hyperboles are here but sacrilege.  
Then rouse up Muse, what thou hast revealed out  
Some comments clear not, but increase the doubt.  
She that affords poor mortals not a glance  
Of knowledge, but is known by ignorance,  
She that commits a rape on every sense,  
Whose breath can countermand a pestilence,  
She that can strike the best invention dead,  
Till baffled Poetry hangs down her head,  
She, she it is, She that contains all bliss,  
And make the world but her Periphrasis.   

UPON Sir THOMAS MARTIN, Who subscribed a Warrant thus: We the Knights and Gentlemen of the Committee, &c. when there was no Knight but himself.  
HAng out a flag, and gather pence apiece  
(Which Africa never bred, nor swelling Greece  
With stories timpany) a beast so rare  
No Lecturers wrought cap, nor Bartholomew Fare  
Can match him; nature's whimsy, one that out-vyes  
Tredeskin, and his ark of Novelties.  
The Gog and Magog of prodigious sights  
With reverence to your eyes, Sir Thomas Knights:  
But is this bigamy of titles due?  
Are you Sir Thomas, and Sir Martin too?  
Issachar Couchant twixt a brace of Sirs,  
Thou Knighthood in a pair of Panniers:  
Thou that look'st wrapped up in thy Warlike leather,  
Like Valentine and Orson bound together,  
Spurs representative! thou that art able  
To be a Voider to King Arthurs Table:  
Who in this sacrilegious mass of all  
It seems has swallowed Windsor's Hospital.  
Pair-royal headed Cerberus his cousin:  
Hercules labours were a Bakers dozen.  
Had he but trumpt on thee whose forked neck  
Might well have answered at the Font for Smeck;  
But can a Knighthood on a Knighthood lie  
Metal on metal is ill armoury.  
And yet the known Godfrey of Bulloin's coat  
Shines in exception to the herald's vote.  
Great spirits move not by pedantic laws,  
Their actions though eccentric, state the cause,  
And Priscan bleeds with honour; Caesar thus  
Subscribed two Consuls with one Julius.  
Tom never oaded Squire, scarce Yeoman high,  
Is Tom twice dipped Knight of a double die?  
Fond man! whose fate is in his name betrayed,  
It is the setting Sun doubles his shade;  
But it's no matter, for Amphibious he  
May have a Knight hanged, yet Sir Tom go free.   

On the memory of Mr. Edward King, drowned in the Irish Seas.  
I Like not tears in tune, nor do I prize  
His artificial grief who scans his eyes.  
Mine weep down pious beads: but why should I  
Confine them to the muse's Rosary?  
I am no Poet here; my pen's the spout  
Where the Rain-water of mine eyes runs out  
In pity of that Name, whose fare we see  
Thus copied out in griefs Hydrography.  
The Muses are not Mair-maids; though upon  
His death the Ocean might turn Helicon.  
The Sea's too rough for verse; who rhimes upon't  
With Xerxes strives to fetter th' Hellespont.  
My tears will keep no channel, know no laws  
To guide their streams; but (like the waves their cause)  
Run with disturbance, till they swallow me  
As a description of his misery.  
But can his spacious virtue find a grave  
Within th' impostumed bubble of a wave?  
Whose learning if we sound, we must confess  
The Sea but shallow, and him bottomless.  
Could not the Winds to countermand thy death,  
With their whole card of Lungs redeem thy breath?  
Or some new Island in thy rescue peep,  
To heave thy resurrection from the deep?  
That so the world might see thy safety wrought  
With no less wonder than thyself was thought.  
The famous Stagarite, who in his life  
Had nature as familiar as his wife,  
bequeathed his Widow to survive with thee,  
Queen Dowager of all philosophy.  
An ominous Legacy, that did portend  
Thy fate, and predecessors second end!  
Some have affirmed, that what on earth we find  
The sea can parallel in shape, and kind:  
Books, arts, and tongues were wanting, but in thee  
Neptune hath got an university.  
We'll dive no more for pearls, the hope to see  
Thy sacred relics of mortality  
Shall welcome storms, and make the seamen prize  
His shipwreck now more than his merchandise.  
He shall embrace the waves, and to thy Tomb  
As to a Royaller Exchange shall come.  
What can we now expect? water, and fire,  
Both elements our ruin do conspire;  
And that dissolves us which doth us compound:  
One Vatican was burnt, another drowned.  
We of the Gown our Libraries must toss,  
To understand the greatness of our loss,  
Be Pupils to our grief, and so much grow  
In learning, as our sorrows overflow.  
When we have filled the roundlets of our eyes,  
We'll issueed forth, and vent such Elegies,  
As that our tears shall seem the Irish Seas,  
We floating Islands, living Hebrides.   

On the same.  
TEll me no more of Stoics: canst thou tell  
Who't was, that when the waves began to swell,  
The ship to sink, sad passengers to call,  
[Master we perish] slept secure of all?  
Remember this, and him that waking kept  
A mind as constant as he did that slept.  
Canst thou give credit to his zeal and love,  
That went to Heaven, and to those flames above  
Wrapped in a fiery chariot? Since I heard  
Who't was, that on his knees the Vessel steered  
With hands bolt up to Heaven, since I see  
As yet no sign of his mortality;  
Pardon me, Reader, if I say he's gone  
The self same journey in a watery one.   

The Hue and Cry after Sir John Presbyter.  
WIth Hair in Characters, and Lugs in Text;  
With a splay mouth, & a nose circumflexed;  
With a set Ruff of Musket bore, that wears  
Like Cartrages, or linen bandeliers,  
Exhausted of their sulphurous Contents,  
In Pulpit fireworks, which that Bomball vents;  
The Negative and Covenanting Oath,  
Like two moustaches, issuing from his mouth;  
The Bush upon his chin, (like a carved story,  
In a Box knot) cut by the Directory;  
Madam's Confession hanging at his ear,  
Wiredrawn through all the questions, How and Where,  
Each circumstance, so in the hearing Felt,  
That when his ears are cropped, he'll count them gelt;  
The sweeping Cassock scared into a Jump,  
A sign the Presbyter's worn to the stump:  
The Presbyter, though charmed against mischance  
With the Divine right of an Ordinance.  
If you meet any that do thus attire'em,  
Stop them, they are the tribe of Adoniram.  
What zealous frenzy did the Senate seize,  
That tore the Rotchet to such Rags as these?  
Episcopacy minced, Reforming Tweed  
Hath sent us Runts, even of her Churches breed;  
Lay-interlining Clergy, a Device  
That's nickname to the stuff called Lops and Lice.  
The Beast at wrong end branded, you may trace  
The devil's footsteps in his cloven Face.  
A Face of several Parishes and sorts,  
Like to a Sergeant shaved at Inns of Court.  
What mean the Eldders else, those Kirk Dragoons,  
Made up of Ears and Ruffs like duccatoons?  
That Hierarchy of Handicrafts begun?  
Those new Exchange-men of Religion?  
Sure they're the antic heads, which placed without  
The Church, go gape and disembogue a spout:  
Like them above the Commons House, have been  
So long without, now both are gotten in;  
Then, what Imperious in the Bishop sounds,  
The same the Scotch Executor rebounds.  
This stating Prelacy, the classic Rout,  
That spoke it often, ere it spoke it out.  
So by an abbeys skeleton of late,  
I heard an echo Supererogate  
Through imperfection, and the voice restore,  
As if she had the hiccup, o'er and o'er.  
Since they our mixed Dioc●sans combine  
Thus to ride double in their Discipline;  
That Paul's shall to the Consistory call  
A Dean and Chapter out of Weavers-Hall,  
Each at the Ordinance for to assist.  
With the five thumbs of his groat-changing Fist.  
Down Dagon Synod with thy motley ware,  
Whilst we do swagger for the commonprayer.  
That dovelike embassy, that wings our sense  
To heaven's gate in shape of innocence:  
Pray for the mitered Authors, and defy  
These Demicasters of Divinity.  
For where Sir John with jacks-of-all-trade joins,  
His Finger's thicker thah the prelate's loins.   

The Antiplatonick.  

FOR shame, thou everlasting wooer,  
Still saying Grace, and never falling to her!  
Love that's in Contemplation placed,  
Is Venus drawn but to the Wast.  
Unless your Flame confess its Gender,  
And your Parley cause surrender;  
Y'are Salamanders of a cold desire,  
That live untouched amid the hottest fire.   

What though she be a Dame of stone,  
The Widow of Pygmalion;  
As hard and unrelenting She,  
As the new-crusted Niobe;  
Or what doth more of Statue carry  
A nun of the Platonic quarry?  
Love melts the rigor which the rocks have bred,  
A Flint will break upon a featherbed.   

For shame you pretty Female Elves,  
Cease for to Candy up yourselves:  
No more, you Sectaries of the Game,  
No more of your calcining flame.  
Women Commence by Cupid's Dart;  
As a Kings Hunting dubs a Hart.  
love's Votaries enthrall each others' soul,  
Till both of them live but upon parole.   

virtue's no more in womankind  
But the greensickness of the mind.  
Philosophy, their new delight,  
A kind of Charcoal Appetite.  
There's no Sophistry prevails,  
Where all-convincing Love assails:  
But the disputing Petticoat will Warp,  
As skilful Gamesters are to seek at Sharp.   

The soldier, that man of Iron,  
Whom Ribs of Horror all environ;  
That's strung with Wire, in stead of Veins,  
In whose embraces you're in chains,  
Let a magnetic girl appear,  
Straight he turns Cupid's Cuiraseer.  
Love storms his lips, and takes the fortress in,  
For all the bristled Turn-pikes of his chin.   

Since love's Artillery then checks  
The Breast-works of the firmest Sex,  
Come let's in Affections Riot,  
theyare sickly pleasures keep a Diet.  
Give me a Lover bold and free,  
Not eunuched with Formality;  
Like an ambassador that beds a Queen,  
With the Nice Caution of a sword between.    

Upon an Hermaphrodite.  
SIr, or madam, choose you whether,  
Nature twisted you both together:  
And makes thy soul two garbs confess,  
Both Petticoat and Breeches dress.  
Thus we chastise the God of Wine,  
With water that is Feminine,  
Until the cooler Nymph abate  
His wrath, and so concorporate.  
Adam till his rib was lost;  
Had both Sexes thus engrossed:  
When Providence our Sire did cleave,  
And out of Adam carved Eve,  
Then did man 'bout Wedlock treat,  
To make his body up complete:  
Thus Matrimony speaks but Thee  
In a grave solemnity.  
For man and wife make but one right  
Canonical Hermaphrodite.  
ravel thy body, and I find  
In every limb a double kind.  
Who would not think that head a pair,  
That breeds such faction in the hair?  
One half so churlish in the touch,  
That rather than endure so much,  
I would my tender limbs apparel  
In Regulus his nailed barrel:  
But the other half so small,  
And so amorous withal,  
That Cupid thinks each hair doth grow  
A string for his invis'ble bow.  
When I look babies in thine eyes,  
Here Venus, there Adonis lies.  
And though thy beauty be high noon,  
Thy orb contains both Sun and Moon.  
How many melting kisses skip  
twixt thy Male and Female lip?  
twixt thy upper brush of hair  
And thy nether beards despair.  
When thou speak'st, I would not wrong  
Thy sweetness with a double tongue:  
But in every single sound  
A perfect Dialogue is found.  
Thy breasts distinguish one another;  
This the sister, that the brother.  
When thou joynest hands, my ear still fancies  
The nuptial sound, I John take Frances:  
Feel but the difference, soft, and rough;  
This a gauntlet, that a muff:  
Had sly Ulysses, at the sack  
Of Troy brought thee his pedlar's pack,  
And weapons too to know Achilles  
From King Nicomedes Phillis,  
His plot had failed; this hand would feel  
The Needle, that the warlike steel.  
When music doth thy pace advance,  
Thy right leg takes thy left to dance.  
Nor is't a Galliard danced by one,  
But a mixed dance, though alone:  
Thus every heteroclite part  
Changes gender, but thy heart.  
Nay those which modest can mean,  
And dare not speak, are Epicoene;  
That Gamester needs must overcome,  
That can play both Tib and Tom.  
Thus did nature's mintage vary,  
Coining thee a Philip and Mary.   

