DIA POEMATA: POETIC FEET STANDING UPON HOLY GROUND: OR, Verses on certain TEXTS of SCRIPTURE. With EPIGRAMS, etc. By E. E. Non fuit hoc Artis, sed Pietatis opus. Printed in the Year, 1655. TO THE TRULY NOBLE Sir William Courtney, Baronet, and his most Virtuous LADY. Honours GEMINI, 'T Would be an Injury to your unfeigned Worth, to be praised by a Poet: I shall therefore wave the Common Method of Dedicatory Epistles, and pass by your Commendation, which (proving a Pardon) comes most decently from yourselves, whose Illustrious Merit (like the Sun) can't be shown, but by its own light. Whatever Actions are purely yours, essentially imply their own Encomiums. To both of you my Muse humbly Dedicates her I wotopt Parnassus. The Lustre of your known Virtues, by its powerful Influence upon my Thought, Attracts these Vapours of my Brain, as so many. Exhalations: Excuse then my boldness in presenting you this small Offering: I do not bring it; your Desert draws it. If my Verses feet any where seem to stumble, may the Reader conceit, it Falls prostrate to you, to whom (as the chief Commanders of my Best Respects) I am Wholly Devoted. To my FRIEND, Mr. E. E. on his Divine Poems. RAre must the Chemic Art of thy Muse be, To distil Humour into Poesy. The clear streams of thy Hippocrene o'erflow Those wholesome Plants that in blessed Eden grow. Thy zealous Muse does Lustful Heats defy, Warmed by the Sun beams of Divinity. To speak thy praise at large, Ilesilent be, For praise in thought befits thy Modesty. W. Williams, Esq. On the sacred Poems of my Ingenious Friend, Mr. E. E. LEt those who earthly Subjects dote upon, Go scour their dirty Brains in Helicon. Our Poet's Head's his Fountain, Wit the Streams, Poured through the Conduits of his holy Themes, So, gliding through the Channel of each line, Cleanseth the ground which was before divine. 'Tis in this Holy Place the Nine do meet, And wash the ground that it may wash their feet. Fancy and Phrase contend, each sublimate: Wit, and Divinity concorporate. I'll say no more; 'tis labour spent amiss, To praise the Book, when I have said 'tis his. R. S. Esq. In Amici mei E. E. Dia Poemata. Frontem apage phaniccam. Ne crubescas ingens Libelle stylo digne Adamantino. Ne famininam induas verecundiam cui ingenium Masculum. Nec inter Centones Lateas Monasticos. Et ●ine typis apoc yphos In Lucem prodeas lure Canon●●o: Dentes ne vereare Sa●y●icos Tam Sacra pagin● haud ●●n● Schism●t● Nec blaspheme 〈…〉 erit Criticus. Non Leves Sotadis Schedu'ae (Quibus nil, p ae 〈…〉 o Licc●ttam, Poeticum) In tuos (L●ctor) involant amp ●xus. Nec 〈◊〉 sluctuantis Cereb●i 〈◊〉 amplexu● us es, Emergentes v●n 〈…〉, Sed piae m●tr●● diam s 〈…〉 b●●em. Bacchans Ac●to in pectore caren 〈…〉 R●psodus Evomit Poematia. Hic Musarum opsonator apis instar mi●e Aletymi 〈…〉, E Bibli●rum fol●is collegit mells poctic●, Nec, ‛ Laurta nempe cinct as fuit astro percit 〈…〉. Suo haud navigat Anticyras Helicone. ‛ L●urea 〈◊〉 〈…〉. Caussia 〈◊〉 Sot Minervae fi ioli, Latinum hunc ●i●emi●i Prometh●um, (Cuj●s ferulae quaelibe subd: catur manus) Qui divino raptu cae i●us detulit ingenit ign 〈…〉 los, 〈◊〉 Ita u● ipse 〈…〉 e vi 〈…〉 ur Ph●●us, N 〈…〉 st●is● l●cet vatis p 〈…〉 usqu●m D●l●hici audi●s, Silescu 〈…〉 Ap 〈…〉 O 〈◊〉. Invictissime Juvenis, Palmas tibi pro●ert Terra S 〈…〉 a, Quatum dactyl●● saltent Poetici Pedes, In quibus tantae probantur vires Ut jam 〈◊〉— expede Herculem. Pa●nasso vix credam somniasse sed Libano, Te Cedro digus l● 〈◊〉. Quid testat? Plas●● de●●t Licet Poeticum, Habes tamen, Lector, Pegasi alarm in Cherubicas, Inque coe●●cas modulatrices Harmonicon ●●leste nu●c edentes Pegasidum Metamorphosi●. T. P. To his honest Cousin, E. E. on his Dia