POEMS OR EPIGRAMS, SATYRS, ELEGIES, SONGS and SONNETS, Upon several Persons and Occasions.  
By nobody must know whom, to be had everybody knows where, and for anybody knows what.  
LONDON, Printed for Henry Brome, at the Gun in Ivy-lane. 1658.   

TO THE READER.  
THese Poems were given me near sixteen years since by a Friend of the Authors, with a desire they might be printed, but I conceived the Age then too squeemish to endure the freedom which the author useth; and therefore I hitherto smothered them, but being desirous they should not perish, and the world be deprived of so much clean Wit and Fancy, I have adventured to expose them to thy view; if they do arride thy palate I am glad I gave the occasion; if not, I shall not send thee a Challenge. All that I shall say is, that I have read them with delight, ● find that the Author writes not pedantically, bu● like a Gentleman; and if thou art a Gentleman of thy own making thou wilt not mislike it.  
Farewell   

To the Great in Worth and Merit as in Honour and Title, the Lady happily Marchioness of Winchester, humbly these.   

A new-year's Gift.  
MADAM,  
COuld I but dive into the ocean's Breast,  
Or climb those Rocks, that with the clouds contest,  
If I could sail unto the Persian shore,  
Or rob the wealthy Indies of their oar.  
Your private walks, and Arbours I would pave  
With orient Pearl, and you should Diamonds have,  
Such as might dimn the glory of the sun,  
And make old Nature think herself undone;  
With Persian Carpets I would deck your Rooms,  
And gold should be, but offerings for your grooms.  
But I the diving Dolphin cannot ride,  
Nor yet the high eye-daz'ling rock bestride;  
I cannot swim unto the Persian shore,  
Nor rob the spacious Indies of their Oar;  
Yet, Madam, rather than I would appear,  
With empty hand to welcome in this Year,  
Or with the country Maid, to show my loves,  
Bring Capons, Hens, or Orange stuck with cloves,  
I have my Paper-office searched, and there  
Finding some sheets, that never tainted were  
With unclean hands, lines that ne'er saw the Sun,  
Nor yet been breathed upon since they were done.  
Of them, I chose with cu●iosity  
Such, as I thought, might take your Ear, or Eye,  
Plain dealing, Madam, some a Jewel call,  
If you esteem it so, your Honour shall  
Find it like swelling grapes, like fruitful Vine,  
Under each leaf, hanging on every line,  
Each satire wears it in his hairy Ear,  
And in each Epigram it will appear.  
Your wonted favour grant then, and I live  
Richer than those that thousands have to give.  I. E.  

To the Censorious Reader.  
I do desire the snarl and do thy worst,  
Who at thy mercy stands is most accurst:  
I write to please my Friends and boldly vow,  
Neither thy venomed Tongue, nor bended Brow  
Shall force me to a Recantation.  
I know thy trade, thy Occupation  
Is to find fault, find them good Sir, and take them,  
They are your own, 'tis you not I that make them,  
Belch out thy poison then, and vent thy gall,  
I have an Antidote within 'gainst all.  
Besides here is a Charm, if you but look  
Upon the frontier piece of this poor Book;  
A Lady's name, a name that virtue hath  
Enough to make this Book become a Bath,  
And give each line a healing power by which  
Each critic may be cured of his salt itch.  
This makes me here with confidence protest,  
I fear not thee nor any such wild beast.   

To the Courteous Reader.  
I Kiss your hands, and would be glad to meet  
Such Friends in every leaf, twixt every sheet.  
I wish that every dish, and all the salads  
That's set before you may delight your pallets▪  
Therefore I sent to Florence for my oil,  
My Olives grew on that Italian soil.  
The Oranges and Lemons Spanish speak,  
And if the vinegar be dead or weak  
Then blame the Time and people, that will carp  
At any thing though wholesome, if but sharp.  
Woodcocks here are, as good as ever flew;  
Widgeons and gulls that certainly are new.  
here's fowl of every sort save only one,  
And that's foul faults of them I hope here's none.  
Sit down then courteous Reader, and fall too,  
For know the feast was only made for you.  
Sit and be frolic, whilst I humbly wait  
Expecting how you relish each conceit.  
And if you rise well pleased my noble Friends,  
I then am rich as having all in ends.   

To his Book.  
GO forth my little wanton, go and play,  
But on my Blessing, see thou dost not stray  
Beyond those bounds to which I have confined thee  
For if in Paul's Church yard I chance to find thee,  
Nay if within the City walls thou come,  
I wish thou mayst be instantly struck dumb,  
Or if with Prentices thou do converse,  
Pray Heavens their Master's Counters prove thy hearse,  
There with their damn account books lie for ever,  
And may I hear, or see thee thenceforth never.  
The old Exchange I do forbid thee too,  
Lest thou shouldst meet in hasty crowds, a crew  
Either a Grain too light, or too too grave,  
Composed of too much fool, or too much knave.  
The Inns of Court are safe, none there will scare thee,  
But from the Inns of Chancery I bar thee;  
There undersheriffs, solicitors and such  
Will make a Battery of every touch.  
Benchers and Barristers pass by, for those  
To wit are Neuters, neither friends nor foes.  
If to the Royal Court a Courtier bear thee,  
Avoid the knavish Pages, lest they swear thee,  
And force the so the Author to bewray:  
With Grooms and chambermaids forbear to play  
Gentlemen-Ushers, and the quarter-wayters,  
Though just unto their King, they may be traitors  
To me, or thee; with pensioner or querry  
Be free and bold, they can be bold and merry,  
For they good fellows are, and can dispense  
With wit that fights, but in its own defence.  
The new great Lords avoid, and if thou can,  
For every Lord is not a Noble man.  
Shun Countesses, as much as thou art able,  
She may b'a Countess that's not honourable.  
For Senators, know they are sharp-edged tools  
Not too be jested with; there are Court fools,  
Who cog and lie, but still their Coxcombs have  
A cursed scent, of the most dangerous knave.  
A clergy man that wears a little ruff,  
And keeps his hand untainted with a cuff;  
Who wears no Spanish leather Boot or shoe,  
Or any other fashion that is new,  
Lest it from France, or Spain, or Rome should come,  
To such a silenced Brother be thou dumb;  
Say not, God save him, lest he say, he's able  
To save himself, and damn the profane rabble.  
The only friends to whom I would commend thee,  
Are only those to whom I humbly send thee:  
Kiss their fair hands, and at their noble feet  
Stand and do penance, in a paper sheet.  
From them alone thy absolution crave,  
Since they alone have power to kill, or save.  J. E.  

To the jealous Reader.  
WHo finds an Epigram like clothes in fitness,  
Of him 'twas made, his Conscience is my witness.  
And yet I wonder how it comes to pass  
What for a Goose I made, should fit an Ass:  
But take it Sir, and now I know your measure  
I'll fit you better at my further leisure   

To the Printer, if these papers should unhappily come to the Press.  
IF you should be accused have care to look  
You do not play the fool and crave your Book,  
For to your condemnation that may rise,  
Rather stand mute my Friend be dumb and wise.  
If you confess as they perhaps would have you,  
Take it from me this Book will never save you.  
If they condemn you 'cause you'll not confess,  
You know they can but send you to the Press.  
Then pray stand mute, the counsel's good I give,  
Die by the Press since by the Press you live.   

To the Stationer if need be.  
IF you shall make Paul's Pillars penance do  
In any sheet of mine, or set to view  
The Title of this Book on any Post,  
I wish your expectation may be lost;  
For common things that men at stairs do cry  
Are only fit for th' vulgar sort to buy.  
As wife or daughter let this Book have keeping,  
And men will hunt it out when you are sleeping.   

To the punctual Poets.  
IF you examine by the rules of art  
These rhymes of mine, together or apart,  
And to the common touchstone of your trade  
Send them, i'll prevent you, for know they were made  
Not for the Universities, nor yet  
To sell at any stall for currant wit,  
Fiddlers and choristers are bound to sing  
Always in tune, and eke their fiddles string  
With Trebles, Means, Counter-tenor Bases,  
But know, you critics, mine another case is,  
I write to please my true and noble friends,  
To please you in the cross part is my ends:  
Besides Parnassus' hill I hear is steep,  
Your spring of Hellicon's for me to deep,  
Nor do I truly know, I truly vow,  
Whether your Pegasus be horse or Cow.  
You that do write for money or applause  
Keep you the rules of art, observe her laws;  
My papers shall not smell of oil nor wax,  
Your lamps and tapers force you set a tax  
Upon your Stationers who many times  
With dear repentance bind your dear bought rhymes  
Which serve a prenticeship upon their stalls  
For few there are that come unto their calls  
Unless Tobaccoe men, sick men or such  
As physic take because they surfeit much:  
But know you men of curiosity,  
These sheets shall in some Lady's closet lie;  
Who them in their fair hands shall take sometimes,  
With sweetest powders to perfume my rhymes;  
The Damask rose buds in these papers shall  
In them be dried, and hung against the wall  
And th' very worst that these leaves can abide,  
About some galley Pots they may be tied,  
And so preserve those sweets, that sweeter grow  
By those sweet hands that did preserve them so.  
Armed with this confidence my muse's flight  
Shall not be checked by any critics slight.   

A satire. To the Times time-serving Poets.  
I claim no place no office, or degree,  
In your alliance, or fraternity,  
I'll ●●and alone, and either fall, or rise,  
No● by your hands, but by the destinies,  
Light headed Mercury, not grave Apollo  
My patron is, his winged feet, I follow,  
With him, I often cut the subtle air,  
And from the dog-star, pluck a lock of hair,  
Then to the man i'th' Moon I nimbly leap,  
And fleece his shaghaired Cur, from thence I step,  
Down to the fatal sisters, force them spin,  
These hairs, to thrids, of which I weave a gin,  
To catch wild beasts, tame fools, and great ones too  
This is a trifling work, you scorn to do,  
Nor would it well become your gravities,  
You fish with lines of filke, and painted flies,  
You angle for great Ladies favourites,  
Bow to their grooms, flatter their parasites,  
Smooth up their bawds, and to conclude commit,  
Idolatry with Calves, and make your wit,  
Worse than a hackney Jade, that every host  
With any paper packet, may send post,  
Whilst I with nimble footed Mercury,  
Through unfrequented woods, and groves, do fly,  
And with a sharp hoofed satire, pace by pace,  
In Desert forests hunt the wild goose chase,  
And fear no beast though he a title bear.  
As big as is his bulk, freedom dwells there,  
And christian liberty, like Ships on seas,  
Unbounded is, and stears which way it please,  
There in security we, sport and play,  
Scorning to fear, what city Cryticks say,  
Sometimes within the Court I do appear,  
But not like you to scratch an itching ear,  
For know I crowd those ulcerous organs full  
Of sulphur, copperas, gall, black ink and wool  
And if to any state's man I but whisper,  
So sharp my breath is, that I leave a blister.  
Some times to th' old Exchange, travel I do,  
My Patron courtier is, and Merchant too,  
There to the Aldermen, I packets tender;  
From their god plenty, and when they would render  
A brace of tasters, for the news I bring,  
I falcon like, am got upon the wing,  
Spurring the slow paced wind, until it throws me  
Upon some noble country friend that knows me;  
To him I dare be free, to me he dares  
Communicate the common fears, and cares,  
With which the humble subjects are possessed,  
How by that courtier, they have been oppressed  
How by that Lawyer, wrested from their right  
How by that Prelate tithed unto a mite,  
How by Projectors rifled and undone,  
How by some strange monopoly, some one  
Engrosses that, by which two thousand poor,  
Have got an honest living heretofore;  
This when I hear I then turn satirist,  
And still my hardest lines, I harder twist,  
And to my ink, ad gall, then naked strip them,  
And without fear, or pity, boldly whip them,  
I hate those sneaking Poets, that put one,  
Faces as rough as Satyrs, yet are none,  
Such as do only bark, and dare not bite,  
When an Invective, I intend to write,  
My pencile make as sharp, as sword, or knife,  
And if I needs must rail, i'll do't to the life,  
Daring authority I will outlook,  
And mercy want rather than crave my book,  
Blind are those fools that stumble at a straw,  
Satyrs ne'er ought to know nor fear a law,  
With them I am resolved some hours to spend,  
And to that sport, summon one only friend.   

A Court-Prodigall.  
ON Calsors back, heaven knows for what offence,  
This day is hanged all his inheritance  
That cloak to No'hs' Ark well you may compare:  
For every living beast he had lies there  
His hose and doublet like that mighty Flood  
Hath drowned each field and overwhelmed each wood  
A lease with divers Coppie-holds doth ride  
In an Impropriation by his side  
His Haberdasher joining with the Pointer  
Hath trust him up in his old mother's jointure  
To Sturbridge fair why run you then for shows  
When heers a Monster much more strange than those.   

An Old unthrift.  
ALbertus swears and swearing so resolved  
That if Court tables should be quite disolved  
Himself with thousands more would sell their spits  
And leave the poor to live by their poor wits  
Albertus do; since forth thou d●r'st not peep  
Let that keep thee; that thou wert wont to keep  
For thy revenues and thy penny rents  
Are all forestalled by citizen's extents.  
Then as I said good unthrift let it be  
Thou once kept house now let the house keep thee.   

To a great Lord that upbraided his Servant with Poverty.  
YOur Lordship did object upon a time  
My poverty against me as a crime,  
You blamed me that I borrowed had of those,  
Who to your knowledge were my greatest foes;  
It had been nobly done Sir to relieve me,  
Rather than with my wants and Foes to grieve me  
But in distress give me a foe that lends,  
Before a thousand faithless fruitless friends,   

To his reconciled Enemy:  
YOu were my enemy so went the cry  
But your late actions hath given that the lie;  
You are my friend professed nay you have sworn it  
And but I know it real I should scorn it;  
Let all backbiters then henceforth be Mute,  
Friends by their works are known as trees by fruit  
He that shall speak me fair and loves me not,  
Calls for the reckoning up, but pays no shot,  
Give me the man that smoothly steals away,  
Uses few words, but leaves me nought to pay.  
Let those that envy this our friendship know,  
That I much more to you than them do owe,  
For you have paid my scores, so used me better  
Than such as scorned me, 'cause I was a debtor.  
Thus by your actions I shall ever prize you,  
Who calls you then my foe, I swear belies you.   

Upon a Fool that was angry at his evil Fortune.  
GRaccus at fortune rails, and oft imparts  
Unto his private friends some evil chance,  
Still wondering that a man of his deserts  
That fickle whore so slowly should advance:  
Indeed since fortune favours fools so much,  
All wonder may, that thy ill fortune's such.   

Upon a Fellow that feared he should run mad for his Mistress.  
RAlph is love sick, and thinks he shall run mad,  
And lose his wits, a thing Ralph never had.  
Take comfort man, if that be all thou fearest,  
A groat will pay the loss when wits at dearest.   

Upon a Highway Thief.  
DIck had two words that did maintain him ever,  
The one was stand, the other was deliver.  
But Dick's in Newgate, and I fear will never  
Be blessed again with that sweet word, deliver.   

Of one that was burnt in the Hand.  
THat fellow there, as simply as he stands,  
Hath all the law by rote at's fingers ends:  
Nay answers one, he hath it in his hands,  
For at last Sessions, had he not found friends,  
He had been hanged, if out he have not bit it,  
The law's there to be read, as Deverax writ it.   

Upon a Lady's Tailor turned out of service, having been long her Favourite.  
WHat Monsieur Nit my Lady's tailor here,  
That she maintained for trimming her old gear?  
I heard why you were out of favour put,  
A sour nitships' yard she found was lately cut:  
Then blame her not, she had just cause of Ire,  
A child once burnt, you know will fear the fire.  
Then she that hath so oftentimes been served,  
Hath in her old age cause to be afeard.   

Upon his unkind kindred.  
IN kinsman friend of old was comprehended,  
Give me one friend and hang up all my kindred.   

