POEMS, SONGS AND Love-Verses, Upon several Subjects.  
By Matthew Coppinger Gent.  
LONDON, Printed for R. Bentley, and M. Magnes, in Russel street, in Covent-Garden, 1682.   

TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF Portsmouth.  

MAdam, it is but just, since you receive  
All the Delights our Sovereign can give,  
That we; in gratitude unto our King,  
Should to your Highness bring an Offering.  
For we by Duty are obliged to Prize  
Those that are Gracious in our Prince's Eyes,  
As well as hate his greatest Enemies.  
Accept this also, Madam, sent to you,  
Both as Your Merit, and Your Beauties due;  
Which to You not the least of Glory brings,  
Having by it subdued the best of Kings.  
And now Your Country may Precedence claim,  
Since You have gave it such a lasting Fame;  
Greece, Helen; England, Rosamond did boast,  
But France You henceforth will Glory most;  
For by Your conquering Eyes You have made known  
The Monarchy of Beauty is Your own.  
You are the Darling of my King, His Pleasure,  
His Indies of incomparable Treasure;  
That precious Gem, who from your Country came,  
Too narrow for the Limits of Your Fame,  
Into the Bosom of a King who knows  
What 'tis for to deserve, and to dispose.  
But stay, my Muse, no Sacrilegious Eye  
Should dare be so Profane, as once to pry  
In Prince's Actions; they like Gods appear,  
And never move in any common Sphere:  
We should from their Concerns ourselves retire,  
And what we understand not well, admire.  
Your Pardon, Madam, if my zealous Passion  
Has erred beyond the Rules of Dedication;  
And if so high and rare a Contemplation  
Should fly beyond all bounds of Limitation,  
And on Dedalian Wings should dare to pry  
Too near the Beams of Sacred Majesty;  
Since my Ambition for your Service may  
Make me speak more than others dare to say.  
Then prostrate at your Feet I now lay down  
This Infant Book, which may deserve your Frown;  
But hopes a better Fate, since the intent  
Was good, and only for your Service meant.  
Which if you view but with a pleasing Eye,  
It will presage such a Felicity,  
That all the Frowns of Fortune, and the rage  
Of time shall want a Power to engage.   
Your Highness' Most humble and devoted Servant, Matthew Coppinger.   

TO THE READER.  
TILL this minute I was in doubt whether or no I should afford you an Epistle, being as indifferent whether you take the pains to read it, as you are to go to the cost to buy my Book. It was designed for my own Pleasure, (being the rellicts of some Idle hours) wherein though I have borrowed the name of Clelia, I would not have you think I do it as your Epigrammists do, only to fill up my Verse, or to invoke an unknown Deity; but that I veiled my Ambition under it, not daring to name a Person whose Quality and Merit did so far exceed all my pretensions, that it had been a sin as great as my Ambition, to have once but mentioned her name, and to have exposed it to the public view. And as for what else you find contained in this slender Vollumn, if you think it worth your time to give it the perusal, you will find I took more care to please myself, than you.  
Your Friend, M. C.   

POEMS.  

On Clelia's Garden.  
O Garden, unto me more blest  
Than the Elysian Fields, possessed  
By happy Lovers; and more Fair  
Than the Hesper'an Orchards are,  
Which all in Golden Metal shine,  
With Boughs, and Leaves, and Fruit Divine;  
Such Paradise itself might be,  
In its first virent Purity;  
On which the Heavens did then dispense  
An incorrupted Influence.  
Here grow no Dodan Oaks, nor Pines,  
Nor Elm-inamoured clasping Vines,  
No Paphian Myrtle, nor the Bays,  
Nor Laurel binding Phoebus' Rays:  
No Cedar, nor the pleasant Palm,  
No Poplar dropping precious Balm.  
Such Ornaments are far too mean  
In Clelia's Garden to be seen  
Within these Walks are neither set  
The Cowslip, or the Violet.  
No Dary, nor Narcissus grows,  
No Tulip, nor the fragrant Rose,  
No Marigold, nor running Vine,  
Of the embracing Cullumbine.  
Here is no Alabaster Font,  
With Sea-green Tryton carved on't,  
Nor yet Arion, to bestride  
The sporting Dolphins watery side;  
Nor Neptune riding on the main,  
Whose Hand a Trident does sustain.  
No Silver Stream here glides along,  
Bearing the Goose, or Princely Swan;  
Nor yet through pleasant Shades displays  
Its murmuring Streams a hundred ways.  
Here's no Colossus to bestride  
The fronting Walks from side to side:  
Nor any Statues that surpass,  
Of solid Marble, or of Brass.  
These and the like may such delight,  
Whose Eyes can't bare a better sight.  
The Airy Nation sing not here,  
But gladly lend a listening Ear.  
The chattering Pie (if here) grows dumb,  
And prating Parrots Note is done.  
Domestic Robin nought can say,  
Not does its chat avail the pay.  
The Goldsinch, Linnet, and the Thrush,  
Confine themselves unto their Bush;  
And for their silence you may swear,  
They mute Pythagoreans are;  
And Philomela is here afraid  
Tereus with Incest to upbraid.  
Now some, perchance, may ask me where  
My Gardens excellencies are,  
To which no other may compare?  
I answer thus; The shady Trees,  
Whose spreading branches some may please,  
My Clelia's presence doth supply,  
Who may with Art and Nature vie.  
For when she please for to unfold  
Her braided Tresses, to behold,  
You'd guests it for a Grove of Gold;  
But that her Eyes such Lustre make,  
That any one may well mistake,  
And think it Paradise, and she  
The Guardian Angel of the Tree.  
Upon her Princely Forehead, there  
The the azure Veins so clear appear,  
In such a rich composure set,  
As far exceed the Violet.  
But when she please for to disclose.  
Her blushing Cheeks, the new blown Rose  
For shame into its bud doth close,  
Not once presuming for to vie,  
With such a pure Vermilion Dye.  
Her Skin so rare a White does show,  
As may lend Beauty to the Snow.  
The paler Lilies close do stand,  
To steal some whiteness from her Hand.  
Her clasping Arms (O Charms Divine!)  
Do far excel the Cullumbine;  
Within whose close embraces are  
Two Virgn Fonts, so lovely fair,  
That every drop which flows from thence,  
Such sovereign Virtue will dispense,  
As might (if such a thing could be)  
Cloth us with Immortality.  
But when she please to touch her Lyre,  
Or with her Voice our Souls Inspire,  
The gen'ral Choir of Birds will be  
Ravished with such a Harmony.  
The Angels too, that turn the Spheres,  
Woven to her Anthems lend their Ears.  
This is the Eden of my Pleasure,  
The Indies of my choicest Treasure;  
The Venus of my Love and State,  
And the Sole Ruler of my Fate.   

The Inquest.  

WHere's absent Clelia?  
Where are those Eyes,  
That steal away  
My Heart in Play,  
And over it so strangely Tyrannize?   

I thought I had been free;  
But looking round,  
Alas for me!  
I nought could see,  
Yet found myself in Fetters closely bound.   

I laid me down to rest;  
And yet my mind  
Was still oppressed,  
And in my Breast  
I did a hundred thousand torments find.   

I walked the City round,  
In search of ease;  
But nothing found  
On which to ground  
A hope of Remedy for my Disease.   

Into the Country straight  
I made repair,  
To mitigate  
My cruel Fate,  
But I found nothing there, but sad Despair.   

I viewed the Arched Sky,  
And foaming Sea,  
The first too high  
For me to fly,  
And t'other deep, as is my Misery.   

I could not tell what course  
Or way to Steer;  
Or by what force  
To gain Remorse,  
And ease my Heart of this my cruel fear.   

At last my Clelia came,  
O blessed Reprieve!  
And ceased to blame  
My ardent Flame;  
And for her sake commanded me to live.   

What happiness was this,  
To one as lost?  
O who could wish  
So great a Bliss,  
Half starved at Sea, to gain so blest a Coast?    

To the King's Majesty.  
IF that this Book, without Command,  
May chance (Great Sir) to kiss your Hand,  
Vouchsafe one smile, my bashful Muse  
Will then grow bold, no more refuse  
To bear Love's Standard, and defy  
All force, but from a Female Eye.  
The vigorous God of Love dares say,  
That Mighty Kings his Power obey;  
And that his force is felt by all,  
The Rich, the Poor, the Great, the Small,  
None are exempt, he conquers all.  
The Gods themselves his Vassals be;  
Apollo's Love became his Tree.  
jove was a Bull, although Divine;  
And Pluto's Love was Proserpina.  
And you (Dread Sir,) more Great, we know  
Have felt the power of Cupid's Bow.  
And may you always in the Night,  
Be filled with Venus' delight;  
And in the day have choice of Pleasure,  
Which may in sum outvie your Treasure;  
Which grant, O Heaven, so great may be,  
That one small Bag may come to me.   

A Song.  

COY Clelia, veil those Charming Eyes,  
From whose surprise there's none can part;  
For he that gazes, surely dies,  
Or leaves behind a conquered Heart.   

I durst not once presume to look,  
Or cast my wary Eyes aside:  
But as a Boy that Cons his Book,  
Close sitting by his Master's side,   

Dares not presume to look awry,  
On Toys that catch the wandering sense;  
So if I gaze, I surely die:  
Against those Charms there's no defence.   

Thus Heathens at the Sun's uprise,  
Unto the Ground did bow their Head,  
Not able with their feeble Eyes  
To view their God they worshipped.    

Sent to Clelia.  

GO tell her that I love;  
Yet have a special care  
Lest thou despair,  
Whilst thou dost strive to move,  
A Love whose happiness does fly so high,  
'Tis the next Mansion to Divinity.   

If she but ask thee where  
Thy Master lives or lies,  
Look on her sparkling Eyes,  
And boldly tell her there;  
And that thy duty made thee come to find  
Him that by gazing left himself behind.   

If she desire to know  
Where first I saw her face;  
Tell her the happy place  
To which my life I owe,  
Was in her Garden; there I heard her sing,  
And with her Fingers touch the quavering String.   

Nor had thy Thracian Lyre,  
Orpheus, when thou didst play,  
More Power the Beasts to stay,  
Or Trees or Stones Inspire.  
Thy Auditors were senseless ones, but here  
Angels came listening from their Heavenly Sphere.   

If she in anger say,  
How dared he come so nigh,  
T' invade my privacy,  
When I myself retired away?  
Tell her the Queen of Love brought me to see  
The full perfections of her Deity.    

Epig. 43. lib. 5. Martial.  
THe crafty Thief may rob thee of thy store,  
And greedy Flames thy Household Gods devour;  
Thy Debtor Principal and Use deny;  
In barren Fields, thy Corn that's sown, may die.  
Thy Steward, by his crafty Mistress spoiled;  
And laden Ships be in the Ocean foiled:  
But what thou giv'st the Poor with liberal Hand,  
This Fortune can alone thy Power withstand.   

Omnia mutantur.  

MY Genius hurried by that haste  
Which brought the Universe to waste,  
And all things by its Power defaced,   

Compels me to reflect upon  
Past Ages, others coming on,  
By a swift Revolution.   

For by the eating Teeth of Time,  
There's nought so noble, or sublime,  
But shall be turned into slime.   

The four great Monarchies that were  
So vast, as kept the World in fear,  
Their Exits past, and disappear.   

City's so vast, that one may say,  
The Sun scarce viewed them in a day,  
Are nothing now, but heaps of Clay.   

Wonders, of which the World did boast,  
For their Magnificence and Cost,  
Are now in their own Ruins lost.   

All things are subject unto change,  
And into several orders range:  
Natures events are often strange.   

Yet Man, whose Glory's but a shade,  
Oft-times his fancy does persuade  
That nothing can his Power invade.   

And yet their Honours quickly rust,  
And all their glorious Titles must  
Be mingled with the common dust.   

Their Pageant Pomp does fade away,  
And greatest Trophies soon decay,  
And Death the Victor turns to clay.   

Riches remain but for a Night,  
And e'er the Morning take their flight,  
And leave the miserable Wight.   

Beauty decays much like a Flower,  
Which buds and spreads, and in an hour  
Th' Impartial Scythe doth it devour.   

That Beauty which erewhile might seem  
Enough to grace the Cyprian Queen,  
Is counted now of no esteem.   

When in her Glass fair Helen spied  
Her Face, by Time so mortified,  
Which was erewhile her chiefest pride,   

She weeping said unto her Glass,  
Is this the Beauty did surpass?  
Tell me why I twice ravished was.   

O Time, whose greedy Teeth devours  
The prime and glory of our Powers,  
And leav'st us what was none of ours;   

Who layest thy ravenous hands on all,  
The Rich, the Poor, the great, the small;  
None are secure until they fall.   

When will thy wanton lust have end?  
Or till what date dost thou pretend  
These outrages thus to defend?   

Thou needest not answer; for I know  
Thy furious course shall forward go,  
Till Heaven does Ne plus ultra show.   Tempus edax rerum tuque invidiosa omnia distruitis, etc.  

An Epitaph on A. P.  
IF that Extortion, Fraud, and Strage,  
Lust, Envy, Rapine, in this Age  
May claim your Tears, I justly may  
Claim all the Tears that you can pay.  
For though the pious Hand of Death  
Has nimbly snatched away my Breath,  
It had prevented him before,  
And Sin had made my Age fourscore.  
Say then, who-e're shall name my loss,  
Here lies extinct Misanthrópos.   

Senex Tempus Mors & Chorus.  Sen. 
HAil ancient Brother, what is in thy mind,  
To count the Sand, and mow the whistling Wind?  
Has age deprived thee of thy sense, to be  
The perfect Emblem of Foolery?  
Come leave this madness, do as I have done,  
Cast thy old skin, and be again as young  
As is Aurora at her first uprise,  
Youthful by virtue of her Lovers Eyes.  
I am all Air, there's not a part in me  
But has shaken off its dull Mortality;  
Prithee go run and fetch me Charles his Wain,  
To hurry me o'er the Celestial Plain.  
O Love, Love, Love, thy strong Medean Charms  
Has gave new strength and motion to my Arms.  
My Legs and Thighs are able to support  
The mighty Fabric of Heavens starry Court.  Temp. 
Are you in Love?  Sen. 
I am.  Temp. 
With whom;  Sen. 
There stay;  
One that would make thee throw thy Scyth away,  
And break thy Glass, if thou shouldst chance to spy  
One of the smallest Cupids in her Eye:  
How then couldst thou resist united Charms,  
Which conquer Men and Gods with their Alarms?  
But let that pass, sure I have seen before  
Thy Picture painted on a Usurer's Door;  
They called it Time.  Temp. 
'Tis true, and I am he  
Until this day regarded not by thee,  
And something slightly now. Seest thou this Glass?  
Thy Life and Sand in the same moment pass.  Sen. 
Thou liest, base Slave, though Sixty years are run,  
Double their Number are as yet to come;  
My active Blood runs quick, and every part  
Performs its Duty round about my Heart:  
My strength at Thirty never was more great,  
Nor does one part fail of its usual heat;  
All pains and groans have now forsook the Stage,  
And like the Phoenix I've renewed my Age.  Temp. 
Fond Man, thy present State is but a Breath,  
And lightsomness doth but foretell thy Death  
Just as a Lamp, when all the Oil is spent,  
Gives the last farewell to its nourishment.  Mor. 
Here ends thy Labour, thy last Thread is spun,  
Embrace me silently now I am come.  
You seem to wonder, doting Age, I am Death,  
Come to demand this moment of thy Breath.  
How soon he's gone? how silently he lies?  
When I once come, in vain are all Replies;  
No Charms can stay m'inexorable Hand,  
All Sexes bow the head when I command;  
If I once strike, no Wards against my Blow,  
Youth, Beauty, Strength, and what are prized below,  
Are menial things, and here may please the Eye,  
But Vassals-like, desert their Lords, when I  
Do once appear; in vain are Prayers or Tears,  
No sound of Mercy ever pierced my Ears.  Chor. 
Then happy he who leads a life so blessed,  
That when thou comest, thou only shalt divest  
Of Earthly dross, whose better part shall fly,  
A welcome present to the Deity;  
There shall be lasting Pleasures to be found,  
That he shall thank the Hand that gave the wound.   

An Elegy on Mr. W. L.  
MEek, Kind, and Good, could I relate  
Our loss, and thy too sudden fate,  
I'd force the World to lend their Eyes  
As Conducts to thy Obsequies.  
But since thy loss too great appears  
To be the Subject of our Tears,  
We will contemplate on thy Worth,  
Too great for any to set forth;  
And only saying, Thou art dead,  
Will be as much as can be said.  Quid de te jactor? fama & tua gloria major.  

A Song.  

I Will not tell her that she's fair,  
For that she knows as well as I,  
And that her Virtues equal are  
Unto the Glories of her Eye.   

And that I love her well, she knows,  
For who can view that Heavenly Face,  
Not paying that Respect he owes  
To Beauty, bearing such a Grace?   