Poemata; or, his setting Feet on Holy ground. GOod journey (Ned) at this first step thou'rt gone Beyond the longest line my Muse e'er spun. But were I lose from Natures' tic, I then Would roave out in thy praise like other men. Ran but our Blood thin, as my Ink does now, How clear, how quick Encomiums should flow? Yet since thy divine Muse has testified, We're only Cousins on the Father's side: I'll dare to praise thy Muse, although not thee, And Hum the Base to thy sweet Poetry, Laud modestly thy Wit, though not thy Brains, Though we're allied in Blood, yet not in Veins. 'Tis true (our Modern Counsels voted it) Good Verse is Scandal, nothing's Sin but Wit: Yet could thy teeming Muse long since despise. The Humble Epithets of Good and Wise; Let moulded Fancies, & worm eaten Brains, Whose crawling Genii breed nought else but Pains, Beg the salt Froth of an Adulterate Phrase To season them, and pickle up their Praise. Let addle Wits, Muses with stinking breath, Yawn after Perfumes, and kiss sweet in death. Let Chap-fallen Hags, gnawing o'er some tough Ditty, Like Homer's spital, spew, and so seem witty. Whom Phoebus Sunburn's, when he should inspire, Cold crackling Cinders of Poetic Fire; Faint dwindling lights, snuffs of old Virgin-tapers, Useless to th' Muses but for blotting-papers: Dry sapless Poets, whose wan Poems are Just as their Subjects, only painted fair. Let such cramped Fantasies hop on crutches, alas They'll 'scape no Critics Nose without a pass. Take off the Pattens of your Approbation, Their feet are all bemired, and out of fashion. 'Tis thy diviner Muse w●th heaven spun Lays, Commands a Reverence, and begs not Praise. One whose high birth boasts nobler parentage, Than the poor grov'lling Songsters of our Age. Whose squeaking Ela's never dare outstretch wretch: The short breathed quavers of some green-sick Who scra● a sniv'lling Reed up, till it speaks O'er those black Crotchets, on their Mistress cheeks. Thy sanctified Min●iva, that sweet S●ee, Jove's brain sublimed to holy Poetry, Puts on her Sunday's dress, and humbly comes Without black Patches of Encomiums. Profaner Beauties stand her foils, the Arts Are but mute Heralds of her nobler parts. No wanton Current of lascivious Blood good. Plays through her veins, but sober, chaste, and Whose azure colour speaks thus much (though all Should contradict, they're pure celestial.) Thy steadfast feet not damned to giddy wheelings, Lost in Meanders of their own wild reel, Have got sure footing on the Holy land, Where they two Pillars of God's glory stand. Thy zealo●s Muse too keeps the precept sound. Puts off her shoes because 'tis holy ground. Her Helicon's no gold, nor silver stream, But milk and honey flowing from thy Theme: How'l cleaveland's Maccabees brook this abuse? An holy Grace profaned into a Muse? To see Apollo thus Evangelize? And in Bethesda Helicon Baptism? Now thy Angelic Muse has moved the waters, Thou'st shown the way to our poor leprous creatures; Our crippled Girls may tumble in, and so Return all sound, if not to run, to go. How'l our Pot-Poets belch up wit who can Piss wine out water, and so play the man▪ To see new Miracles? That power's Divine Which turned thy Helicon to sacred Wine. Well Ned, march on, until thy nimble feet Out run thy Name, and sound a sad Retreat To those fool hasty, hot spur wits, who can Think for an Heaven, ne'er dream of Canaan. Farewell. 