A Gardner and his Wife.  
A gardener's wife that long had barren been,  
Her husband one night thus did make his moan,  
Sure wife quoth he 'tis for some deadly sin,  
That this our work 'mongst all the rest alone  
Is fruitless, here's labour, but no increasing,  
Husband quoth she, this ground doth want much dressing  
With that the man a far fetched sigh sent forth,  
And swore it had more dressing then 'twas worth.   

A peremptory goldsmith's Wife.  
A goldsmith's wife most boldly oft required  
Of her good man a hundred pound in gold,  
For what use to know humbly he desired,  
For my pleasure quoth she, straight down 'twas told,  
Take it said he, my only dearest Dear,  
And thus she serves him twice or thrice a year.  
Though he do oft thus for her pleasure pay,  
Yet that he is a wittol who can say?   

A Courteous Chambermaid.  
DOll often did protest, and deeply too,  
Her sought for maidenhead she would not lose,  
At last her Lady's Son did Doll pursue,  
And wood so well she could not him refuse,  
How now quoth he, how can you salve your Vow,  
Why that's not lost quoth she, that's given to you.   

To one that entreated the Author to write some Verses to a Book that he had going to the Press.  
I Was entreated by a scambling Knight  
Something in praise of his new book to write,  
I that am ready at each suitors whistle  
As others did, provided an Epistle,  
But 'cause I did not praise his work enough,  
He left it out, which I took much in snuff;  
But let it pass it hath given me a schoolling,  
I'll henceforth soothe up woodcocks in their fooling,   

The Author upon his Epigrams.  
MY Epigrams by hundreds I send forth,  
And give them too for nought that's just their worth  
If in mouths of gift horses few men look,  
Vouchsafe but so much justice to this book.  
For rather then I'll sell paper and ink,  
I'l● be a night man, though the office stink.   

To the truly Honourable and anciently Noble Benefactor the Lord Dunkelly, Vicecount Tunbridg, upon the author's obligations to him, An Epigram.  
I Am your lordship's debtor, yet who looks  
I fear will scarcely find me in your books,  
My name I do suspect is clearly lost,  
And I for want of payment out am crossed:  
Yet my ambition's still great Lord, to mount  
High in your books, I mean of good account:  
In other books where e'er I find my name,  
I wish their libraries were all in flame.  
A tradesman's book is worse to me by far  
Than the black book, where psalms of mercy are.  
To read is not enough my life to save,  
Judgement or satisfaction they must have,  
Their books condemn me, yours would me acquit,  
Let me be blotted there, in yours fair writ,  
Their great accounts my greatest sorrow is,  
The greater your account the more my bliss.  
Then know your honour cannot please me better  
Than write me down at large your thankful debtor.   

To the most deservedly beloved and honoured the the Lady Viscountess Tunbridge.  
Madam,  
WHere should I place your honour if not here,  
Since 'tis as all men know your proper sphere;  
You do not in your orb so sweetly move,  
Wanting his presence you so dearly love:  
Therefore my judgement humbly thought it meet,  
To place you thus together in one sheet,  
And may those powers that govern death and fate,  
So tie, so bind, and so conglutinate,  
The holy bonds that hold you now together,  
That neither may lament the loss of either;  
May death, and time, and fate want power to force  
Either a separation or divorce,  
Betwixt you, and let every new year bring,  
To both your bloods, to both your loves, a spring;  
May you grow old in nothing but in seeing,  
Your children's children's Children still in being;  
My orisons are done, and Madam now,  
I humbly come to beg one boon of you.  
You hsafe though hitherto you have not known me  
To write me down your servant, and so own me.  
That happiness convaid but to my hearing,  
I'll strive to spin a web worthy your wearing.   

An Epigram Humbly presented to his majesty upon Release of a prisoner that was committed for making Libellous Verses.  
YOur royal Mother Sir, blessed ever be,  
This day that brings her to our memory,  
To England, Scotland, and Ireland gave,  
A judge to Censure, and a king to save:  
It was a day of mercy, so said she,  
God mercy showed in her delivery;  
Oh let it be a day of mercy ever,  
Pronounce great Sir, this day that word, deliver.  
A prison is a womb, whence only you,  
Have power to bid bad men be born anew:  
In imitation of our God then say,  
Fiat, and I am born anew this day;  
The acts of mercy Saints and angels sing,  
They will rejoice with her first gave you being.  
Oh pardon then my much repented, folly,  
That I with them may keep this day still holy.   

To his Noblest Friend Mr. Endymion Porter upon Verses writ by Ben. Johnson.  
THey that give wine to Poets, noble friend,  
Verses receive, they need not verses send;  
Only yourself that all men can out do,  
Did send your Poet wine and verses too.  
You gave him oil, for wine Sir is the same,  
It makes the dying fire freshly flame.  
It is the philosopher's stone, with which  
Their lives do catch conceits, which makes them rich:  
It is the Antidote that doth preserve,  
Their fancies, which without it drop and starve.  
It is indeed the spirit, that infuses  
Quick apprehensions in the dullest Muses.  
The gift was rare, but there's a better thing,  
You drew it from the bosom of a king;  
For had you from the fountain drawn a piece,  
Pierced the Star, or squeezed the golden fleece,  
Or searched the bowels of the lion, nay  
Had you done more, sent a tall ship a way,  
To Spain or Greece, and with your money bought  
The head of all the vintage, and that brought,  
At your own charge home to his cellar door,  
You had done much; but this is much much more:  
You brought him sack even from a god like giver,  
Such, and so blessed, as it shall last for ever,  
As if the Faces, being pleased, would now design,  
To the immortal Muses precious wine;  
So that your Poet to the last of days,  
Is bound loud Sir, to sing your lasting praise;  
Thus have you built yourself brave Sir, a tomb,  
That neither time nor envy can consume.  
And if you want an Epitaph, you must die,  
When as Parnassus burns, and Helicon is dry.   

For Mistress Porter on a New years day.  
GO hunt the whitest Ermine, and present,  
His wealthy skin as this day's tribute sent,  
To my Endimion's love, though she be far,  
More gently smooth, more soft than ermines are,  
Go climb the rocks, and when thou there hast found,  
A star contracted in a diamond,  
Give it Endimion's love, whose equal eyes,  
Out-look the starry jewels of the skies:  
Go dive into the southern sea, and when  
Thou've found to trouble the nice sight of men  
A swelling pearl, and such whose single worth,  
Boasts all the wonders which the sea brings forth,  
Give it Endimion's love, whose every tear,  
Would more enrich the skilful Jeweller,  
How I command, how slowly they obey  
The churlish Tartar will not hunt to day,  
Nor will the lazy sallow Indian strive,  
To climb the rock, nor that dull Negro dive,  
Thus Poets ●ike to kings by trust deceived,  
Give what is oftener heard of then received.   

To his loved Friend Mr. Davenat, upon his Verses to the well-deserving both his, and all others praises the virtuous Mistress Porter.  
I Seldom praise least using so to do,  
My Muse at length might learn to flatter to,  
But if I envy any, be it known,  
Dear friend, 'tis you, 'tis you that have outgone  
My nimble thoughts, thoughts that for many days  
Have been upon the wing to catch a praise,  
Worthy her wearing, but I now despair,  
For you have robbed the earth the sea and air;  
And in conceit made her a richer feast,  
Than Cleopatra did her Roman Guest.  
You hunted well and though you caught no game,  
Yet by't you have gained from me this epigram,  
Thus Poets with the Gods, loved friend, may boast  
That they can feast each other without cost.   

An Epigram, To his Friend Ben Johnson, upon his Libellous Verses against the Lords of the green-cloth concerning his Sack.  
You swore dear Ben you'd turn the green cloth blew,  
If your dry Muse might not be bathed in sack,  
Nay drunk with choler you protested too,  
Their white stains you would smoke till they were black.  
This with those fearless Lords nothing prevailing,  
The scene you altered and you smoothed your pen,  
You left your bitter and your fruitless railing,  
And basely slattered e'en the worst of men;  
Then give me leave henceforth good Ben to think,  
You drunkest are when you the most want drink.   

To Ben Johnson again, upon his verses dedicated to the Earl of Portland, Lord Treasurer.  
Your verses are commended and 'tis true,  
That they were very good, I mean to you;  
For they returned you Ben as I was told,  
A certain sum of forty pound in gold:  
The verses then being rightly understood,  
His Lordship not Ben Johnson made them good.   

An Epitaph upon the chaste and fair Lady Walsingam.  
Within this humble hearse of clay here lies  
Relics that heathen men would idolise;  
Such flesh and blood to dust and ashes turned,  
As since the world's first birth was never urned;  
Virtue and beauty had mere strangers been,  
Till God and nature lodged them in this inn;  
Where having met and kissed they kept one room,  
Till cruel death removed them to this tomb:  
Which sharpeyed virtue quickly did discover,  
To narrow for herself and her chaste lover:  
And that they might no more the subjects be,  
To death, or chance or times unconstancy,  
She fled to heaven and there is now providing,  
A place for both their everlasting biding;  
Good Sexton then, until these lovers meet,  
As virtue did keep beauty's lodging sweet;  
That Saints and angels at the last may find,  
This dust as pure, as when 'twas first enshrined.   

Verses dedicated by way of new-year's gift to the Earl of Portland, at that time Lord Treasurer, by the favour of him that presented them they were said to be begot and brought forth, whilst He and the Author drunk a pint of Wine; to try the truth his Lordship commanded the Author to send another copy upon as short warning: they were by his Lordship equally liked, and happily commended; but in the author's opinion there is much difference.  

The first copy.  
May it please your Lordship,  
A Diamond right and rich if breathed upon,  
Doth clear itself so doth no other stone;  
It hath a secret unseen unfelt fire,  
No sooner clouded, but those clouds expire;  
By which the Lapidary Sir descries,  
The hidden wealth and worth that in it lies:  
Far honoured Lord be smooth faced flattery hence,  
Such is your now known virtues excellence;  
Like a rich diamond, by your own power alone,  
The breath of venomed tongues i'th' air is thrown:  
Fowl mouthed detraction you have now struck dumb,  
Envy is silent for the time to come:  
Let me with pardon then great Sir, declare  
How much in these your honours I have share;  
Your now approved goodness to my glory,  
Confirm what I foretold of your Worths story,  
You have most honoured Lord, to my great fame,  
Gained me from all good men a prophet's name;  
And though my modest joys were long since born  
Yet they but learned to speak this very morn,  
And with the crowd that to your Altar brings,  
Jewels or plate for this days' offerings,  
I humbly pray they may without offence,  
Supply the place of myrrh and frankincense.  
Upon the Altar of your favour throw,  
Those Zealous wishes which from my heart flow  
As the sun this morn set forth,  
And increases in his growth;  
As it by degrees doth mount,  
In our lengthening days account:  
Certain minutes every hour,  
And each day augments his power;  
Even so I humbly heaven desire,  
Your spring honours may aspire;  
Until they overlook the tops,  
Of all your wishes and your hopes:  
When thus the height of bliss is won,  
Then let them like Joshua's Sun,  
Not for hours but for ever,  
Stick and thence retire never;  
And may no age an eclipse see,  
In you or your posterity.  
Thus he humbly prays that stands,  
With patience waiting your commands.   

The Second copy.  
Upon reading the former verses his Lordship wa● pleased to command Mr. Titchborne to go with the Author to Mr. Attorney general, to pray in his lordship's name a speedy dispatch of business which the Author had with him: at their return these were made i● the presence of Mr. Titchborne, and by him sent to hi● Lordship to show that he studied not, but wrote freel● and wantonly making it a pleasure and no trouble.  
Great Sir,  
I Borrowed Neptun's Trident for an hour,  
Gave it an Indian, charge him by that power  
To dive into each wealthy channel, where,  
The rich Oriental Pearls engendered were:  
He winged his feet with Fins seemed to strive  
With nimble Zeal the Dolphin, to out-dive.  
He went and came as swift as wish or thought,  
And told me Neptune's store house he had sought:  
That he the high arched Rock had undermined,  
And searched the mermaids Cabinet to find  
A Pearl, which both in beauty and in wealth,  
Might equal what was once drunk at a health;  
When that ambitious Queen had at a feast,  
The great Mark Anthony for her chief guest,  
But all was empty and his labour lost,  
Great Britan's Merchants had them all engrossed:  
And they within your Temple should appear,  
This day to welcome in this new born year;  
A Negro than I entertained that knew,  
Where the unpolished sun burnt Diamond grew,  
I baithed his feet in hot and quick desire,  
And sent him to those Rocks that do aspire,  
In their ambitious growth to check the Sun,  
He made's return as soon as thought upon:  
Gave me the answer that I had before,  
Great Britain's Merchants had engrossed the store;  
A light heeled fancy I did then bestride,  
And in conceit upon a cloud did ride:  
Whose long wing dared the winds unto a chase,  
And beat the nimble swallows in their pace,  
The Persian Looms the wealthy Indian shore,  
For hangings, Carpets and for golden oar  
I did survey, and found it was most true,  
All that was good had been brought thence for you  
With that, my griefs great weight did quickly break  
The cloud I rode on, and I did awake:  
For all this while I was but in a dream,  
Begot the day before by an extreme  
Desire to offer some such sacrifice,  
The which for ●arity might catch your eyes.  
Sleep banished thus, a bright eyed waxen taper  
Presented to my view Pen, ink and paper,  
My Muse came dropping in as she had gone  
That morn to bathe herself in Helicon  
She forced me write these humble lines which may  
Quoth she, out live the offerings made this day.  
For jewels, Hangings Plate, all fortune's treasure  
Are but times slaves, and vanish at his pleasure.  
Two things alone Immortalize great men,  
And that is Children and a fruitful pen;  
The first heavens hath provided, and you may  
Create the second, if you please, this day.  
And from the first of this new years good days  
A Poet make to sing your virtuous praise.   

A great Lady presented the said Lord Treasurer with a silver screen having these following verses engraven about it, made by this Author at her request.  
YOur virtues, like this silver screen,  
Are known to interpose between  
The flaming Eyes of envious fools,  
Till your clear fame their fire cools;  
Sit then securely, take your rest,  
And with this Motto dare their Test,  
Detractions sparks no more dare fly,  
But like these Coals shall wast, and die.   

The same Lady presented his majesty the Queen's Picture, in a Square table, wrought with a needle so artificially, as the most skilful Painter could not have bettered it, and at the 4 corners were the names of his majesty's four kingdoms, with these verses made by the same Author.  
SHe, whose ambitious Genius watching lies,  
With ardent Zeal to catch your sacred Eyes,  
Discovered hath the blessed object, where  
Those stars do move as in their proper sphere.  
On that she humbly fixed her loyal heart,  
Until her soul had taught her hands the art,  
By which that objects sweet Idea thus,  
Was made to feast those eyes that govern us.  
If then this zealous offering find but grace,  
Your four Kingdoms next you shall give place  
Unto the Prince, Princess, Duke, and the other  
Expected fourth model, their third Brother.  
And thus by hieroglyphics she aspires  
To teach her hands to speak her hearts desires.   

Mrs. Sanderson her majesty's Laundress presented a cellar of empty glasses to her majesty.  
Madam,  
THese little glasses had been siled with juice,  
Pressed from the fruits that grow in paradise,  
The tree of Life I would have squeezed and thence,  
My humble Zeal had brought the quintessence,  
Of that as yet untouched fruit, and here  
Have tendered it, to welcome in this year,  
But gracious Mistress, know that I have been,  
At every gate, courting each Cherubin,  
Told them, to whom I humbly would present it,  
They prayed my pardon, vowed they durst not ventur'●  
Your majesty, before all creatures living,  
A bottle should have had of their own giving,  
But 'twas decreed, for woman's first offence,  
No aquavitae should be brought from thence,  
Accept then gracious Madam, what I give,  
And if my humble prayers can make you live,  
You shall immortal be 〈◊〉 ●●at denied,  
Since none are so, but those that's deified,  
I shall imp●●●●ne heaven with my best breath,  
You may transported be, and ne'er see death,  
That all the world may know, as we believe  
You are derived from heaven, not from Eve.  John Eliot. 
Finis.    