But this I'll tell, and tell her true,  
She takes upon her too much State;  
For, by the Gods, it would undo  
A King to Love at such a rate.   

Let Common Beauties boast the Power  
Of some uncommon Excellence,  
And thank Dame Nature for the Dower  
Of that decoying Charming Sense;   

Adorn themselves with Pearls and Gold,  
In Rubies and Rich diamonds shine,  
In choicest Silks that may be sold,  
And all to make such Ladies Fine.   

These are like some Rich Monument,  
Raised all of carved and costly Stones,  
Painted and Gilt for Ornament;  
But full within of dead men's Bones.   

Such common ways my Clelia scorns,  
Her lovely Soul is too sublime,  
She's not complete that clothes adorn,  
Or does in aught but Nature shine.    

To Clelia.  
FAir, and yet Cruel, sure it cannot be,  
Nature denies such Catastrophe;  
The spangled Orbs serenely do display  
Not in a Cloudy Night the Milky way;  
The misty Shades do swiftly disappear,  
When Sol's Bright rays do Crown the Hemesphere;  
But Love is subject to the Chains of Fate,  
And more unhappy proves than fortunate.  
How often have my Vows to Clelia paid  
My Constant Zeal? How often have I made  
The same confession of my Love to thee,  
As mortals pay unto Divinity?  
Yet the requital of my Love's Disdain,  
And Cruelty the Medicine for my Pain;  
A Viper which doth seed upon my Heart,  
And plays the Tyrant upon every Part;  
Forcing a Lethargy through all my Soul,  
Which does my vital Spirits so control,  
That though you'd strive for to prevent my fate,  
My Dooms confirmed and pity comes too late.  
Thus the faint Pilgrim with Devotion bows  
Unto the Sacred Shrine, and pays his Vows;  
Beging a Blessing on his feeble knee,  
Supported by his Faith and Piety;  
His daily Orisons do beg Direction  
From that great Power that is his sole Protection;  
But when at last his fatal Glass is run,  
And time casts Mists before his glimmering Sun,  
In some old ruin'd Monastery or Cave,  
Shunning the World, he seeks a quiet Grave.   

A Song.  

I Have drank too much Lethe of late,  
I've forgot that I e'er was in Love,  
I am Crowned with a nobler Fate;  
'Tis a passion that's too much above  
That pitiful State  
Which sometimes moves pity, but oftener hate.   

The sad looks of a Lover in pain,  
When my fancy descends to his Breast,  
Makes me Smile when I think how in vain  
He does so much disquiet his rest,  
In thinking her best  
Who in mocking his Love does think herself blest.   

Such Whiners as these, at their leisure,  
With an ang'ry glance from their Eye,  
They quickly deject at their pleasure,  
Who during their anger do die;  
Such is the measure  
These predicant Fools do get from their Treasure.    

To Clelia.  
THink not, fair Madam, that your high disdain,  
Which wounds my Heart, shall cause me to sustain  
The ponderous bulk of all your Tyranny,  
And the Insulting Conquest of your Eye.  
Against your scorns I'll arm my panting Heart,  
Secure from wound, and safe in every Part;  
Biding defiance to your Conquering Eyes,  
I'll give you no more leave to Tyrannize.  
Yet if at last no Remedy I find  
To ease the troubles of my tortured Mind,  
And with despair must yield to Fate, my Breath  
Shall censure you the Agent of my Death:  
Then you that are the cause of this my fate▪  
Shall mourn and grieve like one that's desolate,  
And on my Hearse engrave my Tragedy,  
With Tears proceeding from your doleful Eye.  
Yet have a care, for if a Tear should steal  
And touch my Corpse, I instantly should feel  
The Fire of Love to kindle in my Breast,  
'Twould wake my drowsy Senses from their rest.  Me tamen urit amor, quis enim modus adsit amori.  

To Clelia.  
Mirror of Beauty, from whose conquering Eyes  
All Power of Love and Glory does arise;  
Resistless Charms does Crown your Heavenly Brow,  
You Hellen-like no Second can allow.  
Here Nature strove to show her greatest Art,  
Each part of you does captivate a Heart,  
Your wounding Beauty spreads through every Part.  
Pardon me then if that I soar above,  
The Merits of undeserving Love.  
I needs must love, for 'tis my cruel Fate,  
Let not my kindness then deserve your hate;  
Since to your Beauty I have Prisoner been,  
Divinest Creature, think it not a Sin:  
The Torrent of my Grief oreslowed my Heart,  
And Love concealed still swelled in every Part.  
All my Ambition only is to gain  
Your love, but (Cruelty) I strive in vain:  
One Smile from you has power enough to save  
A drooping Corpse that's catching at a Grave.  
One Frown would make a Miser, 'midst his store,  
Forsake his Wealth, his Fate for to deplore:  
The Gods bewail their Case, and mourn to see  
Mortals so blest, more than Immortals be.  
juno till now from her Olympic Throne  
Near saw a Beauty greater than her own.  
Since then all Beauty is in you alone,  
You are that Goddess I'll adore, or none.   

Scribe aliquid magnum.  

I Thank you, worthy Sir, your good advice  
Is like the Recepes of a Doctor's Bill,  
Where an Ingredient's dear, to save the price,  
You'll leave it out, though it the Patient kill.   

You'd have me take some Noble Theme, and make  
Verses that might be worthy of the Press,  
Which if I were so mad to undertake,  
You'd see a Giant in a Pigmies dress.   

I am no Mole, nor can I feed on Earth,  
Nor yet Camelion, to browse on Air;  
I always have said well, e'er since my Birth;  
And now to starve myself I do not care.   

Would you but be Maecenas, then I'd try  
To what my bold Invention could aspire,  
And strive for to excel in Poetry  
Great Maro, and the Rhodopean Lyre.   

No barren fancy should possess my Brain,  
Each Verse should flow as from Apollo's Quill,  
In such a lofty and Heroic strain  
The Universe I'd with my Numbers fill.   

I'd frame such raptures in Immortal Verse,  
As should the brightest Stars from Heaven convey,  
And every Cloud the Muses should disperse;  
And with my Feet I'd tread the Milky way.   
Otia da nobis: sed qualia fecerat olim  
Maecenas Flacco, Virgilioque suo.  
Condere victuras tentem per secula chartas  
Et nomen flammis eripuisse meum.   

De Pompeo & Filiis, e Martial.  
THe Sons of Pompey yielded up their Breath  
In divers quarters of the spacious Earth.  
Europe within her Bowels does contain  
One of the Sons of Noble Pompey slain.  
In Asia's Confines doth the other lie,  
And he himself in Africa did die.  
What makes the World as Thunderstruck appear,  
That such a Slaughter should be every where?  
So great a Ruin could not likely be  
Contained in One place, nay scarce in Three.   

De Sacerdote qui Caniculum in Coemeterio Sepelivit.  
A Wealthy Tuscan Priest, of no mean note,  
One that could say his Decalogue by rote,  
And Paternoster too, and, if such need,  
Could make a Repetion of his Creed,  
Had a small Dog he did so much regard,  
That dead, he Buried him in the Churchyard;  
The Bishop glad that he had got a Claw  
Whereby to get the Priest into his Paw,  
Summons him to a strict Examination  
Of his so irreligious Violation  
Of Holy ground. The Priest, who knew his mind,  
How much he was to Avarice inclined,  
Appears, and with him brings full Fifty Pound,  
Which he knew well would make the matter sound.  
The Bishop urged the Crime, and so far went,  
That he, poor Man, must be to Prison sent;  
To whom the Priest, My Father, did you know  
How much you to that loving Creature owe,  
And how in Wisdom he did antecede  
All that I ever knew was of the breed,  
I am sure you would not blame my action then,  
Since he deserved a Burial among Men.  
For whilst he lived, and did enjoy his Breath,  
He was as wise as Men, but more in Death.  
The Bishop asked him how. The Priest replied,  
He wisely made his Will before he died;  
And knowing that it was a Pious deed,  
He left you Fifty Pounds to help your need;  
With that produced the money. Sure replied  
The bishop, never Dog more fairly died;  
And God forbid I should at all detract  
From this your Zeal in such a Pious Act.  
If you have more, let there be set apart,  
A place to bury Dogs of such Desert.   

On Suadela.  

THey say Ulysses by his Art  
Had power to hear the Sirens Sing,  
And from their Charming Notes depart,  
Tasting the sweets without a Sting.   

I wonder not, since free from harms  
I have left Suadela and her Charms.    

Nobis placeant ante omnia Sylvae.  
HAil Sacred Woods, and all the rural Gods,  
Who in these Coverts make your blessed abodes;  
Ye Fauns and Satyrs that do here reside,  
And Watery Nymphs that near these springs abide;  
And ye, ye pretty mourning Turtle Doves,  
The living emblem of chastest Loves;  
May no devouring Hawk ere fly this way,  
Of so much Innocence to make a prey:  
Let all be happy, chirp sweet Birds, and sing,  
And with your Melody these Woods shall ring.  
For here I first beheld that Angel's Face,  
Which to these Coverts gave the greatest Grace.  
And thou, old Oak, beneath whose spreading shade  
That Heavenly Object did my sight invade,  
May no rough Wind ere rend thy aged top,  
Or thankless hand thy Beauty's glory crop;  
Or shivering Winter, which the Woods bereaves,  
ere rob thee of thy green and shady Leaves;  
But may each year new Strength and Verdure grant.  
Till thou grow young, as when thou wert a Plant;  
And may'st thou flourish many Ages more,  
And still more green than e'er thou wast before.  
But when thou must decay, for eating Time  
Will not permit thee always thus to shine,  
From thy old Trunk may thousand young ones Flower,  
Weaving their tender Boughs into a Bower.  
And thou great Paphian Goddess, ever bless  
This goodly Bower with so much happiness,  
That whosoever shall come within its shade,  
Shall to thy Mystic power be Captive made;  
Each Lover than this Covert shall invite  
To taste the happiness of Love's delight;  
Thus shall thy fall be greater than thy rise,  
And of a Tree become a Paradise.   

An Epitaph.  

JUst as I lived, just so I died,  
Contemning God and Man,  
With Earthly dross ne'er satisfied;  
Now satiated am.   

Desire not to know my Name,  
Which justly is accursed,  
For making Gold my chiefest aim,  
Even with Tantalian thirst.    

A Dialogue.  Lover. 
REnder your Heart, or else give mine again.  Virgin. 
What, change with Men?  Lov. 
Justice commands you to do one or tother.  Vir. 
Yes, to a Lover.  Lov. 
Then I am he, sweet Saint, that owns that Flame.  Vir. 
You are much to blame.  Lov. 
For loving you? I must until I die.  Vir. 
Pray tell me why.  Lov. 
Most mighty Love no reason can endure.  Vir. 
Is your Love pure?  Lov. 
As pure from spot as Elemental fire.  Vir. 
Ne'er to expire?  Lov. 
No, not when Time itself shall cease to be.  Vir. 
You have conquered me.  Lov. 
Blessed voice, that very word new life does give.  Vir. 
With thee I'll live.  Lov. 
Our mutual Joy shall with our Loves combine.  Vir. 
I am only thine.  Lov. 
Triumphant Love, what never lose the field?  Vir. 
Love makes me yield.  Lov. 
Then let's enjoy each other without fear.  Vir. 
Agreed, my Dear.   

A Pastoral Courtship.  

COme, my Dear Love, into this Grove,  
This Paradise shall cover  
The secret Pleasures of our Love,  
Which we will here discover.   

See how the Trees do bend their Boughs,  
And silent murmuring make,  
Whilst the inviting Shade allows  
A place to recreate.   

The pleasant Birds do sit and sing,  
No cause of sorrow's here,  
Here nothing lurks will terror bring  
To Hare or timorous Deer.   

The pretty cooing Turtles take  
This place for their delight,  
And an inviting moaning make,  
Nor fear the ravenous Kite.   

And all stand wondering and admire  
That we delay so long,  
The gentle Choir of Birds conspire  
To please us with a Song.   

But why so coy? thou needst not fear,  
No danger's in this Grove,  
Venus herself did here enjoy  
The Pleasures of her love.   

Come let me kiss those Lips, those Eyes  
That Captivate my Heart,  
And are to me a Paradise  
Beyond the power of Art.   

O let me touch those milk-white Breasts,  
Which like the Alps appear,  
Which never yet fond Love hath pressed  
To make his Vintage there.   

Come let that Belly, which might well  
A Stoick's courage move,  
Which does so far, dear Love, excel,  
Receive the stamp of Love.   

So, do not blush, the buding Rose  
That hangs upon the Tree,  
Retains his glory, though the Nose  
Has ravished its Virginity.   

Come do not grieve, thou needst not fear,  
This place will all conceal,  
There's none can know what we did here,  
Our Pleasures to reveal.   

Nor does thy Angel's Beauty seem  
Less lovely than before,  
For then thy Face but here and there  
A little Cupid bore.   

But now ten thousand Cupids crown  
That heavenly Face of thine  
Angellick Essence flowing down  
Has made thee quite Divine.   

Therefore each day we'll try the Power  
What charms of Love can do,  
And create Pleasures for each Hour,  
Until the Gods shall sue,  
My Joy, my Paradise, to Worship you.   
Ite triumphales circum mea tempora lauri  
Vicimus, in nostro est ecce Corinna sinu.   

An Epitaph.  
ALas, poor Infant! Death was too severe,  
O'er such small Bones to raise a Trophy here.  
Merciless Tyrant, thus for to bereave  
Thee of thy life, scarce giving time to Breath.  
Thou wert a Gem, as quickly lost as found,  
Thy Life and Death was in one Volumn bound.  
If Prayers and Tears could have preserved thy Breath,  
Thou yet hadst lived triumphant over Death.  
But thou wert snatched away, thy rising Sun  
Finished its Course ere it had scarce begun;  
And we in darkness mourn, yet we can see  
The Hand that cuts the Twig may fallen the Tree.  
Sweet Fruits soon drop, but those that longer last  
Always do relish with a sour taste.  
Optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris  
Implentur numeris deteriora suis.   

The Sirens Song.  

YE Powers above, and ye Celestial ones,  
We Sirens sing a doleful Lullaby  
To those who by our false enchanting Tones,  
We draw to hear our pleasant Harmony.   

No Ulyssean stratagem nor skill  
Can save poor Mariners that coast our way,  
But with Enchanting Notes we please and kill  
Who on our Road to hear our voice do stray.   

And Women-like, our Tongue can play its part;  
Whilst like to Deities we seem to be,  
At the same instant we can by our Art,  
Read to poor Mariners their Destiny.    

An Elegy on the Death of that Noble and Renowned Gentleman, Colonel Simon Lambert, of the Island of the Barbadoss.  Dignum laude virum musa vetat mori. 
BEfore some Famine, Pestilence, or War,  
Or Monarch's Death, Heaven sends a blazing Star,  
To let us know not what to hope, but fear,  
When such Portents his Messengers appear.  
And can great Lambert die, and Nature show  
No sign, so great a ruin to forego?  
Had I beheld th' Illustrious Prince of Light  
Resign his glorious Rays to sable Night,  
And some bright Constellation fall from thence,  
I instantly should have inferred from hence  
Our certain loss, and boldly would have said,  
The Heavens declare that virtuous Lambert's dead.  
But none of these presented to our view,  
Yet that he's dead, we know to be too true.  
Let us consider then what loss we have,  
And what great virtue's buried in his Grave:  
For we lament no shrub that was but small,  
But grieve to see this stately Cedar's fall.  
Beneath whose spreading Branches, whilst it stood,  
Whilst it did flourish like a verdant Wood,  
We did enjoy all that was just and good.  
Great jonathan, a Witness thou may'st be,  
He lived to serve his Sovereign and thee.  
He was no gilded Image, that did show  
A Glorious outside, and did nothing know:  
But he in every part was so complete,  
As showed that he was wise, as well as great.  
Among the Best, he Noblest was, and where  
The Noblest were, there he did Best appear.  
Mercy and Justice both did in him dwell,  
And each did strive which should in him excel.  
He, like another Atlas, did sustain  
This Islands burden, with Minerva's Brain;  
And in each Exigent he did advise,  
As if that he had seen with Argus Eyes.  
In sum, Each action has deserved Renown,  
For which he shall receive a Heavenly Crown,  
And sing with Angels in that Heavenly Choir,  
To which his Righteous Soul did still aspire.   

To Madam Lambert.  
NOW, Madam, since you have sustained a loss,  
Which all the pleasures of your Life may cross;  
And such a loss as doth all loss exceed,  
Whose very name may make your heart to bleed;  
Yet comfort take, since he is gone before,  
To wait your coming at the Heavenly Door;  
Where you shall enter an Immortal Bride,  
With Saints and Angels to be glorified.  
Nor let it be a grief that you have none  
To pattern your dead Lord, I mean, a Son:  
His Virtues have immortalised his name,  
And still he lives in a perennal Fame.   