'Tis for such black Egyptian wits as we, Safe taking leave on this side the Red sea: In Hippocrene, which once sprang earth, and found For thee a Boat, our leaden wits lie drowned. Our slow Encomiastics buzz behind, And spend their breath, all for a prosperous wind. But since thou'rt safe in Canaan, thy praise Is, thou'st worn out a wilderness of Bays: And wrought this happy Metamorphosis, The Muse's Garden now is Paradise. There grows thy tree of life, and there let grow That living Laurel shall surround thy Brow. Only, since thou hast won the Mount, O stoop And lend a hand to help us Infants up. Then shall we praise thee right, then only we Shall on thy shoulders see as far as thee. Clem. Elis Art. Bac. C. R. T. To my Friend, the AUTHOR. AMongst your other Friends (Dear Sir) that bring Unto your Sacred Muse their Offering, Accept a Verse from him, who how to pay Due praise in Verse, did ne'er till now essay. 'Tis you make me a Poet, and I'm bound, T'offer my First-fruits to your Holy ground. For why? who reads your Book may dare thereon Swear he hath washed his lips in Helicon. An't may be proved, the argument runs thus, Where Feet Poetic are, there's Pegasus. R. Inglet è Col. Exon. A. B. To his Honoured Friend M. E. E. on his Incomparable Poems. NOw Helicon runs Holywater, and Parnassus is Mount Zion, on each hand▪ Muses with graces are enamell'd, see Wit and Devotion wedded (Friend) by Thee. Thy Blossoms are Ripe Fruits, which do invite Our Eyes both unto Profit and Delight. The Mint's thy own: sure then there can't appear Adulterate Coin, which doth thy Image bear. Profit hence Momus, yet Carp at this Deed, Your Envious Teeth bite that on which you Feed. Allegiance says these Verses (Sir) are due: Our Muses dutifully wait on you. Your Muse i'th'Throne as Queen of Wit we see: Let ours, Attendants, Maids of Honour be. T. Tomkins, A. B. è Coll. Bal. To Mr. E. E. on his DIAPOEMATA. THey're Heathen Poets, whom Phoebus does inspire, But thou'rt Divine, and tun'st a Sacred Lyre. David's Majestic Music, which can Quell Base Envious Spirits, and make our Minds to Swell With Holy Raptures. Thy sweet Poetry Keeps even Time to the soul's Harmony. Jordan's thy Helicon, thy Muse goes on From Mount Parnassus unto Lebanon; Thus Double Honour is most due to thee, As Poet Laureate in Divinity. Some do affect (for Rattles still please Boys) Quibbles, and Puns that make a Gingling Noise: Others do Aim at Wit, but miss the White, And rather Laughter move, than cause Delight. No such thing here: Thou scorn'st this Vanity, Thy Quick Wit's Ballaest with Solidity. No more: 'tis Praise enough, The Book's thine own, Itself best speaks thy Commendation. Will: Reade. Art. Bac. To Mr. E. E. on his Book, etc. YOur Muse hath well Inspired you, since that she Hath made you, Sir, Clove-tonged in Poetry; For your Poetic Heat makes from your Quill Water of Life, and Helicon Distil: Your Muse was sure some Mermaid, that could Tie Two things so different in one Fantasy. Your Pia Mater here her Twin doth bring To th' Reader as her First-Fruit-Offering: he'll like it; in your Cloven Quill he'll see Parnassus, shown in an Epit●●●. G. H. To the AUTHOR. THine Alpha-Bet d●d Nonplus Momus Rage, He's quite struck dumb by this profounder page. Thy Fancy is Divine indeed: by Wit Each Leaf is Sealed and Signed by Holy Writ. For Helicon thou Bath'st in Zions Spring; And not of Gods, but th' only God dost Sing. Lose are some Poems, though their Feet be tied: Thine's Cannon-proof, and more severely Tried. My Muse but Homely Threads of praise can Spin, Yet withered Bushes show there's Wine within. Robert carrel. To the Laurel▪ worthy Mr. E. E. on his Excellent Poems. INgenious Friend, I do presume to blow A Trumpet here, before thy rarer Show; But be a Gentleman Usher who can choose, To Wait on such a beauteous Lady Muse? Since Love which to the Muses i do bear And Thee, makes me a Prologue now appear; Though Wit as precious every Scene doth