POEMS On several OCCASIONS.  
WRITTEN By CHARLES COTTON, Esq  
LONDON, Printed for Tho. Basset, at the George 〈…〉   

THE TABLE.  

ODE to Celia. Pag. 1.  
The Expostulation. 3.  
Sonnet. 5.  
The Tempest. 6.  
Ode to Celia. 8.  
The Picture. 9  
Elegy. 11.  
Taking leave of Chloris. 16.  
Song. 19  
Resolution in four Sonnets of a Poetical Question, concerning four Rural Sisters. 21.  
2 Sonnet. 22.  
3 Sonnet. 23.  
4 Sonnet. 24.  
On my pretty Marten 26.  
The New Year, to Mr. W. T. 33.  
The joys of Marriage. 36.  
Ode to Love. 44.  
Song. 46.  
Elegy. 48.  
In Coccam Epig. de Monsieur Maynard. 50.  
Epig. writ in Calista's Prayer Book. 51.  
Song. 52.  
A Phillis. Madrigal. 54.  
Ode to Chloris. 55.  
Ode. 57  
To John Bradshaw, Esq 59  
Winter de Monsieur Marigny. 62.  
On Rutt, the judge. 66.  
On Sim and Simon. ibid.  
Virelay. 67.  
Madrigal. 68  
La Illustrissima, on my dear  
Sister Mrs. Ann King. ibid.  
Chanson a Boire. 74.  
The Angler's Ballad. 76.  
Epistle to John Bradshaw, Esq 82.  
Anacreontick. 88  
Burlesque upon the great Frost. 90.  
Clepsydra. 105.  
Eclogue. 108.  
To my dear Friend Mr. Isaac Walton. 144.  
To the Countess of Chesterfield, on the Birth of her first Son. 116.  
To Chloris. 118.  
Old Tityrus to Eugenia. 112.  
Epistle to John Bradshaw, Esq 126.  
Epistle to John Bradshaw, Esq 129.  
The Retirement. 133.  
Rondeau. 140.  
To Cupid. 141.  
Ode to Aelia. 143.  
Sonnet. 146.  
Stanzes de Monsieur Bertrand. 147.  
The Eighth Psalm paraphrased. 149.  
Advice. 152.  
Lyric, ●x Cornelio Gallio. Trans. 154.  
Amoretta in Masquerade. 156.  
Estreines to Calista. 162.  
Epigram de Mons. des Portes. 165.  
Epigram de Mons. Cotin. 166.  
Epigram de Mons. Maynard. 167.  
A Voyage to Ireland Burlesque. 168.  
Canto 2. 177.  
Canto 3. 188.  
The Storm to the Earl of— 199.  
Ode. 212.  
Paraphrased from An●creon. 217.  
Hymn on Christmas day. 219.  
Saphick Ode. 225.  
Morning Quatrains. 226  
Noon Quatrains. 233.  
The Night. 237.  
Evening Quatrains. 241.  
Night Quatrains. 243.  
Ode. 249.  
Ode de Monsieur Racan. 250.  
Contentation. 252.  
Sanzes de Mons. Scudery. 260.  
Melancholy. 263.  
Hope. 269.  
Epistle to the Earl of— 274.  
Beauty. Pindaric Ode in answer to Mr. Cowley. 280.  
Rondeau. 284.  
Woman. 285.  
The World. 291.  
Q. Cicero, de mulierum Levitate. 296.  
Ode Despair. 297.  
Sonnet. 299.  
Sonnet. 300.  
Sonnet. 301.  
Sonnet. 302.  
Poverty. 303.  
Death. 308.  
On the Death of the E. of Ossory. 314.  
Ode Bachique. 319.  
Epistle to Sir Clifford Clifton, then sitting in Parliament. 322.  
Contentment. 331.  
Epigram. 337.  
Scribere Jussit Amor. 338.  
Epigram. ibid.  
daybreak. 339.  
Song. 341.  
Forbidden Fruit. 342.  
The Picture. 344.  
On one who said he drank to clear his Eyes. 345.  
The Separation. 346.  
Another of the same. 348.  
On the great Eater of Gray's-inns. 349.  
Epitaph on Mrs. Ann Stanhope. 352.  
Song. 353.  
Epitaph on M. H. 354.  
The Retreat. 356.  
The Sleeper. 357.  
The Token. 359.  
Song. Montross. 360.  
Song. 361.  
A journey into the Peak▪ 363.  
New Prison. 365.  
Her Name. 367.  
Epitaph on Mr. Robert Port. 370.  
Song. ibid.  
Sir William Davenant to Mr. Cotton. 372.  
The Answer. 374.  
To Mr. John Anderson. 376.  
Les Amours. 380.  
Elegy. 382.  
Her Hair. 385.  
Song. 391.  
The Surprise. 392.  
The Visit. 395.  
Epigram. De Lupo. 398.  
On Upstart. ibid.  
Epitaph on Mrs. Mary Draper. 399.  
Coelia's Fall. 400.  
Eclogue. 403.  
Her Sigh. 407.  
Epitaph on Mr. Radcliff Stanhope. 409.  
On the Lord Derby. 411.  
On Marriot. 414.  
To Coelia's Ague. 418.  
A Valediction. 420.  
Love's Triumph. 425.  
A Rogue. 428.  
The Contest. 430.  
The False one. 432.  
Ode Valedictory. 434.  
To Mr. Lely, on his Picture of the Lady Isabel Thynn. 436.  
Ode to Chloris. 432.  
Taking leave of Chloris. 440.  
Ode. 443.  
Ode. 446.  
Ode. 449.  
An Old Man's Gift to a fair Lady. 451.  
In Amorem Medicum. 454.  
Ballad. ibid.  
On Annel-seed Robin. 457.  
Ode to Chloe. 458.  
Ode to Chloris from France. 460.  
An Invitation to Phillis. 463.  
The new Entertainment to Phillis. 467.  
Ode to Celia. 471.  
Ode to Cupid. 472.  
The Tempest. 474.  
The Litany. 476.  
To some Great Ones. 480.  
To the Memory of Richard Lovelace. 481.  
To Poet E. W. etc. 483.  
Dialogue. 485.  
Chorus. 491.  
Epitaph on Robert Port, Esq 492.  
To Cupid, a Foolish Poet, etc. 493.  
Philoxipeses & Policrite, etc. 497.  
To Mr. Alexander Broom. 511.  
On Tobacco. 514.  
Laura Sleeping. 519.  
Laura Weeping. 521.  
Sonnet. 524.  
Sonnet. 525.  
Sonnet. 526.  
Sonnet. 527.  
To Sir Aston Cockayne, on Captain Hannibal. 528.  
In imitation of a Song in the Play of Rollo. 529.  
To Sir Aston Cockayne, on his Tragedy of Ovid. 530.  
Epigram de die Martis & Veneris. 531.  
Ode to Love. 533.  
The Second Epod of Horace Translated. 536.  
Horat. Ode 9 Lib. 3. 540.  
Mart. Lib. 1. Epig. 20. 542.  
Stanzes de Mons. Theophile. ibid.  
Her Heart and mine. 545.  
Epig. to Charinus, out of Johannes Secundus. 546.  
Ode of Johannes Secundus Translated. 547.  
Epig. out of Hieron Amaltheus. 548.  
Love's World out of Astrea. 549.  
Mart. Epig. 84. Lib. 10. 553.  
Ep. 93. Lib 11. 553.  
Ep. 58. Lib 1. ibid.  
Ep. 48. Lib 1. 544.  
Ep. 65. Lib 1. ibid.  
Ep. 3. Lib 1. 555.  
Ep. 88 Lib 2. ibid.  
Ep. 9 Lib 3. 556.  
Ep. 28. Lib 3. ibid.  
Ep. 26. Lib 3. 557.  
Ep. 32. Lib 3. ibid.  
Ep. 52. Lib 3. 558.  
Ep. 78. Lib 4 ibid.  
Ep. 86. Lib 4. 559.  
Ep. 46. Lib 5. ibid.  
Ep. 44. Lib 5. 560.  
Ep. 32. Lib 7. ibid.  
Ep. 47. Lib 10. 561.  
Ep. 3. Lib 8. 562.  
Ep. 19 Lib 8. 563.  
Ep. 23. Lib 8. 564.  
Ep. 47. Lib 8. ibid.  
Ep. 21. Lib 8. 565.  
Ep. 35. Lib 8. 566.  
Ep. 53. Lib 8. ibid.  
Ep. 59 Lib 8. 567.  
Ep. 100 Lib 7. ibid.  
Ep. 41. Lib 8. 568.  
Ep. 103. Lib 11. ibid.  
Ep. 7. Lib 12. 569.  
Ep. 20. Lib 12. ibid.  
Horat. lib. 1. Carmin. Ode 8. ad Lydiam. 570.  
Epig. Johan. Secundo. 571.  
Tria Mala, ex eodem. ibid.  
Horat. Epod. 15. 572.  
Ode de Theophile. 573.  
Elegy de Theophile. 575.  
Madrigal, out of Astrea. 586.  
Upon the death of Cleon, out of Astrea. 582.  
Song of Hylas, out of Astrea. 586.  
Sonnet, out of Astrea. 590.  
A Paraphrase. 591.  
An Essay on Buchanan's first Book de Sphaera. 592.  
Cornel. Galli. Eleg. 1. 594.  
Epig. ex Catullo. 608.  
De Catella Publ. Mart. Epig. 100 lib. 1. 610.  
Echo ad Pictorem Ausonii Epig. 611.  
De Myrone & Laide Auson. Epig. 612.  
De Vita beata, paraphrased from the Latin. 613.  
Epig. de Monsieur Maynard. 615.  
Ode de Monsieur Racan. 618.  
Epig. Tho. Mori, de Luxu & Libidine. 623.  
Idem in Avarum. 624.  
Idem in Digamos. ibid.  
Stanzes de Mons. de Scudery. 625.  
Epitaph Monsieur Maynard. 628.  
On Cation a Dwarf, etc. 629.  
Epig. de Mons. Maynard. 630.  
Idem in Coccam. ibid.  
Idem in Coccam. 631.  
Epig. de Mons. Maynard. 632.  
The sixth Ode of Horace's Ist. Book of Lyrics. ibid.  
Epig. de Mons. Corneille. 634.  
Epig. de Mons. Cotin. 635.  
Epig. de Mons. de Bensuarade. 636.  
Madrigal on Queen Dido Trans. i●●d.  
Sede d'Amore, from Cavalier Guarini. 637.  
Foco di Sdegno, from Guarini. 638.  
Risposta del Tasto. 639.  
Winter. 640.  
An Elegy on the Lord Hastings. 655.  
The Battle of Yury. 657.    

POEMS On several Occasions.  
To Celia.  
ODE.  

I.  
GIve me my heart again (fair Treachery)  
You ravished from me with a smile,  
Oh! let it in some nobler quarrel die  
Than a poor Trophy of your guile.  
And Faith (bright Celia) tell me, what should you,  
Who are all Falsehood, do with one so true?   

II.  
Or lend me yours awhile instead of it,  
That I in time my skill may try,  
Though ill I know it will my bosom fit,  
To teach it some Fidelity;  
Or that it else may teach me to begin  
To be to you what you to me have been.   

III.  
False and imperious Celia, cease to be  
Proud of a Conquest is your shame,  
You triumph o'er an humble Enemy,  
Not one you fairly overcame.  
Your eyes alone might have subdued my heart,  
Without the poor confed'racy of Art   

iv  
But to the power of Beauty you must add  
The Witchcraft of a sigh and tear  
I did admire before, but yet was made  
By those to love; they fixed me there:  
I else, as other transient Lovers do,  
Had twenty loved e'er this as well as you.   

V  
And twenty more I did intent to love,  
E'er twenty weeks are past and gone,  
And at a rate so modish, as shall prove  
My heart a very civil one:  
But oh, (false fair!) I thus resolve in vain,  
Unless you give me back my heart again.    

The Expostulation.  

I.  
HAve I loved my Fair so long,  
Six Olympiads at least,  
And to Youth and Beauties wrong,  
On Virtue's single Interest,  
To be at last with ceorn oppressed?   

II.  
Have I loved that space so true,  
Without looking once awry,  
Lest I might prove false to you,  
To whom I vowed Fidelity,  
To be repaid with Cruelty?   

III.  
Was you not, oh sweet! confess,  
Willing to be so beloved?  
Favour gave my Flame increase,  
By which it still aspiring moved,  
And had gone out, if disapproved.   

iv  
Whence then can this change proceed?  
Say; or whither does it tend?  
That false heart will one day bleed,  
When it has brought so true a Friend  
To cruel and untimely end.    

Sonnet.  

WHat have I left to do but die,  
Since Hope, my old Companion,  
That trained me from my Infancy,  
My Friend, my Comforter is gone?   

Oh fawning, false, deceiving Friend!  
Accursed be thy Flatteries,  
Which treacherously did intent  
I should be wretched to be wise:   

And so I am; for being taught  
To know thy guiles, have only wrought  
My greater misery and pain:   

My misery is yet so great,  
That, though I have found out the Cheat,  
I wish for thee again in vain.    

The Tempest.  

I.  
STanding upon the margin of the Main,  
Whilst the high boiling Tide came tumbling in,  
I felt my fluctuating thoughts maintain  
As great an Ocean, and as rude, within;  
As full of Waves, of Depths, and broken Grounds,  
As that which daily laves her chalky bounds.   

II.  
Soon could my sad Imagination find  
A Parallel to this half World of Flood,  
An Ocean by my walls of Earth confined,  
And Rivers in the Channels of my Blood:  
Discovering man, unhappy man, to be  
Of this great Frame Heaven's Epitome.   

III.  
There pregnant Argosies with full Sails ride,  
To shoot the Gulfs of Sorrow and Despair,  
Of which the Love no Pilot has to guide,  
But to her Sea-born Mother steers by Prayer,  
When, oh! the Hope her Anchor lost, undone,  
Rolls at the mercy of the Regent Moon.   

iv  
'Tis my adored Diana, then must be  
The Guid'ress to this beaten Bark of mine,  
'Tis she must calm and smooth this troubled Sea,  
And waft my hope over the vaulting Brine:  
Call home thy venture Diana then at last,  
And be as merciful as thou art chaste.    

To Celia.  
ODE.  

I.  
WHen Celia must my old day set,  
And my young morning rise  
In beams of joy so bright as yet  
Ne'er blessed a Lover's eye,  
My State is more advanced, than when  
I first attempted thee;  
I sued to be a Servant then,  
But now to be made Free.   

II.  
I've served my time Faithful and True,  
Expecting to be placed,  
In happy Freedom, as my due,  
To all the Joys thou hast:  
Ill Husbandry in Love is such  
A Scandal to Love's power,  
We ought not to misspend so much  
As one poor short-lived hour.   

III.  
Yet think not (Sweet) I'm weary grown,  
That I pretend such haste,  
Since none to surfeit e'er was known,  
Before he had a taste;  
My Infant Love could humbly wait,  
When young it scarce knew how  
To plead; but, grown to Man's estate,  
He is impatient now.    

The Picture.  

I.  
HOw, Chloris, can I e'er believe  
The Vows of Women kind,  
Since yours I faithless find,  
So faithless, that you can refuse  
To him your shadow, that to choose  
You swore you could the substance give?   

II.  
Is't not enough that I must go  
Into another Clime,  
Where Feather-footed Time  
May turn my Hopes into Despair,  
My youthful Dawn to bristled Hair,  
But that you add this torment too?   

III.  
Perchance you fear Idolatry  
Would make the Image prove  
A Woman fit for love;  
Or give it such a soul as shone  
Through fond Pigmalion's living stone,  
That so I might abandon thee.   

iv  
O no! 'twould fill my Genius room,  
My honest one, that when  
Frailty would love again,  
And, failing, with new objects burn,  
Then, Sweetest, would thy Picture turn  
My wand'ring eyes to thee at home.    

Elegy.  

GOds! are you just, and can it be  
You should deal man his misery  
With such a liberal hand, yet spare  
So meanly when his Joys you share?  
Durst timorous Mortality  
Demand of this the reason why?  
The Argument of all our Ills  
Would end in this, that 'tis your Wills.  
Be it so then, and since 'tis fit  
We to your harsh Decrees submit,  
Farewell all durable content,  
Nothing but woe is permanent.   

How strangely, in a little space,  
Is my State changed from what it was,  
When my Clorinda with her Rays,  
Illustrated this happy place?  
When she was here, was here, alas!  
How sadly sounds that, when she was!  
That Monarch ruled not under sky,  
Who was so great a Prince as I:  
And if who boasts most Treasure be  
The greatest Monarch, I was he▪  
As seized of her, who from her Birth  
Has been the Treasure of the Earth:  
But she is gone, and I no more  
That mighty Sovereign, but as poor,  
Since stripped of that my glorious trust,  
As he who grovels in the dust.   

Now I could quarrel Heaven, and be  
Ringleader to a Mutiny,  
Like that of the Gygantick Wars,  
And hector my malignant Stars;  
Or, in a tamer method, sit  
Sighing, as though my heart would split;  
With looks dejected, arms across,  
Mourning and weeping for a loss  
My sweet (if kind as heretofore)  
Can in two short-lived hours restore.   

Some God then, (sure you are not all  
Deaf to poor Lovers when they call)  
Commiserating my sad smart,  
Touch fair Clorinda's noble heart  
To pity a poor sufferer,  
Disdains to sigh, unless for her!  
Some friendly Deity possess  
Her generous Breast with my distress!  
Oh! tell her how I sigh away  
The tedious hours of the day;  
Hating all light that does not rise  
From the gay Morning of her eyes:  
Tell her that Friends, which were to be  
Welcome to men in misery,  
To me, I know not how, of late  
Are grown to be importunate:  
My Books which once were wont to be  
My best beloved Company,  
Are (save a Prayer-book for Form)  
Left to the Canker or the Worm:  
My Study's Grief, my Pleasure Care,  
My Joys are Woe, my Hope Despair,  
Fears are my Drink, deep Sighs my Food,  
And my Companions Solitude.   

Night too, which Heaven ordained to be  
Man's chiefest Friend's my Enemy,  
When she her Sable Curtain spreads,  
The whole Creation make their beds,  
And every thing on Earth is blessed  
With gentle and refreshing Rest;  
But wretched I, more pensive made  
By the addition of that shade,  
Am left alone, with sorrow roar  
The grief I did but sigh before;  
And tears which, checked by shame and light,  
Do only drop by day, by night  
(No longer awed by nice respects,)  
Gush out in Floods and Cataracts.  
Ill life, ah Love, why is it so!  
To me is measured out by woe,  
Whilst she, who is that life's great light,  
Conceals her Glories from my ●ight.  
Say, fair Clorinda, why should he  
Who is thy virtue's Creature be  
More wretched than the rest of men  
Who love and are beloved again?  
I know my passion, not desert,  
Has given me interest in a heart,  
Truer than ever Man possessed,  
And in that knowledge I am blessed;  
Yet even thence proceeds my care,  
That makes your absence hard to bear;  
For were you cruel, I should be  
Glad to avoid your cruelty;  
But happy in an equal flame,  
I, Sweetest, thus impatient am:  
Then since your presence can restore  
My heart the joy it had before,  
Since liberal Heaven never gave  
To Woman such a power to save,  
Practise that Sovereign power on one  
Must live or die for you alone.    

Taking leave of Chloris.  

I.  
SHE sighs as if she would restore  
The life she took away before;  
As if she did recant my doom,  
And sweetly would reprieve me home▪  
Such hope to one condemned appears  
From every whisper that he hears:  
But what do such vain hopes avail,  
If those sweet sighs compose a gale,  
To drive me hence, and swell my sail?   

II.  
See, see, she weeps! Who would not swear  
That love descended in that tear,  
Boasting him of his wounded prize  
Thus in the bleeding of her eyes?  
Or that those tears with just pretence  
Would quench the fire that came from thence?  
But oh! they are (which strikes me dead)  
Crystal her frozen heart has bred,  
Neither in love nor pity shed.   

III.  
Thus of my merit jealous grown,  
My happiness I dare not own,  
But wretchedly her favours wear,  
Blind to myself, unjust to her  
Whose sighs and tears at least discover  
She pities, if not loves her Lover:  
And more betrays the Tyrant's skill,  
Than any blemish in her will,  
That thus laments whom she doth kill.   

iv  
Pity still (Sweet) my dying state,  
My flame may sure pretend to that,  
Since it was only unto thee  
I gave my life and liberty;  
However my life's misfortune's laid,  
By love I'm pity's object made.  
Pity me then, and if thou hear  
I'm dead, drop such another tear,  
And I am paid my full arrear.    

Song.  

I.  
FIe pretty Doris! weep no more,  
Damon is doubtless safe on shore,  
Despite of wind and wave;  
The life is Fate-free that you cherish,  
And 'tis unlike he now should perish  
You once thought fit to save.   

II.  
Dry (Sweet) at last, those twins of light,  
Which whilst eclipsed, with us 'tis night,  
And all of us are blind:  
The tears that you so freely shed,  
Are both too precious for the Dead,  
And for the Quick too kind.   

III.  
Fie, pretty Doris! sigh no more,  
The Gods your Damon will restore,  
From Rocks and Quicksands free;  
Your wishes will secure his way,  
And doubtless he, for whom you pray,  
May laugh at Destiny.   

iv  
Still than those Tempests of your breast,  
And set that pretty heart at rest,  
The man will soon return;  
Those sighs for Heaven are only fit,  
Arabian Gums are not so sweet,  
Nor Offerings when they burn.   

V  
On him you lavish grief in vain,  
Can't be lamented, nor complain,  
Whilst you continue true:  
That man's disaster is above,  
And needs no pity, that does love  
And is beloved by you.    

Resolution in four Sonnets, of a Poetical Question put to me by a Friend, concerning four Rural Sisters.  

Sonnet. I.  
ALice is tall and upright as a Pine,  
White as blaunched Almonds, or the falling Snow,  
Sweet as are Damask Roses when they blow,  
And doubtless fruitful as the swelling Vine.   

Ripe to be cut, and ready to be pressed,  
Her full cheeked beauties very well appear,  
And a year's fruit she loses every year,  
Wanting a man t'improve her to the best.   

Full fain she would be husbanded, and yet,  
Alas! she cannot a fit labourer get  
To cultivate her to her own content:   

Fain would she be (God wots) about her task,  
And yet (forsooth) she is too proud to ask,  
And (which is worse) too modest to consent.   

Sonnet. II.  
MArg'ret of humbler stature by the head  
Is (as it oft falls out with yellow hair)  
Than her fair Sister, yet so much more fair,  
As her pure white is better mixed with red.   

This, hotter than the other ten to one,  
Longs to be put unto her Mother's trade,  
And loud proclaims she lives too long a Maid,  
Wishing for one t'untie her Virgin Zone.   

She finds Virginity a kind of ware  
That's very very troublesome to bear,  
And being gone, she thinks will ne'er be missed:  
And yet withal the Girl has so much grace,  
To call for help I know she wants the face,  
Though asked, I know not how she would resist.   

Sonnet. III.  
Marry is black, and taller than the last,  
Yet equal in perfection and desire,  
To the one's melting snow, and tother's fire,  
As with whose black their fairness is defaced:   

She pants as much for love as th'other two,  
But she so virtuous is, or else so wise,  
That she will win or will not love a prize,  
And but upon good terms will never do:   

Therefore who her will conquer aught to be  
At least as full of love and wit as she,  
Or he shall ne'er gain favour at her hands:  
Nay, though he have a pretty store of brains,  
Shall only have his labour for his pains,  
Unless he offer more than she demands.   

Sonnet. iv  
MArtha is not so tall, nor yet so fair  
As any of the other lovely three,  
Her chiefest Grace is poor simplicity,  
Yet were the rest away, she were a Star.   

She's fair enough, only she wants the art  
To set her Beauties off as▪ they can do,  
And that's the cause she ne'er heard any woe,  
Nor ever yet made conquest of a heart:   

And yet her blood's as boiling as the best,  
Which, pretty soul, does so disturb her rest,  
And makes her languish so, she's fit to die.   

Poor thing, I doubt she still must lie alone,  
For being like to be attacked by none,  
Sh'as no more wit to ask than to deny.    

On my pretty Marten.  

COme, my pretty little Muse,  
Your assistence I must use,  
And you must assist me too  
Better than you use to do,  
Or the Subject we disgrace  
Has obliged us many ways.  
Pretty Matty is our Theme,  
Of all others the supreme;  
Should we study for't a year,  
Can we choose a prettier?  
Little Mat, whose pretty play  
Does divert us every day,  
Whose Caresses are so kind,  
Sweet, and free, and undesigned,  
Meekness is not more disarming,  
Youth and modesty more charming;  
Nor from any ill intent  
Nuns or Doves more innocent:  
And for Beauty, Nature too  
Here would show what she could do;  
Finer Creature ne'er was seen,  
Half so pretty, half so clean.  
Eyes as round and black as Slow,  
Teeth as white as morning Snow;  
Breath as sweet as blowing Roses,  
When the Morn their leaves discloses,  
Or, what sweeter you'll allow,  
Breath of Vestals when they vow,  
Or, that yet doth sweeter prove,  
Sighs of Maids who die for Love.  
Next his Feet my praise commands,  
Which methinks we should call hands,  
For so finely they are shaped,  
And for any use so apt,  
Nothing can so dexterous be,  
Nor fine handed near as he.  
These, without though black as Jet,  
Within are soft and supple yet  
As Virgin's Palm, where Man's deceit  
Seal of promise never set.  
Back and Belly soft as Dawn,  
Sleeps which peace of Conscience crown,  
Or the whispers Love reveal,  
Or the kisses Lovers steal:  
And of such a rich perfume,  
As, to say I dare presume,  
Will out-ravish and out-wear  
That of th' fulsome Milliner.  
Tail so bushy and so long,  
(Which t'omit would do him wrong)  
As the proudest she of all  
Proudly would be fanned withal.   

Having given thus the shape  
Of this pretty little Ape,  
To his Virtue's next I come,  
Which amount to such a sum,  
As not only well may pass  
Both my Poetry and Dress  
To set forth as I should do't,  
But Arithmetic to boot.   

Valour is the ground of all  
That we Mortals Virtues call;  
And the little Cavalier  
That I do present you here,  
Has of that so great a share,  
He might lead the World to war.  
What the Beasts of greater size  
Tremble at he does despise,  
And is so composed of heart,  
Drums nor Guns can make him start:  
Noises which make others quake,  
Serve his Courage to awake.  
Libyan Lions make their Feasts  
Of subdued Plebeian Beasts,  
And Hyrcanian Tigers pray  
Still on Creatures less than they,  
Or less armed; the Russian Bears  
Of tamer Beasts make massacres.  
Irish Wolves devour the Dams,  
English Foxes prey on Lambs.  
These are all effects of course,  
Not of Valour, but of Force;  
But my Matty does not want  
Heart t'attack an Elephant.  
Yet his Nature is so sweet,  
Mice may nibble at his feet,  
And may pass as if unseen,  
If they spare his Megazine.  
Constancy, a Virtue then  
In this Age scarce known to men,  
Or to Womankind at least,  
In this pretty little Beast  
To the World night be restored,  
And my Matty be adored.  
Chaste he is as Turtle Doves,  
That abhor adult'rate Loves;  
True to Friendship, and to Love,  
Nothing can his Virtue move,  
But his Faith in either given.  
Seems as if 'twere sealed in Heaven.  
Of all Brutes to him alone  
Justice is, and Favour known.  
Now is Matty's excellence  
Merely circumscribed by sense,  
He for judgement what to do  
Knows both good and evil too,  
But is with such virtue blessed,  
That he chooses still the best,  
And wants nothing of a Wit  
But a Tongue to utter it:  
Yet with that we may dispense,  
For his Signs are Eloquence.  
Then for Fashion, and for Mien,  
Matty's fit to court a Queen;  
All his motions graceful are▪  
And all Courts outshine as far  
As our Courtiers peakish Clowns,  
Or those peaknils Northern Loons,  
Which should Ladies see, they sure  
Other Beasts would ne'er endure;  
Then no more they would make suit  
For an ugly pissing-coat  
Rammish Cat, nor make a pet  
Of a bawdy Mamoset.  
Nay, the Squerrel, though it is  
Pretty'st Creature next to this,  
Would henceforward be discarded,  
And in Woods live unregarded.  
Here sweet Beauty is a Creature  
Purposely ordained by Nature,  
Both for cleanness and for shape  
Worthy a Fair Lady's lap;  
Nor her Bosom would disgrace,  
Nor a more beloved place.   

Live long, my pretty little Boy,  
Thy Master's Darling, Lady's Joy,  
And when Fate will no more forbear  
To lay his hands on him and her,  
Even then let Fate my Matty spare,  
And when thou diest then turn a Star▪    

The New-year.  
To Mr. W. T.  

HArk, the Cock crows, and you, bright Star,  
Tells us the day himself's not far;  
And see where, breaking from the night,  
He guilds the Western hills with light.  
With him old janus does appear,  
Peeping into the future Year  
With such a look as seems to say  
The prospect is not good that way  
Thus do we rise ill sights to see,  
And against ourselves to Prophesy,  
When the Prophetic fear of things  
A more tormenting mischief brings,  
More full of Soul-tormenting Gall  
Than direst mischiefs can be●all.   

But stay! but stay! methinks my sight,  
Better informed by clearer light,  
Discerns sereneness in that brow,  
That all contracted seemed but now:  
His reverse face may show distaste,  
And frown upon the ills are passed;  
But that which this way looks is clear,  
And smiles upon the Newborn year.  
He looks too from a place so high,  
The year lies open to his eye,  
And all the moment's open are  
To the exact discoverer;  
Yet more and more he smiles upon  
The happy revolution.  
Why should we then suspect or fear  
The Influences of a year  
So smiles upon us the first morn,  
And speaks us good so soon as born?   

Pox on't! the last was ill enough,  
This cannot but make better proof;  
Or at the worst, as we brushed through  
The last, why so we may this too;  
And then the next in reason should  
Be superexcellently good:  
For the worst ills we daily see,  
Have no more perpetuity  
Than the best Fortunes that do fall;  
Which also bring us wherewithal  
Longer their being to support,  
Than those do of the other sort;  
And who has one good year in three;  
And yet repines at Destiny,  
Appears ingrateful in the case,  
And merits not the good he has.   

Then let us welcome the new guest▪  
With lusty Brimmers of the best;  
Mirth always should good Fortune meet,  
And renders even disaster sweet:  
And though the Princess turn her back,  
Let us but line ourselves with Sack,  
We better shall by far hold out,  
Till the next year she face about.    

The joys of Marriage.  

HOw uneasy is his Life  
Who is troubled with a Wife!  
Be she ne'er so fair or comely,  
Be she ne'er so foul or homely,  
Be she ne'er so young and toward,  
Be she ne'er so old and froward,  
Be she kind with arms enfolding,  
Be she cross and always scolding,  
Be she blithe or melancholy,  
Have she Wit or have she Folly,  
Be she wary, be she squandring,  
Be she stayed, or be she wand'ring▪  
Be she constant, be she fickle,  
Be she fire, or be she ickle,  
Be she pious or ungodly,  
Be she chaste or what sounds oddly:  
Lastly, be she good or evil,  
Be she Saint, or be she Devil;  
Yet uneasy is his Life  
Who is married to a Wife.   

If fair she's subject to temptation,  
If foul her self's 's solicitation,  
If young and sweet she is too tender,  
If old and cross no man can mend her,  
If too too kind she's over clinging,  
If a true scold she's ever ringing,  
If blithe find Fiddles, or y'undoe her,  
If sad then call a Casuist to her,  
If a Wit she'll still be jeering,  
If a Fool she's ever fleering,  
If too wary then she'll shrue thee,  
If too lavish she'll undo thee,  
If stayed she'll mope a year together,  
If gadding then to London with her,  
If true she'll think you done't deserve her,  
If false a thousand will not serve her,  
If lustful send her to a Spittle,  
If cold she is for one too little,  
If she be of th' Reformation,  
Thy House will be a Convocation,  
If a Libertine then watch it,  
At the window thou mayst catch it,  
If chaste her pride will still importune,  
If a Whore thou knowst thy Fortune:  
So uneasy is his Life  
Who is married to a Wife.   

These are all extremes I know,  
But all Womankind is so,  
And the Golden Mean to none  
Of that cloven Race is known;  
Or to one if known it be,  
Yet that one's unknown to me.  
Some Vlissean Traveller  
May perhaps have gone so sar,  
As t'have found (in spite of Nature)  
Such an admirable Creature.  
If a Voyager there be  
Has made that discovery,  
He the famed Odcombian gravels.  
And may rest to write his Travels.   

But alas! there's no such woman,  
The Calamity is common,  
The first rib did bring in ruin,  
And the rest have since been doing,  
Some by one way, some another,  
Woman still is mischief's mother▪  
And yet cannot Man forbear,  
Though it cost him ne'er so dear.   

Yet with me 'tis out of season  
To complain thus without reason,  
Since the best and sweetest fair  
Is allotted to my share:  
But alas! I love her so  
That my love creates my woe;  
For if she be out of humour,  
Straight displeased I do presume her.  
And would give the World to know  
What it is offends her so:  
Or if she be discontented,  
Lord, how am I then tormented!  
And am ready to persuade her  
That I have unhappy made her:  
But if sick I then am dying,  
Meat and Medicine both defying:  
So uneasy is his Life  
Who is married to a Wife.   

What are then the marriage Joys  
That make such a mighty noise?  
All's enclosed in one short Sentence,  
Little Pleasure, great Repentance;  
Yet it is so sweet a Pleasure,  
To repent we scarce have leisure,  
Till the pleasure wholly fails,  
Save sometimes by Intervals:  
But those intervals again,  
Are so full of deadly pain,  
That the pleasure we have got,  
Is in Conscience too dear bought.   

Pox on't! would Womankind be free,  
What needed this Solemnity,  
This foolish way of coupl'ing so,  
That all the World (forsooth) must know?  
And yet the naked truth to say,  
They are so perfect grown that way,  
That if't only be for pleasure  
You would marry, take good leisure,  
Since none can ever want supplies  
For natural necessities;  
Without exposing of his Life  
To the great trouble of a Wife.   

Why then all the great pains taking?  
Why the sighing? why the waking?  
Why the riding? why the running?  
Why the artifice and cunning?  
Why the whining? why the crying?  
Why pretending to be dying?  
Why all this clutter to get Wives,  
To make us weary of our Lives.   

If Fruition we profess  
To be the only happiness,  
How much happier than is he,  
Who with the industrious Bee  
Preys upon the several Sweets  
Of the various Flowers he meets,  
Than he who with less delight  
Dulls on one his Appetite?   

Oh 'tis pleasant to be free!  
The sweetest Miss is Liberty;  
And though who with one sweet is blessed  
May reap the sweets of all the rest  
In her alone, who fair and true,  
As Love is all for which we sue,  
Whose several Graces may supply  
The place of full variety,  
And whose true kindness or address  
Sums up the All of happiness;  
Yet 'tis better live alone,  
Free to all than tied to one,  
Since uneasy is his Life  
Who is married to a Wife.    

ODE.  
To Love.  

I.  
GReat Love, I thank thee, now thou hast  
Paid me for all my sufferings past,  
And wounded me with Nature's Pride,  
For whom more glory 'tis to die  
Scorned and neglected, than enjoy  
All Beauty in the world beside.   

II.  
A Beauty above all pretence,  
Whose very scorns are recompense,  
The Regent of my heart is crowned,  
And now the sorrows and the woe,  
My Youth and Folly helped me to,  
Are buried in this friendly wound.   

III.  
Led by my Folly or my Fate,  
I loved before I knew not what,  
And threw my thoughts I knew not where:  
With judgement now I lvoe and sue,  
And never yet perfection knew,  
Until I cast mine eyes on her.   

iv  
My Soul, that was so base before  
Each little beauty to adore,  
Now raised to Glory, does despise  
Those poor and counterfeited rays  
That caught me in my childish days,  
And knows no power but her eyes.   

V  
Raised to this height, I have no more,  
Almighty Love, for to implore  
Of my auspicious Stars or thee,  
Than that thou bow her noble mind  
To be as mercifully kind  
As I shall ever faithful be.    

Song.  

I.  
SAd thoughts make haste and kill me out,  
I live too long in pain;  
'Tis dying to be still in doubt,  
And death, that ends all miseries,  
The chief and only favour is  
The wretched can obtain.   

II.  
I have lived long enough to know  
That life is a Disease,  
At least it does torment me so,  
That Death, at whom the happy start▪  
I court to come, and with his Dart  
To give me a release.   

III.  
Come, friendly Death, then strike me dead,  
For all this while I die,  
And but long dying nothing dread;  
Yet beign with grief the one half slain,  
With all thy power thou wilt gain  
But half a Victory.    

Elegy.  
AWay to th'other world, away,  
In this I can no longer stay;  
I long enough in this have stayed  
To see myself poorly betrayed,  
Forsaken, robbed, and left alone,  
And to all purposes undone.  
What then can tempt me to live on,  
My Peace and Honour being gone!  
O yes! I still am called upon  
To stay by my affliction.  
Oh fair affliction! let me go,  
You best can part with me I know;  
'Tis an ill natured pride you take  
To triumph o'er the fool you make,  
And you lose time in trampling over  
One, whilst you might make twenty more.  
Your eyes have still the conquering power  
They had in that same dangerous hour  
They laid me at your beauty's feet,  
Your Roses still as fair and sweet;  
And there more hearts are to subdue,  
But, oh! not one that's half so true.  
Dismiss me then t'eternal rest,  
I cannot live but in your Breast;  
Where, banished by Inconstancy,  
The world has no more room for me▪   

In Coccam.  
Epigram De Monsieur Maynard.  

THy cheeks having their Roses shed,  
And thy whole Frame through Age become  
So loathsome for all use in bed,  
That 'tis much fit for a Tomb;   

Cocca, thou shouldst not be so vain,  
Although thy Eloquence be great,  
As to expect it should obtain  
That I should do the filthy Feat:   

And that same Engine in your hand  
You cherish, court, and flatter so,  
Now you have made him bravely stand,  
Is not so charitable though,   

As in his vigorous youth to be  
A crutch to your Antiquity.    

Writ in Calista's Prayer-Book. An Epigram OF Monsieur de Malherbe.  
WHilst you are deaf to love, you may,  
Fairest Calista, weep and pray,  
And yet, alas! no mercy find;  
Not but God's merciful, 'tis true,  
But can you think he'll grant to you  
What you deny to all Mankind?   

Song.  

I.  
HOw comes it to pass with so little ado  
That I've broke all my Fetters and Chains  
And that no remembrance of all my great woe  
But like that of a Tale now remains?  
I no more for a Star now do Phillis esteem,  
And all her Perfections to me now do seem  
But like Dreams when I've malted my Brains.   

II.  
I am now quite ashamed to see how she looks,  
And no more the same Fair that before,  
Those Beauties all gone put me so off the hooks,  
And so troubled my Coxcomb of yore;  
I Now see all the shot that she made was false fire,  
And those murdering Charms I so much did admi●  
Were defects, mere defects, and no more.   

III.  
The Sun, or yet Love, are no more in her eyes,  
They're as dim as a Nails in a door,  
She's so far with her Charms from gaining a prize,  
That I doubt she must now run o'th' ●core;  
And for that we call Mistress so monstrous▪ unfit  
To any man living that has Grace or Wit,  
That she's s●arce good enough for a Whore.   

iv  
Yet, Sot that I was, I did once cry and blubber  
For this damnable piece of Infection,  
Which none could have done but an Owl and a Lubber,  
But his sense would have been his Protection;  
And for which on myself I will now pass this Sentence,  
That to th' hour of my death I will weep for repentance  
That I ever did weep for affection.   

V  
Farewell then, O Phillis! it is the God's pleasure  
That I reason might see to forsake you,  
To open my eyes, than out of my love's treasure  
Please t'accept of this farewell I make you;  
'Tis a Compliment that is most justly your due,  
And but what in times past I took kindly from yo●  
Ugly Phillis, a Whoreson's Pox take you.    

A Phillis.  
Madrigal.  
JE plaigrois, Philis, un jour  
A son Petitesse d'Amour  
De mon martyre, & mon malheur;  
De ce que par son Caprice,  
Sans procez, & sans Iustice  
L'enfant m'avoit naurez le Caeur.  
La dessus le pitit Drole  
M'a promis sur la parole  
Entre ses beaux flesches uvoraées d'or,  
D'en choisir encore une autre  
Et de faire autant au vostre,  
Le seutez vous, Philis, encore?   

ODE.  
To Chloris.  

I.  
FAir and Cruel, still in vain  
Must I adore, still, still persevere,  
Languish still, and still complain,  
And yet a Medicine for my Fever  
Never, never must obtain?   

II.  
Chloris, how are you to blame,  
To him that dies to be so cruel  
Not to stay my falling frame,  
Since your fair eyes do dart the fuel  
That still nourishes my ●lame?   

III.  
Shade those Glories of thine eye,  
Or let their Influence be milder,  
Beauty, and disdain destroy  
Alike, and make our Passions wilder,  
Either let me live or die.   

iv  
I have loved thee (let me see;  
Lord, how long a time of loving!)  
Years no less than three times three,  
Still my flame and pain improving,  
Yet still paid with cruelty.   

V  
What more wouldst thou have of me?  
Sure I've served a pretty season,  
And so proved my constancy,  
That methinks it is but reason  
Love or Death should set me free.    

ODE.  

I.  
WAs ever man of Nature's framing  
So given over to roving,  
Who have been twenty years a taming  
By ways that are not worth the naming,  
And now must die of loving?   

II.  
Hell take me if she been't so winning  
That now I love her mainly,  
And though in jest at the beginning,  
Yet now I'd wondrous fain be sinning,  
And so have told her plainly.   

III.  
At which she cries I do not love her,  
And tells me of her Honour;  
Then have I no way to disprove her,  
And my true passion to discover,  
But straight to fall upon her.   

iv  
Which done, forsooth, she talks of wedding,  
But what will that avail her?  
For though I am old Dog at Bedding,  
I'm yet a man of so much reading,  
That there I sure shall fail her.   

V  
No, hang me if I ever marry,  
Till Womankind grow stancher,  
I do delight delights to vary,  
And love not in one Hulk to tarry,  
But only Trim and Launch her.    

To john Bradshaw, Esq  

I.  
COuld you and I our Lives renew,  
And be both young again,  
Retaining what we ever knew  
Of Manners, Times, and Men,   

II.  
We could not frame so lose to live,  
But must be useful then,  
E'er we could possibly arrive  
To the same Age again;   

III.  
But Youth's devoured in Vanities  
Before we are ware,  
And so grown old before grown wise,  
We good for nothing are:   

IU.  
Or, if by that time knowing grown,  
By reading Books and Men,  
For others Service, or our own,  
'Tis with the latest then.   

V  
Happy's that man, in this estate,  
Whose Conscience tells him still,  
That though for good he comes too late,  
He ne'er did any ill.   

VI  
The satisfaction flowing thence,  
All dolours would assuage,  
And be sufficient recompense  
For all the ills of Age:   

VII.  
But very few (my Friend) I fear,  
Whom this ill Age has bred,  
At need have such a Comforter  
To make their dying Bed.   

VIII.  
'Tis then high time we should prepare  
In a new World to live,  
Since here we breath but panting air,  
Alas! by short reprieve.   

IX.  
Life then gins to be a pain,  
Infirmity prevails,  
Which, when it but gins to reign,  
The bravest Courage quails;   

X.  
But could we, as I said, procure  
To live our lives again,  
We should be of the better sure  
Or the worst sort of men.    

WINTER.  
De Monsieur Marigny Directed to Sir Robert Cok●.  
BLeak Winter is from Norway come,  
And such a formidable Groom,  
With's Icled beard, and hoary head,  
That, or with cold, or else with dread,  
Has frighted Phoebus out on's wit,  
And put him int' an Ague Fit:  
The Moon too, out of reverend care  
To save her beauty from the Air,  
And guard her pale Complexion,  
Her Hood and Vizard Mask puts on:  
Old gray-pate Saturn too is seen,  
Muffled up in a great Bear's skin:  
And Mars a quilted Cap puts on,  
Under his shining Morion:  
And in these posting Luminaries  
It but a necessary care is,  
And very consonant to reason,  
To go well clad in such a season.  
The very Heaven itself, alas!  
Is now so paved with liquid Glass,  
That if they han't (on th'other side)  
Learned in their younger days to slide,  
It is so slippy made withal▪  
They cannot go two steps but fall.  
The Nectar which the Gods do troll,  
Is frozen i'th' Celestial Boul,  
And the Cupbearer Ganymede  
Has capped his frizzled flaxed head.  
The naked Gemini, God wots,  
A very scurvy Rheum have got;  
And in this coldest of cold weathers,  
Had they not been warm wrapped in Feathers,  
Mercury's heels had been, I trow,  
Peppered with running Kibes e'er now.  
Nor are these Deities, whom Love  
To men has tempted from above  
To pass their time on Earth, more free  
From the cold blast than th''others be.  
For Truth, amidst the blust'ring Rout,  
Can't keep her Torch from blowing out.  
Justice, since none would take her word,  
Has for a Waistcoat pawned her Sword;  
And it is credibly related,  
Her Fillet's to a Coif translated.  
Fortune's foot's frozen to her Ball,  
Bright Crystal from her nose does fall,  
And all the work she now intends,  
Is but to blow her fingers ends.  
The Muses have the Schools forsook  
To creep into the Chimney nook,  
Where, for default of other wood,  
(Although it goes to his heart's blood)  
Apollo, for to warm their shins,  
Makes fires of Lutes and Violins.  
The Trout and Grailing that did rove  
At liberty, like swift winged Dove,  
In Ice are crusted up and penned,  
Enslaved with the poor Element.  
'Tis strange! but what's more strange than these,  
Thy Bounties, Knight, can never freeze,  
But even amidst the Frost and Snow  
In a continued Torrent flow;  
Oh! let me come and live with thee,  
I Winter shall nor feel nor see.   

On Rutt the judge.  
RUTT, to the Suburb Beauties full well known,  
Was from the bag scarce crept into a Gown,  
When he, by telling of himself fine tales,  
Was made a Judge, and sent away to Wales:  
'Twas proper and most fit it should be so,  
Whither should Goats but to the Mountains go?   

On Sim and Simon.  
THough Sim, whilst Sim, in ill repute did live,  
He yet was but a Knave diminutive;  
But now his name being swelled two letters bigger,  
Simon's a Knave at length, and not in figure.   

Virelay.  

THou cruel Fair, I go  
To seek out any Fate but thee,  
Since there is none can wound me so,  
Nor that has half thy cruelty;  
Thou cruel Fair, I go.   

For ever then farewell,  
●Tis a long leave I take, but oh!  
To tarry with thee here is Hell,  
And twenty thousand Hells to go;  
For ever though farewell.    

Madrigal.  
TO be a Whore, despite of Grace,  
Good Counsel and an ugly face,  
And to distribute still the Pox,  
To men of wit  
Will seem a kind of Paradox;  
And yet  
Thou art a Whore, despite of Grace,  
Good Counsel and an ugly face.   

La Illustrissima.  
On my Fair and Dear Sister, M●● Anne King.  

OFT have I loved, but ne'er aright,  
Till th'other day I saw a sight  
That shot me through & through with conquering 〈◊〉   

A Beauty of so rare a frame  
As does all other Beauty's shame,  
And renders Poetry to praise it lame.   

Poor sotted Poets, cease to praise  
Your Laura's, Cynthia's, Lydia's,  
Fond adored in your mistaken days,   

Tell me no more of golden hair,  
Of all ill colours the worst wear,  
And renders beauty terrible as fair.   

Almanna's curls are black as night,  
Through whose Sable ring's a white,  
Whiter than whiteness, strikes the wounded sight.   

Tell me no more of arched brows,  
Nor henceforth call them Cupid's Bows,  
Which common praise to common form allows.   

Hers, shining, smooth, and black as Jet,  
Short, thick, and even without ●ret,  
Exceed all Simile and sergeant.   

Study no more for Eulogies,  
For English grey, or French blue eyes,  
Which never yet but of a Fool made prize.   

Almanna's eyes are such as none  
Can ever dare to gaze upon,  
But in a trice he found his heart was gone.   

Those lights the coldest blood can thaw,  
And hearts by their attraction draw,  
As warm chafed Jet licks up a trembling straw.   

No more for cheeks make senseless Posies  
Of Lilies white, and Damask Roses,  
Which more of fancy than of truth discloses.   

In hers Complexion's mixed so,  
That white and red together grow,  
Like Lover's blood sprinkled on Virgin Snow.   

Cease, cease of Coral Lips to prate,  
Of Rubies, and I can't tell what,  
Those Epithets are all grown stolen and flat.   

Almanna's rosy lips are such,  
To praise them is for wit too much,  
Till first inspired by their most blessed touch.   

No more hang teeth upon a string,  
And ropes of Pearl for Grinders bring,  
Your Treasure is too poor an Offering.   

Comparisons do hers no right,  
Ivory's yellow in their sight,  
Which are than all things but themselves more white.   

No more of Odours go in quest  
As ●ar as the remotest East,  
Thence to perfume a Ladies rotten Chest   

Her breath, much sweeter than the Spring  
With all it's joined perfumes can bring,  
Gives life and happy life to every thing.   

Tell me no more of Swan-white breasts,  
Which you call little Cupid's nests,  
In those you praise fit for such wanton guests:   

Almanna's ten times whiter are  
Than those of the supremest fair,  
But yet, alas! no Loves inhabit there.   

Oh! set your wits no more o'th' laste,  
To praise a Nymph's contorted Waste,  
By such admirers fit to be embraced;   

Here is a shape, and such a one  
As regulates Proportion,  
And but to see is half Fruition.   

Tell me no more Poetic lies,  
Of hard, cold, crusted, marble thighs,  
Hopeless and fond impossibilities;   

Hers, by the rule of Symmetry,  
Although unseen, we know must be  
Above the poor report of Poetry.   

Tell me no more of Legs and Feet,  
Where Grace and Elegancy meet,  
But leave your lying, and come here to see't;   

Here's shape, invention that disgraces,  
And when she moves the charming Graces  
Both number, figure, and adjust her paces:   

But to this shape there is a mind  
From flesh and blood so well refined,  
As renders her the Glory of her Kind.   

On the World's Centre never yet  
Were Form and Virtue so well met,  
Nor priceless Diamond so neatly set.   

Beauty, but Beauty is alone,  
But Fair Almanna's such a one  
As Earth may glory in, and Heaven may own.   

Almanna is the only she  
Deserves the gen'ral Eulogy,  
The praise of all the rest is Poetry.    

Chanson a Boire.  

I.  
COme let's mind our drinking,  
Away with this thinking;  
It ne'er, that I heard of, did any one good;  
Prevents not disaster,  
But brings it on faster,  
Mischance is by mirth and by courage withstood   

He ne'er can recover  
The day that is over,  
The present is with us and does threaten no ill;  
He's a Fool that will sorrow  
For the thing called to morrow,  
But the hour we've in hand we may wield as we wi●●   

II.  
There's nothing but Bacchus  
Right merry can make us,  
That virtue particular is to the Vine;  
It fires every creature  
With wit and good nature,  
Whose thoughts can be dark when their noses do shine?   

A night of good drinking  
Is worth a year's thinking,  
There's nothing that kills us so surely as sorrow;  
Then to drown our cares Boys  
Let's drink up the Stars Boys,  
Each face of the gang will a Sun be to morrow.    

The Angler's Ballad.  

I.  
AWay to the Brook,  
All your Tackle out look,  
Here's a day that is worth a year's wishing;  
See that all things be right,  
For 'tis a very spite  
To want tools when a man goes a fishing.   

II.  
Your Rod with tops two,  
For the same will not do  
If your manner of angling you vary;  
And full well you may think,  
If you troll with a Pink,  
One too weak will be apt to miscarry.   

III.  
Then Basket, neat made  
By a Master in's trade,  
In a belt at your shoulders must dangle;  
For none e'er was so vain  
To wear this to disdain,  
Who a true Brother was of the Angle.   

iv  
Next, Pouch must not fail,  
Stuffed as full as a Mail,  
With Wax, Cruels, Silks, Hair, Furs and Feathers,  
To make several Flies  
For the several Skies,  
That shall kill in despite of all weathers.   

V  
The Boxes and Books  
For your Lines and your Hooks,  
And, though not for strict need notwithstanding,  
Your Scissors, and your Hone  
To adjust your points on,  
With a Net to be sure for your landing.   

VI  
All these being on,  
'Tis high time we were gone,  
Down, and upward, that all may have pleasure;  
Till, here meeting at night,  
We shall have the delight  
To discourse of our Fortunes at leisure.   

VII.  
The day's not too bright,  
And the wind hits us right,  
And all Nature does seem to invite us;  
We have all things at will  
For to second our skill,  
As they all did conspire to delight us.   

VIII.  
Or stream now, or still,  
A large Panier will fill,  
Trout and Grailing to rise are so willing;  
I dare venture to say  
'Twill be a bloody day,  
And we all shall be weary of killing.   

IX.  
Away then, away,  
We lose sport by delay,  
But first leave all our sorrows behind us;  
If misfortune do come,  
We are all gone from home,  
And a fishing she never can find us.   

X.  
The Angler is free  
From the cares that degree  
Finds itself with so often tormented;  
And although we should slay  
Each a hundred to day,  
'Tis a slaughter needs ne'er be repent.   

XI.  
●nd though we display  
●ll our Arts to betray  
What were made for man's Pleasure and Diet;  
●et both Princes and States  
●ay, for all our acquaint Bats,  
Rule themselves and their People in quiet.   

XII.  
We scratch not our pates,  
Nor repine at the Rates  
Our Superiors impose on our living;  
But do frankly submit,  
Knowing they have more wit  
In demanding, than we have in giving.   

XIII.  
Whilst quiet we sit  
We conclude all things ●it,  
Acquiescing with hearty submission;  
For, though simple, we know  
That soft murmurs will grow  
At the last unto downright Sedition.   

XIV.  
We care not who says,  
And intends it dispraise.  
That an Angler t'a Fool is next neighbour;  
Let him prate, what care we,  
We're as honest as he,  
And so let him take that for his labour.   

XV.  
We covet no Wealth  
But the Blessing of Health.  
And that greater good Conscience within;  
Such Devotion we bring  
To our God and our King,  
That from either no offers can win.   

XVI.  
Whilst we sit and fish  
We do pray as we wish,  
For long life to our King james the Second;  
Honest Anglers than may,  
Or they've very foul play,  
With the best of good Subjects be reckoned.    

Epistle to John Bradshaw Esq  

I  
FRom Porto Nova as pale wretches go  
To swing on fatal Tripus, even so,  
My dearest Friend, I went last day from thee,  
Whilst for five Miles, the figure of that Tree  
Was ever in my guilty Fancy's eye,  
As if in earnest I'd been doomed to die  
For, what deserved it, so unworthily  
Stealing so early, jack, away from thee.  
And that which (as't well might) increased my fe●●  
Was the ill luck of my vile Chariotier,  
Who drove so nicely too, t'increase my dread,  
As if his Horses with my vital thread  
Had Harnessed been, which being, alas! so weak  
He feared might snap, and would not it should brea●  
Till he himself the honour had to do't  
With one thrice stronger, and my neck to boot.  
Thus far in hanging posture than I went,  
(And sting of Conscience is a punishment  
On Earth they say the greatest, and some tell  
It is moreover the only one in Hell,  
The Worm that never ●lies being alone  
The thing they call endless Damnation:)  
But leaving that unto the Wise that made it,  
And knowing best the Gulf, can best evade it,  
I'll tell you, that being passed through Highgate, there  
I was saluted by the Country Air,  
With such a pleasing Gale, as made me smell  
The Peak itself; nor is't a Miracle,  
For all that pass that Portico this way  
Are Transontani, as the Courtiers say;  
Which supposed true, one than may boldly speak,  
That all of th' North-side Highgate are i'th' Peak;  
And so to hanging when I thought to come,  
Waked from the Dream, I found myself at home.   

Wonder not then if I, in such a case  
So overjoyed, forgot thee for a space;  
And but a little space, for, by this light,  
I thought on thee again ten times e'er night;  
Though when the night was come, I then indeed  
Thought all on one of whom I'd greater need:  
But being now cured of that Malady,  
I'm at full leisure to remember thee,  
And (which I'm sure you long to know) set forth  
In Northern Song my Journey to the North.   

Know then with Horses twain, one sound, one lame  
On Sunday's Eve I to St. Alban's came,  
Where, finding by my Body's lusty state  
I could not hold out home at that slow rate,  
I found a Coachman, who, my case bemoaning,  
With three stout Geldings, and one able Stoning,  
For eight good Pounds did bravely undertake,  
Or for my own, or for my Money's sake,  
Through thick and thin, fall out what could befall,  
To bring me safe and sound to Basford-hall.  
Which having drank upon, he bid good-night,  
And (Heaven forgive us) with the Morning's light,  
Not fearing God, nor his Vicegerent Constable,  
We roundly rolling were the Road to Dunstable,  
Which, as they chimed to Prayers, we trotted through,  
And 'fore eleven ten minutes came unto  
The Town that Brickhill height, where we did rest,  
And dined indifferent well both man and beast.  
'Twixt two and four to Stratford, 'twas well driven,  
And came to Tocester to lodge at Even.  
Next day we dined at Dunchurch, and did lie  
That night four miles on our side Coventry.  
Tuesday at Noon at Lichfeild Town we baited,  
But there some Friends, who long that hour had waited,  
So long detained me, that my Chariotier  
Can drive that night but to Vttoxiter.  
And there the Wedn'sday, being Market-day,  
I was constrained with some kind Lads to stay  
Tippling till afternoon, which made it night  
When from my Hero's Tower I saw the light  
Of her Flambeaux, and fancied as we drove  
Each rising Hillock was a swelling wave,  
And that I swimming was in Neptune's spite  
To my long longed-for Harbour of delight.   

And now I'm here set down again in peace,  
After my troubles, business, Voyages,  
The same dull Northern clod I was before,  
Gravely enquiring how Ewes are a Score,  
How the Hay-Harvest, and the Corn was got,  
And 〈◊〉 or no there's like to be a Rot;  
Just the same Sot I was e'er I removed,  
Nor by my travel, nor the Court improved;  
The same old fashioned Squire, no whit refined,  
And shall be wiser when the Devil's blind:  
But find all here too in the selfsame state,  
And now begin to live at the old rate,  
To bub old Ale, which nonsense does create,  
Writ lewd Epistles, and sometimes translate  
Old Tales of Tubs, of Guyenne, and Provence,  
And keep a clutter with th'old Blades of France,  
As D' Avenant did with those of Lombardy,  
Which any will receive, but none will buy,  
And that has set H. B. and me awry.  
My River still through the same Channel glides,  
Clear from the Tumult, Salt, and dirt of Tides,  
And my poor Fishing-house, my Seats best grace,  
Stands firm and faithful in the selfsame place  
I left it four months since, and ten to one  
I go a Fishing e'er two days are gone:  
So that (my Friend) I nothing want but thee  
To make me happy as I'd wish to be;  
And sure a day will come I shall be blessed  
In his enjoyment whom my heart loves best;  
Which when it comes will raise me above men  
Greater than crowned Monarches are, and then  
I'll not exchange my Cottage for Whitehall,  
Windsor, the Lavure, or th' Escurial.    

Anacreontick.  