The Epitaph. An Acrostic.  

Strong Monuments of Wood, Marble, or Brass,  
In time time decay and into Ruins pass;  
Making a mock of all that Pomp and Pride,  
On which the hopes of Fame has still relied.  
Note here a Precedent did know full well,   

Life justly led all Monuments excel.  
A Person of such great Desert and Fame,  
Might all the highest worths of Honour Claim;  
By which he to himself has been so kind,  
Eternal Monuments to leave behind.  
Reader, who-e're thou art, believe thus much,  
This Island scarce can find another such.    

On my Lady's Lap-Dog.  
LElaps, my Lady's Dog, must sit at Meat,  
And be her Taster, ere my Lady'l eat:  
The choicest bits the Table can afford,  
My Lady cuts, and gives them to her—  
And many a lick his Curship gives my Lady,  
Who cries, Poor Creature, he's as kind as may be▪  
And when 'tis Night, ere she can take her rest,  
My Lady calls for that which she loves best.  
Her pretty Dog is all my Lady's care;  
I smell a Rat, Madam, you'd best beware.  
All Night she folds him in her Arms, the Cur,  
Perchance, may far the worse for loving her.  
He's slick and sporting, who can choose but dote  
On that which lies under a Ladis Coat?  
But why a Dog? Cannot my Lady find  
Some spruce young Gallant that will please her mind?  
Is Earth so barren, can it not afford  
Something will better personate a Lord?  
Yet 'tis the mode, I grant it, so you keep  
Your Dogs to watch, whilst, Madam, you do sleep.  
However, we'd suppose this done for fashion,  
Did not your actions show too much of Passion:  
For't gives suspicion unto every Guest,  
To see a Christian served after a Beast.  
Her Plea is Innocence; yes, in this sense,  
A kind of dogged brutish Innocence,  
And Pretty: May be so, Nature, thou'rt wise,  
In giving Ladies such perspicuous Eyes.  
When first I saw him lying on her Bed,  
I could have left him shorter by his Head,  
For all his Beauty; nor yet could I find  
One part more rare in him than all his Kind.  
And yet she dotes upon this ugly Cur;  
He and my Lady 'tis keeps all the stir.  
Many do think the Dog is too obscene,  
Or what the Devil should my Lady mean?   

De Leone & Lepore, e Martial.  
WHat makes the trembling Hare the Lion fly  
Thy death agrees not with his Majesty.  
A nobler Object doth his rage possess,  
And thou by flying makes his Glory less:  
His Hunger is assuaged by blood of Bears,  
And mighty Bulls he in his anger tears.  
The choicest Stag the Coverts can afford,  
Is made a Dish to serve the Forests Lord  
Dogs prey on Hares. Let not the Irish Boy  
Fear mighty Charles will his base Youth destroy   

To the Worshipful Jonathan Atkins, Knight, Governor of the Island of the Barbadoss.  
WHat ails the Poet? What a new desire  
Inflames his Heart, and doth his Soul inspire,  
With emulous Notes to touch Apollo's Lyre?  
'Tis you, dear Sir, as great by Birth as Fame,  
Whom Merit and true Honour gives a Name;  
Who Heaven (Great Soul) did send for to revive  
This drooping Island, and to keep alive  
Those who Oppression did before enslave,  
And Cruelty deject unto the Grave.  
You are the Subject of my Verse, to you  
All the Encomiums of our Praise is due.  
Astroea now appears with Heavenly Grace,  
And banished Justice reassumes her place.  
The course of things are changed, and we are now  
No more deceived by janus' double brow.  
Blessed Halcyon days, and you that made them so!  
Unto what Land soever I shall go,  
Your Memory I'll strive for to display,  
Whilst Phoebus with his Beams adorns the day.  
But yet methinks I hear some say, Where's he  
Dares contradict us in our Seignory,  
And tax our actions? Come, and you shall see  
One famed for Justice, Mercy, Piety;  
Whose Eye no difference knows between the poor,  
And him whose laden Ships can hold no more;  
Whose actions Justice guides, for in each Hand  
The Sword and Balance equally do stand.  
Here's no Perversion; here's the Motto too,  
Give God and Caesar equally their due.  
O glorious Sunshine of this Western Isle,  
What noble Appellation, or what Style  
Befits thy Praise? Or how can we express  
Our Joy, your Bounty, and our Happiness?  
Whose liberal hand bestows, ere we can think,  
Whole Bowls of Blessings, filled up to the brink,  
Beyond our hopes: Yet thus the Powers we serve  
Are wont for to reward, ere we deserve.  
O thou great Author of all earthly things,  
Whose hand deposes Princes, throws down Kings▪  
Who viewst from thy Olympic Throne the State,  
And actions of each mighty Potentate;  
Who rules the world's vast Frame, O Crown the days  
Of our blessed jonathan with living Bays;  
And that his Progeny may ever live,  
Propitious Heavens, grant, as I believe.  
First shall the liquid Waters cease to flow,  
The Earth to cause both Plants and Trees to grow▪  
Heaven radiant Monarch shall deny his light,  
The Machine of the World involved in Night;  
The Lamb shall slay the Lion, and the Hare  
Of the swift Hound no more shall stand in fear;  
The Eagle court the Dove, and all things be  
In Sympathy with their Antipathy:  
'Tis then, and not till then, my Pen shall stay,  
And strive no more your Glory to display;  
Which like the Sun in his Meridian height,  
Cheers the whole World with his illustrious Light.  
Ante leves ergo pascentur in oethere cervi, etc.  
Quam nostro illius labatur pectore vultus.   

The Lover's Greeting.  

WHen baldpate Winter, with his hoary head,  
By the Springs kind aspect was vanquished;  
When sturdy Boreas Storms were over past,  
And milder Zeph'rus breathed his gentle blast;  
In pleasant May, when Flora did invest  
The Fields with green, and shady Coverts blest;  
When every where the bright refulgent beams  
Of glorious Titan shined upon the streams  
Of gliding Crystal Floods, whose waving pace  
Seemed as it were to emulate with Grace  
The various Clouds, and gladly to invite  
Faint-hearted Lovers to their dear delight.  
It was my chance to meet my dearest Love,  
Who, Gods you know, I do esteem above  
All earthly Treasures, and to me whatever  
Under both Polls can be accounted fair.  
I came (and with a modest pace) and bent  
My timorous body, full of discontent,  
And at her feet (who the great Gods above  
Can testify, I do sincerely love)  
I prostrate fell, thinking thereby to gain  
One loving smile, but it was all in vain.  
For, O my cruel Fate, at the first view  
Her smiling Countenance my Love withdrew,  
And with an ireful look she cast her Eye,  
Bending her brows, now full of Tyranny.  
So have I seen when Phoebus in his might,  
Shoots forth his glorious Rays, whose shining light  
Doth dazzle all men's Eyes; yet by and by  
An envious Cloud doth hide him from our Eye.  
But all this time I stood amazed, nor knew  
To bear those sudden storms of frowns she threw▪  
Just as when jove doth thunder in the Sky,  
The amazed beholder, ready for to die,  
Trembles and shakes, not knowing how to free  
Himself from danger that he's forced to see.  
Yet at the last, when I could nought perceive  
That might at all my timorous heart relieve,  
Like a bold Soldier, mad, with desperate Fate,  
Resolved my cruel Fortune to abate,  
And give the Onset with a Heart that's free  
From Fear, or any such base ignomy.  
I tried a thousand ways, but all in vain▪  
Still what I did, did more increase my Flame.  
Ah cruel Nymph, abate your high disdain,  
And grant me Love to mitigate my pain;  
Which if you do deny, for my relief,  
'Tis Death shall ease the burden of my grief.   

Sui minus est animus nobis effundere vitam  
In me crudelis non potes esse diu.   

Farewell to Pleasure and to fond Delight,  
Farewell those thoughts which an unconstant mind  
Is still perplexed with, pondering in the Night,  
For what his wearied Lust can never find;  
His Rage is blind,  
And he far more unconstant than the Wind.   

When I but think how my disordered Heart  
Has by the motion of one flattering look,  
By that detested, vile and cursed Art,  
Venus, I mean thy subtle tempting Hook,  
Been tamely took;  
Thus tempting Toys make Children leave their Book.   

O than those Charms that did my Heart control,  
Burst in a Fury from my sweltered Breast,  
And the disordered passions of my Soul  
Their damned and treacherous ways does so detest,  
That overpress,  
My wearied mind is robbed of all its rest.    

On Clelia's Sore Eyes.  
WHat makes the Frontiers of the sable night  
Display their Mists, and thus expel the light?  
Dire Queen of Shades, what power, as yet unknown,  
Hast thou assumed, that's stronger than thy own?  
These sable Mists are worse than those that fell  
On impious Pharaoh for an Israel:  
For but a time those dismal Clouds did stay,  
Which gave a greater welcome to the day.  
But now the Gods, the angry Gods, I find,  
All human kind has at one stroke struck blind,  
And robbed the World of Glory in its height,  
Having eclipsed its main and greatest light:  
And now, alas! muffled in Clouds, it lies  
Groping in darkness, robbed of both its Eyes:  
Nor can we hope our Fate for to reverse,  
But are like mourners drooping o'er a Hearse,  
Till in your Eyes, your Eyes, we may behold  
Beauty enthroned, more bright than burnished Gold,  
Which now is hid, and doth obscurely lie,  
As pearls i'th' Ocean's vast profundity.  
But sure the mighty Powers had some design,  
And our neglect of you they thought a Crime;  
And took from us, what we as slightly prise  
As Indians Gold, and precious Treasuries;  
And now think sit, lest by those Stars we fall,  
And so receive a gen'ral Funeral,  
For to restore us by degrees those Eyes,  
Which else would make mankind a sacrifice;  
As Men not quite recovered of their sight,  
Do lose the same by the excess of light.   

A Dream.  
TEll me, thou pale-faced Empress of the Night,  
What horrid terror did my mind affright.  
I saw, and in a Dream a Damsel stood  
Before me trembling, all besmeared with Blood.  
In her right Hand a withered Branch she had,  
And with a sable Veil her Brows were clad;  
And to herself she mourning seemed to say,  
'Twas love, alas! fond Girl, did thee betray.  
And so she vanished. Then I heard a cry.  
Of a lost Damsel, at the point to die.  
Her latest Breath did on Narcissus call,  
Cruel Narcissus, cruel in my fall.  
For thee I did honour and life forsake,  
And gave thee Love, which thou refused to take;  
For thee I did Philanders' Love despise,  
Who now may glory at my injuries.  
Her other words she did in Tears confound,  
Abruptly mangled in a dying sound.  
With that I shrunk, and sudden terror pressed  
My melting Heart in my molested Breast;  
I pondered in my mind, at length I knew  
The voice was Phillis, that herself had slew;  
And art thou dead, said I, false unto me?  
His hate's a just reward of Perjury.  
But O that yet my life could thine redeem,  
My Soul should vanish as of no esteem:  
O cruelty! what made thee so unkind,  
To kill the Joy, and Darling of Mankind?  
And since thy Death by Pen can't be expressed,  
I'll write thy Elegy upon my Breast.  
But snatching at my Sword, a Hand was sent,  
My suden Execution to prevent;  
And Phillis, who before I thought was dead,  
Appeared, and with a Garland Crowned my Head,  
And told me death had not the power to sever  
Two Hands, two Hearts, that must be joined for ever.  
Then waking suddenly, I knew the Theme  
Was my molested fancy in a Dream.  
Even when I wake or sleep thou'rt in my mind,  
Unconstant Phillis, cruel, and unkind.  
Omnia qua sensu volvuntur vota diurno,  
Tempore nocturno reddit amica quies.   

An Elegy on the Death of his very good Friend Mr. Edward Lynch, Buried in Salisbury Cathedral.  
ASist my Muse, thou gravest of the Nine,  
Melpomene, assist, and let Line  
Proceed from thy more solemn state, which shall  
Attend the Rites of this sad Funeral.  
Shall then Eternal sleep rich minds repress,  
And leave them only to enjoy their bliss?  
And must their Names no more be thought upon,  
Buried in silent Oblivion?  
And with their Bodies must their Names be thrust  
Into the Earth, and Buried in the Dust?  
No, no, their Fame swift Time shall ne'er devast,  
But flourish still, so long as Time shall last.  
Why then doth Death involve my Friend, who sleeps,  
And in the Dust a silent Requiem keeps?  
But that thy Name henceforth may never die,  
I'll write in Verse thy mournful Elegy.  
Yet Ink's too black a Colour to enfold  
Thy virtuous Name, that should be writ in Gold.  
That honoured Marble that does bear thy Name,  
Henceforth shall be Immortal by the same.  
Nor Time nor eating Age shall e'er devour  
What bears th' Impression of so fair a Flower.  
When first my steps unto thy Grave drew nigh,  
To pay my duty to thy memory,  
The pious Marble thawed into a Tear,  
As silently expressing thou wert there.  
The Marble Statues, Bishops, prebend's, Lords,  
And many other that the place affords,  
Through stony Mantles wept their sufferings,  
And seemed to me like Arethusa's Springs.  
And may they ever weep, for Piety  
Is seldom found among them till they die.  
Who e'er shall hear thy Name, and shall not spend  
One Tear for thee, unpitied be his end,  
And may his Ghost do penance at thy Grave,  
Honoured (though restless) such a Doom to have.  
Methinks I could grow ang'ry with my Muse,  
That should at such a time her aid refuse;  
But that she told me that her Lungs were weak,  
And far unfit thy Praises for to speak;  
And that whilst she thy Fame did strive t' express,  
Her halting Numbers only made it less.  
We knew thy worth ere we discerned thy Age,  
And budding Glory gave a true presage  
Of what thou didst, and what thou wouldst have done,  
Had not thy rising▪ proved thy setting Sun.  
O could I speak thy praise, I would disperse  
Thy living Fame throughout the Universe:  
To tell thy worth, how vert'ous and how wise,  
In this I know none can Hyperbolise.  
Each of thy actions strove for to excel,  
As rolling Waves which in the Ocean swell.  
My Muse, in contemplation now of thee,  
Has struck the Poet in an Ecstasy.   

Love Triumphant.  
'tWas at the time when Phoebus with his Rays  
The Universe with equal Beams serveys;  
When Flocks and Herds to the cool Shades repair,  
T' enjoy the Breezes of a cooler Air.  
I laid me down upon the Grass to rest,  
Whilst Loves fierce God inflamed my tender Breast.  
Millions of thoughts I interweaved with fears,  
And my blessed Saints Idea washed in Tears.  
Ah, cruel Nymph, said I, what God unkind  
Hath with such Cruelty incensed thy mind?  
Lay by Ioves Flames, Salmonean terrors fear,  
Lest you his Thunder and his Lightning bear.  
For that great God that rules the arched Sky,  
Can ne'er be pleased with acts of cruelty.  
But if you needs will take a Goddess form,  
Which can your native Beauty nought adorn,  
Take her whose milder form Mankind did move  
To honour and adore as Queen of Love.  
Thus shall you gain that honour that's your due,  
And we take you for her, or her for you.  
Thus whilst my mind passion tossed too and fro,  
As Waves by Winds which on the Ocean blow,  
Behold my Clelia came, and forward pressed,  
Whilst the light Wind her lower Parts undressed;  
Rich in Attire, in Beauty richer far:  
Thus Venus used to court the God of War;  
And thus themselves who in the Woods retire,  
The Naides, and Draydes attire.  
I silent lay, as if with sleep oppressed,  
Whilst her right Arm surrounds my willing Breast.  
I made return, and often Clelia cried,  
She who you seek is here, she then replied;  
With that I gave a start, to let her know  
How great a passion in my Breast did slow;  
She smiled, as something pleased to see me start,  
And by my actions seemed to know my Heart.  
Then, as if newly risen from a trance,  
Or deathlike sleep, I did my Head advance,  
And mildly speak her thus, Goddess most fair,  
If you are come to comfort my despair,  
You have nob'ly done, taking that shape whereby  
You may at once deceive and please my Eye.  
But if you come for to deride my fear,  
And make me think my absent Clelia here,  
You have lost your aim, for to my grief I know  
My Clelia ne'er did so much kindness show.  
However I'm content, be what you will,  
Nothing that bears that form can e'er be ill.  
Much more I would have said, but she, too kind  
To bear my passion with a steady mind,  
With loving words my sorrow did assuage,  
Commanding me no farther to engage  
Myself in sadness, since before my Eyes  
No flying shade did stand to Tantalise;  
But real Substance, which did passion move,  
And her who I so oft had vowed to love.  
I gave attention unto what she said,  
And millions more of Protestations made  
To keep my faith inviolate, whilst she,  
Poor Soul, did both believe and pity me.  
I often kissing wringed her by the Hand,  
And by dumb signs gave her to understand  
My headstrong Passion would no more obey,  
Since she herself had took the curb away.  
But she, too Innocent, ne'er understood  
The swelling Tides of Passion in my Blood:  
Yet from her Eyes some pity did distil,  
Like Pearls thrust out, though shrewd against their will;  
Unwilling for to leave that happy place,  
Where sorrow could not choose but have a grace.  
Thus tempered Steel is sometimes clad in rust,  
And grains of Gold are mingled with the Dust.  
But I, who in the Wars of Love had been  
A Volunteer, thought now or ne'er to win  
The honour of the day, and in some sort  
To gain the conquest of the Virgin Fort;  
Which I assaulted with so free a force,  
(Not with battalions of Foot and Horse;  
But smooth and courtly Compliments) as might  
Have moved the chaste Diana to delight,  
And made the cold Lucretia to desire  
To wanton in the Flames of Venus' fire.  
Then Clelia surrendered, all her Treasure  
Was solely at the Conquerors will and Pleasure;  
Which was so great, that nothing can augment  
My Joy, or add unto my blessed Content.  
Divinest Creature, to whose heavenly Brow  
Our yielding Hearts do with submission bow;  
Rare Master piece of Nature, here I lie  
Conquered by Beauty, and by Beauty die.  
To you my Ghost shall in the Night appear,  
And though I die, I'll never leave you here.  
Yet you are cruel, and will not afford  
My dying Corpse but one poor parting Word.  
O that your Beauty had less mortal been,  
Or that to love had not been held a sin!  
I boldly to the World would have made known  
Thy Beauty claims Desert, and thine alone.  
But stay, methinks there's something in thy Eye  
That tells me that thy Lover must not die.  
And since that thou hast gave this blessed Reprieve,  
I for thy sake will be content to live,  
And by some signal Service henceforth try  
For to requite your generosity.   