The author's Hermaphrodite, made after Mr. Randolph's death, yet inserted into his Poems.  
Problem of Sexes; must thou likewise be  
As disputable in thy Pedigree?  
Thou twins-in-one, in whom Dame Nature tries  
To throw less than alms-ace upon two Dice:  
Were't thou served up two in one dish, the rather  
To split thy Sire into a double father?  
True, the world's scales are even: what the main  
In one place gets, another quits again.  
Nature lost one by thee, and therefore must  
Slice one in two, to keep her number just:  
Plurality of livings is thy state,  
And therefore mine must be impropriate.  
For, since the child is mine, and yet the claim  
Is intercepted by another's name,  
Never did steeple carry double truer,  
His is the Donative, and mine the Cure.  
Then say my Muse (and without more dispute)  
Who 'tis that fame doth superinstitute.  
The Theban wittol, when he once descries,  
Jove is his rival, falls to sacrifice:  
That name hath tipped his horns: see, on his knees,  
A health to Hans-en▪ Kelder Hercules.  
Nay sublunary Cuckolds are content  
To entertain their Fate with compliment;  
And shall not he be proud, whom Randolph deigns  
To quarter with his Muse both Arms and Brains?  
Gramercy Gossip, I rejoice to see  
Shee'th got a leap of such a Barbary.  
Talk not of horns, horns are the poet's Crest;  
For since the Muses left their former nest,  
To found a Nunnery in Randolph's quill,  
Cuckold Parnassus is a forked hill.  
But stay, I've waked his dust, his Marble stirs,  
And brings the worms for his Compurgators.  
Can Ghost have natural sons? say Ogg, is't meet,  
Penance bear date after the winding sheet?  
Were it a phoenix (as the double kind  
May seem to prove, being there's two combined)  
It would disclaim my right: and that it were  
The lawful issue of his ashes, swear.  
But was he dead? did not his soul translate  
Herself into a shop of lesser rate?  
Or break up house, like an expensive Lord,  
That gives his purse a sob, and lives at board?  
Let old Pythagoras but play the Pimp,  
And still there's hopes 't may prove his bastard imp.  
But I'm profane; For grant the world had one,  
With whom he might contract an union,  
They two were one, yet like an Eagle spread,  
I'th' body joined, but parted in the head.  
For you my brat, that pose the porphyry Chair,  
Pope John, or Joan, or whatsoever you are,  
You are an nephew, grieve not at your state,  
For all the world is illegitimate.  
Man cannot get a man, unless the Sun  
Club to the act of generation.  
The sun and man get man, thus Tom and I  
Are the joint fathers of thy Poetry.  
For since (Blessed shade) this Verse is Male, but mine  
O'th' weaker Sex, a fancy feminine:  
we'll part the child, and yet commit no slaughter,  
So shall it be thy Son, and yet my daughter.   

Square-Cap.  

COme hither Apollo's bouncing girl,  
And in a whole Hippocrene of Sherry  
Let's drink a round till our brains do whirl,  
Tuning our pipes to make ourselves mecry:  
A cambridge-lass, Venus-like, born of the froth  
Of an old half-filled Jug of Barley broth,  
She, she is my Mistress, her suitors are many,  
But she'll have a Square-cap if ere she have any.   

And first for the Plush-sake the Monmouth-cap comes,  
Shaking his head like an empty bottle;  
With his new-fangled Oath, By Jupiter's thumbs,  
That to her health he'll begin a pottle:  
He tells her that after the death of his Grannam,  
He shall have— God knows what per annum:  
But still she replies, good Sir La-bee,  
If ever I have a man, Square-cap for me.   

Then Calot-Leather-cap strongly pleads,  
And fain would derive the pedigree of fashion:  
The Antipodes wear their shoes on their heads,  
And why may not we in their imitation?  
Oh, how this football noddle would please,  
If it were but well tossed on S. Thomas his Lees.  
But still she replied, &c.   

Next comes the Puritan in a wrought-Cap,  
With a long-wasted conscience towards a Sister,  
And making a chapel of Ease of her lap,  
First he said grace, and then he kissed her.  
Beloved, quoth he, thou art my Text,  
Then falls he to Use and Application next:  
But than she replied, you Text (Sir) I'll be,  
For then I'm sure you'll ne'er handle me.   

But see where satin-cap scouts about,  
And fain would this wench in his fellowship marry,  
He told her how such a man was not put out,  
Because his wedding he closely did carry.  
he'll purchase Induction by Simony,  
And offers her money her Incumbent to be.  
But still she replied, good Sir La-bee,  
If ever I have a man Square-cap for me.   

The Lawyer's a Sophister by his round-cap,  
Nor in their fallacies are they divided;  
The one milks the pocket, the other the tap,  
And yet this wench he fain would have bribed.  
Come leave these threadbare scholars, quoth he,  
And give me livery and season of thee:  
But peace John-a-nokes, and leave your Oration,  
For I never will be your Impropriation.  
I pray you therefore good Sir La-bee;  
For if ever I have a man Square-cap for me.    

Upon Phillis walking in a morning before sunrising.  
THe sluggish morn, as yet undressed,  
My Phyllis broke from out her East;  
As if she'd made a match to run  
With Venus, Usher to the Sun.  
The trees, like Yeomen of her Guard,  
Serving more for pomp, than ward,  
Banked on each side with loyal duty,  
Wave branches to enclose her beauty.  
The Plants whose luxury was lopped,  
Or age with crutches underpropt;  
Whose wooden carcases are grown  
To be but coffins of their own;  
Revive, and at her general dole  
Each receives his ancient soul.  
The winged Choristers began  
To chirp their matins: and the Fan  
Of whistling winds, like Organs, played,  
Until their Voluntaries made  
The wakened earth in odours rise,  
To be her morning-Sacrifice.  
The flowers, called out of their beds,  
Start, and raise up their drowsy heads:  
And he that for their colour seeks,  
May find it vaulting in her cheeks,  
Where Roses mix: no civil war  
Between her York and Lancaster.  
The Marigold, whose Courtiers face  
Echoes the Sun, and doth unlace  
Her at his rise, at his full stop  
Packs, and shuts up her gaudy shop;  
Mistakes her cue, and doth display:  
Thus Phyllis antidates the day.  
These miracles had cramped the Sun,  
Who thinking that his Kingdom's won,  
Powders with light his frizzled locks,  
To see what Saint his lustre mocks.  
The trembling leaves through which he played,  
Dapling the walk with light and shade,  
Like lattice-windows, give the spy  
Room but to peep with half an eye;  
lest her full Orb his sight should dim,  
And bids us all good-night in him,  
Till she would spend a gentle ray,  
To force us a new-fashioned day.  
But what religious Palsie's this  
Which makes the boughs divest their Bliss?  
And that they might her footsteps straw,  
Drop their leaves with shivering awe.  
Phillis perceives, and (lest her stay  
Should wed October unto May;  
And as her beauty caused a Spring,  
Devotion might an autumn bring)  
withdrew her beams, yet made no night,  
But left the Sun her curate light.   

Upon a Miser that made a great feast, and the next day died for grief.  
NOr escape he so: our dinner was so good,  
My liquorish Muse cannot but chew the could:  
And what delight she took i th' invitation,  
Strives to taste o'er again in this relation.  
After a tedious Grace in Hopkins rhythm,  
Not for devotion, but to take up time,  
Marched the trained-band of dishes ushered there,  
To show their postures, and then as they were.  
For he invites no teeth, perchance the eye  
He will afford the lover's gluttony;  
This is a feast, a muster, not a fight,  
Our weapons not for service but for sight.  
But are we tantalized? is all this meat  
Cooked by a Limner, for to view, not eat?  
Th' Astrologers keep such Houses when they sup  
On joints of Taurus, or their heavenly Tup.  
Whatever feasts he made are summed up here,  
His table vies not standing with his cheer.  
His Churchings christenings, in this meal are all,  
And not transcribed, but i'th' original.  
Christmas is no Feast movable: for lo  
The selfsame dinner was ten years ago:  
'Twill be immortal if it longer stay,  
The Gods will eat it for Ambrosia.  
But stay awhile, unless my whinyard fail,  
Or it enchanted, I'll cut off th' entail.  
Saint George for England then: have at the mutton,  
When the first cut calls me bloodthirsty glutton:  
What Ajax with his anger quoddled brain  
Killing a sheep, thought Agamemnon slain:  
The fiction's now proved true; wounding his roast,  
I lamentably butcher up mine host.  
Such sympathy is with his meat, my weapon  
Makes him an Eunuch, when it ca●ves his Capon.  
Cut a Goose-leg, and the poor soul for moan  
Turns cripple too, and after stands on one.  
Have you not heard th' abominable sport  
A Lancaster Grand Jury will report?  
The soldier with his Morglay watched the Mill,  
The cats they came to feast, when lusty Will  
Whips off great Pusses leg, which by some charm  
Proves the next day such an old woman's arm:  
'Tis so with him, whose carcase never escape,  
But still we slash him in a thousand shapes.  
Our serving-men like spaniels rang, to spring  
The fowl which he hath clockt under his wing.  
Should he on Widgeon, or on Woodcock feed,  
It were (Thyestes like) on his own breed.  
To pork he pleads a superstition due,  
But not a mouth is muzzled by the Jew.  
Sauces we should have none, had he his wish,  
The Oranges i'th' margin of the dish,  
He with such hucksters tells them o'er and o'er,  
The Hesperian Dragon never watched them more.  
But being eaten now into despair,  
Having nought else to do, he falls to prayer.  
As thou didst once put on the form of Bull,  
And turnst thy Io to a lovely Mull,  
Defend my rump great Jove, grant this poor beef  
May live to comfort me in all this grief.  
But no Amen was said: See, see it comes,  
Draw boys, let Trumpets sound, & strike up Drums.  
See how his blood doth with the gravy swim,  
And every trencher has a limb of him.  
The venisons now in view, our hounds spend deeper,  
Strange Deer, which in the pastry hath a Keeper  
Stricter than in the Park, making his guest  
(As he had stolen't alive) to steal it dressed:  
The scent was hot, and we pursuing faster,  
Than Ovid's pack of dogs e'er chased their Master,  
A double prey at once may seize upon,  
Actaeon and his Case of Venison:  
Thus was he torn alive. To vex him worse  
Death serves him up now as a second course.  
Should we, like Thracians, our dead bodies eat,  
He would have lived only to save his meat.   