hold, As Shakespeare's Lease, or Johnson's Massy Gold, Though thou with swelling Canvas sail beyond Hercules Pillars, Fletcher and Beaumont, And though Thou art (what ever Fools repute) A Poet in all Numbers Absolute; Yet will I not wrong Thee so much (my Friend) As to be speak the Reader to Commend, Thy Ware is not of that same base Sort That sells not, ' less a good Word's spoken for't: Let not thy Sack, but Foggy Ale go pray To Customers to come and helped away; 'Tis only for the Poor in Poetry Basely to beg the Readers Charity; Let Subtle have a Captain Face who tells That he can work (Lord knows what) miracles; Thy Muse's Beauty needeth not to Catch After a Spokesman, to make up the Match: Therefore Ben●● Apophthegm I'll only say, In troth 'tis good, and if you liked you May. John Tomkins. To the AUTHOR. DEar Friend, I've viewed thy Book, wherein each Page Shows me thy Fancy, antidates thy Age. Thy Epigrams have such Poetic Heat, As makes their Feet drop Wit instead of Sweat. So that the Muses say they'll have no Son But Thee, th' apparent Heir to Helicon: And if they chance t'adopt a Ganymede, Their Drink shall be thy Brains, their Cup thy Head. Jo: Ford. To his most Deserving Friend, Mr. E. E. on his DIAPOEMATA. I'M bashed to read thy Verse, as I begin To Scan thy Worth, my Muse comes Trembling in: When I turn over this foul leaf, I'd ne'er Look back again, but that Thy Name is here; Thou art no Peddling. Poet, what's here Writ. Is at whole Sale; Thy Book's a Shop of Wit▪ Th' Poets Nurshell, a Volume in each Page, W'admire thy Youth in thy ripe Muses Age. I cease to praise thy Book, what e'er we see, In that of Worth, I'm sure there's more in Thee. Thou art a Poet, and Divine, Who's thus Doth ride to Heaven on Winged Pegasus. John Parker. In Dia Poemata; Or, Poetic Feet standing upon Holy Ground. Ad Encomiastas Authoris. You might have saved your Labour, th' Author sure Doubts not to stand on his own Legs secure. Let those on Churches go, whose Muses All Bring forth but Cripples for an Hospital, Whose Fame by others must supported be; Their commondation's but a Charity. He's Self sufficient, and as the Sun, Whose scattered Beams through every Quarter run; Maintains itself in its own Lustre, by That Font which doth within its Bosom Lie) Scorns all Recruits from others, th'lesser Stars Are but this Greater Planets Pensioners. What Hel●●on, each Pen distilleth, can Add little to this boundless Ocean. Here fix Poetic Ra●ble, whilst his Grace The Muse's Highpriest enters th' Holy Place. G. Towerson, Art. Bac. è Col. Reg. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. All is Vanity and vexation of Spirit. ANd is the world like its Black Monarch made, That being grasped we find it nought but shade▪ Hell fiends need walk no more; the World's their own, Converted to an Apparition. 'Tis nothing else but Empty shape; and thus It seems to be our Malus Genius. 'Tis o'th' Old Serpent's nature, being Warm With Love, its venom is impower'd to Harm. Its Kisses still are Treacherous: and so It often Hugs, not to Embrace, but Throw. Sith then, when t'r we're happy here below, Grief but gives back, to fetch the harder blow: Since Nothing tipped with Essence is th'World's Alderman, And the Earth's Globe, but Fortune's Tennis Ball: Fly up my Mind; thy Pearches are heavens Pole, Earth's Gotham Hedge confines not Winged Souls. Surely men of low degree are vanity, and men of high degree are a lie: to be laid in the balance they are altogether lighter than vanity, Ps. 629. HOw light is Man! by every wind Of fortune here, or there Inclined! Her blasts dispel his chiefest Trust: And toss him to and fro, like Dust. He's oft Puffed up by