AS you are fair, can you be loving too,  
And make me happy in adoring you?  
Not all the Wealth that India can give,  
Without your love, can make me wish to live.   

As in the Ocean, on a Summer's day,  
You may behold the Fish keep Holy day,  
Are all o'erjoyed, and smile as 'twere, to see  
Fair weather gild the rough and angry Sea.  
Can so my Fortune more auspicious prove?  
You having smiled upon my hopeless Love,  
Be as you are so kind, so truly fair,  
Loving of me, who now cast off despair;  
Too soon a flame will else my Heart control,   

And leave my drooping Corpse without a Soul.  
Make me but sure that you will ever love  
Me, who no other joys could ever move;  
Happy that day, thrice happy, wherein I  
In you beheld my chief felicity.  
Adoring you, I feel a scorching fire;  
You, you alone, can make that flame retire.   

Not that the Ardour can e'er quite retreat,  
All you can do is to allay the Heat;  
The scorching Fervour never will give o'er,  
Wealth cannot do't, nor a whole Nations store.  
That you are good, we know, Virtuous, and Wise:  
India's bright Sun took lustre from your Eyes.  
Can else his Beams so dazzle all men's sight?  
Give me but leave, I'll say, He robbed his Light.   

Without your Beauty, he eclipsed must lie;  
Your Presence comprehends a Deity.  
Love heads his Golden Arrows, and from you  
Can take such Charms as may the World subdue,  
Make all things yield, even the great Gods above:  
Me thinks I hear them cry, Great Queen of Love;  
Wishing to fall by your more pleasing Fate,  
To you they come, and for their Sentence wait;  
Live, Queen of Love, with most Imperial State.    

On a Sigh.  

GO, mournful Sigh, haste to my Fair,  
And to her what thou knowst declare;  
Tell her, that thou wert so oppressed  
Within the Prison of my breast,  
That having broke the Gaol, thou fled'st to her for rest.   

But if unkindly she deny,  
Then shall thy wretched Gaoler die;  
And by this means thou shalt be free  
From thy Confinement, she from thee,  
And I from all my grief and wretched misery.   

But yet, poor mournful Breath, beware  
Thou dost not draw from her a Tear.  
For if thou dost, I will confine  
Thee to this hollow Breast of mine,  
And give thee no more leave or time to wander there.   

For who can tell, but she may be  
So loving as to pity thee,  
And on thy sorrow notice take,  
And entertain thee for my sake,  
In Paradise of Joy and full felicity.    

Mount Ida.  

IN times of old, when Kings did not disdain  
The sweet Employment of the silly Swain;  
When to the Gods the rural Altar fumes  
With Sacred Incense and with sweet Perfumes,  
Were daily blest, and all things seemed to be  
A Paradise for Man's felicity.  
Then no insulting Tyrant did molest,  
Hindering the quiet of his Subjects rest:  
But than Simplicity did crown the day,  
And Innocence did every Sceptre sway.  
Within the Confines of vast Asia's Womb  
Once was a stately City, now a Tomb;  
Imperial Troy, whose stately Structures Pride  
Did Egypt's lofty Pyramids deride.  
Rich in a King, their glory to augment,  
No Stranger, but by lineal descent;  
And blest with Children of such high Renown,  
Which did augment the honour of his Crown;  
But that this Sentence might have its Probatum,  
Nihil est ab omni parte beatum.  
Whilst Paris, Priam's Son, with care did keep,  
In flowery Meads, his Father's Flocks of Sheep,  
Lo, Three triumphant Goddesses, of Birth  
Celestial, guide their steps unto the Earth,  
Walking to view the Fields, whose Fragrant smell  
The richest Indian Odours did excel.  
Discordia grieved (as 'twas her course) to see  
Three potent Goddesses so well agree,  
Throwing a Golden Ball before them, says,  
Let her take this, whose Beauty wins the Bays.  
All plead their Titles in the slowry Field,  
And each unto her Rival scorns to yield.  
Till walking forward, they did soon espy  
The sprightly Son of Priam, who did lie  
Under a lofty Tree, whose spreading shade  
Sols Radiant Beams did all in vain invade.  
Between them then, to end this fatal grudge,  
They all consent to make brave Paris Judge:  
But when the youngster saw the glorious sight,  
His Heart was strait way ravished, and the sight  
Inflamed his generous Soul, he prostrate lies,  
He worships and adores the Deities.  
Nor can he longer gaze, so great a light  
Could not be boar by any mortal sight.  
Which when they see, and think upon the Prize,  
They add new force and vigour to his Eyes.  
To whom Queen juno mildly did begin,  
Both with applause, and promise for to win.   

Juno's Speech.  
Thou who of Priam's Court the glory art,  
More beautified by Nature than by Art;  
Give me the Ball, let not thy Hand refrain,  
But give it me, and I'll give thee again  
Glory and Honour, and what e'er can be  
Than this more happy, that I'll give to thee.  
I'll set a Crown of Gold upon thy Head,  
These words thereon shall be Entitled,  
THE GLORY OF THE WORLD. Riches and State,  
Honour and Fame shall ever propagate.  
The World's vast Confines shall a tribute yield  
To thee alone, the Caesar of the Field;  
The breath of Fame shall all thy state declare,  
And all the world shall term thee Fortune's Heir;  
And if there's aught thy mind can covet more,  
Command Queen juno, scorn for to implore.   

The youngster stands amazed, his Hearts on fire,  
A thirst of Honour does his Soul inspire;  
His eager heart had soon a Captive been,  
Had not brave Pallas soon prevented him,  
Whose Princely presence does his mind control,  
And adds new force unto his vigorous Soul.   

Pallas Speech.  
To whom the Goddess mildly thus, Brave Prince,  
Does Juno's powerful promise so convince  
Thy easy fancy to dispose the Prize?  
Art thou become a Captive to her Eyes?  
Can Wealth and Honour make thee to contemn  
The certain gift of Wisdom's Diadem?  
Wisdom gains Riches; Honour's but a slave,  
A Lambent fire; our fancy more does crave.  
I scorn to court thee for the Ball, yet know,  
If thou on Pallas do the same bestow,  
Thy Wisdom through the spacious Earth shall ring  
And Foreign Nations shall their Presents bring  
Thy Foes shall yield unto thy conquering Hand  
Nor shalt thou fear any invading Band,  
Or Foreign Force, for thou alone shalt Reign  
From East to West, and o'er the floating Main.   

And ending thus, Venus drew near, whose smiles  
The youngster of his Senses quite beguiles;  
She robs him of his Heart, and therewithal  
Obtains the longed for prize, the Golden Ball.  
For when the Prince had with a pleasing Eye  
Beheld the glory of the Deity,  
A sudden Joy through every Member steals,  
And by his blushes he his Love reveals.  
To whom the Queen of Souls, Goddess of Loves,  
More sweet and gentle than her Team of Doves,  
Makes her address with words so courtly mild,  
As might the watchful Dragon have beguiled,  
Or charmed the Brazen-footed Bulls, and made  
The Sons of Tellus cease for to invade  
Each others life; such was her charming Tongue,  
As without Magic might make Aeson young,  
And bring th' Hesperian Fruit into her lap,  
Force Argus hundred Eyes to take a nap.  
Here Majesty and Love did well agree,  
And both concur, great Queen, to favour thee.  
Such charms her looks did bear, such her aspect,  
When she to Paris did this Speech direct.   

Venus' Speech.  
Brave Prince, to whom the Goddesses have been  
Both suppliants, endeavouring to win  
The Prize, which only does belong to me,  
The Fates themselves grant the Priority.  
They promise Conquest, Wisdom, and a Throne,  
All this is nought but what's before thy own.  
But yet suppose it so, couldst thou delight  
In cruel Wars, where blood doth blood excite?  
Is this the way to gain thee honour? No.  
Kingdoms thou mayst possess, and perish so.  
Who gains by Blood and Death, shall, at the price,  
Have the reward of blood and avarice.  
Or rather, wouldst thou choose on Beds of Down,  
In Cupid's Fields to gain the sweet renown,  
Spending thy youthful days in merriment,  
Such as pale War did never yet invent,  
With Grecian Dames, whose Beauty may not be  
Expressed by Tongue, or Pens Indignity?  
If this can please, give me the Prize, I sue  
Both as my merit, and my Beauties due;  
And thou shalt gain a Lady, such another  
Titans Majestic Rays did ne'er discover;  
Whose Beauties form there's none can Parallel,  
Her Skin for Whiteness does as far excel  
The driven Snow, as does the Sun's bright Rays  
A glittering Star: should I disclose her praise,  
How red unto the sight her Cheeks do seem,  
That you would term her to be Beauty's Queen;  
Indulgent Nature out of all her store,  
Has not enough to make one Beauty more.   

Now Paris burns with Love, his warm desire  
At length is turned into a Flame of Fire;  
He knows no medium now, Love sways each Part,  
And reigns as Monarch o'er his very Heart;  
And, with a willing Hand, he gives the Ball  
To Venus, most deserving it of all.  
juno, and Pallas, with an ireful Eye,  
Ascend into the Turrets of the Sky,  
There mindful of their wrongs, deliberate  
The Ruin of the mighty Trojan State.   
— Manet altâ ment repôstum  
judicium Paridis spretaeque injuria formae.   

On Clelia's Picture.  
Dost not thou see this Picture set,  
Round with the Rose and Violet,  
Crowned with the Garlands of the Spring,  
And Looks that might entice a King?  
And can thy Eye find any place  
To gaze upon, but on this Face?  
Dost not thou see that sparkling Eye  
Inflamed with Love and Majesty;  
Those tempting Lips, than which to kiss,  
I could not hope a greater bliss;  
Those lovely Cheeks, nay, every Part  
Not able to be praised by Art;  
And ask me whom it represents?  
My Life, my Soul, my blessed Contents.  
'Tis Clelia's Shadow, which her Eye  
Reflected here as she passed by.  
To which, as 'tis her due, I pay  
A thousand Offerings a Day.  
And now, methinks, I cease to blame  
The Ethnics, who did Idols frame,  
If that among their Number they  
Had any one like Clelia.   


MY Friend john Clement t'other day,  
Was very Sick and like to die,  
And, as 'twas thought, did only stay  
To bare Tom Flavel company.   

He made his Will, and all his Lands  
By Testament were mine to spend,  
And soon had come into my Hands,  
If death, like him, had been my Friend.   

But, curse upon it, unawares  
That Wicked Rogue Tom Flavel died,  
At which my Friend john Clement swears  
The Rascal did it out of Pride.   

With that he bid 'em fill his Grave,  
And (truly) swore he would not die,  
Since the unlucky peevish Slave  
Had slighted thus his Company.   

So I, who half an hour ago  
Built lofty Castles in the Air,  
Did to my sorrow quickly know,  
I was an Heir, not worth a Hair.   Heredem scripsit me Numa convaluit.  

A Song.  

REstore my wounded Heart, Dear Love,  
And let thy conquering Eyes  
Thy hardened Heart with pity move  
Towards a sacrifice,  
Who prostrate lies,  
Your shade with reverence to Idolatrize.   

Let not those powerful Siren Charms  
Which do my Heart delay,  
Take me and Lull me in their Arms  
With an intent to slay,  
Or only to betray,  
That you by this the Prize may bear away.   

But if the cruel Fates decree  
That Love must end in Death,  
I'll scorn, my cruel Destiny,  
And will resign my Breath,  
Grasping the clammy Earth,  
Cursing my Fate, my Fortune, and my Birth.    

To Venus.  
Venus', I oft have heard thy Name,  
Adored thy Godhead, felt thy Flame;  
And oft invoked thy Power, to find  
Some mercy in a Female mind.  
And Cupid, I to thee did pay  
My faithful Orisons each day;  
And thou so well perform'dst thy Part,  
I reigned o'er many a Virgin's Heart.  
But now I've other work to do,  
Faith thou must Court thy Mother too.  
Nay, many such a trick is done,  
A Mother cheated by her Son.  
And thou, my pretty courtly Lad,  
Of me shall find a loving Dad.  
No clamorous Mars shall make thee fear,  
Nor Vulcan's Horns become a jeer,  
Nor yet his Net, which did proclaim  
To all the Gods thy Mother's shame;  
Tell her I'm active, young, and free,  
And that, I'm sure, thou knowst I be;  
A Lover too, thou oft didst prove  
The mighty force I had in Love.  
Nor can my Parts, so well inclined,  
Fail for to please thy Mother's mind;  
Nor will this Match be a disgrace,  
Since I supply Anchises place,  
Or young Adonis, who did move  
Thy Beauteous Mother once to love;  
Nor canst thou this my passion blame,  
That art the Author of my Flame.  
Consider then the wound you gave,  
Whose Power alone has strength to save;  
And let thy never-erring Dart  
Reign Monarch of thy Mother's Heart;  
Lest from my Arms herself she shrowded,  
And I embrace Ixion's Cloud,  
And courting of the Substance, may  
With empty Shadows only play,  
Which ne'er can quench my ardent Flame,  
That's as Immortal as her Name.   

To Vesper.  

SWeet Vesper bring the Night,  
Why dost thou thus delay,  
To rob me of delight,?  
Too long has been thy stay,  
Make haste away,  
And check the lazy Dawning of the day.   

And Phoebus tell from me,  
That he his Rays lay by,  
Nor so discourteous be  
As once to mount the Sky,  
Or once came nigh  
With one small Beam, to wake my Love and I.   

Should he scorn my desire,  
I'd send his Bastard Son  
To set the Heavens on fire,  
And he again should run  
Without the Sun,  
And grieve for what his folly shall have done.   

How soon the Sun makes haste  
Unto his Thetis Bed,  
Longing to be embraced,  
And cool his radiant Head,  
Which now looks red:  
Such longing hopes hath Lovers ever fed.   

How soon my Prayer is heard,  
Cynthia's bright Horns appear:  
No, 'tis my Love prepared  
Her Lover for to cheer;  
In all her Sphere  
Her borrowed Luster never shines so clear.    

E Libro quarto Horatij Carmin. Ode 7.  
THe Snow's dissolved, the grassy Fields grow green,  
And baldpate Trees with dangling Locks are seen.  
Earth's course is changed, and Rivers by the Sun  
Exhaled, with pregnant Floods their Banks o'errun.  
The Graces and the Nymphs their Steps advance,  
And, being disrobed, do lead a Country Dance.  
Times Mutability doth make appear,  
That nought is permanent beneath the Sphere.  
Mild Zeph'rus chides the Cold, the Heat doth blast  
The slowry Spring, and then posts on as fast.  
Next fruitful Autumn comes upon the Stage;  
Then lazy Winter, like decrepit Age.  
And yet the Moon, which shady Night adorns,  
With waxing Light repairs his waning Horns.  
But when we to the lower Shades repair,  
Where Aeneas, Tullus, and Ancus are,  
We instantly to Dust and Ashes turn,  
No more return, but rest, us in our Urn.  
Who knows whether the Gods above will cast  
One day, to add to what's already passed?  
Nor shall thy greedy Heir for ever find  
What thou bestowest with a liberal mind.  
When thou art dead, and Minos shall of thee  
Give Judgement, according to equity,  
Torquatus, not thy Stock nor Eloquence,  
Nor yet thy Piety, shall fetch thee thence:  
For, neither from the streams of Cocytus  
Could Diana bring her chaste Hippolytus,  
Nor yet the friendly Theseus ere retake  
Pirithous from the Lethean Lake.   