An elegy.  
On the Lady Jane Paulet Marchioness of Winchester daughter to the right honourable the Lord Savage of Rock-savage.  
I Would invite this my humble verse  
Some weeping eyes to wait upon this hearse,  
But when I view who 'tis that lodges here  
I know not then from whom to beg a tear;  
To Ladies if I should this suit prefer,  
So good this Lady was all envied her:  
Such as had beauty whilst they stood alone,  
If once compared with her they then had none;  
Those spangle virtues that they gloried in,  
To her Test brought, proved then but gilded sin;  
She was the lily of the Field, the rest  
But Da●ies, Primrose, Cowslips at the best;  
This blazing star all others thus our shining,  
Inferior lights grow great, by her declining;  
Since Ladies than are bettered by her death,  
To beg their tears were but to wast my breath.  
Should I to virtuous men myself address,  
And crave some sighs from them they would confess,  
That if a thought of her but crossed their way  
Even in the Temple, they no more could pray.  
The fire of love, their sparks of Zeal put forth,  
And they no text could study, but her worth;  
The thickskind Boar, that at high noon defies  
The scorching Sun was melted by her eyes.  
The stiff-necked Puritan doth not allow  
His god a knee, yet to this Saint would bow.  
Her granest chaplains in the midst of grace  
Stood often mute, till gazing on her face  
They f●o● her Cheeks, as from two well penned books,  
Found graces store, and read them in her looks.  
And thus all men idolatry commit,  
Some with her feature, others with her wit.  
All good men then how dear so ere they loved her  
Are glad e'en for their soul's sake, death removed her  
Shall I rub nature's sores, and once again,  
From tender Parents eyes press drops of rain;  
That were a Crime that would beget a story,  
To mourn for her they know is crowned with glory,  
But they religious are, and will repent  
The sighs, and groans, and tears already spent;  
For being married thus before they die,  
To joys Long lived, as is eternity,  
Part of her happiness they shall destroy  
That weep for her, unless they weep for joy.  
Should I awake her Lord, and from his eyes  
Requier tears, by way of sacrifice,  
That were a cruelty her gentle soul  
Would sharply in his sleeps and dreams control;  
For if the Saints our actions do discover,  
To weep for her would show he did not love her;  
For being crowned with bliss, 'twere most unjust  
To wish her here again, to dwell with dust,  
What joy, what honour can there be like this,  
She that was once his wife an angel is.  
A piece of his own flesh with her is gone,  
As in his right, to take possession,  
Of these eternal joys long since decreed  
To godly Parents, and their righteous seed;  
Nor was high heaven content to grace him so,  
But knowing nature apt to over throw  
Foundations, that by faith are weakly laid,  
This goodly fabric must not be decayed  
By flow paced time, nor did those powers please  
To ruin it by surfeits or disease;  
Sure common messengers were thought too mean,  
This was a Temple pure, and chaste, and clean,  
And must not canceled be the Common way,  
Or sink like houses built of Lyme and clay▪  
She was a Diamond, and a Diamond must  
Be found to cut her ere she fall to dust;  
A Diamond of the self same Rock, or none,  
The Flesh of her own Flesh, bone of her bone;  
And this must cut and polish either other,  
The mother fit the Child, the Child the mother,  
For God's own wearing, O now tell me where  
A husband can find room to place a tear,  
Or Parents ground whereon to drop a groan,  
Happy, unhappy Lady, is their none  
Hath cause to mourn, or to lament thy death,  
Yes blessed soul, more than do yet draw breath;  
Children unborn, and ages yet to come  
Shall bring their offerings to thy honoured tomb,  
Pilgrims from furthest parts shall here arrive,  
To kiss the earth tho● trodest on being alive;  
Chaste virgins, widows, wives shall every spring  
Branches of palm and laurel hither bring;  
And round about thy sepulchre shall kneel,  
And vent in sighs what their sad hearts do feel.  
Infant's shall to thy Infant every hour  
Offer a garland, or at least a Flower,  
And then the elder shall the younger tell,  
That they must never hear a passing Bell;  
But they must drop a tear in memory  
Of those two blessed souls, whose bones there lie.  
And as each year that day shall bring about,  
On which the Tyrant death those lights put out,  
They must invent a curse, and that curse lay  
So heavy, that it prove a dismal day.  
A day on which no work shall be begun,  
No fruit be planted, nor a seed be sown:  
No traveller that conscience makes of ●in  
Shall dare a Journey on that day begin:  
And if a Yew that day bring forth a Lamb,  
Let it be fatal to the silly dam;  
Let not a dove that day a dove disclose,  
Nor huntsman find a Fawn, fallen from his does;  
Let Midwives only on that day be blessed  
With what they seldom get, sweet sleep, sweet rest;  
For on that day, that dismal day, the earth  
Lost all her pride, by an untimely birth,  
And this poor Isle was utterly undone,  
And robbed of such a mother, such a Son,  
As doting nature with her palsy fist  
Shall never frame again, nor fates untwist  
Such gentle stuff, so soft so debonayr,  
As was this Child, nor mother half so fair  
As was the lovely mould in which 'twas cast.  
For never wa●●here womb so pure so chaste,  
No● shall mankind so much as hope to see  
The world enriched with fruit from such a tree;  
A ●●i●d that saw the world, and fell a Crying,  
As if to live with us were worse than dying;  
A mother wisely apprehending too,  
One phoenix to one world was only due:  
And thus as by consent they both retire;  
And both to ashes burn in their own fire.  
Is it a sea that overwhelms each eye?  
Or is it some black cloud that masks the sky?  
Or is the Sun eclipsed, or hath the day  
Clapped on her swiftest wings and fled away?  
And left me thus, as if this subject might  
Be best pursued in solitary night?  
Or whence proceeds those mists that thus involves me?  
●as there dropped a tear and that resolves me,  
〈◊〉 heart surcharged with grief seeks ease, and tries  
How sorrow may be vented by the eyes;  
The blots of ink that from my pen do fall,  
Like hired mourners, at a funeral,  
No power have to move the Lookers on,  
To speaking actions of compassion,  
Let others then sad Epitaphs invent,  
And passed them up about thy monument;  
Let such whose sorrows are not great as mine,  
With golden verses beautify thy Shrine;  
Whilst my poor muse contents itself, that she  
Vents sighs, not words unto thy memory;  
Nor canst thou want blessed Soul an elegy;  
I see one writ in every Readers eye  
Rest then in peace, the world to dust shall turn  
When tears are wanting to keep moist thy urn.   

In Praetorem.  
WHen I behold thee, proudly to advance,  
Behind thy sword, and Cap of Maintenance,  
Bold Macchabeus, methinks I peruse,  
Leading into the field, a troop of Jews.  
When on the seat of Justice, you sit plodding,  
And Alderman, 'gainst Alderman, sits noddling,  
I do conceive, in Arras hangings wrought,  
The wicked Elders Images, that sought  
The chaste Susanna to betray, but when,  
The market bell, hath roused you, from your den,  
Each Tripe wife, Baker, haggler, and the rest,  
Flying as lambs, before a cruel beast,  
I then Conceive a lion, in Fox Furs,  
Marching before a Crew of bloody Curs,  
For such your sergeants are, but when I see,  
You lead towards Paul's, with all your livery,  
Making an artificial day, with lights,  
As numberless as stars, in frosty nights,  
I cry good God, preserve thy blessed son,  
For treason is on foot, and fast doth run,  
Since Judas like, you seem to be attended  
By such, as our Redeemer apprehended,  
Thus as you vary in your shapes I construe  
You sometimes man, beast sometimes, sometimes Monster.   

In Senatores.  
WHen I behold your wealth, I do admire  
Your fruitful wits, by which you do acquire  
Such vast estates, but then your wisdom founding,  
Wonder on wonder, works to my confounding,  
To think that so much Treasure, should be gained  
By you so deep bellied, and so shallow brained,  
I ask a reason and am answered straight,  
You get it not by wit, but by deceit,  
This seeming truth my admiration cools,  
And I conclude, fortune still favours—   

A pair of Shrieves.  
IN scarlet gowns, and golden chains when I,  
Dull sighted as I am, your worships spy,  
Swimming down Ludgate hill in haste, to meet,  
The Temple daring rebels in the street,  
Me thinks I see two galley Foists well manned,  
Sent from the turks, to Milford in the strand,  
With strict commission, to pluck out by th' Ears,  
Those sea-burnt soldiers that once sacked Algiers,  
For verily your sergeants seems to me,  
No other then mere infidels to be,  
But when your beasts have brought you nearer hand  
I further am from knowing you, and stand,  
Like one amazed, I then begin to doubt,  
The Devil, and his Crew, are all broke out;  
For sure I see a Furnace in each Nose,  
That like to Aetna, burning Brimstone throws  
Into the Air, their Cheeks to me appear  
Like Beacons fired by the people's fear.  
Their beetle brows look like those Cherubins  
Kept Adam out of Eden, for his sins.  
My Boy, that's better sighted far then I,  
Would face me down, he saw in every Eye  
A vintner's Boy, burning or Sack, or Claret,  
But, hang him Rascal, he prates like a parrot;  
I rather think, their eyes four Cyclops are,  
Forging an Armour for the God of War;  
And those grim Sarje●nts Hellhounds, used to keep  
The Furnace hot, whilst the toiled Cyclops sleep,  
So know Right Worshipful, without dissembling,  
I never see you, but I fall a-trembling;  
And to confess the Truth, I daily pray,  
That I may never meet you in my way.  
Good brazen Serpent, vanish hence apace,  
Since 'tis to me a Hell to see thy Face.   

A Recorder.  
YOu are the city's Mouth, as they report,  
That have to do in any City Court.  
But I that ne'er by rumour could be led,  
Do rather take you for the Cities Head.  
A goodly beast of venery proclaims you;  
But let it be as the poor people names you,  
The city's Mouth, by which their minds are vented  
Then gentle Mouth, pray be not discontented,  
If that I ask you in a civil way,  
What good proportion of Oats and Hay  
Do they allow you, for without offence,  
Full well I know their thrifty providence;  
Do you at Livery stand, or by the Bottle  
Get you your Hay, your Oats by Peck or Pottle?  
Fie no, I hear one answer me in scorn,  
That you on Custards feed, and not on Corn.  
Eat Custards still, yea Custards eat for ever,  
And rotten Eggs let there be wanting never:  
And to that end, good Sir, be render hearted,  
For if you still do doom Bawds to be carted  
Eggs may grow dear, and so by ●ons●quence,  
Custards may lose in their circum●●renc●,  
Therefore take care in time, you Head or Mouth,  
Left Custads fail, that please your rotten tooth.   

A Sword-Bearer.  
THou Sword of Justice, sheathed in Velvet good,  
Whose Blade, as yet, ne'er tasted other blood  
But what the Tyrant Tyburn monthly sheds,  
Whose Hilt was never stained with broken heads,  
I humbly would demand of you the Bearer,  
Whether it be by th' Grandfather, or nearer  
Allied unto that honoured dudgeon Dagger  
With which a Major of old did bravely swagger:  
When b'ing half drunk (as I conceive) he drew it?  
And winking into Jack Cades Bosom threw it;  
Doubtless they are so near of kin, as neither  
May marry, nor with safety come together.  
For should that dagger with that sword but trade,  
Betwixt them they would get a bloody blade;  
And such a one to speak the simple truth,  
As might put dangerous valour in your Youth.  
O wisdom! wisdom worthy lasting wond●r!  
Blessed be those heads that kept these blades asunder,  
Since by that means, to their eternal praise,  
Shovetuesdayes are become sweet peaceful days:  
Bold Prentices no more the Rebels play,  
Nor in old armour fetch in youthful May.  
Comedians act in peace, each bawd and Whore,  
Sleeping securely needs not guard her door.  
March then in Triumph, and that sword advance,  
Well it becomes that Cap of Maintenance;  
For all things perish do, if not maintained,  
That Blade would rust, that Scabbard would be stained;  
The Sun, & Moon, & Stars would waste each hour,  
Were they not nourished by a heavenly power.  
In their election too of that Sword-bearer  
Their wisdom shines, there's nothing doth shine clearer;  
For if men but uprightly speak, who can,  
Find out in Europe a more upright man?  
And to speak truth, uprightness best becomes  
Such as o'th' Bench fill up fair Justice rooms.  
Let others then with Lybels' strive to blast you,  
You men of wisdom, I shall strive to cast you  
In good Bell mettle, and with my rude rhymes,  
Set to a sweeter tune than Bow Church Chimes,  
I'll ring your praise, which shall be heard as far as  
Sir Thomas Gresham's pipes on th' Changes terrace,  
Paul Pinders new gilt Organs in Paul's choir,  
Shall not dive deeper, no nor yet reach higher,  
To catch a note, worthy your worships hearing,  
Then I'll make praise worthy your wearing.  
King Edward's Sword in old Westminster Abby  
May seem to catch this Fool, or that young Baby.  
The keeper too, that licenc'd is to cozen,  
On Sabbath day poor people by the dozen,  
May prosper for a time, but I suppose,  
Neither his sneaking speech, or snuffling nose  
That moves the multitude to mirth and laughter,  
Shall e'er be heard, or minded much hereafter;  
For in thy swords sweet praise, & thy uprightness,  
Thy feets straight shape, thy heads garb, thy Eyes brightness,  
I will such verses write shall turn the tide  
From dirty Westminster, to fair Cheapside;  
And money shall be given the next age  
To see that Sword, and thy strange equipage.  
No matter then how dear the place thou buyest,  
It shall come treble home before thou diest.   

To the city sergeants.  
STand by you cursed Rascals, whilst I strive  
Your Hellish pedigree thus to derive,  
And tell the world, not of your devilish trade,  
But of what Loathsome mettle you were made.  
Nature being sick, and in an Ague quaking,  
Distempered in her Brains, each Member shaking  
She in a fury rose, and madly said,  
Devils like men as yet she had not made;  
But now she was resolved of metal base  
To make so wicked, and so damned a Race,  
As should degenerate from human kind,  
They should be men in shape, devils in mind.  
With that unto her Tub of Shreds she goes,  
And first, the loathsome clouts of bawds she throw●  
Into a cankered furnace, which had been  
Ne'er looked on, since Judas was put therein.  
A Rag she finds all leprous, the which  
She long since pulled from a foul stinking Breec●  
And that into her Cauldron she doth crowd,  
A nasty Masty Bitch, new lined, still proud,  
She made a spirit fetch and slay; that done,  
The matrice of that ugly Bitch was thrown  
Amongst the rest, to these she adds withal  
A cruel tiger's Heart, a mad dog's gall,  
A wolf's rank Gut, the Pizel of a Bull,  
With these her fiery cauldron filling full.  
She boils them long, and then she them doth mix  
With water, fetched from the black River Styx.  
This done a name she to this Monster gave,  
Which was Varlet, that's to say base knave.  
Walk on base knave, and know he's much to blame  
That ever calls you by a better Name.   

A City Hangman.  
IF formerly I undervalved thee,  
'T was want of knowledge in thy pedigree,  
For which I pardon ask, and now believe,  
In Heraldry thou shouldst ride with the Shrieve.  
Nay to speak truth, and give thee thy full Grace,  
Of him by right thou oughtst to take the place;  
For well I know, that when the Hangman pleases  
To keep his Chamber, let it be diseases,  
Or melancholy, nay let business be  
The moving cause, he then must work for thee,  
And hang, or head, or press, or whip, or burn,  
Let him write Knight, that shall not serve his turn,  
He must supply thy place, thy office do;  
As for his sergeants, they are but a Crew  
Of upstart Rascals, and come in of late;  
For when proud Haman was hanged up in State,  
Where was the Sheriff, where the sergeants then?  
The History remembers no such men.  
Nay Judas fares the worse, no doubt because  
That he against both God, and nature's Laws,  
usurped another's place, and so became,  
Proudly ambitious, of a hangman's name,  
Nay more, I'll boldly say, mankind had been,  
This day plunging, in original sin,  
And we no Blessed advocate, had known,  
If those accursed Jews, had not found one,  
To offer up for us, that Sacrifice,  
Who is it then a hangman dare despise,  
Who are thy enemies, who thy Detractors?  
They're none but whores, bawds, and Malefactors.  
Truly Right worshipful I grieve to think,  
That I should now be writing with such ink,  
So thick with Gall, that from my sharp edged pen  
No praise will fall, for such deserving men;  
For when I Commiks write, Hangman shall be,  
The only subject of my flattery.  
Mean time in my esteem great Sir believe,  
Thou better art than sergeant, nay then Shrieve.   