th' People's Breath, And, bubble-like, so vanisheth: Oft whirled on the wings of Fame, And swallowed up by a Great Name. Inferiors scorned are: Great men cursed; Or swollen with Pride until they Burst. Praise, Honour, Riches, Earthly Glory, Like man, are Pilgrims, Transitory: Till th'Night of Ignorance decline, These Glow worms seem to him to shine. So light's his Head! that sovereign Part, He'th nothing Heavy, but his Heart; Which Drunk with Pleasure, still doth reel, Or else is Broke on Fortune's Wheel. Vain's all his Labour: vain his thought: Himself's but once removed from nought. Void of all Solidity, He's lighter than vanity. All is Vanity; but He's Vanity of Vanities. Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my Friends, for the hand of God hath touched me. Job. 19 21. ON me, my Friends, o pity take! My Bowels quake! The hand of God hath touched me Most terribly: Within, without from top, to Toe, I'm closely girt about with woe. A wounded Spirit I must bear, Overwhelmed with Fear: Gods Terrors (ah me!) have Confined My troubled Mind (Shrunk from the Hope of all relief) Within the straits of restless Grief. My flesh is all beset with sores, It's very Pores Are Blocked up by this Siege of Death. I can't vent breath, But 'tis so loathsome, that you'd think, 'Twere a Dead body's odious stink. My Goods, my Health, my Friends, and All Together fall: I've only Life enough to Cry When shall I die? Clothed with Clods of Dust, e'er dead, My Flesh in't self is Buried. Mine eye is dim, can only see My misery: My breath's left but to frame my Moans, And waft out Groans. To Pity now, my Friends, incline! Your hearts if Stony, will break mine. Lavatus aethiop's. And he commanded the Chariot to stand still, and they went down both into the water, both Philip, and the Eunuch, and he baptised him. Acts 8. 38. MOst happy Eunuch! that hath Cured his Sick soul in this Bath. By Baptism, He's Washed within; Wrapped about with's old Black Skin. His soul, Penitently sad, Seems to be in Mourning clad. This water Him t'Heavens Port bears, Mixed with Penitential tears: Aqua vitaeed proves to Him Dead in T●espasses, and Sin. His soul's a Diamond that's set In a Cabinet of Jet: In dark-Lanthorns thus there's Light, Thus a Star shines in Dark Night. In's Jesus is his Delight; He shall walk with him in white Such Candid Aethiops are seldom seen; Fa●r People oft are Aethiopes within. On Christmas day. Unto you is born, in the City of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. Luke 2. 11. THis Day the LORD of Heaven and Earth Subjects Himself to Humane Birth: By this Transcendent Mystery, God, and Man are at Unity. Strange! He, that is, was, is to come, Thus wrapped up in a Mortal Womb! Would th' Sun of Righteousness thus shroud His Glorious Lustre in a Cloud Of humble Flesh, and Blood? and can Man's Maker be the Son of Man? Hyperbole of wonder, How! Time's Ancestor come forth but Now! Nay, Stranger Yet: we may dare say Eternity was Born This Day. Blessed Angel! Who these Tidings bring, Ambassador from th' King of Kings. Th' articulate air, that wafts this news, To th' Soul does th' Breath of life infuse, This heavenly sound the Shepherd's ears Judge the best Music of the Spheres: As Orpheus' courser art drew sense, This ravisheth intelligence: Souls rapt up by this harmony, Unto the Throne of Grace do fly. Faith comes by hearing: He that hears This Angel's voice, anoints his ears With th' Oil of Gladness: and by Faith Shall Live, although he pass through death. O Jesus! who wast Born Jesus to me, Grant that, this day, I be Newborn to thee. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan, very pleasant hast thou been unto me: th● love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. 