A young Man to an old Woman Courting him.  
PEace beldame Eve; surcease thy suit:  
There's no temptation in such fruit.  
No rotten meddlers, whilst there be  
Whole Orchards in Virginity.  
Thy stock is too much out of date  
For tender plants t' inoculate.  
A match with thee, thy bridegroom fears,  
Would be thought interest in his years;  
Which when compared to thine, become  
Odd money to thy Grandam sum.  
Can Wedlock know so great a curse  
As putting husbands out to Nurse?  
How Pond and Rivers would mistake,  
And cry new almanacs for our sake?  
Time sure hath wheeled about his year,  
December meeting Janiveer.  
Th' Egyptian Serpent figures time,  
And stripped, returns unto his Prime:  
If my affection thou wouldst win,  
First cast thy hieroglyphic skin.  
My modern lips know not (alack)  
The old Religion of thy smack.  
I count that primitive embrace,  
As out of fashion as thy face.  
And yet so long 'tis since thy fall,  
Thy Fornications classical.  
Our sports will differ: thou mayst play,  
Leero, and I Alphonso way.  
I'm no Translator; have no vein  
To turn a woman young again:  
Unless you'll grant the ●ailor's due,  
To see the forebodies be new:  
I love to wear clothes that are flush.  
Not prefacing old rags with plush:  
Like Aldermen, or Monster-Sheriffs,  
With Canvas backs, and velvet sleeves.  
And just such discord there would be  
Betwixt thy Skeleton and me.  
Go study salve and Treacle, ply  
Your tenant's leg, or his sore eye;  
Thus Matrons purchase credit, thank  
Six pennyworth of Mountebank.  
Or chew thy could on some delight  
Thou takest in thy Eighty Eight.  
Or be but bedrid once, and then  
Thou'lt dream thy youthful sins again.  
But if thou needs wilt be my Spouse,  
First harken, and attend my vows.  
" When Aetnas' fires shall undergo  
" The penance of the Alps in snow,  
" When Sol at one blast of his horn  
" Posts from the Crab to Capricorn,  
" When th' Heavens shuffle all in one,  
" The Torrid with the Frozen Zone;  
" When all these contradictions meet,  
" than (sibyl) thou and I will greet.  
" For all these similes do hold  
" In my young heat and thy dull cold;  
" Then if a fever be so good  
" A Pimp, as to inflame thy blood,  
Hymen shall twist thee, and thy Page  
The distinct Tropics of man's age.  
Well (Madam time) be ever bald,  
I'll not thy Pery wig be called.  
I'll never be 'stead of a lover,  
An aged Chronicles new cover.   

To Mrs. K. T. who asked him why he was dumb.  

STay, should I answer (Lady) then  
In vain would be your question.  
Should I be dumb, why then again  
Your asking me would be in vain.  
Silence nor speech (on neither hand)  
Can satisfy this strange demand.  
Yet since your will throws me upon  
This wished contradiction,  
I'll tell you how I did become  
So strangely (as you hear me) dumb.  
Ask but the chap-fallen Puritan,  
'Tis zeal that tongue-ties that good man:  
For heat of Conscience, all men hold,  
Is th' only way to catch their cold.  
How should loves zealot then forbear  
To be your silenced Minister?  
Nay your religion, which doth grant  
A worship due to you my Saint,  
Yet counts it that devotion wrong  
That does it in the vulgar tongue.  
My ruder words would give offence  
To such an hallowed excellence;  
As th' English Dialect would vary  
The goodness of an Ave Mary.  
How can I speak, that twice am checked  
By this and that Religious Sect?  
Still dumb, and in your face I spy  
Still cause, and still Divinity.  
As soon as blessed with your salute,  
My manners taught me to be mute:  
For, lest they cancel all the bliss  
You signed with so divine a kiss,  
The lips you seal must needs consent  
Unto the tongue's imprisonment.  
My tongue in hold, my voice doth rise  
(With a strange E-la to my eyes;  
Where it gets bail, and in that sense  
Begins a new-found Eloquence.  
Oh listen with attentive sight  
To what my prattling eyes indite:  
Or (Lady) since 'tis in your choice,  
To give, or to suspend my voice,  
With the same key set ope the door  
Wherewith you locked it fast before;  
Kiss once again, and when you thus  
Have doubly been miraculous,  
My Muse shall write with handmaid's duty  
The Golden Legend of your beauty.   

He, whom his dumbness now confines,  
But mean-to speak the rest by signs.   I. C.  

A fair Nymph scorning a Black Boy Courting her.  Nymph. 
STand off, and let me take the air,  
Why should the smoke pursue the fair?  Boy. 
My face is smoke, thence may be guest  
What flames within have scorched my breast.  Nymph. 
The flame of love I cannot view,  
For the dark lantern of thy hue.  Boy. 
And yet this lantern keeps love's Taper  
Surer than yours, that's of white paper.  
Whatever midnight hath been here,  
The moonshine of your light can clear.  Nymph. 
My Moon of an Eclipse is 'fraid,  
If thou shouldst interpose thy shade.  Boy. 
Yet one thing (Sweetheart) I will ask,  
Buy me for a new false Mask.  Nymph. 
Yes: but my bargain shall be this,  
I'll throw my Mask off when I kiss.  Boy. 
Our curled embraces shall delight  
To checquer limbs with black, and white.  Nymph. 
Thy ink, my paper, make me guess,  
Our nuptial bed will make a press;  
And in our sports if any came,  
They'll read a want on Epigram  Boy. 
Why should my black thy love impair?  
Let the dark shop commend thy ware:  
Or if thy love from black forbears,  
I'll strive to wash it off with tears.  Nymph. 
Spare fruitless tears, since thou must needs  
Still wear about thee mourning weeds.  
Tears can no more affection win,  
Then wash thy Ethiopian skin.   

A Dialogue between two Zealots, upon the &c. in the Oath.  
SIr Roger, from a zealous piece of Freeze,  
Raised to a Vicar of the children's threes;  
Whose yearly Audit may, by strict account,  
To twenty Nobles, and his Vails amount;  
Fed on the Common of the female charity,  
Until the Scots can bring about their parity;  
So shotten, that his soul, like to himself,  
Walks but in Querpo: this same Clergy Elf,  
encountering with a Brother of the Cloth,  
Fell presently to cudgels with the Oath.  
The quarrel was a strange misshapen Monster,  
&c. (God bless us) which they construe,  
The brand upon the buttock of the Beast,  
The dragon's tail tied on a knot, a nest  
Of young Apocryphaes, the fashion  
Of a new mental Reservation.  
While Roger thus divides the text, the other  
Winks and expounds, saying, My pious brother,  
harken with reverence; for the point is nice,  
I never read on't, but I fasted twice,  
And so by Revelation know it better  
Than all the learned Idolaters o'th' Letter.  
With that he swelled, and fell upon the theme,  
Like great Goliath with his weaver's beam:  
I say to thee &c. thou liest,  
Thou art the curled lock of Antichrist:  
Rubbish of Babel, for who will not say  
Tongues were confounded in & c.?  
Who swears &c. swears more oaths at once  
Then Cerberus out of his triple Sconce.  
Who views it well, with the same eye beholds  
The old half Serpent in his numerous folds.  
Accurst &c. thou, for now I scent  
What lately the prodigious Oysters meant.  
Oh Booker, Booker, how cam'st thou to lack  
This sign in thy prophetic almanac?  
It's the dark Vault wherein th' infernal plot  
Of powder 'gainst the State was first begot.  
Peruse the Oath, and you shall soon descry it  
By all the Father Garnets that stand by it.  
'Gainst whom the Church, whereof I am a Member,  
Shall keep another fifth day of November.  
Yet here's not all, I cannot half untruss  
&c. it's so abominous.  
The Trojan Nag was not so fully lined,  
Unrip &c. and you shall find  
Og the great Commissary, and which is worse,  
Th' apparator upon his skew-bald horse.  
Then (finally my Babe of Grace) forbear,  
&c. will be too far to swear:  
For 'tis (to speak in a familiar stile]  
A Yorkshire Wea-bit, longer than a mile.  
Then Roger was inspired, and by Gods-diggers,  
he'll swear in words at large, and not in figures.  
Now by this drink, which he takes off, as loath  
To leave &c. in his liquid Oath.  
His brother pledged him, and that bloody wine,  
He swears shall seal the Synods Catiline.  
So they drunk on, not offering to part  
Till they had quite sworn out th' eleventh quart:  
While all that saw and heard them, jointly pray,  
They and their Tribe were all &c.   

Smectymnuus, or the Club-Divines.  
SMectymnuns? the Goblin makes me start:  
I'th' Name of Rabbi Abraham, what art?  
Syriack? or Arabic? or Welsh? what skilt?  
Ap all the Bricklayers that Babel built.  
Some Conjurer translate, and let me know it:  
Till then 'tis fit for a West-Saxon Poet.  
But do the brotherhood then play their prizes,  
Like Mummers in Religion with disguises?  
Outbrave us with a name in Rank and File,  
A Name which if'twere trained would spread a mile?  
The Saints monopoly, the zealous cluster,  
Which like a Porcupine presents a Muster  
And shoots his quills at Bishops and their Sees,  
A devout litter of young Maccabees.  
Thus jacks-of-all-trade hath devoutly shown  
The twelve Apostles on a Cherry-stone.  
Thus faction's a-la-mode in treasons fashion;  
Now we have heresy by Complication.  
Like to Don Quixots Rosary of Slaves  
Strung on a chain; A murnival of Knaves  
Packed in a trick; like Gypsies when they ride,  
Or like Colleagues which sit all of a side:  
So the vain satirists stand all a row;  
As hallow teeth upon a lutestring show.  
Th' Italian Monster pregnant with his brother,  
Natures Dyaeresis, half one another,  
He, with his little sides-man Lazarus,  
Must both give way unto Smectymnuus.  
Next Sturbridge-Fair is Smec's; for lo his side  
Into a five fold Lazar's shultiplied.  
Under each arm there's tucked a double Gyssard,  
Five faces lurk under one single vizard.  
The Whore of Babylon left these brats behind,  
Heirs of confusion by Gavel-kind.  
I think Pythagoras' soul is rambled hither.  
With all the change of raiment on together:  
Smec is her general wardrobe, she'll not dare  
To think of him as of a thoroughfare;  
He stops the Gossopping Dame; alone he is  
The Purlew of a Metempsuchesis.  
Like a Scotch mark, where the more modest sense  
Checks the loud phrase, and shrinks to 13. pence:  
Like to an Ignis fatuus, whose flame,  
Though sometimes tripartite, joins in the same:  
Like to nine tailors, who if rightly spelled,  
Into one man, are monysyllabled.  
Short-handed zeal in one hath cramped many,  
Like to the Decalogue in a single penny.  
See, see, how close the Curs hunt under a sheet,  
As if they spent in choir, and scanned their feet;  
One Cure, and five Incumbents leap a truss,  
The title sure must be litigious.  
The Sadduces would raise a question,  
Who must be Smec at the Resurrection.  
Who cooked them up together were to blame,  
Had they but wyre-drawn, and spun out their name,  
'Twould make another prentices Petition  
Against the Bishops, and their Superstition.  
Robson and French (that count from five to five  
As far as nature fingers did contrive,  
She saw they would be Sessers, that's the cause  
She cleft their hoof into so many claws)  
May tire their carrot-bunch, yet ne'er agree  
To rate Smectymnuus for polemony.  
Caligula, whose pride was mankind's bail,  
As who disdained to murder by retail;  
Wishing the world had but one general Neck,  
His glutton blade might have found game in Smec.  
No echo can improve the Author more,  
Whose lungs pays use on use to half a score.  
No felon is more lettered, though the brand  
Both superscribes his shoulder and his hand.  
Some Welshman was his godfather, for he  
Wears in his name his Genealogy.  
The Banes are asked, would but the times give way,  
Betwixt Smectymnuus and Et caetera.  
The Guests invited by a friendly Summons,  
Should be the Convocation, and the Commons.  
The Priest to tie the fox's tails together,  
Moseley, or Sancta Clara, choose you whether.  
See, what an offspring every one expects!  
What strange pluralities of men and Sects?  
One says he'll get a Vestery, another  
Is for a Synod: Bet upon the Mother.  
Faith cry St. George, let them go to't, and stickle,  
Whether a Conclave, or a Conventicle.  
Thus might Religions caterwaul, and spite,  
Which uses to divorce, might once unite.  
But their cross fortunes interdict their trade,  
The Groom is Rampant, but the Bride displayed.  
My task is done, all my hee-Goats are milked;  
So many Cards, it'h stock, and yet be bilked?  
I could by letters now untwist the rabble;  
Whip Smec from Constable to Constable.  
But there I leave you to another dressing,  
Only kneel down, and take your father's blessing.  
May the Queen-Mother justify your fears,  
And stretch her Patent to your leather-ears.   