FILL a Boul of lusty Wine,  
Briskest Daughter of the Vine;  
Filled until it Sealike flow,  
That my cheek may once more glow.  
I am fifty Winters old,  
Blood then stagnates and grows cold,  
And when Youthful heat decays,  
We must help it by these ways.  
Wine breeds Mirth, and Mirth imparts  
Heat and Courage to our hearts,  
Which in old men else are lead,  
And not warmed would soon be dead.   

Now I'm sprightly, fill again,  
Stop not though they mount to ten;  
Though I stagger do not spare,  
'Tis to rock and still my Ear;  
Though I stammer 'tis no matter,  
I should do the same with water;  
When I belch, I am but trying  
How much better 'tis than sighing;  
If a tear spring in mine eye,  
'Tis for joy not grief I cry:  
This is living without thinking,  
These are the effects of drinking.   

Fill a main, (Boy) fill a main,  
Whilst I drink I feel no pain;  
Gout or Palsy I have none,  
Hang the Colic and the Stone;  
I methinks grow young again,  
New blood springs in every vein,  
And supply it (Sirrah) still,  
Whilst I drink you sure may fill:  
If I nod, Boy, rouse me up  
With a bigger fuller Cup;  
But when that, Boy, will not do,  
Faith even let me then go to,  
For 'tis better far too lie  
Down to sleep than down to die.    

Burlesque.  
Upon the Great Frost.  
To john Bradshaw Esq  

YOU now, Sir, may, and justly, wonder  
That I, who did of late so thunder  
Your frontier Garrison by th'Ferry,  
Should on a sudden grow so weary;  
And thence may raise a wrong conclusion,  
That you have bobbed my Resolution;  
Or else that my Poetic Battery,  
With which so smartly I did patter ye,  
(Though I am not in that condition)  
Has shot away her Ammunition;  
Or (if in kindness peradventure  
You are more gentle in your censure)  
That I my writing left pursuing,  
'Cause I was weary of ill doing.  
Now of these three surmizes any,  
Except the last, might pass with many;  
But such as know me of the Nation,  
Know I so hate all Reformation,  
Since so much harm to do I've seen it,  
That in myself I'll ne'er begin it;  
And should you under your hand give it,  
Not one of twenty would believe it.   

But I must tell you in brief Clauses,  
If you to any of these Causes  
Impute the six week's Truce I've given,  
That you are wide, Sir, the whole Heaven:  
For know, though I appear less eager,  
I never mean to raise my Leaguer,  
Till or by storm, or else by Famine,  
I force you to the place I am in;  
Yourself sans Article to tender,  
Unto Discretion to surrender;  
Where see what comes of your vain glory,  
To make me lie so long before ye.  
To show you next I want no powder,  
I thus begin to batter louder;  
And for the last vain Hope that fed ye,  
I think I've answered it already.   

Now, to be plain, although your Spirit  
Will ill, I know, endure to hear it,  
You must of force at least miscarry,  
For reasons supernumerary:  
And though I know you will be striving  
To do what lies in mortal living,  
And may, it may be, a month double  
To lie before you give me trouble,  
(Though with the stronger men but vapour ill)  
And hold out stiff till th'end of April,  
Or possibly a few days longer,  
Yet than you needs must yield for hunger,  
When, having eaten all Provisions,  
Y'are like to make most brave Conditions.   

Now having friendship been so just to,  
To tell you what y'are like to trust to,  
I'll next acquaint you with one reason  
I've let you rest so long a season,  
And that my Muse has been so idle;  
Know Pegasus has got a Bridle,  
A Bit and Curb of crusted water,  
Or if I call't plain Ice no matter,  
With which he now is so commanded,  
His days of galloping are ended,  
Unless I with the spur do prick him,  
Nay, rather though I whip and kick him;  
He who unbidden used to gambol,  
Can now nor prance, nor trot, nor amble,  
Nor stir a foot to take his airing,  
But stands stiff froze, like that at Charing,  
With two feet up, two down, 'tis pity  
He's not erected in the City.   

But, to leave fooling, I assure ye  
There never was so cold a Fury  
Of nipping Frost, and pinching weather,  
Since Eve and Adam met together.  
Our Peak, that always has been famous  
For cold wherewith to cramp and lame us,  
Worse than itself, did now resemble a  
Certain damned place called Nova Zembla,  
And we who boast us humane Creatures,  
Had happy been had we changed features,  
Garments at least, though theirs be shabbed,  
With those who that cold place inhabit,  
The Bears and Foxes, who sans question  
Than we by odds have warmer Vests on.  
How cold that Country is, he knows most  
Has there his Fingers and his Toes lost;  
But here I know that every Member  
Alike was handled by December:  
Who blew his nose had clout or fist all  
Instead of snivel filled with Crystal▪  
Who drew for Urinal ejection,  
Was b'witched into an odd erection,  
And these, Priapus like, stood strutting,  
Fitter for Pedestal than rutting:  
As men were fierce, or gentle handed,  
Their Fists were clutched, or Palms expanded;  
Limbs were extended, or contracted,  
As use or humour most affected;  
For, as men did to th' air expose 'em,  
It catched and in that figure froze 'em;  
Of which think me not over ample:  
If I produce you here example.  
Where, though I am believed by scarce one,  
None will, I hope, suspect the Person,  
Who, from Lies he far remote is,  
Will give in verbo sacerdotis:   

One going to discharge at will-Duck  
Had for his recompense the ill luck,  
(Or my Informer's an Impostor)  
To be in that presenting posture,  
Surprised with his left eye fast winking,  
Till by good fires, and hot things drinking,  
He thawed, to the beholder's laughter,  
Unto itself a few hours after.  
Two Towns, that long that war had waged;  
Being at Football now engaged  
For honour, as both sides pretended,  
Left the brave trial to be ended  
Till the next Thaw, for they were frozen  
On either part at least a dozen;  
With a good handsome space between 'em,  
Like Rolle-rich stones, if you've seen 'em,  
And could no more run, kick, or trip ye,  
Than I can quaff off Aganippe;  
Till Ale, which crowns all such pretences,  
Mulled them again into their senses.  
A Maid compelled to be a gadder,  
T'abate th'extension of her Bladder,  
Which is an importuning matter,  
Was so supported by her water,  
To ease her knees with a third Pillar,  
That as she sat the poor distiller  
Looked on the tripod, like the famous  
ginger height Nostradamus'.  
These stories sound so very oddly,  
That though men may be pretty godly,  
One should though store of Mustard give 'em,  
E'er they expect they should believe 'em.  
But, to allure your Faith a little,  
What follows true is to a tittle:  
Our Country Air was, in plain dealing,  
Some weaks together so congealing,  
That if, as men are rude in this age,  
One spit had in another's visage,  
The Constable by th' back had got him,  
For he infallibly had shot him.  
Nay, Friend with Friend, Brother with Brother,  
Must needs have wounded one another  
With kindest words, were they not wary  
To make their greetings sideways carry;  
For all the words that came from gullets,  
If long were slugs, if short ones Bullets.  
You might have read from mouths, (sans Fable,)  
Your humble Servant, Sir, in Label;  
Like those, (yet theirs were warmer Quarters,)  
We see in Foxe's Book of Martyrs.  
Eyes that were weak, and apt to water,  
Wore Spectacles of their own matter;  
And Noses that to drop were ceased,  
To such a longitude increased,  
That who e'er wrung for ease or losses,  
Snapped off two handfuls of Proboscis.  
Beards were the strangest things, God save us,  
Such as Dame Nature never gave us!  
So wild, so pointed, and so staring,  
That I should wrong them by comparing  
Hedgehogs, or Porcupine's small Taggers  
To their more dangerous Swords and Dagger's.  
Mustachio's looked like Hero's Trophie●  
Behind their Arms i'th' Herald's Office;  
The perpendicular Beard appeared  
Like Hop-poles in a Hop-yard reared:  
'Twixt these the underwoody Acres  
Looked just like Bavius at a Baker's,  
To heat the Oven mouth most ready,  
Which seemed to gape for heat already.  
In mouths with salivation flowing,  
The horrid hairs about 'em growing,  
Like Reeds, looked in confused order,  
Growing about a Fish-pond's border.  
But ●tay myself I caught have tripping,  
(This Frost is perilous for slipping)  
I've brought this stupifying weather,  
These Elements, too near together;  
The bearded therefore looked as Nature,  
Instead of forming humane Creature,  
So many Garrisons had made us,  
Our Beards t'our Sconces Pallisadoes.  
Perukes now stuck so firm and steadfast,  
They all were riveted to headfast;  
Men that bought wigs to go a wooing,  
Had them made natural now and growing;  
But let them have a care, for truly  
The hair will fall 'twixt this and july.  
The tender Ladies, and the Lasses,  
Were vitrified to drinking-Glasses,  
Contrived to such an admiration,  
After so odd fantastic fashion,  
One scarce knew at which end to guzzle,  
The upper or the lower muzzle.  
The Earth to that degree was crusted  
That, let me never more be trusted  
(I speak without Poetic Figure)  
If I don't think a lump no bigger  
Than a good Walnut, had it hit one,  
Would as infallibly have split one,  
As Canonshot, that killing's sure at,  
Had not both been alike obdurate.  
The very Rocks, which in all reason  
Should stoutli'st have withstood the season,  
Repetrisied with harder matter,  
Had no more privilege than water:  
Had Pegasus struck such a Mountain,  
It would have failed him for a Fountain;  
'Twas well Parnassus, when he started,  
Proved to his hoof more tender-hearted,  
Or else of Greece the sullen Bulley,  
And Trojan Hector, had been dully  
In threadbare Prose, alas! related,  
Which now in Song are celebrated;  
For steed Poetic ne'er had whinnyed  
Greek Iliad, or Latin Aeneid;  
Nor Nero writ his ribble rabble's,  
Of sad Complaints, Love, and strange Fables:  
Then too Anacreon and Flaccus  
Had ne'er made Odes in praise of Bacchus,  
And taught blind Harpers for their bread sneak,  
From Feast to Feast to make Cats dead squeak.  
Nor Martial given so great offences,  
With Epigrams of double Senses.  
Rhyme than had ne'er been scanned on Fingers,  
No Ballad-makers then, or Singers,  
Had e'er been heard to twang out Metre,  
Music than which back drones make sweeter:  
Of Poetry, that writing mystic,  
There had not extant been one Distich;  
And, which is worst, the noblest sort on't,  
And to the World the most important  
Of th' whole Poetical Creation,  
Burlesque, had never been in fashion.  
But how have I this while forgot so  
My Mistress Dove, who went to pot too,  
My white Dove that was smoking ever,  
In spite of Winter's worst endeavour,  
And still could so evade or fly him,  
As never to be pinioned by him,  
Now numbed with bitterness of weather,  
Had not the power to stir a Feather,  
Wherein the Nymph was to be pitied,  
But flagged her wings and so submitted.  
The Russian bound though, knowings betters,  
Her Silver feet in Crystal Fetters,  
In which Estate we saw poor Dove lie,  
Even in Captivity more lovely:  
But in the fate of this bright Princess  
Reason itself you know convinces,  
That her pinniferous fry must die all,  
Imprisoned in the Crystal Vial;  
And doubtless there was great Mortality  
Of Trout and Grailing of great Quality,  
Whom Love and Honour did importune  
To stick to her in her misfortune,  
Though we shall find, no doubt, good Dishes  
Next Summer of Plebeian Fishes,  
Or, if with greater art and trouble  
An old Patrician Trout we bubble,  
In better Liquor swim we'll make him  
By odds than that from whence we take him.   

Now though I have in stuff confounded,  
Of small truths and great lies compounded,  
Given an account, that we in England  
May, for cold weather, vie with Green-land,  
I han't yet the main reason given,  
Why I so very long have driven  
My answer to the last you sent me,  
Which did so highly compliment me:  
Know therefore that both Ink and Cotten  
So desperately hard were gotten,  
It was impossible by squeezing  
To get out either truth or leasing:  
My Fingers too, no more being jointed,  
My Love and Manners disappointed;  
Nay, I was numbed on that strange fashion,  
I could not sign an Obligation,  
(Though Heaven such a Friend ne'er sent me)  
Would one a thousand pounds have lent me  
On my own Bond; and who is't buckles  
To writing, pray, that has no knuckles?  
But now I'm thawed beyond all Conscience  
Into a torrent of damned Nonsense:  
Yet still in this our Climate frigid  
I'm one day limber, next day rigid;  
Nay, all things yet remain so crusty,  
That were I now but half so lusty  
As when we kissed four months agone,  
And had but Dutch Goloshoes on,  
At one run I would slide to Lon—  
But surely this transforming weather  
Will soon take leave for altogether,  
Than what now Lapland seems in May,  
You'll swear is sweet Arcadia.    

Clepsydra.  

I.  
WHY, let it run! who bids it stay?  
Let us the while be merry;  
Time there in water creeps away,  
With us it posts in Sherry.   

II.  
Time not employ'd's an empty sound,  
Nor did kind Heaven lend it,  
But that the Glass should quick go round,  
And men in pleasure spend it.   

III.  
Then set thy foot, brave Boy, to mine,  
Ply quick to cure our thinking;  
An hourglass in an hour of Wine  
Would be but lazy drinking.   

iv  
The man that snores the hourglass out  
Is truly a time-waster,  
But we, who troll this glass about,  
Make him to post it faster.   

V  
Yet though he flies so fast, some think,  
'Tis well known to the Sages,  
He'll not refuse to stay and drink,  
And yet perform his stages.   

VI  
Time waits us whilst we crown the hearth,  
And dotes on Ruby Faces,  
And knows that this Carrier of mirth  
Will help to mend our paces:   

VII.  
He stays with him that loves good time,  
And never does refuse it,  
And only runs away from him  
That knows not how to use it:   

VIII.  
〈◊〉 only steals by without noise  
From those in grief that waste it,  
〈◊〉 lives with the mad roaring Boys  
That husband it, and taste it.   

IX.  
〈◊〉 moralist perhaps may prate  
Of virtue from his reading,  
〈◊〉 all but stolen and foisted chat  
To men of better breeding.   

X.  
●●me, to define it, is the space  
That men enjoy their being;  
●is not the hour, but drinking glass,  
Makes time and life agreeing.   

XI.  
〈◊〉 wisely does oblige his fate  
Does cheerfully obey it,  
●nd is of Fops the greatest that  
By temperance thinks to stay it.   

XII.  
Come, ply the Glass then quick about,  
To titillate the Gullet,  
Sobriety's no charm, I doubt▪  
Against a Cannon-Bullet.    

Eclogue.  Corydon, Clotten. Corydon. 
RIse, Clotten, rise, take up thy Pipe & 〈◊〉  
The Shepherds want thee, 'tis 〈◊〉 Holiday;  
And thou, of all the Swains, wert wont to be  
The first to grace that great Solemnity.  Clotten. 
True, Corydon, but then I happy was▪  
And in Pan's favour had a Minion's place:  
Clotten had then fair Flocks, the finest Fleece  
These Plains and Mountains yielded then was his  
●●ese auspicious times the fruitful Dams  
●●ught me the earliest and the kindli'st Lambs;  
〈◊〉 nightly watch about them need I keep,  
Pan himself was Shepherd to my Sheep;  
〈◊〉 now, alas! neglected and forgot  
〈◊〉 all my offerings, and he knows me not.  
〈◊〉 bloody Wolf, that lurks away the day,  
〈◊〉 night's black palm beckons him out to pray  
〈◊〉 the cover of those guilty shades,  
Folds but mine the ravenous Foe invades;  
〈◊〉 there he has such bloody havoc made,  
〈◊〉 all my Flock being devoured or strayed,  
〈◊〉 have lost the Fruits of all my pain,  
〈◊〉 no more a Shepherd but a Swain.  corydon. 
So sad a Tale thou tell'st me, that I must  
●w thy grief (my Clotten) to be just,  
〈◊〉 mighty Pan has thousand Flocks in store,  
〈◊〉 when it pleases him, can give thee more,  
〈◊〉 has perhaps afflicted thee, to try  
Virtue only, and thy Constancy.  
Repine not then at him that thou art poor,  
'Twas by his bounty thou wert rich before;  
And thou shouldst serve him at the same free 〈◊〉  
When most distressed, as when most fortunate.  Clotten. 
Thus do the healthful still the sick 〈◊〉  
And thus men preach when they would fain seem 〈◊〉  
But if in my wretched Estate thou wert,  
I fear me thy Philosophy would start,  
And give thee over to an afflicted Sense,  
As void of Reason as of Patience.  
Had I been always poor, I should not be  
Perhaps so discontent with Poverty,  
Nor now so sensible of my disgrace,  
Had I ne'er known what Reputation was;  
But from so great a height of happiness  
To sink into the bottom of distress  
Is such a change as may become my care,  
And more than, I confess, I well can bear.  Corydon. 
But art thou not too sensible, my 〈◊〉  
Of those few losses thou hast lately had?  
Thou art not yet in want, thou still dost eat  
Bread of the finest Flower of purest Wheat;  
Who better Cider drinks, what Sheepherd's board  
Does finer Curds, Butter, or Cheese afford?  
Who wears a Frock, to grace a Holiday,  
Spun of a finer Wool, or finer Grey?  
Whose Cabin is so neatly swept as thine,  
With Flowers and Rushes kept so sweet and fine?  
Whose name amongst our many Shepherds Swains  
So great as thine is throughout all these Plains?  
Who has so many Friends, so pretty Loves?  
Who by our bubbling Fountains and Green Groves  
Passes away the Summer heats so well?  
And who but thee in singing does excel?  
So that the Swains, when Clotten sings or plays,  
Lay down their Pipes, and listen to his Lays?  
Wherein then can consist, I fain would know,  
The Misery that thou complainest of so?  Clotten. 
Some of these things are true, but, Corydon,  
That which maintained all these, alas! is gone,  
The want of Wealth I reckon not distress,  
But of enough to do good offices;  
Which growing less, those Friends will fall away;  
Poverty is the ground of all decay;  
With our Prosperities our Friendships end▪  
And to misfortune no one is a Friend,  
Which I already find to that degree,  
That my old Friends are now afraid of me,  
And all avoid me, as good men, would fly  
The common Hangman's shameful company.  
Those who by Fortune were advanced above,  
Being obliged by my most ready love,  
Eat me, for fear lest my necessity  
Should urge what they're unwilling to deny,  
And are resolved they will not grant; and those  
Have shared my Meat, my Money, and my Cloath●▪  
Grown rich with others Spoils as well as mine,  
The coming near me now do all decline,  
Lest shame and gratitude should draw them in,  
To be to me what I to them have been;  
By which means I am stripped of all supplies,  
And left alone to my own Miseries.  Corydon. 
In the relation that thy grief has made,  
The World's false friendships are too true displayed;  
But, courage man, thou hast one Friend in store,  
Will ne'er forsake thee for thy being poor:  
I will be true to thee in worst estate,  
And love thee more now than when Fortunate.  Clotten. 
All goodness then on Earth I see's not lost,  
I of one Friend in misery can boast,  
Which is enough, and peradventure mor●  
Than any one could ever do before;  
And I to thee as true a Friend will prove,  
Not to abuse but to deserve thy love.   

To my dear and most worthy Friend, Mr. Isaac Walton.  

WHilst in this cold and blust'ring Clime▪  
Where bleak winds how I, and Tempests roar,  
We pass away the roughest time  
Has been of many years before;   

Whilst from the most tempest'ous Nooks  
The chillest Blasts our peace invade,  
And by great Rains our smallest Brooks  
Are almost navigable made;   

Whilst all the ills are so improved  
Of this dead quarter of the year,  
That even you, so much beloved,  
We would not now wish with us here;   

In this estate, I say, it is  
Some comfort to us to suppose,  
That in a better Clime than this  
You our dear Friend have more repose;  
And some delight to me the while,  
Though nature now does weep in Rain,  
To think that I have seen her smile,  
And haply may I do again.   

If the all-ruling Power please  
We live to see another May,  
We'll recompense an Age of these  
Foul days in one fine fishing day:   

We then shall have a day or two,  
Perhaps a week, wherein to try,  
What the best Master's hand can do  
With the most deadly kill Fly:   

A day without too bright a Beam,  
A warm, but not a scorching Sun,  
A Southern gale to curl the Stream,  
And (Master) half our work is done.   

There whilst behind some bush we wait  
The Scaly People to betray,  
We'll prove it just with treacherous Bait  
To make the preying Trout our prey;   

And think ourselves in such an hour  
Happier than those, though not so high,  
Who, like Leviathans, devour  
Of meaner men the smaller Fry.   

This (my best Friend) at my poor Home  
Shall be our Pastime and our Theme,  
But than should you not deign to come  
You make all this a flattering Dream.    

To the Countess of Chesterfield, on th● Birth of her first Son.  

MAdam, let an humble stranger  
Give you Joy without the danger  
Of correction from your brow;  
And I fancy 'tis not easy  
For the rudest to displease ye,  
Y'are in so good an humour now.   

Such a Treasure you have brought us,  
As in gratitude has taught us  
To praise and bless your happy Womb;  
And since you have obliged so many,  
You cannot but expect sure (can ye?)  
To be thanked at least by some.   

A more wished-for Heir by Heaven  
Ne'er to Family was given,  
Nor a braver Boy to boot;  
●iner ne'er was born before him,  
One may know who got and bore him,  
And now a days 'tis hard to do't.   

You Copy well, for which the rather,  
Since you so well have hit the Father,  
Madam, once more try your skill  
To bring of th'other Sex another  
As Fair, and Good, and like the Mother,  
And double 'em after when you will.    

To Chloris.  
Stanzes Irreguliers.  

I.  
LOrd! how you take upon you still!  
How you crow and domineer!  
How! still expect to have your will,  
And carry the Dominion clear,  
As you were still the same that once you were!   

II.  
Fie, Chloris, 'tis gross mistake,  
Correct your error, and be wise,  
I kindly still your kindness take,  
But yet have learned, though love I prise,  
Your froward humours to despise,  
And now disdain to call them Cruelties.   

III.  
I was a Fool whilst you were fair,  
And I had Youth t'excuse it,  
And all the rest are so that Lovers are;  
I than myself your Vassal swear,  
And could be still so; (which is rare;)  
Nay, I could force my will  
To love, and at a good rate still,  
But on condition that you not abuse it;  
I am now Master of the Gate,  
And therefore, Chloris, 'tis too late  
Or to insult, or to capitulate.   

iv  
'Tis Beauty that to Womankind  
Gives all the Rule and Sway,  
Which once declining, or declined,  
Men afterwards unwillingly obey;  
Your Beauty 'twas at first did awe me,  
And into Bondage, woeful Bondage draw me;  
It was your Cheek, your Eye, your Lip,  
Which raised you first to the Dictatorship.   

V  
But your six months are now expired,  
'Tis time I now should reign,  
And if from you obedience be required,  
You must not to submit disdain,  
But practise what y'ave seen me do,  
And love and honour me as I did you;  
That will an everlasting peace maintain,  
And make me Crown you Sovereign once again.   

VI  
And Faith consult your Glass, and see  
If I han't reason on my side;  
Are those eyes still the same they use to be?  
Come, come, they're altered, 'twill not be denied;  
And yet although the Glass be true,  
And show you, you no more are you,  
I know you'll scarce believe it,  
For Womankind are all born proud, and never, never leave it.   

VII.  
Yet still you have enough, and more than needs,  
To rule a more Rebellious heart than mine;  
For as your eyes still shoot my heart still bleeds,  
And I must be a Subject still,  
Nor is it much against my will,  
Though I pretend to wrestle and repine:  
Your Beauties sweet are in their height,  
And I must still adore,  
New years, new Graces still create,  
Nay, maugre Time, Mischance and Fate,  
You in your very ruins shall have more  
Than all the Beauties that have graced the World before.    

Old Tityrus to Eugenia.  

I.  
EVgenia young, and fair, and sweet,  
The Glories of the Plains,  
In thee alone the Graces meet  
To conquer all the Swains:  
Tall as the Poplar of the Grove,  
Straight as the winged shaft of Love,  
As the Spring's early Blossoms white,  
Soft as the Kisses of the light,  
Screne and modest as the Morn,  
E'er Vapours do from Fens arise,  
To dim the Glory of the Skies,  
Untainted, or with Pride, or Scorn,  
T'oblige the World, bright Nymph, thou sure wa●● born.   

II.  
O! be still fair, thou charming Maid,  
For Beauty is no Crime;  
May thy Youth's Flower never fade,  
But still be in its prime:  
Be calm, and clear, and modest still,  
Oblige as many as you will,  
Still, still be humble, still be sweet,  
By those ways conquer all you meet;  
But let them see 'tis undesigned,  
Natural Virtues, not put on  
To make a prize of any one,  
The native goodness of your mind,  
And have a care of being over-kind.   

III.  
That's (my Eugenia) a mistake  
That noblest ardours cools,  
And serves on th'other side to make  
Damned overweening Fools.  
Be courteous unto all, and free,  
As far as Virgin-modesty;  
Be not too shy, but have a care  
Of being too familiar;  
The Swain you entertain alone,  
To whom you lend your hand or lip,  
Will think he has you on the hip,  
And straight conclude you are his own,  
womans so easy, men so vain are grown.   

iv  
Reservedness is a mighty Friend  
To Form and Virtue too,  
A shining merit should pretend  
To such a Star as you;  
'Tis not a Roundelay well played,  
A Song well sung, a thing well said,  
A Fall well given, a Bar well thrown,  
Should carry such a lovely one.  
Should these knacks win you, you will be  
(Of all the Nymphs that with their Beams  
Gilled swift Columba's Crystal Streams)  
Lost to the World, yourself, and me,  
And more despised than freckled Lalage.   

V  
Maintain a modest kind of State,  
'Tis graceful in a Maid;  
It does at least respect create,  
And makes the Fools afraid.  
Eugenia, you must pitch upon  
A Sylvia, not a Corydon;  
'Twould grate my Soul to see those Charms  
In an unworthy Sheepherd's Arms.  
A little coldness (Girl) will do,  
Let baffled Lovers call it Pride,  
Pride's an excess o'th' better side,  
Contempt to arrogance is due,  
Keep but state now, and keeped hereafter too.    

Epistle to John Bradshaw Esq  

II.  
SIR, you may please to call to mind,  
That Letters you did lately find  
From me, which I conceived were very kind;   

So hearty kind, that by this hand Sir,  
Briefly, I do not understand Sir,  
Why you should not vouchsafe some kind of answer▪   

What though in Rhyme y'are not proficient?  
Your Love should not have been deficient,  
When downright Prose to me had been sufficient.   

'Tis true, I know that you dare fight Sir,  
But what of that? that will not fright Sir;  
I know full well your Worship too can write Sir.   

Where the Peace therefore broken once is,  
Unless you send some fair Rosponses,  
I doubt there will ensue some broken Sconces.   

Then dream not valour can befriend you,  
For if I justly once suspend you,  
Your Sanct'ary, nor your Club, can yet defend you;   

But, fairly Sir, to work to go;  
What the Fiend is the matter, trow,  
Should make you use an old Companion so?   

I know the life you lead a-days,  
And, like poor Swan, your foot can trace  
From home to Prayers, thence to the forenamed 
* Viz. ●he Sanctuary.  place:   

And can you not from your Precation▪  
And your as daily Club-Potation,  
To think of an old Friend find some vacation.   

'Tis true you sent a little Letter,  
With a great Present, which was better,  
For which I must remain your humble Debtor,   

But for th'Epistle, to be plain,  
That's paid with Interest back again,  
For I sent one as long at least as twain.   

Then mine was Rhyme, and yours but Reason;  
If therefore you intent t'appease one,  
Let me hear from you in some moderate season.   

'Tis what y'are bound to by the tie  
Of Friendship first, than Equity,  
To which I●ll add a third, called Charity.   

For one that's banished the Grand Mond  
Would sometimes by his Friends be owned,  
'Tis comfort after whipping to be moaned.   

But though I'm damned t'a People here,  
Than whom my Dog's much civiller,  
I hear from you some twice or thrice a year.   

Saints that above are placed in Glory,  
Unless the Papists tell a Story,  
Commiserate poor Souls in Purgatory,   

Whilst you, Sir Captain, Heaven remit ye,  
Who live in Heaven on Earth, the City,  
On me, who live in Hell, can have no pity.   

In faith it looks unkind! pray mend it,  
Writ the least Scrip you will, and send it,  
And I will bless and kiss the hand that penned it.    

Epistle to john Bradshaw, Esq  

III.  
WHat though I writ a tedious Letter,  
Whereas a shorter had been better,  
And that 'twas writ in Moor-lands Metre,  
To make it run, I thought, the sweeter,  
Yet there was nought in that Epistle,  
At which your Worship ought to bristle;  
For though it was too long, 'twas civil,  
And though the Rhyme, 'tis true, was evil,  
I will maintain 'twas well meant yet,  
And full of heart, though void of wit:  
Why, with a Horsepox, then should you,  
I thought my Friend, keep such ado;  
And set Tom Weaver on my back,  
Because I han't forsooth the knack  
To please your over-dainty ear;  
(Impossible for me I fear)  
Nor can my Poesy strew with Posies  
Of Red, White, Damask, Provense Roses,  
Bears-ears, Anemonies, and Lilies,  
As he did in Diebus illis?  
What man! all Amblers are not Couryats',  
Neither can all who Rhyme be Laureates:  
Besides the Moor-lands not a Clime is,  
Nor of the year it now the time is  
To gather Flowers, I suppose,  
Either for Poetry or Prose;  
Therefore, kind Sir, in courteous fashion,  
I wish you spare your expectation.  
And since you may be thin of clothing,  
(Something being better too than nothing)  
Winter now growing something rough,  
I send you here a piece of Stuff,  
Since your old Weaver's dead and gone,  
To make a Fustian Waistcoat 
* For Rhimes take a new Figure.  on.  
Accept it, and I'll rest your Debtor,  
When more Wit sends it, I'll send better.   

And here I cannot pretermit  
To that Epitome of Wit,  
Knowledge and Art, to him whom we  
Saucily call, and I more saucily  
presume to write the little d.  
All that your Language can improve  
Of Service, Honour, and of Love:  
After whose Name the rest I know  
Would sound so very flat and low,  
They must excuse, if in this case  
〈◊〉 wind them up Et Caetera's.   

Lastly, that in my tedious Scribble  
I may not seem incorrigible,  
I will conclude by telling you  
(And on my honest word 'tis true)  
I long as much as new made Bride  
Does for the Marriage Even Tide;  
Your plump Corpusculum t'embrace,  
In this abominable place:   

And therefore when the Spring appears,  
(Till when short days will seem long years)  
And that under this scurvy hand,  
I give you, Sir, to understand,  
In April, May, or then abouts,  
Doves People are your humble Trout,  
Be sure you do not fail but come  
To make the Peak Elysium;  
Where you shall find then, and for ever,  
As true a 
* Though not 〈◊〉 so good a Poet.  Friend as was Tom Weaver.    

The Retirement.  
Stanzes Irreguliers.  
To Mr. Isaak Walton▪  

I.  
FArewell thou busy World, and may  
We never meet again:  
Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray,  
And do more good in one ●hort day,  
Than he who his whole Age out-wears  
Upon thy most conspicuous Theatres,  
Where nought but Vice and Vanity do reign.   

II.  
Good God how sweet are all things here!  
How beautiful the Fields appear!  
How cleanly do we feed and lie!  
Lord! what good hours do we keep!  
How quietly we sleep!  
What Peace! what Unanimity!  
How innocent from the lewd Fashion,  
Is all our business, all our Conversation!   

III.  
Oh how happy here's our leisure!  
Oh how innocent our pleasure!  
Oh ye Valleys, oh ye Mountains,  
Oh ye Groves and Crystal Fountains,  
How I love at liberty,  
By turn to come and visit ye!   

iv  
O Solitude, the Soul's best Friend,  
That man acquainted with himself dost make,  
And all his Maker's Wonders to intent;  
With thee I here converse at will,  
And would be glad to do so still;  
For it is thou alone that keep'st the Soul awake.   

V  
How calm and quiet a delight  
It is alone  
To read, and meditate, and write,  
By none offended, nor offending none;  
To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease,  
And pleasing a man's self, none other to displease!   

VI  
Oh my beloved Nymph! fair Dove,  
Princess of Rivers, how I love  
Upon thy flowery Banks to lie,  
And view thy Silver stream,  
When gilded by a Summer's Beam,  
And in it all thy wanton Fry  
Playing at liberty,  
And with my Angle upon them,  
The All of Treachery  
I ever learned to practise and to try!   

VII.  
Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show,  
Th' Iberian Tagus, nor Ligurian Po;  
The Meuse, the Danube, and the Rhine,  
Are puddle-water all compared with thine;  
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are  
With thine much purer to compare:  
The rapid Garonne, and the winding Seine  
Are both too mean,  
Beloved Dove, with thee  
To vie Priority:  
Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit,  
And lay their Trophies at thy Silver Feet.   

VIII.  
Oh my beloved Rocks! that rise  
To awe the Earth, and brave the Skies,  
From some aspiring Mountain's crown  
How dearly do I love,  
Giddy with pleasure, to look down,  
And from the Vales to view the noble heights above!   

IX.  
Oh my beloved Caves! from Dog-star heats,  
And hotter Persecution safe Retreats,  
What safety, privacy, what true delight  
In the artificial Night  
Your gloomy entrails make,  
Have I taken, do I take!  
How oft, when grief has made me fly  
To hid me from Society,  
Even of my dearest Friends, have I  
In your recesses friendly shade  
All my sorrows open laid,  
And most secret woes entrusted to your privacy!   

X.  
Lord! would men let me alone,  
What an over-happy one  
Should I think myself to be,  
Might I in this desert place,  
Which most men by their voice disgrace,  
Live but undisturbed and free!  
Here in this despised recess  
Would I maugre Winter's cold,  
And the Summer's worst excess,  
Try to live out to sixty full years old,  
And all the while  
Without an envious eye  
On any thriving under Fortune's smile,  
Contented live, and then contented die.    

Rondeau.  

THou Fool! if madness be so rife,  
That, spite of wit, thou'lt have a Wife,  
I'll tell thee what thou must expect,  
After the Honeymoon neglect,  
All the sad days of thy whole Life:   

To that a World of Woe and Strife,  
Which is of Marriage the effect,  
And thou thy woe's own Architect,  
Thou Fool!   

Thou'lt nothing find but disrespect,  
Ill words i'th' scolding Dialect,  
For she'll all Tabor be, or Fife;  
Then prithee go and whet thy Knife,  
And from this Fate thyself protect,  
Thou Fool!    

To Cupid.  

I.  
FOnd Love, deliver up thy Bow,  
I am become more Love than thou;  
I am as wanton grown, and wild,  
Much less a Man, and more a Child,  
From Venus born, of chaster kind,  
A better Archer, though as blind.   

II.  
Surrender without more ado,  
I am both King and Subject too,  
I will command, but must obey,  
I am the Hunter and the Prey,  
〈◊〉 vanquish, yet am overcome,  
And Sentencing receive my Doom.    


III.  
No springing Beauty escapes my Dart,  
And every ripe one wounds my Heart;  
Thus whilst I wound, I wounded am,  
And, firing others, turn to flame,  
To show how far Love can combine  
The Mortal part with the Divine.   

iv  
Faith, quit thine Empire, and come down,  
That thou and I may share the Crown,  
I've tried the worst thy Arms can do,  
Come then, and taste my power too,  
Which (howsoever it may fall short)  
Will doubtless prove the better sport.   

V  
Yet do not; for in Field and Town,  
The Females are so loving grown,  
So kind, or else so lustful, we  
Can neither err, though neither see;  
Keep then thine own Dominions, Lad,  
Two Loves would make all Women mad.    

To Aelia.  
ODE.  

POOR antiquated Slut, forbear,  
Thy Importunity's so strong,  
●t will, I fear, corrupt the Air,  
And do an universal wrong.   

Be modest, or I swear and vow,  
I neither can nor will be kind;  
Pox on't! now thou dost clamorous grow,  
There's no enduring in the wind.   

Whilst silence did thy thoughts betray,  
I only was the sufferer;  
But now thy Lungs begin to play,  
All the whole Province suffers here.   

Faith, Aelia, if thou beest so hot,  
That nor Satiety; nor Age,  
Can cool the over-boiling Pot,  
Nor thy edullient Lust assuage,   

Yet be so charitably kind,  
Though damned thou art resolved to be,  
As not to poison all Mankind  
By fulsome importunity.   

But sure 'tis time we should give over,  
And if I mourn my time misspent,  
How much for fifty years of Whore  
Oughtest thou, poor Aeli●, to repent?   

Yet, if in spite of all advice  
Thou needs wilt importune me still,  
I am not so reclaimed from Vice,  
But I can satisfy thy will:   

And 'twill to my advantage be;  
For should I new amours begin,  
Delight might damn me, when with thee  
The penance expiates the sin.    

Sonnet.  

GO, false one, now I see the cheat,  
Your love was all a Counterfeit,  
And I was galled to think that you,  
Or any she, could long be true.   

How could you once so kind appear,  
To kiss, to sigh, and shed a tear,  
To cherish and caress me so,  
And now not let but bid me go?   

Oh Woman! Frailty is thy name,  
Since she's untrue y'are all to blame,  
And but in man no truth is sound:   

'Tis a fair Sex, we all must love it,  
But (on my conscience) could we prove it,  
They all are false even under ground.    

Stanzes de Monsieur Bertaud.  

I.  
WHilst wishing Heaven in his ire  
Would punish with some judgement dire  
This heart to love so obstinate;  
●o say I love her is to lie,  
Though I do love t'extremity,  
Since thus to love her is to hate.   

II.  
●ut since from this my hatred springs,  
●hat she neglects my Sufferings,  
And is unto my love ingrate,  
●y hatred is so full of ●lame,  
●ince from affection first it came,  
That 'tis to love her thus to hate.   

III.  
I wish that milder Love, or Death,  
That ends our Miseries with our breath,  
Would my affections terminate;  
For to my Soul, deprived of peace,  
It is a torment worse than these  
Thus wretchedly to love and hate.   

iv  
Let Love be gentle or severe,  
It is in vain to hope or fear  
His grace or rage in this estate,  
Being I from my fair one's Spirit  
Nor mutual love, nor hatred merit,  
Thus foolishly to love and hate.   

V  
●r, if by my example here  
〈◊〉 just and equal do appear,  
She love and loath who is my fate,  
●rant me, ye powers, in this case,  
●oth for my punishment and grace,  
That as I do, she love and hate.    

The eighth Psalm paraphrased.  

●.  
O Lord, our Governor, whose potent sway  
All Powers in Heaven and Earth obey,  
throughout the spacious Earth's extended frame  
How great is thy adored Name!  
●hy Glories thou hast seated, Lord, on high,  
Above the Empyrean Sky.   

2.  
Out of the mouths of Infants, newly come  
From the dark Closet of the Womb,  
Thou hast ordained powerful Truth to rise,  
To baffle all thine Enemies;  
That thou the furious Rage mightst calm again,  
Of bloody and revengeful men.   

3.  
When on thy Glorious heavens I reflect,  
Thy work, almighty Architect,  
The changing Moon and Stars that thou hast mad●  
T'illuminate nights sable shade:   

4.  
Oh! what is man, think I, that Heaven's King  
Should mind so poor a wretched thing;  
Or Man's ●rail Offspring, that Almighty God  
Should stoop to visit his abode?   

5.  
For thou createdst him but one degree  
Below the Heavenly Hierarchy  
Of blessed and happy Angels, and didst crown  
Frail Dust with Glory and Renown.   

6.  
Over the works of thy Almighty hand  
Thou giv'st him absolute command,  
And all the rest that thou hast made  
Under his feet hast subject laid;   

7.  
All Sheep, and Oxen, and the wilder breed  
Of Beasts that on their Fellows feed;   

8.  
The Air's Inhabitants, and scaly brood,  
That live and wanton in the Flood,  
And whatsoe'er does either swim or creep  
Through th'investigable Deep:   

9  
Throughout the spacious Earth's extended frame  
How great is thy adored Name!    

Advice.  

I.  
GO, thou perpetual whining Lover,  
For shame leave off this humble Trade,  
'Tis more than time thou gav'st it over,  
For sighs and tears will never move her,  
By them more obstinate she's made,  
And thou by Love, fond, constant Love, betrayed.   

II.  
The more, vain Fop, thou su'st unto her,  
The more she does torment thee still,  
Is more perverse the more you woe her,  
When thou art humblest lays thee lower,  
And when most prostrate to her will  
Thou meanly beg'st for life, does basely kill,   

III.  
By Heaven 'tis against all Nature,  
Honour and Manhood, Wit and Sense,  
To let a little Female Creature  
Rule on the poor account of Feature,  
And thy unmanly patience  
Monstrous and shameful as her Insolence.   

iv  
Thou may'st find forty will be kinder,  
Or more compassionate at least,  
If one will serve, two hours will find her,  
And half this' do for ever bind her  
As firm and true as thine own Breast,  
On Love and virtue's double Interest:   

V.  
But if thou canst not live without her,  
This only she, when it comes to't,  
And she relent not, (as I doubt her),  
Never make more ado about her,  
To sigh and whimper is no boot;  
Go, hang thyself, and that will do't.    

Lyric.  
Ex Cornelio Gallo Trans.  

LYdia, thou lovely Maid, whose white  
The Milk and Lily does outvie,  
The pale and blushing Roses light,  
Or polished Indian Ivory,   

Dishevel, Sweet, thy yellow hair,  
Whose Ray doth burnished Gold disprize,  
Disclose thy neck so white and fair,  
That doth from snowy shoulders rise.   

Virgin, unveil those starry eyes  
Whose Sable brows like arches spread,  
Unveil those Cheeks, where the Rose lies  
Streaked with the Tyrian Purple's red.   

Lend me those Lips with Coral lined,  
And kisses mild of Doves impart,  
Thou ravishest away my mind,  
Those gentle kisses wound my heart.   

Why suckest thou from my panting Breast  
The youthful Vigour of my Blood?  
Hid those twin-apples, ripe, if pressed,  
To spring into a milky Flood.   

From thy expanded bosom breath  
Perfumes Arabia doth not know;  
Thy every part doth love bequeath,  
From thee all excellencies flow.   

Thy bosom's killing-white then shade,  
Hid that temptation from mine eye;  
See'st not I languish, cruel Maid!  
Wilt thou then go, and let me die?    

Amoretta in Masquerade.  

BLess me! wonder how I'm struck  
With that Youth's victorious look!  
So much Lustre, so much Grace,  
Never broke from humane face;  
Fond Narcissus was an Ass,  
Cynthia's Love a Mooncalf was,  
Ganymede, that bears Jove's Boul,  
Was a Chit, Paris an Owl,  
And Adonis, with th'fine Miss,  
Was a Puppy-Dog to this.  
Women, now lay by your Charms,  
Here is one has other Arms,  
And of greater power too,  
Than your Megazines can show:  
All your Beauties, all your Arts,  
Conquering or deceiving hearts,  
You may spare and let alone,  
We shall henceforth be by none  
Conquered, but this peerless one.  
Yet I have a Lover been,  
Several Beauties I have seen,  
Nor in Love am yet so rude,  
But I've often been subdued;  
Nor so old but that again,  
Once more struck I might have been,  
By some Glances, or some Features  
Of those little Female Creatures,  
Had I but escaped this night,  
Seeing of this charming sight:  
But now having seen those eyes,  
I all Female force despise;  
Yet my flame I can't approve,  
'Tis but a prodigious love,  
And there can be little joy  
In thus doting on a Boy,  
Who, although he love again,  
Never can reward my pain:  
Yet methinks it cannot be,  
There is in't some Mystery,  
Nature sure would ne'er so use me,  
Nor Instinct so much abuse me,  
As my Reason thus to blind,  
But there's something in the wind.  
● have e'er a loather been  
Of the foul Italian Sin,  
And yet know not where the bliss is  
●n a little Stripling's kiss.  
My heart tells me, to those eyes  
There belongs a pair of thighs,  
●Twixt whose Ivory Columns is  
Th'Ebor folding door to bliss:  
And this Spring, all that we see  
strut with such Formality,  
●uff, and strive to look so big,  
● but Pallas in a Wigg;  
And though his countenance he doth set  
To a good pitch of counterfeit,  
Yet he cannot hid the while,  
●enus dimple in his smile;  
Were the Story not cold fled,  
●nd the party long since dead,  
●should swear a thousand Oaths,  
Helen 'twere in Paris clothes;  
But there I should wrong him yet,  
Helen was not half so sweet,  
For all Greeks and Trojans arming,  
Nor is Venus half so charming.   

Pretty Monsieur, I must pry  
More into your Symmetry;  
Those fine Fingers were not made  
To be put to th'fighting trade,  
And that pretty little arm,  
Methinks threatens no great harm;  
Wastes, which Thimbles will environ,  
Are not to be shelled with Iron,  
And those little Martin-nests,  
Which swell out upon your Breasts,  
With Steel are not to be pressed,  
But whereon for Kings to rest;  
Your soft Belly, not unlike,  
May sometimes feel push of Pike,  
But there will be Balsam found  
In the Spear to heal the wound;  
Nor those thighs yet, by their leaves,  
Were, I take it, made for Greaves;  
Nor yet do you walk so wide,  
As you used to ride astride,  
But look your Saddle, when you do,  
Be well stuffed and pummelled too.  
Next, those pretty Legs and Feet  
Ne'er were spurred and booted yet,  
I dare swear it. Come, tell truth,  
Are you not a cloven Youth?   

See, he laughs, and has confessed,  
God-a-mercy for the Jest:  
Monsieur Amoretta let me  
Your Valet de Chambre be,  
I will serve with humble duty  
Both your Valour and your Beauty,  
You shall all day Master height,  
But my Mistress, Sir, at night:  
Which if you will please to grant  
To your humble Supplicant,  
Since you wear your Wigg so ●eatly,  
And become your clothes so neatly,  
He has sworn, who thus beseeches,  
You shall always wear the Breeches.    

Estreines.  
To Calista.  

I.  
I Reckon the first day I saw those eyes,  
Which in a moment made my heart their prize  
To all my whole futurity,  
The first day of my first new year,  
Since than I first began to be,  
And knew why Heaven placed me here;  
For till we love, and love discreetly too,  
We nothing are, nor know we what we do.   

II.  
Love is the Soul of Life, though that I know  
Is called Soul too, but yet it is not so,  
Not rational at least, until  
Beauty with her diviner light  
Illuminates the groping will,  
And shows us how to choose aright;  
And that's first proved by th'objects it refuses,  
And by being constant then to that it chooses.   

III.  
Days, Weeks, Months, Years, and Lustres take  
So small time up i'th' Lover's Almanac,  
And can so little Love assuage,  
That we (in truth) can hardly say,  
When we have lived at least an Age,  
A long one, we have loved a day.  
This day to me, so slowly does time move,  
Seems but the Noon unto my Morning Love.   

iv  
Love by swift time, which sickly passions dread,  
Is no more measured than 'tis limited:  
That passion where all others cease,  
And with the fuel lose the flame,  
Is evermore in its increase,  
And yet being love, is still the same:  
They err call liking Love, true Lovers know  
He never loved who does not always so.   

V  
You who my last love have, my first love had,  
To whom my all of love was, and is paid,  
Are only worthy to receive  
The richest New-years-gift I have,  
My love, which I this morning give,  
A nobler never Monarch gave,  
Which each New-year I will present anew,  
And you'll take care, I hope, it shall be due.    

Epigram de Monsieur des-Portes.  

SOme four years ago I made Phillis an offer,  
Provided she would be my Wh—tr,  
Of two thousand good Crowns to put in her Coffer,  
And I think should have given her more.   

About two years after, a Message she sent me,  
She was for a thousand my own,  
But unless for an hundred she now would content me,  
I sent her word I would have none.   

She fell to my price six or seven weeks after,  
And then for a hundred would do;  
I than told her in vain she talked of the matter,  
Than twenty no farther I'd go.   

Tother day for six Ducatoons she was willing,  
Which I thought a great deal too dear,  
And told her unless it would come for two shilling,  
She must seek a Chapman elsewhere.   

This Morning she's come, and would fain buckle gratis,  
But she's grown so fulsome a Wh— re,  
That now methinks nothing a far dearer rate is,  
Than all that I offered before.    

Epigram de Monsieur Cotin,  

I Perish of too much desire  
If she inexorable prove,  
And shall with too much Joy expire  
If she be gracious to my love.   

Thus nought can cure my wounded Breast,  
But I most certain am to die,  
Or by the ill by which possessed,  
Or by the happy remedy.    

Epigram de Monsieur Maynard.  

OLD Fop, why should you take such pains  
To paint and Periwig it so?  
My nobler love, alas! disdains  
To stoop so infamously low.   

Time, that does mow the fairest Flowers,  
Has made so very bold with yours,  
You should expect to be denied;  
The Footmen can no more endure ye,  
And if no sport in Hell, assure ye,  
You'll never more be occupied.    

A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque.  

THE Lives of frail men are compared by the Sages,  
Or unto short Journeys, or Pilgrimages,  
As men to their Inns do come sooner or later,  
That is, to their Ends; (to be plain in my matter;)  
From whence, when one dead is, it currently follows,  
He has run his Race, though his Goal be the Gallows;  
And this 'tis, I fancy, sets Folk so a madding,  
And makes Men and Women so eager of gadding;  
Truth is, in my youth I was one of those People  
Would have gone a great way to have seen an high Steeple,  
And though I was bred amongst the Wonders o'th' Peak,  
Would have thrown away Money, and ventured my neck  
To have seen a great Hill, a Rock, or a Cave,  
And thought there was nothing so pleasant and brave▪  
But at Forty years old you may (if you please)  
Think me wiser than run such errands as these;  
Or, had the same humour still ran in my Toes,  
A Voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose:  
But to tell you the truth on't, indeed it was neither  
Improvement nor pleasure for which I went thither;  
I know then you'll presently ask me, for what?  
Why, faith, It was that makes the Old Woman trot;  
And therefore I think I'm not much to be blamed  
If I went to the place whereof Nick was ashamed.   

Oh Couriate! thou Traveller famed as Ulysses,  
In such a stupendious labour as this is  
Come lend me the Aids of thy hands and thy feet,  
Though the first be pedantic, the other not sweet,  
Yet both are so restless in Peregrination,  
They'll help both my Journey, and eke my Relation.   

'Twas now the most beautiful time of the year,  
The days were now long, and the Sky was now clear,  
And May, that fair Lady of splendid renown,  
Had dressed herself fine, in her flowered Tabby Gown,  
When about some two hours and an half after Noo●▪  
When it grew something late, though I thought it too soon,  
With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart,  
I tuned up my Pipes to sing loath to departed,  
The Ditty concluded, I called for my Horse,  
And with a good pack did the Jument endorse,  
Till he groaned and he farted under the burden,  
For sorrow had made me a cumbersome Lurden:  
And now farewell Dove, where I've caught such brave Dishes  
Of overgrown, golden, and silver-scaled Fishes;  
Thy Trout and thy Grailing may now feed securely,  
I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely;  
Feed on then, and breed on, until the next year,  
But if I return I expect my arrear.   

By pacing and trotting, betimes in the Even,  
E●er the Sun had forsaken one half of the Heaven,  
We all at fair Congerton took up our Inn,  
Where the Sign of a King kept a King and his Quee▪  
But who do you think came to welcome me there?  
No worse a man, marry, than good Master Mayor,  
With his Staff of Command, yet the man was not lame,  
But he needed it more when he went, than he came;  
After three or four hours of friendly potation  
We took leave each of other in courteous fashion,  
When each one, to keep his Brains fast in his head,  
Put on a good Nightcap, and straightway to bed.   

Next Morn, having paid for boiled, roasted, and Bacon,  
And of sovereign Hostess our leaves kindly taken,  
(For her King (as 'twas rumoured) by late pouring down,  
This morning had got a foul flaw in his crown,)  
We mounted again, and full soberly riding,  
Three miles we had rid e'er we met with a biding;  
But there (having over night plied the Tap well)  
We now must needs water at place called Holmes Chapel;  
A Hay! quoth the foremost, Ho! who keeps the House?  
Which said, out an Host comes as brisk as a Louse,  
His hair combed as slick, as a Barber he'd been,  
A Cravat with black Ribbon tied under his chin,  
Though by what I saw in him I streight'gan to fear  
That knot would be one day slipped under his ear:  
Quoth he, (with low Congee) what lack you my Lord▪  
The best Liquor, quoth I, that the House will afford:  
You shall straight, quoth he, and then calls out, Marry▪  
Come quickly, and bring us a quart of Canary:  
Hold, hold, my spruce Host, for i'th' Morning so early▪  
I never drink Liquor but what's made of Barley;  
Which words were scarce out, but, which made me admire,  
My Lordship was presently turned into Squire;  
Ale, Squire, you mean, quoth he, nimbly again,  
What, must it be purled? no, I love it best plain:  
Why, if you'll drink Ale, Sir, pray take my advice,  
Here's the best Ale i'th' Land, if you'll go to the price▪  
Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple,  
But then, in plain truth, it is six pence a Bottle:  
Why, Faith, quoth I, Friend, if your Liquor be such,  
For the best Ale in England, it is not too much;  
Let's have it, and quickly; O Sir! you may stay,  
A Pot in your pate is a mile in your way:  
Come, bring out a Bottle here presently, Wife,  
Of the best Cheshire Hum he e'er drank in his Life.  
Straight out comes the Mistress in Waistcoat of Silk,  
As clear as a Milkmaid, and white as her Milk,  
With Visage as oval and slick as an Egg,  
As straight as an Arrow, as right as my Leg;  
A curtsy she made, as demure as a Sister,  
● could not forbear, but alighted and kissed her,  
Then ducking another with most modest mien,  
The first word she said, was, wilt please you walk in?  
I thanked her, but told her, I then could not stay,  
For the haste of my business did call me away;  
She said she was sorry it fell out so odd,  
But if, when again I should travel that Road,  
● would stay there a night, she assured me the Nation  
Should no where afford better accommodation:  
Mean while my spruce Landlord has broken the Cork,  
And called for a Bodkin, though he had a Fork;  
But I show him a Skrew, which I told my brisk 〈◊〉▪  
A Trepane was for Bottles had broken their skull▪  
Which, as it was true, he believed without doubt,  
But 'twas I that applied it, and pulled the Cork out▪  
Bounce, quoth the Bottle, the work being done,  
It roared, and it smoked, like a new fired Gun;  
But the shot missed us all, or else we'd been routed,  
Which yet was a wonder, we were so about it;  
Mine Host poured and filled, till he could fill no fu●●●▪  
Look here, Sir, quoth he, both for Nap and for colo●▪  
Sans bragging, I hate it, nor will I e'er do't,  
I defy Leek, and Lambhith, and Sandwich to boo●▪  
By my troth he said true, for I speak it with tears,  
Though I have been a Toss-pot these twenty goo●▪ years,  
And have drank so much Liquor has made me Debtor,  
In my days, that I know of, I never drank better▪  
We found it so good, and we drank so profoundly▪  
That four good round Shillings were whipped 〈◊〉 roundly;  
And then I conceived it was time to be jogging,  
For our work had been done, had we stayed t'other Noggin.   

From thence we ●et forth with more mettle and spirit,  
Our Horses were empty, our Coxcombs were light,  
O'er Dellamore Forrest we, Tantivy, posted,  
Till our Horses were basted as if they were roasted;  
In truth, we pursued might have been by our Host,  
And I think Sir George Booth did not gallop so fast,  
Till about two a Clock after Noon, God be blessed,  
We came safe and sound, all to Chester i'th' West.   

And now in high time 'twas to call for some Meat,  
Though drinking does well, yet some time we must eat;  
And I'faith we had Vict'als both plenty and good, Where we all laid about us as if we were wood:  
Go thy ways, Mistress Anderton, for a good Woman,  
Thy Guests shall by thee ne'er be turned to a Common,  
And whoever of thy entertainment complains,  
Let him lie with a Drab, and be poxed for his pains.   

And here I must stop the Carrier of my Muse,  
The poor Jade is weary, 'lass! how should she choose,  
And if I should farther here spur on my Course,  
I should, questionless, tyre both my Wits and my Horse▪  
To night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's Even,  
To morrow to Church, and ask pardon of Heaven▪  
Thus far we our time spent, as here I have penned it,  
An odd kind of Life, and 'tis well if we mend it;  
But to morrow (God willing) we'll have t'orher bout,  
And better or worse be't, for Murder will out,  
Our future Adventures we'll lay down before ye,  
For my Muse is deep sworn to use truth of the Story.    

Canto 2.  

AFter seven hours' sleep, to commute for pains taken,  
A man of himself, one would think, might awaken,  
But riding, and drinking hard, were two such spells,  
I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of Bells,  
Which, ringing to Matins all over the Tow●▪  
Made me leap out of Bed, and put on my Gown,  
With intent (so God mend me) I have gone to the Choir,  
When straight I perceived myself all on a fire;  
For the two forenamed things had so heated my blood,  
That a little Phlebotomy would do me good:  
I sent for Chirurgeon, who came in a trice,  
And swift to shed blood, needed not be called twice,  
But tilted Stiletto quite through the Vein,  
From whence issued out the ill humours amain;  
When having twelve Ounces he bond up my arm,  
And I gave him two George's, which did him no harm:  
But after my bleeding I soon understood  
It had cooled my Devotion as well as my Blood,  
For I had no more mind to look on my Psalter  
Than (saving your presence) I had to a Halter;  
But like a most wicked and obstinate Sinner,  
Then sat in my Chamber till Foulkes came to dinner:  
I dined with good stomach, and very good cheer,  
With a very fine Woman, and good Ale and Beer;  
When myself having stuffed than a Bagpipe more full,  
I fell to my smoking until I grew dull;  
And therefore to take a fine nap thought it best,  
For when Belly full is bones would be at rest;  
I tumbled me down on my Bed like a swad,  
Where O the delicious Dream that I had!  
Till the Bells, that had been my morning molesters,  
Now waked me again, chiming all in to Vespers;  
With that starting up, for my man I did whistle,  
And combed out and powdered my locks that were grizle,  
Had my clothes neatly brushed, and then put on my Sword,  
Resolved now to go and attend on the word.   

Thus tricked, and thus trim, to set forth I begin,  
Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly within;  
For why, Heaven knows it, I long time had been  
A most humble obedient Servant to sin;  
And now in Devotion was even so proud,  
I scorned (forsooth) to join prayer with the Crowd▪  
For though courted by all the Bells as I went,  
I was deaf, and regarded not the Compliment,  
But to the Cathedral still held on my pace,  
As 'twere, scorning to kneel but in the best place;  
I there made myself sure of good Music at least,  
But was something deceived, for 'twas none of the best;  
But however I stayed at the Churches commanding  
Till we came to the peace passes all understanding,  
Which no sooner was ended, but whirr and away,  
Like Boys in a School when they've leave got to play,  
All save Master Mayor, who still gravely stays  
Till the rest had left room for his Worship and's Mace:  
Then he and his Brethren in order appear,  
I out of my stall and fell into his rear;  
For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no doubt,  
In Authority's Tail, than the head of a Rout.   