To a Lady Majoress.  
WHen I behold your head and limbs all shaking  
Much like a Custard newly come from baking,  
Your Velvet hood on tiptoe raised upright  
As if your hench boy challenge would to fight.  
Your pretty mouth, like Oyster gaping wide,  
As if it did expect ere long the tide;  
Your Chin like apple, both so red and shrivelled,  
So scalded by a hot rheum hourly driveled.  
From those your rotten stinking teeth and gums,  
Not to be qualified by best perfumes,  
Your eyes retired, as ashamed to see  
Your Cheeks in such a painted livery;  
And then to see your marrowbone like nose,  
Dropping down stinking stuff on costly clothes.  
Besides your body too hung up in chains,  
And Ropes of Pearl binding your bloodless veins  
Your neck like rotten stake in rotten Hedge,  
Your grafted locks like sun burnt hay, or sedge,  
Your high exalted shoulders lined with quilts,  
Propping your head as if it walked on stilts;  
Your deformed carcase covered over all,  
With several raiments like a broker's Stall.  
Whilst thus I see your honour sit in state,  
Me thinks you seem a Pageant out of date:  
But coming to salute you I conclude  
You a Dungbarge that 'gainst Symo● and Jude  
Hath been trimmed up, and those your silken rags  
Are merely painted streamers, gilded flags,  
Your upper Deck so stinks, I dare be bold  
No drunken Skipper would endure your hold.  
Sail on old rotten pink, I would not be  
Lord Maior to lie one night aboard in thee.   

An alderman's wife  
GRave Madam I your stile will not forget,  
For that your husband writes Kt baronet  
I do remember too, it was your pride  
That forced the fool so to be dignified;  
Nor ever shall my my memory let fall,  
How you with Madam start up stood for thꝰwall:  
It cost the good old Alderman at least  
To get the wall for his old wall-eyed beast,  
Two thousand pounds, in money and in ware,  
In which your worship's portion had no share,  
Your mother was a tripe wife, that I know,  
And good old woman sometimes did bestow  
A tub of souse to ease your households charge,  
With good Sheeps trotters, Cowheels fat & large:  
In which sad time all your great kindred's purses,  
Went to make up a stock of Hobbie Horses,  
Babies, Rattles, Incle, pins, points and Laces,  
With shoeing horns, Boan Combs in moldy cases  
Out of which peddling stuff, your wits be praised,  
A sum of forty thousand pounds you raised  
Your daughters were so frequent with this ware,  
That yet methinks they hobby horses are:  
Your sons have Rattles in their heads, and Prate  
As each a pedlar had within his Pate;  
And truly Madam you one points do stand,  
As if your points lay still upon your hand;  
The good old Alderman his head doth bear,  
As if a shooing horn hung in each ear.  
But if the people wonder at his rise,  
‛ I is selling bad wares at a treble price;  
Trading and cheating, which he calls endeavour,  
Made him first great, and make him so persever:  
Until the Shrievedom came, and then he sold  
Both Law and justice for shrieve damning gold.  
And if he once be Mayor, and so a Lord,  
Then he'll have orphans furnish out his board,  
Dresed in their blood like Carps, while their estates  
Is melted down to make their silver plates.  
The end that makes him cheat, rack and encroach,  
Is but to have a gold-chain and a coach.  
Ride on, good Madam, in your dignity  
With your young Alderkins, both he and she,  
But yet take heed, left that to pay your scores,  
Your sons prove coxcombs and your daughter's whoors.   

To the great Mistress of my humble Muse the Lady Honora, happily as deservedly Marchioness of Winchester.  
Madam▪  
THough I have placed you here amongst a heard  
Of rough sharp Satyrs be not you afeard,  
I dare be bold to say, your honour's name  
Hath power alone the wildest beast to came;  
And for that cause your servant being inclined  
To fury and madness, but calling to mind  
His noble patroness, that very thought  
Hath dispossessed me. Madam I am brought  
Into a millder strain and to the Court  
I take my way, there if you'll see me sport,  
And wantonise, I shall a gentler way  
Pursue, and hunt those gentler beasts of prey.  
And for your guard Madam, I'll humbly place  
Such as are nearest in your love and grace,  
Two faithful servants, servants of your own,  
Yet courtiers too, and such as can make known  
The names of all the beasts that I shall chase,  
Tell me their pedigree, their kind, their Race  
A work I dare not do, I must persist  
Still in the way of epigrammatist.  
The Maskers must be veiled as in a clouds  
I must present them, let me be allowed  
Your wonted favours, and with confidence,  
I shall go boldly on without offence.  
Armed with a resolution not to care,  
So you be pleased, who the mad critics are.   

To his best of friends, and so the best deserver of his best respects Sir Edward bushel knight.  
BRave Sir, had I a praise reserved in store  
So high a one, as ne'er was spoke before,  
You have deserved it, only know I fear,  
A beast, called flattery, more than wolf or Bear;  
But this unto your glory be it said,  
The praises I let fall are seldom weighed;  
They pass for currant and are still received,  
As coin by which men never are deceived:  
Take it in brief, you are unto your friends,  
Faithful, real, and constant without ends.  
Find me another courtier of that strain  
And I 'gainst courtiers ne'er will rail again.   

To his honoured kinsman Sir. Gregory Fenner knight.  
IS it my poverty begets your scorn,  
If greatness dwell in blood, we both were borne  
In one degree, though you have got the start  
In fortune, hold it, know I speak my heart.  
A stranger's happiness doth never spite me,  
Yet I'll be angry if a kinsman slight me:  
I dare the world to tax me with a crime  
Unless it be as now in wanton rhyme;  
Then if your blood loud sir, I have not tainted,  
Why are we strangers, let's be acquainted.  
I hate my friends should know you do reject me,  
For fear they should suspect you can detect me.  
Then let us meet, and merry be together,  
And give men cause to praise but censure neither   

A complaint to one of his friends to whom the Author sent a copy of verses which were printed without his consent or knowledge.  
I Sent you Sir, by way of thankfulness,  
Verses, which since by stealth have past the press;  
I hope by stealth, because a man unknown  
ventured to print them, calling them his own  
To have him pressed then is my humble suit,  
Not for the theft, but 'cause he should stand mute:  
Would he confess to save him I'll be willing,  
And swear the verses were not worth a shilling.  
But if his heart obdurate prove like flint,  
I'll shortly prove him knave and fool in print.   

A new made Lord.  
WOnder good people I beseech you wonder;  
At that strange Monster which you see go yonder,  
Men call it Lord, but as I have been told,  
His honour's not above two hours old.  
And yet it struts, and as you see it goes,  
A thousand Country fools would now suppose  
It were a very Lord of gods own making,  
But pardon heavens such their gross mistaking;  
For God was never called to his creation,  
Fie no, it is a new found Occupation.  
There are outlandish men of late come hither  
Can make you two or three such toys together.  
And by one Lord so made, get more by odds,  
Then did the Panim Priests by their false Gods.  
'tis wisely done since God is little set by,  
To make such foolish toys as men may get by.   

A new made Countess.  
COachman I thank thee, hadst thou not rid bare  
I had offended in a high degree,  
In truth I should have took that Lady fair,  
For one that lately loved iniquity;  
I knew a whore, heaven bless thy Lady's Father,  
So like her, as thy horses are each other.  
So like in all things, as I needs must tell her,  
No Girl was ever half so like her mother:  
Nay still methinks she runs so in my thoughts,  
As I shall never see thy Lady's face,  
But I shall think upon that thing of nought,  
Both of the hour I met her, and the place.  
But hoping thy Countess will such thoughts forgive  
I'll more esteem a bare Coachman whilst I live.   

A Lord that used to swear by his honour before his patent was sealed.  
BY mine honour quoth an elective Lord,  
Madam, of all your sex I love you best.  
She answers, swear by something on record,  
And then I shall believe what you protest:  
For want of fees your patent's yet undrawn,  
The heralds and the Ushers are unpaid,  
Until that's done your honour lies in pawn,  
And must do till all charges be defrayed,  
No credit seek till you that disengage,  
For in th' mean while your honours under age.   

To a great Lady of little worth, that used to say she could eat the Author, if he were worth the eating.  
MAdam, I wonder since your honour knows  
I dare speak truths, and dare maintain them too  
How you durst put yourself upon my censure,  
Though well I know you are a cunning Fencer,  
As in Rome's Theatre did ere appear,  
But Lady Gipsy let me crave your ear.  
I know where all your Bastards were at nurse,  
I know your bawds, your Panders, nay what's worse  
I know how one abortive was conveyed  
By your chayr-woman, or your chamber maid,  
Into old Ajax broth, whose stinking breath,  
Had nature given it life, had given it death.  
Why do you tempt me then with oft repeating,  
That you could eat me, were I worth the eating,  
Keep close your teeth good Madam, left that I  
Open my mouth, and tell your villainy.   

Upon a proud painted upstart Lady.  
WHat makes that painted puppet stand for th' wall?  
If you would know the cause quoth one, you shall.  
Her father was a Mason as men say,  
Which makes her Ladyship still lean that way.  
Beshrew my dim dull eyes, for now I see  
In both her cheeks written her pedigree;  
Her nose is like a trowel, and her Chin  
A trey, such as they carry mortar in.  
Walk on good lime and hair, I ever shall  
As duty binds, give to thy wall the wall.   

Upon her chambermaid.  
Susan swears, if all hit right it may be,  
She'll have as good a face as hath her Lady.  
Faith Susan have it, else thou'rt much to blame,  
For all men know, thou playsterest up the same.   

Upon a maid of honour that went into the country to take the air.  
MAdam you left the court the virtuous cry,  
To take the air, or see some Country friend,  
I heard it spoke, but know it was a lie,  
To lose an heir Lady, was all your end.  
The doctors cannot cure a maid that's ill,  
O Noah, old mother midwife hath more skill▪   

Upon her chambermaid.  
MAtilda mightily of late doth brave it,  
Since she was Madam Mopsa's Chamber maid,  
Five marks a year is all, and if she have it,  
But many times her wages is unpaid.  
No, 'tis a mark intayled her by her Grandum  
That yields her now a hundred pounds per annum.   

Upon a Lady that went to Tunbridge wells.  
A Lady fair whose outside spoke civility,  
Went to the wells to cure her wombs sterility,  
And eke to free her from the stone and gravel;  
But in a while this Lady fell in travel,  
And was delivered of a goodly daughter;  
This bred about the court much mirth and laughter,  
Because she barren was so long before.  
Alas good people, pray admire no more,  
'Twas not the water, they that say so mock,  
It was the pipe, rather the water cock;  
Nor think it was a dunghill cock, for shame,  
O Noah, it was a lusty cock o'th' game.  
If then the stone, as doctors tell the story,  
Be a disease that prove hereditory,  
I trust her daughter will have so much wit,  
Early to get a cock for her cockpit;  
And rather than be barren; play the whore,  
As her great mother hath done heretofore.  
What need we doubt it, since we always find,  
Like daughter like mother, Cat will after kind.   

A Footman turned Gentleman Vsher.  
LIving not long, yet have I lived to see  
A mimble youth, a light foot, a lackey,  
To run so fast into his Lady's grace,  
That now next her i'th' Coach he takes his place,  
For having tried she found this youth a cunning,  
Riding as stiff as he was strong in running.  
But riding much his Laundress now complains,  
He runs much faster than he did o'th' reins.   

Upon a coy country Lass  
MOpsa I met and offered to have kissed her,  
She turned her cheek, and I stepped by and missed her,  
She spared her lips, because her breath was tainted,  
And I her cheeks, because I found it painted.  
Since at first sight we had no better greeting,  
Your hand, coy Lass, shall serve at our next meeting.   

Upon the same proud fool turned courtier.  
DAmetus sent this Mopsa to the Court,  
Where at the first Ladies with her made sport;  
But she soon learned tricks in such a measure,  
As now the greatest Lords use her for pleasure.  
I could have told Dametus so before,  
The Court would make her either fool or whore.   

A quarrel between two Court chambermaids.  
Tyb on a time her fellow Francis crossed,  
And Francis swore Tib's Maidenhead was lost:  
In truth quoth Tib, you do me mighty wrong  
Who sells her maidenhead, but for a song,  
Loseth it not, but Mistress Francis I  
Sold it to th' worth, who says 'tis lost, they lie.   

A Court bawd.  
WOuld you not think that fair seeming feature  
Were in good sooth a very living creature,  
Would you not think it had eyes, teeth, and nose,  
That those her own legs are on which she goes,  
That her own hair, nay more, that her own face,  
A lass I could direct you to the place,  
Where all those toys were bought and know from me,  
That nothing is her own of all you see,  
Those stars, that from her face cast such a light,  
Are shut into a little box each night;  
That propped up nose like a portcullis where,  
The god of war, keeps Citizens in fear:  
By artificial Surgeons is let down,  
No air at night breathes through that stinking town,  
nought issues out, until the morning bell  
The watch discharges, and brings careful Nell  
Her chambermaid to her relief, she straight  
Draws the portcullis opens every gate,  
Let's lose the common Sewer of her brain  
Which like a filthy jakes, or sink 'gainst rain,  
Sends forth a fume able to taint the air,  
Those orient teeth, and that her Flaxen hair,  
One of her legs, a Merkin too it's said  
Each night committed are unto her Maid.  
So he that sees her, Ladyship in bed,  
Sees a mere bundle of trash with a death's head.  
And lest you should conceive all this but fraud,  
Know it was Macarella the Court bawd.   

To her Coadjutor.  
AS midwife's coadjutors have, and whoors  
Assisting Panders, to keep safe their doors.  
Sergeants their Yeomen, Sheriffs have Undersheriffs,  
Hangmen have fellow helpers, and as thieves  
Must Setters have, if they a good trade drive,  
Even so a Ba●de if she intend to thrive;  
If she be provident she must provide  
A careful Deputy, to be a Guide  
To wandering youth, grave Macarella knew  
Well what she did, when she made choice of you.  
To old Canidia, you were Chambermaid,  
Who drove as all men knew, a mighty trade,  
She furnished all the Senators with ware;  
Of great Ambassadors she had a care;  
And rather than she would be destitute,  
Her own fair Daughters she would prostitute;  
She was to strangers very charitable,  
And would supply, so far as she was able  
Distressed Matrons, and to a younger Brother  
She was more open than her own dear mother:  
Indeed the Court had ill been served if she  
Had been as simple as most ladies be,  
Than Macarella as before is said,  
Did well to choose so grave a chamber maid  
To be her fellow helper, I commend her,  
For well I know such providence will render  
A great increase, and the adventurer raise  
To great renown, and get them no small praise.  
A lass what could the maids of honour do,  
Sit like so many Hawks within a mew,  
Without your industries and secret helps,  
Feed on sheep's eyes, and play with whining whelps  
Unto the old exchange they could not fly,  
Nor could their trunks and wardrobes get supply,  
They could not imp one feather in their train  
Not eat, nor live, but by your fruitful brain;  
And though you walk with crutchs, yet in truth,  
You are two Staves to weak and simple youth.  
Walk on good Madam bawd with that your Mate,  
You are two needful members in a state.   

To an honourable Lady that sometimes graced the author with the name of servant, and afterwards neglected him.  
YOu were my Mistress, and a gracious one,  
But how I lost you is to me unknown,  
Let me in ignorance so rest for ever,  
For 'tis a sin that should be pardoned never;  
A sin I mean in him or her that laid  
That danmed plot by which I was betrayed.  
there's none so great but may before she dies  
Have cause to need a slave for Sacrifice,  
If such a one your honour chance to want,  
Trust not a Parasite or sycophant.  
Nature for their discharge hath this excuse,  
She made them up for show, but not for use.   