The mixed Assembly.  
FLeabitten Synod, an Assembly brewed  
Of Clerks and Elders ana, like the rude  
Chaos of presbytery, where laymen guide  
With the tame Woolpack Clergy by their side.  
Who asked the Banes twixt these discoloured Mates?  
A strange Grotesco this, the Church and States  
(Most divine tick-tack) in a piebald crew,  
To serve as table-men of divers hue.  
She that conceived an AEthiopian heir  
By picture, when the parents both were fair,  
At sight of you had born a dappled son,  
You chequering her' magination.  
Had Jacobs' flock but seen you sit, the dams  
Had brought forth speckled & ringstreaked lambs.  
Like an Impropriators Motley kind,  
Whose Scarlet Coat is with a Cassock lined.  
Like the Lay-thief in a canonic weed,  
Sure of his Clergy ere he did the deed.  
Like Royston Crows, who are (as I may say)  
Friars of both the Orders Black and Gray.  
So mixed they are, one knows not whethers thicker,  
A lair of burgess, or a lair of Vicar.  
Have they usurped what royal Judah had?  
And now must Levi too part stakes with Gad?  
The sceptre and the Crosier are the Crutches,  
Which if not trusted in their pious Clutches,  
Will fail the cripple State. And were't not pity  
But both should serve the yardwand of the City?  
That Isaac might stroke his beard, and sit  
Judge of {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} and Elegerit.  
Oh that they were in chalk and charcoal drawn!  
The miscellany satire, and the Fawn,  
And all the Adulteries of twisted nature  
But faintly represent this riddling feature,  
Whose Members being not talleys, they'll not own  
Their fellows at the Resurrection.  
Strange scarlet Doctors these, they'll pass in story  
For sinners half refined in Purgatory;  
Or parboiled Lobsters, where there jointly rules  
The fading Sables, and the coming Gules.  
The flea that Falstaff damned, thus lewdly shows  
Tormented in the flames of Bardolph's Nose,  
Like him that wore the Dialogue of Cloaks,  
This shoulder John-a-styles, that John-a-Noaks.  
Like Jews and Christians in a ship together,  
With an old Neck-verse to distinguish either.  
Like their intended Discipline to boot,  
Or whatsoever hath neither head nor foot:  
Such may their stripped-stuff hangings seem to be,  
Sacrilege matched with codpiece-symony;  
Be sick and dream a little, you may then  
Fancy these Linsey-wolsey Vestry-men.  
Forbear good Pembroke, be not overdaring,  
Such company may chance to spoil thy swearing:  
And these Drum-Major oaths of Bulk unruly,  
May dwindle to a feeble By my truly.  
He that the Noble Percy's blood inherits,  
Will he strike up a hotspur of the spirits?  
he'll fright the Obadiahs out of tune,  
With his uncircumcised Algernoon:  
A name so stubborn, 'tis not to be scanned  
By him in Gath with the six fingered hand.  
See, they obey the magic of my words.  
Presto; they're gone, and now the House of Lords  
Looks like the withered face of an old hag  
But with three teeth, like to a triple gag.  
A Jig, a Jig; and in this antic dance  
Fielding, and doxy Martial first advance.  
Twiss blows the Scotch pipes, and the loving brace  
Puts on the traces, and treads Cinqu-a-p●ce.  
Then Say and Seal must his old hamstrings supple,  
And he and rumpled Palmer make a couple.  
Palmer's a fruitful girl, if he'll unfold her,  
The Midwife may find work about her shoulder.  
Kimbolton that rebellious Boanerges,  
Must be content to saddle Doctor Burges.  
If Burges get a clap, 'tis ne'er the worse,  
But the fift time of his Compurgators.  
Nol Bowls is coy; good sadness, cannot dance  
But in obedience to the Ordinance.  
Her Wharton wheels about till Mumping Lidy,  
Like the full Moon, hath made his Lordship giddy.  
Pym and the Members must their giblets levy  
T' encounter Madam Smec that single Bevy.  
If they two truck together; will not be  
A Childbirth, but a Goal-delivery.  
Thus every Gibeline hath got his Guelph,  
But Selden, he's a Galliard by himself,  
And well may be; there's more Divines in him  
Then in all this their Jewish Sanhedrim:  
Whose Canons in the forge shall then bear date  
When Mules their Cosin-Germanes generate.  
Thus Moses Law is violated now,  
The Ox and ass go yoked in the same plough:  
Resign thy Coach-box Twisse; Brook's Preacher, he  
Would sort the beasts with more conformity.  
Water & earth make but one globe, a Roundhead  
Is Clergy-Lay Party-per-pale compounded.   

The King's Disguise.  
ANd why a Tenant to this vile disguise,  
Which who but sees, blasphemes thee with his eyes?  
My twins of light within their penthouse shrink,  
And hold it their Allegiance now to wink.  
Oh for a State-distinction, to arraign  
Charles of high Treason 'gainst my sovereign.  
What an usurper to his Prince is wont,  
Cloister and shave him, he himself hath done't.  
His muffled feature speaks him a recluse,  
His ruins prove him a religious house.  
The Sun hath mewed his beams from off his lamp,  
And Majesty defaced the royal stamp.  
Is't not enough thy Dignity's in thrall,  
But thou'lt transmute it in thy shape and all?  
As if thy Blacks were of too faint a dye,  
Without the tincture of Tautology.  
Flay an Egyptian for his Cassock skin  
Spun of his country's darkness, lined within,  
With Presbyterian budge, that drowsy trance,  
The Synod sable, foggy ignorance.  
Nor bodily nor ghostly Negro could  
Rough-cast thy figure in a sadder mould▪  
This privy-chamber of thy shape would be  
But the Close mourner of thy Royalty.  
'Twill break the circle of thy jailers spell,  
A Pearl within a rugged Oysters shell.  
Heaven, which the Minister of thy Person owns,  
Will fine thee for Dilapidations.  
Like to a martyred Abbeys courser doom,  
Devoutly altered to a Pigeon room:  
Or like the college, by the changeling rabble,  
manchester's Elves; transformed into a stable.  
Or if there be a profanation higher,  
Such is the sacrilege of thine attire.  
By which thou'rt half deposed, thou look'st like one  
Whose looks are under Sequestration.  
Whose Renegado form, at the first glance,  
Shows like the self-denying Ordinance.  
Angel of light, and darkness too, I doubt,  
Inspired within, and yet possessed without.  
Majestic twilight in the state of grace,  
Yet with an excommunicated face.  
Charles and his Mask are of a different mint,  
A Psalm of mercy in a miscreant print.  
The Sun wears Midnight, day is beetle-browed,  
And lightning is in Keldar of a cloud.  
Oh the accurst Stenography of fate!  
The Princely Eagleshrunk into a Bat.  
What charm, what magic vapour can it be  
That shrinks his rays to this apostasy?  
It is no subtle film of tiffany air,  
No cobweb vizard, such as Ladies wear,  
When they are veiled, on purpose to be seen,  
Doubling their lustre by their vanquished screen:  
Nor the false scabbard of a Princes tough  
Metal, and three piled darkness like the slough  
Of an imprisoned flame, 'tis Faux in grain,  
Dark lantern to our high Meridian.  
Hell belched the damp, the Warwick-Castle-Vote  
Rang Britain's curfew, so our light went out.  
Thy visage is not legible, the letters,  
Like a Lord's name writ in fantastic fetters:  
clothes where a Swisser might be buried quick,  
Sure they would fit the Body politic.  
False beard enough, to fit a stage's plot,  
For that's the ambush of their wit, God wot:  
Nay all his properties so strange appear,  
Y'are not i'th' presence, though the King be there.  
A libel is his dress, a garb uncouth,  
Such as the* Hue and Cry once purged at mouth.  
Scribbling Assassinate, thy lines attest  
An ear-mark due, Cub of the Blatant Beast,  
Whose wrath before 'tis syllabled for worse,  
Is blasphemy unfledged, a callow curse.  
The Laplanders when they would sell a wind  
Wafting to hell, bag up thy phrase, and bind  
It to the bark, which at the voyage end  
Shifts Poop, and brings the colic in the fiend.  
But I'll not dub thee with a glorious scar,  
Nor sink thy scholar with a Man of War.  
The black-mouthed Si quis, and this slandering suit,  
Both do alike in picture execute.  
But since w'are all called Papists, why not date,  
Devotion to the rags thus consecrate.  
As Temples use to have their Porches wrought  
With Sphynxes, creatures of an antic draught,  
And puzzling portraitures, to show that there  
Riddles inhabited, the like is here.  
But pardon Sir, since I presume to be  
Clerk of this Closet to your Majesty;  
Me thinks in this your dark mysterious dress  
I see the gospel couched in Parables.  
At my next view, my purblind fancy ripes  
And shows Religion in its dusky types.  
Such a Text royal, so obscure a shade  
Was Solomon in Proverbs all arrayed.  
Come all ye brats of this expounding age,  
To whom the spirit is in pupillage;  
You that damn more, than ever Samson slew,  
And with his engine, the same jawbone too:  
How is't he escape your Inquisition free,  
Since bound up in the bible's Livery?  
Hence Cabinet-intruders, picklocks hence,  
You that dim jewels with your bristol-sense:  
And Characters, like witches, so torment,  
Till they confess a guilt, though innocent.  
Keys for this Coffer you can never get,  
None but S. Peter's opes this Cabinet.  
This Cabinet, whose aspect would benight  
Critic spectators with redundant light.  
A Prince most seen, is least: what Scriptures call  
The Revelation, is most mystical.  
Mount than thou shadow royal, and with haste  
Advance thy morning star, Charles' overcast.  
May thy strange journey, contradictions twist,  
And force fair weather from a Scottish mist.  
Heaven's Confessors are posed, those star-eyed sages  
To interpret Eclipse, thus riding stages.  
Thus Israel-like, he travels with a cloud,  
Both as a conduct to him, and a shroud.  
But oh! he goes to Gibeon, and renews  
A league with mouldy bread, and clouted shoes.   