In this reverend order we marched from Prayer;  
The Mace before me borne as well as the mayor;  
Who looking behind him, and seeing most plain  
A glorious Gold Belt in the rear of his Train,  
Made such a low Congey, forgetting his place,  
I was never so honoured before in my days;  
But then off went my sclp-case, and down went 〈◊〉 Fist,  
Till the Pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was kiss●●▪  
By which, though thick-sculled, he must understand this,  
That I was a most humble Servant of his;  
Which also so wonderful kindly he took,  
(As I well perceived both b'his gesture and look,)  
That to have me dogged home, he straightway appointed,  
Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted;  
I was scarce in my Quarters, and set down on Crupper,  
But his man was there too, to invite me to Supper;  
I start up, and after most respective fashion  
Gave his Worship much thanks for his kind Invitation,  
But begged his excuse, for my stomach was small,  
And I never did eat any Supper at all;  
But that after Supper I would kiss his hands,  
And would come to receive his Worship's commands:  
Sure no one will say, but a Patron of Slander,  
That this was not pretty well for a Moorelander;  
And since on such reasons to sup I refused,  
I nothing did doubt to be holden excused;  
But my acquaint Repartee had his Worship possessed  
With so wonderful good a conceit of the rest,  
That with mere Impatience he hoped in his Breeches  
To see the fine Fellow that made such fine Speeches:  
Go, Sirrah, quoth he, get you to him again,  
And will and require in his Majesty's Name,  
That he come; and tell him, obey he were best, or  
I'll teach him to know that he's now in West-Chester▪  
The man, upon this, comes me running again,  
But yet minced his Message, and was not so plain;  
Saying to me only, good Sir, I am sorry  
To tell you my Master has sent again for you;  
And has such a longing to have you his Guest,  
That I, with these ears, heard him swear and protest,  
He would neither say Grace, nor sit down on his Bum▪  
Nor open his Napkin, until you do come.  
With that I perceived no excuse would avail,  
And, seeing there was no defence for a Flail,  
I said I was ready Master mayor to obey,  
And therefore desired him to lead me the way:  
We went, and e'er Malkin could well lick her ear,  
For it but the next door was, forsooth, we were there;  
Where lights being brought me, I mounted the Stairs,  
The worst I e'er saw in my life at a Mayor's,  
But every thing else must be highly commended;  
I there found his Worship most nobly attended,  
Besides such a Supper as well did convince,  
A mayor in his Province to be a great Prince:  
As he 
* By which you may note, that either the man was mistaken, o● the Mayor was not so good as his word, when he said he woul● not sit down till I came.  sat in his Chair, he did not much vary,  
In state, nor in face, from our Eighth English Harry;  
But whether his face was swelled up with fat,  
Or puffed up with Glory, I cannot tell that:  
Being entered the Chamber half length of a Pike,  
And cutting of faces exceedingly like  
One of those little Gentlemen brought from the Indies,  
And screwing myself into Congees and Cringes,  
By then I was half way advanced in the Room  
His Worship most rev'rendly rose from his Bum,  
And with the more Honour to grace and to greet me,  
Advanced a whole step and an half for to meet me;  
Where leisurely doffing a Hat worth a Tester,  
He bade me most hearty welcome to Chester;  
I thanked him in Language the best I was able,  
And so we forthwith sat us all down to Table.   

Now here you must note, and 'tis worth Observation,  
That as his Chair at one end o'th' Table had station,  
So sweet Mistress May'ress, in just such another,  
Like the fair Queen of Hearts, sat in state at the other;  
By which I perceived, though it seemed a Riddle,  
The lower end of this must be just in the middle;  
But perhaps 'tis a Rule there, and one that would mind it  
Amongst the Town-Statutes 'tis likely might find it.  
But now into th'Pottage each deep his Spoon claps,  
As in truth one might safely for burning one's chaps,  
When straight, with the look and the tone of a Scold,  
Mistress May'ress complained that the Pottage was cold,  
And all long of your fiddle-saddle, quoth she;  
Why, what then, Goody two-shoes, what if it be?  
Hold you, if you can, your tittle-tattle, quoth he.  
I was glad she was snapped thus, and guessed by th'discourse,  
The mayor, not the grey Mare, was the better Horse;  
And yet for all that, there is reason to fear,  
She submitted but out of respect to his year;  
However, 'twas well she had now so much grace,  
Though not to the Man, to submit to his place;  
For had she proceeded, I verily thought  
My turn would the next be, for I was in fault;  
But this brush being passed we fell to our Diet,  
And every one there filled his Belly in quiet.   

Supper being ended, and things away taken,  
Master Mayor's Curiosity began to awaken;  
Wherefore making me draw something nearer his Chair,  
He willed and required me there to declare  
My Country, my Birth, my Estate, and my Parts,  
And whether I was not a Master of Arts;  
And eke what the business was had brought me thither,  
With what I was going about now, and whither:  
Giving me caution, no lie should escape me,  
For if I should trip, he should certainly trap me.  
I answered, my Country was famed Stafford-shire;  
That in Deeds, Bills, and Bonds, I was ever writ Squire;  
That of Land, I had both sorts, some good, and some evil,  
But that a great part on't was pawned to the Devil;  
That as for my Parts, they were such as he saw;  
That indeed I had a small smatt'ring of Law,  
Which I lately had got more by practice than reading,  
By sitting o'th' Bench, whilst others were pleading;  
But that Arms I had ever more studied than Arts,  
And was now to a Captain raised by my deserts;  
That the business which led me through Palatine ground  
Into Ireland was, whither now I was bound;  
Where his Worship's great favour I loud will proclaim,  
And in all other places where ever I came.  
He said, as to that, I might do what I list,  
But that I was welcome, and gave me his fist;  
When having my Fingers made crack with his gripes,  
He called to his man for some Bottles and Pipes.   

To trouble you here with a longer Narration  
Of the several parts of our Confabulation,  
Perhaps would be tedious, I'll therefore remit ye  
Even to the most reverend Records of the City,  
Where doubtless the Acts of the May'rs are recorded,  
And if not more truly, yet much better worded.   

In short, than we piped, and we tippled Canary,  
Till my Watch pointed one in the Circle Horary;  
When thinking it now was high time to departed,  
His worship I thanked with a most grateful heart;  
And because to great men Presents are acceptable,  
I presented the mayor, e'er I risen from the Table,  
With a certain fantastical Box and a Stopper;  
And he having kindly accepted my offer,  
I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning,  
And to bed, for I was to rise early i'th' Morning.    

Canto 3.  

THe Sun in the Morning disclosed his light,  
With complexion as ruddy as mine over night;  
And o'er th'Eastern Mountains peeping up's head,  
The Casement being open, espied me in bed;  
With his Rays he so tickled my lids that I waked,  
And was half ashamed, for I found myself naked;  
But up I soon start, and was dressed in a trice,  
And called for a draught of Ale, Sugar, and Spice;  
Which having turned off, I then call to pay,  
And packing my Nawls, whipped to Horse, and away  
A Guide I had got, who demanded great vails,  
For conducting me over the Mountains of Wales;  
Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is;  
Yet that would not serve, but I must bare his Charges;  
And yet for all that, road astride on a Beast,  
The worst that e'er went on three Legs, I protest;  
It certainly was the most ugly of Jades,  
His hips and his rump made a right Ace of Spades;  
His sides were two Ladders, well spurgalled withal;  
His neck was a Helve, and his head was a Mall;  
For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare,  
For the Creature was wholly denuded of hair,  
And, except for two things, as bare as my nail,  
A tuft of a Mane, and a sprig of a Tail;  
And by these the true colour one can no more know,  
Than by Mouse-skins above stairs the Merkin below:  
Now such as the Beast was, even such was the Rider,  
With a head like a Nutmeg, and legs like a Spider;  
A voice like a Cricket, a look like a Rat,  
The brains of a Goose, and the heart of a Cat;  
Even such was my Guide, and his Beast, let them pass,  
The one for a Horse, and the other an Ass.  
But now with our Horses, what sound and what rotten,  
Down to the Shoar, you must know, we were gotten;  
And there we were told, it concerned us to ride,  
Unless we did mean to encounter the Tide;  
And than my Guide labouring with heels and with hands,  
With two up and one down, hopped over the Sands,  
Till his Horse, finding th'labour for three Legs too sore,  
Foled out a new leg, and then he had four:  
And now by plain dint of hard spurring and whipping,  
Dry-shod we came where Folks sometimes take Shipping;  
And where the Salt-Sea, as the Devil were in't,  
Came roaring, t'have hindered our Journey to Flint▪;  
But were, by good luck, before him got thither,  
He else would have carried us no man knows whither.   

And now Her in Wales is, Saint Taph be her speed,  
Gotts plutter her taste, some Welch-Ale her had need;  
For her ride in great haste, and was like shit her Breeches,  
For fear of her being catcht up by the Fishes;  
But the Lord of Flint Castles no Lord worth a Louse,  
For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his House;  
But in a small House near unto't there was store  
Of such Ale, as (thank God) I ne'er tasted before;  
And surely the Welsh are not wise of their Fuddle,  
For this had the taste and complexion of puddle.  
From thence then we marched, full as dry as we came;  
My Guide before prancing, his steed no more lame,  
O'er Hills, and o'er Valleys uncouth and uneven,  
Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven,  
More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell,  
We happily came to St. Winnifred's Well;  
I thought it the Pool of Bethesda had been  
By the Cripples lay there, but I went to my Inn  
To speak for some Meat, for so Stomach did motion,  
Before I did farther proceed in Devotion;  
I went into th'kitchen, where Vict'als I saw,  
Both Beef, Veal, and Mutton, but all on't was raw,  
And some on't alive, but it soon went to slaughter,  
For four Chickens were slain by my Dame and her Daughter;  
Of which to Saint Win. e'er my vows I had paid,  
They said I should find a rare Frigassey made;  
I thanked them, and straight to the Well did repair,  
Where some I found cursing, and others at Prayer,  
Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in,  
Some naked, where Botches and Boils might beseen,  
Of which some were Fevors of Venus I'm sure,  
And therefore unfit for the Virgin to cure▪  
But the Fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight,  
The beautiful Virgin's own tears not more bright▪  
Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear,  
Her Conscience, her Name, nor herself were more clear:  
In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white,  
But streaked with pure red, as the Morning with light,  
Which they say is her blood, and so it may be,  
But for that; let who shed it look to it for me.  
Over the Fountain a Chapel there stands,  
Which I wonder has scaped Master Oliver's hands;  
The floor's not ill paved, and the Margin o'th' Spring,  
Is enclosed with a certain Octagonal Ring;  
From each Angle of which a Pillar does rise,  
Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice  
To support and uphold from falling to ground  
A Cupolo wherewith the Virgin is crowned.  
Now 'twixt the two Angles, that fork to the North,  
And where the cold Nymph does her Basin pour forth,  
Under ground is a place, where they bathe, as 'tis said,  
And 'tis true, for I heard Folks Teeth hack in their head;  
For you are to know, that the Rogues and the Whores  
Are not let to pollute the Springhead with their sores.  
But one thing I chief admired in the place,  
That a Saint, and a Virgin, endued with such Grace,  
Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer,  
To that whoring and filching Trade of a Miller,  
As within a few paces to furnish the Wheels,  
Of I cannot tell how many Water-mills:  
I've studied that point much, you cannot guests why,  
But the Virgin was, doubtless, more righteous than ●▪  
And now for my welcome, four, five, or six Lasses,  
With as many Crystalline liberal Glasses,  
Did all importune me to drink of the Water  
Of Saint Winnefreda, good Thewith's fair Daughter:  
A while I was doubtful, and stood in a Muse,  
Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to choose,  
Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight,  
From the rest o'th' fair Maidens did carry me quite;  
I took the Glass from her, and, whip, off it went,  
I half doubt I fancied a health to the Saint;  
But he was a great Villain committed the slaughter,  
For St. Winifrid made most delicate water.  
I slipped a hard Shilling into her soft hand,  
Which had like to have made me the place have profaned,  
And giving two more to the Poor that were there,  
Did, sharp as a Hawk, to my quarters repair.   

My Dinner was ready, and to it I fell,  
I never eaten better meat that I can tell;  
When having half dined, there comes in my Host,  
A Catholic, good, and a rare drunken Tost;  
This man, by his drinking, inflamed the Scot,  
And told me strange stories, which I have forgot;  
But this I remember, 'twas much on's own Life,  
And one thing, that he had converted his Wife.   

But now my Guide told me, it time was to go,  
For that to our beds we must both ride and row;  
Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted,  
I soon was down stairs, and as suddenly mounted:  
On than we travelled, our guide still before,  
Sometimes on three Legs, and sometimes on four,  
Coasting the Sea, and over Hills crawling,  
Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in;  
For underneath Neptune lay shalking to watch us,  
And, had we but slipped once, was ready to catch us:  
Thus in places of danger taking more heed,  
And in safer travelling mending our speed,  
Redland-Castle and Abergoney we passed,  
And over against Connaway came at the last:  
Just over against a Castle there stood,  
O'th' right hand the Town, and o'th' left hand a Wood;  
'Twixt the Wood and the Castle they see at high water  
The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter;  
And besides, upon such a steep Rock it is founded,  
As would break a man's neck, should he scape being drowned:  
Perhaps though in time one may make them to yield,  
But 'tis pretty'st Cob-Castle e'er I beheld.   

The Sun now was going t'unharness his Steeds,  
When the Ferry-boat brasking her sides against the Weeds,  
Came in as good time, as good time could be,  
To give us a cast o'er an arm of the Sea;  
And bestowing our Horses before and abaft,  
O'er god Neptune's wide Codpiece gave us a waft▪  
Where scurvily landing at foot of the Fort,  
Within very few paces we entered the Port,  
Where another King's head invited me down,  
For indeed I have ever been true to the Crown.    

The Storm▪  
To the Earl of—  

HOw with ill Nature does this World abound!  
When I, who ever thought myself most sound,  
And free from that infection, now must choose  
Out you, (my Lord,) whom lest I should abuse  
To trouble with a Tempest, who have none  
In your firm Breast t'afflict you of your own;  
But ●ince of Friendship it the nature is,  
In any accident that falls amiss,  
Whether of sorrow, terror, loss, or pain,  
Caused or by Men or Fortune, to complain  
To those who of our ills have deepest sense,  
And in whose favour we've most confidence.  
Pardon, if in a Storm I here engage  
Your calmer thoughts, and on a Sea, whose rage,  
When but a little moved, as far outbraves  
The tamer Mutinies of Adria's Waves,  
As they, when worst for Neptune to appease  
The softest curls of most pacific Seas;  
And though I'm vain enough half to believe  
My danger will some little trouble give,  
I yet more vainly fancy 'twill advance  
Your pleasure too, for my deliverance   

'Twas now the time of year, of all the rest,  
For slow, but certain Navigation best;  
The Earth had dressed herself so fine and gay,  
That all the World, our little World, was May;  
The Sea too, had put on his smoothest face,  
Clear, slick, and even as a Looking-glass;  
The rugged Winds were locked up in their Gaoles,  
And were but Zephyrs whispered in the Sails;  
All Nature seemed to court us to our woe;  
Good God can Elements dissemble too?  
Whilst we, secure, considered not the while  
That greatest Treasons lie concealed in smiles.   

Aboard we went, and soon were under Sail,  
But with so small an over-modest Gale,  
And to our Virgin Canvas so unkind,  
As not to swell their laps with so much wind,  
As common courtship would in breeding pay  
To Maids less buxom and less trim than they.  
But of this Calm we could not long complain,  
For scarcely were we got out to the Main  
From the still Harbour but a League, no more,  
When the false Wind (that seemed so chaste before)  
The Ship's laced Smock began to stretch and tear▪  
Not like a Suitor, but a Ravisher;  
As if delight were lessened by consent,  
And tasted worse for being innocent.  
A Sable Curtain, in a little space,  
Of thick wove Clouds was drawn o'er Phoebus' face▪  
He might not see the horror of the fight,  
Nor we the comfort of his heavenly light:  
Then, as this darkness had the Signal been,  
At which the furious Storm was to begin,  
Heaven's loud Artillery began to play,  
And with pale flashes made a dreadful day:  
The Centre shook by these, the Ocean  
In hills of Brine to swell and heave began;  
Which growing Mountains, as they rolling hit,  
To surge and foam, each other broke and split,  
Like men, who, in intestine storms of state,  
Strike any they nor know, nor yet for what;  
But with the stream of fury headlong run  
To war, they know not how nor why begun.   

In this disorder straight the winds forlorn,  
Which had lain ambushed all the flattering Morn,  
With unexpected fury rushes in,  
The ruffling Skirmish rudely to begin;  
The Sea with Thunderclaps alarmed before,  
Assaulted thus anew, began to roar  
In Waves, that striving which should fastest run,  
Crowded themselves into confusion.   

At which advantage Aeolus brought on  
His large spread Wings, and main battalion▪  
When by opposing shores the flying Fo●  
Forced back against the Enemy to flow,  
So great a conflict followed, as if here  
Th'enraged Enemies embattled were;  
Not only one another to subdue,  
But to destroy themselves and Nature too.   

To paint this Horror to the life, weak Art  
Must want a hand, Humanity a heart,  
And I, the bare Relation whilst I make,  
Methinks am brave, my hand still does not shake▪  
For surely since men first in Planks of wood  
Themselves committed to the faithless Flood,  
Men born and bred at Sea, did ne'er behold  
Neptune in such prodigious furrows rolled;  
Those winds, which with the loudest terror roar,  
Never so stretched their lungs and cheeks before;  
Nor on this floating stage has ever been  
So black a Scene of dreadful ruin seen.   

Poor Yacht! in such a Sea how canst thou live?  
What ransom would not thy pale Tenants give▪  
To be set down on the most desperate shore,  
Where Serpents hiss, Tigers and Lions roar,  
And where the men, inhuman Savages,  
Are yet worse Vermin, greater Brutes than these?  
Who would not for a danger that may be  
Exchange a certain ruin that they see?  
For such, unto our Reason, or our fear,  
Ours did in truth most manifest appear;  
And how could we expect a better end,  
When Winds and Seas seemed only to contend,  
Not which should conquer other in this War,  
But in our wreck which should have greatest share?  
The Winds were all let lose upon the Main,  
And every wind that blew a Hurricane,  
Nereus' whole power too mustered seemed to be,  
Wave road on wave, and every wave a Sea.  
Of our small Bark gusts rushed the trembling sides  
Against vast billows that contained whole Tides,  
Which in disdainful fury beat her back  
With such a force, as made her stout sides crack,  
Against others that in crowds came rolling in,  
As if they meant their liquid walls between  
T'engage the wretched hulk, and crush her flat,  
And make her squeeze to death her dying freight.  
Sometimes she on a Mountain's ridge would ride,  
And from that height her gliding Keel then slide  
Into a Gulf yawning, and deep as Hell,  
Whilst we were swooning all the while we fell;  
Then by another billow raised so high,  
As if the Sea would dart her into th'Sky,  
To be a Pinnace to the Argosy;  
Then down a precipice so low and steep,  
As it had been the bottom of the Deep:  
Thus whilst we up and down, and to and fro,  
Were miserably tossed and bandied so,  
'Twas strange our little Pink, though ne'er so tied,  
Can weathered so, and keep her s●lf upright;  
Or was not funk with weight of our despair,  
For Hope, alas! could find no ank'ring there:  
Her Prow, and Poop, Starboard, and Lar-board side  
B'ing with these Elements so hotly plied,  
'Twas no less than a Miracle her seams  
Not ripped and opened, and her very Beams  
Continued faithful in these loud extremes;  
That her tall Masts, so often bowed and bend  
With gust on gust, were not already spent;  
That all, or any thing indeed withstood  
A Sea so hollow, such a high wrought Flood.   

Here, where no Sea-man's Art nor strength avails,  
Where use of Compass, Rudder, or of Sails,  
There now was none; the Mariners all stood  
Bloudless and cold as we; or though they could  
Something, perhaps, have helped in such a stress,  
Were every one astonished ne'ertheless  
To that degree, they either had no heart  
Their Art to use, or had forgot their Art  
Meanwhile the miserable Passengers,  
With sighs the hardest, the more soft with tears,  
Mercy of Heaven in various accents craved,  
But after drowning hoping to be saved.  
How oft, by fear of dying, did we die?  
And every death, a death of cruelty,  
Worse than worst Cruelties provoked impose  
On the most hated, most offending Foes.  
We fancied death riding on every Wave,  
And every hollow seemed a gaping Grave:  
All things we saw such horror did present,  
And all of dying too were so intent,  
Every one thought himself already dead,  
And that for him the tears he saw were shed.  
Such as had not the courage to behold  
Their danger above deck, within the Hosd  
Uttered such groans in that their floating Grave,  
As even unto terror terror gave;  
Whilst those above pale, dead, and cold appear,  
Like Ghosts in Charon's Boat that sailing were.  
The last day's dread, which none can comprehend,  
But to weak fancy only recommend,  
To form the dreadful Image from sick fear,  
That fear and fancy both were heightened here  
With such a face of horror, as alone  
Was fit to prompt Imagination,  
Or to create it where there had been none.  
Such as from under Hatches thrust a head  
T'enquire what news, seemed rising from the dead,  
Whilst those who stayed above, bloudless with fear,  
And ghastly look, as they new risen were.  
The bold and timorous, with like horror struck,  
Were not to be distinguished by their look;  
And he who could the greatest courage boast  
However within, looked still as like a Ghost.   

Ten hours in this rude Tempest we were tossed,  
And every moment gave ourselves for lost;  
Heaven knows how ill prepared for sudden death,  
When the rough winds, as they'd been out of breath,  
Now seemed to pant, and panting to retreat,  
The Waves with gentler force against us beat;  
The Sky cleared up, the Sun again shone bright,  
And gave us once again new life and light;  
We could again bear sail in those rough Seas,  
The Seamen now resume their offices;  
Hope warmed us now anew, anew the heart  
Did to our cheeks some streaks of blood impart;  
And in two hours, or very little more,  
We came to Anchor Faulcon-shot from shore,  
The very same we left the Morn before;  
Where now in a yet working Sea, and high,  
Until the wind shall veer, we rolling lie,  
Resting secure from present fear; but then  
The dangers we escaped must tempt again;  
Which if again I safely shall get through,  
(And sure I know the worst the Sea can do)  
So soon as I shall touch my native Land,  
●'ll thence ride Post to kiss your Lordship's hand.    

ODE.  

IS't come to this, that we must part?  
Then Heaven is turned all cruelty,  
And Fate has neither eyes nor heart,  
Or else (my Sweet) it could not be.   

She's a blind Deity I'm sure;  
For woeful sights compassion move,  
And Heavenly minds could ne'er endure  
To persecute the truest love.   

Love is the highest attribute  
Of powers unknown we Mortals know;  
For that all homage we commute  
From that all good, and Mercies flow.   

And can there be a Deity  
In those eternal seats above,  
Will own so dire a Cruelty,  
As thus to punish faithful Love?   

Oh Heavenly Powers! be good and just,  
Cherish the Law yourselves have made,  
We else in vain in Virtue trust,  
And by Religion are betrayed.   

Oh! punish me some other way  
For other sins, but this is none;  
Take all the rest you gave away,  
But let my dearest Dear alone.   

Strip me as into th'World I came,  
I never shall dispute your will,  
Or strike me dumb, deaf, blind or lame,  
But let me have Chlorinda still.   

Why was she given me at all?  
I thought indeed the Gift too great  
For my poor Merit; but withal  
I always knew to value it.   

I first by you was worthy made,  
Next by her choice; let me not prove  
Blasphemous, if I'm not afraid  
To say most worthy by my love.   

And must I then be damned from Bliss  
For valuing the Blessing more,  
Be wretched made through Happiness,  
And by once being rich more poor?   

This Separation is, alas!  
Too great a punishment to bear,  
Oh! take my life, or let me pass  
That li●e, that happy li●e, with her.   

O my Chlorinda! couldst thou see  
Into the bottom of my heart,  
There's such a Mine of Love for thee,  
The Treasure would supply desert.   

Let the King send me where he please,  
Ready at Drum and Trumpet's call,  
I'll fight at home, or cross the Seas,  
His Soldier, but Chlorinda's Thrall.   

No change of Diet, or of Air,  
In me can a Distemper breed;  
And if I fall it should be fair,  
Since 'tis her blood that I'm to bleed.   

And sitting so I nothing fear  
A noble she of living fame;  
And who shall then be by, nay hear,  
In my last groans, Chlorinda's Name?   

But I am not proscribed to die,  
My Adversaries are too wise;  
More rigour and less Charity  
Condemns me from Chlorinda's eyes.   

Ah cruel Sentence, and severe!  
That is a thousand deaths in one;  
Oh! let me die before I hear  
● sound of Separation.   

And yet it is decreed, I see,  
The Race of men are now combined,  
Though I still keep the Body free,  
To persecute a Loyal mind.   

And that's the worst that Man can do,  
To banish me Chlorinda's sight,  
Yet will my heart continue true,  
Maugre their power and their spite.   

Mean while my Exit now draws nigh,  
When, Sweet Chlorinda, thou shalt see  
That I have heart enough to die,  
Not half enough to part with thee.    

〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. paraphrased from Anacreon.  

THe Earth with swallowing drunken showers  
Reels a perpetual round,  
And with their Healths the Trees and Flowers  
Again drink up the Ground.   

The Sea, of Liquor spewing full,  
The ambient Air doth sup,  
And thirsty Phoebus at a pull  
Quaffs off the Ocean's cup.   

When staggering to a resting place,  
His business being done,  
The Moon, with her pale platter face,  
Comes and drinks up the Sun.   

Since Elements and Planets than  
Drink an eternal round,  
'Tis much more proper sure for men  
Have better Liquor found.   

Why may not I then, tell me pray,  
Drink and be drunk as well as they?    

On Christmas-day.  
Hymn.  

I.  
RIse, happy Mortals, from your sleep,  
Bright Phospher now gins to peep,  
In such apparel as ne'er dressed  
The proudest daybreak of the East:  
Death's Sable Curtain begins disperse,  
And now the blessed Morn appears,  
Which has longed and prayed for him  
So many Centuries of years,  
To defray th'arrears of sin.  
Now through the joyful Universe  
Beams of Mercy and of Love  
Shoot forth comfort from above,  
And Choires of Angels do proclaim  
The Holy jesus blessed Name.   

II.  
Rise Shepherds, leave your Flocks, and run,  
The Soul's great Shepherd now is come;  
Oh! wing your tardy feet, and fly  
To greet this dawning Majesty:  
Heaven's Messenger, in tidings blessed,  
Invites you to the Sacred place,  
Where the blessed Babe of Joy,  
Wrapped in his Holy Father's Grace,  
Comes the Serpent to destroy,  
That lurks in every humane Breast.  
To Iudah's bethlehem turn your feet,  
There you shall Salvation meet;  
There, in a homely Manger hurled,  
Lies the Messiah of the World.   

III.  
Riding upon the Morning's wings,  
The joyful Air Salvation sings,  
Peace upon Earth, towards men good will,  
Echoes from every Vale and Hill;  
For why the Prince of Peace is come,  
The glorious Infant, who this Morn  
(By a strange mysterious Birth,)  
Is of his Virgin Mother born,  
To redeem the Seed of Earth  
From foul rebellious heavy doom.  
Travel Magi of the East,  
To adore this sacred Guest;  
And offer up (with reverence,)  
Your Gold, your Myrrh, and Frankincense.   

iv  
At th'teeming of this Blessed Womb  
All Nature is one Joy become;  
The Fire, the Earth, the Sea, and Air,  
The great Salvation do declare:  
The Mountains skip with Joys excess,  
The Ocean's briny billows swell  
O'er the surface of their Lands,  
And at this Sacred Miracle  
Floods do clap their liquid hands,  
Joys Inundation to express;  
Babes spring in the narrow rooms  
Of their tender Mother's Wombs,  
And all for Triumph of the Morn  
Wherein the Child of bliss was born.   

V  
Let each religious Soul than ris●  
To offer up a Sacrifice,  
And on the wings of Prayer and Praise  
His grateful heart to Heaven raise;  
For this, that in a Stable lies,  
This poor neglected Babe is he,  
Hell and Death that must control,  
And speak the blessed Word, be free  
To every true believing Soul:  
Death has no sting, nor Hell no prize  
Through his Merits great, whilst we  
Travel to Eternity,  
And with the Blessed Angels sing  
Hosannah's to the Heavenly King.    

Chorus.  
RIse then, O rise, and let your voices  
Tell the Spheres the Soul rejoices.  
In bethlehem this auspicious Morn,  
The Glorious Son of God is born.  
The Child of Glory, Prince of Peace,  
Brings Mercy that will never cease,  
Merits that wipe away the sin  
Each Humane Soul was forfeit in;  
And washing off the fatal stain,  
Man to his Maker knits again:  
Join then your grateful Notes, and sing  
Hosannah's to the Heavenly King.   

Saphick Ode.  

HOw easy is his Life, and free,  
Who, urged by no necessity,  
Eats cheerful Bread, and over night does pay  
For's next day's Crapula.   

No suitor such a mean estate  
Invites to be importunate,  
No supple flatterer, robbing Villain, or  
Obstreperous Creditor.   

This man does need no Bolts nor Locks,  
Nor needs he start when any knocks,  
But may on careless Pillow lie and snoar,  
With a wide open door.   

Trouble and Danger Wealth attend,  
An useful but a dangerous Friend,  
Who makes us pay, e'er we can be released,  
Quadruple Interest.   

Let's live to day then for to morrow,  
The Fool's too provident will borrow  
A thing, which through Chance or Infirmity,  
'Tis odds he ne'er may see.   

Spend all then e'er you go to Heaven,  
So with the World you will make even;  
And men discharge by dying Nature's score,  
Which done we own no more.    

The Morning Quatrains.  

I.  
THe Cock has crowed an hour ago,  
'Tis time we now dull sleep forgo;  
Tired Nature is by sleep redressed,  
And Labour's overcome by Rest.   

II.  
We have outdone the work of Night,  
'Tis time we rise t'attend the Light,  
And ●'er he shall his Beams display,  
To plot new business for the day.   

III.  
None but the slothful, or unsound,  
Are by the Sun in Feathers found,  
Nor, without rising with the Sun,  
Can the World's business e'er be done.   

iv  
Hark! Hark! the watchful Chanticler,  
Tells us the day's bright Harbinger  
Peeps o'er the Eastern Hills, to awe  
And warn night's sovereign to withdraw.   

V  
The Morning Curtains now are drawn,  
And now appears the blushing dawn;  
Aurora has her Roses shed,  
To strew the way Sol's steeds must tread.   

VI  
Xanthus and Aethon harnessed are,  
To roll away the burning Carr;  
And, snorting flame, impatient bear  
The dressing of the Chariotier.   

VII.  
The sable Cheeks of sullen Night  
Are streaked with Rosy streams of light,  
Whilst she retires away in fear,  
To shade the other Hemisphere.   

VIII.  
The merry Lark now takes her wings,  
And longed-for days loud welcome sings,  
Mounting her body out of sight,  
As if she meant to meet the light.   

IX.  
Now doors and windows are unbar'd,  
Each-where are cheerful voices heard,  
And round about Good-morrows fly,  
As if Day taught Humanity.   

X.  
The Chimneys now to smoke begin▪  
And the old Wife sits down to spin,  
Whilst Kate, taking her Pail, does trip  
Mulls swollen and stradl'ing Paps to strip.   

XI.  
Vulcan now makes his Anvil ring,  
Dick whistles loud, and Maud doth sing,  
And Silvio with his Bugle Horn  
Winds an Imprime unto the Morn.   

XII.  
Now through the morning doors behold  
Phoebus arrayed in burning Gold,  
Lashing his fiery Steeds, displays  
His warm and all enlight'ning Rays   

XIII.  
Now each one to his work prepares,  
All that have hands are Labourers,  
And Manufactures of each trade  
By opening Shops are open laid.   

XIV.  
Hob yokes his Oxen to the Team,  
The Angler goes unto the stream,  
The Woodman to the Purlieuses highs,  
And labouring Bees to load their thighs.   

XV.  
Fair Amarillis drives her Flocks,  
All night safe folded from the Fox,  
To flowery Downs, where Collen stays,  
To court her with his Roundelays.   

XVI.  
The Traveller now leaves his Inn  
A new days Journey to begin,  
As he would post it with the day,  
And early rising makes good way.   

XVII.  
The slick-faced Schoolboy Sachel takes,  
And with slow pace small riddance makes;  
For why, the haste we make, you know,  
To Knowledge and to virtue's slow.   

XVIII.  
The Fore-horse jingles on the Road,  
The Waggoner lugs on his Load,  
The Field with busy People snies,  
And City rings with various cries.   

XIX.  
The World is now a busy swarm,  
All doing good, or doing harm;  
But let's take heed our Acts be true,  
For Heaven's eye sees all we do.   

XX.  
None can that piercing sight evade,  
It penetrates the darkest shade,  
And sin, though it could scape the eye,  
Would be discovered by the Cry.    

Noon Quatrains.  

I.  
THe day grows hot, and darts his Rays  
From such a sure and kill place,  
That this half World are fain to fly  
The danger of his burning eye.   

II.  
H●s early Glories were benign,  
Warm to be felt, bright to be seen,  
And all was comfort, but who can  
Endure him when Meridian?   

III.  
Of him we as of Kings complain,  
Who mildly do begin to reign,  
But to the Zenith got of power,  
Those whom they should protect devour.   

iv  
Has not another Phaeton  
Mounted the Chariot of the Sun,  
And, wanting Art to guide his Horse,  
Is hurried from the Sun's due course.   

V  
If this hold on, our fertile Lands  
Will soon be turned to parched Sands,  
And not an Onion that will grow  
Without a Nile to overflow.   

VI  
The grazing Herds now droop and pant,  
E'en without labour fit to faint,  
And willingly forsook their Meat  
To seek out cover from the heat.   

VII.  
The lagging Ox is now unbound,  
From larding the new turned up ground,  
Whilst Hobbinal alike o'er-laid,  
Takes his course dinner to the shade.   

VIII.  
Cellars and Grottos now are best  
To eat and drink in, or to rest,  
And not a Soul above is found  
Can find a refuge under ground.   

IX.  
When Pagan Tyranny grew hot,  
Thus persecuted Christians got  
Into the dark but friendly Womb  
Of unknown Subterranean Rome.   

X.  
And as that heat did cool at last,  
So a few scorching hours o'er passed,  
In a more mild and temperate Ray  
We may again enjoy the day.    

The Night.  
Written by Monsieur le Comte de Cremail.  
Stanzes.  

I.  
OH Night! by me so oft required,  
Oh Night! by me so much desired,  
Of my Felicity the cause,  
Oh Night! so welcome to my eyes,  
Grant, in this horror of the Skies,  
This dreadful shade thy Curtain draws,  
That I may now adore this Night  
The Star that burns and gives me light.   

II.  
Spread over the Earth thy Sable Veil,  
Heaven's twinkling sparklets to conceal,  
That darkness seems to day t'improve;  
For other light I do need none  
To guide me to my lovely one,  
But only that of mine own love;  
And all light else offends my sight,  
But hers whose eye does give me light.   

III.  
Oblivion of our forepast woes,  
Thou Charm of sadness, and repose  
Of Souls that languish in despair,  
Why dost thou not from Lethe rise?  
Dost thou not see the whole World snies  
With Lovers who themselves declare  
Enemies to all noise and light,  
And cove● nothing but the Night?   

iv  
At her transparent Window there  
Thou'lt see Aminta's eye appear,  
That, like a Sun set round with Ray,  
The shadows from the Sky shall chase,  
Changing the colour of its face  
Into a bright and glorious day;  
Yet do not fear this Sun so bright,  
For 'tis a mighty Friend to Night.   

V  
Rise then, loved Night, rise from the Sea,  
And to my Sun Aurora be,  
And now thy blackest Garment wear;  
Dull sleep already thee foregoes,  
And each-where a dumb silence does  
Thy longed-for long approach declare;  
I know the Star that gives me light,  
To see me only stays for Night.   

VI  
Ha! I see shades rise from th'abyss,  
And now I go the Lips to kiss,  
The Breasts and Eyes have me deceived;  
Oh Night! the height of my desire,  
Canst thou put on so black attire  
That I by none can be perceived,  
And that I may this happy Night  
See the bright Star that gives me light?   

VII.  
Oh that my dusky Goddess could  
In her thick Mantle so enfold  
Heaven's torches, as to damp their fire,  
That here on Earth thou mightst for ever  
Keep thy dark Empire, Night, and never  
Under the Waves again retire;  
That endless so might be the Night,  
Wherein I see the Star my light!    

Evening.  
Quatrains.  

I.  
THE Day's grown old, the fainting Sun  
Has but a little way to run,  
And yet his Steeds, with all his skill,  
Scarce lug the Chariot down the Hill.   

II.  
With Labour spent, and Thirst oppressed,  
Whilst they strain hard to gain the West,  
From Fetlocks hot drops melted light,  
Which turn to Meteors in the Night.   

III.  
The Shadows now so long do grow,  
That Brambles like tall Cedars show,  
Molehills seem Mountains, and the Ant  
Appears a monstrous Elephant.   

iv  
A very little little Flock  
Shades thrice the ground that it would stock;  
Whilst the small Stripling following them,  
Appears a mighty Polypheme.   

V  
These being brought into the Fold,  
And by the thrifty Master told,  
He thinks his Wages are well paid,  
Since none are either lost, or strayed.   

VI  
Now lowing Herds are each-where heard,  
Chains rattle in the Villains Yard,  
The Cart's on tail set down to rest,  
Bearing on high the Cuckold's Crest.   

VII.  
The hedge is stripped, the Clothes brought in,  
Nought's left without should be within,  
The Bees are hived, and hum their Charm,  
Whilst every House does seem a Swarm.   

VIII.  
The Cock now to the Roost is pressed:  
For he must call up all the rest;  
The Sow's fast pegged within the Sty,  
To still her squeaking Progeny.   

IX.  
Each one has had his Supping Mess,  
The Cheese is put into the Press,  
The Pans and Bowls clean scalded all,  
●ear'd up against the Milk-house Wall.   

X.  
And now on Benches all are sat  
●n the cool Air to sit and chat,  
till Phoebus, dipping in the West,  
●hall lead the World the way to Rest.    

Night.  
Quatrains.  

I.  
THE Sun is set, and gone to sleep  
With the fair Princess of the Deep▪  
Whose Bosom is his cool Retreat,  
When fainting with his proper Heat:   

II.  
His Steeds their Flaming Nostrils cool  
In Spume of the Cerulean Pool;  
Whilst the Wheels dip their hissing Naves  
Deep in Columbus' Western Waves.   

III.  
From whence great rowls of Smoke arise  
To overshade the Beauteous Skies;  
Who bid the World's bright Eye adieu  
In gelid tears of falling Dew.   

iv  
And now from the Iberian Vales  
Nights sable Steeds her Chariot hales,  
Where double Cypress Curtains screen  
The gloomy Melancholic Queen.   

V  
These, as they higher mount the Sky,  
Ravish all Colour from the Eye,  
And leave it but an useless glass,  
Which few, or no Reflections grace.   

VI  
●he Crystal Arch o'er Pindus' Crown  
● on a sudden dusky grown,  
●nd all's with Funeral Black o'erspread,  
●s if the Day, which sleeps, were dead.   

VII.  
●o Ray of Light the Heart to cheer,  
●●t little twinkling Stars appear;  
●hich like faint dying embers●ly,  
●t nor to work, nor travel by.   

VIII.  
perhaps to him they Torches are,  
●ho guide Night's Sovereign's drowsy Car,  
●nd him they may befriend so near,  
●ut us they neither light, nor cheer.   

IX.  
〈◊〉 else those little sparks of Light  
●re Nails that tire the Wheels of Night,  
●hich to new stations still are brought,  
〈◊〉 they roll o'er the gloomy Vault.   

X.  
Or Nails that arm the Horse's hoof,  
Which trampling o'er the marble Roof,  
And striking Fire in the Air,  
We Mortals call a shooting Star.   

XI.  
That's all the Light we now receive,  
Unless what belching Vulcan's give,  
And those yield such a kind of Light  
As adds more horror to the Night.   

XII.  
Nyctimine now freed from day,  
From sullen Bush flies out to prey,  
And does with Feret note proclaim  
Th' arrival of th' usurping Dame.   

XIII.  
The Rail now cracks in Fields and Meads,  
Toads now forsake the Nettle-beds,  
The timorous Hare goes to relief,  
And wary Men bolt out the Thief.   

XIV.  
The Fire's new rak't, and Hearth swept clean  
By Madge, the dirty Kitchen Quean,  
The Safe is locked, the Mousetrap set,  
The Leaven laid, and Bucking wet.   

XV.  
Now in false Floors and Roofs above,  
The lustful Cats make ill-tuned Love,  
The Bandog on the Dunghill lies,  
And watchful Nurse sings Lullabies.   

XVI.  
Philomela chants it whilst she bleeds,  
The Bittern booms it in the Reeds,  
And Reynard entering the back Yard,  
The Capitolian Cry is heard.   

XVII.  
The Goblin now the Fool alarms,  
Hags meet to mumble o'er their Charms;  
The Nightmare rides the dreaming Ass,  
And Fairies trip it on the grass.   

XVIII.  
The Drunkard now supinely snores,  
His load of Ale sweats through his Pores,  
Yet when he wakes the Swine shall find  
A Cropala remains behind.   

XIX.  
The Sober now and chaste are blest  
With sweet, and with refreshing rest,  
And to sound sleeps they've best pretence,  
Have greatest share of Innocence.   

XX.  
We should so live then that we may  
Fearless put off our Clotts and Day,  
And travel through Death's shades to Light;  
For every Day must have its Night.    

Ode.  

GOOD night, my Love, may gentle rest  
Charm up your Senses till the Light,  
Whilst I with Care and Woe oppressed,  
Go to inhabit endless Night.   

There, whilst your Eyes shall grace the Day,  
I must in the despairing shade,  
Sigh such a woeful time away,  
As never yet poor Lover had.   

Yet to this endless Solitude  
There is one dangerous step to pass,  
To one that loves your sight so rude,  
As Flesh and Blood is loath to pass.   

But I will take it to express  
I worthily your Favours wore,  
Your merits (Sweet) can claim no less,  
Who dies for you can do no more.    

Ode de Monsieur Racan.  

INgrateful cause of all my harms,  
I go to seek amidst Alarms  
My Death, or Liberty;  
And that's all now I've left to do,  
Since (cruel Fair) in serving you  
I can nor live nor die.   

The King his Towns sees desert made,  
His Plains with armed Troops o'erspread,  
Violence does control;  
All's Fire and Sword before his Eyes,  
Yet has he fewer Enemies  
Than I have in my Soul.   

But yet, alas! my hope is vain  
To put a period to my pain,  
By any desperate ways,  
'tis you that hold my Life enchained,  
And (under Heaven) you command,  
And only you, my days.   

If in a battle's loudest Alarms,  
I rush amongst incensed Arms,  
Invoking Death to take me,  
Seeing me look so pale, the Foe  
Will think me Death himself, and so  
Not venture to attaque me.   

In Bloody Fields where Mars doth make  
With his loud Thunder all to shake,  
Both Earth, and Heaven to boot;  
Man's power to kill me I despise,  
Since Love, with Arrows from your Eyes,  
Had not the Power to do't.   

No, I must languish still unblessed,  
And in worst Torments manifest  
My firm Fidelity;  
Or that my Reason set me free,  
Since (Fair) in serving you I see,  
I can nor live nor die.    

Contentation.  
Directed to my Dear Father, and most Worthy Friend, Mr. Isaac Walton.  

Heaven, what an Age is this! what Race  
Of Giants are sprung up, that dare  
Thus fiy in the Almighty's Face,  
And with his Providence make War!   

II.  
I can go no where but I meet  
With Malcontents, and Mutineers,  
As if in Life was nothing sweet,  
And we must Blessings reap in Tears.   

III.  
O senseless Man, that murmurs still  
For Happiness, and does not know,  
Even though he might enjoy his Will,  
What he would have to make him so.   

iv  
Is it true Happiness to be  
By undiscerning Fortune placed,  
In the most eminent Degree,  
Where few arrive, and none stand fast?   

V  
Titles and Wealth are Fortune's Toils  
Wherewith the Vain themselves ensnare?  
The Great are proud of borrowed Spoils,  
The Miser's Plenty breeds his Care.   

VI  
The one supinely yawns at rest,  
Th' other eternally doth toil,  
Each of them equally a Beast,  
A pampered Horse, or labouring moil.   

VII.  
The Titulado●s oft disgraced,  
By public hate, or private frown,  
And he whose Hand the Creature raised,  
Has yet a Foot to kick him down.   

VIII.  
The Drudge who would all get, all save,  
Like a brute Beast both feeds, and lies,  
Prove to the Earth, he digs his Grave,  
And in the very labour dies.   

IX.  
Excess of ill got, ill kept Pelf,  
Does only Death, and Danger breed,  
Whilst one rich Worldling starves himself  
With what would thousand others feed.   

X  
By which we see what Wealth and Power  
Although they make men rich and great,  
The sweets of Life do often four,  
And gull Ambition with a Cheat.   

XI.  
Nor is he happier than these,  
Who in a moderate estate,  
Where he might safely live at case,  
Has Lusts that are immoderate.   

XII.  
For he, by those desires misled,  
Quits his own Vine's securing shade,  
T' expose his naked, empty head  
To all the Storms Man's Peace invade.   

XIII.  
Nor is he happy who is trim,  
Tricked up in favours of the Fair,  
Mirrors, with every Breath made dim,  
Birds caught in every wanton snare.   

XIV.  
Woman, man's greatest woe, or bliss,  
Does ofter far, than serve, enslave,  
And with the Magic of a Kiss,  
Destroys whom she was made to save.   

XV.  
Oh fruitful Grief, the World's Disease!  
And vainer Man to make it so,  
Who gives his Miseries increase  
By cultivating his own woe.   

XVI.  
There are no ills but what we make,  
By giving Shapes and Names to things;  
Which is the dangerous mistake  
That causes all our Sufferings.   

XVII.  
We call that Sickness, which is Health,  
That Persecution, which is Grace;  
That Poverty, which is true Wealth,  
And that Dishonour, which is Praise.   

XVIII.  
Providence watches over all,  
And that with an impartial Eye,  
And if to Misery we fall,  
'tis through our own Infirmity.   

XIX.  
'tis want of foresight makes the bold  
Ambitious Youth to danger climb,  
And want of Virtue, when the old  
At Persecution do repine.   

XX.  
Alas, our Time is here so short,  
That in what state soe'er 'tis spent,  
Of Joy or Woe does not import,  
Provided it be innocent.   

XXI.  
But we may make it pleasant too,  
If we will take our Measures right,  
And not what Heaven has done, undo  
By an unruly Appetite.   

XXII.  
'tis Contentation that alone  
Can make us happy here below,  
And when this little Life is gone,  
Will lift us up to Heaven too▪   

XXIII.  
A very little satisfies  
An honest, and a grateful heart,  
And who would more than will suffice,  
Does covet more than is his part.   

XXIV.  
That man is happy in his share,  
Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed,  
Whose Necessaries bond his Care,  
And honest Labour makes his Bed.   

XXV.  
Who free from Debt, and clear from Crimes,  
Honours those Laws that others fear,  
Who ill of Princes in worst Times  
Will neither speak himself, nor hear.   

XXVI.  
Who from the busy World retires,  
To be more useful to it still,  
And to no greater good aspires,  
But only the eschewing ill.   

XXVII.  
Who, with his Angle, and his Books,  
Can think the longest day well spent,  
And praises God when back he looks,  
And finds that all was innocent.   

XXVIII.  
This man is happier far than he  
Whom public Business oft betrays,  
Through Labyrinths of policy,  
To crooked and forbidden ways.   

XXIX.  
The World is full of beaten Roads,  
But yet so slippery withal,  
That where one walks secure, 'tis odds  
A hundred and a hundred fall.   

XXX.  
Untrodden Paths are then the best,  
Where the frequented are unsure,  
And he comes soon to his rest,  
Whose Journey has been most secure.   

XXXI.  
It is Content alone that makes  
Our Pilgrimage a Pleasure here,  
And who buys Sorrow cheapest, takes  
An ill Commodity too dear.   

XXXII.  
But he has Fortune's worst withstood,  
And Happiness can never miss,  
Can covet nought, but where he stood,  
And thinks him happy where he is.    

Stances de Monsieur de Scudery.  

FAIR Nymph, by whose Perfections moved,  
My wounded heart is turned to flame,  
By all admired, by all approved,  
Endure at least to be beloved,  
Although you will not love again.   

Aminta, as unkind as fair,  
What is there that you ought to fear?  
For cruel if I you declare,  
And that indeed you cruel are;  
Why the Reproach may you not hear?   

Even Reproaches should delight,  
If Friendship for me you have none,  
And if no Anger, I have yet  
Enough perhaps that may invite  
Your hatred or Compassion.   

When your Disdain is most severe,  
When you most rigorous do prove,  
When frowns of Anger most you wear,  
You still more charming do appear,  
And I am more and more in Love.   

Ah, let me, Sweet, your sight enjoy,  
Though with the forfeit of my Life,  
For fall what will, I'd rather die,  
Beholding you, of present Joy,  
Than absent, of a lingering grief.   

Let your Eyes lighten, till expiring  
In flame, my Heart a Cinder lie,  
Falling is nobler than retiring,  
And in the glory of aspiring,  
'tis brave to tumble from the Sky.   

Yet I would any thing embrace  
Might serve your Anger to appease,  
And if I may obtain my grace,  
Your steps shall leave no print, nor trace  
I will not with Devotion kiss.   

If, Tyrant, you will have it so,  
No word my Passion shall betray,  
My wounded Heart shall hid its woe;  
But if it sigh, those Sighs will show,  
And tell you what my Tongue would say.   

Should yet your Rigour higher rise,  
Even those offending Sighs shall cease,  
I will my Pain and grief disguise;  
But, Sweet, if you consult mine Eyes,  
Those Eyes will tell you my Disease.   

If th' utmost my Respect can do,  
Still will your Cruelty displease,  
Consult your Face, and that will show  
What Love is to such Beauty due,  
And to the state of my Disease.    

Melancholy.  
Pindaric Ode.  

I.  
WHat in the name of wonder's this  
Which lies so heavy at my heart,  
That I even Death itself could kiss,  
And think it were the greatest Bliss▪  
Even at this moment to departed!  
Life, even to the wretched dear,  
To me's so nauseous grown,  
There is no ill, I'd not commit,  
But proud of what would forfeit it,  
Would act the mischief without fear,  
And wade through thousand lives to lose my own.   

II.  
Yea, Nature never taught me bloody Rules;  
Nor was I yet with vicious precept bred;  
And now my Virtue paints my cheeks in Gules,  
To check me for the wicked thing I said.  
'tis not then I, but something in my Breast,  
With which unwittingly I am possessed,  
Which breathes forth Horror to proclaim  
That I am now no more the same:  
One that some seeds of Virtue had;  
But one run resolutely mad,  
A Fiend, a Fury, and a Beast,  
Or a Demoniac at least,  
Who, without sense of Sin, or shame,  
At nothing but dire mischiefs aim,  
Egged by the Prince of Fiends, and Legion is his Name.   

III.  
Alas! my Reason's overcast,  
That Sovereign Guide is quite displaced,  
Clearly dismounted from his Throne,  
Banished his Empire, fled and gone,  
And in his room  
An infamous Usurper's come,  
Whose Name is sounding in mine Ear  
Like that, methinks, of Oliver.  
Nay, I remember in his Life,  
Such a Disease as mine was mighty rise,  
And yet, methinks, it cannot be,  
That he  
Should be crept into me,  
My skin could ne'er contain sure so much Evil,  
Nor any place but Hell can hold so great a Devil.   

iv  
But by its symptoms now I know  
What is that does torment me so,  
'tis a disease,  
As great a Fiend almost as these,  
That drinks up all my better blood,  
And leaves the rest a standing Pool,  
And though I ever little understood,  
Makes me a thousand times more Fool.  
Fumes up dark vapours to my Brain,  
Creates burnt Choler in my breast;  
And of these nobler parts possessed,  
Tyrannically there does reign,  
Oh when (kind Heaven) shall I be well again.   

V  
Accursed Melancholy, it was Sin  
First brought thee in;  
Sin lodged the first in our first Father's Breast,  
By Sin thou'rt nourished, and by Sin increased,  
thou'rt man's own Creature, he has given thee power,  
The sweets of Life thus to devour.  
To make us shun the cheerful Light,  
And creep into the shades of Night,  
Where the sly Tempter ambushed lies  
To make the discontented Soul his prize.  
There the Progenitor of guile,  
Accosts us in th' old Serpent's style;  
Rails at the World as well as we,  
Nay, Providence itself's not free;  
Proceeding then to Arts of Flattery,  
He there extols our Valour and our Parts,  
Spreads all his Nets to catch our Hearts,  
Concluding thus; what generous mind  
Would longer here draw breath,  
That might so sure a Refuge find  
In the repose of Death!  
Which having said, he to our choice presents  
All his destroying Instruments,  
Swords and Steelettoes, Halters, Pistols, Knives,  
Poisons, both quick and slow, to end our Lives,  
Or if we like none of those fine Devices,  
He than presents us Pools and Precipices;  
Or to let out, or suffocate our breath,  
And by once dying to obtain an everlasting Death.   

VI  
Avaunt thou Devil Melancholy,  
Thou grave and sober Folly;  
Night of the Mind, wherein our Reasons grope  
For future Joys, but never can find hope.  
Parent of Murders, Treasons, and Despair,  
Thou pleasing and eternal care:  
Go sow thy rank and poisonous seeds  
In such a soil of mind as breeds,  
With little help, black and nefarious deeds;  
And let my whiter Soul alone,  
For why should I thy sable weed put on,  
Who never meditated ill, nor ill have never done!   

VII.  
Ah, 'tis ill done to me, that makes me sad  
And thus to pass away,  
With sighs the tedious Nights, and does  
Like one that either is, or will be mad.  
Repentance can our own fowl souls make pure,  
And expiate the foulest Deed,  
Whereas the thought others offences breed,  
Nothing but true amendment one can cure.  
Thus man, who of this world a member is,  
Is by good nature subject made  
To smart for what his fellows do, amiss,  
As he were guilty, when he is be is betrayed,  
And mourning for the vices of the Time,  
Suffers unjustly for another's Crime.   

VIII.  
Go foolish Soul, and wash thee white,  
Be troubled for thine own misdeeds  
That Heavenly sorrow comfort breeds,  
And true contrition turns delight.  
●et Princes thy past services forget,  
Let dear-bought Friends thy Foes become,  
●hough round with misery thou art beset,  
With Scorn abroad, and Poverty at home,  
●eep yet thy hands but clear, and Conscience pure,  
And all the ills thou shalt endure  
Will on thy Worth such lustre set  
●s shall outshine the brightest Coronet.  
●nd Men at last will be ashamed to see,  
That still,  
For all their malice, and malicious skill,  
●hy mind revive as it was used to be,  
●nd that they have disgraced themselves to honour thee.    

Hope.  
Pindaric Ode.  

I.  
HOPE, thou darling, and delight  
Of unforeseeing reckless Minds,  
Thou deceiving Parrisite,  
Which no where Entertainment, finds  
But with the wretched; or the vain;  
'tis they alone fond Hope maintain.  
Thou easy Fool's chief Favourite;  
Thou fawning Slave to slaves, that still remains  
In Galleys, Dungeons, and in Chains;  
Or with a whining Lover lov'st to play,  
With treacherous Art  
Fanning his Heart,  
A greater Slave by far, than they  
Who in worst Durance wear their Age away.  
Thou, whose Ambition mounts no higher,  
Nor does to greater Fame aspire,  
Than to be ever found a liar:  
Thou treacherous Fiend, deluding Shade,  
Who would with such a Phantom be betrayed,  
By whom the wretched are at last more wretched made   

II.  
Yet once, I must confess, I was  
Such an overweening Ass,  
As in Fortune's worst distress  
To believe thy Promises;  
Which so brave a change foretold,  
Such a stream of Happiness,  
Such Mountain hopes of glittering Gold,  
Such Honours, Friendships, Offices,  
In Love and Arms so great Success;  
That I even hugged myself with the conceit,  
Was myself Party in the cheat,  
And in my v●ry Bosom laid  
That fatal Hope by which I was betrayed,  
Thinking myself already rich, and great:  
And in that foolish thought despised  
Th' advice of those who out of Love advised;  
As I'd soreseen what they did not foresee,  
A Torrent of Felicity,  
And rudely laughed at those, who pitying wept for me.   

III.  
But of this Expectation, when it came to `t,  
What was the fruit?  
In sordid Robes poor Disappointment came,  
Attended by her Handmaids, Grief and Shame;  
No Wealth, no Titles, no Friend could I see,  
For they still court Prosperity,  
Nay, what was worst of what Mischance could do,  
My dearest Love forsook me too;  
My pretty Love, with whom, had she been true,  
Even in Banishment,  
I could have lived most happy and content,  
Her sight which nourished me withdrew.  
I then, although too late, perceived  
I was by flattering Hope deceived,  
And called for it t'expostulate  
The Treachery and foul deceit:  
But it was then quite fled away,  
And gone some other to betray,  
Leaving me in a state  
By much more desolate,  
Than if when first attacked by Fa●e,  
I had submitted there  
And made my courage yield unto despair.  
For Hope, like Cordials, to our wrong  
Does but our Miseries prolong,  
Whilst yet our Vitals daily waste,  
And not supporting Life, but pain  
Call their false friendships back again  
And unto Death, grim Death abandon us at last.   

iv  
In me, false Hope, in me alone,  
Thou thine own Treach'ry hast outdone:  
For Chance, perhaps may have befriended  
Some one th' hast laboured to deceive  
With what by thee was ne'er intended,  
Nor in thy power to give:  
But me thou hast deceived in all, as well  
Possible, as impossible,  
And the most sad Example made  
Of all that ever were betrayed.  
But thou hast taught me Wisdom yet,  
Henceforth to hope no more  
Than I see reason for,  
A Precept I shall ne'er forget:  
Nor is there any thing below  
Worth a man's wishing, or his care,  
When what we wish begets our woe,  
And Hope deceived becomes Despair.  
Then thou seducing Hope farewel,  
No more thou shalt of Sense bereave me,  
No more deceive me,  
I now can countercharm thy Spell,  
And for what's past, so far I will be even,  
Never again to hope for any thing but Heaven.    

Epistle to the Earl of—  

TO write in Verse, O Count of mine,  
To you, who have the Ladies nine,  
With a wet finger, at your call,  
And I believe have kissed 'em all,  
Is such an undertaking, none  
But Peakrill bold would venture on:  
Yet having found, that, to my woes  
No help will be procured by Prose,  
And to write that way is no boot,  
I'll try if Rhyming will not do't.  
Know then, my Lord, that on my word,  
Since my first, second, and my third,  
Which I have pestered you withal,  
I've heard no syllable at all,  
Or where you are, or what you do;  
Or if I have a Lord, or no.  
A pretty comfort to a man  
That studies all the ways he can  
To keep an Interest he does prize  
Above all other Treasuries.   

But let that pass, you now must know  
We do on our last Quarter go;  
And that I may go bravely out,  
Am trowling merry Bowl about,  
To Lord, and Lady, that and this,  
As nothing were at all amiss,  
When after twenty days are past,  
Poor Charles has eat and drunk his last.  
No more Plumporridge then, or Pie,  
No Brawn with Branch of Rosemary,  
No Chine of Beef, enough to make  
The tallest Yeoman's Chine to crack;  
No Bagpipe humming in the Hall,  
Nor noise of House-keeping at all,  
Nor sign, by which it may be said,  
This House was once inhabited.  
● may perhaps, with much ado,  
Rub out a Christmas more, or two:  
Or, if the Fates be pleased, a score,  
By'r never look to keep one more.   