To the same honourable Lady suspecting her servant's secrecy.  
I hear you do mistrust my secrecy,  
Your Midwife is not half so close as I,  
I have a Rule by which I measure others,  
He never takes my Faith that e'er discovers.  
To boast of favours were but to proclaim  
My own ignominy, and boast loud shame.  
When I am dead, he that shall dissect me  
Shall nothing find by which he may detect me.  
Living I am in hope yet to regain you,  
It were my own loss Madam then to stain you,  
It were an honour that would make me proud  
To have it thought, not said, I am allowed  
To have the favour of your common rooms,  
Which never is denied to meanest Grooms.  
We may have business, business we have had  
Which none shall know, unless you make me mad.  
If I in any thing fair Soul, do glory,  
It is in this, No man can write my story;  
For to myself, myself shall still be true,  
And I myself must blast, by blasting you.  
Sleep then in peace, the world may know my face,  
But nothing know that tends to your Disgrace.   

A just Complaint to his just as Honourable patroness against a Sorcerer, that by his enchantments depraves her humblest Servant of her Grace.  
Madam,  
THere is a seeming Saint that haunts your table,  
Who by his Sorcery and Spells is able  
To make the staidest man to Bedlam run,  
His company, blessed Lady, timely shun.  
He is a great Magician, I'll maintain it,  
Or else I had enjoyed a peaceful brain yet;  
My senses had been at mine own disposing:  
But Madam, simple as I was, reposing  
In him great trust and confidence, I went  
The other day, when he came out of Kent,  
Boldly unto his Chamber, when heaven knows  
I little thought he had been one of those  
That studied, as the people call it well,  
That foul Black Art, taught by a child of Hell.  
I held him for a good plain dealing man,  
But out alas, simple Fool that I am,  
He was too cunning for my shallow brain,  
I know not how, or where he laid his train,  
But suddenly your Servant was supprised,  
And by his Spells and Charms so vassalised,  
That as you may perceive by these my rhymes,  
I am stark staring mad at certain times.  
Nor shall it be amiss, your patience had,  
To tell your Honour how I first fell mad.  
One night, and 'tis most true, night's still the bawd  
To Conjurors, and such as practise fraud,  
This cunning man, this great Magician sent  
To call me to a supper, whether I went  
Fearless heaven knows, and when I came he had,  
For he is curious too, a Table clad  
With Linen white, as is the Mountain Snow,  
So clean as I complained they fouled it so;  
For Fowl of every sort on this same cloth  
He caused his Servants set, some swum in broth,  
Some dabbled in such sauces, as might make  
The heavyest Fowler swim such Fowl to take,  
And rather venture drowning in that Flood  
Then lose the Fowl that was so fat and good.  
There wanted not Anchovies and grand saliets,  
In fine, things were prepared to please our pallets:  
But then, before my Ears he would take up,  
This subtle man calls for a swelling Cup  
Of unctuous wine, wine proud of its own wealth,  
But prouder far when 'twas baptised your health,  
Here is quoth he, and then his Beaver cast  
On ground, health to those Souls I came from last,  
Health to the fairest, sweetest, chastest soul,  
That ere was mentioned in such a Bowl,  
The blessed Honora Goddess of Sommerhill,  
He drinks it off, and bids his servants fill  
Until the blushing grape was seen to swim,  
Like a high tide, above the silver brim  
Of that blessed cup; for blessed quoth he it is,  
Whilst it contains so blessed a health as this.  
I silly wretch pledged him without least fear  
Of any poison could be mingled there,  
That done his silver head aloft he raises,  
As he were proud to speak Honoras praises;  
And like a cunning Orator goes on  
Mildly, till he had gained attention.  
First he was sorry t●at I did not know you,  
O that I had but wit his art to show you!  
And then he wishes by some happy way  
Your honour might know me, than he did play,  
As skilful Fishers do, with wanton trout,  
Tickling me gen●ly, and at last broke out,  
Your daring Muse quoth he, that flies at game,  
Compared with her, not worthy is of name,  
I would invite to Sommerhill, since there  
Such quarry is, such air, so pure, so clear,  
As you may at one flight much glory gain;  
And thence he raised up to a lofty strain,  
Madam, of your unparalleled deserts,  
Swears that you are the Mistress of all hearts,  
And gives a reason why you must be foe,  
Then reckons all the graces that can flow  
From God, or nature, and then he beats his breast  
angry he could not as he would digest,  
What he conceived into such lively phrases  
As might ornate and beautify your praises.  
Then calls for wine, and still sweetens the same,  
With blessed, with fair, with chaste Honoras name.  
Thus first he raised my heavy leaden brains,  
Next wild fire throws into my frozen veins,  
And still as he perceived my heart to sink  
He roused it with your praises, clad with drink:  
Thus he the cunning Gipsy Madam acted,  
Till with your fair fame's love I grew distracted.  
On him than best of Ladies lay all crimes,  
That can be found in these my frantic rhymes.  
● need not name him Madam guilt alone  
〈◊〉 time will make himself make known;  
●or if you mark him like a politician,  
The better to avaid sharpeyed suspicion,  
This man will be the first that will appear  
●o speak my praises in your honour's ear.  
●hich if he do, heaven pardon that offence,  
●●nce I to merit plead my innocence.  
●y accusations done and now again,  
●e thinks a certain tickling in my brain  
●akes me break loose, new spirits do possess me,  
●nd to the Court again I must address me.  
〈◊〉 best of Ladies, do not scorn to grace  
●y humble Muse in her wits wild goose chase.   

To the truly honourable the Lord Paulet Marquess 〈◊〉 Winchester.  
My noble Lord.  
OFt have I blessed that night, that hour in whic●  
You two one pair of sheets joyed to enrich.  
As than you marshalled were great Lord, by tho●●  
Your Virgin Bride that nuptial night had chose●  
Those Ceremonies to prepare, so now,  
The self same heraldries proud to allow  
Your fair Bride, first with her chaste limbs to ble●●  
Those sheets, which witnesed that great happines●  
Your chaste wife now, most honoured Lord, as 〈◊〉  
In your Bed, now I marshal with my pen.  
Can your best wishes noble Lord aspire,  
To greater happiness then to lie by her:  
Had Phaeton seen her in his height of pride,  
Blushing to see a man lie by her side,  
Ambition had his blood to Ivory turned,  
And by the sun his wings had ne'er been burned.  
Noah he had shunned those flames that melt the skie●  
And singed his feathers in her brighter eyes.  
If then high heaven can add to what you hav●  
Let it be done, so prays your unknown slav●   

To the same noble Lord again.  
WIthin a Savage Rock there once did grow  
As fair a diamond as the world could show,  
This rich rocks head, though many lords did crave it,  
Set it in gold, and to your Lordship gave it.  
And happily for some few years you wore it,  
Till sullen nature forced you to restore it;  
For 'twas her master piece and she resolved  
To keep it by her till the world dissolved.  
One only spark heaven caused her leave behind,  
That still that jewel might be kept in mind.  
You that had found, how nature ever locks  
Her chief Treasure either in hills or rocks,  
Knew well the way your losses to recover,  
For had you searched the spacious world all over,  
To Summer hill a●t last you must repair,  
To find a jewel full as rich and fair  
As was that diamond, you restored to nature,  
You once again are rich in such a creature,  
As all mankind how rich so' Ere they be  
In her may envy your felicity.  
Live envied ever noble Lord, till Fate  
The earth's whole fabric shake, and ruinate.  
So heartily and humbly prays each one  
To whom bold speaking fame hath made you known.   

To the far famed Lady, and Mistress of untainted virtue, the truly and nobly noble Lady Dorathy Shirley honoured by being Sister to the most deservedly honourable Earl of Essex.  
Madam,  
No matter though you know me not, I trust  
To common Fame, she speaks you nobly just;  
She doth proclaim your honour such a prize,  
As men would see't, though to their loss of eyes.  
You love the best Honora, that aproves  
What wise men say, goodness still goodness loves:  
You are her Sister, and your purest blood  
Sprung from one fountain, that concludes you good,  
Be constant to that googness, let nought awe you  
Millions there are that love you, who ne'er saw you.  
Amongst those many let me boldly say,  
Madam, I honour you a noble way,  
And love you as I love those unseen faces  
That on the throne of glory take their places  
And though you know me not, scorn not to sit  
To read, then write me what you please but Parasit,  
Let me but in your books fair Saint be found  
And I with joy and honour then am crowned.   

A satire.  
Upon a miraculous Marriage, made between a Brave Young Viscount, and an unworthy Old Viscounts Widow.  
D●d thy strong potions then old rotten Punk,  
So work on Hymen as to make him drunk?  
W●ence comes that drug, what Fiend, what Fate  
Perfumed his brain so to ineb●iate?  
For doubtless had that God but sober been,  
He ne'er had matched such virtue to such sin.  
Or did she pawn her soul to some old Witch,  
To get a Lord to cure her hot salt Itch?  
They must be Bawds and Sorcerers, that had  
A hand in such a Crime, so foul, so bad;  
For sure thy painted Face, thy sugared words  
Could not betray him to thy tub of turds:  
Nor was it out of hope to find a Mine  
Within that Dunghill, that foul sink of thine;  
For but to mix man's seed with that thy ordure  
Were worse than Sodomy, much worse than murder.  
What can I call thy common hackney womb,  
But an old beastly painted, new stoned tomb?  
Barren as is a Grave, leprous within  
As Judas soul, so foul, so full of sin.  
So that in my opinion he destroys  
Nature itself, that digs for Girls or boys  
Out of what mud O Lord, what charms what spell?  
What strange enchantments did she get from Hell?  
That caused thee lay thy youth, thy blood at stakes  
In Pledge against a Bog, a sink a Jakes?  
Whose throat is like a Tunnel to a vault,  
Nor are her rotten Lungs alone in fault;  
For from her foul corrupted Brain their flows  
A deadly poison through her pocky Nose:  
Such as the night-mans' Cart, or common Sewer  
Yields none so loathsome, nothing so impure.  
Each Bone she hath is like an ass's hoof,  
So used to poison, it is poison proof:  
And if she have a Tooth that justly may  
Be called her own, I dare be bold to say,  
That Tooth shall cost her Lord each day a piece  
In Storax, Civet, and in ambergris;  
Besides the Ulcers in her rotten Gums,  
Not to be qualified with best perfumes:  
Yet with this charge, though great it will appear,  
That Mouth holds something, nothing can make clear;  
For if she find that scolding may prevail,  
Her tongue soon turns as Monstrous as her Tail:  
And if some difference be, this this the worse is,  
Her Tail but monthly shall produce foul courses,  
But that her mouth each minute shall afford  
Base Excrements, that shall out stink a Turd.  
I have digressed brave Lord, but more will come  
To my promised Epithalamium,  
My hearty wishes to your nuptial Bed,  
And wish that to your Bride they might be read.  
May all those sheets wherein you two shall lie  
Prove Barren as are those in which men die.  
And may your Lordship want the power to turn  
To quench her flames of Lust, but let them burn,  
Till they consume the nest where they were bred;  
Yet still a jealous eye cast towards her bed,  
Lest her adulterous thoughts to action grow,  
And make you harvest seed you did not sow.  
A grisly beast, such as all others scorned,  
A thing with Goatish beard, a head well horned  
Your lustful Bride found out, and him maintained  
To do that drudgery a Groom disdained.  
Be careful then, be vigilant and wise,  
He that hath such a Wife needs many eyes.  
An old, cunning, well experienced whore  
Will through the key hole of a double door  
Let in Adultries. Still I do digress,  
An Epithalamium I do cease.  
This satire should have been, but my Muse ranges,  
And like your lordship's Bride is full of changes.  
Yet do I not transgress 'gainst all the Laws  
Of an Epithalamium, because  
Your Lordship shall in time discover this,  
My Muse unto the Bridegroom wishes bliss.  
O may you Sir, and quickly too, invite  
This Pen, your lewd bride's Epitaph to write.  
Mean while so long as she on earth hath dwelling,  
So long I wish you lose the use of smelling.  
May your desires in their conceptions die,  
Such as shall tend to Love or Lechery,  
That you may treasure up a stock so great,  
As when you vent it, may allay the heat  
Of seventeen years, in her that heaven shall please  
To send you in the place of this disease.  
Till when, let sleep and pleasing dreams betray  
The sullen night unto the cheerful day,  
And early bring the Sun, to let you see  
Her Morning ugly, foul deformity;  
And then with sad relenting may you rise,  
And from that monster thenceforth bless your eyes,  
May you be deaf unto her cunning Charms,  
And when she throws herself into your Arms,  
May then the nimble sense of seeing leave you,  
Lest with her false embraces she deceive you.  
And lastly, may you still distrust those things  
She to your touching, smelling, seeing brings.  
May all your senses disaffected be  
Till from that hideous Monster you get free.   

Upon a choler and Garter imprisoned in a broker's Box.  
O Men of might, what have you now to brag on,  
●hall I believe your George e'er killed a dragon?  
When in six Months he cannot break the Lock  
Of an usurious Brokers little Box.  
When thus I find him lodged in Long-Lane quarter,  
And by his side a choler and a Garter,  
As two most faithful squires waiting on,  
For the blessed day of sweet Redemption,  
Shall I believe that he a Saint can be?  
No, your vain boasting ne'er shall cozen me;  
For if an almanac I buy this year,  
And find it writ with a red Letter there,  
I'll blot it out, and over-write the same  
In blackest Ink, the silly broker's name.  
For if your George so great a name must have,  
Then much more he that keeps your George his slave.   

Another upon the same subject.  
INto a brokers shop once being called,  
I found a Knight o'th' Garter there installed:  
But when the sad relation I had heard,  
I then concluded 'twas a Knight interred.  
The broker's Bulk I thought the Altar stone,  
Because his Robes and Order lay thereon,  
The Shop a Temple I conceived to be,  
The Broker some poor Priest appeared to me.  
It grieved me much, that so a Knight should lie  
Without an Epitaph or elegy,  
I called for Pen, and without fear or wit  
Unto his Memory these lines I writ.   

Upon the same again.  
YOu ●augh at Catholics, and them deride  
Because they honour those are sanctified.  
Why to Idolatry are you then drawn  
By a poor thing that subject is to pawn.  
If you will idolise your George, advance  
A fitting pension for his maintenance,  
Let him not beg, let not his Knights descend  
So lo, as ask a Broker what he'll lend  
Upon his idol, lest there come complaints  
Against the Church, that should maintain those saints;  
For who so sees your George in pawn believes,  
Like Baal's priests, his priests do play the thieves.  
The Prellat of the Garter, they'll be bold  
To say in private, eats up all the gold  
That is in public offered to your saint;  
Besides the knights of Windsor make complaint,  
And in derision and great scorn do say,  
Some of your knights are near as poor as they:  
And that it's feared that they will have the faces  
Ere long to beg the Windsor's poor knights places.  
Which to prevent let each rich knight give a little  
And for your wretched knights, build up a spital.   

A Sonnet upon the same subject.  

ROom for unthrifts here comes a Company,  
Room for spendthrifts St. George is at hand,  
With his Idolators,  
Decked up in costly furs,  
And their rich Colours,  
That lately were pauned.  
Bald pates and pe●iwigs,  
High plumes and tossing Sprigs,  
See how they dance their lygs,  
Through the Strand.   

Room for rascals here comes a company,  
Ushers and marshals look well to your doors,  
Tailors and Sempsters,  
With silkmen and Mercers,  
And Goldsmiths and cutlers,  
Approach with their stoares:  
And see who comes after,  
Made fit for the slaughter,  
A wife and her daughter  
For the Chavaliers Whoors.   

Room for beggars here comes a company;  
Old retainers to this upstart crew;  
That many years served,  
And well have deserved,  
But now may be starved,  
For ought their Lords do.  
For some Lady mother,  
Or some bastard brother  
Some Pander or other  
To black turned their blue.   