The rebel Scot.  
HOw! Providence! and yet a Scottish crew!  
Then Madam, nature wears black patches too:  
What? shall our Nation be in bondage thus  
Unto a Land that truckles under us?  
Ring the bells backward; I am all on fire,  
Not all the buckets in a country choir  
Shall quench my rage. A Poet should be feared  
When angry, like a Comets flaming beard.  
And where's the Stoic? can his wrath appease  
To see his country sick of Pym's disease  
By Scotch invasion? to be made a prey  
To such Pig-wiggin Myrmidons as they?  
But that there's charm in verse, I would not quote  
The name of Scot, without an Antidote;  
Unless my head were red, that I might brew  
Invention there that might be poison too.  
Were I a drowsy Judge, whose dismal note  
Disgorgeth halters, as a juggler's throat  
Doth ribbons: could I [in Sir Emp'ricks tone]  
Speak Pills in phrase, and quack destruction:  
Or roar like Martial, that Genevah Bull,  
Hell and damnation a pulpit full:  
Yet to express a Scot, to play that prize,  
Not all those mouth-Granadoes can suffice.  
Before a Scot can properly be cursed,  
I must (like Hocus) swallow daggers first.  
Come keen iambics, with your Badgers feet,  
And Badger-like, bite till your teeth do meet.  
Help ye tart satirists, to imp my rage,  
With all the Scorpions that should whip this age.  
Scots are like Witches; do but whet your pen,  
Scratch till the blood come; they'll not hurt you then.  
Now as the Martyrs were enforced to take  
The shapes of beasts, like hypocrites, at stake,  
I'll bait my Scot so; yet not cheat your eyes,  
A Scot within a beast is no disguise.  
No more let Ireland brag, her harmless Nation  
Fosters no venom, since the Scots plantation:  
Nor can ours feigned Antiquity maintain;  
Since they came in, England hath Wolves again.  
The Scot that kept the Tower, might have shown  
(Within the grate of his own breast alone)  
The Leopard and the Panther; and engrossed  
What all those wild collegiates had cost.  
The honest High-shoes, in their Termly Fees,  
First to the savage Lawyer, next to these.  
Nature herself doth Scotchmen beasts confess,  
Making their country such a wilderness:  
A Land, that brings in question and suspense  
God's omnipresence, but that Charles came thence:  
But that Montrose and Crawford's loyal Band  
Atoned their sins, and christened half the Land:  
Nor is it all the Nation hath these spots;  
There is a Church, as well as Kirk of Scots:  
As in a pict●re, where the squinting paint  
Shows Fiend on this side, and on that side Saint.  
He that saw Hell in's melancholy dream,  
And in the twilight of his Fancy's theme,  
Scared from his sins, repented in a fright,  
Had he viewed Scotland, had turned proselyte.  
A Land, where one may pray with cursed intent,  
O may they never suffer banishment!  
Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom,  
Not forced him wander, but confined him home.  
Like Jews they spread, and as Infection fly,  
As if the devil had Ubiquity.  
Hence 'tis, they live at Rovers; and defy  
This or that place, Rags of Geography.  
They're Citizens o'th' World; they're all in all,  
Scotland's a Nation epidemical.  
And yet they ramble not, to learn the Mode  
How to be dressed, or how to lisp abroad,  
To return knowing in the Spanish shrug,  
Or which of the Dutch States a double Jug  
Resembles most, in belly, or in Beard:  
(The Card by which the Mariners are stear'd.)  
No; the Scots-Errant fight, and fight to eat;  
Their Estrich-stomacks make their swords their meat:  
Nature with Scots as tooth-drawer's hath dealt,  
Who use to hang their teeth upon their Belt.  
Yet wonder not at this their happy choice;  
The Serpent's fatal still to Paradise.  
Sure England hath the Hemeroids, and these  
On the North-posture of the patient seize,  
Like Leeches: thus they physically thirst  
After our blood, but in the cure shall burst.  
Let them not think to make us run o'th' score,  
To purchase villeinage, as once before,  
When an Act past, to stroke them on the head,  
Call them good Subjects, buy them gingerbread.  
Nor gold, nor Acts of Grace; 'tis steel must tame  
The stubborn Scot: A Prince that would reclaim  
Rebels by yielding, doth like him, (or worse)  
Who saddled his own back to shame his horse.  
Was it for this you gave your leaner soil,  
Thus to lard Israel with Aegypts' spoil?  
They are the gospel's lifeguard; but for them,  
The Garrison of new Jerusalem,  
What would the Brethren do? the Cause! the cause!  
Sack possets, and the fundamental Laws!  
Lord! what a goodly thing is want of shirts!  
How a scotch-stomach, and no meat, converts!  
They wanted food, and raiment; so they took  
Religion for their seamstress, and their Cook.  
Unmask them well; their honours and estate,  
As well as conscience are sophisticate.  
Shrive but their Titles, and their money poise,  
A Laird & twenty pound pronounced with noise,  
When construed, but for a plain Yeoman go,  
And a good sober twopence; and well so.  
Hence than you proud Impostors, get you go●e,  
You Picts in Gentry and Devotion:  
You scandal to the stock of Verse, a race  
Able to bring the Gibbet in disgrace.  
Hyperbolus by suffering did traduce  
The ostracism, and shamed it out of use.  
The Indian that heaven did forswear,  
Because he heard the Spaniards were there,  
Had he but known what Scots in hell had been,  
He would Erasmus-like have hung between.  
My Muse hath done. A Voider for the nonce;  
I wrong the Devil, should I pick their bones▪  
That dish is his: for when the Scots decease,  
Hell like their Nation feeds on Barnacles.  
A Scot, when from the Gallow-Tree got loose,  
Drops into Styx, and turns a soland-goose.   

The Scots apostasy.  
IS't come to this? what? shall the cheeks of Fame,  
Stretched with the breath of learned Lowdons' name,  
Be flaged again? and that great piece of sense,  
As rich in Loyalty, as Eloquence,  
Brought to the Test, be found a trick of State?  
Like chemists tinctures, proved adulterate?  
The devil sure such language did achieve,  
To cheat our unforewarned Grandam Eve,  
As this Impostor found out, to besot  
Th' experienced English, to believe a Scot.  
Who reconciled the Covenants doubtful sense?  
The Commons Argument, or the city's pence?  
Or did you doubt, persistence in one good  
Would spoil the fabric of your Brotherhood,  
Projected first in such a forge of sin,  
Was fit for the grand devils hammering?  
Or was't ambition, that this damned fact  
Should tell the world you know the sins you act?  
The infamy this super-treason brings,  
Blasts more than murders of your sixty Kings.  
A crime so black, as being advis'dly done,  
Those hold with this no competition.  
Kings only suffered then, in this doth lie  
Th' assassination of Monarchy.  
Beyond this sin no one step can be trod,  
If not t' attempt deposing of your God.  
Oh were you so engaged, that we might see  
Heavens angry lightning 'bout your ears to flee,  
Till you were shrivelled to dust; and your cold Land  
Parched to a drought, beyond the Lybian sand!  
But 'tis reserved, and till heaven plague you worse,  
Be Objects of an epidemic curse.  
First, may your brethren, to whose viler ends  
Your power hath bauded, cease to count you friends;  
And prompted by the dictate of their reason,  
Reproach the traitors, though they hug the treason,  
And may their Jealousies increase and breed,  
Till they confine your steps beyond the Tweed.  
In foreign Nations may your loathed name be  
A stigmatising brand of Infamy;  
Till forced by general hate, you cease to room  
The world, and for a plague go live at home:  
Till you resume your poverty, and be  
Reduced to beg, where none can be so free  
To grant; and may your scabby Land be all  
Translated to a general hospital.  
Let not the Sun afford one gentle ray,  
To give you comfort of a summer's day;  
But, as a Guerdon for your traitorous War,  
Live cherished only by the Northern Star.  
No stranger deign to visit your rude Coast,  
And be to all, but banished men, as lost.  
And such in heightening of th' infliction due,  
Let provoked Princes send them all to you.  
Your State a Chaos be, where not the Law,  
But Power, your Lives and Liberties may awe.  
No Subject 'mongst you keep a quiet breast,  
But each man strive through blood to be the best;  
Till, for those miseries on us you've brought,  
By your own sword our just revenge be wrought.  
To sum up all— let your Religion be,  
As your Allegiance, masked hypocrisy:  
Until, when Charles shall be composed in dust,  
Perfumed with epithets of Good and just;  
HE saved; incensed Heaven may have forgot  
T' afford one act of mercy to a Scot;  
Unless that Scot deny himself, and do  
(What's easier far) renounce his Nation too.   