Some three Months hence, I make account  
My Spurgalled Pegasus to mount,  
When, whither I intent to go,  
My Horse, as well as I, will know:  
But being got, with much ado,  
Out of the reach a Stage or two,  
Though not the conscience of my shame,  
And Pegasus fallen desperate lame,  
I shake my stirrups, and forsake ●im,  
Leaving him to the next will take him;  
Not that I set so lightly by him,  
Would any be so kind to buy him;  
But that I think those who have seen  
How ill my Muse has mounted been,  
Would certainly take better heed  
Than to bid money for her Steed.   

Being then on foo●, away I go,  
And bang the hoof, incognito,  
Though in condition so forlorn,  
Little Disguise will serve the turn,  
Since best of Friends, the World's so base,  
Scarce know a man when in Disgrace.   

But that's too serious. Then suppose,  
Like traveling Tom, 
Coriat.  with dint of Toes,  
I'm got unto extremest shore,  
Sick, and impatient to be o'er  
That Channel which secured my state  
Of Peace, whilst I was fortunate,  
But in this moment of distress,  
Confines me to unhappiness:  
But where's the Money to be had  
This surly Neptune to persuade?  
It is no less than shillings ten,  
Gods will be bribed as well as men.  
Imagine then your High-lander  
Over a Cann of muddy Beer,  
Playing at Passage with a pair  
Of drunken Fumblers for his Fare;  
And see I've won, oh, lucky chance,  
Hoist Sail amain, my Mates, for France;  
Fortune was civil in this throw,  
And having robbed me, let's me go.  
I've won, and yet how could I choose,  
He needs must win, that cannot lose;  
Fate send me then a happy wind,  
And better luck to those behind.   

But what advantage will it be  
That Winds and Tides are kind to me,  
When still the wretched have their woes,  
Wherever they their Feet dispose?  
What satisfaction, or delight  
Are ragousts to an appetite?  
What ease can France or Flanders give  
To him that is a Fugitive?  
Some two years hence, when you come o'er,  
In all your State, Ambassador,  
If my ill Nature be so strong  
T' outlive my Infamy so long,  
You'll find your little Officer  
Ragged as his old Colours are;  
And naked, as he's discontent,  
Standing at some poor Sutler's Tent,  
With his Pike cheeked, to guard the Tun  
He must not taste when he has done.  
Hump, says my Lord, I'm half afraid  
My Captain's turned a Reformade,  
That scurvy Face I sure should know,  
Yes faith, my Lord, 'tis even so,  
I am that individual he:  
I told your Lordship how 'twould be.  
Thou didst so, Charles, it is confessed,  
Yet still I thought thou were't in jest;  
But comfort! Poverty's not Crime,  
I'll take thy word another time.   

This matters now are coming to,  
And I'm resolved upon't; whilst you,  
Sleeping in Fortune's Arms, near dream  
Who feels the contrary Extreme;  
Faith writ to me, that I may know  
Whether you love me still, or no;  
Or if you do not, by what ways  
I've pulled upon me my disgrace;  
For whilst I still stand fair with you,  
I dare the worst my Fate can do;  
But your opinion long I find,  
I'm sunk for ever to mankind.    

Beauty.  
PINDARIC ODE.  
In Answer to an Ode of Mr. Abraham Cowley's upon the same Subject.  

I.  
BEauty! thou Masterpiece of heavens best skill,  
Who in all shapes and lights art Beauty still,  
And whether black, or brown, tawny, or white,  
Still strik'st with wonder every judging sight;  
Thou triumph, which dost entertain the Eye  
With Admirations full variety.  
Who, though thou variest here and there,  
And trick'st thyself in various coloured hair,  
And though with several washes Nature has  
Thought fit thy several Lineaments to grace,  
Yet Beauty still we must acknowledge thee,  
Whatever thy Complexion be.   

II.  
Beauty, Love's Friend, who helpest him to a Throne,  
By Wisdom Deified, to whom alone  
Thy Excellence is known,  
And ne'er neglected but by those have none;  
Thou noble Coin, by no false sleight allayed,  
By whom we Lovers Militant are paid,  
True to the Touch, and ever best  
When thou art brought unto the Test,  
And who dost still of higher value prove,  
As deeper thou art searched by Love.  
He who allows thee only in the Light  
Is there mistaken quite,  
For there we only see the outer skin,  
When the Perfection lies within;  
Beauty more revishes the Touch than Sight,  
And seen by Day, is still enjoyed by Night,  
For Beauty's chiefest Parts are never seen.   

III.  
Beauty, thou Active, Passive good!  
Who both enflam'st and cool'st our Blood!  
Thou glorious Flower, whose sovereign juice  
Does wonderful Effects produce,  
Who, Scorpion-like, dost with thee bring  
The Balm that cures thy deadly sting.  
What pity 'tis the fairest Plant  
That ever Heaven made  
Should ever ever fade,  
Yet Beauty we shall never want:  
For she has off-sets of her own,  
Which e'er she dies will be as fairly blown,  
And though they blossom in variety,  
Yet still new Beauties will descry,  
And here the Fancy's governed by the Eye.   

iv  
Beauty, thy Conquests still are made  
Over the Vigorous more than the Decayed;  
And chief o'er those of the Martial Trade;  
And whom thou conquer'st still thou keep'st in thrall,  
Until you both together fall,  
Whereas of all the Conquerors, how few  
Know how to keep what they subdue?  
Nay, even froward Age subdues thee too.  
Thy Power, Beauty, has not bounds,  
All sorts of men it equally confounds,  
The young and old does both enslave,  
The proud, meek, humble, and the brave,  
And if it wounds, it only is to save.   

V  
Beauty, thou Sister to heavens glorious Lamp,  
Of ●iner Clay, thou finer stamp!  
Thou second Light, by which we better live,  
Thou better Sexe's vast prerogative!  
Thou greatest gift that Heaven can give!  
He who against thee does inveigh,  
Never yet knew where Beauty lay,  
And does betray  
A deplorable want of Sense,  
Blindness, or Age, or Impotence:  
For Wit was given to no other end,  
But Beauty to admire, or to commend;  
And for our Sufferings here below  
Beauty is all the recompense we know:  
'Tis then for such as cannot see,  
Nor yet have other sense to friend  
Adored Beauty, thus to slander thee,  
And he who calls thee madness let him be,  
By his own doom from Beauty doomed for me.    

Rondeau.  
FOrbear (fair Phillis) Oh forbear  
Those deadly kill frowns, and spare  
A heart so loving, and so true,  
By none to be subdued, but you,  
Who my poor life's sole Princess are.  
You only can create my care;  
But offend you I all things dare;  
Then lest your cruelty you rue  
Forbear;  
And lest you kill that heart, beware,  
To which there is some pity due,  
If but because I humbly sue.  
Your anger therefore, sweetest fair,  
Though mercy in your Sex is rare,  
Forbear.   

Woman.  
Pindaric Ode.  

I.  
WHat a bold Theme have I in hand,  
What Fury has possessed my Muse,  
That could not other subject choose,  
But that which none can understand!  
Woman, what Tongue, or Pen is able  
To determine what thou art,  
A thing so moving, and unstable,  
So Sealike, so investigable,  
That no Land Map, nor Sea-man's Chart,  
Though they show us snowy Mountains,  
Chalky Cliffs, and Crystal Fountains,  
Sable Thickets, golden Groves,  
All that man admires and loves,  
Can direct us to thy heart!  
Which, though we seek it night and day  
Through vast Regions Ages stray,  
And over Seas with Canvas wings make way;  
That Heart the while,  
Like to the floating Isles,  
Our Compass evermore beguiles,  
And still, still, still remains Terra Incognita.   

II.  
Woman! the fairest sweetest Flower  
That in happy Eden grew,  
Whose sweets and graces had the power  
The World's sole Monarch to subdue,  
What pity 'tis thou were't not true.  
But there, even there, thy frailty brought in sin,  
Sin that has cost so many Sighs and tears,  
Enough to ruin all succeeding Heirs,  
To Beauty's Temple let the Devil in.  
And though (because there was no more)  
It in one single story did begin;  
Yet from the Seeds shed from that fruitful Core,  
Have sprung up Volumes infinite, and great,  
With which th'ore charged world doth sweat,  
Of women false, proud, cruel, insolent;  
And what could else befall,  
Since she herself was Precedent  
Who was the Mother of them all;  
And who, altho' Mankind indeed was scant,  
To show her malice, rather than her want,  
Would make a loathsome Serpent her Gallant.   

III.  
O mother Eve, sure it was a fault  
So wild a Rule to give,  
ere there were any to be taught,  
Or any to deceive.  
'Twas ill to ruin all thy Offspring so,  
ere they were yet in Embryo,  
Great mischiefs did attend thy easy will,  
For all thy Sons (which usually are  
The Mother's care)  
For ever lost, and ruined were,  
By thy instructing thy fair Daughters ill.  
What's he that dares his own fond choice approve  
Or be secure his spouse in chaste;  
Or if she be, that it will last,  
Yet all must love.  
Oh Cruel Nature that does force our wills  
T'embrace those necessary ills!  
Oh negligent, and treacherous eyes,  
Given to man for true and faithful spies;  
How oft do you betray you trust,  
And joined Confederate with our lust,  
Tell us that Beauty is, which is but flesh, that flesh but Dust.   

iv  
Heaven, if it be thy undisputed will  
That still  
This charming Sex we must adore,  
Let us love less, or they love more;  
For so the Ills that we endure,  
Will find some ease, if not a cure:  
Or if their hearts from the first Gangrene be  
In●ected to that desperate degree  
As will no Surgery admit;  
Out of thy love to Men at least forbear  
To make their faces so subduing fair,  
And if thou wilt give Beauty, limit it▪  
For moderate Beauty, though it bear no price,  
Is yet a mighty enemy to Vice,  
And who has Virtue once, can never see  
Any thing of Deformity  
Let her Complexion swart, or Tawny be,  
A Twilight Olive, or a Midnight Ebony.   

V  
She that is chaste, is always fair,  
No matter for her Hue,  
And though for form she were a Star,  
She's ugly, if untrue:  
True Beauty always lies within,  
Much deeper, than the outer skin,  
So deep, that in a Woman's mind,  
It will be hard, I doubt, to find;  
Or if it be, she's so derived,  
And with so many doors contrived,  
Harder by much to keep it in.  
For Virtue in a Woman's Breast  
Seldom by Title is possessed,  
And is no Tenant, but a wandering Guest.   

VI  
But all this while I've sound slept,  
And raved as Dreamers use:  
Fie! what a coil my brains have kept  
T' instruct a saucy Muse  
Her own fair Sex t'abuse.  
'Tis nothing but an ill Digestion  
Has thus brought Woman's Fame in question,  
Which have been and still will be what they are,  
That is, as chaste, as they are sweet and fair;  
And all that has been said  
Nothing but rave of an idle Head,  
Troubled with fumes of wine;  
For now, that I am broad awake  
I find 'tis all a gross mistake,  
Else what a case were his, and thine, and mine?    

The World.  
ODE.  

I.  
FIE! What a wretched World is this?  
Nothing but anguish, grie●s, and fears,  
Where, who does best, must do amiss,  
Frailty the Ruling Power bears  
In this our dismal Vale of Tears.   

II.  
Oh! who would live, that could but die,  
Dye honestly, and as he should,  
Since to contend with misery  
Will● do the wisest Man not good,  
Misfortune will not be withstood▪   

III.  
The most that helpless man can do  
Towards the bett'ring his Estate  
Is but to barter woe for woe,  
And he even there attempts too late,  
So absolute a Prince is Fate.   

iv  
But why do I of Fate complain;  
Man might live happy, if not free,  
And Fortune's shocks with ease sustain,  
If Man would let him happy be:  
Man is Man's Foe, and Destiny.   

V  
And that Rib Woman, though she be  
But such a little little part;  
Is yet a greater Fate than he,  
And has the Power, or the Art  
To break his Peace; nay break his Heart.   

VI  
Ah, glorious Flower, lovely piece  
Of superfine re●ined Clay,  
Thou poyson'st only with a Kiss,  
And dartest an auspicious Ray  
On him thou meanest to betray.   

VII.  
These are the World, and these are they  
That Life does so unpleasant make,  
Whom to avoid there is no way  
But the wild Desert strait to take,  
And there to husband the last stake.   

VIII.  
Fly to the empty Deserts then,  
For so you leave the World behind,  
There's no World where there are no Men,  
And Brutes more civil are, and kind,  
Than Man whose Reason Passions blind.   

IX.  
For should you take a Hermitage,  
Tho' you might scape from other wrongs,  
Yet even there you bear the rage  
Of venomous, and slanderous tongues,  
Which to the Innocent belongs.   

X.  
Grant me then, Heaven, a wilderness,  
And there an endless Solitude,  
Where though Wolves howl, and Serpents hiss,  
Though dangerous, 'tis not half so rude  
As the ungoverned Multitude.   

XI.  
And Solitude in a dark Cave,  
Where all things hushed, and silent be,  
Resembleth so the quiet Grave,  
That there I would prepare to flee,  
With Death, that hourly waits for me.    

De Vita Beata.  
paraphrased from the Latin.  
COme, y'are deceived, and what you do  
Esteem a happy Life's not so;  
He is not happy that excels  
I'th' Lapidary's Bagatells;  
Nor he, that when he sleeps doth lie  
Under a stately Canopy;  
Nor he, that still supinely hides,  
In easy Down, his lazy sides;  
Nor he, that Purple wears, and sups  
Luxurious Draughts in golden Cups;  
Nor he, that loads, with Princely Fare,  
His bowing Tables, whilst they'll bear;  
Nor he, that has each spacious Vault  
With Deluges of Plenty fraught,  
Culled from the fruitful Libyan Fields,  
When Autumn his best Harvest yields:  
But he whom no mischance affrights,  
Nor popular applause delights,  
That can unmoved, and undismayed  
Confront a Ruffians threatening blade:  
Who can do this; that man alone  
Has power Fortune to disthrone▪   

Q. Cicero, De mulierum levitate.  
Transl.  
COmmit a Ship unto the Wind  
But not thy Faith to Womankind,  
For th' Ocean's waving billows are  
Safer than Woman's faith by far.  
No Woman's good, and if there be  
Hereafter such a thing as she,  
'Tis by, I know not what, of Fate,  
That can from bad, a good create.   

Despair.  
ODE.  

IT is decreed, that I must die,  
And could lost men a reason show  
For losing so themselves, 'tis I,  
Woman, and Fate will have it so.   

Woman, more cruel, than my Fate,  
From thee this sentence was severe,  
'Tis thou condemn'st me, fair ingrate,  
Fate's but the Executioner.   

And mine must be Fate's hands to strike  
At this uncomfortable life,  
Which I do loath, cause you dislike,  
And court cold Death to be my wife.   

In whose embraces though I must  
Fail of those Joys, that warmed my heart,  
And only be espoused to dust,  
Yet Death, and I shall never part.   

That's one assurance I shall have,  
Although I wed Deformity,  
And must inhabit the cold Grave,  
More than I, Sweet, could have with thee.   

And yet if thou couldst be so kind,  
As but to grant me a Reprieve,  
I'm not to Death so much inclined,  
But I could be content to live.   

But so, that that same life should be  
With thee, and with thy kindness blest;  
For without thee, and all of thee,  
'Twere dying only with the rest.   

But that, you'll says, too arrogant,  
T'enslave your Beauties, and your will,  
And cruelty in you to grant,  
Who saving one, must Thousands kill.   

And yet you Women take a pride  
To see men die by your disdain;  
But thou wilt weep the Homicide,  
When thou conside●'st whom thoust slain.   

Yet don't; for being as I am,  
Thy Creature, thou in this estate,  
To Life, and Death hast equal claim,  
And may'st kill him thou didst create.   

Then let me thine own Doom abide,  
Nor once for him overcast thine eyes,  
Who glori●s, that he lived, and died  
Thy Lover, and thy Sacrifice.    

Sonnet.  

WHY dost thou say thy Heart is gone,  
And no more mine, no more thine own?  
But, past retrieve, for ever wed,  
By sacred Vow, t' another's Bed?   

Why dost thou tell me that I lie  
Bound in the same perplexed tye,  
And that our now divided Souls  
Are cold, and distant as the Poles?   

Dost thou not know, when first our Loves▪  
Were plighted in the secret Groves,  
Our hearts were changed with equal Flame,   

Say, Chloris, then how can it be?  
Couldst thou give me, or I give thee?  
No, no, ourselves are still the same.    

Sonnet.  

HOW shouldst thou love, and not offend?  
Why, Cloris, I will tell thee how,  
As thou didst once, so love me now,  
And lie with me, and there's an end.   

Thou only art enjoined (my Sweet)  
To keep thy Reputation high,  
And that indeed is Secrecy,  
Since all do err, though all not see't.   

Then fairest, fearless of all blame,  
That sacred Treasure of thy Name  
Into my faithful Arms commit;   

Thou once didst trust me with thy Fame,  
I then was just and true to it,  
And, Chloris, I am still the same.    

Sonnet.  

CHloris, whilst thou and I were free,  
Wedded to nought but Liberty,  
How sweetly happy did we live,  
How free to promise, free to give?   

Then, Monarch's of ourselves, we might  
Love here, or there, to change delight,  
And tied to none, with all dispense,  
Paying ●ach Love its recompense.   

But in that happy freedom, we  
Were so improvidently free,  
To give away our liberties;   

And now in fruitful sorrow pine  
At what we are, what might have been,  
Had thou, or I, or both been wise.    

Sonnet.  

WHY dost thou say thou lov'st me now,  
And yet proclaim it is too late,  
When bound by folly, or by Fate,  
Thou canst no further grace allow?   

Repeat no more that kill Voice,  
Thou beauteous Victrice of my heart;  
Or find a way to ease my smart,  
Maugre thy now repent choice.   

'Tis not too late to love, and do  
What Love and Nature prompt thee to,  
Whilst thus thou tryumph'st in thy prime,   

Thou may'st discreetly love, and use  
Those Pleasures thou didst once refuse:  
But to profess it were a Crime.    

Poverty.  
Pindaric Ode.  

I.  
THou greatest Plague that Mortals know!  
Thou greatest Punishment!  
That Heaven has sent  
To quell and humble us below!  
Thou worst of all Diseases and all Pains  
By so much harder to endure,  
By how much thou art hard to cure,  
Who having robbed Physicians of their brains,  
As well as of their Gain  
A Chronical Disease doth still remain!  
What Epithet can fit thee, or what words thy ills explain▪   

II.  
This puzzles quite Aesculapian Tribe  
Who, where there are no Fees, can have no wit▪  
And make them helpless Medicines still provide,  
Both for the sick, and poor alike unfit.  
For inward griefs all that they do prepare  
Nothing but Crumbs, and Fragments are▪  
And outwardly apply no more  
But sordid Rags unto the sore.  
Thus Poverty is dressed, and Doseed  
With little Art, and little Cost,  
As if poor Rem'dies for the Poor were fit  
When Poverty in such a place doth sit,  
That 'tis the grand Projection only that must conquer it.   

III.  
Yet Poverty, as I do take it,  
Is not so Epidemical  
As many in the world would make it,  
Who all that want their wishes Poor do call;  
For if who is not with his Dividend  
Amply content,  
Within that acceptation fall,  
Most would be poor, and peradventure all.  
This would the wretched with the rich confound;  
But I not call him Poor does not abound,  
But him, who snared in Bonds, and endless strife,  
The Comforts wants more than Supports of Life;  
Him whose whole Age is measured out by fears,  
And though he has wherewith to eat,  
His Bread does yet  
Taste of affliction, and his Cares  
●is purest Wine mix and allay with Tears.   

iv  
'Tis in this sense that I am poor,  
And I'm afraid shall be so still,  
●bstrep'rous Creditors besiege my door,  
And my whole House clamorous Echoes fill;  
From these there can be no Retirement free,  
From Room to Room, they hunt, and follow me;  
They will not let me eat, nor sleep, nor pray,  
But persecute me Night, and Day;  
Torment my body, and my mind,  
Nay, if I take my heels, and fly,  
They follow me with open Cry,  
At Home no rest, Abroad no Refuge can I find.   

V  
Thou worst of Ills! what have I done,  
That Heaven should punish me with thee?  
From Insolence, Fraud, and Oppression,  
I ever have been innocent and free.  
Thou were't intended (Poverty)  
A scourge for Pride, and Avarice,  
I ne'er was tainted yet with either Vice;  
I never in prosperity,  
Nor in the height of all my happiness,  
Scorned, or neglected any in distress,  
My hand, my heart, my door  
Were ever opened to the poor;  
And I to others in their need have granted,  
ere they could ask, the thing they wanted,  
Whereas I now, although I humbly crave it,  
Do only beg for Peace, and cannot have it.   

VI  
Give me but that, ye bloody Persecutors,  
(Who formerly have been my suitors)  
And I'll surrender all the rest  
For which you so contest.  
For heavens sake, let me▪ but be quiet,  
I'll not repine at clothes, nor Diet,  
Any habit ne'er so mean,  
Let it be but whole, and clean,  
Such as Nakedness will hid,  
Will amply satisfy my pride;  
And for meat  
Husks, and Acorns I will eat,  
And for better never wish;  
But when you will me better treat,  
A Turnip is a Princely dish:  
Since than I thus far am subdued,  
And so humbly do submit,  
Faith, be no more so monstrous rude,  
But some Repose at least permit;  
Sleep is to Life, and Humane Nature due▪  
And that, alas, is all for which I humbly sue.    

Death.  
Pindaric Ode.  

I.  
AT a Melancholic season,  
As alone I musing sat,  
I fell, I know not how, to reason  
With myself of Man's Estate,  
How subject unto Death, and Fate:  
Names that Mortals so affright,  
As turns the brightest Day to Night,  
And spoils of Living the Delight,  
With which, so soon as Life is tasted,  
Lest we should too happy be,  
Even in our Infancy,  
Our joys are quashed, our hopes are blasted;  
For the first thing that we hear,  
(Used to still us when we cry)  
The Nurse to keep the Child in fear,  
Discreetly tell's it, it must die,  
Be put into a hole, eaten with worms;  
Presenting Death in thousand ugly forms,  
Which tender minds so entertain,  
As ever after to retain,  
By which means we are Cowards bred,  
Nursed with unnecessary dread,  
●nd ever dream of dying, till weare dead.   

II.  
Death! thou Child's bugbear, thou fools terror,  
Ghastly set forth the weak to awe;  
Begot by fear, increased by error,  
Whom none but a sick Fancy ever saw,  
Thou who art only feared  
By the illiterate, and timorous Herd,  
But by the wise  
Esteemed the greatest of Felicities.  
Why, since by an Universal Law,  
Entailed upon Mankind thou art,  
Should any dread, or seek t'avoid thy Dart,  
When of the two, Fear is the greatest smart?  
O senseless Man, who vainly flies  
What Heaven has ordained to be  
The Remedy  
Of all thy Mortal pains, and miseries.   

III.  
Sorrow, Want, Sickness, Injury, Mischance,  
The happi'st Man's certain Inheritance,  
With all the various Ills,  
Which the wide World with mourning ●ills,  
Or by Corruption, or Disaster bred,  
Are for the living all, not for the dead.  
When Life's Sun sets, Death is a Bed  
With sable Curtains spread,  
Where we lie down  
To rest the weary Limbs, and careful Head,  
And to the Good, a Bed of Down.  
There, there no frightful Tintamarre  
Of Tumult in the many headed Beast,  
Nor all the loud Artillery of War,  
Can fright us from that sweet, that happy Rest,  
Wherewith the still, and silent Grave is blest;  
Nor all the rattle, that above they keep,  
●reak our repose, or rouse us from that everlasting sleep.   

iv  
The Grave is privileged from noise, and care,  
From Tyranny, and wild oppression,  
Violence has so little power there,  
Even worst Oppressors let the dead alone:  
We're there secure from Prince's frowns,  
The Insolences of the Great,  
From the rude hands of barbarous Clowns,  
And Policies of those that sweat  
The simple to betray, and cheat:  
Or, if some one with Sacrilegious hand,  
Would persecute us after Death,  
His want of Power shall his Will withstand,  
And he shall only lose his breath;  
For all that he by that shall gain,  
Will be Dishonour for his pain,  
And all the clutter he can keep  
Will only serve to rock us whilst we sound sleep,   

V.  
The Dead no more converse with Tears,  
With idle Jealousies and Fears,  
No danger makes the Dead man start,  
No idle Love torments his heart,  
No loss of Substance, Parents, Children, Friends,  
Either his Peace, or Sleep offends;  
Nought can provoke his anger, or despite,  
He out of combat is, and injury,  
'Tis he of whom Philosophers so write,  
And who would be a Stoic let him die,  
For whilst we living are, what Man is he,  
Who the World's wrongs does either feel, or see,  
That possibly from Passion can be free!  
But must put on  
A noble Indignation  
Warranted both by Virtue, and Religion.   

VI  
Then let me die, and no more subject be  
Unto the Tyrannising powers,  
To which this short Mortality of ours,  
Is either preordained by Destiny,  
Or bound by natural Infirmity.  
We nothing, whilst we here remain,  
But Sorrow, and Repentance gain,  
Nay, even our very joys, are pain;  
Or being past,  
To woe, and torment turn at last:  
Nor is there yet any so sacred place,  
Where we can sanctuary find,  
No Man's a friend to Sorrow, and Disgrace;  
But flying one, we other mischiefs meet;  
Or if we kinder Entertainment find,  
We bear the seeds of Sorrow in the Mind,  
And keep our frailty, when we shift our feet.  
Whilst we are Men we still our Passions have,  
And he that is most free, is his own slave,  
There is no refuge, but the friendly Grave.    

On the Death of the Most Noble Thomas Earl of Ossory.  
Carmen Irregulare.  

I  
ENough! Enough! I'l● hear no more,  
And would to Heaven I had been deaf before  
That ●atal Sound had struck my Ear:  
Harsh Rumour has not left so sad a note  
In her hoarse Trumpet's brazen throat  
To move Compassion, and enforce a Tear.  
Methinks all Nature should relent, and droop,  
The Centre shrink, and Heaven stoop,  
The Day be turned to mourning Night,  
The twinkling Stars weep out their Light,   

And all things out of their Distinction run  
Into their primitive Confusion.  
A Chaos, with cold Darkness overspread,  
Since the Illustrious Ossory is dead.   

II.  
When Death that fatal Arrow drew,  
Ten Thousand hearts he pierced through,  
Though one alone he outright slew;  
Never since Sin gave him his kill Trade,  
He, at one shot, so great a slaughter made;  
He needs no more at those let fly,  
They of that wound alone will die,  
And who can now expect to live, when he,  
Thus fell unprivileged we see!  
He met Death in his greatest Triumph, War,  
And always thence came off a Conqueror,  
Through rattling shot, and Pikes the Slave he sought,  
Knocked at each Cuirass for him, as he fought,  
Beat him at Sea, and baffled him on shore,  
War's utmost fury he outbraved before:  
But yet, it seems, a Fever could do more.   

III.  
The English Infantry are Orphans now,  
Pale Sorrow hangs on every Souldiers-brow:  
Who now in Honour's path shall lead you on,  
Since your beloved General is gone?  
Furl up your Ensigns, case the warlike Drum,  
Pay your last honours to his Tomb;  
Hang dow your Manly heads in sign of woe;  
That now is all that your poor Loves can do;  
Unless by Winters' Fire, or Summer's shade  
To tell what a brave Leader once you had:  
Hang your now useless Arms up in the Hall,  
There let them rust upon the sweeting Wall;  
Go, Till the Fields, and with inglorious Sweat,  
An honest, but a painful living get:  
Your old neglected Callings now renew,  
And bid to glorious War a long adieu.   

iv  
The Dutch may now have Fishing free,  
And, whilst the Consternation lasts,  
Like the proud Rulers of the Sea,  
Show the full stature of their Masts;  
Our English Neptune, deaf to all Alarms,  
Now sound sleeps in Death's cold Arms,  
And on his Ebon Altar has laid down  
His awful Trident, and his Naval Crown.  
No more shall the tall Frigate dance  
For joy she carries this Victorious Lord,  
Who to the Capstain chained Mischance,  
Commanding on her lofty board.  
The Sea itself, that is all tears,  
Would weep her soundless Channel dry,  
Had she unhappily but Ears,  
To hear that Ossory could die.  
Ah, cruel Fate, thou never struck'st a blow,  
By all Mankind regretted so;  
Nor can't be said who should lament him most,  
No Country such a Patriot e'er could boast,  
And never Monarch such a Subject lost.   

V  
And yet we knew that he must one day die,  
That should our grief assuage;  
By Sword, or Shot, or by Infirmity;  
Or, if the●e failed, by Age.  
But He, alas! too soon gave place  
To the Successors of his Noble Race:  
We wished, and coveted to have him long,  
He was not old enough to die so soon,  
And they to finish what he had begun,  
As much too young:  
But Time, that had no hand in his mischance,  
Is fit to mature, and to advance  
Their early hopes to the Inheritance  
Of Titles, Honours, Riches, and Command,  
Their Glorious Grandsir's Merits have obtained,  
And which shines brighter than a Ducal Crown,  
Of their Illustrious Family's Renown;  
Oh, may there never fail of that brave Race,  
A man as great, as the great Ossory was,  
To serve his Prince, and as successful prove  
In the same Valour, Loyalty, and Love;  
Whilst his own Virtues swell the cheeks of Fame,  
And from his consecrated Urn doth Flame  
A Glorious Pyramid to Botelesses Name▪    

Ode Bachique.  
De Monsieur Racan.  

NOW that the Day's short and forlorn,  
Dull Melancholy Capricorn  
To Chimney-corners Men translate,  
Drown we our Sorrows in the glass,  
And let the thoughts of Warfare pass,  
The Clergy, and the third Estate.   

II.  
Menard, I know what thou hast writ,  
That sprightly issue of thy Wit  
Will live whilst there are men to read:  
But, what if they recorded be  
In Memory's Temple, boots it thee,  
When thou art gnawn by Worms, and dead?   

III.  
Henceforth those fruitless studies spare,  
Let's rather drink until we stare  
Of this immortal juice of ours,  
Which does in excellence precede  
The Beverage which Gannimede  
Into th' Immortals Goblet pours.   

iv  
The Juice that sparkles in this glass  
Makes tedious Years like Days to pass,  
Yet makes us younger still become,  
By this from labouring thoughts are chased  
The sorrow of those Ills are passed,  
And terror of the Ills to come.   

V  
Let us drink brimmers then, Time's fleet,  
And steals away with winged feet,  
Haling us with him to our Urn,  
In vain we sue to it to stay,  
For Years like Rivers pass away,  
And never, never do return.   

VI  
When the Spring comes attired in Green,  
The Winter flies, and is not seen:  
New Tides do still supply the Main:  
But when our frolic Youth's once gone,  
And Age has ta'en possession,  
Time ne'er restores us that again.   

VII.  
Death's Laws are Universal, and  
In Prince's Palaces command,  
As well as in the poorest Hutt,  
We're to the Parcaes subject all,  
The threads of Clown's and Monarches shall,  
Be both by the same Cizors cut.   

VIII.  
Their rigours which all this deface,  
Will ravish in a little space,  
What ever we most lasting make,  
And soon will lead us out to drink,  
Beyond the pitchy River's Brink,  
The waters of Oblivion's Lake.    

Epistle to Sir Clifford Clifton, then sitting in Parliament.  
WHEN from thy kind hand, my dearest, dear brother,  
Whom I love as thou'dst been the Son of my Mother,  
Nay, better, to tell you the truth of the story,  
Had you into the World but two minutes before me;  
I received thy kind Letter, good Lord, how it eased me  
Of the villainous Spleen that for six days had seized me:  
I start from my Couch, where I lay dull and muddy,  
Of my Servants enquiring the way to my Study,  
For, in truth, of late days I so little do mind it,  
Should one turn me twice about I never should find it:  
But by help of direction, I soon did arrive at  
The place where I used to sit fooling in private.  
So soon as got thither, I strait fell to calling,  
Some call it invoking, but mine was plain bawling;  
I called for my Muse, but no answer she made me,  
Nor could I conceive why the Slut should evade me.  
I knew I there left her, and locked her so safe in,  
There could be no likelihood of her escaping:  
Besides, had she 'scaped, I was sure to retrieve her,  
She being so ugly that none would receive her:  
● then fell to searching, since I could not hear her,  
●●ought all the shelves, but never the nearer:  
● tumbled my Papers, and rifled each Packet,  
Threw my Books all on heaps, and kept such a racket,  
Disordering all things, which before had their places  
Distinct by themselves in several Classes,  
That who'd seen the confusion, and looked on the ware,  
Would have thought he had been at Babylon Fair:  
At last, when for lost I had wholly resigned her,  
Where canst thou imagine, dear Knt, I should find her?  
Faith, in an old Drawer, I late had not been in,  
Twixt a course pair of sheets of the Housewives own spinning,  
● Sonnet instead of a coif her head wrapping,  
happily took her small Ladyship napping.  
Why how now, Minx, quoth I, what's the matter ● pray,  
That you are so hard to be spoke with to day?  
Fie, fie on this Idleness, get up, and rouse you,  
For I have a present occasion to use you:  
Our Noble Maecenas, Sir Clifford of Cud-con,  
Has sent here a Letter, a kind and a good one:  
Which must be suddenly answered, and finely,  
Or the Knight will take it exceeding unkindly;  
To which having some time sat musing and mute,  
She answered she'd broke all the strings of her Lute;  
And had got such a Rheum with lying alone,  
That her Voice was utterly broken and gone:  
Besides this, she had heard, that of late I had made  
A Friendship with one that had since been her Maid;  
One Prose, a slatternly ill-favoured toad,  
As common as Hackney, and beaten as Road,  
With whom I sat up sometimes whole Nights together,  
Whilst she was exposed to the Wind and weather.  
Wherefore, since that I did so slight and abuse her,  
She likewise now hoped I would please to excuse her.  
At this sudden reply I was basely confounded,  
I stared like a Quaker, and groaned like a Round-head  
And in such a case, what the Fiend could one do?  
My conscience convinced her Reproaches were true  
To swagger, I durst not, I else could have beat her,  
But what if I had, I'd been never the better,  
To quarrel her then had been quite out of season,  
And ranting would ne'er have reduced her to reason;  
I therefore was fain to dissemble Repentance,  
I disclaimed and forswore my late new Acquaintance.  
I kissed her, and hugged her, I clapped her, and chucked her▪  
I pushed her down backward, and offered to have—  
But the Jade would not buckle, she pished & she pouted,  
And wriggling away, fairly left me without it:  
I caught her, and offered her Money, a little,  
At which, she cried that were to plunder the Spittle:  
I then, to allure her, proposed to her, Fame,  
Which she so much despised, she pished at the name;  
And told me in answer, that she could not glory at  
The Sail-bearing Title of Muse to a Laureate,  
Much less to a Rhymer, did nought but disgust one,  
And pretended to nothing but pitiful Fustian.  
But oh, at that word, how I rated, and called her,  
And had my Fist up, with intent to have mauled her:  
At which, the poor Slut, half afraid of the matter,  
Changing her note, began to wheedle and flatter;  
Protesting she honoured me, jove knew her heart,  
Above all the Peers o' th' Poetical Art:  
But that of late time, and without provocation,  
I had been extremely unjust to her Passion.  
Me thought this sounded, I then laid before her,  
How long I had served her, how much did adore her;  
How much she herself stood obliged to the Knight,  
For his kindness and favour, to whom we should write▪  
And thereupon called, to make her amends,  
For a Pipe and a Bottle, and so we were Friends.  
Being thus made Friends, we fell to debating  
What kind of Verse we should congratulate in:  
I said it must be Doggrel, which when I had said,  
Maliciously smiling, she nodded her head,  
Saying Doggrel might pass to a friend would not show it,  
And do well enough for a Derbyshire Poet.  
Yet mere simple doggrel, she said, would not do●●,  
It needs must be galloping doggrel to boot,  
For Amblers and Trotters, tho' th' had thousands of feet,  
Can never however be made to be fleet;  
But would make so damnable slow a progression,  
They'd no● reach up to Westminster till the next Session▪  
Thus then unto thee▪ my dear Brother, and Sweeting,  
In Canterbury Verse I send health and kind greeting,  
Wishing thee honour, but if thou be'st cloyed weed,  
Above what thy Ancestry ever enjoyed yet;  
May'st thou 〈◊〉 where ●ow seated, without fear of blushing,  
Till thy little fat 〈…〉 grow to the cushion.  
Give his Majesty Mo●y▪ no matter who pays it,  
For we never can want it ●o long as he has it;  
But, were't Wisdom to trust saucy Counsel in Letters,  
I'd advise thee beware falling out with thy betters;  
I have heard of two Dogs once that fought for a bone,  
But the Proverb's so greasy, I'll let it alone;  
A word is enough to the wise; then resent it,  
A rash Act than mended is sooner repent:  
And, as for the thing called a Traitor; if any  
Be proved to be such, as I doubt there's too many;  
Let him even be hanged up, and never be prayed for,  
What a pox were blocks, gibbets, and gallows made for?  
But I grow monstrous weary, and how should I choose,  
This galloping Rhyme has quite jaded my Muse:  
And I swear, if thou look'st for more posting of hers,  
Little K nt, thou must needs lend her one of thy Spurs.  
Farewell then, dear Bully, but ne'er look for a Name,  
For, expecting no honour, I will have no shame:  
Yet, that you may guess at the Party that writes t'ee,  
And not grope in the dark, I'll hold up these Lights t'ee.  
For his Stature, he's but a contemptible Male,  
And grown something swab with drinking good Ale;  
His Looks, than your brown, a little thought brighter,  
Which grey hairs make every year whiter & whiter,  
His Visage, which all the rest mainly disgraces,  
Is warped, or by Age, or cutting of Faces.  
So that, whether it were made so, or whether it were marred,  
In good sooth, he's a very unpromising Bard:  
His Legs, which creep out of two old-fashioned Knapsacks,  
Are neither two Mill-posts, nor yet are they trap-sticks;  
They bear him, when sober, bestir 'em and spare not,  
And who the Devil can stand when they are not?  
Thus much for his Person, now for his condition,  
That's sick enough full to require a Physician:  
He always wants Money, which makes him want ease,  
And he's always besieged, though himself of the Peace,  
By an Army of Duns, who batter with Scandals,  
And are Foemen more fierce than the Goths or the Vandals.  
But when he does sally, as sometimes he does,  
Then hay for Bess juckson, and a Fig for his Foes:  
He's good Fellow enough to do every one right,  
And never was first that asked, what time of Night:  
His delight is to toss the Cann merrily round,  
And loves to be wet, but hates to be drowned:  
He fain would be just, but sometimes he cannot,  
Which gives him the trouble that other men ha' not.  
He honours his Friend, but he wants means to show it,  
And loves to be rhyming, but is the worst Poet.  
Yet among all these Vices, to give him his due,  
He has the Virtue to be a true Lover of you.  
But how much he loves you, he says you may guess it,  
Since nor Prose, nor yet Meeter, he swears can express it.   

Stances de Monsieur Bertaud.  

I.  
WHilst wishing, Heaven, in his ire,  
Would punish with some Judgement dire,  
This heart to Love so obstinate;  
To say I love her, is to lie,  
Though I do love t' Extremity,  
Since thus to love her, is to hate.   

II.  
But since from this my hatred Springs,  
That she neglects my Sufferings,  
And is unto my love ingrate;  
My hatred is so full of flame,  
Since from affection first it came,  
That 'tis to love her, thus to hate.   

III.  
I wish that milder Love, or Death,  
That ends our miseries with our Breath,  
Would my Afflictions terminate,  
For to my Soul, deprived of peace,  
It is a torment worse than these,  
Thus wretchedly to love and hate.   

iv  
Let Love be gentle, or severe,  
It is in vain to hope, or fear  
His grace, or rage in this Estate;  
Being I, from my fair ones Spirit,  
Nor mutual Love, nor hatred merit,  
Thus sencelesly to Love, and Hate.   

V  
Or, if by my Example here  
It just, and equal do appear,  
She love, and loath who is my Fate;  
Grant me, ye Powers, in this case,  
Both for my punishment and grace,  
That as I do, she Love, and Hate.    

Contentment. Pindaric Ode▪  

I.  
THou precious Treasure of the peaceful mind,  
Thou Jewel of Inestimable price,  
Thou bravest Soul's Terrestrial Paradise,  
Dearest Contentment, thou best happiness  
That Man on Earth can know,  
Thou greatest gift Heaven can on Man bestow,  
And greater than Man's Language can express;  
(Where highest Epithets would fall so low,  
As only in our dearth of words to show,  
A part of thy perfection; a poor part  
Of what to us, what in thyself thou art)  
What Sin has banished thee the World,  
And in thy stead despairing Sorrow hurled  
Into the breasts of Humane kind;  
Ah, whether art thou fled! who can this Treasure find▪   

II.  
No more on Earth now to be found,  
Thou art become a hollow sound,  
The empty name of something that of old  
Mankind was happy in, but now,  
Like a vain Dream, or Tale that's told,  
Art vanished hence we know not how.  
Oh, fatal loss, for which we are  
In our own thoughts at endless War,  
And each one by himself is made a Sufferer!   

III.  
Yet 'twere worth seeking, if a Man knew where,  
Or could but guess of whom t'enquire:  
But 'tis not to be found on Earth, I fear,  
And who can best direct will prove a Liar,  
Or be himself the first deceived,  
By none, but who'd be cheated too, to be believed.   

iv  
Show me that Man on Earth, that does profess  
To have the greatest share of happiness,  
And let him, if he can,  
Forbear to show the Discontented Man:  
A few hours Observation will declare,  
He is the same that others are.  
Riches will cure a Man of being poor,  
But oft creates a thirst of having more,  
And makes the Miser starve, and pine amidst his store.   

V  
Or if a plentiful Estate,  
In a good Mind, good Thoughts create,  
A generous Soul, and free,  
Will Mourn at least, though not repine,  
To want an overflowing Mine  
Still to supply a constant Charity;  
Which still is Discontent, what ere the Motive be.   

VI  
Th' ambitious, who to place aspire,  
When raised to that they did pretend,  
Are restless still, would still be higher;  
For that's a Passion has no end.  
'Tis the mind's Wolf, a strange Disease,  
That even Satiety can't appease,  
An Appetite of such a kind,  
As does by feeding still increase,  
And is to eat, the more it eats, inclined.  
As the Ambitious mount the Sky,  
New prospects still allure the Eye,  
Which makes them upwards still to fly;  
Till from the utmost height of all,  
Fainting in their Endeavour, down they fall,  
And lower, than at first they were, at last do lie.   

VII.  
I than would know where lies the happiness  
Of being Great,  
For which we blindly so much strive, and press,  
Fawn, Bribe, Dissemble, Toil, and Sweat;  
Whilst the Mind Tortured in the doubtful quest,  
Is so Solicitous to be at rest;  
Nay, when that Greatness is obtained, is yet  
More Anxious how to keep, than 'twas to get  
Unto that glorious height of tickle Place,  
And most, when unto honour raised, suspects disgrace.   

VIII.  
Were Men contented, they'd sit still,  
Embrace, and hug their present state,  
Without contriving Good or Ill,  
And have no conflicts with the Will,  
That still is prompting them, to Love, to Hate,  
Fear, Envy, Anger, and I can't tell what,  
All which, and more, do in the mind make War,  
And all with Contentation inconsistent are.   

IX.  
And he who says he is content,  
But hides ill nature from men's sight;  
Nor can he long conceal it there,  
Something will vent,  
For all his cunning, and his care,  
That will disclose the Hypocrite.  
A Man may be contented for an hour  
Or two, or three; perhaps a Night;  
But then his pleasure wanting Power,  
His taste goes with his Appetite.  
Frailty the peace of Humane life Confounds;  
Flesh does not know, Reason obeys no bounds.   

X.  
But 'tis ourselves that give this frailty sway,  
By our own promptness to obey  
Our Lust, Pride, Envy, Avarice;  
By being so confederate with vice,  
As to permit it to Control  
The Rational immortal Soul,  
Which, whilst by these subjected, and oppressed,  
Cannot enjoy itself, nor be at rest;  
But, or transported is with Ire,  
Pu●●'t up with vain, and empty Pride;  
Or languishes with base desire,  
Or pines with th' Envy it would hid.  
And (the Grave Stoic let me not displease)  
All Men that we converse with here,  
Have some, or all of their disturbances,  
And rarely settled are, and clear.  
If ever any mortal than could boast  
So great a Treasure, with that Man 'tis lost;  
And no one should, because none truly can,  
Though sometimes pleased, say, he's a contented Man.    

Epigram.  
FIE, Delia, talk no more of Love,  
It galls me to the Heart,  
You Threescore are, I doubt above,  
For all your plaist'ring Art  
And therefore spare your pains you may;  
For though you press me Night and Day,  
I can't do that my Soul abhors:  
Or by your Art's assistance, though I might  
Prevail upon my appetite,  
I durst not couple, though I swear  
With you, of all the World, for fear  
Of Cuckolding my Ancestors.   

Scribere jussit Amor.  
Ad Candidum Scriptorem.  
UT tibi versiculos recito, tu, Candide, scribis:  
Carmina si mea sunt, sunt tua scripta tamen.   

In Mendacem.  
EPIG.  
MEndax, 'tis said thou'rt such a Liar grown,  
That thoust renounced all Truth, and 'tis well done;  
Lying best fits our Manners and our Times;  
But, pray thee, Mendax, do not praise my Rhymes.   

daybreak.  

I.  
STay, Phoebus, stay, and cool thy flaming Head  
In the Green bosom of thy liquid Bed:  
Betray not, with thine envious Light,  
Th' embraces of an happy Night;  
For her fair blushes, if thou darest to rise,  
Will, by Eclipse, hoodwink thy saucy Eyes.   

II.  
Lest Lovers do upbraid thy beamy Car,  
With the pale glory or th'inferior Star,  
And henceforth dare to say, in scorn,  
Sol's Ray is waned to Phaebe's horn,  
And, for his Treason to a Lover's bliss,  
Suffers Actaeon's Metamorphosis.   

III.  
Why should we rise t'adore the rising Sun,  
And leave the Rites to greater Lights undone?  
Or quit her warm, and spicy nest,  
Because the Morn peeps through the East,  
To scorch in thy rude flames, to toil, and sweat,  
When in Love's fire we melt without thy heat?   

iv  
When from my passionate Embraces she  
Springs, as ashamed to be surprised by thee,  
The pillow's surrowed brows descry  
A wrath for thy discovery,  
Swell, and wax pale at thy insulting height,  
For rage's to be deprived of her dear weight.   

V  
Then stay, or lash thy Pampered Horses still,  
To show a swift obedience to her Will,  
And blushing, bow as low as Night,  
Lest I pursue thee, by thy Light,  
And lock the Morning-Doors to stop thy Race,  
Imprisoning so in Clouds thy tell-tale Face.    

SONG  
Set by Mr. Coleman.  

I.  
WHy, Dearest, shouldst thou weep, when I relate  
The story of my woe?  
Let not the swarthy Mists of my black Fate,  
overcast thy Beauty so,  
For each rich Pearl lost on that score,  
Adds to mischance, and wounds your Servant more.   

II.  
Quench not those Stars, that to my bliss should Guide,  
Oh, spare that precious Tear!  
Nor let those drops unto a deluge Tide,  
To drown your Beauty there,  
That cloud of Sorrow makes it Night,  
You lose your Lustre, but the World its Light.    

Forbidden Fruit.  

I.  
PIsh! 'tis an idle fond excuse,  
And Love, enraged by this abuse,  
Is deaf to any longer truce.   

II.  
My Zeal, to Lust you still impute,  
And when I justify my suit,  
You tell me, 'Tis Forbidden Fruit.   

III.  
What though your Face be Apple-ro●nd,  
And with a Rosy colour Crowned?  
Yet, Sweet, it is no Apple found.   

iv  
Nor have you aught resembling more  
That fatal Fruit the Tree once bore,  
But that indeed your Heart's a core.   

V  
'Tis true, the bliss that I would taste,  
Is something lower than the waist,  
And in your Gardens Centre placed.   

VI  
A Tree of Life too, I confess,  
Though but Arbuscular in dress,  
Yet not forbidden nevertheless.   

VII.  
It is a tempting golden tree,  
Which all Men must desire that see,  
Though it concerned Eternity.   

VIII.  
Then, since those blessings are thine own,  
Not subject to Contrition,  
Then, Fairest, Sweetest, grant me one.   

IX.  
Thy Dragon, wrapped in drowsiness,  
ne'er thinks whose bed thy beauties bless,  
Nor dreams of his Hesperides.    

The Picture.  
Set by Mr. Laws.  

HOW, Chloris, can I ere believe  
The Vows of Womankind,  
Since yours I faithless find,  
So faithless, that you can refuse  
To him your Shadow, t' whom, to choose,  
You swore you could the Substance give.   

II.  
Is it not enough that I must go  
Into another Clime,  
Where Feather-footed Time  
May turn my Hopes into Despair,  
My downy Youth to bristled Hair,  
But that you add this torment too?   

III.  
Perhaps you fear m● Idolatry  
Would make the Image prove  
A Woman fit for Love;  
Or give it such a Soul, as shone  
Through fond Pigmalion's living bone;  
That so I may abandon thee.   

iv  
Oh, no! 'twould fill my Genius's room,  
Mine honest one, that when  
Frailty would love again,  
And faltering with new Objects burn,  
Then, Sweetest, would thy Picture turn  
My wand'ring Eyes to thee at home.    

On One, who said, He drank to clear his Eyes.  

AS Phoebus, drawing to his Western Seat,  
His shining Face bedewed with beamy Sweat,  
His flaming Eyes at last grown blood-shot-red,  
By Atoms sprung from his hot Horse's speed,  
Drives to that Sea green Bosom of his Love's,  
And in her Lap his fainting Light improves;   

So Thyrsis, when at th' unresisted flame  
Of thy fair Mistress' eye, thine dull became,  
In sovereign Sack thou didst an Eyesalve seek,  
And stolest a blest dew from her rosy Cheek:  
When strait thy lids a cheerful vigour wore,  
More quick and penetrating than before.   

I saw the sprightly Grape in glory rise,  
And with her Day thy drooping Night surprise,  
So that, where now a giddy darkness dwells,  
Brightness now breaks through liquid Spectacles   

Had Adam known this cure in Paradise,  
He'd scaped the Tree, and drunk to clear his Eyes.    

The Separation.  

I.  
I Guessed none wretched in his love,  
But who his Mistress' scorn did prove,  
Nor judged him happy, but whose fire  
Was paid with mutual desire:  
But sad Experience tells,  
In both extremes there dwells  
A destiny, which so malignant is  
To make Man wretched in his greatest bliss.   

II.  
The brightest Beauty I adore,  
That consecrated Earth e'er bore,  
The sweetest Person, fairest Mind,  
That ever met in Womankind;  
And (which afflicts me) am  
Met with an equal flame:  
For, had she hated me, her scorn might have  
Condemned my Infant-love to its blessed Grave.   

III.  
But such 'tis nourished by her grace,  
As Time, nor Objects can deface,  
To such a faith, as cannot be  
Compelled from its Integrity.  
But oh, th' unwelcome cause,  
Of superstitious Laws!  
That us, from our mutual Embraces tear,  
And separates our bloods, because too near.    

Another of the same.  

I.  
AT what a wild malicious rate,  
Blind, cruel Deity,  
Do thy keen Arrows fly!  
Sure th' art not God of Love, but Hate,  
Bold Tyrant-Child, that canst endure  
To make a Wound admits not Cure.   

II.  
An Happiness can wait upon  
Strangers, that distant are,  
As North and Southern Star,  
But we, though born under one Zone,  
Who in one Root, one Cradle lay,  
In Love must be less blest than they.   

III.  
Ah! that's the cause why we must run,  
Like streams sprung from one Source,  
Each in a various course,  
The fiction Incest so to shun:  
When better, that we mixed, it were,  
Than other Rivers ravished her.  
But I'll pursue her, till our floods agree,  
Alpheus I, and Areth●sa she.    

On the great Eater of Grays-Inn.  

OH! for a lasting wind! that I may rail  
At this vile Cormorant, this Harpey-male:  
That can, with such an hungry haste, devour  
A years Provision in one short lived hour.  
Prodigious Calf of Pharoah's lean-ribed Kine,  
That swallowest Beef, at every bit a Chine!  
Yet art thyself so meager, Men may see  
Approaching Famine in thy Phys'nomy.   

The World may yet rejoice, thou were't not one  
That shared Ioves mercy with Deucalion;  
Had he thy grinders trusted in that boat,  
Where the whole World's Epitome did float,  
Clean, and Unclean had died, th' Earth found a wan●  
Of her irrational Inhabitant:  
'Tis doubted, there their fury had not ceased,  
But of the humane part too made a Feast;   

How Fruitless then had been Heaven's charity?  
No Man on earth had lived, nor Beast, but thee.  
Hadst thou been one to feed upon the far  
Stored by old Priam for the Grecian War;  
He, and his Sons had soon been made a prey;  
Troy's ten years' Siege had lasted but one day;  
Or thou mightst have preserved them, and at once  
Chop't up Achilles, and his Mirmydons.   

Hadst thou been Bell, sure thou hadst saved the Lives  
O' th' cheating Priests, their Children, and their Wive●,  
But at this rate, 'twould be a heavy tax  
For Hercules himself to cleanse thy jakes.  
Oh! that kind Heaven to give to thee would please  
An Estridge-maw, for than we should have peace.  
Swords then, or shining Engines would be none,  
No Guns, to thunder out Destruction:   

No rugged Shackles would be extant then,  
Nor tedious Grates, that limit freeborn Men,  
But thy Gut-pregnant womb thy paws do fill  
With spoils of Nature's good, and not her ill.   

'Twas th' Inns of Courts improvidence to own  
Thy Wolvish Carcase for a Son' o th' Gown:  
The danger of thy jaws, they ne'er foresaw;  
For, Faith! I think thou hast devoured the Law.   

No wonder th' art complained of by the Rout,  
When very Curs begin to smell thee out.  
The reasons Southwark rings with howl, are,  
Because thou robbest the Bulldogs of their share.   

Beastly Consumer! not content to eat  
The wholesome quarters destined for men's meat,  
But Excrement, and all: nor wilt thou ●ate  
One entrail, to inform us of thy Fate:  
Which will, I hope, be such an ugly Death,  
As hungry Beggars, can in curse breath,   

But I have done, my Muse can scold no more,  
She to the Bearwards Sentence turns thee o'er,  
And, since so great's thy Stomach's tyranny,  
For writing this, pray God, thou eat not me.    

An Epitaph on my Dear Aunt, Mrs. Ann Stanhope.  

FOrbear, bold Passenger, forbear  
The verge of this sad Sepulchre:  
Put off thy shoes, nor dare to tread  
The Hallowed Earth, where she lies dead:  
For in this Vault the Magazine  
Of Female virtue's stored, and in  
This Marble Casket is confined  
The jewel of all Womankind.   

For here she lies, whose Spring was Crowned  
With every grace in Beauty found;  
Whose Summer to that Spring did suit,  
Whose Autumn cracked with happy Fruit.   

Whose Fall was like her Life, so spent,  
Exemplary, and Excellent.   

For here the fairest, chastest Maid,  
That this Age ever knew, is laid:  
The best of Kindred, best of Friends,  
of most Faith, and of fewest Ends;  
Whose Fame the Tracks of Time survives;  
The best of Mothers, best of Wives.   

Lastly, which the whole Sum of praise implies,  
Here she, who was the best of Women, lies.    

SONG.  
Set by Mr. Coleman.  

I.  
SEE, how like Twilight Slumber falls  
T'obscure the glory of those balls,  
And, as she sleeps,  
See how Light creeps  
Thorough the Chinks, and Beautifies  
The rayie fringe of her fair Eyes.   

II.  
Observe Loves feuds, how fast they fly,  
To every heart, from her closed Eye,  
What then will she,  
When waking, be?  
A glowing Light for all t' admire,  
Such, as would set the World on fire.   

III.  
Then seal her Eyelids, gentle Sleep,  
Whiles cares of her mine open keep;  
Lock up, I say,  
Those Doors of Day,  
Which with the Morn for Lustre strive,  
That I may look on her, and live.    

An Epitaph on M. H.  

IN this cold Monument lies one,  
That I know who has lain upon,  
The happier He: her Sight would charm,  
And Touch have kept King David warm.  
lovely, as is the dawning East,  
●as this Marble's frozen Guest;  
●s soft, and Snowy, as that Down  
adorns the Blow-balls frizzled Crown;  
●s strait and slender as the Crest,  
●r Antlet of the one beamed Beast;  
〈◊〉 as th' odorous Month of May:  
●s glorious, and a light as Day.   

Whom I admired, as soon as knew,  
●nd now her Memory pursue  
●ith such a superstitious Lust,  
●hat I could fumble with her Dust.   

She all Perfections had, and more,  
exempting, as if designed a Whore,  
〈◊〉 so she was; and since there are  
〈◊〉, I could wish them all as fair.   

Pretty she was, and young, and wise,  
And in her Calling so precise,  
That Industry had made her prove  
The sucking School-Mistress of Love:  
And Death, ambitious to become  
Her Pupil, left his Ghastly home,  
And, seeing how we used her here,  
The raw-boned Rascal ravished her.   

Who, pretty Soul, resigned her Breath,  
To seek new Lechery in Death.    

The Retreat.  

I  
I Am returned, my Fair, but s●e  
Perfection in none but thee:  
Yet many Beauties have I seen,  
And in that Search a Truant been,  
Through Fruitless Curiosity.   

I've been to see each blear-eyed Star,  
Fond Men durst with thy light compare;  
And, to my admiration, find,  
That all, but I, in Love are blind,  
And none but Thee, divinely fair.   

III.  
Here than I fix, and now grown wise,  
All Objects, but thy face, despise,  
(Taught by my folly) now I swear,  
If you forgive me, ne'er to err,  
Nor seek Impossibilities.    

The Sleeper.  

WHat a strange lump of Laziness here lies,  
That from the light of Day bolts up his Eyes!  
Thou look'st, when God created thee, as if  
●e had forgot t'impart his breath of Life.  
That th' art with Seven sleepy Fiends possessed,  
A man would judge, or that bewitched at least.  
It is a curse upon thee, without doubt,  
And Heaven for Sin, has put thy Candles out.   

I could excuse thee, if this Sloth could be  
Bred by the venom of Infirmity;  
But 'tis in Nature's force impossible,  
Her whole Corruption makes not such a spell,  
Though thou an abstract hadst engrossed of all  
Ills, and Diseases Apoplectical.  
Were't thou not Male, I should guests thee the Bride  
Cut out of sleeping Adam's senseless side;  
But that I do this doubtful Quaere find,  
Whether such Sloth can spring from humane kind?  
If so, thy Mother in conception,  
With Wine, and Dormice fed her Embryo;  
Or, when he did the penitential deed,  
Thy drowsy Father voided Poppy-seed,   

I should believe thou'dsthad'st drunk in Lethe's deep  
But that I see, th' hast not forgot to sleep.  
Sleep without end, which justifies the Theme  
That thus informs, Man's life is but a Dream.  
Just such is thine; and since 'tis so profound,  
'Tis well if thou wakest at the Trumpets sound.    

The Token.  

I  
WEll, cruel Mistress, though you're too unkind,  
Since thus my banishment's by you designed,  
I go, but with you leave my heart behind.   

II.  
A truer heart, I'm sure you never wore,  
'Tis the best Treasure of the blind God's store,  
And, truly, you can justly ask no more.   

III.  
Then blame me not, if curious to know,  
I ask, on what fair Limb you will bestow  
The Token, that my zeal presents you now?   

iv  
I shall expect so great an interest  
For such a Gift, as t' have that Gemm possessed,  
Not of your Cabinet, but of your Breast.   