Old King Henry blessed by thy Memory,  
Lord how we vary since thy golden days;  
Thy Knights of the Order,  
Like Knights to Prince Arthur,  
Did search out each quarter,  
For Honour and praise;  
But now they adventure  
A Tavern to enter,  
And sit in the centre  
Of common stage plays.   

Room for Bowlers, here comes a company.  
Room for jockyes, the Lords do appear;  
Let Ordinary Eaters,  
And old jest repeaters,  
With Banckers and Cheaters,  
Make all places clear.  
Heers blue and Carnation,  
The Colours in fashion,  
In spite of damnation  
Shall swear and forswear.    

To a Lady's Chambermaid.  
YOu are your Lady's Cabinet and may  
At midnight let in sharp eyed waking day,  
And bring those blushing acts of ours to light,  
That being seen show blacker than the night.  
A chambermaid doth serve in these two places,  
Sometimes a watch, Sometimes she a jewel case is:  
One while a Watch to see none gaze upon her,  
And then a Case wherein she locks her honour.  
O gentle Watch in thy most noble Case  
Know you a jewel keep, then be not base.   

An Atheist, a Poet, and a Puritan.  
ATheists, Poets, and Puritans are at odds  
About their none, their one, their many Gods.  
The Atheist is at liberty, and he  
Dreams not of Unity or Trinity.  
The Poets speak of many Gods 'tis true,  
But honour none at all, or very few.  
The Puritan his only God do●h tie  
As he were Jealous of the Trinity.  
A Partner with his God he will not have,  
See here's a fool, a Devi●l, and a Knave.  
To reconcile these three and make them one,  
Is but to hang them all and make them none.   

A Papist, a Protestant, and a Puritan.  
THe Papists do believe more than they see,  
And guided are by faith.  
The Protestant stands out, and will not be  
Removed from his own path.  
The stiffneckt Puritans are so uncivil,  
Rather than follow them, they'll run to the Devil.   

A pestilent professed Puritan.  
I Do believe that this accursed sect  
Is much more ancient than men do suspect.  
The Jews, when Christ, was crucified I find,  
In that damn act, were variously inclined.  
Some pierced his fide, others his name deride,  
Another Crew his garments did divide.  
And these were Puritans, I'll lay my life,  
Whose seed since then have ever been at strife  
With Surplices, with Rochets, and with Coaps,  
Hating to hear of figures or of Tropes.  
Real presence, and what's good by thames abated,  
With brain sick zeal more than the devil it's hated.  
Go on mad beasts put on our saviours Coats  
But his bright Eyes will know his sheep from goats.   

An ignorant obstinate Brownest.  
THat wicked Oath of King's Supremacies,  
Saith he's a trap to catch poor simple flies;  
For how can knowing men be so mislead,  
As to believe our saviour had a head  
For many Provinces, believing thus,  
We must make Jesus Christ most monstrous.  
Then how, great Monsters, silly beasts are you?  
Makes him your church's head that mends your shoe,  
A cobbler, or a rogue of meanest trade,  
In your no Church the church's head is made.  
See then at Banbery, and in black friars  
Christ hath a head, but doubtless you are liars  
The Catholics with Puritans aver,  
there's but one Church, one head, so than you er●.  
But you defy them both so do they you,  
Go on mad Beasts, Let the devil take his dew.   

A Lady's Roses that ever looked rusty.  
CArnation Roses on her feet still wither,  
And being put on fresh i'th' Morn, ere Noon  
They blasted are, do but the cause consider,  
And then I know you'll leave to wonder soon.  
Lucina's Roses, it is too well known,  
Do grow within a yard o'th' burning Zone.   

Upon a Lady's Roses that were always fresh.  
FLorellas Roses on her fresh still grow,  
And in the hottest days do flourish most,  
harken to Me if you the cause would know,  
Luna hangs ever dropping o'er the coast.  
Then know those Roses cannot wither soon,  
That are so far from th' Sun, so near the Moon.   

The fiddlers that were committed for singing a Song called, The clean contrary way.  
THe fiddlers must be whipped the people say,  
Because they sung the clean contrary way;  
Which if they be, a Crown I dare to lay,  
They then will sing the clean contrary way.  
And he that did those merry Knaves betray,  
Wise men will praise, the clean contrary way:  
For whipping them no envy can allay,  
Unless it be the clean contrary way.  
Then if they went the people's tongues to stay,  
Doubtless they went the clean contrary way.   

A Lady walking with the Author in her Garden, plucked a sprig of bays, and put it in his Hat to wear as her Favour.  
YOu gave me Laurel Madam, which some call bays  
I gave you but your right, when I gave you praise,  
Why then with injury do you requite me?  
Which being true, doubtless you ought to right me▪  
Laurel belongs to conquerors, but I  
Your Captive am, and at your mercy lie.  
Poets are crowned with bays, and such alone  
Whose Muses higher soar than Phaeton.  
My humble rhymes flow from an abject Herd, crowned  
And cannot Laurel merit for reward:  
The honoured brows that are with such wreath  
Dread neither lightning nor loud thunders sound  
Then left your favours down to th' Earth should cast me,  
Or your bright eyes lightning thus should blast m●  
I'll crown that Laurel with which you now crown me  
With a chaste kiss, as your choice deputy.   

The Author intending to write upon the Duke of Buckingham, when he went to fetch the Queen, prepared a new Ballad for the fiddlers, as might hold them to sing between Dover and Callice.  

1.  
NOw list you Lordings, and attend  
Unto a Ballad newly penned,  
I took it up in Kent;  
And if you ask who made the same,  
The Author wished me say, his Name  
Was honest Jack of Lent.   

2.  
But ere I further pass along,  
Or let you hear more of my Song,  
I wish the doors were locked;  
●or if there be so base a Groom  
As an informer in the room,  
Your fiddlers may be knocked.   

3.  
Nor is it rare to find a Knave  
●mongst a company so brave,  
For Knaves are gallant things:  
●nd they of late are grown so bold,  
They dare appear in cloth of Gold,  
Even in the presence of Kings.   

4  
But hit or miss I must declare  
The speech at London, and elsewhere,  
Concerning this design.  
Amongst the Drunkards it is said,  
They hear her Dowry shall be paid  
In nought but Claret wine.   

5.  
The Country Clowns when they repair  
Either to Market, or to Fair,  
No sooner get their pots,  
But straight they swear the time is come  
That England must be overrun  
Between the French and Scots.   

6.  
A holy Sister having hemmed,  
And blown her nose will swear she dreamt,  
Or else the Spirit told her,  
That they and all their holy seed  
To Amsterdam must go and breed.  
Ere they were twelve months older.   

7.  
And might but Jack of Lent advise,  
Those dreams of hers should not prove lies,  
For as he greatly fears,  
They will be prating night and day,  
Till verily by Yea and Nay  
They sets together by th' Ears.   

8.  
The Reverend Bishops whisper too,  
That now they shall have much to do  
With friars and with Monks.  
And eke their Wives do greatly fear  
Those learned men will make't appear  
They are canonical punks.   

9  
At Cambridge and at Oxford eke,  
They of this Match like Scholars speak  
By Figures and by Tropes.  
And as for the supremacy,  
The Body may King Charles his be,  
But sure the Heads the Popes.   

10.  
The learned in astrology  
That wander up and down the Sky,  
And there discourse with Stars,  
Foresee that some of this brave rout  
That now goes sound and bravely out,  
Shall back return with Scars.   

11.  
The civil Lawyer laughs in his sleeve,  
For he doth verily believe,  
That after all these sports,  
The Citizens will horn mad grow,  
And their ill gotten gold will throw  
About their Bawdy Courts.   

12  
Such as in music spend their days,  
And study songs and roundelays,  
Begin to cheer their throats;  
For by some signs they do presage,  
That this will prove a fiddling age,  
Fit for men of their coats.   

13  
Next such as do Apollo court,  
And with the wanton muse's sport,  
Proclaim the time is come,  
That Gallants shall themselves address  
To Masks, and plays, and wantonness,  
More than to Fife or Drum.   

14  
But leaving colleges and Schools,  
Unto those Clerks and learned Fools,  
Let's through the city Range;  
For there are Sconces made of horn,  
Foresaw things long ere they were borne,  
Which may be thought most strange.   

15  
The Major and Aldermen being met,  
And at a Custard closely set,  
Each in his rank and Order,  
The Major a question doth propound,  
And that unanswered did go round,  
Till't came to the Recorder.   

16  
For he's the city's Oracle,  
And which you'll think a miracle,  
He hath their brains in keeping;  
For when a cause should be decreed,  
He cries the bench are all agreed,  
When most of them are sleeping.   

17  
A Shrieve at lower end o'th' board,  
Cries reverend sirs, hear me a word,  
A bolt I'll only shoot,  
We shall have executions store  
Against some gallants now gone o'er,  
Wherefore good brother look too't.   

18  
The rascal sergeants flearing stand,  
Wishing their Charter reach the Strand,  
That they might there intrude:  
But since they are not yet content,  
I wish that it to Tyburn went,  
So they might there conclude.   

19  
An Alderman both grave and wise,  
Cries brethren all let me advise,  
Whilst wit is to be had,  
That we some speeches may provide  
To entertain the Lady Bride,  
Before all men run mad.  
For by my faith, if men may guess  
Of greater matters by the less,  
I pray let this suffice,  
If we do on men's backs but look,  
And then survey each trades man's book,  
You'll swear few men are wise.   

21  
Some third bare Poet let us press,  
And for that day we will him dress,  
At least in beaten satin;  
And he shall tell her from this Bench,  
That though we understand no French,  
At Paul's she shall hear Latin.   

22  
His Lordship all this while demurs,  
And counsel takes of his grave furs,  
That stunk of Fox or coney;  
And then he swells with high disdain,  
Swearing the City in his reign  
Shall buy no wit with money.   

23  
For by this Sack I mean to drink;  
I would not have my sovereign think,  
For twenty thousand crowns,  
That I his Lord lieutenant here,  
And you my brethren should appear,  
Such arrant witless Clowns.   

24  
No no I have it in my head,  
Various conceits shall strike it dead,  
And make proud Paris say,  
That little London hath a Major,  
Can entertain their Lady fair,  
As well as ere did they.   

25  
Saint George's Church shall be the place,  
Where first I mean to meet her grace,  
And there Saint George shall be  
Mounted upon a dapple grey,  
And gaping he shall seem to say,  
Welcome Saint Denis to me.   

26  
From thence we'll march by two and two  
As we to New gate use to do,  
And to the Bridge convey her,  
Where on the top of that old gate,  
On which stands many a Rascals pate,  
I mean to place a Player.   

27  
And he unto her grace shall cry,  
Vouchsafe to cast up one bright Eye,  
To view these heads of traitors.  
Know thus we mean to use all those,  
That to your highness shall prove foes,  
For we to knaves are haters.   

28  
Down Fish-street hill a whale shall shoot,  
And meet her at the bridge's foot,  
Out from her mouth so wide a  
Shall Jonas peep and say, for fish,  
As good as her dear heart can wish  
She shall have hence each Friday.   

29  
At Grace Church corner there shall stand  
A troop of grace's hand in hand,  
And they to her shall say  
Your Grace of France is welcome hither,  
'Tis merry when graces meet together,  
Pray keep on your way.   

30  
At the Exchange shall placed be.  
In ugly shapes those Sisters three,  
That gives to each his fate:  
The Spanish Infanta shall stand by,  
Wringing her hands she loud shall cry,  
I do repent to late.   

31  
There we a payr of gloves will give,  
And pray her highness long may live,  
On her white hands to were them;  
For though they have a Spanish sent,  
The givers have no ill intent,  
Wherefore she need not fear them.   

32  
About the standard I think fit,  
Your Wives my brethren all shall sit,  
And eke my Lady Mayoress  
They shall present a Cup of Gold,  
Saying if they may be so bold,  
They'll drink to all at Paris.   

33  
Nor shall the conduit now run claret  
Perhaps the French now care not for it,  
They have at home so much;  
No I will have that boy to piss,  
No worse than purest Ipocriss,  
Her Grace ne'er tasted such.   

34  
In Paul's Church yard we breathe may take  
For they such tedious speeches make,  
Will tire any horse;  
And there I'll put her Grace in mind,  
To cast her princely Eye behind,  
And view Saint Paul's old Cross.   

35  
Our Sarjaents there shall go their way,  
And for us at the devil stay,  
I mean at Temple Bar;  
There we of her our leaves will take,  
And swear 'twas for king Charles his sake  
We came with her so far.   

36.  
Thus fearing I have tired the Ears  
Both of the Duke and all these Peers,  
I'll be no more uncivil;  
But leave the Major and both the Shrieves;  
With sergeants hanging on their sleeves  
For this time at the Devil.    

A Song.  

OF Cupid nor Hymen we bring you no Song,  
With many good Morrows, and God give you joys  
But of a young virgin that wanted a tongue,  
Yet had wherewithal to get Girls and boys.  
A bachelor that had told threescore and three,  
To her for her silence a suitor would be.   

He would her, and won her, and married they were,  
He had his fair choice a whole kingdom among,  
But ere he found means to get him an Heir  
She found cockahoop the full use of her tongue.  
But for his amends, in short time it was known,  
She brought him an Heir that was none of his own.    

A Song in praise of Sack.  

NOw Bacchus assist me with strength of thy spirit  
To give unto Sack the full meed of his merit,  
Whilst all other wine subjected stand by  
To crown thee their King of Majesty by.  
O Sack, O Catholic Sack!   

Old Malmsey and muscadel shall have high place,  
To wait by thy sides in Episcopal grace;  
Stout alicant shall thy Nobility be,  
Brisk Claret and White shall be thy Gentry.  
O Sack, majestical Sack!   

Mild Rhenish & Backrag are Handmaids to thee,  
And white and brown Bastard thy pages shall be:  
Thus graced and attended in state thou dost sit,  
Dispensing thy virtues of valour and wit.  
O Sack, munificent Sack!   

Thou art the brave soldiers Bellona and Mars,  
The Scholars scribendi ac loquendi ars,  
Thou mak'st a blind beggar at Midnight to see,  
As well as a Poet can write without thee.  
O Sack miraculous Sack!   

Thou canst the best courtiers best compliments mend,  
And wit into citizens' heads thou canst send.  
'Twas thou mad'st a Goldsmith to alter his copy,  
From making gold horshoos to keep a Sack shoppy.  
O Sack, miraculous Sack!   

Thou every brain for employment dost sit,  
Thou mak'st a dull Justice a worshipful wit.  
Thou mak'st the Scholar speak more than his share,  
Embroidering his brains when his clothes are bare.  
O Sack, Philosophical Sack!    

A Song.  

WIll you hear a true relation  
Of a Damsel, and her Lover?  
She the nicest of a na●ion  
He thought nothing dear to move her,  
Costly things, Jewels, Rings,  
He bestowed in plenty on her;  
But her disdain increased his pain  
Until he cried a Pox upon her.   

Cupid heard his bitter Curse,  
And to punish his fond error,  
Caused her to purchase with his purse  
That ill which is a lover's terror.  
The unhappy maid was shortly paid  
For her love with loss of Honour,  
By a French Squire whom she did hire,  
Who left her with the Pox upon her.   

To her fist Lover than she yields,  
Who to curse her had forgotten,  
And thought him in the Elysian fields,  
When he was in flesh half rotten,  
Till aching bones, and waking groans  
Made him wish he had foregone her,  
While still she swears, the faults not hers  
But his that wished, a Pox upon her.    

A Song.  

LEt soldiers fight for prey or praise,  
And money be the miser's wish,  
Poor Scholars study all their days,  
And Gluttons glory in their dish,  
'Tis wine, pure wine, revives sad souls,  
Therefore give us the cheering Bowls.   

Let Minions marshal every hair,  
And in a Lovers Lock delight,  
And artificial Colours wear,  
We have the Native red and white.  
'tis wine, &c.   

Take Pheasant, Pout, and calvered salmon,  
Or how to please your palates think,  
Give us the salt Westphalia Gammon,  
Not meat to eat, but meat to drink.  
'Tis wine, &c.   