A Song.  

FAir Clelia, didst thou know  
How great a sorrow in my Breast does flow,  
Thou couldst not be  
Cruel to me,  
Nor think it any gain  
To mock my Sorrow, and deride my Pain.   

Far be it yet from me  
To hope for Life that is disdained by thee;  
For if I thought  
There might be aught  
In me, that thou dost hate,  
I'd Court my Ruin, and I'd hug my Fate.   

But if thou dost desire  
T' augment my grief, and so increase my Fire,  
Let me but know  
Thy pleasure's so;  
For I am so much thine,  
As ne'er to speak, exclaim, or once repine.    

An Abcdary.  
A sure Foundation makes a Building stand,  
But he's a Fool that builds upon the Sand.  
Consider Virtue in her glorious form,  
Doth Youth in all her Ornaments adorn.  
Extol her Beauty, Court her Princely Eye,  
For with her Wings she'll raise thee to the Sky.  
Get but a place within her Breast, and know  
How mean thy thoughts were when thou wert below.  
If thou dost once observe the Path she treads,  
Keep close, tho' over Rocks and Hills she leads:  
Let not the error of the way deceive,  
Mark well her course, and thou'lt some tract perceive.  
Nothing so hard but Industry will gain,  
Obtain her once, thou'lt find her worth thy rain.  
Perchance thou'lt say, Vice leads a smother way.  
Question not so, lest thou thyself betray.  
Rewards are virtues due, but pains confound,  
Such vagrant Fools, with a ne'er dying wound.  
Turn then, and take that path that's so severe,  
Unto Eternal Joy that Course will steer;  
When those who court a smother path, may go  
X times more quick, yet to their overthrow.  
Youth, Beauty, Strength, do often ill advise,  
Zeal only with a Crown adorns the Wise.   

A Deserted Lover.  
AH, lovely Fair! can you so cruel be,  
To scorn my Vows, yet never pity me?  
Can you prove false, who once I did adore?  
Pity a Youth that never loved before.  
How wavering like the Wind? What subtle dart  
Had you at first to penetrate my Heart,  
Obdure as Steel, which ne'er no torture found,  
Or ever knew for to receive a Wound;  
Till in your Eyes, the little twinkling Boy  
Taught me at first how to begin to toy?  
He taught me Love, whose active Fire first grew,  
And more increased, the more I looked on you:  
Yet you more Cruel than the Tiger's Rage,  
Relying on your Beauty, Wealth and Age,  
Disdain what you before did seem to prise,  
And blast my Laurel with your lightning Eyes.  
Thus to the World your Cruelty is known,  
And after Ages shall repeat my moan.  
perfidious Maid, your hatred makes me bow,  
And Curse the rashness of my idle Vow.  
And since it is alone for you I die,  
'Twill change your Honour into Infamy.   

A Song.  

Venus' of Souls,  
Whose Hand controls  
The greatest Monarches breast;  
Under whose Shade  
All Beauty's laid,  
Where every one would rest:   

Were I to choose,  
I'd not refuse,  
But in thy very Heart  
My mind should rest,  
And in thy breast  
I'd Reign by Love, not Art;   

Where I would be  
For ever free,  
Till I could satisfy  
My curious mind,  
That's so confined,  
And in that Instant dye.    

To one that dissuaded him from the Love of Clelia.  
GO, dull Mechanic! whose Invective Pride  
Dares the Epitome of love deride;  
Go to black Acheron, there tell thy deeds  
To the dull Winds, which on the Valleys feeds;  
And let thy poisonous Breath extol the Fame  
Of some old Witch, or Hag, or canting Dame.  
Croak Carols to the Toad or hissing Snake,  
And breathe thy Venom o'er the Stygean Lake.  
And for to please thy fancy, may'st thou be  
Enchanted with thy Wives deformity.  
O Divine Clelia! can the Gods connive  
At Blasphemy, and let the Slave survive?  
If you thus deal with such unequal odds,  
I'll scorn to worship such Plebeian Gods.  
There's not an Air, a Whisper, or a Breath  
Proceeds from her, but triumphs over Death.  
The blushing Sky grows pale, if she but frowns,  
And the shrill Orbs leave their harmonious sounds.  
Prometheus from her Beauty stole that Fire,  
With which he did his new formed Man inspire.  
Her Breath the Zeph'rus is that cheers the Earth,  
Those sweet Perfumes that give the Phoenix birth.  
Her Eyes, Mouth, Nose, and Cheeks, Waste, Thighs and Feet,  
Are quite beyond Comparison complete.  
Go then, grim Cur, repent what thou hast done,  
And leave to bark at such a glorious Sun.  
My Clelia is so fair, and free from harms,  
Such Innocence in her all-conquering Charms,  
That should the admiring World but chance to pry  
Into those hidden Glories of her Eye,  
They'd ne'er adore another Deity.   

To Clelia.  
Shall still my suit prove void, then bid me die,  
I only hope in vain, tell me, shall I  
Enjoy that very word torments my Soul;  
Your Eyes do promise what you will Control.  
Beauty 's too great to be a Tyrant there,  
I harbour nothing now but sad despair,  
Adore ing you, my hopes are nought but Air.   

Epigr. 72. lib. 6. Martial.  

CIlex, a Thief, much noted for his Crime,  
Did on a time, into a Garden Climb:  
But in that spacious Garden looking round,  
Nought but the God Priapus could be found;  
Unwilling then empty to go, or stay,  
He took Priapus up, and went away.   

Rare Guardian Gods! Rome could not choose but fall,  
When such base Gods did keep her Capitol.  
Romans their Gods, not Gods did Rome defend,  
Their Empire else had sooner had an end:  
For who relies on such Egyptian Bands,  
Shall find, like Reeds, they'll run into their Hands.    

A Song.  

SO strange a Distemper I ne'er yet did know,  
'Tis too strong to be called an Impotent Foe;  
'Tis too weak to surprise and conquer my Breast,  
Yet with sundry Alarms it oft does infest;  
It roars and it rages, and makes such a do,  
That though 'tis a Slave, 'twould be Conqueror too.   

With a Courage more stout than Achilles slew Hector,  
I swore, that no Passion should be my Director;  
Disdaining those Bonds that the Predicants wear,  
My Soul is a Monarch as free as the Air.  
When such puling Passions my Fancy discovers,  
Like Physicians, I gain by the Sickness of others.   

If Nature would show me a Creature Divine,  
I'd smile in her Face, and I'd swear she was mine:  
I'd urge her with Pleasures, my glory should move  
Ten Millions of Cupid's to enforce her to love.  
I'd spare not one Kiss for the wealth of a Mine;  
'Tis death for a Lord, if he touch but her Shrine.   

Such Affection I bear to the Creature I love:  
But if she were Heiress to thundering jove,  
And full of disdain, I defy all her Charms,  
As Heat repels Heat, and Arms repels Arms.  
And rather than bear their scorn and their flight,  
I'll worship the Owl, the Queen of the Night.    

Euryalus, Hersilia, Dares.  Eur. 

Beauteous Hersilia, those that rule above,  
In you have placed so much Divinity,  
That I am compelled to tell you that I love,  
And in those scorching Flames, alas! I fry.   

O do not frown, nor yet divert your Eyes,  
But let one loving glance prolong my end.  
What Glory is it for you to defy  
Your Slave, that you are bound for to defend?   Hers. 

If Heaven in me had placed aught worthy love,  
I should have liked this Honour done by you;  
But since 'tis only Fancy that does move,  
'Twere base in me, to take what's not my due.   

Or if I would, I cannot ease you now;  
Your fond desires you never can attain:  
Think you a Votaress will reject her Vow?  
One of the Quiver-bearing Goddess Train?   

Besides you may as well go Court a Saint  
To leave her Heaven, and visit Earth again,  
As ever hope to move me by your 'plaint,  
To taste the sorrows that attend on Men.   Dar. 

Here comes the mighty Daros, Madam, choose  
The solid Oak, or else this slender Reed,  
Which if I touch, I instantly should bruise;  
Yet such an Act would make my Honour bleed.   

I love, and will enjoy; nay, be not Coy;  
Were mighty Turnus, or Aeneas here,  
I'd not defer one moment to enjoy.  
A noble courage scorns to stoop to fear.   

Thou art mine by Heaven, and were the Gods unkind,  
As not to aid me, if I should desire;  
I'd search their Palaces, and there I'd find  
A subtler Flame than was Prometheus' Fire.   

With this I'd gain thy Love, or else compel  
Thy stubborn Fancy to obey my will;  
Nay, more, I'd ransack the abiss of Hell;  
The Stygian Prince should my Commands fulfil.   Hers. 

Though you're so proud to menace, know that I  
Do neither fear, nor yet respect your force;  
My Virgin honour's able to defy  
The furious Current of your mighty Course.   

If Heaven and Earth were all at thy Command,  
And I alone thy Bondage did deny,  
My Chastity is able to withstand  
The Rage of thy audacious Tyranny.   

Besides, the Gods, (who thy malicious Tongue  
Has gloried in upbraiding thus)  
Would with a Thunderbolt prevent the wrong,  
And send thee headlong into Erebus.   Chorus. 

So have I seen a lofty Cedar stand  
Amidst a Copse of Shrubs and ragged Trees:  
Her lofty Top did wave, when gently fanned  
And Courted by Favonius milder breeze.   

But when in Storms the angry North did frown,  
threatening the ruin of her losty Pride,  
She scorned to veil unto the angry Clown,  
Her solid strength did all her force deride.    

An Acrostic on Madam Ann Tirrell.  

Admired Beauty, whose victorious Eyes  
ne'er wants a Heavenly Virtue to surprise.  
Nature in you alone may boast whatever   

To Grecian Helen was accounted fair.  
I you, as Persians do adore the Sun,  
Revived Phoenix, that art still but one.  
Roses and Lilies are too mean a Grace,  
Etherial Beauty Crowns your Heavenly Face;  
Lasting as Fame, still may your Honour be,  
Like verdant Laurel, still from Envy free.   

Admit my Fancy be too high, or low,  
Regent of Hearts, know you have made it so.    

On Clelia's severe Command.  

TO thee, O Wood, I make my moan,  
And sing the Accents of my groan,  
Which else I durst intrust to none.   

For since that she who I adore  
Has gave Command, that I no more  
Should blaze her Fame, as heretofore,   

Silence itself shall louder be  
Than any voice which comes from me,  
Where any Auditor shall be.   

Yet every whist'ling Wind shall bear  
My sad Complaint unto her Ear,  
That her Commands were too severe.   

And on each Tree I'll carve her Fame,  
Which still shall flourish by the same.  
Th' Immortal Grove shall be its Name.   

In which each chirping Bird shall raise  
Encomiums on my Clelia's praise,  
Whilst I in sorrow spend my Days.   

I'll search the Aetnean Caverns, where  
The fiery Sallamanders are,  
To me those Flames cannot compare.   

Though Mulciber does there display  
His slaming Ensigns Night and Day;  
In time those Flames may yet decay.   

But mine's Eternal, and will stay,  
The substance ne'er consumes away,  
The more it burns, the more it may.   

They are no Lovers that can tell  
What caused, how strong they love, how well;  
Love does ad Infinitum dwell.   

I live on air of endless love,  
And as a shadow only move,  
By that which does the substance prove.   

I'll search where the Chameleons are,  
And unto them I will declare,  
That Love's as bad a Food as Air.   

Nay, worse, for though their Food's but Breath,  
Air is their Life, Love is my Death,  
Hunger more Comfort would bequeath.   

But now I nearer come, I see  
There can but little difference be,  
I am a Shadow, so is he.   

I'll dig the Earth, that I may know  
What Nature has denied to show,  
To Moles that in her Bowels grow.   

And there I'll whisper Clelia's Name,  
That Mines and Stones may hear the same,  
And tell from whence their knowledge came.   

But now I nearer come, I find  
That Moles and I are nigh of Kind;  
For they as well as Love are blind.   

For what they dig they do not know,  
And labouring pain do undergo;  
I love, my case is even so.   

Their pain is pleasure, so is mine;  
But here we differ, mine's Divine;  
Their aim is Earth, mine too sublime.   

I'll dive into the Watery-deep,  
And see the Bodies that do sleep,  
For whom the Waves themselves do weep.   

And there together with the throng  
Of numerous Fish I'll swim along,  
Who are like me deprived of Tongue.   

Yet could I like Arion play,  
I'd make those Mutes stand at a bay,  
Whilst I my Clelia's praise display.   

That so, when ever I should die,  
Each Element might then supply  
The praises of her memory.    

A Song.  
THE Fetters of Love are far stronger than hate,  
Fast binding the Captive, by that they call Fate,  
Enslaving the Senses, and dulling the Brain,  
For a thing of no moment, scarce worth a name,  
A delight that does cloy, as soon as enjoyed,  
And a Fancy obtained we after avoid.  
The pleasures are passed soon as ever they come,  
And gallop away as the Deel upon Dun.   

A Complaint against Cupid, for causing a distasteful Love.  

FArewell, my scornful Female Saint,  
In vain you boast your conquering Eyes,  
Whilst your deportment does depaint  
A Tygress o'er a Sacrifice.   

Desist, for by the Powers above,  
And by the Oath they use to swear,  
My anger's greater than my Love,  
And your disdain I scorn to bear.   

For your base pride you hold so high,  
Will at the last yourself annoy,  
Like to the Cockatrice's Eye,  
Whose self-reflection doth destroy.   

Know then, that I am no such Fool,  
To dote on your Complexion;  
My Passion is become too cool  
For such a weak Infection.   

Those amorous glances which I paid  
To those disdainful looks of thine,  
Are now ashamed that e'er they made  
An Idol to adorn thy Shrine.   

Cupid, henceforth I vow despite  
Against thy Quiver and thy Bow,  
Did I plead Nonage in thy sight,  
Fond Boy, that thou shouldst use me so?   

I was not born of Stygian race,  
Against the Gods I ne'er made War,  
Nor did thy Temples ere deface,  
Or blemished Venus with a Scar.   

It was not I that took the pains  
Her secret Love for to discover,  
And bound her in Cyclopean Chains,  
Caressing her Licentious Lover.   

How came it then that thou shouldst make  
So strange a love my Heart to seize,  
And give new vigour to the Snake  
Which was before content to freeze?   

Didst thou at random shoot a Dart,  
Directed by no certain slight,  
To see if thou couldst hit a Heart  
Which did thy Childish Godhead slight?   

Or art thou like some Idle Lad,  
Whom no delight can e'er content,  
But in a humour raging mad,  
Throws stones into the Element?   

If so, a Rod is fitter far  
For to correct thy Childish will,  
And thousand petty Gods there are  
Can draw thy Bow, yet never kill.   

But I Blaspheme, great God of Hearts,  
Thou didst this thing, that thou mightst try  
With what a strength thy powerful Darts  
Force Love against Antipathy.    

On his viewing a Fragment of the Old James.  
THis piece of Wood, which now doth lie  
Neglected by each passer by,  
Not for so base a use designed,  
Did once despise the Waves and Wind.  
This was a Member of that Frame  
That once did bear great James' his Name;  
Within whose bulk there did embark  
More Souls than Creatures in the Ark;  
And unto cruel Death did drive  
Far more than Noah saved alive.  
His wide-mouthed Cannon oft did make  
The Watery Region to quake;  
And frighted Neptune from his Seat,  
Whilst his shrill Tryton blue Retreat.  
The quondam raging Waves did sly,  
And left the Neighbouring Ocean dry.  
His Warlike sides with fire and smoke  
Did oft the drunken Dutch provoke;  
And made the modish French to find  
The difference 'twixt Smoke and Wind.  
Yet now, in midst of all his State,  
His Glory he resigns to Fate;  
Like Hercules, (though jove his Sire)  
Yields to consuming Flames of Fire.  
This makes the English Proverb sound,  
Who's born to hang, shall ne'er be drowned.  
For whom the Waves could never tyre,  
Lies here at last, consumed by Fire.   

An Anagram on His Highness Jame's Duke of York and Albany.  
JAMES STUART. Anagram. A JUST MASTER.  

Epigram.  
I'LL boldly on, not fearing a disaster,  
If Life or Death can serve so Just a Master:    

Susana Witherell.  
Anagram. U are all Whitness.  

Epigram.  
SUch great Perfection reigns through all your Soul,  
You are all Whiteness, not one part is soul.   

Another.  
You are all Whiteness, rare perfection; hence  
Your very Name creates a Quintessence.   

An Acrostic.  