V  
There fixed, 'twill glory in its blessed remove,  
And flaming by degrees a Vigil prove,  
Icy Disdain to thaw, nay, kindle love.    

Song. Montross.  

I.  
ASk not, why sorrow shades my brow;  
Nor why my sprightly looks decay?  
Alas! what need I Beauty now,  
Since he, that loved it, died to day.   

II.  
Can ye have Ears, and yet not know,  
Mirtillo, brave Mirtillo's slain?  
Can ye have Eyes, and they not flow,  
Or Hearts, that do not share my pain?   

III.  
He's gone! he's gone! and I will go;  
For in my Breast, such Wars I have,  
And thoughts of him perplex me so  
That the whole World appears my grave.   

iv  
But I'll go to him, though he lie  
Wrapped in the cold, cold Arms of Death:  
And under yo● sad Cypress-tree,  
I'll mourn, I'll mourn away my Breath.    

SONG.  

I.  
Prithee, why so angry, Sweet?  
'Tis in vain,  
To dissemble a Disdain,  
That Frown i' th' infancy I'll meet,  
And kiss it to a Smile again.   

II.  
In that pretty Anger is  
Such a grace,  
As Love's fancy would embrace,  
As to new Crimes may Youth entice,  
So that Disguise becomes that Face.   

III.  
When thy rosy Cheek thus checks  
My offence,  
I could sin with a pretence:  
Through that sweet chiding Blush there breaks,  
So fair, so bright an Innocence.   

iv  
Thus your very frowns entrap  
My desire,  
And inflame me to admire  
That Eyes, dressed in an angry shape,  
Should kindle, as with amorous fire.    

A journey into the Peak.  
To Sir Aston Cockain.  

SIR, Coming home into this Frozen Clime,  
Grown cold, and almost senseless, as my Rhyme,  
I found that Winter's bold impetuous rage  
Prevented Time, and antedated Age  
For in my Veins, did nought but Crystal dwell,  
Each Hair was frozen to an Icicle.  
My flesh was Marble, so, that as I went,  
I did appear a walking Monument:  
IT might have been judged, rather than Marble, Flint▪  
Haddit there been any spark of fire in't.   

My Mistress looking back, to bid good Night,  
Was Metamorphosed like the Sodomite.   

Like Sinon's horse, our horses were become,  
And since they could not go, they slided home;  
The hills were hard, to such a quality,  
So beyond Reason in Philosophy,  
If Pegasus had kicked at one of those,  
Homer's Odysseys had been writ in Prose.   

These are strange stories, Sir, to you, who sweat  
Under the warm Sun's comfortable heat;  
Whose happy Seat of Pooley far outvies  
The fabled Pleasures of blessed Paradise:  
Whose Canaan fills ●our House with wine and Oil,  
Till't crack with burdens of a fruitful Soil:  
Which House, if it were placed above the Sphere,  
Would be a Palace fit for jupiter.   

The humble Chapel, for Religious Rites,  
The inner Rooms, for honest, free delights;  
And Providence, that these miscarry loath,  
Has placed the Tower a Centinel to both:  
So that there's nothing wanting to improve  
Either your Piety, or Peace, or Love.   

Without, you have the pleasure of the Woods,  
Fair Plains, rich Meadows, and transparent Floods;  
With all that's good and excellent, beside  
The tempting Apples by Euphrates side;  
But that which does above all these aspire,  
Is Delphos brought from Greece to Warwickshire.   

But oh, ungodly Hodge! that valued not  
That saving juice o'●h' oenigmatick pot.  
Whose charming virtue made me to forget  
T'enquire of Fate; else I had stayed there yet,  
Nor had I then once da●'d to venture on  
The cutting Air of this our Frozen Zone.  
But once again, dear Sir, I mean to come,  
And thankful be, as well as troublesome.    

New Prison.  

YOU Squires o'th' shade, that love to tread  
In gloomy Night, when Day's in bed;  
That court the Moon, supposing she  
Likes such a watchful Industry:  
Read here a Story, it will make  
Your Eyelids droop, when she's awake.  
'Tis not the horrid noise of Wars,  
Consequent Chances, Wounds and Scars,  
The dangers of the foaming Deep,  
Nor all the bugbear Fates, that keep  
Fond Men in awe, Hobgoblins, Spirits,  
Dire Dreams in dark and tedious Nights,  
A troubled Conscience, nor the sense  
Of man's despairing Diffidence,  
That can present so sad a face  
Of black Affliction, as this place.   

The sneaking Rascals, low●ie Whores,  
The creaking of the dismal Doors,  
That stink of stinks that fumes within,  
(Symptoms of Beasts that dwell therein)  
So rot the Air, Cameleons could  
Not live unpoysoned with such Food;  
There's reason for't, no Mortal can  
Step from the Excrement of Man;  
And that which should howe'er be sweet,  
Is like the rest; I mean, their meat;  
The Locusts of the wilderness  
Are Sweetmeats to their Nasty Mess.  
I could say more; the Place provokes me,  
But that the vile Tobacco chokes me.    

Her Name.  

I.  
TO write your Name upon the Glass,  
Is that the greatest you'll impart  
Of your Commands? when, Dear, alas!  
'Twas long since graven in my Heart?  
But you foresee my Heart must break, and sure  
Think't in that brittle Quarry more secure.   

II.  
My Breast impregnable is found,  
Which nothing, but thy Beauty, wracks,  
Than this frail Metal far more sound,  
That every Storm and Tempest cracks.  
And, if you add Faith to my Vows and Tears,  
More firm, and more transparent it appears.   

III.  
Yet, I obey you, when, behold!  
I tremble at the forced fact,  
My hand too saucy and too bold,  
Timorously shivers at the act;  
And 'twixt the wounded glass, and th' harder stone,  
I hear a murmuring Emulation.   

iv  
'Tis done; to which let all hearts bow,  
And to the Tablet sacrifice;  
Incense of loyal Sighs allow,  
And Tears from wonder-strucken Eyes;  
Which, should the Schismatics of Zion see,  
Perchance they'd break it for Idolatry.   

V  
But, cursed be that awkward hand  
Dares raze the glory from this frame,  
That, notwithstanding thy Command,  
Tears from this glass thy adored Name;  
whoever he be, unless he do repent,  
He's damned for breaking thy Commandment.   

VI  
Yet, what thy dear will here has placed,  
Such is its unassured state,  
Must once, my Sweetest, be defaced,  
Or by the stroke of Time, or Fate;  
It must at last, howe'er, dissolve, and die,  
With all the World, and so must thou, and I.    

Epitaph  
On Mr. Robert Port.  
HEre lies he, whom the Tyrant's rage,  
Snatched in a venerable Age;  
And here, with him, entombed do lie  
Honour, and Hospitality.   

SONG.  
Set by Mr. Coleman.  

I.  
BRing back my Comfort, and return,  
For well thou knowst that I  
In such a vigorous passion burn,  
That missing thee, I die.  
Return, return, insult no more,  
Return, return, and me restore  
To those sequestered joys I had before.   

II.  
absence's, in most, that quenches Love,  
And cools the warm desire,  
〈◊〉 ardour of my heat improves,  
And makes the flame aspire;  
〈◊〉 Opinion therefore I deny,  
〈◊〉 term it, though a Tyranny,  
〈◊〉 Nurse to Faith, and Truth, and Constancy.   

III.  
〈◊〉 Dear, I do not urge thy stay,  
That were to prove unjust  
〈◊〉 my desires; nor Court delay:  
But ah! thy speed I must;  
〈◊〉 bring me back the stolen Delight  
〈◊〉 from me in thy speedy flight,  
〈◊〉 my tedious Day, my longing Night,    

Sir William Davenant  
To Mr. Cotton.  

I.  
UNlucky fire, which though from Heaven derived  
Is brought too late, like Cordials to the Dea●  
When all are of their Sovereign Sense deprived,  
And Honour, which my rage should warm, is fled.   

II.  
Dead to Heroic Song this Isle appears,  
The Ancient Music of victorious Verse,  
They taste no more than he his Dirges hears,  
Whose useless Mourners sing about his He●se.   

III.  
Yet shall this sacred Lamp in Prison burn,  
And through the darksome Ages hence invade  
The wondering World, like that in Tully's Urn,  
Which, though by Time concealed, was not decayed   

IV.  
●nd Charles, in that more civil Century,  
●hen this shall wholly fill the voice of Fame,  
●he busy Antiquaries then will try  
●o find amongst their Monarch's coin, thy Name.   

V  
〈◊〉 they will bless thy Virtue, by whose fire  
〈◊〉 keep my Laurel warm, which else would fade,  
〈◊〉, thus enclosed, think me of Nature's Choir,  
●hich still sings sweetest in the shade.   

VI  
●o Fame, who rules the World, I lead thee now,  
●hose solid Power the thoughtful understand,  
●hom, though too late, weak Princes to her bow,  
●he People serve, and Poets can command.   

VII.  
●nd Fame, the only Judge of Empire past,  
●all to Verona lead thy Fancies Eyes,  
●here Night so black a Robe on Nature cast,  
〈◊〉 Nature seemed afraid of her disguise.    

To Sir William Davenant.  
In Answer to the Seventh Canto, of th● Third Book of his Gondibert, directed t● my Father.  
Written by Sir William, when Prisoner in the Tower. 1652.  

I.  
OH happy Fire! whose heat can thus control  
The rust of Age, and thaw the frost of Death,  
That renders Man immortal, as his Soul,  
And swells his Fame with everlasting Brea●●   

II.  
happy's that Hand, that unto Honour's Clime  
Can lift the Subject of his living praise,  
That rescues Frailty from the Sith of Time,  
And equals glory to the length of days.   

III.  
Such, Sir, is yours, that, uncontrolled as Fate,  
In the black bosom of o're-shading Night,  
Can Sons of immortality create,  
To dazzle Envy with prevailing Light.   

iv  
In vain they strive your glorious Lamp to hid  
In that dark Lantern to all noble minds,  
Which, through the smallest cranny is descried,  
Whose force united no resistance finds.   

V  
Blessed is my Father, that has found his Name  
Amongst the Heroes, by your Pen revived,  
By running in Time's wheel his thriving Fame,  
Shall still more youthful grow, & longer lived.   

VI  
Had Alexander's Trophies thus bee● reared,  
And in the circle of your Story come,  
The spacious Orb, full well he might have spared,  
And reaped his distant Victories at home.   

VII.  
Let Men of greater Wealth than Merit cast  
Medals of Gold for their succeeding part;  
That paper-Monument shall longer last,  
Than all the rubbish of decaying Art    

To my Friend Mr. John Anderson.  
From the Country.  

I.  
YOU that the City-Life embrace,  
And in those Tumults run your race,  
Under the th'aspect of the Celestial face  
Of your bright Lady:  
You, that to Masks, and Plays resort,  
As if you would rebuild the Court,  
We here can match you with our Countrey-sport,  
As near as may be.   

II.  
For, though 'tis good to be so nigh  
Rich wine, and excellent Company:  
Yet, john, those Pleasures you full dear do buy  
Some times, and seasons.  
For you but Tributaries are,  
Awed by the ●urious men of War:  
We Countrey-Bumkins then are happier far  
For many reasons.   

III.  
First, we have here no bawling Duns,  
Nor those fierce things cleped Bums,  
No Cuckold-Constable, or Watch here comes  
To apprehend us.  
And then we've not unwholesome Da●es  
To broil us in their bawdy flames,  
Nor need inquire after Physicians names,  
That may befriend us.   

iv  
And next, we have excelling Ale,  
Most high, and mighty, strong, and stolen:  
And, when we go, we need no other Bail  
Than our own word, Sir,  
When you all Day are fain to sit,  
Send Paper-pellets of small wit,  
Your Tickets; and, when none of them will hit,  
Pawn Cloak, or Sword, Sir,   

V.  
Then we outdo your Beauties, that  
You Entertain with Cost, and Chat,  
That make you spend your precious Time and Fat,  
And yet are steadfast:  
We here have homely willing Winn,  
With buxom Bess, and granting jinn,  
All full and plump without, and warm within,  
That cracked the Bed fast.   

VI  
And then, for Mirth, we have much more  
Than you, for all your various store,  
For we prefer Bag pipes, so loud, before  
Lute, or Cremona▪  
We caper with Tom Thump, i'th' Hall,  
Measures beyond Corant, or Brawl;  
And when we want a match for Cicely, call  
A roba bona.   

VII.  
We have too errand Knights so stout,  
As honest Hobinol and Clout,  
With many an other stiff and sturdy Lout,  
That play at wasters,  
Shoe the wild Mare, and lick the board,  
That for stiff Tuck, or cutting Sword,  
For Man, or Woman, care not of a Turd,  
But their own Masters.   

VIII.  
Thus every of our petty toys  
Outvies your greatest dear bought joys:  
Then to thy freedom from the City-noise,  
I'll drink a Beer-jack:  
And now the Spring comes on apace,  
Sweet flowers crown the Earth's green face  
Nor can I doubt, but thou wilt have the grace  
T●o wish thee here, jack.    

Les Amours.  

I.  
SHe, that I pursue, still flies me;  
Her, that follows me, I fly;  
She, that I still court, denies me:  
Her, that courts me, I deny.  
Thus in one Web we're subtly wove,  
And yet we mutiny in love.   

II.  
She, that can save me, must not do it,  
She, that cannot, fain would do:  
Her love is bound, yet I still woe it:  
Hers by love is bound in woe.  
Yet, how can I of Love complain,  
Since I have love for love again.   

III.  
This is thy work, imperious Child,  
Thine's this Labyrinth of love,  
That thus hast our desires beguiled,  
Nor see'st how thine arrows rove.  
Then prithee, to compose this stir,  
Make Her love me, or me love Herald   

iv  
But, if irrevocable are  
Those keen shafts, that wound us so;  
Let me prevail with thee thus far,  
That thou once more take thy Bow;  
Wound Her hard heart, and by my troth,  
I'll be content to take them both.    

ELEGY.  
HOw was I blest when I was free  
From Mercy, and from Cruelty;  
When I could write of Love at ease,  
And guess at Passions in my peace;  
When I could sleep, and in my Breast  
No lovesick Thoughts disturbed my rest:  
When in my brain of her sweet face  
No Torturing Idea was,  
Not Planet-struck with her Eyes Light,  
But blest with Thoughts as calm as Night!  
Now I could sit and gaze to Death;  
And vanish with each sigh, I Breath:  
Or else in her victorious Eye  
Dissolve to tears, dissolving dye,  
Nor is my Life more pleasant than  
The Minutes of condemned Men,  
Tossed by strange Fancies, wracked by Fears,  
Sunk by Despair, and drowned in Tears,  
And dead to Hope; for, what bold H●  
Dares hope for such a Bliss as she?  
And yet I am in love; ah! who  
That ever saw her, was not so?  
What Tigers unrelenting Seed,  
Can see such Beauties, and not bleed?  
Her eyes two sparks of Heavenly fire,  
To kindle, and to charm desire,  
Her Cheeks Aurora's blush, her Skin  
So delicately smooth, and thin,  
That you my see each azure Vein,  
Her Bosoms Snowy whiteness slain:  
But with so rich a Tincture, as  
China 'bove base metals has,  
She's crowned with unresisted Light  
Of blooming Youth, and vigorous Spr'ite,  
Careless charms, unstudied sweetness,  
Innate virtue, humble greatness,  
And modest freedom, with each grace  
Of Body, and of Mind, and Face,  
So pure, that Men, nor Gods can find  
Throughout that Body, or that Mind  
A fault, but this, to disapprove,  
She cannot, or she will not love.  
Ah! then, some God possess her heart  
With mine uncessant vows, and smart,  
Grant but one hour that she may be  
In love, and then she'll pity me.  
Is it not pity such a guest,  
As Cruelty, should arm that Breast  
Against a love assaults it so?  
Can Heavenly minds such rigour know?  
Then make her know, her Beauties must  
Decay, and molter into Dust:  
That each swift Atom of her glass,  
Runs to the ruin of her face;  
That those fair blossoms of her Youth,  
Are not so lasting as my truth,  
My lasting firm Integrity:  
Tell her all this, and, if there b●  
A▪ Lesson to present her Sense  
Of more persuading Eloquence,  
Teach her that too, for all will prove  
Too little to provoke her Love.  
Thus dying people use to rave,  
And I am grown my Passions slave;  
For fall I must, my lot's Despair,  
Since I'm so worthless, she so fair.   

〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, Her Hair.  
ODE.  

I.  
WElcome, blessed Symptom of Consent,  
More welcome far,  
Than if a Star,  
In stead of this bright Hair,  
Should beautify mine Ear,  
And light me to my banishment,   

II.  
Methinks I'm now all sacred fire,  
And wholly grown  
Devotion:  
Sensual Love's in chains,  
And all my boiling Veins  
Are blown with sanctified desire.   

III.  
Sure she is Heaven itself, and I,  
In fervent zeal,  
This lock did steal,  
And each Lifegiving Thread,  
Snatched from her beamy Head,  
As once Prometheus from the Sky.   

iv  
No: 'tis a nobler Treasure: She  
(Won to believe)  
Was pleased to give  
These rays unto my care:  
The Spheres have none so fair,  
Nor yet so blest a Deity.   

V  
●et knows she not what she has done,  
She'll hear my Prayers,  
And see my Tears;  
She's now a Nazarite  
Robbed of her vigorous Light,  
●or her resisting Strength is gone.   

VI  
now could glory in my Power,  
And in pretence  
Of my suspense,  
Revenge, by kissing those  
Twins, that Nature's pride disclose,  
●y Languishing and tedious hours.   

VII.  
●et I'll not triumph: but, since she  
Will that I go  
Thus wrapped in woe,  
I'll tempt my prouder Fate  
T'improve my Estimate,  
And justle with my Destiny.   

VIII.  
As well I may, thus being sure,  
Whether on Land  
I firmly stand;  
Or Fortune's footsteps trace,  
Or Neptune's foamy face,  
Mischance to conquer; or endure.   

IX.  
If, on a swelling Wave I ride,  
When Aeolus  
His winds let's lose,  
Those winds shall silent lie,  
And moist Orion dry,  
By virtue of this charming guide.   

X.  
Or, if I hazard in a Field,  
Where Danger is  
The sole Mistress,  
Where Death, in all his shapes,  
Commits his horrid rapes,  
And he, that but now slew, is killed;   

XI.  
Then in my daring Crest I'll place  
This plume of light  
T'amaze the sight  
O'th' fiercest Sons of Mars,  
That rage in bloody Wars;  
And make them fly my Conquering face.   

XII.  
Thus in her favour I am blest;  
And, if by these  
Few of her rays  
I am exalted so,  
What will my Passions do  
When I have purchased all the rest?   

XIII.  
They must continue in the same  
Vigour, and force,  
Better, nor worse:  
I loved so well before,  
I cannot love her more,  
Nor can I mitigate my Flame.   

XIV.  
In Love then persevere I will  
Till my hairs grow  
As white as Snow:  
And, when in my warm Veins  
Nought but trembling cold remain  
My youthful love shall flourish still.    

SONG.  

I.  
JOIN once again, my Celia, join  
Thy rosy Lips to these of mine,  
Which, though they be not such,  
Are full as sensible of bliss,  
That is, as soon can taste a kiss,  
As thine of softer touch.   

II.  
Each kiss of thine creates desire,  
Thy odorous Breath inflames Love's fire,  
And wakes the sleeping coal:  
Such a kiss to be I find  
The Conversation of the Mind,  
And whisper of the Soul,   

III.  
Thanks, Sweetest, now thou'rt perfect grown,  
For by this last kiss I'm undone;  
Thou breathest silent Darts,  
Henceforth each little touch will prove  
A dangerous stratagem in Love,  
And thou wilt blow up Hearts.    

The Surprise.  

I.  
ON a clear River's flowery side,  
When Earth was in her gaudy pride,  
Defended by the friendly shade  
A woven Grove's dark entrails made,  
Where the cold clay, with flowers strewed,  
Made up a pleasing solitude;  
●Twas there I did my glorious Nymph surprise,  
There stole my passion from her kill Eyes,   

II.  
The happy Object of her Eye  
Was Sidney's living Arcady;  
Whose amorous tale had so betrayed  
Desire in this all-lovely Maid;  
That, whilst her Cheek a blush did warm,  
I read Love's story in her form:  
And of the Sisters the united grace,  
Pamela's vigour in Philoclea's Face.   

III.  
As on the brink this Nymph did sit,  
(Ah! who can such a Nymph forget?)  
The floods strait dispossessed their foam,  
Proud so her mirror to become;  
And ran into a twirling Maze,  
On her by that delay to gaze;  
And, as they passed, by streams succeeding force,  
In losing her, murmured t'obey their course,   

IU.  
She read not long, but closed the Book,  
And up her silent Lute she took,  
Perchance to charm each wanton thought,  
Youth, or her reading had begot.  
The hollow Carcase echoed such  
Airs, as had birth from Orphe●'s touch,  
And every snowy finger, as she played,  
Danced to the Music that themselves had made.   

V  
At last she ceased: her odorous Bed  
With her enticing Limbs she spread,  
With Limbs so excellent, I could  
No more resist my factious blood:  
But there, ah! there, I caught the Dame,  
And boldly urged to her my flame:  
I kissed: when her ripe Lips at every touch  
Swelled up to meet, what she would shun so much.   

VI  
I kissed, and played in her bright Eyes,  
Discoursed, as is the Lover's guise,  
Called her the Authress of my woe:  
The Nymph was kind, but would not do,  
〈◊〉, she was kind, which made me bold,  
〈…〉 as her denials cold.  
But, ah! at last I parted wounded more  
With her soft pity, than her Eyes before.    

The Visit.  

I.  
DArk was the silent shade, that hide  
The fair Castanna from my sight:  
The Night was black (as it had need,)  
That could obscure so great a light.  
Under the concave of each Lid  
A flaming ball of beauty bright,  
Wrapped in a charming slumber lay,  
That else would captivate the Day.   

II.  
(Led by a passionate desire,)  
I boldly did attempt the way;  
And though my dull Eyes wanted fire,  
My seeing Soul knew where she lay,  
Thus, whilst I blindly did aspire,  
Fear to displease her made me stay,  
A doubt too weak for mine intent,  
I knew she would forgive, and went.   

III.  
Near to her Maiden-Bed I drew,  
Blest in so rare a chance as this;  
When by her odorous Breath I knew  
I did approach my Love, my Bliss:  
Then did I eagerly pursue  
My hopes, and found, and stole a kiss:  
Such as perhaps Pygmalion took,  
When cold his Ivory Love forsaken.   

iv  
Soft was the sleep sat on her Eyes,  
As softest down, or whitest Snow;  
So gentle rest upon them lies,  
Happy to charm those Beauties so;  
For which a thousand thousand dies,  
Or living, live in restless Woe;  
For all that see her kill Eye,  
With Love, or Admiration die.   

V  
chaste were the Thoughts that had the power  
To make me hazard this Offence;  
I marked the sleeps of this fair Flower,  
And found them full of Innocence;  
Wondering that hers, who slew each hour,  
Should have so undisturbed a Sense;  
But, ah! these Murders of Mankind  
Fly from her Beauty, not her Mind.   

VI  
Thus, while she sweetly slept, sat I  
Contemplating the lovely Maid,  
Of every Tear, and every Sighs  
That sallied from my Breast, afraid.  
And now the Morningstar drew nigh,  
When, fearing thus to be betrayed,  
I softly from my Nymph did move  
Wounded with everlasting Love.    

De Lupo.  
Epigram.  
WHen Lupus has wrought hard all day,  
And the declining Sun,  
By stooping to embrace the Sea,  
Tells him the Day's nigh done;  
Then to his young Wife home he hies  
With his sore labour sped,  
Who bids him welcome home, and cries,  
Pray, Husband, come to bed.  
Thanks, Wife, quoth he, but I were blest,  
Wouldst thou once call me to my rest.   

On Upstart.  
UPstart last Term went up to Town,  
There purchased Arms and brought them down▪  
With Welborne's then he his compares,  
And with a horrid loudness swears  
That his are best; for look, quoth he,  
●ow gloriously mine gilded be;  
Thine's but a Threadbare Coat, he cried,  
Compared to this, who then replied:  
If my Coat be Threadbare, or rend, or torn,  
There's cause; than thine it has been longer worn.   

Epitaph  
On Mrs. Mary Draper.  

I.  
READER, if thou cast thine Eye  
On this weeping Stone below:  
Know, that under it doth lie  
One, that never Man did know.   

II.  
Yet of all Men full well known  
By those beauties of her Breast:  
For, of all she wanted none,  
When Death called her to her rest.   

III.  
Then, the Ladies, if they would  
Die like her, kind Reader tell,  
They must strive to be as good  
Alive, or 'tis impossible.    

Caelia's Fall.  

I.  
CAELIA, my fairest Caelia, fell,  
Caelia, than the fairest, fairer,  
Caelia, (with none I must compare her)  
That all alone is all in all,  
Of what we fair, and modest call,  
Caelia, white as Alabaster,  
Caelia, than Diana chaster,  
This fair, fair Caelia, grief to tell,  
This fair, this modest, chaste one fell.   

II.  
My Caelia, sweetest Caelia, fell,  
As I have seen a Snow-white Dove  
Decline her Bosom from above,  
And down her spotless body fling  
Without the motion of the wing,  
Till she arrest her seeming fall  
Upon some happy Pedestal:  
●o soft this sweet, I love so well,  
●●is sweet, this Dovelike Caelia, fell.   

III.  
●●lia, my dearest Caelia fell,  
As I have seen a melting Star  
Drop down its fire from its Sphere,  
Rescuing so its glorious sight  
From that paler snuff of light:  
Yet is a Star bright and entire,  
As when 'twas wrapped in all that fire:  
● bright this dear, I love so well,  
●his dear, this Starlike Caelia fell.   

iv  
And yet my Caelia did not fall  
As grosser Earthly Mortals do,  
But stooped, like Phoebus, to renew  
Her lustre high her Morning rise,  
And dart new Beauties in the Skies.  
Like a white Dove, she took her flight,  
And, like a Star, she shot her Light;  
This Dove, this Star, so loved of all,  
My Fair, Dear, Sweetest, did not fall.   

V  
But, if you'll say my Caelia fell,  
Of this I'm sure, that, like the Dart  
Of Love it was, and on my Heart;  
Poor Heart alas! wounded before,  
She needed not have hurt it more:  
So absolute a Conquest she  
Had gained before of it, and me,  
That neither of us have been well  
Before, or since my Caelia fell.    

Eclogue.  Damon. C. C. Thyrsis. R. R. Dam. 
THyrsis, whilst our Flocks did by't  
The smiling Salads in our sight,  
Thou then were't wont to sing thy state  
In Love, and Chloe celebrate;  
But where are now the Lovesick lays  
Whilom so sung in Chloes praise?  Thyr. 
'Las! who can sing? since our Pan died  
Each Shepherd's pipe is laid aside:  
Our flocks they feed on parched ground,  
Shelter, nor Water's for them found:  
And all our sports are cast away,  
Save when thou singest thy Caelia.  Dam. 
Caelia, I do confess alone  
My object is of Passion,  
My Star, my bright Magnetic Pole,  
And only Guidress of my Soul.  Thyr. 
Let Caelia be thy Cynosure,  
Chloes my Pole too, though th' obscure:  
For, though herself's all glorious,  
My Earth 'twixt us does interpose.  Dam. 
Obscure indeed, since she's but one  
To mine a Constellation:  
Her Lights throughout so glorious are,  
That every part's a perfect Star.  Thyr. 
Then Caelia's Perfections  
Are scattered: Chloes, like the Sun's  
United Light, compacted lie,  
Whence all that feel their force, must die.  Dam. 
Caelia's Beauties are too bright  
To be contracted in one Light;  
Nor does my fair, her Rays dispense  
With such a stabbing Influence,  
Since 'tis her less imperious Will  
To save her Lovers, and not kill.  Thyr. 
Each beam of her united Light  
Is, than the greatest Star more bright;  
And, if she stay, it is from hence,  
She darts too sweet an Influence,  
We Surfeit with't: weak Eyes must shun  
The dazzling Glories of the Sun.  
Perhaps, if Caelia do not kill,  
'Tis want of Power, not of Will.  Dam. 
I now perceive, thy Chloes Eyes  
To be no Stars, but Prodigies:  
Comets, such as blazing stand  
To threaten ruin to a Land:  
Beacons of sulphurous Flame they are,  
Symptoms not of Peace, but War,  
And thou I guests, by singing thus,  
Thence stoll'st thine Ignis fatu●s.  Thyr. 
As th' vulgar are amazed at th' Sun,  
When tripled by reflection;  
C●loe's self, and glorious Eyes  
To thee seem Comets in the Skies.  
And true, they may portend some Wars  
Such as 'twixt Venus, and her Mars,  
But chaste: whose captivating Bands  
Would People, and not ruin Lands.  
With such a Going fire I'll stray,  
For who with it can lose his way?  Dam. 
The Vulgar may perhaps be won  
By thee to think her Sun, and Moon,  
And so would I, but that my more  
Convincing Caelia I adore.  
Would we had both, that Chloe thine,  
And my dear Caelia might be mine.  
But if we should thus mix with Ray,  
In Heaven would be no Night, but Day;  
For we should People all the Skies  
With Plannet-Girls, and Starry-Boyes,  
Chloes a going-fire, we see,  
Pray Pan, she do not go from thee.  Thyr. 
Thanks, Damon, but she does, I fear,  
The Shadows now so long appear:  
Yet, if she do, we'll both find Day  
●'●h' Sunshine of thy Caelia.   

Her Sigh.  

I.  
SHE sighs, and has blown over now  
The storms that thrat'ned in her brow:  
The HeavensHeavens now serene and clear,  
And bashful blushes do appear,  
Th' Error sh'has found  
That did me wound,  
Thus with her odorous Sigh my hopes are crowned.   

II.  
Now she relents, for now I hear  
Repentance whisper in my Ear,  
Happy repentance! that begets  
By this sweet Airy motion heats,  
And does destroy  
Her Heresy,  
That my Faith branded with Inconstancy.   

III.  
When Thisbe's Pyramus was slain,  
This sigh had fetched him back again,  
And such a sigh from Dido's Chest  
Wasted the Trojan to her Breast.  
Each of her sighs  
My Love does prize  
Reward, for thousand, thousand Cruelties.   

iv  
Sigh on, my Sweet, and by thy Breath,  
Immortal grown, I'll laugh at Death.  
Had Fame so sweet a one, we should  
In that regard learn to be good:  
Sigh on, my Fair,  
Henceforth, I swear,  
I could Cameleon turn, and live by Air    

On the Lamented Death of my Dear Uncle,  
Mr. Radcliff Stanhope.  
SUch is th' unsteady state of humane things,  
And Death so certain, that their period brings,  
So frail is Youth, and strength, so sure this sleep,  
That much we cannot wonder, though we weep.  
Yet, since 'tis so, it will not misbecom,  
Either perhaps our Sorrows, or his Tomb  
To breathe a Sigh, and drop a mourning Tear  
Upon the cold face of his Sepulchre,  
Well did his life deserve it, if to be  
A great Example of Integrity,  
Honour, and Truth, Fidelity, and Love,  
In such perfection, as if each had striven  
T'out-do Posterity, may deserve our care,  
Or to his Funeral command a Tear,  
Faithful he was, and just, and sweetly good  
To whom allied in Virtue, or in Blood:  
His Breast (from other conversation chaste)  
Above the reach of giddy Vice was placed:  
Then, had not Death (that crops in's Savage speed  
The fairest flower with the rankest weed)  
Thus made a beastly Conquest of his Prime,  
And cut him off before grown ripe for Time,  
How bright an Evening must this Morn pursue,  
Is to his Life a Contemplation due.  
Proud Death, t'arrest his thriving Virtue thus!  
Unhappy Fate! not to himself, but us,  
That so have lost him; for, no doubt, but he  
Was fit for Heaven, as years could make him be:  
Age does but muster Sin, and heap up woes  
Against the last, and general Rendezvous;  
Whereas he died full of obedient Truth,  
Wrapped in his spotless Innocence of Youth.  
Farewell, Dear Uncle, may thy hoped for Bliss  
To thee be real, as my Sorrow is;  
May they be named together, since I do  
Nothing more perfect than my sorrow know;  
And, if thy Soul into men's minds have Eyes,  
It knows I truly weep these Obsequies.   

On the Lord Derby.  
TO what a formidable greatness grown  
Is this prodigious Beast Rebellion,  
When Sovereignty, and it's so sacred Law,  
Thus lies subjected to his Tyrant awe!  
And to what daring impudence he grows,  
When, not content to trample upon those,  
He still destroys all that with honest flames  
Of loyal Love would propagate their Names!  
In this great ruin, Derby, lay thy Fate,  
(Derby, unfortunately fortunate)  
Unhappy thus to fall a Sacrifice  
To such an Irreligious Power as this;  
And blest, as 'twas thy nobler sense to die  
A constant Lover of thy Loyalty.  
Nor is it thy Calamity alone,  
Since more lie whelmed in this Subversion:  
And first, the justest, and the best of Kings,  
Robed in the glory of his Sufferings,  
By his too violent Fate informed us all,  
What tragic ends attended his great fall,  
Since when his Subjects, some by chance of War,  
Some by perverted justice at the Bar  
Have perished: thus, what th'other leaves, this takes,  
And who so escapes the Sword, falls by the Axe:  
Amongst which throng of Martyrs none could boast  
Of more fidelity, than the world has lost  
In losing thee, when (in contempt of spite)  
Thy steady faith at th'exit crowned with Light,  
His Head above their malice did advance,  
They could not murder thy Allegiance,  
Not when before those judges brought to th'test,  
Who, in the symptoms of thy ruin dressed,  
Pronounced thy Sentence. Basilisks! whose Breath  
Is killing Poison, and whose Looks are Death.  
Then how unsafe a Guard Man's virtue is,  
I● this false Age, (when such as do amiss  
Control the honest sort, and make a prey  
Of all that are not villainous as they)  
Does to our Reason's Eyes too plain appear  
In the mischance of this Illustrious Peer.  
Bloodthirsty Tyrants of usurped State!  
In facts of Death prompt, and insatiate!  
That in your Flinty Bosoms have no sense  
Of Manly Honour, or of Conscience,  
But do, since Monarchy lay drowned in Blood,  
Proclaim't by Act, high Treason to be good;  
Cease yet at last for shame: let Derby's fall,  
Great, and good Derby's expiate for all,  
But if you will place your Eternity  
In mischief, and that all good Men must die,  
When you have finished there, fall on the rest,  
Mix your shamed slaughters with the worst, and best;  
And, to perpetuate your murdering Fame,  
Cut your own Throats, despair, and die, and damn.  
Ain si soit il.   

On Marriot.  
Tempus edax rerum.  
THanks for this rescue Time; for thou hast won  
In this more glory than the States have done  
In all their Conquests; they have conquered Men,  
But thou hast conquered that would conquer them,  
Famine; and in this Parricide hast-shown  
A greater courage than their Acts dare own;  
Thou'st slain thy eating Brother, 'tis a Fame  
Greater than all past Heroes e'er could claim:  
Nor do I think thou couldst have conquered him  
By force, it surely was by Stratagem.  
There was a Dearth when he gave up the Ghost:  
For, (on my life) his Stomach he ne'er lost,  
That never failed him, and without all doubt  
Had he been victualled he had still held out:  
Howe'er, it happened for the Nation well,  
All fear of Famine now's impossible,  
Since we have 'scaped his reign; Blest were my Rhymes,  
Can they but prove, that for the people's Crimes  
He an atonement fell; for in him died  
More Bulls, and Rams, than in all times beside,  
Though we the numbers of them all engrossed,  
Offered with antique Piety, and Cost:  
And 'tmight have well become the People's care  
To have embowelled him, if such there were,  
Who, in respect of their Forefathers peace,  
Would have attempted such a task as this,  
For 'tis discreetly doubted he'll go hard  
To eat up all his fellows i'th' Churchyard:  
Then, as from several parts each mangled Limb  
Meet at the last, they all will rise in him;  
And he (as once a Pleader) may arise  
A general Advocate at the last Assize.  
I wonder, Death durst venture on this prize,  
His jaws more greedy were, and wide than his,  
'Twas well he only was composed of Bone,  
Had he been Flesh, this Eater had not gone;  
Or had they not been empty Skelletons,  
As sure as Death he'd crushed his Marrowbones;  
And knocked 'em too, his stomach was so rife,  
The Rogue loved Marrow, as he loved his life.  
Behold! behold, O Brethren! you may see  
By this late Object of Mortality,  
'Tis not the lining of the Inward Man,  
(Though ne'er so sound stuffed, and crammed) that can  
Keep Life, and Soul together; for if that  
Can have preserved him, he had kicked at Fate  
With his High shoes, and lived to make a prey  
Of Butcher's stinking Offal to this day.  
But he is gone, and it had been excellent sport  
When first he stalked into Pluto's Court,  
Had one but seen with what an angry gust  
The greedy Rascal worried Cerberus;  
I know he'd do't before he would retreat,  
And, he and is stomach are not parted yet;  
But, that digested, how he'll do for meat  
I can't imagine: for the Devil a bit  
He'll purchase there, unless this tedious time  
The tree of Tantalus was saved for him;  
Should it prove so, no doubt he would rejoice,  
Spite of the Devil, and Hell's horrid noise.  
But then, coulded not be touched, it would prove a curse  
Worse than the others, or h●d bear it worse:  
Oh, would his Fortitude in suffering rise  
So much in glory 'bove his Gluttonies',  
That, rather than confess them to his Sire,  
He would, like Porcia, swallow coals of Fire,  
He might extinguish Hell, and, to prevent  
Eternal pains, void ashes, and repent;  
For, without that, his torments still would last,  
It were damnation for him to fast.  
But how had I been like to have forgot  
Myself, with raving of a thing is not,  
Of his Eternity; I should condole  
His Death, and Ruin, had he had a Soul:  
But he had none: or 'twas mere sensitive;  
Nor could the gormundizing Beast outlive;  
So that 'tmay properly of him be said,  
Marriot the Eater of Grays-Inn is dead,  
And is no more: Dear jove, I thee entreat,  
●end us no more such Ea●ers, or more Meat.   

To Caelia's Ague.  
ODE.  

I.  
HEnce, fond Disease, I say forbear,  
And strive t'afflict my Fair no more,  
In vain are thy attempts on her,  
She was, alas! so cold before.   

II.  
Yet thou at once, by Sympathy,  
Disturb'st two Persons in one Ill;  
For when she freezes, than I fry,  
And so complete her Ague still.   

III.  
Sure thou my choice wouldst fain disgrace,  
By making her look Pale, and Green,  
Had she no Beauties, but her face,  
I never had a Lover been.   

iv  
●or sparkling Eyes, and rosy Cheeks  
Must, as her Youth does fade, decay:  
●ut Virtue, which her Bosom decks,  
Will, when they're sunk, and withered, stay.   

V  
Thou wouldst eclipse that Virtue too,  
For such a Triumph far too dear,  
●●king her tremble, as they do,  
Whom jealous guilt has taught to fear.   

VI  
● wish thy Malice might so thrive  
To my advantage, as to shake  
●●r Flinty Breast, that I might live,  
And on that part a battery make.   

VII.  
〈◊〉 since Assaults without some fire  
Are seldom to perfection brought,  
● may like thee baffled retire,  
Thou hast her burning fit forgot.   

VIII.  
Since thy attempts then never can  
Achieve the power to destroy  
This wonder, and delight of Man,  
Hence to some grosser Body fly.   

IX.  
Yet, as returning stomaches do  
Still covet some one Dish they see:  
So when thou from my Fair dost go,  
Kind Ague, make her long for me.    

A Valediction.  

I Go, I go, Perfidious Maid,  
Obeying thee, my froward Fate,  
Whether forsaken or betrayed,  
By Scorn, or Hate▪   

I go, th'exact'st Professor of  
Desire, in its Diviner sense,  
That ever in the School of Love  
Did yet commence.   

〈◊〉, and False, couldst thou find none  
●●ongst those Fools thy Eyes engrossed,  
〈◊〉 me to practise Falsehood on,  
That loved thee most.   

●lov'd thee 'bove the Day's bright Eye,  
●bove mine own; who melting drop,  
●s oft, as opening they miss thee,  
And 'bove my hope;   

●ill (by thy promise grown secure)  
●●at hope was to assurance brought,  
●y Faith was such, so chastely pure,  
I doubted not   

●hee, or thy Vows, nor should I yet  
●S●ch, False one, is my Love's extreme)  
●●ould'st thou now swear, the Breathes so sweet  
That utters them.   

●●, Syren● why didst t'me entice,  
●o that unconstant Sea, thy love  
●hat ebbs and flows so in a trice?  
Was it to prove   

The power of each attractive spell  
Upon my fond enamoured Youth?  
No: I must think of thee so well  
Thou then spak'st truth.   

Else amongst overweening Boys,  
Or Dotards, thou hadst chosen one  
Than me, methinks a fit choice  
To work upon.   

Mine was not withered Old man's suit;  
Nor, like a Boys just come from School,  
Hadst thou been either deaf, or mute,  
I'd been no Fool.   

Faith! I was then, when I embraced  
A false belief thy Vows were true,  
Or, if they were, that they could last  
A day, or two.   

Since I'd been told a Woman's mind  
Varies as oft, as April's Face:  
But I supposed thine more refined,  
And so it was,   

Till (swayed by thy unruly Blood)  
Thou changed'st thy uncertain will,  
And 'tis far worse to have been good,  
Than to be ill.   

Methinks thou'rt blemished in each part,  
And so, or worse than others are,  
Those eyes grown hollow as thy heart,  
Which two Suns were.   

Thy Cheeks are sunk, and thy smooth Skin  
Looks like a Conquest now of Time,  
Sure thou'dsthad'st an Age to study in  
For such a Crime.   

thou'rt so transformed, that I in thee,  
(As 'tis a general loss) more grieve  
Thy falling from thyself, than me  
Fool to believe!   

For I by this am taught to prise  
The inward beauties of the Breast,  
'Bove all the gaieties of the Eyes  
Where Treasons rest.   

Whereas, grown black with this abuse  
Offered to Love's commanding Throne,  
Thou may'st despair of an excuse,  
And wished undone.   

Farewell thou pretty brittle piece  
Of fine-cut Crystal, which once was  
Of all my Fortune, and my Bliss  
The only Glass,   

Now something else: But in its state  
Of former lustre, fr●sh and green  
My Faith shall stand, to show thee what  
Thou shouldst have been.    

Love's Triumph.  

I.  
GOD Cupid's Power was ne'er so shown,  
Since first the Boy could draw a bow,  
In all past Ages, as this one,  
This Lovesick Age we live in now:  
Now He, and She, from high to low,  
Or Lovers are, or would seem so.   

II.  
His arrows now are every where,  
In every Lip, and every Eye,  
From Young, from Old, from Foul, and Fair,  
This little Archer lets them fly:  
He is a Traitor to Love's Throne,  
That has no love, or seems t'have none.   

III.  
If she be young, and fair, we do  
Think her the blessing of this Life,  
And, out of that opinion woo  
Her for a Mistress, or a Wife,  
And if they think us able Men,  
The pretty Souls will love again.   

iv  
Or, if she be a Wife, and that  
A jealous Ass corrupts her Bed,  
We build our pleasures on his Fate,  
And for her sake do crown his Head,  
So what he fears a Truth doth prove,  
And what's this but a trick of Love?   

V  
If she be left a Widow, than  
Her first Amours have warmed her Blood,  
She'll think us Puppies or no Men  
Should not her wants be understood,  
Pity then makes us Lovers prove,  
And, Pity is the child of Love.   

VI  
If she be withered, and yet itch  
To do as once in time of old,  
We love a little, for she's rich,  
Though, but to scare away the cold,  
She has (no doubt) the gift t'assuage,  
Than never stand upon her age.   

VII.  
Thus Maid, Wife, Widow do all wound,  
Though each one with a different Eye,  
And we by Love, to love are bound,  
Either in heat, or policy,  
That is, we love, or say we do,  
womans, we love ourselves; or you.   

VIII.  
Cupid may now slacken his nerve,  
Hang Bow, and Quiver in some place  
As useless grown, useless they serve,  
For Trophies of what once he was,  
Love's grown a Fashion of the mind,  
And we shall henceforth love by kind.   

IX.  
Lord! what a Childish Ape was this,  
How vain improvident an Elf,  
To conquer all at once, when 'tis  
Alas! a triumph o'er himself?  
He has usurped his own feared Throne,  
Since now there's nothing to be done.   

X.  
And yet there is, there is one prize  
Locked in an adamantine Breast;  
Storm that then, Love, if thou beest wise,  
A Conquest above all the rest,  
Her Heart, who binds all Hearts in chains,  
Castanna's Heart untouched remains.    

A Rogue.  
READER, read this Man, than whom  
Is none more vile in Christendom:  
Thou may'st know him, wheresoever  
Thou meetest him, by his Character,  
And, to begin first with his Face,  
It is the worst that ever was,  
So Crablike, wrinkled, and so foul,  
His Mother shit him sure at stool.  
To that, his Limbs are such, thou'dst swear  
Nor two of them could make a pair:  
His Hands! Man never saw such clutches,  
No such Feet walk without crutches;  
The bulk to these fair branches is  
A Chaos of confounded Vice:  
A trunk of tumors, and Diseases,  
Which a thousand Ulcers eases,  
With a stink that would infect us,  
Did not kinder Heaven protect us.  
Now how this hide of his is lined!  
To this shape he has a mind  
Of so damned a leprous taint  
As the Devil himself would Saint.  
Bloody, revengeful, treacherous:  
A hellish Liar, covetous;  
A cursed Sycophanting Slave,  
A Fool, a Coward, and a Knave:  
Lewdly debauched (the Devil take him!)  
As Drabs, and Dice, and Drink can make him:  
Loudly profane 'bove Blasphemy,  
The abstract of all Villainy;  
Ignorant of all things, but evil:  
And now ye have warning of a Devil.   

The Contest.  
COme, my Corinna, let us try,  
Which loves you best, of You, and I,  
I know you oft have in your Glass  
Seen the faint shadow of your Face;  
And, consequently, than became  
A wondering Lover, as I am;  
Though not so great a one, for what  
You saw was but a glimpse of that,  
So sweet, so charming Majesty,  
Which I in its full Lustre see.  
But if you then had gazed upon  
Yourself, as your reflection,  
And seen those Eyes for which I die,  
Perhaps you'd been as sick as I.  
Thus Sweetest, than it is con●est,  
That of us Lovers I love best;  
You'll say 'tis reason, that my share  
●e great as my Affections are,  
When you insensibly are grown  
●ore mine, by Conquest, than your own.  
〈◊〉, if this Argument I name  
Seem light to such a glorious claim;  
Yet, since you love you self, this do,  
Love me, at least, for loving you;  
So my Despair you may destroy,  
And you your loved self enjoy;  
Acting those things, can ne'er be done,  
Whilst you remain yourself alone:  
So for my Sighs you make amends,  
So you have yours, and I my Ends.   

The False One.  
In Imitation of that of Horace.  
Non ●rat & Coelo, etc.  

I.  
BEhold, False Maid, yond horned Light,  
Which in heavens arched Vault doth range,  
And view part of thyself in it;  
Yet she but once a Month does change.   

II.  
The raging Sea, th'uncertain Air,  
Or, what does yet more change admit,  
Of variation Emblems are;  
When thou, and only thou art it.   

III.  
Philosophers their pains may spare  
Perpetual motion where to find;  
If such a thing be any where,  
'Tis Woman, in thy Fickle mind.   

iv  
●ow, of●, incentred in thine Arms,  
Big with betraying Sighs and Tears,  
〈◊〉, thou secured me, by thy Charms,  
From other Lovers natural Fears.   

V  
〈◊〉 that improved the honest Flame,  
Which made my faithful Bosom pant;  
〈◊〉 Tears so gentle, as might claim  
Belief, from Hearts of Adamant.   

VI  
〈◊〉 were the Arts seduced my Youth,  
A Captive to thy wanton will:  
〈◊〉 with a Falsehood, like to Truth,  
In the same instant cure, and kill.   

VII.  
〈◊〉 ●ell the next you will betray,  
(I mean that Fool usurps my room)  
〈◊〉 for his sake I'm turned away;  
● the same Fortune he must come.   

VIII.  
When I, restored to that Sense  
Thou hast distempered, sound and free,  
Shall, with a very just pretence,  
Despise, and laugh at Him, and Thee.    

ODE Valedictory.  

I.  
I Go: but never to return:  
With such a kill Flame I burn,  
Not all th' enraged waves that beat  
My ships calked ribs, can quench that heat:  
Nor thy Disdains, which colder are  
Than Climates of the Northern Star,  
Can freeze the Blood, warmed by thine Eye:  
But Sweet, I must thy Martyr die.   

II.  
〈◊〉! canst thou know, that losing thee,  
●he Universe is dead to me,  
●●d I to it, yet not become  
〈◊〉 kind, as to revoke my Doom?  
●●●tle Heart, do: if I remove,  
●ow can I hope t' achieve thy love?  
●●ot, I shall it a blessing call,  
〈◊〉 she, who wounds may see my fall.   

III.  
〈◊〉 say thou lov'st, and bid me go  
●here never Sun his Face did show:  
〈◊〉 to, what's worse, want of thy Light,  
●hich dissipates the shades of Night;  
●o dangers, Death, Hell dares not own,  
●●●cely to Apprehension known,  
●m'd with thy Will, (despite of Fear)  
● seek them, as if Thou were't there.   

iv  
〈◊〉 if thou wilt I die, and that,  
〈◊〉, worse than thousand deaths, thy hate;  
When I am dead, if thou but pay  
My Tomb a Tear; and sighing say,  
Thou dost my timeless fall deplore,  
Wishing the hadst known my Truth before;  
My Dearest Dear, thou makest me then,  
Or sleep in peace, or live again.    

To my friend Mr. Lely, on his Pictur● of the Excellently Virtuous Lady, t●● Lady Isabel Thynn.  
NAture, and Art are here at strife;  
This Shadow comes so near the Life,  
Sat still (Dear Lely) th' hast done that  
Thyself must love, and wonder at;  
What other Ages ●'er could boast,  
Either remaining yet, or lost,  
Are trivial toys, and must give place  
To this, that counterfeits her face:  
〈◊〉 I'll not say, but there have been,  
〈◊〉 every past Age, Paintings seen  
●oth Good, and Like from every Hand,  
〈◊〉 once had Mastery and command,  
〈◊〉 none like her; Surely she sat  
●●y Pencil thus to celebrate  
●bove all others that could claim  
〈◊〉 Echo from the voice of Fame.  
●or he, that most, or with most cause,  
●eaks, or may speak his own applause,  
●●n't, when he shows his Masterpiece,  
〈◊〉 he e'er did a Face like this.  
●●his thy chance to be the Man,  
●one, but who shares thy honour, can;  
〈◊〉 such another do arise,  
●o steal more glory from her Eyes;  
〈◊〉 it would improvident bounty show  
●o hazard such a Beauty so;  
●●s strange thy judgement did not err,  
〈◊〉 want a Hand, beholding her,  
●●ose awing Graces well might make  
●●ssured'st Pencil to mistake.  
To Her, and Truth then, what a crime,  
To Us, to all the World, and Time  
(Who most will want her copy) it were,  
To have it then unlike appear!  
But she's preserved from that Fate,  
Thou knowst so well to imitate,  
And in that Imitation, show,  
What Oil and Colour mixed can do;  
So well, that had this Piece the grace  
Of motion, she and none else has,  
Or, if it could the Odour breathe,  
That her departing sighs bequeath,  
And had her warmth, it than would be  
Her glorious Self, and none but she.  
So well 'tis done; But thou canst go  
No farther than what Art can do:  
And when all's done: this, thou hast made,  
Is but a nobler kind of Shade;  
And thou, though thou hast played thy part,  
A Painter, no Creator art.   

To Chloris.  
ODE.  

FArewel, My Sweet, until I come,  
Improved in Merit, for thy sake,  
With Characters of Honour home,  
Such, as thou canst not then but take.   

To Loyalty my love must bow,  
My Honour too calls to the Field,  
Where, for a Lady's busk, I now  
Must keen, and sturdy Iron wield.   

Yet, when I rush into those Arms,  
Where Death, and Danger do combine,  
I shall less subject be to harms,  
Than to those kill Eyes of thine.   

Since I could live in thy Disdain,  
Thou art so far become my Fate,  
That I by nothing can be slain,  
Until thy Sentence speaks my Date.   

But, if I seem to fall in War,  
T' excuse the murder you commit,  
Be to my Memory just so far,  
As in thy Heart t' acknowledge it;   

That's all, I ask; which thou must give  
To him, that dying, takes a pride  
It is fo● thee; and would not live  
Sole Prince of all the world beside.    

Taking Leave of Chloris.  

I.  
SHE sighs; as if she would restore  
The Life, sh● took away before;  
As if she did recant my Doom,  
And, sweetly would reprieve me home;  
Such hope to one condemned appears  
From every whisper that he hears;  
But what do such vain hopes avail,  
If those sweet sighs compose a gale  
To drive me hence, and swell my sail?   

II.  
See, see! she weeps! who would not swear  
That Love descended in that Tear,  
Boasting him of his wounded prize,  
Thus in the bleeding of her Eyes;  
Or that those Tears, with just pretence,  
Would quench the fire that came from thence?  
But, oh! they are (which strikes me dead)  
Crystal, her frozen Heart has bred,  
Neither in Love, nor Pity shed.   

III.  
Thus, of my merit jealous grown,  
●●y happiness I dare not own;  
But wretchedly her favous wear,  
Blind to myself, unjust to her,  
Whose sighs and tears at least discover,  
She pities, if not loves, her Lover,  
And more betrays the Tyrant's skill,  
Than any blemish in her will,  
That thus laments, whom she doth kill.   

iv  
Pity still, Sweet, my dying state,  
My Flame may sure pretend to that,  
Since it was only unto thee,  
I gave my Life, and Liberty;  
Howe'er my Life's misfortune's laid,  
By Love I'm Pities object made.  
Pity me then; and if thou hear  
I'm dead, drop such another tear,  
And I am paid my full arrear.    

ODE.  

I.  
COme, let us drink away the time,  
A pox upon this pelting Rhyme!  
When Wine's run high, Wit's in the prime.   

II.  
Drink, and stout drinkers are true joys,  
Odes, Sonnets, and such little toys,  
Are exercises fit for Boys.   

III.  
Then to our Liquor let us sit,  
Wine makes the Soul for Action ●it,  
Who bears most drink, has the most wit.   

iv  
The whining Lover, that does place  
His wonder in a painted Face,  
And wastes his substance in the chase,   

V.  
Can not in Melancholy pine,  
Had he Affections so divine,  
As once to fall in love with Wine.   

VI  
The Gods themselves their revels keep,  
And in pure Nectar tipple deep,  
When slothful Mortals are asleep.   

VII.  
They fuddled once, for recreation,  
In Water, which by all relation,  
Did cause Deucalion's Inundation.   

VIII.  
The spangled Globe, as it held most,  
Their Bowl, was with Salt-water dost,  
The Sunburnt Centre was the Toast.   

IX.  
In drink, Apollo always chose  
His darkest Oracles to disclose,  
IT was Wine gave him his Ruby-Nose.   

X.  
The Gods than let us imitate,  
Secure of Fortune, and of Fate,  
Wine Wit, and Courage does create.   

XI.  
Who dares not drink's a wretched Wight;  
Nor can I think that Man dares fight  
All day, that dares not drink all night.   

XII.  
Fill up the Goblet, let it swim  
In foam, that overlooks the brim,  
He that drinks deepest, here's to him.   

XIII.  
Sobriety, and Study breeds  
Suspicion of our Thoughts, and Deeds;  
The downright Drunkard no Man heeds.   

XIV.  
Let me have Sack, Tobacco store,  
A Drunken Friend, a Little Wh—re,  
Protector, I will ask no more.    

ODE.  

I.  
THE Day is set did Earth adorn,  
To drink the brewing of the Main,  
And, hot with travel, will e'er Morn  
Carouse it to an ebb again,   

Then let us drink, Time to improve,  
Secure of Cromwell and his Spies,  
Night will conceal our Healths, and Love  
For all her thousand thousand Ey●s.   

Cho: Then let us drink secure of spies  
To Phoebus, and his Second rise.   

II.  
Without the Evening dew, and showers,  
The Earth would be a barren place,  
Of Trees, and Plants, of Herbs, and Flowers,  
To crown her now enameled Face;   

Nor can Wit spring, or Fancies grow,  
Unless we due our heads in Wine,  
Plump Autumn's wealthy overflow,  
And sprightly Issue of the Vine.   

Cho: Then let us drink secure of spies  
To Phoebus, and his Second rise.   

III.  
Wine is the cure of Cares, and Sloth,  
That rust the Metal of the Mind,  
The juice, that Man to Man does, both  
In Freedom, and in Friendship bind.   

This clears the Monarch's cloudy brows,  
And cheers the Hearts of sullen Swains,  
To wearied Souls repose allows,  
And makes Slaves caper in their chains.   

Cho: Then let us drink secure of spies  
To Phoebus, and his Second rise.   

iv  
Wine, that distributes to each part  
Its heat and Motion, is the Spring,  
The Poet's Head, the Subjects Heart,  
IT was Wine made old Anacr●on sing.   

Then let us quaff it, whilst the Night  
Serves but to hid such guilty Souls,  
As fly the beauty of the Light;  
Or dare not pledge our Loyal Bowls.   

Cho: Then let us Revel, Quaff, and Sing,  
Health, and his Sceptre to the King.    

ODE.  

I.  
FAir Isabel, if ought but thee  
I could, or would, or like, or love;  
If other Beauties but approve  
To sweeten my Captivity:  
I might those Passions be above,  
Those Powerful Passions that combine  
To make, and keep me only thine.   

II.  
Or, if for tempting treasure I  
Of, the World's God, prevailing Gold,  
Can see thy Love, and my Truth sold,  
A greater, nobler Treasury;  
My flame to thee might then grow cold,  
And I like one whose love is sense,  
Exchange thee for convenience.   

III.  
But when I vow to thee, I do  
Love thee above or Health or Peace,  
Gold, joy, and all such toys as these,  
'Bove Happiness and Honour too:  
Thou then must know, this love can cease,  
Nor change for all the glorious show  
Wealth and Discretion bribes▪ us to.   

iv  
What such a love deserves, thou, Sweet,  
As knowing best, may'st best reward;  
I, for thy bounty well prepared,  
With open arms my Blessing meet.  
Then do not, Dear, our joys detard;  
But unto him propitious be,  
That knows no love, nor life, but thee.    