The backward spirit it makes brave,  
That lively which before was dull,  
They prove good fellows which were grave,  
And kindness flows from Cups brimful.  
'Tis wine, &c.   

Some have the tissick, some the rheum  
Some have the palsy, some the Gout,  
Some swell with fat, and some consume,  
But they are found that drink all out.  
'Tis wine, &c.   

Some men want Youth, and some want wealth,  
Some want a Wife and some a Punk,  
Some men want wit, and some want wealth,  
But they want nothing that are drunk.  
'Tis wine, &c.    

A Song.  
WHen I seek to enjoy the fruits of my pain,  
She careless denies me with endless disdain,  
Yet so much I love her,  
As nothing can either remove me, or move her.  
Alas why contend I, why strive I in vain  
Thin water to ●ingle  
With oil that is airy and loves to be single.  
'Tis not Love but Fate, whose doom I abide,  
Ye Hours and you Planets, who Destiny guide,  
Change your Opposition:  
It fits heavenly Powers to be mild of condition,  
You only can alter her scorn and her Pride  
Who me now disdaineth:  
For women willyield when the right Planet reigneth.   

A Sonnet.  
LOve, be as froward as thou wilt,  
I ask no Mercy for my guilt;  
Though I confess I have denied  
Thy Laws of Cruelty and Pride.  
Lay on thy Punishments, I fear  
Thee least when most I bear.  
Spend all thy shafts at me, and cry  
To Mother for a new supply:  
Thy Bowstrings break, let her repair  
Them up again with her own Hair,  
And give a fresh charge on me. I  
Can neither beg relief nor fly.  
Yet to the hazard of thy Crown,  
If I should perish by thy frown,  
Where I a perfect rebel fall,  
The world shall me a Martyr call.  
And (I hope) in revenge of me  
Abolish quite thy Laws and thee,   

On love's blindness.  

WHat is the reason Love is blind?  
Because for Love no cause we find  
But here and there, and this and that  
We dote on, for I know not what,  
Lust does somewhat rampart prove,  
And straight is christened into Love,  
So that though beasts we are in shame,  
We must be Lovers all in name.   

2.  
The black we see do fair admire,  
And fair there be that black desire.  
A sort there is affects the crump,  
And all alike, but for the rump,  
Love being now a Drunkard grown,  
And can a Madam hug in Joan:  
Tell me then, must not Love be blind,  
When Women loved are for their kind.   

3.  
We men an idol Beauty make,  
And do adoreed for Fancies sake;  
Our thoughts create the handsome creature,  
And our tongues commend the Feature:  
Or else, the Breech first warms desire,  
And then the face maintains the fire:  
Does not than Cupid's eyesight fail,  
That for the Heart does wound the Tayl.   

4.  
For what should Love have Eyes to see,  
When all his sports in darkness be;  
But little is his use of Light  
Whose only work is done at night,  
In that alone love's pleasure lies,  
That for the hand is made not eyes:  
Where let me lie and let me be,  
Blind Boy, as dark and blind as thee.    

An elegy on the Death of Love.  
I Never yet wrote Love-lines: Now a few  
Upon the Death of Love, methinks, are due  
From every Pen. And most unskilful I  
That would be doing want Ability.  
No Muse can I invoke unto my aid,  
They are all dumb, or suddenly afraid  
To touch this Subject. They'll not have it read  
In Crimson Characters that Love is dead.  
No Muse? What then? Turn over history,  
Or search the Poets; Try if they can be  
Assistant by example: Learn to move  
In their high strains. Ovid wrote much of Love,  
But not his Death. His Art of Love was light,  
And in the eulogies that he did write  
He could not frame perfection of that Ruth,  
Which here is laid before us in a Truth.  
Nor had Euripides in all his pack  
A theme so' Tragic, or a scene so black  
As is the Death of Love. Stay. Speak no more,  
Nor study for expressions to deplore  
The loss of him. The sense of these two words  
Love's dead enough of Argument affords  
To melt dry eyes to Tears; and hearts of stones  
To moulder into Sand by ceaseless groans.  
While I was writing this (to Earths great wonder)  
The Heavens thick showers did weep, and roar in thunder.   

A Song.  

GIve me a Preacher  
Whose Life is a Teacher,  
Whose Sentences suit with his Actions;  
Who rails not at Rochets,  
Nor preacheth odd crotchets,  
Nor troubleth the Church with new Factions▪   

No Scoffer, no Squibber,  
No Ale or Wine Bibber,  
No wrangler for Tith-Pigs, or Geese:  
But Truth teacheth plain,  
And good house maintain,  
And loves more the flock then the fleece.    

On the Duke of Buckingham's Death. An elegy.  
YEt were Bidentals sacred, and the place  
Strucken with thunder, was by special grace  
Ne'er after trampled over; if this blow  
That struck me in my height, and brought me low,  
Came from the hand of Heaven, let it suffice  
That God required no other sacrifice.  
Why do you bruise a Reed? as if your rod  
Could wound me deeper than the hand of God.  
Why do you judge me ere the judgement day?  
As if your verdict could God's judgements sway.  
Why are you not contented with my blood?  
For hate of me, why make you Murder good?  
He that commends the fact, does it again,  
And is the greater murderer of the twain.  
Oh high-revealed malice, that canst draw  
Heaven out of Hell, check God's proper Law,  
Nadab and Abibu, that thus accord,  
To offer your strange fire before the Lord.  
Take heed 'twill burn you, 'tis a dangerous thing,  
He that doth bless a murderer kills a King.  
I now have past your pikes, and seen my Fare,  
My Prince's favour, and the people's hate.  
Strange blear-eyed Hatred, whose repining sight  
Feeds all on darkness and doth hate the Light  
shows any goodness in me, was I all  
Marra corrupta, and stigmatical?  
Was I all ill? Yet those that ripped me found  
Some of my vitals good; some inward sound.  
I had a Heart scorned danger, and a Brain  
Beating for Honour, life in every vein:  
Nor was my Liver tainted, but made Blood,  
That might have served to do my Country good,  
Had you not let it out: nor was my mind  
So fixed on getting as to make me blind,  
And to forget mine Honour, and my friend,  
Witness those now, who need no more depend.  
And those whose merits, I have made, and raised,  
Will find out something more, that may be praised.  
All do not mourn in jest; there's some one Eye  
Shed tears in earnest when it saw me die.  
And whatsoever those Remonstrants make,  
I never lost myself but for their sake.  
That, God forgive them, for the rest I'll say,  
I loved the King, and Realm, as well as they.   

EITAPH.  
REader stand still, and look, lo here I am,  
That was of late the Mighty Buckingham.  
God gave to me my being, and my breath,  
Two Kings their favour, and a Slave my death.  
And for my fame I claim, and do not crave  
That thou believest two Kings, before a Slave.   

An exortation for the battering down of those vanities of the Gentiles which are comprehended in a May pole written by a Zealous brother from Blackfriars.  
THe mighty Zeal which thou hast new put on,  
Neither by Prophet nor by prophet's son,  
As yet prevented doth transport me so  
Beyond myself, that though I ne'er could go  
Far in a verse, and all rhymes have defied  
Since Hopkins and good Thomas Sternhold died  
Except it were the little pains I took,  
To please good people in some prayer book  
That I've set forth or so; yet must I raise  
My spirit for thee, who shall in thy praise  
Gird up her loins, and furiously run  
All kind of feet, but Satan's cloven one.  
Such is thy zeal, so well dost thou express it,  
And were't not like a charm I'd say, Christ bless it.  
I needs must say 'tis a spiritual thing  
To rail against the Bishop or the King.  
Nor are they mean adventures we have been in  
About the wearing of the church's linen:  
But these were private quarrels, this doth fall  
Within the compass of the general.  
Whether it be a Pole painted and wrought  
Far otherwise then from the wood 'tis brought,  
Whose head the Idolmakers hand doth crop,  
Where a lewd bird towering upon the top  
Looks like the calf at Horeb: at whose root  
The unyoakt youth doth exercise his foot.  
Or whether it reserves its boughs, befriended  
By neighbouring bushes, and by them attended  
How canst thou choose, but seeing it complain,  
That Baal's worshipped in the groves again.  
Tell me how cursed an egging, with a sting  
Of lust do these unwieldy dances bring.  
The simple wretches say they mean no harm,  
They do not surely, but these actions warm  
Our purer bloods the more; for Satan thus  
Tempts us the more that are more righteous.  
Oft hath a brother most sincerely gone  
Stified in prayer, and contemplation.  
When lighting on the place where such repair  
He views the Nymphs, and is clean out in's prayer.  
Oft hath a ●ifter grounded in our truth,  
Seeing the jolly carriages of the youth.  
Been tempted to the way that's broad and bad,  
And were't not for our private pleasure, had  
Renounced her little ruff and goggle eye,  
And quit herself of the Fraternity,  
What is the mirth, what is the melody  
That sets them in this Gentiles vanity?  
When in our Synagogues we rail at sin,  
And tell men of their faults which they are in,  
With hand and voice so following our themes  
That we put out the Sides men in their dreams,  
sounds not the pulpit which we then belabour  
Better and hollower than doth a tabor?  
Yet such is unregenerate man's folly,  
They love the wicked noise, and hate the holy.  
Routs and wild pleasure do invite temptation,  
And this is dangerous for our damnation.  
We must not move ourselves, but if we are moved  
Man is but man: and therefore those that loved  
Still to seem good, would evermore dispense  
With their own faults, so they gave no offence.  
If the times sweet enticing, and the blood  
That now begins to boil, have thought it good  
To challenge liberty and recreation,  
Let it be done in holy contemplation.  
Brothers and sisters in the fields may walk  
Beginnings of the holy word to talk,  
Of David and Uriah, lovely wife,  
Of Tamar and her lustful brother's strife;  
Then underneath the hedge that woos them next  
They may sit down, and there act out the text.  
Nor do we want how e'er we live austere  
In winter Sabaoth nights our lusty cheer;  
And though the pastor's grace which oft doth hold  
Half an hour long make the provision cold  
We can be merry, thinking ne'er the worse  
To mend the matter at the second course.  
Chapters are read, and hymns are sweetly sung  
Jointly commanded by the nose and tongue.  
Then on the word we diversely dilate  
Wrangling indeed for heat of zeal, not hate:  
Where at the length an unappeased doubt  
Fiercely comes in, and then the lights go out.  
Darkness thus makes our peace, and we contain  
Our fiery spirits till we set again.  
Till than no voice is heard, no tongue doth go,  
Except a tender sister shriek or so:  
Such should be our delights, grave and demure,  
Not so abominable and inpure  
As those thou seek'st to hinder, but I fear  
Satan will be too strong, his kingdom's here.  
Few are the righteous, nor do I know  
How we this idol e'er shall overthrow,  
And since our sincere Patron is deceased  
The number of the righteous is decreased.  
But we do hope these tim'es' will on, and breed  
A faction mighty for us, for indeed  
We labour all, and every sister joins  
To have regenerate babes spring from our loins;  
Besides what many carefully have done  
Getting the unrighteous man a righteous son.  
Then stoutly on, let not thy flock range lewdly  
One their old vanities, thou Lamp of Beawdly.  
One thing I pray thee, do not too much thirst  
After Idolatries last fall, but first  
Follow this suit more close, let it not go  
Till it be thine as thou wouldst have't, for so  
Thy successors upon the same entail  
Hereafter may take up the Whitsun Ale.   

Epithalamium. Upon the Celebration of the happy Nuptials of T. L. Esquire, and his Lady.  
AMong the multiplicity of Votes,  
True hearts Oblations sprung from joyful thoughts,  
That are here offered at the sacred Shrine  
Of your best Marriage, be accepted mine!  
They are the wishes of a Heart, as true,  
As any his of the more elegant Crew,  
In choicest numbers and poetic dress;  
That oft to such Solemnities do press:  
And, plainly though set forth, they yet may prove  
Effectually propitious to your Love;  
Your now united Love, thrice happy Pair,  
Whose equal Hearts concorporated are.  
May the effects of that still springing Love,  
Grow to a numerous Issue, to improve  
Your Family with new Increase of Joy.  
I wish you the first year a hopeful Boy  
To Wisdom and to Valour: Next year after  
I wish no less, a no less hopeful Daughter  
To Beauty and to virtue. And, that, so,  
While your first fruits unto your comforts grow,  
You may, till many years their course have run,  
Yearly increase a Daughter, or a Son:  
That they, like Olive branches, round may stand  
Fair, to inherit both your Love and Land.  
And for yourselves mine Orisons shall be,  
You may like Isaac and Rebeckah see  
Long life and happy days, speaking his praise  
Who hitherto hath blessed you in your ways.  
And may the progress of your whole Life be  
As full of joy as this day's harmony.  
That individually, till life be done,  
You may continue still two Hearts in one.  
And when your days are numbered and made even,  
You may but part on earth, to meet in Heaven.   

To the Lord Chamberlain.  
MY Lord, so subject to the worser fame  
Are even the best that claim a poet's name,  
(Especially poor they that serve the stage,  
Though worthily, in this verse hating age.)  
And that dread Curse so heavy yet doth lie  
Which the wronged Fates, fallen out with Mercury  
Pronounced for ever to attend upon  
All such as only dream of Helicon,  
That durst I swear, cheated by self opinion,  
I were Apollo's, or the muse's Minion,  
Reason would yet assure me, 'tis decreed  
Such as are Poets born, are born to need.  
If the most worthy then, whose pays but praise  
Or a few sprigs, from the now withering bays,  
Groan underneath their wants, what hope have I  
(Scarce yet allowed one of the Company)  
Of better fortunes; that with their good parts  
Even want t●e ways, the bold, and thriving arts,  
By which they grow remarkable, and are prized:  
For sure I Could not live a thing despised  
Durst I profess 'twere in my power to give  
A Patron that should make him ever live;  
Or tell great Lords that the main reason why  
They hold a poet's praises flattery  
Is their own guilt, that sense they left to do  
Things worthy praise, even praise is odious too.  
Some few there are who by this boldness thrive  
Which yet I dare no● follow; others strive  
In some high minded Lady's grace to stand,  
Ever provided that her liberal hand  
Pay for the virtues they bestow upon her,  
And so long she's the miracle, and the honour  
Of her whole sex, and has forsooth more worth  
Than was in any Sparta e'er brought forth:  
But when the beauty fails a change is near,  
And she's not then, what once she did appear,  
For the new giver, she dead, must inherit  
What was by purchase got, and not by merit,  
Let such write well that do this, and in grace,  
I would not, for a pen●●on or a place  
Part so with mine own candour, let me rather  
Live poorly on those toys I would not father,  
Not known beyond a Player, or a man  
That does pursue the Course that I have run  
Ere so grow famous: yet with any pain  
Or honest industry, Could I obtain  
A noble favourer, I might write, and do  
Like others of more name, and get one too,  
Or else my Genius is false, I know  
That Johnson much of what he has does owe  
To you, and to your family, and is never  
Slow to profess that, nor had Fletcher ever  
Such reputation, and Credit won  
But by his honoured Patron Huntington.  
Inimitable Spencer ne'er had been  
So famous for his matchless fairy Queen,  
Had he not found a Kidney to prefer  
His plain way in his shepherd's calendar.  
Nay Virgil's self, or Martial does lie,  
Could hardly frame a poor Gnats elegy  
Before Maecenas cherished him, but than  
He straight conceived AEneas, and the men  
That found out Italy, theirs are precedents  
I cite with reverence my low intents  
Look not so high, yet some work I might frame  
That should nor wrong my duty, nor your name  
Were but your Honour pleased to cast an eye  
Of favour on my trod down poverty.  
How ever I Confess myself to be  
Ever most bound to your blessed charity  
To others that feed on it, and will pay  
My prayers with theirs, that as you do, you may  
Live long beloved, and honoured: doutless then  
So Clear a life will find a worthier pen,  
For me I rest assured besides the Glory  
'tTwould make a Poet but to write your story.   