So Sweet, so Good, so Virtuous, and so Fair!  
United Forces still most powerful are.  
Such conquering Charms do in your Eyes appear,  
As gives new Luster to the Hemesphere;  
Nature in you performed her utmost skill,  
Allowing privilege to save or kill;   

Who can resist the Dictates of your will?  
Interiour motions from your Beauty rise,  
Teaching me love, which you alone despise;  
How can you be so cruel for to slay  
Each minute, that which doth your will obey?  
Reprieve's in vain, when Death hath sealed the Fate,  
Ever be cruel, pity'll come to late.  
Like Niobe I'll mourn, and my last breath,  
Like Swans, shall sing the Omen of my Death.     

A Song to Lucifer.  

WHy dost thou thus delay,  
O Lucifer, to usher in the day?  
Sluggard, I know thy fear;  
Thou knowst my Clelia will then appear,  
Whose blessed and heavenly sight  
Will doom thy Light unto Eternal Night.   

Nor shall we need the Sun,  
Bid him unto the lower World return,  
And with his Beams of light  
Expel from the Abyss the Queen of Night;  
For from my Clelias' Eyes  
Proceed such Rays as doth all Light surprise.   

Nor shall we need the Powers  
Of Moon, or Stars, or Hail, or Snow, or Showers;  
For whilst on Earth she stays,  
With her more glorious and refulgent Rays,  
Proceeding from her Eyes,  
Gives Birth to all, and Nature's course supplies.   

But when she please to sly  
From Earth to Heaven, and be enthroned on high,  
And there look down on Men,  
The Golden Age shall Visit Earth again;  
And all the World shall be  
Blest with its Primitive Fecundity.    

To the King's most Excellent Majesty.  
OF mighty jove I lately asked a Boon,  
Which, like a God, he granted me as soon  
As I could ask; and gave me this Command,  
Go, and receive it at thy Prince's Hand,  
Great Charles, to whom the World shall Homage pay,  
The Dutch, the French, the Spaniards all obey;  
Whose mighty Fleets shall from the Indies bring  
Spice, Pearls, and Gold, as Presents to the King.  
Thou needest not doubt, thy wants he'll soon supply,  
From his so unexhausted Treasury.  
No more he said, the God I strait adored,  
With Hecatombs of Thanks his Altar stored;  
And big with expectation to receive  
The promised Gift, I thought my King would give.  
Some Days, some Weeks, some Months I spent in vain,  
Each moment full of hopes of promised gain;  
And still my want increased. I therefore then  
Swore ne'er to trust a Heathen God again,  
But to my Sovereign my wants declare,  
Whose Clemency shall suit unto my Prayer.  
Thus shall th' admiring World perceive the odds  
Between our Christian Kings, and Heathen Gods.   

A Song.  

FRom Salamis when Teucer fled,  
And left his Country, then  
With Poplar Boughs he Crowned his Head,  
And all his Warlike Men;   

And with a Bowl of fragrant Wine  
With Bacchus did caress,  
Drowning their Souls in Muscadine,  
Joyed with such happiness.   

So let us like Immortal Souls  
Our life in pleasure spend,  
Quassing our time in lusty Bowls,  
Which never shall have end.   

Thus shall we make the Powers above  
To envy our delight,  
And Cupid, Prince and God of Love,  
To Revel all the Night.   

Thus shall we make the Gods despise  
The sweet and pleasant taste  
Of Nectar, which they once did prize,  
Drank by Immortal Race.   

Thus each of us shall be a Star,  
And with the Gods combine  
In their Divinity to share,  
As they shall in our Wine.   Frange toros, Pete vina, rosas cape, tingere nardo.  

Dido's Expostulation.  
THey say, that Souls departed, first must run  
To Styx, and so unto Elysium.  
They tell me wonders, and they likewise show  
Th' Immortal Pleasures of the Shades below.  
I dare not trust loud Fame, but, if I might,  
My wand'ring Soul should pass to Styx this Night.  
Fond Heart, ne'er fear, undoubtedly 'tis so,  
Be resolute, for thou mayst safely go.  
Well, I'm resolved, and if that Fame doth lie,  
Let Fortune do her worst, I can but die.  
And now this Sword shall pass into my veins  
And ease my Heart of all my cruel pains;  
My vital Spirits saint, I come, I come,  
To my sweet rest, even to Elysium.   

Dido and Charon.  Did. 
A Boat, a Boat.  Ch. 
Who calls?  Did. 
Charon, 'tis I,  
A Soul drove by Immense extremity  
To leave the furious Earth, and now am come  
To thee, to row me to Elysium.  Ch. 
What is thy Name?  Did. 
Dido, who just now swayed  
Thy Sceptre, Carthage, who great Kings obeyed.  Ch. 
What brought thee hither? freely now relate  
The real cause of this thy sudden Fate.  Did. 
Make no delay, sweet Charon, pity me,  
Involved by Fate in this Calamity.  Ch. 
Thou canst not pass, 'tis vain for thee to strive,  
The God's command, and I cannot connive.  Did. 
O Cruelty! then must I tell the cause?  
I have transgressed the great Commands and Laws  
Of the just Gods, thus to anticipate  
The desperate force of my too rigid Fate.  Ch. 
What was the motive?  Did. 
Love.  Ch. 
The Gods forbid.  
Would such a thing from Mortal Race were hid?  
O 'twas not Love, but Glory and Revenge,  
And had not Fate commanded such to range  
A hundred years on this side Styx, my Boat  
Ere now had been as tattered as my Coat.  Did. 
Charon.  Ch. 
I cannot stay, but must be gone,  
And leave thee here most sadly to bemoan  
Thy desperate folly, with those Shades that fly  
Like numerous Troops of Atoms in the Sky.  Did. 
But where is then Sichaeus?  Ch. 
Pish, he's free  
From all those troubles that attend on thee;  
He's in Elysium.  Did. 
What can he rest,  
When I with sorrow am so much oppressed?  
Let not the burden of my grief exceed.  Ch. 
This is enough to make the Rocks to bleed,  
And Gods relent.  Did. 
My very Soul doth swell,  
My Heart doth burn worse than the Flames of Hell;  
My Princely Power is gone, where's Honours now,  
Those regal Titles that did crown my Brow?  Ch. 
Honour! there's no such thing, the meanest Slave  
Is equal to a Queen when in the Grave.  
Here's no distinction, Kings and Princes all  
Must bear that equal Sentence that shall fall  
Upon them, for their bad or good intent,  
Firmly enacted by Heaven's Parliament.  
Sub tua purpurei venient vestigia Reges  
Deposito luxu: turbaque cum paupere mixti  
Omnia mors equat, etc.   

AN envious, angry, sluggish, drunken Lover,  
His Passion, and his Vice at once discover;  
A vicious Passion quickly will discover  
An envious, angry, sluggish, drunken Lover;  
A sluggish drunken Lover in a trice  
Discovers both his Passion and his Vice;  
His anger and his envy quickly be  
Disclosed by Wine, In Wine is Verity.  
Desire of sloth, and lust of Wine may prove  
An Antidote against the power of Love;  
Anger and Envy, in one Breast confined,  
Love ne'er will stumble at, though Love is blind.  
Who e'er to Wrath or Envy will give place,  
May he ne'er meet with any chaste Embrace.  
Those that to Sloth and Wine addicted be,  
May live with Epicurus, not with me.   

The Confidence of a Just Man.  
NO Savage Tyranny, no desperate War,  
No cruel Fortune, nor unlucky Jar,  
No trembling Earthquake, nor the Potent Hand  
Of thundering jupiter, whose high command  
Doth claim obedience, no, not if the frame  
Of Nature were involved in the same,  
And the whole Fabric by disorder brought,  
Should be converted suddenly to nought;  
Like hopeless Wretches, it could never fright  
My Heart, and make me tremble at the sight;  
Nor could it shake the Castle of my Soul,  
That's fortified beyond such weak control.  
My Valiant Heart ne'er sears the scorching Sun,  
Nor the strange Operations of the Moon;  
No Comet hath the power to make me fear,  
Not though his Beard portend a Famine near,  
Or Pestilence, or Sword, or what is worse,  
All Heavenly Influence turned into a Curse.  
For what are these, but secondary things,  
And in the Hands of the great King of Kings,  
Who can dispose of us, and all of these,  
Not as we would, but as himself does please?  
Si fractus illabatur orbis  
Impavidum ferient ruinae.   

On the Death of Mr. William Goffe., late Gallant to the Lady Willoughby yeoman's, killed by Richard Love.  
HOw, Goffe. forsook her! 'tis as true as may be,  
He has took distaste, and so has left my Lady.  
This should not be, for Ladies have such Art,  
When they have got possession of a Heart,  
They know their forces, and with cunning sway,  
No Heart can mutiny or disobey.  
Some say he's dead. This than will end the strife,  
Death robbed my Lady, as she robbed his Wife.  
By what rude Hand was it that he did fall?  
By Love. O mighty Love, thou conquer'st all!  
Hast thou again mistake? has Death and thee  
Been conversant and changed Artillery?  
Reclaim thy Error, see what thou hast done,  
Give Death his Arrows, and take thou thy own.  
Ah Madam, now where were those powerful Charms  
That should have kept your Lover in your Arms?  
Come tell me, Venus, is not Love your Son,  
The same with Cupid? Then what has he done?  
O he has slain thy Mars, and Arms put on  
Would fright Achilles and his Myrmodons;  
But yet methinks your Lover should not die,  
Death sure cannot resist a Lady's Eye.  
Go touch his liveless Corpse, and when that's done,  
The Tyrant needs must give you what's your own  
But that Dame 
Mr. Gosss Wife.  Baucis will put in a Plea,  
E'en take him Death, for he belongs to me:  
Unless to share him, you have got the Art,  
Half for my Lady, Death take Baucis part;  
As the Twin Stars by turn shine in the Sky,  
One day he shall survive, the next day die.  
But we have found a better way than this,  
Madam, my Lady, or what else you please,  
Shall put on all her Ornaments and Gear,  
Step down to Hell, and find her Lover there;  
There intercede with Proserpina the Queen,  
And if she can but him from thence redeem,  
She shall in partnership no longer be,  
But by this means gain the Monopoly.  
Now Orpheus for a Women once did so,  
She for a Man, will make it quid for quo.  
But here perchance you'll say, 'tis basely done,  
Thus to insult upon a Lady's wrong.  
Which I'll deny, for many in your sight,  
Do think far worse than I intent to Write;  
And though they do not speak, their thoughts are free:  
A secrets worse than open Enemy:  
But I am neither. Death's severer Brow,  
Presents his Image, that I write of now,  
And to my thoughts most sadly does discover  
The grief that you conceive for such a Lover.  
But this does most of all my passion move,  
That he who lived by Love, should die by Love.  
But I have done, lest this should give offence,  
My Ne plus ultra makes a recompense.   

A Lover's Complaint.  
AH fainting Breath, there's nought can yield relief  
Unto a wounded Soul, whose murmuring grief  
Loves no delay, but like the rising Sun,  
Still perseveres until his course is done.  
What shall I speak? or what can I devise?  
I'll rather die, than once Apostatise.  
Nor shall my panting Breath your shade defame,  
I'll honour you, and Idolise your Name;  
And though at last you scorn me till I die,  
I needs must love you to Eternity.   

Love in Ambiguity.  
WHy should I urge my Love, since that I know  
Her Merit's great, and my Deserts as low?  
My thought's as high as his who did aspire  
To climb the Chariot of Etherial Fire;  
And rashly perished, such has my fault been,  
His was the King of Light, and mine the Queen.  
I fond thought, Prometheus-like, to steal  
The heavenly Flame her Beauty does conceal;  
And for my Error feel the raging smart,  
Which Vulturelike does seed upon my Heart.  
Pardon my rashness, mighty Queen of Hearts,  
And thou great God of Love, whose piercing darts  
No Medium knows, but either help or kill,  
Must I the Number of thy victims fill?  
O play not with my Heart, as Children do  
With some poor Bird, which while they love, they show.  
One overweening grasp of life bereaves,  
And in a moment all the joy deceives.  
But why do I thus deprecate in vain,  
Hoping for what I never can obtain?  
Alas! unworthy Wrecth, too great a sire  
Has on a sudden kindled thy desire  
Beyond thy Fortune; as some Country Wight,  
Who never knew the Wars, or how to fight,  
Talks Big or Stoutly, and resolves to try  
His ne'er proved Courage on the Enemy;  
But when he sees the adverse Host draw nigh,  
And now or never all his Manhood try,  
He throws his Arms away, resolves to yield,  
And like a Vassal quits the ne'er sought Field;  
Just so did I, my actions, thoughts, and all,  
Let all objections in a moment fall;  
Until your Heavenly Beauty I did see,  
Alas! too strong an Enemy for me.  
At the first sight I yielded Heart and Will,  
Lady, to be at you Devotionr still.  
Among the many Trophies than that wait  
Upon your Beauty, let it be my Fate,  
Or rather Fortune, since it cannot be  
Counted a Bondage, where the Body's free,  
But why the Body? Body, Heart, and Mind,  
Unto your Beauty are alike confined,  
Are either fixed, or move by your direction;  
Yet proud, in being Vassals to Perfection.   

Echo to the Painter, out of Ausonius.  
ALas! fond Painter, why dost strive to grace  
An unknown Goddess with a fancied Face?  
I am the Daughter of the Tongue, and Wind,  
An empty Mother, Voice without a Mind.  
I dying sounds fetch back with living tone,  
And others mock with Words that are my own.  
I in thy Ears my Habitation found,  
And if thou meanest to paint me, paint a Sound.   

A Dialogue between an Aethiopian, and a White Virgin.  Vir. 

AFfright me not, you urge your suit in vain;  
More Fear than Love your Hellish looks have bred.  
Eternal terror seize you for your pain;  
Think you I'll take a Devil to my Bed?   

Go Court the Darkness, Wed thyself to Night;  
Fry in your Sands, and search for grains of Gold;  
O Sun, how canst thou thus behold a sight  
That will thy glorious beams in darkness fold!   

Sure thou art Pluto, ugly infernal Prince,  
Be gone, I say, be gone to the Divine  
And Beauteous Creature thou didst ravish hence,  
The lovely, Fair, and Charming Proserpina.   Eth. 

Whitest of Whites, more lovely than the day,  
Which from the East in radiant beams appears,  
More lovely to my sight than Cynthia,  
Which twice six times a year her Beauty clears,   

Despise me not because that I am black;  
The Sun you speak of lies so near our Land,  
We have him in our Face, you on your Back;  
Nay, sometimes with him we walk Hand in Hand.   

Since than that he who the whole World surveys,  
Doth deal his Blessings with partiality,  
You he does warm, us scorcheth with his Rays;  
Your Beauty works the like effect on me.   Vir. 

My Beauty, Slave! stop that presumptuous word;  
Shall such a Harpy ever speak my Name?  
Does Earth another Cacus yet afford?  
What was I born to be a sport to Fame?   

Thou art that brand the fatal Sisters threw  
Into the Fire at Meleager's Birth,  
Which half consumed, in haste Althaea drew  
Out of the Flame; be gone, thou Son of Earth▪   Eth. 

Alas! too cruel Nymph, despise me not;  
A Slave I am, but unto none but you.  
Whiteness in you none counteth as a spot;  
And in our Black lies our chief glory too.   

The Day is pleasant unto every sight,  
And all men praise the glory of the Sun;  
Yet when 'tis gone, how soon they hug the Night,  
And sleeping, in its sable Bosom run.   

'Tis only Fancy moves the Sphere of Love;  
No Colour wards, where Cupid shoots his dart;  
Thou God, who all things with thy power dost move,  
With one small touch O wound this Virgin's Heart;   

That she who doth thy Power so much despise,  
May quickly by experience learn to know,  
Thou only giv'st those leave to Tyrannize  
That pay submission to thy Conquering Bow.   

Observe the Rainbow, view the Colours there,  
Looks it not pleasant unto every Eye?  
Diversity of Colours makes it fair:  
Discord in Music makes an Harmony.  
Since than that I am Black, and you are Fair,  
What a sweet Babe may come from such a pair?    

An Epitaph.  
UPon this Marble Stone forbear to tread,  
Or to deface the Relics of the Dead;  
Yet Read, and so let fall a Tear in Verse,  
To pay Devotions to his mourning Hearse.  
Here's Virtue laid, and Piety lies slain,  
Who the three Graces shall revive again:  
Those Powers Immortal, who in Heaven do shine  
That Trinity, although One God Divine,  
Shall raise his Body glorious from the Dust,  
Who in his Maker did repose that trust.   