An Old Man's Gift to a Fair Lady.  
POXo' your doting Coxcomb! was there ever  
So old a Lover, and so young a Giver?  
A pair of Spectacles! who the Devil, but thee,  
Can have found out such a disparity?  
There were, t'oblige thy Love, far better ways,  
A lump of Sugar, or her Name in Bayss,  
A row of Pins, a Baby, or a Purse,  
Or what as fit had been, a Hobby-horse,  
A Valentine, hadst thou not wanted blood  
To paint it with, would have been full as good.  
Thy old Seal-ring, thy Grandam's pleated Gown,  
A Boon-grace to preserve her from the Sun.  
Or any thing, rather than a dull pair  
Of second Eyes, these must deform thy Fair.  
I see, thou fain wouldst blast her in her prime  
To parallel thy Age before her Time.  
What dost thou think thy Mistress cannot see,  
Without such helps, thy full Deformity;  
Thy shaking Noddle, and thy dropping Nose,  
Whence the moist Philtre is salt Rheum that flows.  
Thy stooping Shoulders, and thy trembling Hands,  
Thy bursten Belly, and thy crinkling hams,  
Thy spider's Legs, and thy clubbed corny Feet,  
That stink, though grown so dry they cannot sweat?  
Or wouldst thou have thy Love a bugbear be,  
To fright the Boys in snavelling like thee?  
Or is't to stop her sense she may not smell  
The tainted Winds, that in thy Bowels swell,  
Until they burst in cracks: nor snuff the sent,  
Thy nasty, suppurated Issues vent?  
I am content to think this gift was bought  
In mirth, and given her for a Merrithought.  
Are they to mend h●r Sight, or dim her Eyes,  
So to eclipse her Sight from seeing these?  
'Twas thy good Nature made thee give such ware,  
And so, in troth, the Present was most rare.  
For the great kindness of this gift implies,  
Thou lov'st thy Mistress better than thine Eyes.  
If to find out, thou ever hadst design  
A Present fit to offer at her Shrine;  
Thou shouldst have bought the Sun that Day of light,  
And all the twinkling Beauties of the Night,  
And yet, those glories of that arched Scene  
Had been for her an Offering too mean.  
Embroidered Waistcoats, Spanish Gloves, or Plate,  
Watches, or jewels might become her State.  
But couldst thou find out no allurement else?  
A pair of nasty horn-set Spectacles!  
Where were thy Wits, Old Fool? she might have born  
With them, if set in Amalthea's horn:  
And had those green-glass Orbs been cut from some  
O'th' crystal Sphere, they might her Eyes become.  
The Case might have passed too if made it were  
Of the Embroidered Girdle o'th' next Sphere:  
But such a wretched Rogue, with such an itch,  
Never made love to any wrinkled Witch.  
Sure thou hast heard, that Love is blind, and thou  
By this device wouldst be a Cupid too.  
A pleasant Plot i' faith! thou wouldst be then  
A pretty Boy of Fourscore years, and ten.  
Or thou hadst laid 'em by, and wanting light  
Bestow'dst them for some Gemm, as well thou might.  
Or else amazed by th'lustre of her Face  
Mistaking gav'st them for a Looking glass.  
Howe'er, whether thou didst, or didst not see,  
I wish in stead of them th' hadst given her me.   

In Amorem Medicum.  
EPIG.  
FOR Cares whilst Love prepares the Remedies,  
The main Disease in the Physician lies.   

The Legend of the Famous, Furious, Expert, and Valiant Gittar-Masters Caveliero Comer, and Don Hill.  
BALLAD.  

YOU, that love to read the Tracts,  
Of tall Fellows Fights, and Facts,  
In this Song will hear a wonder,  
How two Fiddlers fell asunder,  
Lampon, etc.   

Comer had the first abuse,  
Which admitted no excuse;  
But, since Hill so ill did treat him,  
Dick, in wrath, resolved to beat him,  
Lampon, etc.   

Strait a Broom-staff was prepared,  
Which Don Hill no little scared;  
But he resolved if Dick did baste him,  
That his patience should outlast him.  
Lampon, etc.   

Whilst (good Christian) thus he me'nt,  
To despise his punishment,  
And first to appease his Foe send,  
Lo! in sight, was Dick's fierce Nose-end;  
Lampon, etc.   

Whom, in terror, Hill did ask,  
If he durst perform his task,  
Dick, in wrath, replied, God damn me!  
To that purpose now come am I,  
Lampon, etc.   

And withal, with main, and might,  
Up he trips this proper Knight,  
And with such fury he quelled Hill,  
That to the Ground he levelled Hill;  
Lampon, etc.   

This shows Music discord has,  
Which the cause of this War was,  
And, that Hill's beaten, is a token,  
That their string of Friendship's broken;  
Lampon, etc.   

Now behold! this mortal cause,  
Is referred to Harry Laws,  
And since he's beaten Hill does tell tho,  
Law shall give him salve for's Elbow.  
Lampon, etc.    

On Annel-seed Robin, the Hermaphrodite.  
EPITAPH.  
HEre, Reader, lies, bereft of life,  
The Emblem strange of Man and Wife,  
Who, if they pay their Vows aright,  
Make up a true Hermaphrodite;  
And in this Chest Entombed are,  
The wonder of a single pair;  
So that here thou may'st bewail,  
Either the Female, or the Male.  
Though the distracted grief of Friends,  
Ever in single Robin ends.  
No Rib was taken from his side,  
Robin Bridegroom was, and Bride,  
And, of his Marriage tie so tender,  
He only did, with She engender;  
Robin, with Robin so far won,  
That the Male half begot a Son,  
The Female half, a few years after,  
Happily brought forth a Daughter,  
So like, you from their looks might gather,  
That Robin Mother was, and Father;  
From Robin only differing thus,  
That neither was Amphibious,  
Heaven did so happily combine  
This Doubtful Gender Masculine,  
That they were Married at their Birth,  
And both together laid in Earth,  
Where let them lie, and no Man thwart 'em;  
If they must part, the Devil part 'em.   

ODE.  
To Chloe.  

I.  
FAlse one, farewell, thou hast released  
The Fire, imprisoned in my breast,  
Your beauties make not half the show  
They did a year or two ago;  
For now I find,  
The Beauties those fair walls enshrined,  
Foul, and deformed appear,  
Ah! where  
In Woman is a spotless mind?   

II.  
I would not now take up thine Eyes,  
But in revenge to tyrannize;  
Nor shouldst thou make me blot my skin,  
With the black thou wear'st within;  
If thou wouldst meet,  
As Brides do, in the Nuptial Sheet,  
I would not kiss, nor play;  
But say,  
Thou nothing haste that can be sweet.   

III.  
I was betrayed, by that fair Sign,  
To entertainment cold within;  
But found that fine built Fabric lined,  
With so ill contrived a Mind,  
That now I must,  
For ever (Chloe) leave to trust  
The face that so beguiles  
With smiles;  
Falsehood's a charm to love, or lust.    

ODE.  
To Chloris from France.  

I.  
Pity me Chloris, and the flame  
Disdain, and Distance, cannot tame;  
And pity my necessity,  
That makes my Courtship, wanting thee,  
Nothing but fond Idolatry.   

II.  
In dark, and melancholy Groves,  
Where pretty Birds discourse their loves,  
I daily worship on my knee,  
Thy Shadow, all I have of thee,  
And sue to that to pity me.   

III.  
I vow to it the sacred Vow,  
To thee, and only thee, I own  
When (as it knew my true intent)  
The silent Picture gives consent,  
And seems to mourn my Banishment.   

iv  
Presaging thence my love's success,  
I triumph in my happiness,  
And strait consider how each Grace,  
Adorns thy Body; or thy Face,  
Surrender up to my embrace.   

V  
I think this little Tablet now  
Because less cruel, fair as Thou;  
I do from it mercy implore,  
'Tis the sole Saint I do adore,  
I do not think I love thee more.   

VI  
Yet be not jealous, though I do  
Thus dote of it, in stead of you;  
I love it not, for any line  
Where captivating beauties shine:  
But only (Chloris) as 'tis thine.   

VII.  
And, though thy Shadow here take place,  
By intimating future grace,  
It goes before, but to impart  
To thee, how beautiful thou art,  
And show a reason for my smart.   

VIII.  
Nor is't improper, Sweet, since thou,  
Art in thy Youthful Morning now,  
Whilst I, deprived of thine eyes light,  
Do drooping live a tedious Night  
In Paris, like an Anchorite.   

IX.  
Recall me then, that I may see,  
Once more, how fair, and kind you be;  
Into thy Sunshine call again  
Him, thus exiled, by thy disdain,  
And I'll forget my loss, and pain.    

An Invitation to Phillis.  
COme live with me, and be my love,  
And thou shalt all the pleasures prove,  
The Mountains towering tops can show  
Inhabiting the Vales below.  
From a brave height my Star shall shine  
T'illuminate the desert Clime.  
Thy Summer's bower shall overlook,  
The subtle wind of the Brook,  
For thy delight which only springs,  
And cuts her way with Turtles Wings.  
The Pavement of thy Rooms shall shine,  
With the bruised Treasures of the Mine,  
And not a Tale of Love but shall  
In Minoture adorn thy wall.  
Thy closet shall Queens Caskets mock  
With rustic jewels of the Rock,  
And thine own light shall make a Gemm,  
As bright of these, as Queens of them.  
From this thy Sphere thou shalt behold  
Thy snowy Ewes troop o'er the mould,  
Who yearly pay my Love apiece  
A tender Lamb, and silver Fleece.  
And when Sols Rays shall all combine  
Thine to out-burn, though not outshine,  
Then, at the foot of some green Hill,  
Where crystal Dove runs murmuring still,  
We'll angle for the bright-eyed Fish,  
To make my Love a dainty dish;  
Or, in a Cave, by Nature made,  
Fly to the covert of the shade,  
Where all the pleasures we will prove,  
Taught by the little God of love.  
And when bright Phoebus' scorching beams,  
Shall cease to gild the Silver streams,  
Then in the cold arms of the Flood  
We'll bathing cool the factious Blood,  
Thy beauteous Limbs the Brook shall grace,  
Like the reflex of Cynthia's Face,  
Whilst all the wondering Fry do greet  
The welcome Light, adore thy Feet,  
Supposing Venus to be come  
To send a kiss to Thetis home.  
And following Night shall trifled be  
Sweet; as thou knowst I promised thee,  
Thus shall the Summer's Days, and Nights,  
Be dedicated to thy delights.  
Then live with me, and be my love,  
And all these pleasures shalt thou prove.  
But when the sapless Season brings  
Cold Winter, on her shivering Wings,  
●reezing the Rivers liquid face,  
●●to a crystal Looking-glass,  
And that the Trees their naked bones,  
Together knock, like Skeletons,  
Then, with the softest, whitest Locks,  
Spun from the tribute of thy Flocks,  
We will o'ercast thy whiter Skin,  
Winter without, a Spring within.  
At the first peep of Day I'll rise,  
To make the sullen Hare thy prize,  
And Thou with open Arms shalt come,  
To bid thy Hunter welcome home.  
The Partridge, Plover, and the Poot,  
I'll with the subtle Mallard shoot;  
The Fell-fare, and the greedy Thrush  
Shall drop from every Ha●●-thorn Bush▪  
And the slow Heron down shall fall,  
To feed my Fairest Fair withal,  
The feathered People of the Air,  
Shall fall to be my Phillis fare,  
No Storm shall touch thee, Tempest move;  
Then live with me, and be my love.  
But from her Cloister when I bring,  
My Phillis to restore the Spring,  
The ruffling Boreas shall withdraw,  
The Snow shall melt, the Ice shall thaw;  
The Aguish Plants fresh Leaves shall show,  
The earth put on her verdant hue,  
And thou (Fair Phillis) shalt be seen  
Mine, and the Summer's beauteous Queen.  
These; and more pleasures shalt thou prove;  
Then live with me, and be my love.   

The Entertainment to Phillis.  
NOW Ph●ebus is gone down to sleep  
In cold embraces of the deep,  
And Night's Pavilion in the Sky,  
(Crowned with a Starry (Canopy)  
Erected stands, whence the pale Moon  
Steals out to her Endymion;  
Over the Meads, and o'er the Floods,  
Through the ridings of the Woods,  
Th' enamoured Huntress scours her ways,  
And through Night's vail her horns displays,  
I have a Bower for my Love,  
Hid in the Centre of a Grove  
Of aged Oaks, close from the sight  
Of all the prying Eyes of Night.  
The polished Walls of Marble be  
Pillastered round with porphyry,  
Casements of Crystal to transmit,  
Night's sweets to thee, and thine to it,  
Fine silver Locks to Ebon Doors,  
Rich gilded Roofs, and Cedar Floors,  
With all the Objects may express  
A pleasing Solitariness.  
Within my Love shall find each room,  
New furnished from the Silkworms Loom,  
Vessels of the true antic mould,  
Cups cut in Amber, Myrrh, and Gold;  
Quilts blown with Roses, Beds with Down,  
More white than Atlas' aged Crown,  
Carpets where Flowers woven grow,  
Only thy sweeter steps to strew,  
Such as may emulation bring,  
To the wrought mantle of the Spring.  
There silver Lamps shall silent shine,  
Supplied by Oils of jessamine,  
And mists of Odours shall arise  
To air thy little Paradise.  
I have such Fruits too, for thy taste,  
As teeming Autumn never graced,  
Apples, as round, as thine own Eyes;  
Or, as thy Sister Beauty's prize,  
Smooth, as thy snowy Skin, and sleek  
And ruddy as the Morning's cheek,  
Grapes, that the Tyrian purple wear,  
The sprightly Matrons of the Year,  
Such, as Lyoeus never bore,  
About his drowsy Brows, so fair,  
So plump, so large, so ripe, so good,  
So full of flavour, and of blood.  
There's Water in a Grot hard by,  
To quench thee, when with dalliance dry,  
Sweet, as the Milk of Sand-red Cow,  
Brighter than Cynthi'as' silver Bow,  
Cold, as the Goddess self e'er was,  
And clearer than thy Looking-glass.  
But oh! the sum of all delight  
For which the Day submits to Night,  
Is that my Phillis thou wilt find,  
When we are in embraces twined.  
Pleasures that so have tempted jove,  
To all his Masquerades of Love;  
For them the Prince his purple waves,  
And strips him naked as his Slaves.  
'Tis they that teach humanity  
The thing we love, the reason why:  
Before we liv●; but ne'er till then,  
Are females Women; or males Men:  
This is the way, and this the trade,  
That does perfect what nature made,  
Then go; but first thy beauty's screen,  
Lest they that revel on the Lawns  
The Nymphs, the Satyrs, and the Fawns,  
Adore thee for Night's horned Queen.   

To Celia.  
ODE.  

I.  
WHen Celia must my old Days set,  
And my young morning rise,  
In beams of Joy, so bright, as yet  
ne'er blest a Lover's eyes.  
My state is more advanced than when  
I first attempted thee;  
I sued to be a Servant then,  
But now to be made free.   

II.  
I've served my time faithful, and true  
Expecting to be placed,  
In happy freedom, as my due  
To all the joys thou hast:  
Ill husbandry in love is such  
A scandal to Love's power,  
We ought not to misspend so much,  
As one poor, short-lived hour.   

III.  
Yet think not (sweet) I'm weary grown,  
That I pretend such haste,  
Since none to surfeit e'er was known,  
Before he had a taste;  
My infant love could humbly wait,  
When young it scarce knew how  
To plead; but grown to Man's estate  
He is impatient now.    

To Cupid.  
O D E.  

I.  
FOnd Love, deliver up thy Bow,  
I am become more Love than thou,  
I am as wanton grown, and wild,  
Much less a Man, and more a Child,  
From Venus born, of chaster kind,  
A better Archer, though as blind.   

II.  
Surrender without more ado,  
I am both King and Subject too,  
I will command, but must obey,  
I am the Hunter, and the Prey,  
I vanquish, yet am overcome,  
And, sentencing, receive my doom.   

III.  
No springing Beauty escapes my Dart,  
And every ripe one wounds my Heart;  
Thus whilst I wound, I wounded am,  
And firing others turn to flame,  
To show how far love can combine  
The Mortal part with the Divine.   

iv  
Faith! quit thine Empire, and come down  
That thou, and I may share the Crown,  
I've tried the worst thy arms can do,  
Come then, and taste my power too,  
Which (howsoe'er it may fall short)  
Will doubtless prove the better sport.   

V  
Yet do not; for in Field, and Town,  
The Females are so loving grown,  
So kind; or else so lustful, we  
Can neither err, though neither see:  
Keep then thine own Dominions, Lad,  
Two Loves would make all Women mad.    

The Tempest.  

I.  
STanding upon the Margin of the main,  
Whilst the high boiling tide came tumbling in,  
I felt my fluctuating thoughts maintain,  
As great an Ocean, and as rude within,  
As full of waves, of depths, and broken grounds,  
As that, which daily laves her chalky bounds.   

II.  
●oon could my sad imagination find,  
A parallel to this half world of Flood,  
An Ocean by my walls of Earth confined,  
And Rivers in the channels of my blood,  
Discovering Man, unhappy Man, to be  
Of this great Frame, Heaven's Epitome.   

III.  
There pregnant Argosies with full Sails ride  
To shoot the Gulfs of sorrow and despair,  
Of which the Love no Pilot has to Guide,  
But to her Sea-born Mother steers by prayer,  
When oh! the Hope her anchor lost, undone,  
Rowls, at the mercy of the Regent Moon.   

iv  
'tis my adored Diana, then must be  
The Guidress to this beaten Bark of mine,  
'Tis she must calm, and smooth this troubled Sea,  
And waste my hope over the vaulting Brine,  
Call home thy venture Diana, then at last,  
And be as merciful, as thou art chaste.    

The Litany.  

I.  
FRom a Ruler that's a curse,  
And a Government that's worse;  
From a Prince that rules by awe,  
Whose Tyrannic Will's his Law;  
From an armed Council board,  
And a Sceptre that's a Sword,  
Libera nos, &c▪   

II.  
From a Kingdom, that from health  
Sickens to a Commonwealth;  
From such Peers as slain their blood,  
And are neither wise; nor good;  
From a Gentry steeped in Pots,  
From unkennellers of Plots,  
Libera nos, etc.   

III.  
From a Church without Divines,  
And a Presbyter that whines;  
From john Calvin, and his Pupils,  
From a Sentence without Scruples,  
From a Clergy without Letters,  
And a Free-State bound in Fetters,  
Libera nos, etc.   

iv  
From the bustle of the Town,  
And the Knavish Tribe o'th' Gown,  
From long Bills where we are Debtors,  
From Bum-Bailiffs, and their Setters,  
From the tedious City Lectures,  
And Thanksgivings for Protectors,  
Libera nos, etc.   

V  
From ill Victuals when we dine,  
And a Tavern with ill Wine;  
From vile Smoke in a short Pipe,  
And a Landlord that will gripe,  
From long Reckon, and a Wench  
That Claps in English; or in French,  
Libera nos, etc.   

VI  
From Demeans whose barren soil  
ne'er produced the Barley Oil;  
From a Friend for nothing fit,  
That nor Courage has; nor Wit:  
From all Liars, and from those  
Who writ nonsense Verse; or Prose,  
Libera nos, etc.   

VII.  
From a Virgin that's no Maid,  
From a kicking, stumbling Jade,  
From false Servants, and a Scold,  
From all Women that are old,  
From loud Tongues that never lie,  
And from a domestic Spy,  
Libera nos, etc.   

VIII.  
From a domineering Spouse,  
From a smoky, dirty House,  
From foul Linen, and the noise  
Of young Children, Girls or Boys,  
From ill Beds, and full of Fleas,  
From a Wife with Essences,  
Libera nos, etc.   

IX.  
From Trapans of wicked Men,  
From the Interest of Ten,  
From Rebellion, and the sense  
Of a wounded Conscience;  
Lastly, from the Poets Evil,  
From 
* O. Cromwell▪  his Highness, and the Devil,  
Libera nos, etc.    

To some Great Ones.  
EPIGRAM.  
POets are great men's Trumpets, Poets feign,  
Create them Virtues, but dare hint no stain:  
This makes the Fiction constant, and does show  
You make the Poets, not the Poets you.   

To the Memory of my worthy Friend Colonel Richard Lovelace.  
To pay my Love to thee, and pay it so,  
As honest Men should what they justly own,  
Were to write better of thy Life than can  
Th'assured'st Pen of the most worthy Man:  
Such was thy Composition, such thy Mind  
Improved to Virtue, and from Vice refined.  
Thy Youth, an abstract of the World's best parts,  
Enured to Arms, and exercised in Arts;  
Which with the vigour of a Man became  
Thine, and thy Country's Pyramids of Flame;  
Two glorious Lights to guide our hopeful Youth  
Into the paths of Honour, and of Truth.  
These parts (so rarely met) made up in thee,  
What Man should in his full perfection be;  
So sweet a temper into every sense,  
And each affection breathed an influence,  
As smoothed them to a Calm, which still withstood  
The ruffling Passions of untamed Blood,  
Without a wrinkle in thy Face, to show  
Thy stable Breast could a disturbance know.  
In Fortune humble, constant in Mischance,  
Expert of both, and both served to advance  
Thy Name, by various trials of thy Spirit,  
And give the testimony of thy Merit;  
Valiant to envy of the bravest Men,  
And Learned to an undisputed Pen,  
Good as the best in both, and great; but yet  
No dangerous Courage; nor offensive Wit:  
These ever served, the one for to defend,  
The other nobly to advance thy Friend:  
Under which title I have found my Name  
Fixed in the living Chronicle of Fame,  
To times succeeding; yet I hence must go  
Displeased I cannot celebrate thee so.  
But what respect, acknowledgement, and love,  
What these together, when improved, improve;  
Call it by any Name (so it express  
Aught like a Tribute to thy worthiness,  
And may my bounden Gratitude become,)  
Lovelace I offer at thy honoured Tomb.  
And though thy Virtues many Friends have bred  
To love thee Living, and lament thee Dead,  
In Characters far better couched than these,  
Mine will not blot thy Fame; nor theirs increase;  
'Twas by thine own great Merits raised so high,  
That, maugre Time, and Fate, it shall not die.   

To Poet E. W.  
Occasioned for his Writing a Panegyric on Oliver Cromwell.  
FRom whence, vile Poet, didst thou glean the Wit,  
And Words for such a vicious Poem fit?  
Where couldst thou Paper find was not too white;  
Or Ink, that could be black enough to write?  
What servile Devil tempted thee to be  
A flatterer of thine own Slavery?  
To kiss thy Bondage, and extol the deed,  
At once that made thy Prince, and Country bleed?  
I wonder much thy false Heart did not dread,  
And shame to write, what all Men blush to read;  
Thus with a base ingratitude to rear  
Trophies unto thy Master's Murderer?  
Who called thee Coward (—) much mistook  
Thou hast at once abused thyself, and us;  
He's stout that dares slatter a Tyrant thus.  
Put up thy Pen, and Ink, muzzle thy Muse  
Adulterate Hag fit for a common Stews,  
No good Man's Library; writ thou hast  
Treason in Rhyme has all thy Works defaced:  
Such is thy fault, that when I think to find  
A punishment of the severest kind,  
For thy offence, my malice cannot name  
A greater; than, once to commit the same.  
Where was thy reason then, when thou began  
To write against the sense of God, and Man?  
Within thy guilty breast Despair took place,  
Thou wouldst despairing Die in spite of Grace.  
At once th' art judge, and Malefactor shown,  
Each Sentence in thy Poem is thine own.  
Then, what thou hast pronounced go execute,  
Hang up thyself, and say, I bid thee do't;  
Fear not thy memory, that cannot die,  
This Panegyric is thy Elegy,  
Which shall be when; or wheresoever read,  
A living Poem to upbraid thee dead.   

DIALOGUE.  Geron and Amarillis. Gr. 
STay, stay, fair Nymph! oh! whither Flies  
The love, and wonder of all Eyes?  
Stay, and to see be now besought  
The Miracle thy Charms have wrought;  
Age turned to youth at Love's command,  
And thine which nothing can withstand.  Am. 
Be gone, old Fool, why dost thou stay  
My better thoughts, and cross my way?  
Fly, fly, and quit my shady walk,  
Nature will blush to see us talk,  
Who all conjunction must disclaim  
Betwixt her glory, and her shame.  
Prefer thy suit to some one fit,  
If not to grant, to pardon it.  
Thou wrong'st my youth, by thy pretence,  
And every Prayer is violence.  
Love has on thee no wonder wrought,  
Thou only art transformed in thought,  
Nor art thou quickened by my Eyes,  
But dreamest of Metamorphosies.  
Thou art the same old thing thou wast,  
Without, or sight, or touch, or taste,  
Hearing, or smell, or any sense,  
That beauty's grace should recompense.  
And only hast a tongue to move  
Contempt, and laughter, but no Love.  Goe 
Sweet, do not scorn me, though I seem  
Old, and unfit for thy esteem;  
Though hoary grown, and shrunk I am,  
I feed within, perhaps, a flame;  
As hot as can the youngest he,  
That hourly Sighs, and sues to thee.  
As I am old, I should be wise,  
And better know the thing I prise,  
Than twenty Younglings that do light  
Their Torches only at the sight.  Am. 
I eat thee not for any part  
Of what thou seem'st, but what thou art.  
And that, thou dost a flame believe,  
Is but enough to make thee live:  
For if thy Heart a flame should turn,  
The bulk's so dry thy frame would burn.  
I know thee old, and wish thee wise,  
A younger Man, and younger Eyes;  
On public Faith thou courtest me,  
For troth, I think thou canst not see.  Goe 
Would I were deaf! I might not hear  
This confirmation of my fear.  
I doubted thou wouldst scornful prove,  
But looked for no reproach for love.  
I come perhaps with full delight  
T'outbid thy wary appetite;  
I can distinguish Beauty too,  
And taste the Fruit for which I sue.  
Know all Love's ends, and all his ways,  
women's reproaches, and delays,  
And furnished 'em with able Arms  
To force the Fortress of thy charms.  
Scorn then, ingrate, my love, and me;  
Thy Spring will one day Winter be.  
When every youthful Shepherd Swain,  
As thou dost me, will thee disdain.  Am. 
Old Man, why shouldst thou think me nice?  
Because I cannot hug thy Ice?  
Or tell me I shall Winter grow,  
Because thyself art turned to Snow?  
No heats so wild in my Blood play,  
As need th' excess of thy allay:  
Nor can the judgement of thy dim,  
Erroneous sight, raise my esteem;  
And that stiff blade of thine may in,  
Attempts, but no performance, sin.  
Go Dotard, and impartial look  
Thy Shadow in the frozen Brook,  
In that congealed mirror behold,  
How shrunk thou art, withered, and old,  
Thy Leaf dropped off from thy bald Crown,  
And all an antic Statue grown;  
Then say if ought thou there canst see  
Fit to present my youth, and me.  Goe 
I have (fair Nymph!) considered all,  
Thy Youth may tax my Age withal,  
And on myself some Lectures read:  
But cannot find that I am dead:  
For furrowed though my Skin appears,  
Because old Time these threescore Years,  
Has ploughed it up, I'm fruitful still,  
And want no power to my will.  
And though my Leaf be fallen, each Vein  
Does a proportioned heat retain.  
One yielding Glance from thy fair Eyes  
Would make my lusty Sap to rise;  
And glow with germinating heat.  
My wanton Pulses strongly beat,  
Create me then, and call me thine,  
We then will in Embraces twine,  
As sweet, and fruitful, as the Pair  
That in their April coupled were.  Am. 
Stay Shepherd, stay, you run too fast,  
This fury is too hot to last;  
And by the crackling Flame, I doubt,  
The Fire will be soon burnt out.  
Leave me, and stumble to thy Bed,  
Where dream thou hast me; and thou'rt sped.  Goe 
Fair, and inflexible, will Love,  
Prayers, Tears, and Sufferings nothing move?  
Thus than I leave thee, and am gone,  
To die for an ungrateful one.  
When I am dead if thou repent,  
And sigh over my Monument,  
●y that sweet Breath, I shall respire,  
〈◊〉 Dead enjoy my Life's desire.  Am. 
Stay, stay, for now I better see  
T●●nblemis●'t truth that shines in thee.  
Thou conquered haste, I am o'ercome,  
Then lead me, Shepherd, Captive home.   

CHORUS.  
JOlly Shepherds, quit your Flocks  
To the greedy Wolf, or Fox;  
Though no Shepherd them attend,  
Hecate will all defend.  
For another Cynthia's led  
To a lusty old Man's Bed.  
Tune your Oaten Pipes and Play;  
This is Hymen's Holiday.  
To one Night a Years mirth bring,  
Winter's married to the Spring.  
Therefore it becomes each one  
To Crown the revolution.   

An Epitaph on Robert Port, Esq designed for a Monument:  
And now set up in Elum Church, in the County of Stafford.  

Virtue in those good times that bred good Me●  
No testimony craved of Tongue; or Pen▪  
No marble Columns; nor engraven Brass,  
To tell the World that such a Person was:  
For then each Pious Act, to fair descent,  
Stood for the worthy Owner's Monument:  
But in this change of Manners, and of States▪  
Good Names, though writ in Marble, have their fates▪  
Such is the barbarous, and irrev'rent rage  
That arms the Rabble of this impious Age.   

Yet may this happy Stone that bears a Name,  
(Such as no bold Survivor dares to claim)  
To Ages yet unbron unblemished stand,  
Safe from the stroke of an inhuman Hand.   

Here, Reader, here a Port's sad Relics lie  
To teach the careless World Mortality;  
Who while he Mortal was unrivalled stood  
The Crown, and Glory of his Ancient blood▪  
〈◊〉 for his Princes, and his Country's trust,  
〈◊〉 to God, and to his Neighbour just.  
A loyal Husband to his latest end,  
A gracious Father, and a faithful Friend.  
Beloved he lived, and died o'ercharged with Years,  
●●ller of Honour than of Silver Hairs.  
And, to sum up his Virtues, this was he  
Who was what all we should, but cannot be.    

To Cupid, a foolish Poet, occasioned by as foolish a Poem of his to a bona Roba.  

I.  
GOod Cupid, I must tell you truly,  
Had it not been for Abram Cowley,  
You, and your Ode, had come off blewly.   

II.  
With other Thefts, that shall be nameless,  
Because their Authors should be blameless;  
Although your Worship's somewhat shameless.   

III.  
Can such a spacious Beauty want  
Matter her native worth to paint,  
That thy Dull Muse was grown so scant?   

iv  
As thus to steal from other Muses,  
When thine own Wit, at need, refuses,  
Eulogies for such pious Uses?   

V  
Out of her Shoulders, or her Haunches,  
Thou surely mightst have Collopt Fancies,  
Enough for Millions of Romances.   

VI  
〈◊〉 any part thou mightst find matter,  
〈◊〉 the brightest she to flatter;  
〈◊〉 that she cannot hold her Water,   

VII.  
〈◊〉 such a Saying of a Bard,  
〈◊〉 (doubtless) yet was never heard,  
〈◊〉 Man that Verses made; or marred.   

VIII.  
●●ou shouldst have told her she was tied,  
〈◊〉 built, well tackled, new and light;  
〈◊〉 for Stowage, and for Fight.   

IX.  
〈◊〉 on what Mount was thy Muse Nursed?  
Of Blockheads thou art sure the worst,  
To say she sprang a Leak at first!   

X.  
Cupid, I doubt me (not to flatter)  
By your ill handling of the Matter,  
You're but a simple Navigator.   

XI.  
She's such a Vessel that who'll swim her,  
Steer, and Man out, Carine, and trim her,  
Must be no Youth of your small Timber.   

XII.  
Then leave thy Rhyming, and be Quiet,  
I tell the She's not for thy Diet,  
Thou hast another Hulk to ply out:   

XIII.  
And hope (thou Dunce) for no rewarding,  
She's not so lean to need thy larding,  
And thou a Poet worth a Farthing.    

Philoxipeses and Policrite. An Essay to an Heroic Poem▪ CANTO I.  
The ARGUMENT.  

THis Canto serves first to relate,  
Philoxipeses his Birth, and parts,  
His Prince's Friendship Wealth; and State,  
His Youth, his Manners, Arms, and Arts;  
His strange contempt of Love 's dread Dart▪  
Till a mere Shadow takes his Heart.   

I.  
In Thetis lap, and by her Arms embraced,  
Betwixt the Syrian, and Cilician Coasts;  
The Poets Cyprus fortunately placed,  
Like Nature's Casket, all her Treasure boasts:  
An Isle, that once for her renowned Loves;  
Stood consecrate to Venus, and her Doves.   

II.  
From whose fair Womb, once sprung as fair a Seed  
To shame the brood of the corrupted World,  
The graceful Sexes of her happy Breed,  
In one another chaste Embraces curled:  
Nor other difference knew, than did arise  
From em'lous Virtue, for the Virtue's prize.   

III.  
And these were Strifes, where Envy had no place;  
She was not known in such a virtuous War;  
Nor had Ambition, with her Giant Race,  
In such Contentions a malignant share:  
Love was the cause, and Virtue was the claim,  
That could their honest, gentle Hearts inflame.   

iv  
But none, amongst that never failing Race,  
Can match Philoxipeses, that noble Youth,  
In Strength, and Beauty, Fortitude, and Grace  
In gentle Manners, and unblemished Truth  
In all the Virtues, and the Arts that should  
Embellish Manhood; or ennoble Blood.   

V  
A Prince descended from the Royal Lines  
Of Greece, and Troy united in one Bed,  
Where merit, and reward did once combine  
The Seeds of Aeacus, and Leomed,  
And in a brave Succession did agree  
Bold Felamon, and fair Hesione.   

VI  
From this illustrious Pair famed Teucer sprung,  
Who, when returned from Ilium's funeral Fire,  
Without due Vengeance for his Brother's Wrong;  
Was banished home by his grieved Father's Ire:  
And into Cyprus fortunately came  
To build a City to his Country's Name.   

VII.  
Great Salamis, whose polished Turrets stood  
For many Ages in the course of Time,  
T'orelook the surface of the swelling Flood,  
The strength and glory of that fruitful Clime,  
Was His great Work, from whose brave Issue, since,  
The World received this worthy, matchless Prince.   

VIII.  
Worthy his Ancestors, and that great Name,  
His own true Merits, with the public Voice,  
Had won throughout the Isle, as his just claim,  
Above whatever past a gen'ral Choice:  
A Man so perfect, none could disapprove,  
Save that he could not; or he did not love.   

IX.  
Books were his Business, his Diversion Arms,  
His Practice, Honour, his Achievements Fame,  
He had no time to love; nor could the Charms,  
If any Cyprian Nymph his Blood inflame:  
He thought the fairest print of Womankind  
Too small a Volume to enrich his Mind.   

X.  
He loved the tawny Lion's dangerous Chase,  
The spotted Leopard; or the tusked Boar;  
Their bloody Steps would the young Hunter trace,  
And having lodged them, their tough Entrails gore:  
Love was too soft to feed his generous Fire,  
And Maids too weak to conquer his Desire.   

XI.  
In all his intervals of happy Truce,  
Knowledge, and Arts which his high Mind endowed,  
Where still his Objects, and what they produce  
Was the brave Issue of his solitude:  
He shunned dissembling Courts, and thought less Praise,  
Adhered to Diadems, than Wreaths of Bayss.   

XII.  
Although betwixt him, and the youthful King,  
Who, at this time, the Paphian Sceptre swayed;  
A likeness in their Manners, and their Spring  
Had such a true, and lasting Friendship made,  
That, without him, the King did still esteem  
His Court a Cottage, and her Glories dim.   

XIII.  
One was their Country, one the happy Earth,  
That (to its Glory) these young Heroes bred;  
One year produced either's auspicious Birth,  
One space matured them, and one council led:  
All things in fine, wherein their Virtues shone,  
Youth, Beauty, Strength, Studies, and Arms  
were one.   

XIV.  
This, so established Friendship, was the cause,  
That when this modest Prince would fain retire,  
From the fond World's importunate applause  
Oft crossed the Workings of his own Desire;  
And made him, with a favourites love, and skill,  
Devote his Pleasures to his Master's Will.   

XV.  
But once his Presence, and Assistance stood  
In balance with this hopeful Monarch's Bliss,  
Love's golden Shaft had fired his youthful Blood;  
Nor any Ear must hear his Sighs but his;  
Artiphala his Heart had overthrown,  
Maugre his Sword, his Sceptre, and his Crown.   

XVI.  
From her bright Eyes the wounding lightning flew,  
Through the resistance of his Manly Breast,  
By none, but his Philoxipeses that knew  
Each motion of his Soul to be expressed:  
He must his Secrets keep, and Courtships bear,  
Conceal them from the World, but tell them her.   

XVII.  
This held him most to shine in the Court's Sphere,  
And practise Passion in another's Name,  
To dally with those Arms that levelled were  
His high, and yet victorious Heart t'inflame:  
He sight, and wept, expressing all the Woe  
Despairing Lovers in their Frenzy show.   

XVIII.  
And, with so good Success, that in some space  
The magic of his Eloquence, and Art,  
Had wrought the King into this Princess Grace,  
And laid the passage open to her Heart:  
Such Royal Suitors could not be denied,  
The whole World's Wonder, and one Asia's pride   

XIX.  
The King thus fixed a Monarch in his Love,  
And in his Mistriss' fair surrender crowned,  
Can sometimes now permit his Friends remove,  
As having other Conversation found.  
And now resign him to the Peace he sought  
To practise what the wise Athenian taught.   

XX.  
Solon, that Oracle of famous Greece,  
Can in the course of his experience find,  
None to bequeath his knowledge to but this,  
This glorious Youth blest with so rich a Mind,  
So brave a Soul, and such a shining Spiri●▪  
As Virtue might, by lawful claim, inherit.   

XXI.  
It was his Precept, that did first distil  
Virtue into this hopeful young Man's Breast;  
That gave him Reason to conduct his Will,  
That first his Soul in sacred Knowledged dressed;  
And taught him, that a wise Man, when alone,  
Is to himself the best Companion.   

XXII.  
He taught him first into himself retire,  
Shunning the greatness, and those gaudy Beams,  
That often scorch their Plumes who high aspire,  
And wear the splendour of the World's extremes,  
To drink that Nectar, and to taste that Food,  
That to their Greatness, make Men truly Good.   

XXIII.  
〈◊〉 his unerring Eye had aptly chose  
● place so suited to his Mind, and Birth,  
〈◊〉 the sweet Scene of his belov'd Repose:  
●s all the various Beauties of the Earth,  
Contracted in one plot, could ne'er outvie  
To nourish Fancy; or delight the Eye.   

XXIV.  
From the far famed Olympus haughty Crown,  
Which, with curled Cypress, Periwigs his Brow  
The crystal Lycus tumbles headlong down,  
And thence unto a fruitful Valley flows;  
Twining with amorous Crooks her verdant  
Was't that smiles to see her Borders so embraced.   

XXV.  
Upon whose flowery Banks a stately Pile,  
Built from the marble Quarry shining stood:  
Like the proud Queen of that Elysian Isle,  
Viewing her front in the transparent Flood:  
Which, with a murmuring Sorrow, kissed her base,  
As loath to leave so beautiful a place.   

XXVI.  
Lovely indeed; if tall, and shady Groves,  
Enamelled Meads, and little purling Springs,  
Which from the Grots, the Temples of true Loves,  
Creep out to trick the Earth in wanton rings:  
Can give the name of Lovely to that place,  
Where Nature stands clad in her chiefest Grace.   

XXVII.  
This noble Structure, in her Sight thus blest,  
Was round adorned with many a curious piece;  
By every cunning Master's hand expressed,  
Of famous Italy; or Antic Greece:  
As Art, and Nature both together strove,  
Which should attract, and which should fix his  
love.   

XXVIII.  
There whilst the Statue, and the Picture vie  
Their shape, and colour, their design, and life;  
They Value took ●rom his judicious Eye,  
That could determine best the curious strife:  
For naught, that should a Prince's Virtues fill,  
Escaped his knowledge, or amused his skill.   

XXIX.  
But in that brave Collection there was one,  
That seemed to lend her light unto the rest;  
Wherein the mastery of the Pencil shone  
Above, whatever Painter's Art expressed;  
A Woman of so exquisite a Frame;  
As made all Life deformed, and Nature lame.   

XXX.  
A Piece so wrought, as might to Ages stand  
The work and likeness of some Deity;  
To mock the labours of a humane hand:  
So round, so soft, so airy, and so free,  
That it had been no less, than to profane▪  
To dedicate that Face t'a mortal Name.   

XXXI.  
For Venus therefore Goddess of that Isle,  
The cunning Artist named this brave Design,  
The Critic Eyes of Wond'rers to beguile;  
As if, inspired, had drawn a Shape divine:  
Venus Urania, Parent of their bliss,  
Can be expressed in nothing more than this.   

XXXII.  
And such a power had the lovely Shade,  
Over this Prince's yet unconquered Mind;  
That his indifferent Eye full oft it stayed,  
And by degrees his noble Heart inclined  
To ●ay, that could this Frame a Woman be;  
She were his Mistress, and no Fair but she▪   
Caetera desunt.   

●To Mr. Alexander Brome.  
EPODE.  
NOW let us drink, and with our nimble Feet,  
The Floor in graceful measures beat;  
●ever so fit a time for harmless Mirth  
Upon the Sea-guirt spot of Earth.  
The King's returned! Fill Nectar to the brim,  
And let Lyaeus proudly swim:  
Our Joys are full, and uncontrolled flow,  
Then let our Cups (my Hearts) be so:  
●●gin the Frolic, send the Liquor round,  
And as our King, our Cups be crowned.  
●o Boy, and pierce the old Faternian Wine,  
And make us Chaplets from the Vine.  
Range through the drowsy Vessels of the Cave,  
Till we an Inundation have,  
Spare none of all the Store, but ply thy Task,  
Till Bacchus Throne be empty Cask;  
But let the Must alone, for that we find  
Will leave a Crapula behind.  
Our Griefs once made us thirsty, and our joy,  
If not allayed, may now destroy.  
Light up the silent Tapers, let them shine,  
To give Complexion to our Wine;  
Fill each a Pipe of the rich Indian Fume,  
To vapour Incense in the Room,  
That we may in that artificial Shade  
Drink all a Night ourselves have made.  
No Cup shall be discharged, whilst round we sit,  
Without a smart report of Wit,  
Whilst our Inventions quickened thus, and warm,  
Hit all they fly at, but not harm;  
For it Wit's mastery is, and chiefest Art  
To tickle all; but make none smart.  
Thus shall our Draughts, and Conversation be,  
Equally innocent, and free,  
Our Loyalty the Centre, we the Ring,  
Drink round, and Changes to the King;  
Let none avoid, dispute, or dread his Cups,  
The strength, or quantity he sups:  
Our Brains of Raptures full, and so divine,  
Have left no room for fumes of Wine;  
And though we drink like Freemen of the Deep,  
We'll scorn the frail support of Sleep;  
For whilst with Charles his presence we are blest,  
Security shall be our rest.  
Anacreon come, and touch thy jolly Lyre,  
And bring in Horace to the Choir:  
Mould all our Healths in your immortal Rythme,  
Who cannot sing, shall drink in time.  
We'll be one Harmony, one Mirth, one Voice,  
One Love, one Loyalty, one Noise,  
Of Wit, and Joy, one Mind, and that as free  
As if we all one Man could be.  
Drowned be past Sorrows, with our future Care,  
For (if we know how blest we are)  
A knowing Prince at last is wasted home,  
That can prevent, as over come.  
Make then our Injuries, and Harms to be  
The Chorus to our Jollity,  
And from those Iron times, past Woes recall,  
Extract one Mirth to balance all.   

On Tobacco.  
WHat horrid sin condemned the teeming Earth,  
And cursed her womb with such a monstrous Birth?  
What Crime America, that Heaven would please  
To make thee Mother of the World's disease?  
In thy fair Womb what accidents could breed,  
What Plague give root to this pernicious Weed?  
Tobacco! Oh, the very name doth kill,  
And has already foxed my `reeling Quill:  
I now could write Libels against the King,  
Treason; or Blasphemy; or any thing  
'Gainst Piety, and Reason; I could frame  
A Panegyre to the Protector's Name:  
〈◊〉 ●ly infiction does the World infuse  
〈◊〉 the Soul of every modest Muse,  
What politic Peregrine was't first could boast,  
〈◊〉 bought a Pest into his native Coast?  
●Th' abstract of Poison in a stinking Weed,  
●The spurious Issue of corrupted Seed;  
〈◊〉 belched in Earthquakes from the dark Abyss,  
●hose Name a blot in Nature's Herbal is.  
What drunken Fiend taught Englishmen the Crime,  
Thus to puff out, and spawl away their time?  
Pernicious Weed (should not my Muse offend,  
To say Heaven made aught for a cruel end▪)  
〈◊〉 should proclaim that thou created were't,  
To ruin Man's high, and immortal part.  
Thy Stygyan damp obscures our Reason's Eye,  
Debauches Wit, and makes Invention dry;  
Destroys the Memory, confounds our Care;  
We know not what we do, or what we are:  
Re●ders our Faculties, and Members lame  
To every office of our Country's claim.  
Our Life's a drunken Dream devoyed of Sense,  
And the best Actions of our time offence.  
Our Health, Diseases, Lethargies, and Rheum,  
Our Friendship's Fire, and all our Vows are Fume  
Of late there's no such things as Wit, or Sense,  
Council, Instruction, or Intelligence:  
Discourse that should distinguish Man from Beast  
Is by the vapour of this Weed suppressed;  
For what we talk is interrupted stuff,  
The one half English, and the other Puff:  
Freedom, and Truth are things we do not know  
We know not what we say, nor what we do:  
We want in all, the Understanding's light,  
We talk in Clouds, and walk in endless Night.  
We smoke, as if we meant concealed by spell  
To spy abroad, yet be invisible:  
But no discovery shall the Statesman boast,  
We raise a mist wherein ourselves are lost,  
A stinking shade, and whilst we pipe it thus,  
Each one appears an Ignis fat●us.  
Courtier, and Peasant, nay the Madam Nice  
Is likewise fallen into the common Vice,  
We all in dusky Error groping lie,  
Robbed of our Reasons, and the days bright Eye.  
Whilst Sailors from the Maintop see our Isle  
Wrapped up in Smoke, like the Aetnean Pile.  
What nameless Ill does its Contagion shroud  
〈◊〉 the dark Mantle of this noisome Cloud?  
〈◊〉 'tis the Devil: Oh, I know that's it,  
〈◊〉! How the Sulphur makes me Cough and Spit?  
●Tis he; or else some Fav'rit Fiend at least,  
〈◊〉 all the Mischief of his Malice dressed;  
〈◊〉 deadly Sin that lurks t'intrap the Soul;  
Does here concealed in curling Vapours roll▪  
And for the Body such an unknown ill,  
〈◊〉 makes Physicians reading, and their skill:  
One undistinguished Pest made up of all  
That Men experienced do Diseases call.  
Coughs, Astma's, Apoplexies, Fevers, Rheum,  
〈◊〉 that kill dead; or lingeringly consume;  
〈◊〉, and Madness, nay the Plague, the Pox,  
And every Fool wears a Pandora's Box.  
〈◊〉 that rich Mine, the stupid Sot doth fill,  
Smokes up his Liver, and his Lungs, until  
〈◊〉 reeking Nostrils monstr' ously proclaim,  
〈◊〉 Brains, and Bowels are consuming Flame.  
What noble Soul would be content to dwell  
In the dark Lantern of a smoky Cell?  
To prostitute his Body, and his Mind,  
To a Debauch of such a Stinking kind?  
To sacrifice to Molech, and to fry,  
In such a base, dirty Idolatry;  
As if frail life, which of its self's too short,  
Were to be whift away in drunken sport.  
Thus, as if weary of our destined years,  
We burn the Thread so to prevent the Shears.  
What noble end, can simple Man propose  
For a reward to his all-smoking Nose?  
His purposes are levelled sure amiss,  
Where neither Ornament, nor Pleasure is.  
What can he then design his worthy hire?  
Sure 'tis t'in●ure him for eternal fire:  
And thus his aim must admirably thrive,  
In hopes of Hell, he damns himself alive.  
But my infected Muse gins to choke,  
In the vile stink of the increasing Smoke,  
And can no more in equal numbers chime,  
Unless to sneeze, and cough, and spit in Rythme.  
Half sti●led now in this new times Disease,  
She must in fumo vanish, and decease.  
This is her faults excuse, and her pretence,  
This satire, perhaps, else had looked like Sense.   

Laura Sleeping.  
ODE.  

I.  
WInds whisper gently whilst she sleeps,  
And fan her with your cooling wings;  
Whilst she her drops of Beauty weeps,  
From pure, and yet unrivalled Springs.   

II.  
Glide over Beauty's Field her Face,  
To kiss her Lip, and Cheek be bold,  
But with a calm, and stealing pace;  
Neither too rude; nor yet too cold.   

III.  
Play in her beams, and crisp her Hair,  
With such a gale, as wings soft Love  
And with so sweet, so rich an Air,  
As breaths from the Arabian Grove.   

iv  
A Breath as hushed as Lovers sigh;  
Or that unfolds the Morning door:  
Sweet, as the Winds, that gently fly,  
To sweep the Springs enameled Floor.   

V  
Murmur soft Music to her Dreams,  
That pure, and unpoluted run,  
Like to the newborn Crystal Streams,  
Under the bright enamoured Sun.   

VI  
But when she waking shall display  
Her light retire within your bar,  
Her Breath is life, her Eyes are day,  
And all Mankind her Creatures are.    

Laura Weeping.  
ODE.  

I.  
Chaste, lovely Laura, `gan disclose,  
Drooping with sorrow from her Bed,  
As with ungentle Showers the Rose,  
O'ercharged with wet, declines her head.   

II.  
With a dejected look, and pace,  
Neglectingly she `gan appear,  
When meeting with her tell-tale Glass,  
She saw the Face of sorrow there.   

III.  
Sweet sorrow dressed in such a look,  
As love would trick to catch desire;  
A shaded Leaf in Beauty's Book,  
Charactered with clandestine Fire.   

iv  
Down dropped a Tear▪ to deck her Cheeks  
With orient Treasure of her own;  
Such, as the diving Negro seeks  
T'adorn the Monarch's mighty Crown.   

V  
Then a full shower of pearly Dew,  
Upon her snowy Breast `gan fall:  
As in due Homage to bestrew;  
Or mourn her Beauty's Funeral.   

VI  
So have I seen the springing Morn  
In dark and humid Vapours clad,  
Not to eclipse but to adorn  
Her glories by that conquered shade.   

VII.  
Spare (Laura) spare those Beauty's twins  
Do not our World of Beauty drown,  
Thy Tears are Balm for other Sins,  
Thou knowst not any of thine own.   

VIII.  
Then let them shine forth to declare  
The sweet Serenity within,  
May each day of thy Life be fair,  
And to eclipse one hour be Sin.    

SONNET.  

CHloris, whilst thou and I were free,  
Wedded to nought but Liberty,  
How sweetly happy did we live?  
How free to promise, free to give?   

Then Monarch's of ourselves, we might  
Love here, or there, to change delight,  
And tied to none, with all dispense,  
Paying each love its recompense.   

But in that happy freedom we  
Were so improvidently free,  
To give away our Liberties;   

And now in fruitless Sorrow pine,  
At what we are, what might have been,  
Had thou, or I, or both been wife.    

SONNET.  

WHy dost thou say thou lov'st me now,  
And yet proclam'st it is too late▪  
When bound by folly, or by fate,  
Thou canst no further grace allow?   

Repeat no more that kill Voice,  
Thou beauteous Victrice of my Heart;  
Or find a way to ease my smart,  
Maugre thy now repent choice.   

'tis not too late to love, and do  
What love and nature prompt thee to,  
Whilst thus thou triumphest in thy prime;   

Thou may'st discreetly love, and use,  
Those pleasures thou didst once refuse:  
But to profess it were a Crime.    

SONNET.  

WHy dost thou say thy Heart is gone;  
And no more mine, no more thine own;  
But past retrieve for ever wed,  
By sacred Vow t'another's Bed?   

Why dost thou tell me that I lie  
Bound in the same perplexed tye;  
And that our now divided Souls  
Are cold, and distant, as the Poles?   

Dost thou not know when first our Love's  
●ere plighted in the secret Groves,  
Our hearts were changed with equal flame:   

〈◊〉, Chloris then, how can it be?  
Couldst thou give me; or I give thee?  
No, no, ourselves are still the same.    

SONNET.  

HOw shouldst thou Love, and not offend!  
Why, Chloris, I will tell thee how:  
〈◊〉 thou didst once, so Love me now,  
〈◊〉 lie with me, and there's an end.   

Thou only art enjoined (my Sweet)  
To keep thy Reputation high,  
And that indeed, is secrecy,  
〈◊〉 all do err, thou all not see't.   

Then fairest Fearless of all blame,  
That sacred Treasure of thy Name  
Into my faithful Arms commit.   

Thou once didst trust me, with thy fame,  
I then was just, and true to it;  
And, Chloris, I am still the same.    

To Sir Aston Cockayne, on Captain Hannibal.  
EPIG.  
YOur Captain Hannibal does snort and puff,  
Armed in his Brazen-face, and Greasy Buff  
`Mongst Punks, and Panders, and can rant, and roar  
With Cacala the Turd, and his poor Whore.  
But I would wish his Valour not mistake us,  
All Captains are not like his Brother Dacus;  
Advise him then be quiet; or I shall  
Bring Captain Hough, to bait your Hannibal.   

In imitation of a Song in the Play of Rollo.  

TAke, O take, my Fears away,  
Which thy cold Disdains have bred;  
And grant me one auspicious Ray,  
From thy Morn of Beauties shed.  
But thy kill Beams restrain,  
Lest I be by Beauty slain.   

II.  
Spread, O spread, those orient Twins  
Which thy snowy Bosom grace,  
Where Love in Milk, and Roses swims,  
Blind with Lustre of thy Face.  
But let Love thaw them first, left I  
Do on those frozen Mountains die.    

To Sir Aston Cockayne, on his Tragedy of Ovid.  
LOng live the Poet, and his lovely Muse,  
The Stage with Wit, and Learning to infuse,  
Embalm him in immortal Elegy,  
My gentle Naso, for if he should die,  
Who makes thee live, thou'lt be again pursued,  
And banished Heaven for Ingratitude.  
Transform again thy Metamorphosis  
In one, and turn thy various shapes to his,  
A Twin-born Muse in such Embraces curled,  
As shall subject the Scribblers of the World,  
And spite of time, and Envy, henceforth sit,  
The ruling Gemini of Love and Wit.  
So two pure Streams in one smooth Channel glide  
In even motion, without Ebb, or Tide:  
As in your Pens Tybur, and Anchor meet,  
And run Meanders with their silver Feet.  
Both soft, both gentle, both transcending high,  
Both skilled alike in charming Elegy;  
So equally admired the Laurels due,  
Without distinction both to him and you:  
Naso was Rome's famed Ovid, you alone  
Must be the Ovid to our Albion;  
In all things equal, saving in this case,  
Our Modern Ovid has the better Grace.  
Philodramatos.   

De Die Martis, & Die Veneris.  
EPIG.  
SAturn and Sol, and Lun● chaste,  
`Twixt Mars and Venus still are placed,  
Whilst Mercury and jove divide,  
The Lovers on the other side.  
What may the hidden Mystery  
Of this unriddled Order be?  
The Gods themselves do justly fear,  
That should they trust these two too near;  
Mars would be drowned in Venus, and so they  
Should lose a Planet, and the Week a Day.   

ALIUD.  
SHould Mars and Venus have their Will,  
Venus would keep her Friday ill.   

ODE  
To Love.  

I.  
GReat Love I thank thee, now thou hast  
Paid me for all my Sufferings past;  
And wounded me with Nature's Pride,  
For whom more Glory 'tis to die,  
Scorned, and neglected, than enjoy  
All Beauty in the World beside.   

II.  
A Beauty above all pretence,  
Whose very Scorns are recompense,  
The Regent of my Heart is crowned,  
And now the Sorrows, and the Woe,  
My Youth, or Folly, helped me to,  
Are buried in this Friendly Wound.   

III.  
Led by my Folly; or my Fate,  
I loved before I knew not what,  
And threw my Thoughts I knew not where;  
With Judgement now I love, and sue,  
And never yet Perfection knew,  
Until I cast mine Eyes on her.   

iv  
My Soul that was so mean before,  
Each little Beauty to adore;  
Now raised to Glory, does despise,  
Those poor and counterfeited Rays,  
That caught me in my childish Days,  
And knows no Power but her Eyes.   

VI  
Raised to this height, I have no more,  
Almighty Love, now to implore  
Of my auspicious Stars; on thee:  
Than, that thou bow her noble Mind,  
To be as mercifully kind:  
As I shall ever faithful be.    

TRANSLATIONS Out of several POETS.  

Horace his second Epod Translated.  
HAppy's that Man that is from City-Care  
Sequestered, as the Ancients were;  
That with his own Ox, ploughs his Father's Lands,  
Untainted with usurious Bands:  
That from Alarms of War in quiet sleeps;  
Nor's frighted with the raging Deeps:  
That shuns litigious Law, and the proud State  
Of his more potent Neighbour's Gate.  
Therefore, he either is employed to join  
The Poplar to the sprouting Vine,  
Pruning luxurious Branches, grafting some  
More hopeful Offspring in their room:  
Or else, his sight in humble Valleys feasts,  
With scattered troops of lowing Beasts:  
Or refined Honey in fine Vessels keeps;  
Or shears his snowy, tender Sheep;  
Or, when Autumnus shows his fruitful head  
I'th' mellow Fields with Apples covered,  
How he delights to pluck the grafted Pear,  
And Grapes, whose Cheeks do Purple wear!  
Of which to thee, Priapus, Tithes abound,  
And Sylvan Patron of his Ground.  
Now, where the aged Oak his green Arms spreads,  
He lies; now in the flowery Meads:  
Whilst through their deep-worn Banks the murmuring Floods  
Do glide, and Birds chant in the Woods:  
And bubbling Fountains flowing Streams do weep,  
A gentle Summons unto Sleep.  
But when cold Winter does the Storms prepare,  
And Snow of thundering jupiter;  
Then with his Dogs the furious Boar he foils,  
Compelled into objected Toils:  
Or, on the Forks extends his mashy Net,  
For greedy Thrushes a deceit.  
The fearful Hare too, and the Stranger Crane  
With gins he takes, a pleasant gain.  
Who but with such Diversions would remove  
All the malignant Cares of Love?  
But, if to these he have a modest Spouse,  
To nurs● his Children, keep his House,  
Such, as the Sabin Women, or the tanned  
Wife o'th' painful Apulian,  
To make a good Fire of dry Wood, when come  
From his hard Labour weary home.  
The wanton Cattle in their Booths to tie,  
Stripping their straddling Udders dry,  
Drawing the Must from forth the cleanly Fats,  
To wash down their unpurchased Cates;  
Mullet, or Thorn-back cannot please me more,  
Nor Oysters from the Lucrine shore,  
When by an Eastern Tempest they are tossed,  
Into the Sea, that sweeps this Coast.  
The Turkey fair of afric shall not come,  
Within the confines of my Womb:  
As Olives from the fruitfull'st Branches got,  
jonian Snites so sweet are not.  
Or Sorrel growing in the Meadow Ground,  
Or Mallows for the Body sound.  
The Lamb killed for the Terminalia;  
Or Kid redeemed from the Wolf's Prey.  
Whilst thus we feed, what Joy 'tis to behold  
The pastured Sheep haste to their Fold!  
And th' wearied Ox with drooping Neck to come  
Haling th' inverted Coulter home;  
And swarms of Servants from their Labour quit  
About the shining Fire sit:  
Thus when the Usurer Alphius had said,  
Now purposing this Life to lead,  
〈◊〉 Ideses called in his Money; but for gain  
I'th' Kalends put it forth again.   