Upon leaving off mourning for his Mistress.  
HEnce faint resembler of my woes, adieu,  
I have thoughts sabler, blacker far than you:  
Can griefs so real, so immense be shown  
By that which has no being, a privation?  
(For so we black define) how can I call  
You Emblems of my sorrows, when that all  
Those mournful thoughts you do pretend t' express  
(It seems) I banish, when I please t' undress.  
My' Griefs no sorrowful figure ere defines,  
But those black thoughts that round my essence twines  
None can depict the soul I wear within  
But he who paints me in an Ethiopes skin.  
The night which mourns the absence of the sun  
And to express her loss puts darkness on  
Yet smiles in stars, and when she goes away  
Postilions forth a lovely dauning grey.  
I am all darkeness, I have not one spark  
Of hope or comfort to be day my dark.  
Besorrowed soul, sorrow which nought can ease,  
Nought can becalm, nor nought but death appease  
And when I'm dead insculp upon my grave,  
Here lies my Anna's mourner, once her slave.   

An Elegy on the death of a schoolmaster.  
MUst he die thus? has an eternal sleep  
Seized on each Muse that it can't sing nor weep?  
Had he no friends? no merits? or no purse?  
To purchase mourning? Or had he that curse  
Which has the scraping Worldling still frequented  
To live unloved and perish unlamented.  
No; none of these; But in this Atlas fall  
Learning for present found its funeral.  
Nor was't for want of grief, but scope and vent,  
Not sullenness, but strong deep astonishment.  
Small griefs are but soon wept out great ones come  
With bulk, and strike the straight lamenters dumb.  
This was the scoolmaster, that did derive  
From parts and piety's preogative.  
The glory of that good, but painful art  
Who had high learning yet an humble heart.  
The Drake of grammar learning, whose great pain  
Circled that globe, and made that voyage plain.  
Time was, when th' artless pedagogue did stand,  
With his vimineous sceptre in his hand.  
Raging like Bajazet o'er the' tugging fry,  
Who though unhorsd' were not of th' infantry;  
Applying, like a glister, hic, haec hoc,  
Till the poor Lad's beat to a whipping block;  
And hold so long to know a Verb and noun  
Till each had Propria maribus of'● own:  
As if not fit to learn As in praesenti  
But legally, when they were one and twenty.  
Those few that went to th' universt'ies than  
Went with deliberation, and were men.  
Nor were our Academies in those days  
Filled with Chuck-farthing bachelors and boys  
But scholars with more beard and age went hence,  
Then our new lapwing-Lectrers skip from thence.  
By his industrious labour now we see  
Boys coated borne to 'th' university  
Who sucked in Latin, and did scorn to seek  
Their scourge and top in English but in Greek.  
Hebrew the general puzler of old heads  
Which the grey Dunce with pricks and comments reads  
And dubs himself a scholar by it, grew  
As natural t'him as if he'd been a Jew.  
But above all he timely did inspire  
His children's breasts with an aetherial fire.  
And sanctified their early learning so,  
That they in grace, as they in wit did grow:  
Yet nor his grace nor learning could defend him,  
From that mortality that did attend him.  
Nor can there now be any difference known  
Between his learned bones and those with none.  
For that grand leu'ler death huddles t' one place  
Rich, poor, wise, foolish, noble and the base.  
This only is our comfort and defence,  
He was not immaturely ravished hence.  
But to our benefit, and to his own  
Undying fame and honour, let alone,  
Till he had finished what he was to do,  
Then naturally split himself in Two.  
And that's one cause he had so few moist eyes,  
He made men lea●ned and that made them wise.  
And overrule their passions, since they see  
Tears would but show their own infirmity.  
And 'tis but loving madness to deplore  
The fate of him, that shall be seen no more.  
But only I cropped in my tender years,  
Without or tongue, or wit, but sighs and Tears;  
And yet I come to offer what is mine,  
An immolation to his honoured shrine.  
And retribute what he conferred on me  
Either to's person or his memory.  
Rest pious soul and let that happy grave  
That is entrusted with thy relics, have  
This just inscription, that it holds the dust  
Of one that was Wise, learned, pious, just.   

A Catch.  
SI● close, sit close, my bonny boon Comrades  
Sit close, and taste freely your tipple,  
'Tis weal●h to the poor, a salve to the sore,  
And a crutch to the hal●ing cripple;  
'Tis this, 'tis this, 'tis this, that makes  
The cobbler merrily sing,  
It is the good drink makes the beggar think  
Himself as rich as a King:  
Then trowel, than trowel a merry merry bowl,  
Trowel it down, and fill it again boys;  
He that grieves night and day drives no so●row away,  
To be sad it is but vain, boys:   

On a woman having two Husbands.  
THe law provides one husband for one wife,  
But wanton women cannot brook this life,  
They must have two, for having one they still  
In spite of law are wedded to their will:   

On an Elder Brother.  
WHere natures wanting, fortune lends her hand,  
The Elder brother still enjoys the land,  
The youngest have most wit; hence 'tis that all  
The elder brothers we wiseacres call.   

On a proud beggar.  
O Tho goes barefoot, yet no cold he feels  
The Cause is pride; he scorns good shoes at's heels:   

A Courtship betwixt a man and a woman.  Man. 
Why so fast away my dear,  
Is't because that I am here?  
Will you ever  
Still persever  
Thus to fly me  
And deny me?  
Shall it be my hard misfortune,  
Or a punishment to folly  
To like, to love, and to importune  
Yet still languish  
In the anguish  
Of despair and melancholy?  Wom. 
Fond man, forbear, enjoy thy quiet,  
Know, I am not for thy diet,  
You can tell, Sir  
Very well Sir,  
What's my mind  
Then be kind  
To yourself, and let me go,  
For in vain you hope to see  
My spotless honour's overthrow;  
Then be chaste,  
That thou mayst  
Preserve us both from infamy:  Man 
Why will you so cruel be  
Both to thyself, and unto me,  
Heavenly Creature,  
In that feature  
Will you treasure  
So much pleasure,  
And put it up from man's embraces,  
Be less fair, or be more kind,  
Let those temptings of thy face  
Suddenly  
Fade and die,  
Else let me be stricken blind,  Wom. 
Thus we shall be flattered, till  
Your ends are compassed to your will,  
Than you leave us  
And deceive us.  
Once undone us  
You will shun us;  
You may range about, and alter  
Each hour, you meet a new one; we  
May not do so; since men thus falter,  
Ere I love you  
I will prove you,  
Lest I lose my liberty:  Man 
What can move your thoughts to be  
Jealous of my constancy  
Let me know it,  
I will show it  
If unjust  
Try, than trust?  
Were my breast of crystal made,  
There you might my heart espy,  
That never yet true love betrayed  
There you might  
Read the white  
Charrecters of loyalty:  Wom. 
Ay! so you tell me, but I know  
How far an ounce of air will go,  
If I thought  
There were aught  
Truly meant,  
And hearty in't,  
I were cruel then indeed;  
Women can be kind, as mothers,  
But they must their bounty heed,  
Cause given, we  
Never can be  
Our own again, nor any others:  Man 
'Tis unjust, to doubt, where we  
No ground for our suspicion see:  Wom. 
Shall I doubt,  Man 
We'll kiss it out.  
Next I'll rifle  Wom. 
What  Man 
A trifle,  
Which though I purchase with delight,  
I shall get no more, than you,  
Since neither wins, nor loseth by't.  Wom. 
I am won then.  Man 
I ha' done then,  
Yet we still have have more to do.   

On women, of what stuff they are made.  
ALL ye, that lovers be, and love the Amorous trade  
Come learn of me, what women be, and whereof they be made:  
Their heads are made of rush; their tongues be made of say,  
Their love is of silk changeable, that lasteth not a day:  
Their wit Mochado is, of durance is their hate,  
The food they feed on most is carp, their gaming is checkmate;  
Of fustian their discourse, their zeal is made of freeze,  
And they, that one their Favours wait, do get most when they leez:  
Their glory comes from satin, their vanity from feather;  
Their beauty is, stand farther of, their conscience is but leather:  
Their humour watery chamlet, but canvas fits them best,  
Perpetuum is their folly, their earnest is but Jest:  
Their love is life in Idleness, their doings are their Pleasure,  
They lawless are, yet all they wear, they buy by standing measure.  
Their foreparts are of rue, their hinder parts of docks,  
Their heads of hardest brass be made, their hearts be made of box;  
Or if in plainer terms they will with all be dealt,  
Of beaver are their snow white thighs, there TH. is made of felt.   

The lash A Song  

LOng have I lived for to see,  
All the state of each degree.  
I have laughed, I have quaffed, I have wept,  
And a stir, like a— have I kept  
But now here I stand with a whip in my hand,  
Come I must lash you:   

Come, you Divines, that live so pure,  
And keep another to serve your Cure.  
You will preach, not to teach, but to show  
Phrases fine, scarce divine, how they flow  
The benefice you'll keep, whilst another starves the sheep,  
Come I must lash you.   

Come you physicians, that do kill  
More than you Cure, to try your skill;  
Our disease, do you please, and we see  
Our relief is our grief; for the fee  
You'll cure us off our purse, when our bodies are far worse;  
Come I must lash you.   

Come you Lawyers, that with your law  
Do keep the Neighbours all in awe;  
If a dog, or a hog, you espy,  
Or a mouse in the house, or a fly,  
Th' whole country straight shall brute of a star-chamber suit,  
Come I must lash you:   

Come you tradesmen, in town, and city,  
That are so cunning, and so witty;  
Not your weights, but deceits, are so large,  
You will spare men your ware, at your charge;  
The buying you will give, thus by lying you do live,  
Come I must lash you:   

Come you inholders', that live by gallants,  
Till they have spent all their talents;  
You may fill what you will, when they call;  
But your pot's and your quarts are so small,  
The reckoning must be paid, or their horses must be stayed,  
Come I must lash you.   

Come you, too fine, where is your state,  
Which your father left of late  
You don't care for to spare, but to spend  
Till you bring every thing to an end  
Now may you go with sorrow to beg, shark and borrow,  
Come I must lash you.   

Come, you ladies, that do ware  
More fashions, then are days i'th' year,  
Your ribbons, & your knots, your roses and your spots,  
Your bare breast, and back do show what you lack;  
Come I must lash you.   

Come, you also that are so merry,  
And drown your sorrows all in sherry,  
Now you laugh, now you quaff, than you sleep,  
And this course, or a worse you do keep  
You drive away your wealth, and you drink away your health,  
Come I must lash you.   

Come thou, that braggest of thy wealth,  
Because thou hast a little pelf;  
Thou'rt the worse, that thy purse is so strong,  
For thy gold makes the bold to do wrong;  
You build houses high to the poors' misery,  
Come I must lash you.   

Come, you usurers, that heap up store,  
By griping of the wretched poor;  
You will take men to stake at their need,  
And their portion by extortion will you rid;  
O that I had been made of a thong-cutters trade,  
That I might lash you.   

But I am now so weary grown,  
That I must let the rest alone,  
I could slash with my lash, did I dare,  
Many more, than before, but I spare;  
And them will I leave to the Judge and the Shrieve  
And they shall lash them.    

To his friend on the death of his Mistress, immediately before the intended marriag●.  
AMong the train of Mourners, whose swollen eyes  
Wallow in tears at those sad obsequies  
Admit me as a cipher in to come;  
Who, though I'm nothing, yet can raise a sum.  
And truly I can mourn as well as they  
Who'd clad in sable weeds, though mine are grey.  
Should I not weep, I should not pay my due  
Of tears to her, or sympathy to you.  
For Death hath slain you both when she did die,  
So who writes ones, must write boths elegy.  
Excuse me Sir. Passion will sweat that's penned,  
Thank not my Tears; I cannot but lament  
To see a Lady ready for your bed,  
To death's embraces yield her maidenhead.  
And that Angellick corpse that should have been  
A Cabinet to lodge your jewels in,  
Should now be embalmed with dust, and made a prey,  
To gluttonous worms, which will call that day  
On Which her loins unto their lot did fall  
Though your solemnities, their festival.  
She was to good for man, she was to high.  
A mate for Angels to get Angels by.  
In whom there was as much divinity  
And Excellence as could in woman be.  
Whom you and all adored and did suppose  
To be a Goddess in a mortals clothes  
But heaven to undecieve thee, let you know  
By her mortality, she was not so.   

To his friend. Mr. B. arched: of N.  
LEt me enjoy you, for I fain would know  
If still you look like one of us or no:  
Is not your former pleasing form off stripped  
Since when your Worship was arch-deaconshiped?  
Quakes not your head-piece with ingotten wind,  
Or swells and burst your nightcaps all behind?  
Or are you to the Velvet day-caps come  
As fits Episcopabilissimum?  
Rise not your brows in billows, apt to drown  
Poor Tom beneath, with an impetuous frown.  
Burn your disdainful eyes, or sweetly move  
(As erst) and gently shine on those you love?  
Is not your nose suspended or awry,  
And since 'twas arched, exalts itself on high?  
Bless me! what dainty proper men of late  
By wealth's convulsion, or a pang of state  
Have I seen changed (as once by Circe's cup.)  
And to a be astlie figure quite run up.  
Poor Cambridge Snakes that use to creep and lick  
The bubbling spume of my then rhetoric,  
And cling in amorous folds my verse to hear,  
Verse that at once could please, and keep in fear;  
Now fiery flying dragon doctors are  
That warmed with Prebends and fat steeples dare  
Both hiss and sting: For me, 'tis state enough  
To hiss, or creep in their forgotten slough  
Practice and contemplations, I agree  
Should rise; let that a Banging B B be  
Whiles this shines West: yet may no crime attaint  
The first; but like the second, live a saint,  
Alas! the church's tail is lost in drink,  
While Pot and Pipe are made their pen, and ink,  
And if the jowl in pride be pickled too  
What shall the sides, the bulk, the body do.  
Curates leave ale: leave Prelates ease and pride,  
Or learned and Lay the clergy will deride.  
God knows those blemishes on foot and face  
Do need the healthful spirit of his grace.  
And you my Learned friend, though past the roar  
Of Scillia's dogs! take heed in venturing o'er  
Charibdis' gulf, where M●rmaid Honour sits  
On seas of danger, strewed with rocks and pits.  
Lest I when clambering over hills and dales  
By North and South, your palace out in Wales  
Approaching as to Ph●●bus burnished roof  
(Like Phaeton) be bid to stand aloof.  
And scarce recovering me at second sight  
You swear, good faith, I had forgot you quite:  
I promised you a Prebend, but in tro●h  
I am so pressed with Lords and Ladies both  
That I can do you now no further grace  
Than the reversion of the ninetenth place.  
Nine years I have expected, (and am loath  
To name him yet) a mounting B B S oath.  
But if I live to write his Epitaph  
It shall so weep, that all that read, shall laugh.  
You cannot so deceive. Then onward march  
Till to your first, you raise a second arch.   

On Mistress Angel wife to Master John Angel preacher of Leicester, deceasing at Bath.  
angel in name, and angel like in life  
Save that she was a mortal, and a wife.  
Those bonds discharged advanced this perfect wife  
To Angell's single and immortal life.  
FINIS.   

Books Printed for Hen. Brome at the Gun in I●y-Lane.  
The soul's Gonflict, Being Eight Sermons, six whereof were preached at Oxford.  
The Queen's Exchange, A Comedy, by Richard Brome.  
Two Essays of Love and Marriage.  
The Grand Impostor Examined, Or, the life and trial of James Nayler.  
The soul's Tournkey, Being a Conference betwixt Mr Hanum and Mr Tuke Moderator of Gr. Coll. in London.  

Books now in the press which will shortly be extant.  
The affinity of sacred Liturgies, By Hamon L' Estrange, Esq  
Five New Comedies which were never before published, By Richard Brome.  
A Learned and desired commentary on the whole Epistle to the Philippians, By Nath. Tucker late Preacher of the Gospel at Portsmouth.  
Dr Brown's Garden of Cyrus or the quincuncial Lozenges or network plantations.