Rupertismus.  
O That I could but vote myself a Poet!  
Or had the Legislative knack to do it!  
Or, like the Doctors Militant, could get  
Dubed at adventures Verser Banneret!  
Or had I Cacus trick to make my rhymes  
Their own Antipodes, and tract the times:  
Faces about, says the Remonstrant spirit;  
Allegiance is Malignant, Treason Merit:  
Huntington-colt, that posed the Sage Recorder,  
Might be a Sturgeon now, and pass by Order:  
Had I but Elsing's gift (that splay-mouthed brother)  
That declares one way, and yet means another:  
Could I but write asquint; then (Sir) long since  
You had been sung, A Great and Glorious Prince.  
I had observed the Language of the days;  
Blasphemed you; and then periwiged the Phrase  
With humble service, and such other Fustian,  
Bells which ring backward in this great combustion.  
I had reviled you, and without offence,  
The literal, and Equitable sense  
Would make it good: when all fails, that will do't;  
Sure that distinction cleft the devil's foot.  
This were my Dialect, would your Highness please  
To read me but with Hebrew Spectacles;  
Interpret Counter, what is cross rehearsed:  
Libels are commendations, when reversed.  
Just as an optic glass contracts the sight  
At one end, but when turned doth multiplied.  
But you're enchanted, Sir; you're doubly free  
From the great Guns, and squibbling Poetry:  
Whom neither Bilbo, nor Invention pierces,  
Proof even 'gainst th' Artillery of Verses.  
Strange! that the Muses cannot wound your Mail;  
If not their Art, yet let their Sex prevail.  
At that known Leaguer, where the Bonny Besse's  
Supplied the bowstrings with their twisted tresses,  
Your spells could ne'er have fenced you: every arrow  
Had launched your noble breast: & drunk the marrow:  
For beauty, like white powder makes no noise;  
And yet the silent Hypocrite destroys.  
Then use the Nuns of Helicon with pity,  
Lest Wharton tell his Gossips of the City,  
That you kill women too; nay maids, and such  
Their general wants Militia to touch.  
Impotent Essex! is it not a shame  
Our commonwealth, like to a Turkish Dame,  
Should have an Eunuch-Guardian? may she be  
Ravished by Charles, rather than saved by thee.  
But why, my Muse, like a green-sickness-girl,  
Feedest thou on coals and dirt? a Gelding Earl  
Gives no more relish to thy Female palate,  
Then to that ass did once the thistle-salad.  
Then quit the barren Theme; and all at once  
Thou and thy sisters like bright Amazons,  
Give Rupert an alarum, Rupert? one  
Whose name is wit's Supersoetation.  
Makes fancy, like et●rnitie's round womb,  
Unite all Valour, present, past, to come.  
He, who the old Philosophy controls,  
That voted down plurality of souls  
He breathes a grand Committee; all that were  
The wonders of their Age, constellate here.  
And as the elder sister's growth and sense  
(Souls Paramount themselves) in man commence  
But faculties of reasons Queen; no more  
Are they to him, who were complete before.  
Ingredients of his virtue thread the Beads  
Of Caesar's Acts, great Pompey's and the Swedes:  
And 'tis a bracelet fit for Rupert's hand,  
By which that vast Triumvirate is spaned.  
Here, here is palmistry; here you may read  
How long the world shall live, & when't shall bleed.  
Whatever man winds up, that Rupert hath:  
For nature raised him of the public Faith,  
Pandora's brother, to make up whose store,  
The Gods were fain to run upon the score.  
Such was the Painters Brieve for Venus' face;  
Item an eye from Jane, a lip from Grace.  
Let Isaac and his Cit'z. flea of the place  
That tips their A●tlets for the Calf of Stace;  
Let the zeal twanging Nose, that wants a ridge,  
Snuffling devoutly, drop his silver bridge:  
Yes, and the gossip's spoon augment the sum,  
Although poor Caleb lose his Christendom:  
Rupert outweighs that in his sterling self,  
Which their self-wants pays in commuting pelf.  
Pardon, great Sir; for that ignoble crew  
Gains, when made bankrupt in the seals with you.  
As he, who in his character of light  
Styled it God's shadow, made it far more bright  
By an Eclipse so glorious; (light is dim,  
And a black nothing, when compared to him:)  
So 'tis illustrious to be Rupert's foil,  
And a just trophy to be made his spoil.  
I'll pin my faith on the Diurnalls' sleeve  
Hereafter, and the Guild Hall Creed believe;  
The Conquests which the common-council hears  
With their wide listening mouths from the great Peers,  
That ran away in triumph: such a Foe  
Can make them victors in their overthrow.  
Where providence and valour meet in one,  
Courage so poised with circumspection,  
That he revives the quarrel once again  
Of the soul's throne, whether in heart or brain;  
And leaves it a drawn match: whose fervour can  
Hatch him, whom Nature poached but half a man.  
His Trumpet, like the angel's at the last,  
Makes the soul rise by a miraculous blast.  
'Twas the Mount Athos carved in shape of man  
(As 't was defined by th' Macedonian)  
Whose right hand should a populous Land contain,  
The left should be a channel to the main:  
His spirit might inform th' Amphibious figure;  
Yet straight-laced sweats for a Dominion bigger:  
The terror of whose name can out of seven,  
(Like Falstaffe's Buckram-men) make fly eleven.  
Thus some grow rich by breaking; Vipers thus  
By being slain, are made more numerous.  
No wonder they'll confess no loss of men;  
For Rupert knocks'em, till they gig again.  
They fear the Giblets of his train; they fear  
Even his Dog, that four legged Cavalier:  
He that devours the scraps, which Lundsford makes,  
Whose picture feeds upon a child in stakes:  
Who name but Charles, he comes aloft for him,  
But holds up his Malignant leg at Pym.  
'Gainst whom they've several Articles in sauce;  
First, that he barks against the sense o'th' House.  
resolved Delinquent, to the Tower straight;  
Either to th' Lions, or the Bishop's Grate.  
Next, for his ceremonious wag o'th' tail:  
But there the Sisterhood will be his Bail,  
At least the Countess will, Lust's Amsterdam,  
That lets in all religious of the game.  
Thirdly, he smells Intelligence, that's better,  
And cheaper too, than Pym's from his own Letter:  
Who's doubly paid (fortune or we the blinder?)  
For making plots, and then for Fox the finder.  
Lastly, he is a devil without doubt;  
For when he would lie down, he wheels about;  
Makes circles, and is couchant in a ring,  
And therefore score up one for conjuring.  
What canst thou say, thou wretch? O Quarter, quarter!  
I'm but an Instrument, a mere S. Arthur.  
If I must hang, O let not our fates vary,  
Whose office 'tis alike to fetch, and carry.  
No hopes of a reprieve, the mutinous stir  
That strung the Jesuit, will dispatch a cur.  
Were I a devil, as the rebel fears,  
I see the House would try me by my Peers.  
There Jowler, there! ah Jowler!' Saint! 'tis nought  
whate'er th' Accusers cry, they're at a fault;  
And Glyn, and Maynard have no more to say,  
Then when the glorious Strafford stood at Bay.  
Thus labels but annexed to him we see,  
Enjoy a copyhold of Victory.  
S. Peter's shadow healed; Rupert's is such,  
'Twould find S. Peter's work, yet wound as much.  
He gags their guns, defeats their dire intent,  
The Cannons do but lisp and compliment.  
Sure Jove descended in a leaden shower  
To get this Perseus: hence the fatal power  
Of shot is strangled: bullets thus allied,  
Fear to commit an act of Parricide.  
Go on brave Prince, and make the world confess,  
Thou art the greater world, and that the less.  
Scatter th' accumulative King; untruss  
That fivefold fiend, the States Smectymnuus;  
Who place Religion in their Velam-ears;  
As in their Phylacters the Jews did theirs.  
England's a Paradise (and a modest Word)  
Since guarded by a Cherub's flaming Sword.  
Your name can scare an atheist to his prayers;  
And cure the chincough better than the bears.  
Old sibyl charms the toothache with you: Nurse  
Makes you still children; nay & the pond'rous curse  
The Clowns salute with, is derived from you;  
(Now Rupert take thee, Rogue; how dost thou do?)  
In fine, the name of Rupert thunders so,  
Kimbolton's but a rumbling Wheel-barrow.   

Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford.  
HEre lies Wise and Valiant Dust,  
Huddled up twixt Fit and Just:  
Strafford, who was hurried hence  
twixt Treason and Convenience.  
He spent his time here in a Mist;  
A Papist, yet a Calvinist.  
His Prince's nearest Joy, and Grief.  
He had, yet wanted all Relief.  
The Prop and ruin of the State;  
The people's violent Love, and Hate:  
One in extremes loved and abhorred.  
Riddles lie here; or in a word,  
Here lies blood; and let it lie  
Speechless still, and never cry.   

Epitaphium Thomae Comitis Straffordii, &c.  
E●●urge Cinis, tuumque solus qui potis es, scribe epitaphium:  
Nequit Wentworthi non esse facundus vel Cinis.  
Effare Marmor: & quem coepisti comprehendere,  
Macte & Exprimere.  
Candidius meretur urna, quàm quod rubris  
Notatum est literis, Elogium.  
Atlas Regiminis Monarchici hîc jacet lassus:  
Secunda Orbis Britannici intelligentia:  
Rex Politiae, & Prorex Hiberniae,  
Straffordii, & Virtutum, Comes:  
Mens Jovis, Mercurii ingenium▪ & lingua Apollinis;  
Cui Anglia Hiberniam debuit, seipsam Hibernia.  
Syd us Aquilonicum, quo sub rubicundâ vesperâ occidente,  
Nox simul & dies visa est: dextróque oculo flevit,  
Laevoque laetata est Anglia.  
Theatrum Honoris, itémque Scena calamitosa virtutis  
Actoribus, morbo, morte, & invidiâ,  
Quae ternis animosa Regnis non vicit tamen,  
Sed oppressit.  
Sic inclinavit Heros (non minus) Caput  
Belluae (vel sic) multorum Capitum:  
Merces favoris Scotici, praeter pecunias:  
Erubuit ut tetigit securis,  
Similem quippe nunquam degustavit sanguinem.  
Monstrum narro: fuit tam infensus Legibus,  
Ut priùs Legem, quàm nata foret, violavit:  
Hunc tamen non sustulit Lex,  
Verùm Necessitas, non habens Legem.  
Abi Viator, caetera memorabunt posteri.   

On the Archbishop of Canterbury.  
I Need no Muse to give my passion vent,  
He brews his tears that studies to lament.  
Verse chemically weeps, that pious rain  
Distilled with Art, is but the sweat o'th' brain.  
Who ever sobed in numbers? can a groan  
Be quavered out by soft division?  
'Tis true, for common formal Elegies,  
Not bushels Wells can match a poet's eyes  
In wanton water-works: he'll tune his tears  
From a Geneva Jig up to the spheres.  
But when he mourns at distance, weeps aloof,  
Now that the Conduit head is our own roof,  
Now that the Fare is public, we may call  
It Britains Vespers, England's funeral.  
Who hath a pencil to express the Saint,  
But he hath eyes too, washing off the paint?  
There is no learning but what tears surround  
Like to Seth's Pillars in the Deluge drowned.  
There is no Church, Religion is grown  
From much of late, that she's increased to none;  
Like an hydropic body full of rheums,  
First swells into a bubble, than consumes.  
The Law is dead, or cast into a trance,  
And by a Law dough-baked, an Ordinance.  
The liturgy, whose doom was voted next,  
Died as a Comment upon him the text.  
There's nothing lives, life is since he is gone,  
But a nocturnal Lucubration.  
Thus you have seen deaths inventory read  
In the sum total— canterbury's dead,  
A sight would make a Pagan to baptize  
Himself a Convert in his bleeding eyes.  
Would thaw the rabble, that fierce beast of ours,  
(That which Agena-like weeps and devours)  
Tears that flow brackish from their souls within,  
Not to repent, but pickle up their sin.  
Mean time no squalid grief his look defiles,  
He guilds his sadder fate with noble smiles.  
Thus the world's eye with reconciled streams  
Shines in his showers as if he wept his beams.  
How could success such villainies applaud?  
The state in Strafford fell, the Church in Laud:  
The twins of public rage, adjudged to die,  
For Treasons they should act, by Prophecy.  
The facts were done before the Laws were made,  
The trump turned up after the game was played.  
Be dull great spirits, and forbear to climb,  
For worth is sin, and eminence a crime.  
No churchman can be innocent and high,  
'Tis height makes Grantham steeple stand awry.   

On I. W. A. B. of York.  

SAy, my young Sophister, what think'st of this?  
Chimera's real; Ergo falleris.  
The Lamb and tiger, Fox and Goose agree,  
And here concorp'rate in one prodigy.  
Call an Haruspex quickly; let him get  
Sulphur and Torches, and a laurel wet,  
To purify the place, for sure the harms  
This monster will produce, transcend his Charms.  
'Tis nature's masterpiece of error, this;  
And redeems whatever she did amiss,  
Before, from wonder and reproach, this last  
Legitimateth all her by-blows past.  
Lo here a general Metropolitan,  
An arch-prelatic Presbyterian.  
Behold his pious Garbs, Canonique Face,  
A zealous Episcopo-mastix Grace;  
A fair blew-aproned Priest, a lawn-sleeved brother,  
One Leg a Pulpit holds, a Tub the other.  
Let's give him a fit name now, if we can,  
And make th' Apostate once more Christian.  
Proteus we cannot call him; he put on  
His change of shapes by a Succession;  
Nor the Welsh weathercock; for that we find,  
At once doth only wait upon the wind:  
These speak him not; but if you'll name him right,  
Call him Religious Hermaphrodite.  
His head i'th' sanctified mould is cast,  
Yet sticks th' abominable mitre fast,  
He still retains the Lordship and the Grace,  
And yet has got a reverend Elders place.  
Such acts must needs be his, who did devise  
By crying Altars down, to sacrifice  
To private malice; where you might have seen  
His conscience holocausted to his spleen.  
Unhappy Church! the Viper that did share  
Thy greatest honours, helps to make thee bare,  
And void of all thy dignities and store.  
Alas! thine own son proves the Forrest-boar;  
And like the Dam-destroying cuckoo, he,  
When the thick shell of his Welsh pedigree,  
By thy warm fost'ring bounty did divide  
And open, straight thence sprung forth parricide:  
As if 'twas just revenge should be dispatched  
In thee, by th'Monster, which thyself hadst hatched.  
Despair not though; in Wales there may be got,  
As well as Lincolnshire an antidote,  
'Gainst the foulest venom he can spit, though's head  
Were changed from subtle grey to poisonous red.  
Heaven with propitious eyes will look upon  
Our party, now the cursed thing is gone;  
And chastise rebels, who nought else did miss  
To fill the measure of their sins, but his;  
Whose foul unparalleled apostasy,  
Like to his sacred character, shall be  
Indelible; when ages then of late  
More happy grown, with most impartial fate,  
A period to his days and time shall give,  
He by such Epitaphs as this shall live.   