Horat. Ode IX. Lib. III.  
Ad Lydiam.  Hor. 
WHilst I was acceptable unto thee,  
And that no other youthful Arm might cling  
About thy snowy Neck, than mine more free,  
More blest I flourished than the Persian King.  Lyd. 
And, for no other Woman's Beauty, when  
Thou sigh'dst; and when thy Chloe did not come  
Before thy Lydia, thy Lydia then  
Flourished more famed than Ilia of Rome.  Hor. 
Now Thracian Chloe is my only Dear,  
Skilled on the Harp, and skilful in an Air!  
For whom to die I not at all should fear,  
If gentle Fate my Soul in her would spare.  Lyd. 
The Son of Ornithus the Thurine, me  
With equal violence of heat doth move:  
for whom, with all my Heart, I twice would die,  
So Fate would spare the gentle Boy, my Love.  Hor. 
What if our Friendship should renew,  
And link our Loves in a more lasting Chain?  
Yellow-haired Chloe, should I slight for you,  
Should my access to thee be free again?  Lyd. 
Though than a glorious Star He is more bright,  
And thou than is the Adriatic Sea  
More raging, and than spongy Cork more light,  
Yet should I love to live and die with thee.   

Martial, Epig. Lib. I. Ep. XX.  
AS I remember, Aelia caught full sore;  
She caught out twice two Teeth, she had but four.  
Now she may safely cough for over: Why?  
Her Mouth's not charged to let such Bullets fly.   

Stances de Monsieur Theophile.  

I.  
WHen thy naked Arm thou see'st me kiss  
Upon the snowy Sheet displayed,  
Which whiter than the Linen is;  
And, when my glowing Hand's betrayed,  
Wand'ring about thy Paps: Thy Sense may prove,  
Chloris, that with a burning heat I love.   

II.  
〈◊〉 Zealots Eyes to Heaven tend,  
So mine Eyes unto thine are turned,  
●hen to thy Couch my Knees I bend,  
With thousands of warm Passions burned,  
My Lips from whispering Murmurs than are free,  
And suffer my Delights to sleep with thee.   

III.  
M●rpheus glad of the surprise,  
In his black Empire thee detains;  
And hides from seeing me thine Eyes  
With so dull, so heavy Chains,  
That thy soft slumber'd-charmed Spirits lie  
Dumb, without murmur at his Tyranny.   

iv  
In breathing her perfume the Rose,  
In shooting forth his heat the Day,  
The Chariot, where Diana goes,  
And Naiad's, when in Floods they play,  
The silent Graces in a Picture to  
Make more of noise, than thy soft Breathe d●   

V.  
Then by thee did I breathe a Sigh,  
And when thy rest I had descried;  
The sweet Repose, that sealed thine Eye:  
With Passion then; Oh Heaven! I cried▪  
How canst thou from such excellent Limbs, as these  
Extract so great an ill, as my Disease.    

Her Heart and Mine.  
Out of Astrea.  
MADRIGAL.  

I.  
WEll may I say that our two Hearts  
Composed are of flinty Rock;  
Mine as resisting rigorous Darts;  
Yours as it can endure the shock  
Of Love, and of my Tears, and Smart.   

II.  
●ut when I weigh the griefs, whereby  
My Sufferings I perpetuate,  
〈◊〉 say, in this extremity,  
In Constancy, that I am that  
Rock, which you are in Cruelty.    

To Charinus, an ugly Woman's Husband.  
Epig. out of Johannes S●cundus.  
CHarinus, 'twas my hap of late  
To have a sight of thy dear Mate,  
So white, so flourishing, so fair,  
So trim, so modest, debonair;  
That if good jove would grant to me  
A leash of Beauties, such as she:  
I'd give the Devil at one Word  
Two that he'd take away the third.   

An Ode of Johannes Secundus Translated.  
To my dear Tutor Mr. Ralph Rawson.  

THE World shall want Phaebean light,  
And th' Icy Moon obscured lie,  
And sparkling Stars their Rooms shall quit  
I' th' gloomy Sky:   

The Crab shall shorter cut the Day,  
The Capricorn prolong its Hours,  
And t' abridge Nights unpleasant stay,  
Command the Powers:   

Earth shall be ploughed by crooked Ships,  
And Cars shall roll upon the Seas,  
Fishes in Woods, Boars in the Deep  
Shall live and Graze:   

Before I'll lay aside that care  
Of thee, that's in my Bosom bred,  
Whether i'th' Centre, or i'th' Air,  
Alive, or dead.    

EPIG.  
Translated out of Hieron; Amaltheus.  
ACon his right, Leonilla her left Eye  
Doth want; yet each in Form the Gods outvie.  
Sweet Boy, with thine thy Sister's light improve;  
So shall she Venus be, and thou blind Love.   

Love's World.  
Translated out of Astrea.  

I.  
THat Artist Love another World has made,  
To which in'ts Centre fixed my FaithsFaiths the Earth:  
And as on Earth the World's Foundation's laid,  
My Faith the groundsel is to this fair Birth.   

II.  
If any jealous Fears are there disclosed,  
This constant Faith within my Breast to shake,  
'Tis like those Winds within the Earth enclosed,  
Which with their riots make her Entrails  
quake.   

III.  
My Tears the Ocean are: to dry those tears  
A task no less, than to exhaust the Main:  
'Cause of my Sighs, that I'm not loved the fear:  
Those sighs the Storm, that stirs the Watery Plain.   

iv  
Bitter's this Sea; although its liquid course  
Is but of Rivers sweet a concourse great;  
More bitter are my Tears, pleasant their source  
As sprung from you unto my Heart more sweet.   

V  
My Wil●'s the Air, which in her power free  
About my Faith in constant motion roves  
The Winds Desires hot from their infancy,  
By which, as Air by Winds, my will still moves.   

VI  
And as th'unruly Winds diversely stray  
Though locked in Mountains, whence they dare not part:  
So my Desires unto Respect obey,  
And dare not break that Prison of my heart.   

VII.  
The hidden Fire, which compasseth the Air,  
Is th'undiscovered Flame, wherewith I burn;  
And, as that great Fire does to none appear,  
So to men's Eyes a borrowed Face I turn.   

VIII.  
My Hope's the waxing and the waning Moon,  
Borrowing from you alone her glorious hue:  
But when it darkly in the Clouds doth run,  
'Tis doubtful thought, that vainly follows you.   

IX.  
Your Eye's the Sun incomparably bright,  
Fair Eye Love's Sun, which to us all Light gives:  
If th'other Sun gives the World living Light,  
What Lover can deny by you he lives?   

X.  
Why with such beauty has Love furnished you,  
As that your sight's his Day, your absence Night,  
If not t' enjoy that blessing of your view?  
Then let us rather live, than perish by't.   

XI.  
The Summer's my hot Blood's redundancy;  
And frozen Fear my cold, i'll Winter brings.  
But what of this, if still my Autumn b●  
As void of Fruit, as void of Flowers my Spring?    

Martial, Ep. 84. Lib. 10.  
Dost muse to sleep, why Afer does not go?  
Prithee, Caecilian, look at's Bedfellow.   

Id. Ep. 93. Lib. 11.  
WHo says, thou'rt Vicious, Zoilus, lies;  
Thou art not Vicious, but a Vice.   

Id. Ep. 58. Lib. 1.  
Ad Flaccum.  
FLaccus, thou ask'st, what kind of Girl I prise?  
I like not one too Easy, nor too Nice.  
I best with one betwixt these could dispense,  
Not to afflict me, nor to glut my Sense.   

Id. Ep. 48. Lib. 1.  
De Diaulo Medico Paraph.  
DIaulus Sextan from Physician is  
Of late become, and 'tis not much amiss:  
For now, t'interr, his care he may apply  
In this, those killed in that capacity.   

Id. Lib. Ep. 65.  
Ad Fabullam ambitiosam.  
thou'rt fair, we know't, a Maid, 'tis true,  
And rich, why, we will grant that too.  
But whilst too oft by thee 'tis said,  
thou'rt neither fair, nor rich, nor Maid.   

Id. Lib. 1. Ep. 3.  
Ad Velocem.  
My Epigrams are long thou dost report,  
For thy part, thou writ'st none: Thine are more short.   

Id. Lib. 2. Ep▪ 88  
In Mamercum.  
THou nought repeatest, yet Poet wouldst be thought;  
Be what thou wilt, so thou repeatest nought.   

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 9  
In Cinnam.  
CInna writes Verses against me, 'tis said,  
He does not write whose Verse by none is read.   

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 28.  
In Nestorem.  
THou wonder'st, Marius has a stinking Ear:  
Nestor, 'tis long of thee, thou whisperest there.   

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 26▪  
In Candidum.  
THou, Candidus, alone enjoyest th' estate;  
Alone thy Money, Myrrh, and Golden plate,  
cassican, ●ecuban Wine alone thou tast'st  
●lone thou Wit, and Understanding haste.  
●lone thou'st all things: I deny this one,  
〈◊〉 hast a Wife too, but not thine alone.   

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 32.  
In Matriniam.  
THou sayest, I cannot fit an old Wife's Bed,  
I can, Matrinia, thou'rt not old, but dead.  
〈◊〉 Hecube, or Niobe I could be prone,  
B●t when she was no Bitch, and she no Stone.   

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 52.  
Ad Chloen.  
CHloe, thy Face I do not prize,  
Neither thy Neck, thy Hands, nor Thighs,  
Nor Breasts, Hips, Haunches, Legs, nor Feet,  
Nor what thou thinkest more tempting yet;  
And not t' insist on every part,  
I could want all, with all my heart.   

Id. Lib. 4. Ep. 78.  
In Varum.  
VArus of late to Supper did me call  
His Plate was sumptuous his Victuals small:  
With Gold, not Victuals, was his Table spread.  
Our Eyes his Servants, not our Palates fed.  
for Meat, not Sights, I came, then did I say,  
〈◊〉 bring us Meat, or take thy Plate away.   

Id▪ Lib. 4. Ep. 86.  
In Ponticum.  
WE drink in Glass, thou Myrrh, Ponticus; why?  
Lest Glass of two Wines make discovery.   

Id. Lib. 5. Ep. 46.  
In Bassam.  
BAssa, thou sayest, thou'rt fair, and a Maid too;  
Bassa, thou often sayest what is not so.   

Id. Lib. 5. Ep. 44.  
De Thaide, & Lecania.  
THais her Teeth are black, as jet, or Crow:  
Lecania's Teeth are white, as driven snow.  
The reason of it easily is known,  
Lecania bought Teeth wears, Thais her own.   

Id. Lib. 7. Ep. 32.  
In Cinnam.  
SInce thy dagged Gown's so dirty, when thy Shoe,  
Cinna, is whiter than the Virgin-snow:  
Why with thy Garment dost t' thy Feet abuse?  
Cinna, tuck up thy Gown, thou spoil'st thy Shoes.   

Id. Lib. 10. Ep. 47.  
Ad Seipsum.  
THese, pleasant Martial, are the things  
That to Man's life contentment brings;  
Wealth by succession got, not toil,  
A glowing Hearth; a fruitful Soil;  
No Strife; few Suits; a Mind not drowned  
〈◊〉 cares; clean Strength; a Body sound;  
Prudent Simplicity; equal Friends;  
●o Diet, that to lavish tends:  
● Night not steeped in Drink, yet freed  
●rom Care; a chaste, and peaceful Bed;  
untroubled Sleeps, that render Night  
●horter, and sweeter till the light;  
●o be best pleased with thine own state,  
●either to wish, nor fear thy Fate.   

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 3.  
Ad Musam.  
IT was enough five, six, seven Books to fill,  
Yea and too much; why, Muse, dost scribble still?  
Cease, and be modest. Fame no farther grace  
Can add; My Book's worn out in every place.  
When razed Messalla's Monumentals must  
Lie with Licinus' lofty Tomb in dust  
I shall be read, and Travelers that come  
Transport my Verses to their Father's home.  
Thus I had once resolved (Her Clothes, and Head  
Besmeared with Ointment) when Thalia said,  
Canst thou, Ungrateful, thus renounce thy Rhyme▪  
Tell me; how wouldst thou spend thy Vacant time▪  
To Tragic buskins wouldst thy Sock transfer,  
And in Heroic Verse sing bloody War?  
That tyrannous Pedants with awful voice  
May terrify Old Men, Virgins, and Boys:  
Let rigid Antiquaries such things write,  
Who by a blinking Lamp consume the Night,  
With Roman air touch up thy Poems Dress,  
That th' Age may read its manners, and confess:  
T●ou'lt find thou may'st with trifling Subjects play,  
●●til their Trumpets to thy Reed give way.   

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 19  
De Cinna.  
CInna would fain be thought to need,  
And so he does, he's poor indeed.   

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 23.  
Ad Rusticum.  
TO thee I gluttonous and cruel seem  
About my Cook, because I basted him  
For supper; Rusticus, the cause was great:  
What should a Cook be beaten for, but's meat?   

Id. Lib. Ep. 47.  
In vari● se tondentem.  
Partly of thy Beard is clipped, part shaved, another place  
Is pulled: who'd think this could be all one Face▪   

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 21.  
Ad Luciferum.  
●Hospher, appear; why dost our joys delay  
When Caesar's coming only waits for Day?  
〈◊〉 begs thy haste; on slow Boots' Carr  
〈◊〉 thou not ride, thou movest so slowly, Star?  
swift-footed Cyllarus, thou mightst have took,  
〈◊〉 his saddle now would have forsaken.  
●hy dost thou longer stop the longing Sun?  
●●●thus, and Aethon beat, and snort to run:  
〈◊〉 Memnon's Mother watches till you come.  
●or will the Stars give place to greater Light,  
〈◊〉 stay with th' Moon expecting Caesar's sight.  
●ow, Caesar, come by Night, we shall have Ray:  
〈◊〉 People cannot, where thou art, want Day.   

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 35.  
In pessimos Conjuges.  
SInce y'are alike in Manners, and in Life,  
A wicked Husband, and a wicked Wife,  
I wonder much you are so full of strife!   

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 53.  
In Catullam.  
THE Fairest of Women, that have been, or ar●  
Thou art, yet Cheaper than them all by far;  
To me Catulla, what a triumph it were  
That thou were't, or more Honest, or less Fair.   

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 59  
In Vacerram.  
BUT Antic Poets thou admirest none,  
And only prayest them are dead, and gone.  
I beg your pardon, good Vacerra, I  
Can't on such terms find in my Heart to die.   

Id. Lib. 7. Ep. 100  
De Vetula.  
thou'rt soft to touch; charming to hear; unseen  
thou'rt both: but neither, take away the Screen.   

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 41.  
Ad Faustinum.  
SAd Athenagoras nought presents me now,  
As in December he was wont to do.  
If Athenagoras be sad, or no,  
I'll see: I'm sure, that he has made me so.   

Id. Lib. 11. Ep. 103.  
In Lydiam.  
HE did not lie, that said, thy Skin was fair,  
But not thy Face; so one, and th' other are.  
Thy Face, if thou sittest mute, and hold'st thy peace  
Even as in one embossed, or Painted is.  
But, as thou talk'st, thou losest off thy Skin  
And no one's Tongue more hurts themselves than thine:  
Take heed the Aedile thee, nor hear, nor see,  
As oft as Statues speak 'tis a Prodigy.   

Id. Lib. 12. Ep. 7.  
De Ligia.  
IF by her Hairs Ligia's Age be told,  
'Tis soon cast up, than she is three years old.   

Id. Lib. 12. Ep. 20.  
Ad Fabullam.  
THat Themison has no Wife, how't comes to pass,  
●hou ask'st: why Themison, a Sister has.   

Horat. Lib 1. Carmin. Ode 8▪  
Add Lydia.  
TEll me, for God's sake, Lydia, why  
Thy Sa●aris thou dost with love destroy.  
The Glorious Field why should he shun,  
Grown now impatient of the Dust, and Sun  
Why not in Warlike bravery ride,  
Kerbing with bits the gallic Horses pride  
Why fears he Tiber's yellow Flood,  
And flies the Olive more than Viper's Blood  
Why not still crushed with Arms, whose art  
Was famed for clean delivery of his Dart?  
Why does he, Lydia, now lie hid,  
As once, they say, the Son of Theti● did  
Before Troy's wept for Funeral,  
Lest in his own Apparel he might fall  
Subject to Slaughter, and the Harms  
Of bloody Lycians unrelenting Arms▪   

De Fortuna▪ an sit caeca.  
Epig. ex Johann. Secundo.  
WHY do they speak the Goodess Fortune blind?  
Because She's only to th' unjust inclined;  
This Reason nought Her blindness does declare,  
They only Fortune need who Wicked are.   

Tria Mala ex eodem.  
THE three great Evils of Man's life,  
Are Fire, Water, and a Wife,   

Id. Lib. Ep. 15.  
In Neaeram.  
'TWas Night, and Phoebe in a Heaven bright  
Shone amongst the lesser sparks of Light,  
When, thou (to wound the Gods) vowdest to fulfil  
The strictest tenors of my will,  
With straighter Arms, than ever th' Ivy tall  
Embraced the aged Oak withal;  
Whilst Wolves devour, and whilst Orion stirs  
The Winter Main to Mariners;  
And that this ● ove should mutual last, whilst air  
Wantoned with Phaebus' uncut Hair.  
Neaera false on my good Nature won  
Too much; were Flaccus ought of Man,  
He'd not the another yield thee Night by Night;  
But seek another Love in spite:  
Nor would his Anger so provoked give place,  
To th' Charms of thy offensive Face.  
But, Thou, who ere more happy, and now grown  
Proudly usherest my Affliction,  
Thou mayst be rich in Cattle, and in Land,  
Pactolus may flow to thy Hand;  
Thou mayst be too a Pythagorean  
O'ercome with Beauty Nerean.  
Yet thou, alas! wilt mourn her change to see,  
When I by turn shall laugh at thee.   

ODE De Theophile.  
Par.  

I.  
THy Beauties, Dearest Isis, have  
Disturbed Nature at their sight,  
Thine Eyes to Love his blindness gave,  
Such is the vigour of their light:  
The Gods too only minding thee,  
Let the World err at liberty.   

II.  
And having in the Sun's bright Eye  
Thy glances counterfeited seen,  
Even their Hearts, my Sweet, thereby  
So sensibly have wounded been:  
That, but they're fixed, they'd come to see,  
And gaze upon their Creature thee.   

III.  
Believe me, in this humour They  
Of things below have little Care,  
Of good, or ill, we do; or say,  
Then since, Heaven lets thee love me, Dear,  
Without revenging on thine Eye,  
Or striking me in jealousy.   

iv  
●hou mayst securely in mine Arms  
And warm Womb of my wanton bed,  
●each me t' unravel all thy Charms▪  
Thou nothing, Isis, needest dread:  
Since Gods themselves had happy been,  
Can all their power have made thee Sin.    

Elegy de Theophile.  
SInce that sad Day, a sadder Farewell did  
My Eyes the object of my ●lame forbid,  
My Soul, and Sense so disunited are,  
That being thus deprived of thee, My Fair,  
I find me so distractedly alone,  
That from myself, methinks myself am gone.  
To me invisible's the Sun's fair Light,  
Nor do I feel the so●t repose of Night:  
I Poison taste in my repast most sweet;  
And sink wherever I dispose my feet;  
My Life all company, but Death, has lost,  
Chloris, so dear the love I bear thee cost.  
Oh Gods! who all the joys we have bestow,  
Do you with them always give torments too?  
Can that, we call Good Fortune never hit  
Humane designs, but ill must follow it?  
If equally you interweave the Fate  
With good, and ill of those you love, and hate.  
In vain I sue to her, I so adore,  
In vain her help that has no Power implore.  
For, as black Night pursues the glorious Sun,  
The greatest Good does but some Ill forerun.  
When handsome Paris lived with Helen fair,  
He saw his Fortune raised above his Care;  
But Fate severely did revenge that bliss,  
For (as with time his Fortune changed is.)  
From his Delights sprang a debate, that Fire  
Brought to old Troy, and massacred his Sire.  
And though in that subversion there appear●  
Such sad mishaps of Blood, of Fire, and Tears▪  
Yet by that Heavenly Face I so adore,  
I swear, for love of thee, I suffer more.  
For so long absent from thy gracious Eyes,  
Methinks I banished am the Deities.  
And that from Heaven with Thunder wrapped in Flame▪  
To th' Centre I precipitated am.  
Since I left thee, my Pleasures in their Tomb  
●ye dead, and I their Mourner am become.  
With all Delights my Thoughts distasted are,  
And only to dislike the World take care;  
Which as complying with my peevish Will,  
Does nothing, I protest, but vex me still.  
In Paris, like an Hermit, I retire,  
And in one Object limit my Desire.  
Where e'er my Eyes seek to divert my Mind,  
I bear the Prison, where I am confined.  
My Blood is fir'd, and my Soul wounded lies,  
By th' golden Shaft shot from thy kill Eyes▪  
All the Temptations, that I daily see,  
Serve only to confirm my Faith to thee.  
The usual helps, that humane Re●son bless,  
To render a Man's Passion something less,  
Stir mine up more to suffer cheerfully  
Th' obliging Torments, that do make me die.  
My Prudence, by my Courage, is withstood,  
As by a rock the fury of the Flood.  
I love my Frenzy, and I could not love  
Him of my Friends, that should it disapprove;  
Nor do I think, my reasonable part  
Will e'er approach me, whilst thou absent art.  
I find my Thoughts uncessantly approve  
The torturing effects of faithful Love.  
I find, that Day itself shares in my pain;  
The Air's o'erspread with Clouds, the Earth with Rain;  
That horrid Visions in my starting Sleep,  
My Souls in their illusions tangled keep:  
That all the apprehensions in my Head  
Are Madness, by my feverish Passion bred,  
That at hushed midnight I imagine Storms,  
And see a Shipwreck, in its dreadfullest Forms,  
Fall from the top of an high precipice  
Into the Jaws of an obscure Abyss:  
And there a thousand ugly Serpents see,  
Hissing t' advance their scaly Crests at me.  
I cannot once dream of a false Delight,  
But cruel Death strait seizes me in spite.  
But when Heaven (weary to have gone thus far)  
Gives, that I live under a better Star;  
And when th' unconstant Stars, by their changed power,  
Present me for my Pains one happy hour;  
My Soul will find itself changed at thy sight,  
And of all past mishaps revenged quite.  
Though in Nights Sleep my Spirits buried lay,  
Thy sight, my Dear, would lend them beams of Day.  
Thy Voice has over me the self same power,  
With Zephyr's Breath over th' Earth's withered  
Flower:  
The vigorous Springs makes all things fresh and new;  
The blowing Rose puts on her blushing hue;  
The Heavens more gay, the Days more fair appear▪  
Aurora dressing to the Birds gives ear,  
The wild Beasts of the Forest free from Care,  
Do feel their Blood, and Youth renewed are,  
And naturally obedient to their Sense,  
Without remorse, their Pleasures recommence.  
I only in the season all are blest,  
With cruel, and continual Griefs oppressed,  
Alone in Winter, sad, and comfortless,  
See not the glorious Spring, that we should bl●ss.  
I only see the Forest fair forsaken,  
' Th' Earth's surface Desert, and the frozen Brook,  
And, as if charmed, cannot once taste the Fruit,  
That in this season to all Palates suit.  
But when those Suns my adoration claim,  
Shall with their Rays once reinforce my Flame,  
My Spring will then return more sweet, and fair  
By thousand times than those,' Heavens Lamp gives, are,  
If ever Fate allow mine Eyes that grace,  
My Joys will transcend those of humane Race,  
Nothing, but that, Oh Gods! nothing but that  
Do I desire to ba●●le Death, and Fate.   

Out of Astrea.  
MADRIGAL.  

I Think I could my Passions sway,  
Though great, as Beauty's power can move  
To such obedience, as to say,  
I cannot; or I do not love.  
But to pretend another Flame,  
Since I adore thy conquering Eye,  
To thee, and Truth, were such a shame,  
I cannot do it, though I die.   

If I must one, or th' other do,  
Then let me die, I beg of you.    

Stanzes upon the Death of Cleon.  
Out of Astrea.  

I.  
THE Beauty which so soon to Cinders turned,  
By Death of her Humanity deprived,  
Like lightning vanished, like the Bolt it burned:  
So great this Beauty was, and so short lived.   

II.  
Those Eyes so practised once in all the Arts,  
That loyal Love attempted; or e'er knew:  
Those fair Eyes now are shut, that once the hearts  
Of all that saw their lustre, did subdue.   

III.  
If this be true, Beauty is ravished▪ hence,  
Love vanquished droops, that ever conquered,  
And she who gave Life by her influence,  
Is, if she live not in my Bosom, dead.   

iv  
Henceforth what happiness can Fortune send,  
Since Death, this abstract of all Joy has won;  
Since Shadows do the Substance still attend,  
And that our good does but our ill forerun?   

V  
It seems (my Cleon) in thy rising morn,  
That Destiny thy whole Days course had  
bound,  
And that, thy Beauty, dead, as soon as born,  
It's fatal Hear●e, has in its Cradle ●ound.   

VI  
No, no, thou shalt not die, I Death will prove,  
Who Life by thy sweet Inspiration drew;  
If Lovers live in that which doth them love;  
Thou liv'st in me, who ever loved most true▪   

VII.  
If I do live, Love then will have it known,  
That even Death itself he can control,  
Or, as a God, to have his Power shown,  
Will that I live without of Heart, or Soul.   

VIII.  
But, Cleon, if heavens unresisted will  
Appoint thee, of Death th' inhuman Fate to try,  
Love to that Fate equals my Fortune still,  
Thou by my mourning, by the Death I die.   

IX.  
Thus did I my immortal Sorrows Breath,  
Mine Eyes to Fountains turned of springing Woe;  
But could not stay the wounding Hand of Death,  
Lament; but not lessen misfortune so.   

X.  
When Love with me having bewailed the loss  
Of this sweet Beauty, thus much did express,  
Cease, cease to weep, this mourning is too gross,  
Our Tears are still than our misfortune less.    

Song of the inconstant Hylas▪  
Out of Astrea.  

I.  
IF one disdain me, than I fly  
Her Cruelty, and her Disdain;  
And e'er the Morning gild the Sky,  
Another Mistress do obtain.  
They err who hope by force to move  
A Woman's Heart to like; or love.   

II.  
I● oft falls out that they, who in  
Discretion seem us to despise,  
Nourish a greater Fire within,  
Although perhaps concealed it lies.  
Which we, when once we quit our rooms,  
Do kindle for the next that comes.   

III.  
The faithful Fool that obstinate  
Pursues a cruel Beauty's Love,  
To him, and to his Truth ingrate  
Idolater does he not prove?  
That from his pow'rless, Idol, never  
Receives a Medicine for his Fever.   

iv  
They say the unwearyed Lovers pains  
By instance meet with good success;  
For he by force his end obtains:  
'Tis an odd method of Address,  
To what Design so e'er't relate,  
Still, still to be importunate.   

V  
Do but observe the hourly Fears  
Of your pretended faithful Lover,  
Nothing but Sorrow, Sighs, and Tears,  
You in his chearfull'st Looks discover;  
As though the Lover's Sophistry  
Were nothing but to whine, and cry.   

VI  
●●●ght he by a Man's Name be styled,  
●hat (losing th' Honour of a Man)  
●hines for his Pepin, like a Child  
whipped and sent back to School again,  
Or rather Fool that thinks amiss,  
He loves, but knows not what Love is?   

VII.  
〈◊〉 my part, I'll decline this Folly,  
〈◊〉 others harms (thank Fate) grown wise,  
●●ch Dotage begets Melancholy,  
● must profess Love's Liberties;  
And never angry am at all  
At them who me inconstamt call.    

SONNET.  
Out of Astrea.  

SInce I must now eradicate the Flame,  
Which, seeing you, Love in my Bosom placed,  
And the Desires which thus long could last,  
Kindled so well, and nourished in the same.   

Since Time, that first saw their Original,  
Must triumph in their end, and Victor be,  
Let's have a brave Design, and to be free,  
Cut off at once the Briar-rose, and all.   

●et us put out the Fire Love has begot,  
●●eak the tough Cord tied with so fast a knot▪  
And voluntary take a brave adieu.   

●o shall we nobly conquer Love and Fate,  
●nd at the Liberty of choice do that,  
Which time its self, at last, would make us do.    

A PARAPHRASE.  
THE Beauty that must me delight,  
Must have Skin, and Teeth Snow white:  
Black arched Brows, black sprightly Eyes,  
And a black Beauty 'twixt her Th— ghs;  
So●t blushing Cheeks, a Person tall,  
Long Hair, long Hands, and Fingers small;  
Short Teeth; and Feet that little are,  
Dilated Brows, and Haunches fair:  
Fine silken Hair, Lips full, and red,  
Small Nose, with little Breast and Head:  
All these in one, and that one kind,  
Would make a Mistress to my Mind.   

An Essay upon Buchanan's First Book de Sphaera. Never perfected.  
HOW various are the World's great parts I sing▪  
And by what League the jarring Seeds of things  
Agree in one, the Causes Motion breed  
Why Darkness Light, and Coldness Heat succeed,  
And why the Suns, and the Moon's horned Light  
Suffer Eclipses of o're-shading Night.  
Thou who the Temples, walled with sacred Light.  
(Impenetrable to our weaker sight)  
Inhabit'st, holy Father of the Skies,  
Propitious be to this bold Enterprise,  
Whilst to the World we do Thy Acts reveal,  
And the immense Work of the Pole unseal;  
That people ignorant of Truth, a Mind  
From Sloth, and long-lived Error so refined)  
May lift to Heaven, and whilst amazed, the Ball  
They so embraced with a Flaming Wall,  
And wheeling times return in certain course,  
May own the Mover, and admire his Force,  
●hat props so great a Pile, that with the bit  
Of his Eternal Law doth govern it;  
And in His secret Council has decreed  
〈◊〉 fit for Man's innumerable Need.  
And thou, young Mercury Tymolion,  
Thy Father's, and thy Country's hopeful Son,  
Go, my Companion, in thy tender Years,  
C●●●alion Woods, and sacred Founts draw near,  
frequent that unknown Peace, and Nymphs soft Choires  
Subject to loss; nor avaricious Fires.  
The time will come (when time has given Thee Force)  
That thou shalt bravely, with thy foaming Horse,  
Rush into War, and gloriously advance  
In dusty Fields thy Country's threatening Lance:  
Till then, thy Sire, either shall Lombard's deign  
T'o'ercome, willed Germane, and the Warlike Spain  
By Force; or Conduct: Or with gallic spoil,  
Dazzling the Sun, deck Calidonia's Soyl.  
Caetera desunt.   

Cn. Cornelii Galli; vel potius Maximiani Elegia 1. Trans.  

WHY, envious Age, dost thou my End delay  
Why in this wearied Trunk delight to stay  
My captive Life from such a Prison free,  
Death now is Rest, when Life is Misery.  
I'm not more what I was, but sunk, and old,  
And what remains is languishing and cold.  
The day that young Men cheers, offends mine Eye  
And (which is worse than Death) I wish to die   

I was my Youth, whilst Wit, and Beauty crowned,  
An Orator throughout the World renowned.  
The Poets charming lies full oft I feigned,  
And by fictitious Tales, true Titles gained.  
In all Disputes of Wit the Wreath bore I;  
And have my Eloquence reputed high,  
High, and immortal. Oh! what then remains  
Worthy an old Man's Living; or his Pains?  
Nor less than these the Beauty of my Face,  
Which (though the rest are wanting) wins much Grace.  
Manhood to that, which richer far than Gold,  
Makes Wit a greater price, and Lustre hold.  
If I, with Dogs, the Thickets would surround,  
The conquered Prey fell at my Lances Wound;  
Or would I lose Shafts from the bending Yew,  
With great applause untamed Beasts I slew;  
Or with the sinewy Wrestlers if I tried,  
With my strong Nerves their oily Limbs I tied:  
●ow at the Race I all that came outrun;  
And now in Tragic Song the Buskin won.  
This mixture of good things my worth increased,  
●●ill various Works of Art advance us best:  
For whatsoever things simply delight,  
Joined to another Grace, shine out more bright;  
With such a Mine of Fortitude adorned,  
All threatening Dangers I contemned, and scorned▪  
Barehead I made the Winds and Storms retreat,  
Feeling no Winters Cold; nor Summer's Heat;  
I swum the yellow Tyber's gelid Stream,  
And fearless would the doubtful Current s●em.  
With the least Sleep I could forsake my Bed,  
And with the slend'rest fare be amply fed.  
Or if a drunken Guest surprised my Walls,  
To waste the forlorn day in Bacchanals;  
Lyaeus' self struck Sail, amazed, and dumb,  
And he that always conquered, fell o'ercome.  
Nor is't an easy thing the Mind to bend  
At once with two Opposers to contend.  
And in this kind of strife they say of Yore,  
Great Socrates the Victor's Trophy bore.  
And thus they say the rigid Cato won;  
Things are not ill themselves, unless ill done.  
To all things dreadless I opposed my Face,  
And to my constant Mind Mischance gave place.  
With little pleased I still loved to be poor,  
And being Lord of all, could wish no more.  
Thou only, wretched Age, dost me subdue,  
To whom who conquers all things else must bow.  
'Tis into thee we fall, and what at last  
Decays, and withers, thou alone dost waste.  
Hetruria ravished with these parts of mine,  
Wished that I would with her fair Daughters twine:  
But Liberty to me was far more sweet,  
Than all the Pleasures of the Nuptial Sheet.  
In my gay Youth I walked about proud Rome,  
To view what Virgins there might overcome,  
Which might be won; or which was fit to seek;  
When at their sight, soft blushes stained my Cheek.  
Now runs a smiling Girl herself to hid,  
And yet not so, as not to be descried;  
But by some single part to be revealed,  
Gladder by much to be so ill concealed.  
Thus did I far, and acceptable pass  
To all, and thus a lusty Suitor was,  
And only so: For Nature my strong Breast,  
In Modesty and Chastity had dressed.  
For whilst I strove the choices Fair to wed,  
I wore out Cold even to a Widowed Bed.  
They all to me ill bred, or ugly seemed,  
And I none worthy my Embraces deemed.  
I hated lean ones, fat were a Disease;  
Neither the low; nor yet the tall would please.  
With middle Forms I ever loved to play,  
And in the midst most Graces ever lay.  
Here of our softest parts lies all the bliss,  
And in this part Loves Mother seated is.  
A slender Lass not lean, I loved to choose,  
For Flesh is fittest for a fleshy use:  
One whose most straight Embraces would delight,  
Not one whose Bones should gore my Ribs in Fight.  
I loved no Fair, unless her Cheeks were spread  
With native Roses of the purest red.  
This Tincture Venus owns above the rest,  
And loves the Beauty in her Flower dressed.  
A long white Neck, and golden flowing Hair,  
Have long been known to make a Woman fair.  
But black Brows, and black Eyes catch my Desire,  
And still, when seen▪ have set my Heart of fire▪  
I ever loved a red, and swelling Lip,  
Where a full Bowl of Kisses I might sip,  
A long round Neck than Gold appeared more rare,  
And the most wealthy Gem outshone by far.  
Ill fits it Age, to speak his wanton prime,  
And what was decent then, is now a Crime:  
For various things do different Men delight,  
Nor yet are all things for all Ages right;  
Things apt for one Age, at the last may grow  
Uncomely for the selfsame Man to do.  
The Child by play, th'old Man's by stead'ness seen,  
But the young Man's Behaviour lies between.  
This silent sadness best becomes, and that,  
Is better liked of for his Mirth, and Chat:  
For rolling times does all things turn, and sway,  
And suffers none to run one certain way.   

Now that a long unprofitable Age,  
Lies heavy on me, I would quit the Stage.  
Life's hard Condition gripes the Wretched still▪  
Nor is Death swayed by any humane Will.  
The Wretch wishes to die, but Death retires,  
Yet when Men dread him, than the Slave aspires.  
But I alas, that ma●gre all my Arts,  
Have been so long dead in so many parts,  
On Earth I think shall never end my Days,  
But enter quick the dark Tartarean ways.  
My Taste, and Hearing's ill, mine Eyes are such,  
Nay I can scarce distinguish by my Touch:  
No Smell is sweet; nor Pleasure; who'd believe  
A Man could sensibly his Sense out live?  
Lethe's Oblivion does my Mind embrace,  
And yet I can remember what I was.  
The Limbs diseased, the Mind no Work contrives,  
The thought of ills all other aim deprives.  
I sing no Lyrics now, that dear Delight,  
With all my Voices Grace, is perished quite;  
Frequent no Exercise, no Odes rehearse,  
And only with my Pains, and Griefs converse;  
The Beauty of my Shape and Face are fled,  
And my revolted Form 'fore-speaks me dead.  
For fair, and shining Age has now put on  
A bloodless, Funeral Complexion.  
My Skin's dried up, my Nerves unpliant are,  
And my poor Limbs my Nails blow up, and tear,  
My cheerful Eyes, now with a constant Spring,  
Of Tears bewail their own sad Suffering;  
And those soft Lids that once secured mine Eye,  
Now rude, and bristled grown, does drooping lie,  
Bolting mine Eyes, as in a gloomy cav●.  
Which there on Furies, and grim Objects rave.  
'Twould fright the full-blown Gallant to behold  
The dying Object of a Man so old;  
Nor can you think that once a Man he was,  
Of humane reason, who no portion has.  
The Letters split, when I consult my Book,  
And every Leaf I turned does broader look.  
In Darkness do I dream I see the Light,  
When Light is Darkness to my perished Sight.  
Without a Night t'oreshade him, the bright Day  
Is from my Sense deprived, and snatched away.  
Who can deny, that wrapped in Night's Embrace,  
I groping lie in the Tartarean place?  
What mad Adviser would a Man persuade  
By his own Wish to be more wretched made?  
Diseases now invade, and Dangers swarm,  
Sweet Banquets now, and Entertainments harm.  
We're forced to wean ourselves from grateful things,  
And though we live, avoid the sweets Life brings▪  
And me, whom late, no accident could bend,  
Now the mere Aliments of Life offend.  
I would be full, am sick when I am so,  
Should fast, but abstinence is hurtful too.  
'Tis changed to surfeit now what once was Meat,  
And that's now nauseous, which before was sweet.  
Venus, and Bacchus' Rites, now fruitless are,  
That use to lull this Life's contingent Care.  
Nature alone panting, and prostrate lies,  
Caught in the ruin of her proper Vice.  
Julip; nor Cordial now no Comfort give;  
Nor ought that should a Patient sick relieve:  
But with their Matter their Corruption have,  
And only serve to importune my Grave.  
When I attempt to prop my falling Frame,  
The Letts opposed, make my Endeavours lame▪  
Until my Dissolutions tardy day  
All helps of Arts do with the thing decay▪  
And by th'appearance since th'afflicted Mind  
Can no diversion, nor advantage find;  
〈◊〉 it not hard we may not from men's Eyes  
Cloak, and conceal Ages Indecencies.  
Unseeming Spruceness th'old Man discommends;  
And in old Men only to live offends.  
With Mirth, Feasts, Songs, the old must not dispense,  
●O wretched they whose Joys are an offence!  
What should I do with Wealth, whose use being ta'en,  
Although I swim in store, I poor remain:  
Nay 'tis a Sin to what we have got to trust,  
And what's our own to violate unjust.  
So thirsty Tantalus the neighbour Stream,  
And Fruit would taste, but is forbidden them.  
I but the Treas'rer am of my own Pelf,  
Keeping for others what's denied myself:  
And like the Fell Hesperian Dragon grown,  
Defend that golden Fruits no more my own.  
This above all is that augments my Woes,  
And robs my troubled Mind of all Repose.  
I strive to keep things I could never gain,  
And ignorantly hold some things in vain.  
Continued Fears do credulous age invade;  
And th'old Man dreads the ills himself has made,  
Applauds the past, condemns the present Years;  
And only what he thinks Truth, Truth appears;  
He only learned is, has all the skill,  
And thinking himself wise, is wider still.  
Who though with Trouble he much Talk affords,  
Falters, forgets, and dribbles out his Words;  
The Hearer's tired, but he continues long;  
O wretched Age, only in prating strong!  
Idly he talks, and strains his feeble Voice,  
Whilst those he pleased before, laugh at his noise.  
Their Mirth exalts him, he still louder grows,  
And dotingly his own Reproach allows:  
These are Death's Firstlings, Age does this way flow,  
And with slow pace creeps to the Shades below.  
Whilst the same Colour Mien, nor pace appear  
In the poor Traveller that lately were.  
My Garment from my withered Limbs hangs down,  
And what before too short, too long is grown.  
We strangely are contracted, and decrease,  
A Man would think our very Bones were less.  
Our burdened Age cannot the heavens behold,  
But prone still looks upon the parent Mold.  
On three Feet first we halt, on four next fall,  
And on the Earth like helpless Infants crawl.  
To their first Birth and Mother all things tend,  
And what was nothing shall in nothing end.  
Hence 'tis that leaning Age the senseless Ground,  
Does with his bending Crutch so often wound.  
And with thick steps making a tardy way,  
In a hoarse Voice may thus be thought to say;  
Receive me, Mother, to remorse incline,  
And in thy Lap cherish these Limbs of mine.  
The Children hoot me wheresoe're I go;  
Why wilt thou let thy Birth so monstrous grow?  
I with the Gods have now no more to do,  
Each Office of my Life I have run through.  
My wasted Carcase then at last restore,  
To the cold Clay from whence I came before.  
To spin a miserable Life in smart,  
Of a Maternal Care can be no part.  
Then propping his weak Joints, he feebly crawls,  
And on his weary Bed neglected falls.  
Lying like livid Corpse of Life bereft,  
Only the rafters of the Building left.  
Should I still lie, and lying win more space,  
Yet who would think me in a living place?  
'Tis pain to live, with heat we burn, not warm,  
The Clouds offend, the Air, and Coldness harm.  
The Dew, and soft Showers that in April flow,  
With Autumn's jocund Days offensive grow.  
Coughs, Phlegm, and Leprosies afflict the old,  
And ages minutes by his Groans are told.  
How can I him a living Man believe,  
Whom Light, and Air, by which he panteth, grieve?  
Those gentle Sleeps which other Mortals ease,  
Scarce in a Winter's Night mine Eyelids seize;  
Or if it come to shade my setting Beams,  
'tis clad in all the shapes of frightful Dreams.  
The softest Featherbeds seem hard as Stones,  
And lightest Quilts oppress my naked Bones.  
I quit my Bed at midnight to the Floor,  
And suffer much, I may not suffer more.  
Our own Infirmities ourselves invade,  
And by the way we hate, we're Captives made▪  
Our Entrails suffer Dissolution,  
By which the noble Structure is o'erthrown.  
Unlooked for Age, o'reburthened with these things,  
Has learned to bow under the weight he brings.  
Who therefore would desire in Griefs so sour,  
When the Minds vanished, to prolong his hour?  
Better die once, than dying live by far,  
Making the Trunk the Senses Sepulchre;  
But I repine not, my time wasted is,  
And Nature's shame to open is amiss.  
Sinewy Bulls in time invalid grow,  
The Horse that once was fair's mishapen now.  
Time tames the fury of the Lion's wild,  
And Age will make the Caspian Tigers mild.  
Antiquity the Stones themselves will raze,  
And to old Time all Nature's Works give place:  
But I were best prevent mischance to come,  
And by one blow anticipate my doom.  
To haste a certain Ruin is less pain,  
Than is the fear of Mischief's that remain.  
But in the other World what Torments are,  
Suspends, and well becomes and old Man's Care.  
Contempt, and Mischiefs ev'rywhere attend,  
And in distress I find no helping Friend.  
The Boys, and Girls deride me now forlorn,  
And but to call me Sir, now think it scor●.  
They jeer my Countenance, and my feeble Pace,  
And scoff that nodding Head that awful was:  
And though I nothing see, I can perceive,  
My Pains by this contempt redoubled grieve.  
He's happy Merits a smooth Life to spend,  
And shut his Days up with a constant end.  
That's hard at last we Reputation call,  
From which height tumbling, still augments the fall.    

Ad Furium, Ep. 23.  
Ex Catullo.  
THough Furious Servant have, nor Chest,  
Spider, nor Fire, nor creeping Beast,  
He has a Sire, and a Stepdame yet,  
Whose greedy Teeth a Flint would eat.  
And doubtless leads a happy Life  
With's Father, and his wooden Wife.  
No Wonder; for their Healths are clear▪  
They eat together, nothing fear.  
No Conflagrations, Ruins great,  
No impious Facts, nor foul Deceit.  
〈◊〉 accidental dangers scorn,  
●nd having Bodies dry as horn;  
〈◊〉 what we still do drier hold  
●he Sun, or hunger; or the cold,  
●mongst the happy are enroled.  
〈◊〉 sweat; nor salivation flows  
●rom thee; no drop hangs at thy Nose;  
●nd to this cleanness, cleaner far.  
●hy A—se is than a Salt-Seller,  
〈◊〉 Ten times in a Year does Sh—te,  
●nd that parched Pease; or Stones doth quite  
〈◊〉 hardness pass, which if thou list  
〈◊〉 rub, and crumble in thy Fist:  
●hou may'st securely do it, and  
●e're slain the Whiteness of thy Hand.  
These Benefits do not despise,  
●or rashly, Furius, lightly prize;  
●et begging then for shame alone,  
●or thou art rich enough for one.   

De Catella Publ. Mart. Ep. 110. Lib. 1.  
PAR.  
AS Lesbias' Sparrow, Tricksy wanton is,  
And purer than the Turtle's Kiss;  
Fairer than Maids, decked in their Morning beams,  
And of more price than Indian Gems.  
Tricksy, that little Bitch, is my delight,  
My Sport by Day, my Love by Night.  
She apprehends her Master's joy, and woe,  
And wanton's, or's dejected so.  
And if in play, or love she quest, or whine,  
Men think she speaks in Language fine.  
She rouses with me at the dawning peep,  
And by my side all Night doth sleep;  
So calm, so still, no sigh does interpose  
Betwixt me, and my sweet repose:  
Or if an accident unlooked for come,  
To ease the gripe of her Womb,  
〈◊〉 slips no drop of any kind to slain;  
Or to ill sent the counterpain:  
〈◊〉 nimbly rises up, and whining tells  
What her necessity compels.  
〈◊〉 innate Chastity adorns the Beast  
She knows not lust; nor have we guest,  
throughout mankind, one worthy to invade,  
The treasures of so fair a Maid.  
〈◊〉 lest the Fate of her extremest Day  
Should snatch her Memory away,  
〈◊〉 wisely have in cunning colour set,  
The Beauty of her counterfeit;  
schich fair Tricksy you so like may see,  
That She is not more like to She.  
〈◊〉 fine expose her, and her Shade to view  
You'll think both painted; or both true.   

〈◊〉 ad Pictorem Ausonii Epig.  
●●'Express me in a Face! vain Painter why?  
Or court an unknown Goddess with thine Eye?  
From Hire, and Tongue, I'm sprung mother of vai●  
Report, who Voice without a Mind retain.  
Catching last Syllab'es from their dying tone,  
And mocking others Language with my own.  
Shrill Echo only in the Ear is found;  
But if thou'lt paint her like, go paint a Sound.   

De Myrone & Laide Ausonii. Epig.  
OF Lais hoary Myron begged a Night,  
But she repulsed him with a slight.  
He soon perceived the cause, and his white Head  
With shining black soon overspread.  
Myron the same in Face, but not in Hue,  
Returns his Love-suit to renew.  
But Face and Hair compared by the Dame,  
Thinking him like, but not the same.  
Perhaps the same Top, yet disposed to play;  
She to the subtle Youth could say;  
●o●dling, forbear to importune me so,  
Thy Father I denied, but now.   

De Vita beata.  
paraphrased from the Latin.  
COme y'are deceived, and what you do  
Esteem a happy Life's not so;  
He is not happy that excels  
〈◊〉 L●pidary's Bagatells;  
Nor he, that when he sleeps, doth lie  
Under a stately Canopy;  
Nor he, that still supinely hides,  
〈◊〉 easy Down his lazy Sides;  
Nor he, that Purple wears and sups!  
Luxurious Draughts in Golden Cups;  
Nor he, that loads with Princely fare,  
His bowing Tables whilst they'll bear;  
Nor he, that has each spacious Vault  
With Deluges of Plenty fraught;  
Culled from the fruitful Libyan Fields,  
When Autumn his best Harvest yields:  
But he whom no mischance affrights;  
No Popular applause delights,  
That can unmoved, and undismayed  
Confront a Ruffian's threatening Blade.  
Who can do this; that Man alone  
Has Power, Fortune to Disthrone.   

Q. Cicero de Mulierum levitate. Translat.  
COmmit a Ship unto the Wind;  
But not thy Faith to Women kind;  
For th'ocean's waving Billows are  
Safer than Woman's Faith by far.  
No Woman's Good, and if there be,  
Hereafter, such a Thing as she:  
●Tis by I know not what of Fate,  
That can from Bad, a Good Create.   

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.  
SOme Men of Sense, and who pretend to be  
Ancient Well-willers to your Family,  
Photic, give out, that Bawd Men may thee call  
And do thy modesty no wrong at all.  
Thou swearest they Infamously lie  
And that no Word of Verity  
They ever spoke, then; or before:  
And yet it cannot be denied  
But by thy Cuckold Husband's side,  
Thou every Night dost lay a Whore.   

In Coccam.  
Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.  
THy Cheeks having their Roses shed,  
And thy whole frame through Age become  
So loathsome for all use in Bed,  
That 'tis much fit for a Tomb:  
Cocca thou shouldst not be so vain,  
(Although thy Eloquence be great)  
As to expect it should obtain,  
That I should do the filthy Feat.  
And that same Engine in your Hood  
You Cherish, Court, and Flatter so,  
Now you have made him barely stood;  
Is not so charitable though,  
As in his vigorous Youth to be  
A Crutch to your Antiquity.   

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.  
OLd Fop, why should you take such pains  
To Paint, and Periwig it so?  
My nobler Love alas! disdains  
To stoop so infamously low.  
Time that does mow the fairest Flowers,  
Has made so very bold with yours,  
You should expect to be denied:  
The Footmen can no more endure you,  
And, if no sport in Hell, assure you  
You'll never more be Occupied.   

Epig. writ in Calistas' Prayer Book. By Monsieur Malherbe.  
WHilst you are Deaf to Love, you my,  
Fairest Calista, Weep, and Pray,  
And yet alas! no Mercy find:  
Not but God's Merciful 'tis true:  
But can you think he'll grant to you,  
What you deny to all Mankind.   

ODE Bacchique de Monsieur Racau.  

I.  
NOw that the Day's short, and forlorn  
Of Melancholic Capricorn  
To Chimny-corners Men translate:  
Drown we our Sorrows in the Glass,  
And let the thoughts of Warfare pass,  
The Clergy and the Third Estate.   

II.  
Maynard, I know what thou hast writ,  
That sprightly issue of thy Wit,  
Will live whilst there are Men to read:  
But what if they recorded be  
In Memories Temple, boots it thee,  
When thou art gnawnby Worms, and dead?   

III.  
Henceforth those fruitless Studies spare,  
Let's rather Drink until we stare▪  
Of this delicious Juice of ours:  
Which does in excellence precede  
The beverage which Ganymede  
Into th' Immortals Geb●et pours.   

iv  
The Juic● that sparkles in this Glass,  
Make tedious Years, like Days, to pass;  
Yet makes us younger still become;  
By this from labouring Thoughts are chased,  
The Sorrows of those ills are passed,  
And terror of the ills to come.   

V  
Let us Drink brimmers then, Time's fleet,  
And steals away with winged Feet  
Halling us with him to our Urn:  
In vain we sue to it to stay;  
For Years like Rivers slide away,  
And never, never do return.   

VI  
When the Spring comes attired in Green  
Then Winter flies, and is not seen,  
New Tides do still supply the Main:  
But when our frolic Youth's once gone,  
And Age has ta'en Possession;  
Time ne'er restores us that again.   

VII.  
Death's Laws are universal, and  
In Prince's Palaces command,  
As well as in the Poorest Hut:  
We're too the Parcaes subject all  
The Threads of Clowns, and Monarches shall  
Be both by the same Cizo●s cut.   

VIII.  
Their rigours, which all things de●ace,  
Will ravish in a little space  
Whatever we most lasting make;  
And soon will lead us out to drink  
Beyond the Pitchy River's brink  
The Waters of oblivious Lake.    

Lyric.  
Ex Cornelio Gallo.  

LYdia, thou lovely Maid, whose White  
The Milk, and Lily does outvie,  
The Pale and Blushing Roses light,  
Or polished Indian Ivory.   

Dishevel, sweet, thy yellow Hair,  
Whose ray doth burnished Gold disprize,  
Dissolve thy Neck so brightly fair,  
That doth from Snowy Shoulders rise.   

Virgin, unveil those starry Eyes,  
Whose Sable Brows like Arches spread;  
Unveil those Cheeks, where the Rose lies  
Streaked with the Tyrian Purples Red.   

Led me those Lips with Coral lined,  
And kisses mild of Doves impart,  
Thou ravishest away my Mind,  
Those gentle kisses steal my Heart.   

Why suckest thou from my panting Breast  
The Youthful vigour of my Blood?  
Hid those ●wine-Apples, ripe, if pressed  
To spring in to a Milky-flood.   

From thy expanded Bosom, breathe  
Perfumes Arabia doth not know;  
Thy every part doth Love bequeath,  
From thee all excellencies ●low.   

Thy Bosoms killing White than shade,  
Hid that temptation from mine Eye:  
Thou ●eest I languish, cruel Maid;  
Wilt thou then go, and let me die?    

De luxu, & libidine.  
Epig. Tho. Mori.  
LEt who would die to end his Woes,  
Both, Wench, and Tipple, and he goes.   

Id. in Avarum.  
EPIG.  
WIth narrow Soul thou swim'st in glorious Wealth,  
Rich to thy Heir: but wretched to thyself.   

Id. in Digamos.  
EPIG.  
WHo having one Wife buried, Marries then,  
After one Shipwreck tempts the Sea again.   

Stances de Monsieur de Scudery.  

I.  
FAir Nymph, by whose perfections moved,  
My wounded Heart is turned to Flame▪  
●y all admired, by all approved,  
●●dure at least to be beloved,  
Although you will not Love again.   

II.  
Aminta as Unkind, as Fair  
What is there that you ought to fear▪  
●or cruel if I you declare,  
And that indeed you cruel are,  
Why the reproach may you not hear?   

III.  
Even reproaches should delight,  
If Friendship for me you have none;  
And if no anger, I have yet,  
Enough perhaps that may invite  
Your hatred; or compassion.   

iv  
When your Disdain is most severe,  
When you most rigorous do prove,  
When frowns of anger most you wear;  
You still more charming do appear,  
And I am more, and more in Love.   

V  
Ah! let me, Sweet, your sight enjoy,  
Though with the forfeit of my Life;  
For fall what will, I'd rather die,  
Beholding you, of present Joy,  
Than absent, of a lingering Grief.   

VI  
〈◊〉 your Eyes lighten till expiring  
In flame my Heart a Cinder lie;  
●●lling is nobler, than retiring,  
〈◊〉 in the glory of Aspiring;  
'Tis brave to tumble from the Sky.   

VII.  
〈◊〉 I would any thing embrace,  
Might serve your anger to appease;  
〈◊〉, if I may obtain my Grace,  
●our Steps shall leave no print; nor trace  
I will not with Devotion kiss.   

VIII.  
(Cruel) you will have it so,  
No word my passion shall betray;  
〈◊〉 wounded Heart shall hid its Woe:  
〈◊〉 if it Sigh, those Sighs will blow,  
And tell you what my Tongue would say.   

IX.  
Should yet your rigour higher rise,  
Even those offending Sighs shall cease;  
I will my Pain, and Grief disguise:  
But (Sweet) if you consult mine Eyes,  
Those Eyes will tell you my Distress.   

X.  
If th' utmost my respect can do,  
Still more your cruelty displease;  
Consult your Face, and that will show  
What Love is to such Beauty due,  
And to the state of my Disease.    

Epitaph Monsieur Maynard▪  
JOhn, who below here reposes at leisure,  
By pilf'ring on all hands, did rake up a Treasu●●●  
Above what he e'er could have hoped for himself;  
〈◊〉 was Master of much; but imparted to no Man,  
〈◊〉 that had he not had a Wife, that was common  
ne'er any Man living had shared of his Wealth.   

On Cation a Dwarf.  
Epig▪ de Monsieur Maynard▪  
THe extended wont of Nature,  
As all men's Judgements will allow,  
Never pissed so small a Creature;  
Nor such a Mannikin as thou.  
One might conceal thee well enough  
In the least plet of thy small Ruff;  
Alas! thou half a Man art scant:  
Go, and show thy Stature (Cation)  
In the gross of some Batallion,  
Most bravely mounted on an Ant.   

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.  
ANthony feigns him Sick of late,  
Only to show how he at home,  
Lies in a Princely Bed of State,  
And in a nobly furnished Room,  
Adorned with Pictures of Vandike's,  
A pair of Crystal Candlesticks,  
Rich Carpets, Quilts, the Devil, and all▪  
Then you his careful Friends, if ever,  
You wish to cure him of his Fever,  
Go lodge him in the Hospital.   

In Coccam.  
Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.  
COcca thou'dst still be loved; nor wilt abate  
Our Primitive ardour, but with Discontent  
Although thou know'st thy Youth bears the same date  
With that alas! of the Old Testament.  
Thine Eyes no more are Homicides,  
And thy warped front its furrows hides  
Under the Paint-house of a Hood.  
Now ply thy Beads; thy Name's renowned,  
Thou the first Bawdy-house hast founded,  
Has been erected since the Flood.   

In Coccam.  
Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.  
LOrd! how wrinkled is thy Forehead!  
And how Grey thy Hair is grown!  
Lord! how chinked thy Lips, and aride!  
And thy whole Frame turned Skeleton!  
Truly, Cocca, I regret thee,  
Sure Old Age did undiscreetly,  
To be with thy Face so bold:  
Henceforth none will pleasure make thee;  
But thou purchase of the Lackey,  
What thou once the Master sold.   

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.  
COme, let's Drink, and drown all Sorrow,  
'Tis what the Time invites us to,  
And who knows whether to morrow  
Was ordained for us or no!  
Death watches us, and when that Slave  
Has once enclosed us in the Grave,  
And heaps of Mould upon us hurled;  
Farewell good Victuals and good Wine;  
I read in no Author of mine  
Of Taverns in the other World.   

To Agrippa.  
The Sixth Ode of Horace. His First Book of Lyrics.  
VArius, in living Annals may  
To the admiring Universe  
Voice out in high Maeonian Verse  
Thy Courage, and thy Conquests won,  
And what thy Troops by Land, and Sea  
Have through thy noble conduct done.  
Our Muse, Agrippa, that does fly  
An humbler pitch, attempts not these,  
T'express Pelides rage; nor ●ly  
Vlysse's tedious Voyages:  
Nor dips her Plume in those Red Tides,  
Flow from the Bloody Parricides  
Of● Pelops cruel Family:  
We nothing to such heights pretend  
Since Modesty,  
And our weak Muse, who does aspire  
No further than the jolly Lyre,  
Forbids that we  
Should in our vain attempts offend,  
And darken with our humble lays,  
Thine and great Caesar's Godlike Praise.  
Who to his worth can Mars display,  
When clad in Arms, whose dreadful Ray,  
Puts out the Day?  
Or brave Meriones set forth,  
When solyled in Trojan Dust; or raise●  
Fit Trophies to Tydides' worth,  
Who to th' Immortal Gods was made●  
A Rival by Minerva's aid?  
We Sing of Feasting, and Delights,  
Stout Drinking, and the harmless Fights  
Of hot young Men, and blushing Maid●  
Who when the Foe invades,  
Make a faint show,  
To Guard what they're conten●  
should go.  
These are the Subjects of our Song,  
In Nights, that else would seem too long,  
Did we not wisely prove  
The sweets of Jollity, and Love.   