The Lover's jubilee.  
'TWas Evening when the Sun's departure made  
The open grounds a comfortable shade;  
When walking forth to view the fragrant Fields,  
The sweet variety that Flora yields,  
Near to a Myrtle Grove a Cave I spied,  
By which a pleasant Stream did gently glide:  
Amidst the Grove an ancient Altar stands,  
Almost defaced by irreligious hands.  
This I repaired, and said, O Goddess, now,  
Who e'er thou art, receive my sacred Vow,  
And grant my Suit, and let some pity move  
In Clelia's Heart a more propitious Love.  
Offerings by me shall ever be repaid  
Upon this Altar, though by time decayed,  
And Man's ingratitude. Then looking round,  
I spied an Ivory Image on the ground.  
Hail Power, said I, what impious hand hath done  
So vile an Act? who would such honour shun?  
I washed it in the Stream, and to it said,  
Ah beauteous Image, fair Pigmaleon Maid:  
Then gazing on it, where a Fillet tied  
The Ivory Hair, this Motto I espied;  
In Honour of the mighty Cyprean Goddess.  
O thou Illustrious Queen of Love, said I,  
What Hand could do this great Impiety?  
What Impious Creature was it durst profane  
Thy sacred Shrine? O Sin without a Name!  
Against a Myrtle by the Altar stood  
The Goddess Seat, Arched round with Carved Wood,  
There I the Image set, and having laid  
My Hand upon the Altar, thus I prayed.  
Great Paphian Goddess, Cytherean Shrine,  
Whose presence, I acknowledge, is Divine.  
If to this Grove or Altar I have done  
Ought Meritor'ous, or have favour won,  
Let Love to all more mild and gentle be,  
And cease to punish Man's Impiety.  
A thousand Lovers shall this Grove frequent,  
And offer Odours of the purest scent.  
The Shepherds that possess the Vales shall bring  
Their Sheep-hooks crowned to thee an Offering.  
The Altar shook, the Myrtles seemed to move,  
Resounding murmuring Notes of happy Love.  
Celestial Music did salute my Ears,  
When lo, the God of Love to me appears,  
And says, Young Man, this Bow my hand doth hold,  
Le's sly no Arrow, but the Head is Gold.  
Thy Prayer is heard, the Goddess is appeased,  
And every Lover of his pain is eased.  
No Jealousy or Fears shall now torment  
A Lover's Joy, or ravish his Content.  
The fairest Nymphs, whose Beauty wins the Bays,  
Shall sing Encomiums of her Lover's praise.  
The fairest Shepherdess (for Love hath Charms)  
Shall fold a naked Shepherd in her Arms;  
Fair Daphne playing on a rural Quill,  
Both Hills and Dales with Corydon shall fill,  
And Corydon shall Woods and Springs possess  
With praises of his Loving Shepherdess.  
Love's mutual Sympathy shall Crown the Year,  
And thou whose Heart doth Love's Idea bear,  
Shalt in thy Clelia find a quick return,  
Who, in thy absence, flames of Love do burn:  
And e'er the Sun the Horizon decline,  
Her beauteous Body shall be joined to thine.  
This said, he lightly from the Altar Springs,  
And Fans the sounding Grove with towering wings.  
Then on a sudden, through my swelling Veins  
Loves passion glides, and all my Bones inflames;  
And having gained the Conquest of my Breast,  
Reigns Monarch there, and scorns to be suppressed,  
The Goddess then adoring, I a way  
Espied, which 'twixt the Shrine and Altar lay:  
This path I followed, Fortune was my guide,  
And led me all along the River side,  
Where Multitude of Lovers did resort,  
Filling the Fields with all delightful sport.  
Some in the stream their tender Limbs unite,  
Like Salamacis and Hermaphrodite;  
Others upon the ground so closely lie,  
You'd take them for the Zodiac Geminy.  
One's plaiting Garlands, ' tother's twisting Boughs,  
Commixed with Flowers, to bind her Lovers brows.  
One's braiding of the Hair, another tries  
With pleasant Songs to close her Lovers Eyes.  
This seeming coy, a thousand pretty ways  
Her eager Lover to her Arms betrays.  
That skilled in nothing, but pure Innocence,  
Thinks to delay her Lover's an offence.  
O happy place! said I, and down I lay  
Upon a rising ground that did survey  
The posture of each Lover, when from far  
A Lady came, just as a rising Star.  
The lighter Vestments that her parts enfold,  
Were Azure Silk, and interweaved with Gold;  
Her Hair was braided, dressed with Ribbons; so  
Iris appears, dressed in her mantling Bow.  
A Silver Veil her beauteous Face did shade,  
So fine, you'd say 'twas by Arachne made.  
The emulous Winds her swelling Garments kiss,  
Which to my view betrayed a Lover's Bliss.  
I gazed, not able to revert my Eyes  
From Love's great Charms, and sacred Novelties:  
Thy Fate, Act on, than I did bemoan,  
And feared it instantly might be my own;  
But as she nearer came unto my view,  
My doubts were cleared, and I my Clelia knew;  
I ran to meet her, when her eager steps  
Prevents my speed, and in my Arms she leaps;  
Clasping I laid me gently on the ground,  
Millions of kisses their successors found.  
I ruffled up her Silks which kept the way  
Unto the Paradise where Cupid lay;  
She made resistance, such as might be said,  
Thou shalt enjoy, and yet I'll die a Maid.  
Her Eyes declared her Pleasure and Content,  
And what she did was out of Compliment.  
What thought can know the Pleasures I enjoyed?  
Immortal Pleasures, never to be cloyed.  
But till in modest terms I can express  
My full fruition, you have leave to guests.  
We bound our Brows with Myrtle, and teturned  
Unto the Grove, and sweetest Odours burned;  
We decked the Shrine with Garlands, and this day  
For ever we our Annual Rites will pay;  
And unto every Lover this shall be  
(Great Paphian Queen) a joyful Jubilee.   

On Love.  
Loves' Charms all humane force do sway,  
And Monarches do his Power obey.  
Nor is there any can resist,  
He makes them Love, and when he list,  
No place prescribed, now here, now there,  
The surest place is any where.   

A Song.  

COme, let's to the Tavern be gone,  
The day does begin to decline,  
All the time we do lose  
We basely abuse  
The longing desire of Wine.   

Boy, call up your Ladies of Pleasure,  
No Stoic with us shall tarry,  
we'll drink all the Night  
And take our delight,  
Let Sectary Dreamers marry.   

Come, fill the Glass full to the Brim,  
Though jove our Pleasure opposes,  
Our Palates 'twill please  
And expel all Disease,  
And inflame our frolic Reposes.   

We laugh at the madness of those  
Who heap up a Mass of Treasure,  
We hate a base Miser,  
But we will be wiser,  
And confound all our Riches in Pleasure.   

Thus, like Gods, we'll have pleasure in store,  
And our Wine shall roar in like the Waves,  
And in spite of pale Death,  
That destroyer of Breath,  
We'll keep Revellings yet in our Graves.    

The Surrender.  
I Yield, dear Enemy, nor now  
Can I resist so sweet a Brow;  
For who would not a slave remain,  
On whom thou please to lay thy Chain?  
For with such love thy Yoke I take,  
As Martyrs that embrace a Stake.  
Now since I own this great defeat,  
Command thy Forces to retreat,  
And veil those charming looks, from whence  
My Ruin comes, by Innocence:  
And since I yield myself your Slave,  
Let Beauty, which the conquest gave,  
Not triumph in the vanquished foil,  
Or glory in your Captives spoil.  
The noble Lion in his rage  
Disdains his Forces to engage  
Against a prostrate Worm, from whence  
His valour can have no pretence:  
Such honours always did pursue  
The Roman Valour as their due:  
And since that you have now put on  
The Courage of an Amazon,  
An Angel's Beauty, such a form  
May glorified Saints adorn;  
May all their Virtues take a place  
To grace thy Heart as well as Face,  
And in thy Breast some pity plant,  
The only Good that thou dost want:  
Thus shall my Chain more gentle prove,  
Supported by the Wings of Love.   

I love a Lass that will not wed,  
Yet vallues not her Maidenhead;  
That is not peevish, proud, nor poor,  
That scorns the Title of a Whore;  
That can both Dance, and Sing, and Quass,  
And, in what ever humour, Laugh;  
Who swears by Fate, she'll not abuse  
What Nature gives her leave to use;  
Yet to a Friend will not be coy,  
But give him leave for to enjoy  
What he desires, so he'll conceal  
Those hidden Pleasures which they steal.  
She is not such as stand without,  
And call to every rabble Rout,  
Crying, Turn in, thou honest Fellow,  
Until their— is grown so mellow,  
That even the Pox would scorn to dwell  
In such a loathsome nasty Cell.  
A vengeance take such Whores as these,  
〈◊〉 are far worse than the Disease;  
I cannot guests but their descent  
Was from some nasty Excrement;  
Else could they ne'er infect the Earth  
With Plagues, but from so base a Birth.   

A Dream.  
WHen Titan hasted from his heavenly Sphere,  
And Thetis modest Blushes did appear;  
Grown weary with the fervour of the day,  
Upon the Banks of a cool Brook I lay;  
The shallow Stream soft murmuring did yield,  
A whistling Zeph'rus cooled the heated field;  
The Birds in Trees with their melodious Throats  
Prattled the discord of divided Notes.  
The Hills the sound repelled, the Virgin Voice  
To every accent lent a parting Noise.  
The Grasshopper (whose shriller voice repairs  
The smallness of his kind) with pleasant Airs  
Made all the Fields to ring, such harmony  
Proceeded from th' Innumerable Fry.  
I fancied this to be th' Elysian Groves,  
The happy Paradise of all chaste Loves;  
And wished my Clelia here, when happily  
A silent slumber closed my twinkling Eye.  
Behold, the God of Dreams before me stood,  
And with his Leaden Wand he smoothed the flood,  
And brushed the whistling Winds, which forthwith lay  
Upon the ground as Dews that fall in May.  
A gen'ral silence covered all the place,  
And on my Head he laid his drowsy Mace;  
Earth seem to vanish, Heaven for to descend,  
A hundred Thrones one Goddess did attend,  
Who in a Rainbow Robe, commixed with Rays,  
Such as Sol wears when he the World surveys,  
Enters the Palace; from her sparkling Eye;  
Proceeded Love, and awful Majesty.  
A Throne there was, Twelve Lions did uphold,  
Set round with Amethysts in beaten Gold.  
The steps were Crowns, Sceptres, and Diadems,  
Rubies, and Saphires, and commixed Gems.  
The Goddess this ascends, whose heavenly Face  
Did quite eclipse the lustre of the place;  
Millions of Cupids, in their Liveries,  
Attend the motion of her sparkling Eyes.  
A Herald than the Goddess will proclaims,  
And summons all who burn with Love's fierce Flames  
T' appear before the Throne. Without delay,  
Innumerable Troops her will obey.  
And here 'twas worthy of one's observation,  
To see each Mimic fool it in his station.  
One in an antic posture leads a Dance,  
And swears each step is Alamode de France;  
Tother more solid, walks a State-Corant,  
And Pedigreed Antiquity doth vaunt.  
The next a puling Lover, forward steers,  
His Eyes deject, distil abundant Tears,  
Complaining of his cruel Fate, to move  
In some base Punk a more auspicious love;  
A bragging, roaring Russian next appears,  
Who talks of desolation, racks and fears;  
Affrights his Love, who he doth strive to gain,  
And thinks Bellona one of Venus' train.  
Some aged Fools I saw among the rest,  
Who time of every Sense did quite divest;  
Shaking their hoary Heads, in their esteem,  
As Complaisant as when they were Sixteen;  
Protesting Love, in such a doleful strain,  
As Ghosts are wont who Visit Earth again.  
But that which moved me most, was for to see  
My Brother Poets senseless foolery.  
Loaden with Anagrams, Acrostics, time  
Was never spent in cobbling of such Rhyme:  
Some weep in Elegy, and Epitaph,  
Whose Nonsense well might cause the dead to laugh;  
Others more Jocund, Songs and Catches make,  
And sure they are, that every Clause will take.  
And in a word, though all was but delusion,  
It was the perfect Map of mere confusion.  
The Goddess smiled, (as well she might) to see  
The true adorers of her Deity  
So much deluded by each Idle Passion,  
Which was by custom grown into a fashion;  
And gave Command, for 'twas her will and Pleasure,  
Which rashly broke, they might repent at leisure,  
That none should Court in any other sort  
Then what was used when Mars and she did sport;  
Think you, said she, that Peleus e'er had sped  
So happily in Thetis pregnant Bed,  
Who oft by varying forms she did delude,  
If not by force he had her charms subdued?  
Did not th' Infernal Prince ascend from Hell,  
To Lights abode, where Gods and Men do dwell,  
And took thy Daughter, Ceres, to Command  
The utmost limits of th' Infernal Land?  
Yes, Proserpina was fair, a Goddess too,  
What cannot Love, that mighty Monarch, do?  
Think you that jove, Father of Gods and Men,  
Had e'er enjoyed Agenor's lovely Gem,  
If not by Policy made his escape,  
And then confirmed his Passion with a Rape?  
And thousands more were won after this fashion,  
Not courted with an Idle whining passion.  
Fortune assists the bold, who Courts by Letter  
Is counted modest, yet thought ne'er the better;  
For Women love those that are brisk and free,  
And hate the lazy Lover's Pedantry.  
If they slight you, do you but then slight them,  
The Women soon will learn to Court the Men:  
Did not the Beauteous Echo Court in vain  
The self admiring Boy, who with disdain  
Her love repaid, did not Medea woe  
The Emonean Prince with love and Magic too?  
And Sylla too, by Impious love misled,  
Her Father slew, to gain just Minos' Bed;  
And both herself and Purple Hair did bring  
Pledges of love, unto the Cretan King.  
And Dido, whilst her love she did pursue,  
The Trojan Prince to her embraces drew.  
'Tis only Custom makes them claim as due  
The Adoration that belongs to you;  
Your servile Yoke of passion quickly break,  
And put in practice what you hear me speak.  
They all assent, and wisely did approve  
The wholesome Counsel of the Queen of Love,  
And so departed: when a pretty Lass,  
Which in the dark might for my Lady pass,  
Gave me a kiss, and to me smiling said,  
She thought the Grass as good as any Bed;  
I hugged a wholesome Girl in my esteem;  
So waked, and vexed, I found it but a Dream.   

To the Honourable Jonathan Atkins, Governor of the Barbadoss.  
WIth joy like ours the mighty Roman State  
Their Capitolean Triumphs celebrate.  
Sing Io Paeans for their Victory,  
And Trophies bring, great God of War, to thee.  
Yet we to you Great Sir, will Trophies bring  
Of Peace, a more delightful Offering.  
Our Woods shall ring, whilst we bring Myrtle Boughs,  
Commixed with Bays, to crown your sacred Brows.  
And thou Daphnean Laurel too shall join  
Thy verdant Leaves, which shall his Temples twine.  
Ceres, Pomona, Flora, all shall bring  
The Glories of the Summer, Autumn, Spring.  
The great Survey or of the East, and West  
Shall fire the Spices of the Phoenix Nest;  
And Jove's great Bird shall in her Talons bring  
The living Phoenix as an Offering;  
Iris to both the Poles her Bow shall tie,  
Whose particoloured Robes adorn the Sky.  
The spangled Orbs their glory shall dispense  
Upon this Isle, with sacred Influence.  
All things shall strive to add some glory to  
This Fertile Isle, that's Governed by you,  
Even senseless things: And shall I silent sit,  
And slear at all, for to be thought a Wit,  
Like many Foppish Gallants now adays?  
No, I'll present you with this sprig of Bays.  
Inspire my Muse, thou sacred God of Verse,  
Whilst in Heroic Numbers I rehearse  
The glory, safety, and the blessed content,  
Depends, Great Sir, upon your Government.  
The Rich, the Poor, the Strong, the Impotent,  
Each in his Station reaps a blessed content.  
The Rich his Land and Cattle doth obtain,  
The Poor Man reaps the fruit of all his pain,  
The strong Man's strength is curbed from Tyranny;  
The weak ne'er fears his angry Enemy.  
Here no Man falls by cruel hand of War,  
Nor raging Tumults terrify from far;  
But here in safety every man does lie,  
Reaping the joys of such Tranquillity.  
Vive le Roy. Great Charles, thou didst foresee  
This Countries good, and Longed for Liberty.  
Great jonathan our David well did know,  
On whom his Love and Honour to bestow;  
Else had this Isle ne'er seen this happy time,  
More Fertile by your presence, than the Clime.  
O happy Island! O Thrice happy Land,  
Whose Regiment is given to your Hand▪  
Rule as you please, those Powers that reign above  
Inspire your Soul with a paternal Love;  
Infusing in our Heart's Obedience still,  
Governing all our Actions by your William.  
O mibi tam longe maneat pars ultima vitae  
Spiritus, & quantum sat erit sua dicere facta  
Non me carminibus vincet nec Thracius Orpheus,  
Nec Linus.   