Here Yorks great Metropolitan is laid,  
Who God's Anointed, and his Church betrayed,    

Mark Anthony.  

WHen as the Nightingale chanted her Vespers,  
And the wild Forester couched on the ground,  
Venus invited me in th'Evening whispers,  
Uno a fragrant field with Roses crowned:  
Where she before had sent  
My wishes compliment,  
Unto my hearts content,  
Played with me on the Green.  
Never Mark Anthony  
Dallied more wantonly  
With the fair Egyptian Queen.   

First on her cherry cheeks I mine eyes feasted,  
Then fear of surfeiting made me retire:  
Next on her warm lips, which when I tasted,  
My duller spirits made active as fire.  
Then we began to dart  
Each at another's heart,  
Arrows that knew no smart:  
Sweet lips and smiles between.  
Never Mark, &c.   

Wanting a glass to plate her amber tresses,  
Which like a bracelet rich decked mine arm;  
Gawdier than Juno wears▪ when as she graces  
Jove with embraces more stately than warm.  
Then did she peep in mine  
Eyes humour crystalline;  
I in her eyes was seen,  
As if we one had been.  
Never Mark, &c.   

Mystical Grammar of amorous glances,  
Feeling of pulses the physic of Love,  
Rhetorical courtings, and musical Dances;  
Numbering of kisses arithmetic prove.  
Eyes like Astronomy,  
Straight limbed Geometry:  
In her heart's ingeny  
Our wits are sharp and keen.  
Never Mark, &c.    

The author's Mock-Song to Mark Anthony.  

WHen as the Night-raven sung Pluto's matins  
And Cerberus cried three Amens at a howl.  
When night-wandering Witches put on their pattens,  
Midnight as dark as their faces are foul:  
Then did the fury's doom  
That the nightmare was come;  
Such a misshapen Groom  
Puts down Su. Pomfret clean.  
Never did Incubus  
Touch sueh a filthy Sus,  
As this foul Gipsy Quean.   

First on her goosberry cheeks I mine eyes blasted;  
Thence fear of vomiting made me retire  
Unto her bluer lips, which when I tasted,  
My spirits were duller than Dun in the mire.  
But then her breath took place,  
Which went an ushers pace,  
And made way for her face;  
You may guess what I mean.  
Never did Incubus  
Touch such a filthy Sus,  
As this foul Gipsy Quean.   

Like Snakes engendering were plated her tresses,  
Or like the slimy streaks of ropy ale;  
Uglier than Envy wears, when she confesses  
Her head is periwiged with adders tail.  
But as soon as she spoke,  
I heard a harsh Mandrake:  
Laugh not at my mistake,  
Her head is Epicoene.  
Never did, etc:   

Mystical magic of conjuring wrinkles,  
Feeling of pulses, the palmistry of Hags,  
Scolding out belches for rhetoric twinkles,  
With three teeth in her head like to three gags.  
Rainbows about her eyes,  
And her nose weather-wise,  
From them th' almanac lies,  
Frost, Pond, and Rivers clean.  
Never did, &c.    

THE CHARACTER OF A london-diurnal.  
A diurnal is a puny Chronicle, scarce pin-feathered with the wings of time: It is an History in Sippets; the English Iliads in a nutshell; the Apocryphal Parliaments book of Maccabees in single sheets. It would tire a Welsh pedigree, to reckon how many aps 'tis removed from an annual: For it is of that Extract; only of the younger House, like a Shrimp to a Lobster. The original sinner in this kind was Dutch; Galliobelgicus the Protoplast; and the modern Mercuries but Hans-en-Kelders. The Countess of Zealand was brought to bed of an almanac, as many Children, as days in the year. It may be the Legislative Lady is of that lineage; so she spawns the Diurnals, and they at Westminster, take them in Adoption, by the names of Scoticus, Civicus, Britanicus. In the frontispiece of the old beldame-diurnal, like the Contents of the Chapter, sits the House Commons judging the twelve Tribes of Israel. You may call them the kingdom's Anatomy before the weekly calendar: For such is a diurnal, the day of the month, with what weather in the Commonwealth. 'Tis taken for the pulse of the Body politic; and the empiric Divines of the Assembly, those spiritual Dragoone●s, thumb it accordingly. Indeed it is a pretty Synopsis; and those grave rabbis (though in point of Divinity) trade in no larger Authors. The country-Carrier, when he buys it for the Vicar, miscalls it the urinal: yet properly enough; for it casts the water of the State, ever since it staled blood. It differs from an Aulicus, as the devil and his Exorcist; or as a black Witch doth from a white one, whose office is to unravel her enchantments.  
It begins usually with an Ordinance, which is a Law still-born, dropped, before quickened by the royal Assent: 'Tis one of the Parliaments by-blows, (Acts being legitimate) & hath no more sire than a Spanish jennet, that's begotten by the wind.  
Thus their Militia (like its patron Mars) is the issue only of the mother, without the concourse of royal Jupiter. Yet Law it is, if they vote it, though in defiance of their fundamentals; like the old Sexton, who swore his Clock went true, what ever the Sun said to the contrary.  
The next Ingredient of a diurnal is plots, horrible plots; which with wonderful sagacity it hunts dryfoot, while they are yet in their Causes, before Materia prima can put on her smock. How many such fits of the mother have troubled the Kingdoms, and (for all Sir Walter earl looks like a Man-Midwife) not yet delivered of so much as a cushion! But Actors must have their Properties; And, since the Stages were voted down, the only playhouse is at Westminster.  
Suitable to their plots are their Informers, Skippers and Tailors; spaniels both for the Land and the Water: Good conscionable Intelligence! For, however Pym's Bill may inflame the reckoning, the honest vermin have not so much for lying as the public Faith.  
Thus a zealous butcher in morefield's, while he was contriving some Quirpo-cut of Church-Government, by the help of his out-lying ears, and the Ot●cousticon of the Spirit, discovered such a plot, that Selden intends to combat Antiquity, and maintain it was a tailor's Goose that preserved the Capitol.  
I wonder my Lord of Canterbury is not once more all-to-betraytored for dealing with the Lions, to settle the Commission of Array in the Tower. It would do well to cramp the Articles Dormant, besides the opportunity of reforming those Beasts of the Prerogative, and changing their profaner names of Harry and Charles, into Nehemiah and Eleazar.  
Suppose a Corn-cutter, being to give little Isaac a cast of his Office, should fall to paring his Brows, mistaking the one end for the other; because he branches at both. This would be a plot; and the next diurnal would furnish you with this Scale of Votes.  
Resolved upon the Question, that this Act of the Corn-cutters was an absolute Invasion of the city's Charter, in the representative Forehead of Isaac. Resolved, that the evil counsellors about the Corn-cutter are Popishly affected, and Enemies to the State. Resolved, that there be a public Thanksgiving for the great deliverance of Isaac's Brow-antlers; and a solemn Covenant drawn up, to defy the Corn-cutter, and all his works.  
Thus the Quixots of this Age fight with the Windmills of their own heads; quell Monsters of their own creation, make plots, and then discover them; as who fitter to unkennel the Fox, than the Tarryer, that is a part of him.  
In the third place march their Adventures; the Roundheads Legend, the rebel's Romance; stories of a larger size, than the Ears of their Sect; able to strangle the belief of a Soli-fidian.  
I'll present them in their Order; and first, as a Whiffller before the show, enter Stamford, one that trod the Stage with the first, traversed his ground, made a leg and Exit. The countrypeople took him for one, that by Order of the Houses was to dance a morris through the West of England. Well, he's a nimble Gentleman, set him but upon Banks his Horse in a saddle Rampant, and it is a great question, which part of the Centaur shows better tricks.  
There was a Vote passing to translate him, with all his Equipage into monumental-ginger-bread; but it was crossed by the Female-Committee, alleging that the Valour of his Image would bite their children by the tongues.  
This Cubit and an half of Commander, by the help of a diurnal, routed his enemies fifty miles off: 'tis strange you'll say, and yet it is generally believed, he would as soon do it at that distance, as nearer hand. Sure it was his sword, for which the weapon salve was invented: that so wounding and healing, like loving Correlates, might both work at the same removes.  
But the Squib is run to the end of the Rope. Room for the Prodigy of Valour, Madam Atropos in breeches, Waller's Knight-errantry: and, because every Mountibank must have his Zany, throw him in Haslerigge, to set off his story: these two like Bel and the Dragon, are always worshipped in the same Chapter: they hunt in their Couples, what one doth at the head, the other scores up at the heel.  
Thus they kill a man over and over, as Hopkins and Sternhold murder the Psalms, with another to the same; one chimes all in, and then the other strikes up, as the Saints-bell.  
I wonder, for how many lives my Lord Hopton's soul took the Lease of his body.  
First, Stamford slew him: then Waller out-killed that half a Bar: and yet it is thought the sullen corpse would scarce bleed, were both these Man-slayers never so near it.  
The fame goes of a Dutch-Heads-man, that he would do his office with so much ease and dexterity, that the Head after execution should stand still upon the shoulders: pray God Sir William be not Probationer for the place. For, as if he had the like kanck too; most of those, whom the Diurnal hath slain for him, to us poor Mortals seem untouched.  
Thus these Artificers of Death can kill the man, without wounding the body, like Lightning, that melts the Sword, and never sings the Scabbard.  
This is the William, whose Lady is the Conqueror; This is the city's Champion, and the diurnals Delight; he, that Cuckolds the general in his Commission: for, he stalks with Essex, and shoots under his belly, because his Oxcellency himself is not charged there. Yet in all this triumph there is a Whip and a Bell: translate but the Scene to Round-away-down: There Haslerigg's Lobsters were turned into Crabs, and crawled backwards: there poor Sir William ran to his Lady for a use of consolation.  
But the Diurnal is weary of an arm of Flesh, and now begins an Hosanna to Crumwel, one that hath beat up his Drums clean thorough the Old Testament: you may learn the genealogy of our Saviour, by the names in his Regiment. The Muster-master uses no other List then the first Chapter of Matthew.  
With what face can they object to the King the bringing in of foreigners, when themselves entertain such an Army of Hebrews? This Crumwel is never so valorous, as when he is making Speeches for the Association; which nevertheless he doth somewhat ominously, with his neck awry, holding up his ear, as if he expected Mahomet's Pigeon to come and prompt him. He should be a bird of Prey too, by his bloody beak: his Nose is able to try a young Eagle, whether she be lawfully begotten. But all is not Gold that glisters. What we wonder at in the rest of them, is natural to him, To kill without bloodshed: for, most of his trophies are in a Church-window; when a Looking-glass would show him more Superstition. He is so perfect a hater of Images, that he hath defaced God's in his own countenance. If he deal with Men, it is when he takes them napping in an old Monument: Then down goes dust and ashes: and the stoutest Cavalier is no better. O brave Oliver? Time's Voider, Sub-sizer to the Worms; in whom Death, that formerly devoured our Ancestors, now chews the Cud. He said Grace once, as if he would have fallen aboard with the Marquess of Newcastle: Nay, and the Diurnal gave you his bill of Fare: but it proved a running-Banquet, as appears by the story. Believe him as he whistles to his Cambridge-Teem of Committee-men, and he doth Wonders. But Holy men (like the Holy Language) must be read backwards. They rifle colleges, to promote Learning; and pull down Churches, for Edification. But sacrilege is entailed upon him: There must be a Cromwell for Cathedrals, as well as Abbeys. A secure sinner, whose offence carries its pardon in its mouth: For, How can he be hanged for Church-robbery, which gives itself the benefit of the clergy?  
But for all Cromwel's Nose wears the Dominical letter, yet, compared to Manchester, he is but like the Vigils to an holiday. This, this is the man of God; so sanctified a Thunderbolt, that boroughs, in a proportionable blasphemy to his Lord of hosts, would style him the Archangel, giving battle to the Devil.  
Indeed, as the Angels, each of them makes a several species; so every one of his soldiers is a distinct Church. Had these Beasts been to enter into the Ark, it would have puzzled Noah to have sorted them into pairs. If ever there were a rope of Sand, it was so many Sects twisted into an Association.  
They agree in nothing, but they are all Adamites in Understanding. It is the sign of a Coward, to wink, and fight; yet all their Valour proceeds from their Ignorance.  
But I wonder whence their General's purity proceeds: it is not by Traduction. If he was begotten a Saint, it was by Equivocal generation: for the Devil in the father, is turned Monk in the son: so his Godliness is of the same parentage with good Laws; both extracted out of bad Manners, and would he alter the Scripture as he hath attempted the Creed, he might vary the Text, and say to Corruption, Thou art my Father.  
This is he, that hath put out one of the Kingdoms eyes, by clouding our Mother-University; and (if this Scotch mist further prevail) will extinguish this other. He hath the like quarrel to both, because both are strung with the same optic nerve, Knowing Loyalty. Barbarous Rebel! who will be revenged upon all Learning, because his Treason is beyond the Mercy of the Book.  
The Diurnal, as yet, hath not talked much of his Victories; but there is the more behind: For the Knight must always beat the Giant: that's resolved. If any thing fall out amiss, which cannot be smothered, the Diurnal hath a help at Maw: it is but putting to Sea, and taking a Danish Fleet, or brewing it with some success out of Ireland, and it goes down merrily.  
There are more Puppets, that move by the wire of a Diurnal; as Brereton and Gell; two of Mars his Petty-toes; such snivelling Cowards, that it is a favour to call them so. Was Brereton to fight with his teeth, as in all other things he resembles the beast, he would have odds of any man at the weapon: O he's a terrible slaughterman at a Thanksgiving-Dinner: had he been a Cannibal, to have eaten those that he vanquished, his Gut would have made him valiant.  
The greatest wonder is at Fairfax, how he comes to be a babe of Grace. Certainly it is not in his personal, but (as the state-sophies' distinguish) in his politic capacity; regenerated ab extra, by the zeal of the House he sat in; as Chickens are hatched at Grand Cairo, by the adoption of an Oven.  
There is the Woodmonger too, a feeble crutch to a declining Cause; a new Branch of the old Oak of Reformation.  
And now I speak of Reformation, vous avez Fox the Tinker, the liveliest emblem of it that may be: For, what did this Parliament ever go about to reform, but Tinker-wise, in mending one hole, they made three.  
But I have not Ink enough to cure all the Tetters and Ringworms of the State.  
I will close up all, thus: The Victories of the Rebels are like the Magical Combat of Apuleius; who, thinking he had slain all three of his Enemies, found them at last but a Triumvirate of Bladders. Such, and so empty, are the Triumphs of a Diurnal; but so many imposthumated Fancies, so many Bladders of their own blowing.   