Epig. de Monsieur Corneille.  
MArtin, Pox on him, that impudent Devil,  
That now only lives by his Shifts,  
By borrowing of Dribblets, and Gifts,  
For a forlorn Guinny I lent him last Day,  
Which I was assured he never would pay;  
On my own Paper would needs be so civil,  
To give me a Note of his Hand,  
But I did the Man so well understand,  
I had no great mind to be doubly trapan'd,  
And therefore told him 'twas needless. to do't:  
For ●aid I, I shall not be hasty to Dun ye,  
And 'tis enough surely to part with my Money,  
Without losing my Paper to boot.   

Epig. de Monsieur Cotin.  
AFter so many Works of various kinds  
Dawen with so great pains has writ,  
And all the recompense the Poet finds,  
Is but the poor contempt of Wit;  
If Dawen now forbear to write on still,  
'Tis that he weary is of doing ill.   

Epig. de Mons. de Bensaurade.  
HEre lies a great load of extr'ordinary merit,  
Who taught us to know ere he did hence departed,  
That a Man may well live without any Heart,  
And die (which is strange!) without rendering his Spirit.   

Madrigal on Queen Dido.  
Translated from Cavalier Guarini, and he from Ausonius.  
O Fortunata Dido, etc.  
HOw hapless, Dido, was thy Fate  
In both conditions of Life,  
To be alike Unfortunate,  
Whether a Mistress, or a Wife!  
Both alike unhappy made thee,  
Or thou thyself unhappy made;  
But thy Lover false betrayed— thee,  
And thy Husband was betrayed.  
He one miserably dying,  
Poor Queen thou wast enforced to fly;  
And the other falsely flying,  
Thou didst miserably die.   

Sede d'Amore.  
Madrigal. From Cavalier Guarini.  
TEll me Cupid, where's thy Nest,  
In Clora's Eyes, or in my Breast?  
When I do behold her Rays,  
I conclude it in her Face:  
But when I consider how  
They both wound, and burn me too,  
I conclude then by my smart,  
Thou inhabits in my Heart.  
Mighty Love, to show thy Power,  
Though it be but for an Hour,  
Let me beg without Offence,  
Thou wilt shift thy Residence,  
And erect thyself a Nest,  
In my Eyes, and in her Breast.   

Foco di sdegno.  
From Cavalier Guarini. Madrigal.  
FAir, and Ealse, I burn 'tis true,  
But by Love am no ways moved;  
Since your Falsehood renders you  
So unfit to be beloved.  
Tigress then, that you no more,  
May triumph it in my smart;  
It is fit you know before,  
That I now have cured my Heart.  
Henceforth than if I do Mourn,  
And that still I live in pain.  
With another flame I burn;  
Not with Love; but with Disdain.   

Risposta del Tasto.  
BUrn, or Frieze at thine own pleasure,  
Thou art free to Love, or no;  
'tis as little loss, as treasure,  
Whether thou beest Friend, or Foe.  
Lover False, and Unadvised,  
Who to threaten art so vain,  
Light thy Love I ever prized,  
And less value thy Disdain.  
If to Love 'twas ever bootless,  
And neglected was thy smart:  
The Disdains will be as Fruitless,  
Of thy fickle, hollow Heart.    

WINTER.  

I.  
HArk, hark, I hear the North Wind roar,  
See how he riots on the Shoar;  
And with expanded Wings outstretch,  
Ruffels the Billows on the Beach.   

II.  
Hark, how the routed Waves complain,  
And call for Succour to the Main,  
Flying the Storm as if they meant  
To creep into the Continent.   

III.  
Surely all Aeoll's huffing Brood  
Are met to War against the Flood,  
Which seem surprised, and have not yet  
Had time his Levies to complete.   

iv  
●he beaten Bark her Rudder lost,  
●on the rolling Billows tossed;  
〈◊〉 Keel now Ploughs the Ouse, and soon  
〈◊〉 Topmast tillts against the Moon.   

V  
●is strange! the Pilot keeps his seat;  
●is bounding Ship does so curvet,  
whilst the poor Passengers are found,  
〈◊〉 their own ●ears already drowned.   

VI  
●ow Fins do serve for Wings, and bear  
●heir Scaly Squadrons through the Air;  
whilst the Airs Inhabitants do slain  
●heir gaudy Plumage in the Main.   

VII.  
●ow Stars concealed in Clouds do peep  
〈◊〉 the secrets of the deep;  
And Lobsters spewed from the brine,  
With Cancer constellations shine.   

VIII.  
Sure Neptune's Watery Kingdoms yet  
Since first their Coral Graves were wet,  
Were ne'er disturbed with such alarms,  
Nor had such trial of their Arms.   

IX.  
See where a Liquid Mountain rides,  
Made up of innumerable Tides,  
And tumbles headlong to the Strand,  
As if the Sea would come to Land.   

X.  
A Sail, a Sail, I plainly spy,  
Betwixt the Ocean and the Sky,  
An Argosy, a tall built Ship,  
With all her Pregnant Sailors a-trip.   

XI.  
●●arer, and nearer, she makes way,  
●ith Canvas Wings into the Bay;  
●nd now upon the Deck appears  
● crowd of busy Mariners.   

XII.  
〈◊〉 thinks I hear the Cordage crack,  
●ith furrowing Neptune's foaming Back,  
●ho wounded, and revengeful roars  
●●s Fury to the neighbouring Shores.   

XIII.  
●ith massy trident high, he heaves  
〈◊〉 sliding Keel above the Waves,  
opening his Liquid Arms to take  
●he bold invader in his wrack.   

XIV.  
〈◊〉 how she dives into his Chest,  
whilst raising up his floating Breast  
To clasp her in, he makes her rise  
Out of the reach of his surprise.   

XV.  
Nearer she comes, and still doth sweep  
The Azure Surface of the deep,  
And now at last the Waves have thrown  
Their Rider on our ALBION.   

XVI.  
Under the Black cliff, spumy base,  
The Sea-sick Hulk her freight displays,  
And as she walloweth on the Sand,  
Vomits her burden to the Land.   

XVII.  
With Heads erect, and plying Oar,  
The Shipwrecked Mates make to the Shoar;  
And dreadless of their danger, climb  
The floating Mountains of the brine.   

XVIII.  
●ark, hark, the noise, their Echo make  
●he Islands Silver Waves to shake;  
●ure with these throws, the labouring Main  
〈◊〉 delivered of a Hurricane.   

XIX.  
And see the Seas becalmed behind,  
Not crisped with any breeze of Wind;  
The Tempest has forsaken the Waves,  
And on Land gins his braves.   

XX.  
Hark, hark, their Voices higher rise,  
They tear the Welkin with their Cries;  
The very Rocks their fury feel,  
And like Sick Drunkards nod, and reel.   

XXI.  
Louder, and louder, still they come,  
Nile's Cataracts to these are dumb;  
The Cyclope to these Blades are still,  
Whose Anvils shake the burning Hill.   

XXII.  
Were all the Stars enlightened Skies,  
As full of Ears as sparkling Eyes;  
This rattle in the Crystal Hall,  
Would be enough to deaf them all.   

XXIII.  
What monstrous Race is hither tossed,  
Thus to Alarm our British Coast;  
With Outcries, such as never yet  
War, or Confusion could beget.   

XXIV.  
Oh! now I know them let us home,  
Our Mortal Enemy is come,  
Winter and all his blust'ring train,  
Have made a voyage o'er the Main.   

XXV.  
Vanished the Countries of the Sun,  
The Fugitive is hither run,  
To ravish from our fruitful Fields  
All that the teeming Season yields.   

XXVI.  
Like an Invader, not a Guest,  
He comes to Riot, not to Feast;  
And in wild fury overthrows,  
Whatever does his march oppose,   

XXVII.  
With bleak and with congealing Winds,  
The Earth in shining Chains he binds;  
And still as he doth farther pass,  
Quarries his way with Liquid Glass.   

XXVIII.  
Hark, how the blusterors of the Bear,  
Their Gibbouse Cheeks in triumph tear,  
And with continued Shouts do ring  
The entry of their Palsyed King.   

XXIX.  
The Squadron nearest to your Eye,  
Is his Forlorn of Infantry,  
Bowmen of unrelenting Minds,  
Whose Shafts are Feathered with the Winds.   

XXX.  
Now you may see his Vanguard rise  
Above the Earthy Precipice,  
Bold Horse on bleakest Mountains bred,  
With Hail instead of Provend fed.   

XXXI.  
Their Lances are the pointed Locks,  
Torn from the Brows of Frozen Rocks,  
Their Shields are Crystals as their Swords,  
The Steel the rusted Rock affords.   

XXXII.  
See the main Body now appears,  
And hark the Aeolian Trupetters,  
By their Hoarse Levets do declare,  
That the bold General Rides there.   

XXXIII.  
And look where Mantled up in White,  
He sleads it like the Muscovite;  
I know him by the Port he bears,  
And his Lifeguard of Mountaineers.   

XXXIV.  
Their Caps are Fur'd with Hoary Frost,  
The Bravery their cold Kingdom boasts;  
Their spongy Plads are Milk White Frieze,  
Spun from the Snowy Mountain's Fleece.   

XXXV.  
Their Partisans are fine carved Glass,  
●ringed with the Morning's spangled Grass;  
And Pendant by their brawny Thighs,  
Hang Cimetars of burnished Ice.   

XXXVI.  
See, see, the Reerward now has won  
The Promontories trembling Crown,  
Whilst at there numerous Spurs, the Ground  
Groans out a hollow murmuring sound.   

XXXVII.  
The Forlorn now halts for the Van;  
The Rearguard draws up to the Main;  
And now they altogether crowd  
Their Troops into a threatening Cloud.   

XXXVIII.  
Fly, fly; the Foe advances fast  
Into our Fortress, let us hast  
Where all the Roarers of the North  
Can neither Storm, nor Starve us forth.   

XXXIX.  
There under Ground a Magazine  
Of Sovereign juice is collard in,  
Liquor that will the Siege maintain,  
Should Phoebus ne'er return again.   

XL.  
Till that, that gives the Poet rage,  
And thaws the gellyed Blood of Age;  
Matures the Young, restores the Old,  
And makes the fainting Coward bold.   

XLI.  
●t lays the careful Head to rest,  
Calms Palpitations in the Breast,  
Renders our Lives misfortune Sweet,  
And Venus frolic in the Sheet.   

XLII.  
Then let the i'll Sciorocco blow,  
And grid us round with Hills of Snow;  
Or, else go whistle to the Shoar,  
And make the hollow Mountains roar.   

XLIII.  
Whilst we together jovial sit  
Careless, and Crowned with Mirth and Wit;  
Where though bleak Winds confine us home,  
Our Fancies round the World shall roam.   

XLIV.  
We'll think of all the Friends we know,  
And Drink to all worth Drinking to:  
When having Drunk all thine and mine,  
We rather shall want Health than Wine.   

LXV.  
But where Friends fail us, we'll supply  
Our friendships with our Charity;  
Men that remote in Sorrows live,  
Shall by our lusty Brimmers thrive.   

XLVI.  
We'll Drink the Wanting into Wealth,  
And those that Languish into Health,  
The Afflicted into Joy, th' Oppressed  
Into Security and Rest.   

XLVII.  
The Worthy in Disgrace shall find  
Favour return again more kind,  
And in restraint who stifled lie,  
Shall taste the Air of Liberty.   

XLVIII.  
The Brave shall triumph in Success,  
The Lovers shall have Mistresses,  
Poor unreguarded Virtue Praise,  
And the Neglected Poet Bayss.   

XLIX.  
Thus shall our Healths do others good,  
Whilst we ourselves do all we would;  
For freed from Envy and from Care,  
What would we be, but what we are?   

L.  
'Tis the plump Grapes Immortal Juice  
That does this happiness produce,  
And will preserve us free together,  
Maugre mischance, or Wind and Wether.   

LI.  
Then let Old Winter take his course,  
And roar abroad till he be hoarse,  
And his Lungs crack with Ruthless Ire,  
It shall but serve to blow our Fire.   

LII.  
Let him our little Castle ply,  
With all his loud Artillery,  
Whilst Sack and Claret Man the Fort,  
His Fury shall become our Sport.   

LIII.  
Or, let him Scotland take, and there  
Confine the plotting Presbyter;  
His Zeal may Frieze, whilst we kept warm  
With Love and Wine, can know no harm.    

An ELEGY upon the Lord Hastings.  
AMongst the Mourners that attend his Hearse  
With flowing Eyes, and wish each Tear a Verse,  
T'embalm his Fame, and his dear Merit save  
Uninjured from th'oblivion of the Grave;  
A Sacrificer I am come to be,  
Of this poor Offering to his Memory.  
O could our pious Meditations thrive  
So well, to keep his better part alive!  
So that, in stead of Him, we could but find  
Those fair Examples of his Lettered Mind:  
Virtuous Emulation than might be  
Our hopes of Good Men, though not such as Herald  
But in his hopeful progress since he's crossed,  
Pale Virtue droops; now her best Patterns lost.  
'Twas hard, neither Divine, nor Humane Parts,  
The strength of Goodness, Learning, and of Arts,  
Full crowds of Friends, nor all the Prayers of them,  
Nor that he was the Pillar of his Stem,  
Affection's Mark, secure of all men's Hate,  
Can rescue him from the sad stroke of Fate.  
Why was not th'Air dressed in Prodigious forms,  
To groan in Thunder, and to weep in Storms?  
And, as at some men's Fall, why did not His  
In Nature work a Metamorphosis?  
No; he was gentle, and his Soul was sent  
A silent Victim to the Firmament.  
Weep, Ladies, weep, lament great Hastings Fall;  
His House is buried in his Funeral:  
bath him in Tears, till there appear no trace  
Of those sad Blushes in his lovely Face:  
Let there be in't of Gild no seeming sense,  
Nor other Colour than of Innocence.  
For he was Wise and Good, though he was Young;  
Well suited to the Stock from whence he sprung:  
And what in Youth is Ignorance and Vice,  
In him proved Piety of an excellent price.  
Farewell, dear Lord; and sinc● thy Body must  
In time return to its first Matter, Dust;  
Rest in thy melancholy Tomb in Peace: For who  
Would longer live, that could but now die so?   


THE BATTLE OF YURY.  
To my worthy Friend Mr. white, From the unworthy Author Charles Cotton.  

●●generes animos timor arguit heu, quibus ille  
●●ctatus Fatis! quae bella exhausta canebat!   Virg. Aeneid. Lib. 4.  

To his Honoured Friend, the Author of this Excellent POEM.  
I Took, Sir, of your Book a short survey,  
And swiftly ran it over without stay;  
Yet stumbled not, I found the Work to be  
So smoothly wrought, and couched so evenly.  
Some Muses seem to gambol and curvet;  
But yours, though frolic Feet on Ground she set,  
Goes (as she swum in Blood) an easy pace,  
Or rather runs a wreath-deserving Race.  
Some rave in Verse, as they would seem to be  
Full (like the Sibylls) of some Deity,  
When Wine inflates them; but you, in your height  
Of Fury, give your winged Fancies weight,  
With Reason temper Rage, and like a strong  
Well-fraighted Bark, pass steadily along.  
You (as a true bred Stanhop) writ in State,  
Brave lines compose, yet ne'er Luxuriate;  
But keep within your sober bounds, most fit  
To give restraint to a high-working Wit.  
As a Wise King's a Subject of your lines,  
So you considerately bring on designs,  
Not rush (like Curtius) into th' vastities  
Of danger, but approach by fair degrees,  
Relating from what troubled Source arose  
Th' discord, and what troops of Gallant Foes  
Gave Luster to the Field, as here with fine  
Phaebean Fancies your Narrations shine.  
Now when brave Metal to the stroke you bring,  
Your Verse then sparkles, fervently you sing,  
Spur up your Pegasus, and make him fly  
A gallant pitch of rare sublimity,  
And when his Head into a Cloud doth dash,  
Cause it to Thunder, as your Wit doth flash.  
Great Mars, when Diomedes his Wast did wound,  
From his deep Throat sent froth a hideous sound:  
But (sure) he bellows not in Homer more  
To terror, than your Poem makes him roar.  
As your high enterprise did merit Praise,  
So for th' achievement claim your Crown of Bayes.  
Your Worth was in the bud, but now 'tis blown  
By Fame, and to more Eminency grown,  
By this strong work, a work that may defy  
The Tooth of Time, and Tongue of Calumny.  
Thomas Bancroft.   

THE BATTLE OF YURY.  

I.  
HIgh are his thoughts, whose Buskined Mistress sings  
In verse Heroick, the Heroic deeds  
Of Warlike Princes, and Victorious Kings,  
Whose worth all Commentary still exceeds;  
Nor can a Muse, imped with the noblest Wings,  
Writ worth the least drop a brave Gen'ral Bleeds:  
" So high is Virtue, in her native Glory,  
" Advanced above the Trophies of all Story.   

II.  
Yet, to repeat what they have bravely writ,  
With pointed Steel, in Characters of Blood,  
How great Relations into Faction split,  
When blind Ambition does corrupt the Good;  
Should, from the worst not censure ill admit,  
Nor of the best Me● ill be understood;  
Since we do others, not ourselves commend;  
To celebrate the bold's a noble End.   

III.  
Assist me, then, thou God of Song, whose Lyre  
I dare to touch with my unskilful Hands,  
Whilst Truths I sing to make the World admire,  
Of glorious Bourbon, and his Conquering Bands,  
Not to Eclipse; nor raise that Virtue higher,  
Which in the Mount of Honour burning stands,  
Bright, as the brightest Star, that there doth flame  
A shining Monument to Caesar's Name.   

iv  
And thou great Goddess of all Arts, and Arms,  
Teach me a Verse High as this Prince's thought,  
That I may number the outbraved harms,  
He, by his Conduct, to Subjection brought,  
The dangerous Conquest, that through Death's Alarms,  
By hardy Valour he so bravely bought,  
A day in Fame's great Catalogue more bright;  
Than all the Suns of Honour e'er could light.   

V  
Great were the Virtues, that, Example since,  
To Kings succeeding, he has left behind,  
Great in a Man; but greater in a Prince,  
A Monarch, from the Lees of place, refined;  
A living precept Tyrant's to Convince,  
And plant true Honour in a Worthies Mind,  
A Noble Stem, whence to this climb did Spring  
A worthy, though an overshadowed King.   

VI  
Long had the Family of Lorain (grown  
To dangerous greatness by their Prince's Grace)  
By subtle Arts, strove to supplant the Crown  
To grasp the Sceptre, and usurp his place,  
Can they once get Henry of Valois down,  
Then King, and last of that Illustrious Race,  
A Prince in Prudence, and in Arms as great,  
As Europe boasted in a Regal State.   

VII.  
Three were the ruffling Brothers, that durst rise  
In opposition to the Royal Line;  
The First, and Chiefest, H●nry Duke of Guise,  
To whom the others Charles, and Lewis join;  
Lewis a Cardinal, more Bold, than Wise,  
Charles Duke of maine, Third in this great Design,  
In League Compacted (so they called their Cause)  
Against Obedience, and her sacred Laws.   

VIII.  
Nor was their Power so trivial, as to be  
Crushed by the King's Authority; or force,  
So well 'twas strengthened by the Papal Sea,  
Whence ('tis conceived) this Faction had its Source;  
But must be undermined by Policy,  
For this engaged Crown the only Course,  
So great, and many the confederates were,  
Who stood in favour of this haughty Peer.   

IX.  
Wherefore the King, did, in his Prudence, choose  
The help of Policy, where Arms were vain,  
And knew so well his wary Counsels use,  
That Duke, and Prelate at his Foot lay slain,  
When from his Juster Fate, the Third broke lose,  
Did then sole Head of the whole League remain,  
Employing all his Courage, and his Art  
To seal his Vengeance on his Prince's Heart.   

X.  
And, in his Enterprise, was gone so far,  
The King was forced to call into his Cause,  
Henry of Bourbon, than King of Navarre  
His true Successor by the Salic Laws;  
Who then against him made defensive War;  
Him to his Service by command he draws,  
" So soon can Virtuous Princes learn t'obey,  
" And humbly bow, when they have Power to sway.   

XI.  
The Royal Arms, thus reinforced, begin,  
In conduct of these Princely Generals  
To take the Field, some Towns, and Prisoners win,  
No Force resists them, no Design forestals;  
Till, at the last they shut the Leaguers in,  
And lay close siege to Paris spacious Walls;  
In whose Defence, and Strength the Duke, at last,  
His latest refuge, and his safety placed.   

XII.  
Nor were those Walls; or the Parisians aid  
(True to the League; but treacherous to the State)  
Enough to stop the Power did invade;  
Or to divert a Rebels juster Fate,  
Had not the League by Combination made  
On Henry's Life a foul Assassinate,  
Who, in the Centre of his own command,  
Fell by the stroke of an ignoble Hand.   

XIII.  
Then, at the Helm alone great Bourbon stood,  
Undoubted Heir unto the Crowns of France,  
Great in his Name, in Arms, and great in Blood,  
Though something shaken by the King's mischance,  
For why the Peers serve; nor obey him would,  
Unless he would the Roman Faith advance,  
Too hard a Contract for a King to make,  
Though Life, and Honour lie engaged at Stake.   

XIV.  
His just repulse, to their unjust demands,  
Soon changed the Scene, beyond all humane aim,  
For though he won some honest Hearts, and Hands  
T'acknowledge, and assist his lawful claim;  
Yet in few days so lessened were his Bands,  
To his Abandoners Eternal Shame,  
That, he was forced his Conquest to decline,  
And build his Fortunes on some new Design.   

XV.  
'Twere tedious to relate the Battles Fought,  
The Towns beleaguered, and the Cities won,  
The hauhgty Rebels to subjection brought,  
By this brave Leader, Honour's Eldest Son,  
Acts, that indeed, exceed belief; or thought,  
By mature Counsels, and great Courage done;  
The dangerous paths to Honour, and Renown  
He trod, before he could achieve the Crown.   

XVI.  
Nor falls it in the Sphere of my design,  
To mention each of Bo●rbon's noble Acts,  
So high attempts I humbly shall decline,  
And leave those Annals to their better Tracts;  
Who me, and my poor Muse as far outshine;  
As Henry, in his Celebrated Facts,  
The lesser sparks of Honour does out-flame,  
And swallows all their Titles in his Name.   

XVII.  
One day there was, wherein his Valour shone  
A Pyramid of inextinguished Fire,  
Wherein Immortal Glory; or there's none,  
By dint of Sword, he bravely did acquire,  
To that one days great History alone,  
This Poem impotently shall aspire:  
A day, above the Trophies of the Pen;  
A Prince, above the Characters of Men.   

XVIII.  
Many the Conflicts were, various the Chance,  
Betwixt the Siege of Paris, and the Fight  
In Yury-plain, that gored the Womb of France  
With Fire, and Blood, betwixt the Wrong, and Right;  
ere both the Armies to that Field advance,  
One to Pursue, t'other Pretending flight,  
Their numerous odds had raised the League so  
high,  
As to pursue him, that could never fly.   

XIX.  
Two Nights before these angry Armies met  
Th' uncertain chance of Bloody War to try,  
Allseeing Heaven his dire portents had set,  
Oraculous Symptoms in the troubled Sky,  
The naked Surface of the Earth was wet  
With Storm, and Tempest, and a Prodigy,  
Succeeded in the Air, to show the King,  
How to his aid Heaven did assistance bring.   

XX.  
Two Puissant Armies in the Sky appeared,  
To shoot in Thunder, and with Lightning kill,  
In colour like the Comets streaming Beard,  
Which great events in Battle ushers still,  
By most Men doubted, and by many feared,  
All were suspended at th' Almighty's will;  
Yet such their Leader was, their Cause so Just,  
They unto Providence, and Valour trust.   

XXI.  
The Slothful Sun, risen to his daily round,  
All Night disturbed with riots in the Air,  
When both the Hosts his drowsy Eye had found,  
Imploring Conquest in different Prayer,  
And now they both march to the destined Ground,  
Where Fate their different Fortunes does prepare,  
Both Armed for the Disasters, and the Harms,  
That still attend th' uncertain chance of Arms.   

XXII.  
The Field where this great Game was to be tried,  
In a round Form, does a large Plot contain,  
A Stage of Honour spacious and wide,  
Where Soldiers may Eternal Glory gain,  
Two little Towns did bound the Royal side,  
And on the Dukes a Grove shut up the Plain;  
Towards the West (the lodging of the Sun)  
The River Ewer, in a deep vale doth run.   

XXIII.  
A place so formed by Nature, as not Art  
Can smooth it plainer to so brave an end,  
In which no craggy; or deformed part,  
Can either side advantage; or offend,  
Save that a little dimple in the Heart  
Did with a gentle fall itself extend;  
A worthy Theatre whereon to play  
The Tragic entries of a Bloody day.   

XXIV.  
●●ustrious Bourbon was the first, that took  
● brave Possession of the Fatal place,  
●et down in Destiny's eternal Book,  
●o his Renown, and to the Duke's Disgrace,  
●ho in the King's victorious Arms mistake,  
●s of a flying Foe pursued the Chase,  
So far did Fate, and Odds seem to combine  
In help, and favour of his black Design.   

XXV.  
●or the Royal Muster did appear  
●ght thousand Foot, and but three thousand Horse,  
●he League above double the Number were,  
●●ch inequality was in their Force,  
●he Rebel Crew were more, that crowded there  
● number better, but in Courage worse:  
For they with Henry who so oft had fought,  
So far from Fear were, they disdained to doubt.   

XXVI.  
Now, on the Plain the Royal Standard stands,  
Waving the Golden Fleur-de-Lis of France,  
The Trumpets usher in the Loyal Bands,  
The barded Steeds under their Rider's prance,  
The Leaders take their several Commands,  
And in good Order in the Field advance;  
And there abide— the coming of the Foe,  
To crown their sovereign in his overthrow.   

XXVII.  
Montpensiers, worthy Duke, the Van up led,  
A Prudent Wariour, and a Loyal Peer,  
The Battle next, of which the King was head,  
The Marshal Byron brought up the Rear;  
A Captain Practised, and a Soldier bred,  
A Man that knew not such a Thought as Fear,  
Wise as the wisest, as the Boldest bold,  
In Dangers only, and Success grown old.   

XXVIII.  
Their hardy Cavalry they did divide,  
In Bodies five, for Service of that Day,  
Unto the first Marshal d' Aumont was Guide,  
By him two Regiments of Firelocks lay,  
To flank that first Divisions left aside,  
And, at a distance, keep the Duke in play,  
That naked Side to succour, and to shield,  
Placed on the outside of the spacious Field.   

XXIX.  
Next that, the second was commanded by,  
Montpensiers Duke, who on his left, and right,  
Two valiant Squadrons had appointed nigh,  
To second, and assist him in the Fight,  
Of German one, th'other Swiss Infantry,  
Both prompt to Battle; and both famed for Might,  
As by th'event of that victorious Day,  
To all the World their Valours did display.   

XXX.  
The third to this, and biggest of them all,  
Contained the Sacred Person of the King,  
The Prince of Conty, and the Count St. Paul,  
And of the Flower of France a noble Ring,  
To rise in Conquest, or in Glory fall,  
With him who was their Lives, and Honour's spring,  
These on the right, and left hand flanked were  
By the Swisse-Guard, and Colonel Balthasar.   

XXXI.  
The fourth Division, on the right hand this,  
To Marshal Byron's wise Conduct fell,  
Who in true Discipline could never miss,  
He knew the angry Art of War so well,  
Tho●● approved Councils, and that Heart of his  
Were known most Leaders of his time t'excel,  
By him two Regiments of Firelocks stand,  
To flank his Body upon either hand.   

XXXII.  
The fifth, and last, by Scomberg's valiant Count  
Theodorick was led, this did consist  
Of Germane Horse, Soldiers of good account,  
That, under Henry's Pay, entered the List;  
None could their Courage, nor their Truth surmount  
Hardy t'attempt, and resolute t'resist;  
These, with their Belgic Cornets, reached quite  
down,  
Even to the Houses of St. Andre's Town.   

XXXIII.  
Two other Squadrons in the Front did stand,  
Then the main Battle marched some paces higher,  
The one four hundred Horse, in the Command  
Of Baron Giury was, and the grand Prior,  
The next, which stood upon the other hand,  
Three hundred Cuiriasses made up entire;  
These had to Chief, the Baron of Byron,  
Of a brave Father, a victorious Son.   

XXXIV.  
Betwixt these two, th'Artillery planted were,  
(The black Invention of ingenious Ire)  
To which old Philibert was Cannoneer,  
Expert in all th'effects of levelled Fire,  
Well knew he how, and when to gall, and tear,  
And force the forward Foe halting retire,  
Him fifty Harquebuses do attend,  
With Pioners the Ordinance to defend.   

XXXV.  
The Forlorn-hope by three Commanders led,  
St. Denis, Brignolet, and Parabiere,  
Some Paces before all lay covered,  
Scarce seen by them, who knew not they were there,  
In the Fields lay so safe, they nought could dread,  
No execution of the Canon fear;  
So happily they found a friendly room,  
In that green Navel of the Plains smooth Womb   

XXXVI.  
Scarce were they ordered, when the Sieurs la Movy  
Du Plessis▪ and Tremoville, from Poictou came,  
Tried Knights, with them two hundred Cavalry,  
The weaker to assist, the Rebel ●ame,  
The Sieur de Humiers out of Picardy,  
With fourscore Gentlemen, stirred by the Fame  
Of a great Day of Honour to be tried,  
Came Volontiers to fight on Henry's side.   

XXXVII.  
These slender Aids, in such an hour sent▪  
To the whole Army promised fair Success,  
And of the day presaged a good event,  
Since they must conquer, that heavens care doth bless,  
No less the Soldier thinks these Succours meant,  
Which Joy, and Hope, he loudly does express,  
And to the Sky his Acclamations sends,  
In Thanks, and welcome of these valiant Friends.   

XXXVIII.  
Thus stand th'embattled Royalists to dare,  
The Twins opposed, of Danger, and Mischance,  
And as their Captains, so the Squadrons are,  
Prompt as the Killing speed of Fire, t'advance;  
Such Manly Confidence, they all declare,  
Upon whose Valours lay the Crown of France,  
A Stake for the brave Game then to be tried,  
Which Fortune must, and the Swords Edge decide.   

XXXIX.  
The adverse Camp to such assurance grew,  
Of easy Conquest by their seeming Flight,  
They nimbly seem to fly, as they pursue,  
As to a Prey, rather than to a Fight,  
But their Forlorn found that Belief untrue,  
When first they saw the King to Battle dight,  
Ordered with all the Courage and the Art,  
That could express a Soldier's Head; or Heart.   

XL.  
This rude Alarm, that soon from Van, to Rear,  
Flew, with the wont speed, of ill Report,  
Soon changed the Soldiers overweeming cheer,  
Who now perceived they were to bandy forced,  
Their vain assurance it converts to fear,  
So much the unexpected News import,  
They now amazed to doubtful conflict hast,  
And order new their Troops in march misplaced.   

XLI.  
Their numerous Army with all speed, and care,  
(Now of their blind security bereft)  
Th'abused Commanders for the Fight prepare,  
And into two mighty Battalions cleft,  
The right Duke Nemours, fit to do, and dare,  
Had in Command, and stout Aumale the left,  
The first a noble Youth, seduced to fight  
Against his Honour, and his Prince's Right.   

XLII.  
In point of the right Wing Count Egmont fought,  
Who Arms in favour of the League did bear,  
With him the Launciers, he from Flanders brought  
Next him the Swiss, Fifer, and Berling were  
Flanked by three Reg'ments in their trade well taugh  
By Dissemieux, Pons'enac, and Chasteliere,  
Three Colonels, who by the World's applause  
Deserved their Honours in a better Cause.   

XLIII.  
'Twixt these, and Nemours Regiment, that made  
The number of four hundred gallant Horse,  
The yawning Canon ready to be played,  
Were planted to devour the Royal Force,  
And, rammed for Death only the Signal stayed,  
Their murdering sulphurous Treasure to disburse,  
A threatening train of great Artillery,  
Enough to fright Men not resolved to die.   

XLIV.  
In the left Wing four hundred Spaniards led,  
By Captains bold, their Cornets fair display,  
Which to the margin of the Plain out-spread,  
Had in their Flank St. Paul, and Tenissay,  
With Lorain Regiments, who had to head  
Bold Tremble court, and fierce Chastaignera●e;  
Next these, Aumale, the Sieurs de Perdriell,  
De Loncampe came, and de Fountaine-Martell.   

XLV.  
The Dukes own Cornet, which Cygogne bore,  
Marched up the Body to these spacious Wings,  
With them, of Gentlemen, four hundred more,  
In all seven hundred to oppose the Kings;  
These flanked by Flemings were, and these before,  
The Reiters, which hapless Duke Brunswick brings,  
To charge and wheel, as they were disciplined  
Betwixt the Wings for a Reserve behind.   

XLVI.  
The Leaguers Force, thus ordered, gently moves,  
Scorning in such a Glorious hour to breathe;  
The Mother Earth spurn d by the armed Hooves,  
In dire ostent mournfully Groans beneath,  
Whilst each, like Fire by agitation proves,  
Prompter to snatch from others head the Wreath,  
Then Face to Face, both Armies in Array,  
Stand to attempt the Fortune of the Day.   

XLVII.  
And now heavens Lamp, unwilling to behold,  
The bloody Conflict pressed to be begun,  
Shading with Clouds his Locks of burning Gold,  
Stepped into Night before his course was run,  
The dusky Hemisphere in darkness rolled,  
Withheld the trial until the Morning Sun;  
When each in equal favour of the light,  
Might have the day bright Umpire of their  
Fight.   

XLVIII.  
●●aightway succeeding night began to arise,  
●b mists of darkness, to possess the Sky,  
●●ntling the Warriors in her dark surprise,  
〈◊〉 Valiant could not fight, the Coward fly,  
〈◊〉 in her Sables clad, ermined with Eyes,  
〈◊〉 in a mourning Veil of Tragedy,  
Black, as the Face of Sorrows blackest hue,  
To solemnize the Funerals to ensue.   

XLIX.  
〈◊〉 Camps, withdrawn into their Quarters make,  
●at Fires, that each may see the others Care  
〈◊〉 to their Safety they are both awake,  
〈◊〉 each of others bold Attempts ware,  
〈◊〉 wary Guards them to their Posts betake,  
〈◊〉 and Sentinels well planted are,  
Upon occasion, to report th'Alarm,  
And prompt their Leaders when, and where  
to arm.   

L.  
The Lorain Duke retired into his Tent,  
During this respite, does a Counsel keep,  
To which the heads of every Regiment  
Summoned, appear in Consultation deep,  
Kept waking all by Bourbon's brave intent,  
" When Death stands Centinel, 'tis no time to sleep;  
There every one, and all, maturely weigh  
The State, wherein their Lives, and Honours lay.   

LI.  
Himself (a Friend to secure Counsels) first  
Delivered what he thought best to be done,  
Not like a Prince in forward action nursed,  
(Which fires brave Minds where honour's to be won)  
But like a subtle Fox, that hardly durst,  
With all his odds, a battle's hazard run:  
He thus in Counsel to his daring Friends,  
The common State of their Affairs commends▪   

LII.  
●Most noble Friends, in the Results of War,  
" Wherein the glorious Soul of Conquest lies)  
" The safest Counsels, most successful are;  
" Nor is that Man less valiant, who is wise,  
" Whereas precipitous resolves, impair  
" The worthy number of such brave supplies,  
" As these of yours, who nobly thus advance  
" Your dreaded Ensigns, for dismembered France.   

LIII.  
Whose wounding Adversaries, pounded lie,  
Into this Angle frighted, by your Fame,  
Compelled to fight, because they cannot fly,  
Their desperate ruin, and their certain shame,  
Yet with this poor, half vanquished Enemy,  
●Tis best we wisely play a certain Game,  
" That is, to husband what our Swords have won,  
" And end in safety, what in blood begun.   

LIV.  
" For though the Foe be by your Valours brought  
" To his last Cast, that is, to fight, and die;  
" And, that he is, as soon o'ercome as fought,  
" To conquer without loss, is Victory,  
" When from the desperate Conquest's dearly bought,  
" The Victor's surest Friend is Policy,  
" By whose advice, we may on cheaper terms  
" Purchase the Triumphs, that attends our Arms.   

LV.  
" The lost Nobility, that assist Navarre,  
" In his vain Quarrel, at their own Expense,  
" Will fall away by a protracted War,  
" Leaving his Power as weak, as his Pretence;  
" And when their Furnitures all wasted are,  
" Want will reduce them to a better Sense:  
" So that by spinning out the War in length,  
" We, without Battle, shall o'ercome his Strength.   

LVI.  
This said Count Egmont instantly arose,  
His sparkling Eyes with Resolution shone,  
Wherein Disdain, and Valour did disclose,  
●ow much he scorned, such abject thoughts to own,  
●●fore he spoke, he threatened to oppose  
The mean Resolves, their General put on;  
At last he with a Soldier's Grace expressed,  
The nobler sense of his more noble breast.   

LVII.  
●My Lord (said he) I was not hither sent,  
●Nor into France these approved succours bring,  
●To vanquish without Arms; nor with intent  
●To waste the Treasure of the Catholic King;  
Nor must his Money, and his Men be spent  
In doing nought; or some ignoble thing,  
" Advantage gives the Signal now to go,  
" And end the Quarrel with one Manly blow.   

LVIII.  
" Nor suits it with our Honours; or your Cause,  
" To wave a Fight whereto they are compelled  
" And suffer such an Enemy to pause,  
" Because he is, with Bloodshed to be quelled;  
" So shall their Story, with the World's applause  
" Be writ in Triumph, and we Cowards h●ld,  
" And in the splendour of ●heir Leaders Fam●  
" Will be eclipsed the Glory of your Name.   

LIX.  
" Therefore (my Lord) let not the rising Sun,  
" Behold a slothful Camp, that dares not rise,  
" To end what they so daringly begun,  
" A wretched Army, that the Conquered flies,  
" And dreads the glorious Wreath their Sword's ha● won;  
" But add unto our famous Victories,  
" This one, which only for the Morning stay  
" T'impale our brows with Oak, the Souldie● bays.   

LX.  
●impatient Captains all at one approved  
●h'unhappy Count's Advice, and all aloud  
●ith equal ardour the stayed Gen'ral moved  
●o reap the crop, for which their Swords had ploughed,  
●ho paused, then told them, that he dearly loved  
●he Zeal, and Valour their brave Minds endowed,  
And was resolved the day's event to try,  
To conquer with such Friends; or fight dye▪   

LXI.  
●hus then resolved, each Officer repairs,  
〈◊〉 his brave charge against the Morn to come,  
●rming their Limbs in Steel, their Souls with Prayers,  
〈◊〉, to prevent; or to preserve their doom;  
〈◊〉 less th' Heroic King his Men prepares,  
●ho, but through danger, had no high way home;  
Spending those hours in diligence, and care,  
That interposed 'twixt him, and conquest were.   

LXII.  
At last th'unwilling Morn began weeping rise,  
T'illuminate the Theatre of Death,  
And like a tender Virgin, hid her Eyes,  
From the sad Objects to succeed beneath;  
So that she shone; but did not gild the Skies,  
Even ashamed to grace the Victor's Wreath;  
Who at the price of native blood at best,  
Must win that Honour to his daring Crest.   

LXIII.  
No sooner peeped she from her Eastern Seat,  
Through the Clouds of sorrow veiled her Face,  
Than the loud Instruments of War did greet  
The Light so longed for; such a tedious space,  
They sound their Trumpets, and their Drums th● beat,  
Whilst each side takes possession of their place,  
In the same order, that before, when night  
By interposing, had deferred the Fight.   

LXIV.  
The valiant French (whose Flames that day enrolled  
To proved posterity) spurred about the Plain,  
To cheer the Coward, and confirm the bold,  
No thought of Fear could their true Metals slain,  
●ach in his constant Looks to his foretold,  
●hey should the Honour of the Field obtain:  
Thus by their Leaders brave Exemple taught,  
On Conquest, only, every Soldier thought.   

LXV.  
●●eat Henry mounted on a large, bay Steed,  
Who as he knew the Royal Weight he bore,  
sampled the Earth where Thousands were to bleed,  
●heir tribute to that Parent, whence before  
●hey had derived the matter of their seed,  
〈◊〉 to that Element must now restore)  
Road up, and down to view his Loyal Bands,  
How each in order, and in courage stands.   

LXVI.  
His Head unarmed, to those his faithful Friends,  
Who now impatient of the Battle, stay,  
With an undaunted Look, he recommends  
The common State wherein their Fortunes lay,  
He tells them all, that no more strength attends  
To try: th'ev●nt of such another day;  
But tha● each private Man's peculiar share  
Of Life, and Safety in their Valours were.   

LXVII.  
His noble Presence more persuasion finds,  
Than his brave Words, not to be heard by all,  
And gave a better stamp to all their Minds,  
Than from the Tongue of Eloquence could fall,  
" Nothing a Soldier's Resolution binds  
" More, than Example in a General;  
They all ambitious are, of their blind Fate,  
And each Man thinks the time defe●'d too lat●   

LXVIII.  
Thus riding the Divisions his Host,  
To help an Error were it to be found,  
He spurred his fiery Steed from post, to post,  
Through the Files of every Squadron round,  
So to supply, where the defect was most  
A disadvantage in his Men; or Ground,  
Till at the main Battalions head he stayed,  
And lifting up his Eyes to Heaven thus prayed,   

LXIX.  
" Thou dreaded Architect of this great Ball,  
" Who with thine Eye of Providence look'st down,  
" Searching the secret Purposes of all,  
" Out of thy Gracious Bounty please to own  
" The Justice of my Arms; nor let me fall  
" In my just claim to this usurped Crown:  
" But fav'rably extend this doubtful hour  
" The conquering hand of thy Almighty Power.   

LXX.  
" Or, if for this thy zealous people's Peace,  
" Thou in thy sacred Wisdom, know't unfit  
" That I should rule, and that 'twere their Disease,  
" In the French Throne, should I a Monarch sit,  
" Then, let my Title fall, if thou so please,  
" T'advance their Fortune; and, let me with it,  
" In the first File of Honour,, fighting dye  
" Worthy my Name, and their Fidelity.   

LXXI.  
This said, a cheerful shout i'th' Front began  
The loud excursion of a sudden Joy,  
And with the Rear which echoed to the Van,  
Filled the whole Camp with an auspicious Cry,  
From Troop to Troop the Loyal Motto ran,  
Which made the Plain resound, Vive le Roy,  
All armed with Valour, and their Prince's Love,  
Unwilling stay their faithful Arms to prove.   

LXXII.  
Then with his Cask he armed his noble Head,  
In which, a waving Plume of curled white,  
Like a white Dove, the silver Wings outspread  
Above his Crest, there stuck to be a Light▪  
In clouds of Horror unto those he led  
Through the rough paths of an uncertain Fight,  
And now the Armies both attend the sign,  
Which given both in dreadful conflict join.   

LXXIII.  
Have you not seen, on Neptune's liquid Plain.  
A short-lived Truce still that transparent Face,  
No whisper of the Air to crisp the Main;  
But all, as even, and as smooth, as Glass,  
Where not the Footsteps of a Storm remain,  
Whereby the Eye may any ruins trace,  
The Sea so calm, and the Winds Doors so barred,  
As if the Elements had never jared.   

LXXIV.  
When on a sudden all the Winds broke lose,  
From the dark Entrails of their bolted Cave,  
Break the late Concord, and dissolve the Truce,  
And on the surface of the Waters brave,  
Nothing but noise and tumult than ensues,  
Winds fight with Winds, and Wave encountreth Wave,  
Together shuffled in a foaming rage,  
That pale-faced Ruin only can assuage.   

LXXV.  
So still these Armies do maintain their Ground,  
As in their cutting Swords no danger were,  
As each withdrew his hand from the first Wound,  
Panting for Glory some, and some for Fear,  
Till by the Signal of the Trumpets Sound,  
In a far different posture they appear,  
Thundering confusion to the vaulted Sky,  
A Prologue to th'ensuing Tragedy.   

LXXVI.  
The wide-mouthed Canon through their Iron Jaws,  
In kill Accents, first began to speak,  
Disputing with a dreadful noise the cause,  
In which all Argument had proved too weak,  
Nor was it now a time for other Laws,  
Than what th'effects of Fire and Sword could wreak,  
No other Language must be understood,  
Th●n that, which spoke in Thunder, Fire, and  
Blood.   

LXXVII.  
The troubled Morning who before had lent  
Only a faint, and an unwilling Light,  
In sulphurous Clouds was hid, as if they meant  
To shade that Beauty with eternal Night,  
The rowls of Smoak, These roaring Ordinance vent  
heavens burning Eye had overshaded quite;  
A vaperous Darkness so enclosed them all,  
None other knew but by the Canons call.   

LXXVIII.  
So have I seen a black tempestous shade  
Rudely succeeding Phoebus' Golden Beams,  
With thundering Terror the hushed Air invade,  
Clad in the rage of Nature's loud extremes,  
No ray of Comfort, but what Light'ning made,  
Darting through dreadful Chasms their flaming  
Streams,  
Whilst the confounded World do trembling fear,  
The last and greatest Dissolution near.   

LXXIX.  
Twice had these Engines, upon either part,  
Disgorged their murdering Entrails on the Foe,  
But with so different Fortune, Care and Art,  
That the Duke's erring Shot played all too low,  
Whilst the King's levelled Right, tore through the Heart,  
Of the Duke's Front, almost to overthrow,  
And galled Count Egmont, who ashamed to stay,  
Began the brave Encounter of the Day.   

LXXX.  
The Grand-priors Squadron the bold Count assails,  
With so much Bravery, such impetuous Force,  
That through that Body's Centre he prevails  
Unable to withstand his stronger Horse,  
So that the Flemings, turned their Courser's Tails  
On the King's Canon, and complete their Course▪  
Painting their Lances with the Rabble Blood,  
Of Pioners, who by the Ordinance stood.   

LXXXI.  
By which contempt, they so disordered were,  
Thus killing on, at this successful rate,  
That bold Aumont, and fierce Byron must bear  
Upon their damasked Swords, their sudden Fate,  
So that by these charged home in Flank, and Rear,  
They find the Error of their haste too late,  
Whilst the Grand-prior rallied, strait began  
A furious Charge in their dismembered Van.   

LXXXII.  
Anger, and Shame, Spite, and Revenge contend  
In execution which should which outrun,  
With unresisted Fury all offend,  
And to redeem what the rash Du●ch had won,  
Who round begirt with slaughter, bow, and bend,  
And e'er times restless wheel an hour had spun,  
On the cold bosom of the purpled Plain,  
They every Man lay with their Leader slain.   

LXXXII.  
So a Victorious Grove of stately Oaks,  
Which their aspiring Heads to Heaven raise,  
Before a throng of labourers wounding strokes,  
Stoop their ambitious Brows to kiss their base,  
The strong limbed Clown in his Endeavour smokes.  
Till the large Trunks lie tumbled on the place,  
As fell this Squadron on th'earth's bruised Womb,  
Worthy a better Cause, and worth their Tomb.   

LXXXIV.  
In this great Ruin, Noble Egmont fell,  
To War, and Death a Bloody Sacrifice,  
His Country's Honour, his Time's Miracle,  
Spurring his Fa●e by his too bold Advise;  
Nor can the Tongue of Fame speak aught but well,  
Of his renown, and living Victories,  
He Conquering fell, despising Fate, and Death,  
Bequeathing to his Name Immortal Breath.   

LXXXV.  
Now through the Field Giddy destruction flew,  
To riot in full draughts of Christian Blood,  
Each other Cut and Mangled Hurt, and Slew,  
Till the whole Plain, appeared a Crimson Flood,  
Members, and Men the groaning Earth bestr●w,  
No Walls of Steel their furious Arms withstood,  
Force, Hatred, Wrath, and Envy mustered show,  
What altogether can in Conflict do.   

LXXXVI.  
Valiant Duke Nemours in the Vanguard m●t,  
With Duke Montpensier to dispute the Day,  
Each stroke the others daring Coronet,  
At a less pitch would neither Warrior play,  
Their burnished Armour, with their Blood was wet,  
Their owner's heat; and manhood to display;  
Whilst either's Squadrons spur their Valour's home,  
Eager to Fight, impatient to O'ercome.   

LXXXVII.  
And in the R●er, Germane Count Scomberg c●me  
With a well guided ●●ry to assail,  
The hardy Troops ●ir●d by their Fellows 〈◊〉,  
Who had to Chief the Chevalier D' 〈◊〉,  
With equal Conduct, and with equal flame,  
They fiercely Join, Ambitious to prevail,  
Whilst Fortune, hover on ambiguous Wings,  
To neither part her blind assistance brings.   

LXXXVIII.  
Montpensiers Duke having his Courser slain,  
In the first brunt of that unequal flight,  
Remounted by the Valour of his train▪  
Fought like a Loyal, and a hardy Knight,  
His constant Prowess did that Day obtain,  
A burning Crown of inextinguished Light,  
For greater Acts than his, more bold, and high,  
Never adorned the Face of History.   

LXXXIX.  
Nor less Duke Nemours did attempt t'excel,  
Who though a Youth, was full of noble Fire,  
Into the Battle with the Sword he fell,  
Ambitious, as the proudest, to aspire  
To Honour's sacred Hill, a parallel  
To those great Names which never must expire;  
Like Young Ascanius shone his downy Face,  
The worthy Heir of an Illustrious race▪   

XC.  
During their Conflict, on the other side,  
Count Scomberg poured his shot upon the Foe,  
By which Aumale's vast Squadrons fell, and died,  
The warlike Knight quits not the quarrel so,  
Since nought that Controversy could decide,  
But one; or th''others total overthrow,  
Like a brave Captain he maintained the Field,  
Who knew to die, but had not learned to yield.   

XCI.  
Mean while the Reiters, planted in the Van,  
Of the Duke's Battle, though so shrewdly torn,  
Their Body closed, a wheeling Charge began,  
After their Custom; when the King's Forlorn,  
Standing upright, where they had ambushed lain,  
Since first appearance of the early Morn,  
Gave them so rude a welcome, that the ground,  
Was in the streams of ruthless slaughter drowned.   

XCII.  
Death's Messengers, impulsed by Fire, and Fate,  
About the Field on mortal Errands flew●  
At such a cruel, so well-guided rate▪  
That almost every Ball a Soldier slew,  
The wounded Foe tumbles precipitate,  
The Bed of Death their trembling Limbs bestrew,  
While each that fell in that impetuous strife  
Opened a passage to his Fellow's life.   

XCIII.  
The fury of this Storm Duke Brunswick bore,  
Whom nor in Arms, nor Courage could defend:  
But on his Heart the stamp of Death he wore,  
No longer could Life's battered Fort contend,  
He dying fell, embalmed in his own gor●,  
To crown his actions with a glorious end,  
On whom no barbarous Enemy could confer,  
Less than a high, immortal Character.   

XCIV.  
Their Captain slain, strait from their kill Foes,  
The frighted Reiters faced to get behind,  
But found their own Divisions placed so close,  
No path to Safety could their terror find,  
The Duke's own Lances were compelled t'oppose  
These desperate Flyers with amazement blind  
So to preserve the Order of his own,  
From being by their mad career overthrown.   

XCV.  
The King, who thus long had Spectator stood,  
At this advantage, spurred his foaming Steed,  
Down from whose wounded Sides, the hot chaffed  
Blood  
Beguilt the warrior's Spurs; who fiercely rid,  
To whip the pride of that Gigantic brood  
That durst, with rebel Arms, his claim forbid,  
And after him the noblest Peers of France,  
With faithful Fury to the Field advance.   

XCVI.  
The Lorain Duke, embarrased by his own,  
And charged, at once, by the victorious King;  
Yet like a Leader true to his renown,  
Maintained his ground, maugre the Force they bring,  
And now the latest cast of War was thrown,  
With peals of Shot, the rolling Orbs do ring,  
Bravely resolved they close th'events to try,  
Of Fate, and Fortune, Chance and Destiny.   

XCVII.  
There head, to head, each General other faced,  
With equal heat of deadly fury fired,  
The Battles Sphere, that erst the Plain embraced,  
Seemed to its Centre now to be retired,  
In his own strength, and courage each Man placed  
The glorious end, to which they all aspired,  
Some fight stand, whilst others fight fall,  
And each Man fights, as each Man fought for all.   

XCVIII.  
The sanguine Die, that Burnished every Blade,  
Which reeking from some bloody Slaughter came,  
Their angry Owners cruel Acts betrayed,  
Whilst the opposed, killing with equal Flame,  
The Conquest doubtful first, then bloody made  
To him that lost, and him that overcame,  
So well on both Sides was the Battle fought,  
One dearly sold, what th'other dearly bought.   

XCIX.  
The Sieur de Rhodes who the King's Cornet bore,  
A loyal, daring, and unblemished Youth,  
Writ in the Crimson of his streaming Gore,  
Must seal his Manhood, and confirm his Truth,  
Th'unpitying Steel his panting Vitals tore,  
Who dying stooped a Spectacle of ruth,  
In some few Minutes he exspiring fell,  
To live in Fame's eternal Chronocle   

C.  
Yet e'er he yielded to the mortal Blow,  
Courage awhile upheld his dying weight,  
Like a young Cedar, did he bend and bow,  
Loath to obey the Summons of his Fate,  
Now would he have revenged his Wound, when now,  
Death must alas! his ●rave acts terminate,  
He threatening fell, as if his single fall,  
Had been enough to overwhelm them all.   

CI.  
From his Disaster flew the tell-tale Fame,  
Through the Field to all the Royal Host,  
And does aloud from Troop to Troop proclaim,  
That Henry was in the main Battle lost,  
The sudden News their Manly hearts overcame,  
So that in terror, and confusion tossed,  
The daunted Soldiers in amazement fly,  
Opening a way to the Duke's Victory.   

CII.  
But e'er this dangerous error too far flew,  
Through all the Files of every hardy Band,  
Their Warlike King, the Loyal Nobles knew,  
In the first Ranks contending hand, to hand,  
His cutting Sword his bold Opposers slew,  
No less his words their courages command,  
They rush into the conflict, live; or die,  
With the French Barons wont bravery.   

CIII.  
Nought now their resolute fury could oppose,  
So fast, and wounding fell their Weapons bright,  
With desperate rage; they dealt their kill blows  
To give a period to that cruel Fight,  
Which in a bloody colour was to close  
O'erwhelming Thousands in Eternal Night,  
Such, and so dire, the consequences are,  
That still attend that Hellbred Monster War.   

CIV.  
Now Conquest, who on her triumphant wings,  
So long had hovered umpire of their fight,  
Makes a brave stoop, and down her body flings,  
On Henry's meritorious crest to light,  
On high her Golden Plumes do clapping ring,  
To tell the distant World great Bourbon's might,  
She now comes down the Quarrel to decide,  
In which before such hapless numbers died.   

CV.  
As I have seen a Field of standing Corn  
In doubtful conflict wave their pendant Heads,  
By the uncertain Air confusedly born,  
Which only whispering the large Field orespreads,  
But by a sudden storm depresed and torn,  
Drooping their bearded tops to their first beds,  
Whilst the rude Wind, exalted with his prize,  
To the next crop with riotous fury flies.   

CVI  
So fared it with the League, who for a space,  
With equal fortune, well maintained their post,  
Fight with equal bravery face, to face,  
No side of other could advantage boast,  
Equal their Honour, equal their Disgrace;  
Till, at the last all hopes of safety lost,  
The valiant on the Bed of Honour lie,  
Whilst the less daring in confusion fly.   

CVII.  
Half killed with fear the coward Rebels run,  
Through the Field an Ignominious race,  
Like fearful Deer they crowed away to shun,  
The danger of the Loyal hunter's Chase,  
Who generously think, too soon t'have won,  
An easy Conquest, with too little grace,  
And wish they had better resistance ●ound,  
To have their Acts with greater Glory Crowned.   

CVIII.  
Although ind●ed no Annals can out speak;  
Or speak enough of this great Victory,  
Where such a handful, could such Squadrons break;  
Repel their force, and make their Captain fly,  
In courage strong, alas! in numbers weak,  
Armed only with their Faith and Loyalty;  
But Heaven was pleased to favour Henry's claim  
Against whose will all Earthly strength is vain.   

CIX.  
On every side the Monarch's Arms prevail,  
And put the Leaguers to a shameful flight,  
They now pursue that Foe, who to assail,  
Their thinner Troops brought such a seeming might,  
Some flying escape, whilst others falling quail,  
To bid their Honours with the World good Night,  
But none so daring in that desperate State,  
As once to turn, and look upon his Fate.   

CX.  
Yet in this Torrent of admired success,  
Even some Victor's Hearts were full of woe.  
Because their longing Eyes they could not bless  
With their Love's Object; nor did all their know,  
There Prince's safety, and their happiness,  
But feared him fallen in the late overthrow.  
In such a doubtful, and afflicted sort,  
Many had drunk the poison of report.   

CXI.  
But when they saw him from the Chase retire  
Their drooping Spirits than began to wake,  
The Soldiers crowed t'approach their Sov'rain nigher  
And, as their Eyes a full assurance take  
Their Loyal Hearts o'er charged with zealous fire,  
Strait into Thundering Acclimations break,  
Vive le Roy, through the Welkin ran,  
Which so auspiciously the Day began,   

CXII.  
Still like the Sparks of a late mastered fire,  
Some Foes appeared on the forsaken Plain,  
The Leaguers Infantry remained entire,  
Of which the sturdy Swiss seemed to disdain,  
A shameful flight; nor could they safe retire  
But to their ruin, and Eternal shame,  
Wherefore the brawny Clowns as undismayed,  
Some show of resolute resistance made.   

CXIII.  
But when they saw the Canon drawing near,  
To force their Arms, and tame their fruitless pride,  
Their stubborn Hearts, then thawed away in fear,  
Their threatening words, and looks were laid aside,  
They think to trust his mercy safest were,  
Whose Conquering Sword, they had so lately tried,  
And strait way down their useless weapons  
threw,  
To beg that grace chance had reduced them to.   

CXIV.  
Nor were they ill advised; for the brave king,  
So scorned the ruin of a prostrate Foe,  
That, sooner could they not their Arms down fling,  
Than he preserve them from the Angry blow  
That Death, and Vengeance both, were levelling,  
With Fire and Sword to work their overthrow,  
His Princely Quarter they do all obtain,  
Without one Wound, that might his Mercy  
stain.   

CXV.  
But with the Germane Foot, far worse it fared,  
Whose base revolt from the King's Standard made,  
Their Crime so black and Mercies doors so barred,  
The Soldier's hands could be no longer stayed,  
But for their Treason, as a just reward,  
The faithless Squadrons furiously invade,  
Strewing the Plain, with their dismembered  
Limbs,  
Which in the Ocean of their false Blood swims.   

CXVI.  
And now the Fields the Conquerors entire,  
No opposition left, no Foe appears,  
The Royalists triumphantly retire,  
Whilst Victory the waving Banners bears,  
Nor dare my Muse to other Acts aspire,  
So much the Fate of this attempt she fears;  
Owning her weakness in Heroic Song,  
That may have done these noble Heroes wrong.   

CXVII.  
Thus did this Day, so doubtfully begun,  
Set red in Henry's Honour and Renown,  
He that in all his Battles ever won  
A Victor's Wreath, and in this last his Crown,  
Which having humbly kissed the baffled Sun  
Into the Western Ocean bowed him down;  
Leaving fair France unto his brighter Ray,  
May every injured Prince have such a Day.   
W. white.  
Amen.  
FINIS.    

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