On the Nine Muses, out of Ausonius.  
CLio relates things done, and gives the time;  
Melpomene delights in Tragic Rhyme;  
Thalia sport's it in lascivious Verses,  
Euterpe sweet and pleasant things reherses;  
Terpsichore with Harps the mind inspires;  
Erato dancing most of all desires;  
Calliope brave Deeds to Books commits;  
Urania to Astronomy submits;  
Polhymnia describes with hand and gesture  
In midst of these, Apollo most Divine  
With his diffusive Spirit cheers the Nine.   

To Clelia.  
HEiress of love, and glory of the Time,  
Angelic Beauty shining in your Prime;  
Thus Gods in ancient times did terrify  
Poor Mortals by approaching Deity,  
As when you show the lustre of your Eye;  
Whose high Majestic grace, when looked upon,  
Doth cause an awful adoration.  
Never did Egypt Apis worship more,  
Offering their lives, than we do you adore;  
The Sunburnt African, of sable hue,  
Worships the Moon, and thinks it may be you.  
The Persian, the Sun, and thinks he spies  
The glory only proper to your Eyes.  
But we enlightened by that glorious light  
Would make a Sunshine in the darkest Night,  
Do really adore that high persection  
Which they enjoy but only by reslexion.  
Fair Clelia, then give me but leave to say,  
I shall no more delight to see the day,  
Than see you happy, which shall ever be  
The greatest happiness can come to me.   

On the undaunted Courage of a Shipwrackt Captain.  
HArk how the roaring Winds, (great God of Thunder,)  
Exalt the briny Floods, to tear a sunder  
Our well rig'd Vessel riding on the Main,  
Whose lofty threatened Pendant does disdain  
Proud Neptune's angry Power, and awful wrath,  
Dashing the boldest of his Waves to Froth.  
Which when the King of Floods with anger saw,  
His awful Trident scorning to withdraw,  
He summoned all the Waves, and did implore  
The Eolean aid, which made the Winds to roar.  
Now like to Mountains rise the Waves on high,  
Tossing the nimble Vessel to the Sky;  
Then by a great descent she falls again  
Into the gaping Bowels of the Main.  
No voice is heard, in vain they spend their Breath,  
Two Elements at once conspire their Death.  
The Mariners are stupisied with fear,  
The skilful Pilot knows not how to steer.  
The Ocean boils, and, to augment the rage,  
The Winds from every Point the Floods engage.  
Heaven's face is covered with a Veil of Night,  
The Thunder bearing Clouds ejected Light  
From all Parts flies, and in this wretched state,  
Presents to all an unavoided Fate.  
Which when the Captain saw, he gazed a while,  
To see their manly Courage thus recoil;  
And with more Power than Neptune, which doth sway  
His wat'ry Trident, which the Waves obey,  
His loud Imperial voice commands a peace,  
Whose Echo stops the Waves, and makes them cease.  
Or like fierce Mars, with an undaunted mind,  
As if their God the wat'ry Realm did bind,  
He cuts the smiling Ocean, and does stand  
As the Supreme that Governs Sea and Land.  
Now by this time a frighted Wave appears  
At Neplune's Court, relating all their fears;  
Telling, some mighty God usurped his Seat,  
And all the Waves lay prostrate at his Feet.  
The Sea-green God all in a rage appears,  
And the shrill Triton's Visage anger bears;  
The Mermaids skip and dance about the Boat,  
Which Seamen say does dreadful Storms denote,  
And so it was. The Misty Shades of Night  
All on a sudden robbed 'em of the Light.  
The Heavens began to roar, the Waves arise,  
Dashing their briny Floods against the Skies.  
The Captain strives in vain the Ship to save,  
While on each side appears a threatening Grave.  
There's no cessation, Waves the Waves outvies,  
And threaten Heaven with their batteries.  
What should they do, poor men? their Courage fails,  
And all their hopes are shattered as their Sails.  
They all stand stupefied, like senseless stocks,  
Whilst the crazed Vessel's dashed against the Rocks.  
The Captain then, with a Courageous motion,  
‛ Leaps in the raging Bowels of the Ocean,  
And with his threatening Sword he cuts the Waves,  
The raging Floods with Valour he outbraves;  
And swimming to the Shoar, his Sword he shakes,  
Whereat the roaring Sea retires and quakes.  
But all his men, alas! like silly Sheep,  
Sink to the bottom of the swelling Deep.  
Yet he's ne'er daunted, his firm Soul stands fast  
Upon its Basis, steadfast to the last.  
What Noble Hero ever could do more  
Than be o'er Land and Sea a Conqueror?   

To his Verses.  
Go tell my fair, that I  
Must let her know I love, or die.  
Nor can the knowledge be  
Enough, O no, she too must pity me.  
Alas! What did I say?  
Is pity all that she must pay?  
No, she must yet do more,  
Love me as much as I adore,  
And join in One these Three,  
Know, Love, and Pity me.   

On Parson Andrew's, Parazitical Sermon to Mr. Evans, Mayor of Shaston.  
WHere is this Boanerges, that dares batter  
The Church's Faith, and in a Pulpit slatter?  
Who fears not both in Sermon and in Prayer▪  
For to delude Our Worshipful the Mayor,  
And make the People think, if he were able,  
That he in all things is Infallible?  
Let him do what he will, it does appear,  
He must be one of God's Vicegerents here.  
Believe him but in this, and next you then  
Must both believe in Mayor and Aldermen,  
And add it to your Creed; and than you may  
Say Mass, and to the Fur-gowned Idol Pray;  
And thus he puts a slur upon the Nation,  
And brings it off, This Ancient Corporation.  
This ancient Corporation's not so blind,  
But see the Wallet of his faults behind;  
And hold it for a true and Christian Canon,  
The Parson cannot serve his God and Mammon:  
But Andrew's sham-Apostle thought in Meeter  
Something to say in praise of Simon Peter.  
Nor will his Plea excuse him, though he say,  
'Tis Oratoria licentia.   

On a Wife.  
OUt, or I burst! What damned confounded spell  
Made Orpheus run to fetch a Wife from Hell?  
What was it moved that madness in his Breast?  
He by a Legion surely was possessed  
Of master-Devils. Had he loved the Pox,  
And all the Plagues were in Pandora's Box,  
Embraced all Vice, though loathsome and impure,  
Heaven might in pity yet afford a Cure.  
But when they come to that licentious life,  
To fawn, and hug, and dote upon a Wife,  
There's no Salvation for such cursed Elves,  
They may, like judas, go and hang themselves.  
Had Adam ne'er seen Eve for to entice,  
He doubtless yet had lived in Paradise.  
That cursed Satanick Engine, not content  
To damn herself to endless punishment,  
Enticed our Father Adam for to eat  
The fruit of Life, and Death inflicting meat.  
And ever since each cursed jezabel  
Has led her Husband the right way to Hell.  
O rare advice to job! why dost retain  
Thy foolish Righteousness so long in vain!  
Lo, the reward of all thy Piety!  
Take thy Wife's Counsel, curse thy God and die.  
Counsel so good, who could not choose but take,  
Though not for Hells, yet for his poor Wife's sake?  
Damned Monster, couldst thou find no other way  
Than this, thy righteous Husband to betray?  
Can e'er a Man expect a moment's rest,  
That hugs so cursed a Viper in his Breast.  
Woman brings Woe, 'tis true, her very Name  
An adjunct is of Sorrow unto man;  
Let her be fair or foul, airy or dull,  
Peevish or pleasant, kind or unnatural;  
She's but the Devils bait for to trepan  
Poor, fond, uxorious, and silly Man.   

Naides, Draides, Hymen, Orpheus, Eurydice.  Naides. 

O Hymen, come away,  
Frame no excuses for a longer stay;  
For hand in hand  
The Lovers stand,  
And think each hour a year  
Until thy tedious Godhead does appear.   Dra. 

Great God of Nuptual Rites,  
Orpheus and his Eurydice invites  
Thee to their Feast,  
Which shall be blest  
With mutual Joy, if thou appear,  
And cause a general Mirth throughout the year.   Hym. 

Shame on your ugly haste,  
That thus disturbs and calls away so fast,  
In Stygian damp  
They have dipped my Lamp,  
Yet may the Omen be  
Far from my Orpheus and Eurydice.   Chorus. 

Far be the Omen, we  
Do hope from him, and his Eurydice.  
Ye Gods that hear  
What we prepare,  
Our Sacrifice and Song,  
Where Beasts and Trees shall caper in a throng.   Orph. 

What over tedious stay,  
My fair Eurydice does thus betray?  
The slying hours,  
Whose mutual powers,  
Lest they too slow appear,  
Take Cupid's Wings, and hasten from their Sphere.   Eurid. 

The time I think misspent  
That robs my Orpheus of the least content.  
A Lover's fear  
Is always near;  
Yet shall thy Beauteous praise  
Appear more blest, cause thou didst Tantalise.   

A Song by Orpheus.  
Poor Tantalus, I pity thee,  
Who Court'st the Wave, and Wooest the Tree;  
The water slides just as he sips,  
And so avoids his amorous Lips;  
The Golden Fruit his lust entice,  
Which he would taste at any price:  
But Fare resists his strong desires,  
For whilst he gapes, the Fruit retires;  
What fault, alas! could this deserve,  
In midst of plenty thus to starve?  
Thou art like a Miser▪ clothed in Rags,  
Whilst he sits brooding o'er his Bags.  
And dares not touch aught of his store,  
But is in midst of plenty Poor.   Hym. 

Hail to the lovely pair,  
For whose sweet sake I hither made repair,  
Firmly to lie  
In Amity,  
Beauty and Love, which be  
Comprised in Orpheu's and Eurydice.   Orph. 

Welcomer than the day,  
Hymen, what was the cause of this delay?  
Couldst thou find out  
A cause of doubt,  
Or thought that there might be  
In either of us Mutability?   Hym. 

Brave Prince of Poets, no;  
By this delay I strove to let you know  
Some cruel Fate  
Does on you wait,  
Which all your Pleasure banes,  
Fast bound by Fate in Adamantine Chains.   Orph. 

The Gods with ease afflict  
Poor Mortals, who their power can't contradict;  
And we adore  
That power the more,  
And herein surely trust,  
If we but once are good, that they are just.   Eurid. 

None but the Guilty fear,  
And what they fear, 'tis Justice they should bear:  
Let nothing cause  
A farther pause,  
But in this Temple join  
Two Hands, Two Hearts, which Fate cannot untwine.   Hym. 

Goddess of Hearts,  
Before whose Throne  
With equal parts  
Two and yet One  
Themselves present,  
To the intent  
That thou mayst ever be  
Propitious to their Love and Amity.   

Grant their Requests,  
Let lasting Peace  
In mutual Breasts  
Ever increase;  
And may they prove  
True as the Dove,  
And may they also be  
Enriched with a most numerous Progeny.   

For by this Light,  
And Altars fume,  
Which in thy sight  
We here consume,  
Thou ne'er didst bless  
With happiness  
Two Lovers that will prove  
More great in Merit, or more true to Love.   Chorus. 

Let pleasing smiles  
And mutual Joy  
The time beguile,  
And never cloy.  
Let pleasant Themes,  
In gentle Dreams,  
Increase their generous fire,  
And kindle Flames that never shall expire.   Hymen. 

The Goddess frowns, and with dejected Eyes  
Seems slightly to regard our Sacrifice.  
One of the Turtles which the Offering were,  
Died on the Altar, ere I made my Prayer.  
The Tapers shone but with a heavy light,  
One sputtering Blue, resigned his Flame to Night.   Orpheus. 

The Gods deep wills are seldom known,  
Till put in Execution;  
And 'twere a folly to lament  
A certain doom none can prevent;  
Then why should we capitulate  
With what recorded is by Fate?   Eurydice. 

The power of Fate cannot our love control,  
And fear's too base for any generous Soul;  
The Gods, who in a higher Orb do move,  
May take our lives, but never wrong our Love.  
Let's then like Turtles sitting on a Tree,  
Wait for the Hawk would catch us if we flee.    
FINIS.   

THE TABLE.  

A.  
A Wealthy Tuscan Priest, of no mean note. Page. 23.  
Alas poor Infant, Death was too severe. Page. 30.  
Assist my Muse, thou gravest of the Nine. Page. 45.  
As in the Ocean on a Summer's day. Page. 50.  
A sure Foundation makes a Building stand. Page. 67.  
Ah lovely fair, can you so cruel be. Page. 68  
Admired Beauty, whose victorious Eyes. Page. 76.  
An Anagram and Epigram on James D. of York. Page. 83.  
An Anagram, Epigram, and Acrostic on Su. W. Page. 84.  
A Boat, a Boat. Page. 89.  
An envious, angry, sluggish, drunken Lover. Page. 91.  
Ah fainting Breath, there's nought can yield relief. Page. 95.  
Alas, fond Painter, why dost strive to grace. Page. 97.  
Affright me not, you urge your suit in vain. Page. 98.   

B.  
Before some Famine, Pestilence, or War. Page. 32.  
Beauteous Hersilia, those that rule above. Page. 73.   

C.  
Coy Clelia, veil those Charming Eyes. Page. 7.  
Come my dear Love into this Grove. Page. 27.  
Cilex, a Thief, much noted for his crime. Page. 71.  
Come le's to the Tavern away. Page. 106.  
Clio relates things done, and gives the time. Page. 116.   

D.  
Divinest Creature, to whose heavenly brow. Page. 50.  
Dost thou not see this Picture set. Page. 59   

F.  
Fair and yet cruel! sure it cannot be. Page. 17.  
Farewell to pleasure and to fond delight. Page. 41.  
Fair Clelia, didst thou know. Page. 66.  
Farewell my scornful Female Saint. Page. 80.  
From Salamis when Tucer fled. Page. 87.   

G.  
Go, tell her that I love. Page. 8.  
Go mournful sigh, haste to my fair. Page. 52.  
Go dull Mechanic, whose infective pride. Page. 70.  
Go tell my fair that I. Page. 102.   

H.  
Hail ancient Brother, what is in thy mind. Page. 13.  
Hail sacred Woods, and all ye rural Gods. Page. 24.  
How, Gosse forsook her! 'tis as true as may be. Page. 93.  
Heiress of Love, and glory of the time. Page. 106.  
Hark how the raging Winds (Great God of Thunder.) ibid.   

I.  
If that this Book without command. Page. 6.  
If that extortion, fraud and strage. Page. 12.  
I will not tell her that she's fair. Page. 16.  
I have drank too much Lethe of late. Page. 18.  
I thank you, worthy Sir, your good advice. Page. 21.  
Just as I lived, just so I died. Page. 26.  
In times of old, when Kings did not disdain. Page. 53.  
I yield, dear Enemy, nor now. Page. 107.  
I love a Lass that will not wed. Page. 108.   

L.  
Lelaps my Lady's Dog, must sit at meat. Page. 35.  
Love's Charms all humane force doth sway. Page. 105.   

M.  
My Genius hurried by that haste. Page. 10.  
Meek, kind, and good, could I relate. Page. 15.  
Mirror of Beauty, from whose conquering Eyes. Page. 20.  
My Friend John Clement another's day. Page. 60.   

N.  
No Savage Tyranny, no desperate War. Page. 91.   

O.  
O Garden, unto me more blest. Page. 1.  
Of mighty Jove I lately asked a Boon. Page. 86.  
Out or I burst, what damned confounded spell. Page. 121.  
O Hymen come away. Page. 123.   

R.  
Render your heart, or give mine again. Page. 26.  
Restore my wounded heart, dear Love. Page. 61.   

S.  
Shall still my suit prove vain? then bid me die. 71.  
Sweet Vesper being the Night. 63.  
So strange a distemper I ne'er yet did know. 72.   

T.  
The crafty Thief may rob thee of thy store. 9  
Think not, fair Madam, that your high disdain. 19  
The Sons of Pompey yielded up their breath. 22.  
They say Ulysses by his art. 24.  
Tell me, thou pale-faced Empress of the Night. 43.  
'Twas at the time when Phoebus with his rays. 47.  
The Snow's dissolved the grassy Fields grown green. 64.  
To thee, O Wood, I make my moan. 76.  
The Fetters of love are far stronger than hate. 79.  
This piece of Wood which now doth lie. 82.  
They say that Souls departed first must run. 88  
'Twas Evening when the Sun's departure made. 101.   

U.  
Venus, I oft have heard thy Name. 61.  
Venus of Souls, whose hand controls. 69.  
Upon this Marble stone forbear to tread. 100   

W.  
Where's absent Clelia. 4.  
What makes the Frontiers of the sable Night. 42.  
What ails the Poet, what a new desire. 37.  
When baldpate Winter with his hoary head. 39  
What makes the trembling Hare the Lion fly. 36.  
Why dost thou thus delay. 85.  
Why should I urge my love, since that I know. 95.  
When Titan hasted from his heavenly Sphere. 109.  
With joy like ours the mighty Roman State▪ 113.  
Where is this Boanerges, that dares batter. 102.   

Y.  
Te powers above, and ye Celestial ones. 31▪   
FINIS.