The Character of a Country-COMMITTEE-MAN, With the Ear-mark of a SEQUESTRATOR.  
A Committee-man by his name should be one that is possessed, there's number enough in the compellation to make an epithet for Legion; he is persona in concreto (to borrow the solecism of a modern Statesman) you may translate it by the red bull phrase and speak as properly, enter seven devils solus, It is a well trust title that contains both the number and the beast. For a Committee-man is a noun of Multitude, he must be spelled with figures, like Antichrist wrapped in a pair Royal of Sixes, thus the name is as monstrous as the man, a complete notion of the same lineage with accumulative treason: for his office, it is the resurrection of the Ileptarchy or England fritters, it is the broken meat of a Crumbling Prince, only the Royalty is greater, for it is here, as in the miracle of Loaves the voider exceeds the Bill of fare, the Pope and he rings the Changes; here is a plurality of Crowns to one head, join them together and there's harmony in discord, the triple crowned Turn-Key of Heaven, with the triple headed porter of hell. A Committee-man is the relics of Regal Government, but like holy relics he out-bulks the substance whereof he is a remnant, there's a score of Kings in a Committee as in the relics of the cross, there's the number of twenty. This is the giant with the hundred hands that wields the sceptre, the tyrannical bead-roll by which the kingdom prays backward, and with a kind of Rebus, at every Curse drops a Committee-man. Let CHARLES be waived whose conducing clemency aggravates the desection, and make Nero the question, better a Nero then a Committee, there's less execution by a single bullet then by case-shot.  
Now a Committee-man is a party coloured Officer, he must be drawn like Janus with Cross and Pile in his countenance, as he relates to the soldiers, or face about to his fleecing the Country, look upon him Martially and he is a Justice of War; one that hath bound his Dalton up in Buff, and will needs be of the quorum to the best Commanders, he is one of Mars his Lay-Elders, he shares in the Government, though a Nonconformist to his bleeding Rubick, he is the like Sectary in Arms as the Platonic is in love, keep a flattering in discourse but proves haggard in the action; he is not of the soldiers and yet of his flock, it is an Emblem of the golden age (and such indeed he makes it) to him, when so tame a Pigeon may commerce with vultures. Me thinks a Committee hanging about a governor, and bandileers dangling about a furred Alderman, have an anagram resemblance, there's no Syntax between a Cap of maintenance and a helmet, who ever knew an Enemy routed by a Grand-Jury, and a billa vera: It is a left-handed Garrison where their authority perches▪ but the more preposterous the more in fashion; the right-hand fights while the left rules the reins, the Truth is the soldier, and the Gentlemen are like Don-Quicchott and Sancho Pancha, one fights at all adventures to purchase the other the Government of the Island. A Committee-man properly should be the governor's Matrosse to fit his truckle, and to new-string him with sinews of War for his chief use, to raise assessments in the neighbouring Wapentake.  
The countrypeople being like an Irish Cow, that will not give down her milk unless she see her Calf before her: Hence it is he is the Garrisons dry Nurse▪ he chews their contribution before he feeds them, so the poor soldiers live like Trochilus by picking the teeth of this sated Crocodile.  
So much for his warlike or ammunition face, which is so preternatural, that it is rather a vizard than a face▪ Mars in him hath but a blinking aspect, his face of Arms is like his coat party per pale, soldier and Gentleman much of a scantling.  
Now enter his Taxing and deglubing face, a squeezing look like that of Vespasianus, as if he were breeding over a close-stool. Take him thus and he is the Inquisition of the purse; an authentic Gipsy, that nips your bung with a canting Ordinance, not a murdered fortune in all the Country but bleeds at the touch of this Malefactor. He is the spleen of the body politic that swells itself to the Consumption of the whole, at at first indeed he ferretted for the Parliament, but since be hath got off his Cope, he set up for himself, he lives upon the sins of the people, and that's a good standing-dish too, he verifies the Axiom Eisdem nutriter ex quibus componiter, his diet it suitable to his constitution. I have wondered often why the plundered countrymen should repair to him for succour, certainly it is under the same notion as one whose pockets are picked goes to Mol-Cutpurse as the predominant in that faculty.  
He out-dives a Dutchman, gets a noble of him that was never worth six pence, for the poorest escape not, but Dutch-like he will be draining even in the driest ground, he Aliens a Delinquents Estate with as little remorse as his other holiness gives away an heretics kingdom, and for the truth of the Delinquency, both Chapmen have as little share of infallibility. Lie is the Grand salad of Arbitrary Government, Executor to the Star-Chamber, and High-Commission; for those Courts are not extinct, they survive in him like Dollary changed into single moneys. To speak the truth he's the universal tribunal: For since these times all causes fall to his Cognizance, as in a great infection all diseases oft turn to the Plague. It concerns our Masters the Parliament to look about them, if he proceeds at this rate, the Jack may come to swallow the Pike; as the Interest often eats out the Principal. As his commands are great so he looks for a reverence accordingly. He is very punctual in exacting your hat, and to say right, it is his due; but by the same title, as the upper garment is the vails of the executioners. There was a time when such cattle would have hardly been taken upon suspicion for men in office, unless the old Poverb were renewed, that beggars make a free Company, and those their Wardens. You may see what it is to hang together, look upon them severally, and you cannot but fumble for some thrids of charity; But oh they are termagants in conjunction! like fiddlers who are rogues when they go single; and joined in consort, gentlemen musicianers. I care not much if I untwist my Committee-man, and so give him the receipt of this grand Catholican. Take a State Martyr, one that for his good behaviour hath paid the excise of his ears, so suffered Captivity by the Land-Piracy of Ship-money, next a Primitive freeholder, One that hates the King, because he is a Gentleman transgressing the Magna Charta of delving Adam. add to these a mortified bankrupt that helps out his false Weights with some scruples of Conscience, and with his peremptory scales can doom his Prince with a Mene tecall. These with a new blew-stockinged Justice lately made of a good basket-hilted Yeoman, with a short-handed Clerk tacked to the rear of him to carry the Knapsack of his understanding, together with two or three Equivocal Sirs, whose Religion like their Gentility is the Extract of their Acres, being therefore spiritual, because they are earthly; not forgetting the man of the Law, whose corruption gives the Hogan to the sincere Juncto. These are the simples of this precious Compound, a kind of Dutch hotchpotch, the Hogan Mogan Committee-man.  
A Committee-man hath a Side-man, or rather a setter height, a Sequestrator; of whom you may say, as of the great sultan's horse, Where he treads the grass grows no more. He is the state's Cormorant, one that fishes for the public, but feeds himself, the misery is, he fish without the cormorant's property, a rope to strengthen the gullet, and to make him disgorge. A Sequestrator! He is the devil's nut-hook, the sign with him is always in the clutches. there's more Monsters retain to him, then to all the limbs in anatomy. 'Tis strange physicians do not apply him to the soles of the feet in a desperate fever, he draws far beyond Pigeons: I hope some Mountebank will slice him, and make the Experiment. He is a Tooth-drawer once removed, here's all the difference, one applauds the Grinder, and the other the Grist. Never till now could I verify the poet's description, that the ravenous harpy had a human visage. Death itself cannot quit scores with him. Like the demoniac in the Gospel he lives among tombs, nor is all the holy-water shed by widows and Orphans a sufficient Exorcism to dispossess him. Thus the Cat sucks your breath, and the Fiend your blood; Nor can the Brotherhood of Witchfinders so sagely instituted with all their terror, wean the Familiars.  
But once more to single out my embossed Committee-man, his Fate (for I know you would fain see an end of him) is either a whipping Audit, when he is wrung in the withers by a Committee of Examinations; and so the sponge weeps out the moisture which he soaked before; Or else he meets his passing peal in the clamorous mutiny of a gut-foundred Garrison; For the Hedge-sparrow will be feeding the cuckoo, till he mistakes his Commons and bite off her head. Whatever 'tis, it is within his desert: for what is observed of some Creatures, that at the same time they trade in productions three stories high, suckling the first, big with the second, and cliketing for the third; A Committee-man is the Counterpoint, his mischief's superfetation, a certain scale of destruction; For he ruins the Father, beggars the Son, and strangles the hopes of all posterity.  
FINIS.