2 Sam. 1. 26. I'M slave to grief (not mine own man) For thee, my brother Jonathan. 'twixt us, who were in life allone, Death could cause no division: I can't forsake thee dead, but I, Sith thou art dead, must daily die. Tearing thee off, my souls best part, Fate could not choose but break my heart. Those arrows, which thou shot'st did prove, The arrows of our mutual love. Most pleasant hast thou been to me: No Woman ever loved, like thee. W'had more than Marriage-union; Our souls had copulation. Our heartblood was so mixed, that we Were'kin by CONSANGUINITY. Thused could not be thou shouldst be slain, And I not feel the utmost pain. Thy fate strikes at me: in thy knell, Methinks I hear my Passing-bell. I scarce survive! with sighs disturbed my breath, Seems to be seized on by the pangs of Death. How shall we sing the Lords song in a strange land? Psal. 1374. TO light hearts only such light mirth belongs: Our fortune weeping will allow no songs. These rivets yield us the fitt'st music: we Account their murmurs our best harmony: In them the Emblem of our fate appears: Their murmurs show our groans, their streams our tears. How shall we sing in a strange land? our tongues Benumbed with sorrow, are unfit for sengs. He profanes sacred melody, that dares To sing in anguish, and mix Sighs with Airs. Our unregarded Harps hung up you see, Like Trophies, to adorn griefs victory. Our Ears so glutted with continual Moans, Can't relish th' Sweetness of such plealant Tones. Then Mirth farewell 〈◊〉 our mournful Gestures shall Still solemnize our Country's Funeral. Whilst she, a Captive, lives a woeful Death, We won't, by Songs, let any Joy draw breath: Unless once more that Queen of City's Reign, we'll ne'er lift up our Drooping Heads again. And they stoned Stephen, calling upon God, and saying, Lord Jesus receive my spirit. Acts 7. 59 RApt with Hot ●eale (Elias like) Blessed Stephen Went, in a Fiery Char o●, up to Heaven. By this fair Gale of Holy Breath, He is Arrived safely at the Port of Bliss. His last words Summon Heaven: and by them He Gives Christ His Spirit for a Legacy. And thus he died, so filled with th' Heavenly Dove, That his Soul fled out on the wings of Love. Where are the nine? Luke 17 17. OF the Ten Lepers, Lord, the world claim's Nine: The Tenth turns back to thee; for Tithes are Thine. Take, Eat, This is my Body. Mark 14. 22. OH Lord, shall we thy Glorious Body Eat? Can Earthworms relish such Celestial Meat? O Blessed Lamb of God shall we be Fed On thee, whom our Dire Sins have Butchered? And have we slain thee thus to Feed on thee? And are we Pious Anthropophagis? Stretch Faith! O Mystic table! where each guest Is b●d to Eat o'th' Master of the Feast: Nay, where the Meat itself Invites, and where Our Bodies Eat, but souls digest the Fare. Draw near, my Son! to this strange Truth, and fly Out of thyself, by Holy Ecstasy, Into the Bosom of the Light of Men, Who here will make thee to be Born again. I come; but Faintly, Lord, as Sick folk do: Thou findst us Meat, o find us Stomaches too. Open thou mine Eyes. that I may behold wondrous things out of thy Law. Ps. 119. 18. LOrd, on my Heart write thou thy Law, that I May read it o'er with my Internal Eye. Let the Light of thy Countenance appear To make thy Law's mysterious Wonders Clear. The Works o' Darkness, in my Earthly Mind, Have made mine Eyes (like Moles, Earth's Prisoners) blind. Thou that mak'st th'Blind to see, Help I thee pray, Not putting to, but wiping off the Clay. Those Fogs, which youthful heat exhales, do rise Like misty clouds 'twixt Heaven and mine Eyes. Shine on me Sun of Righteousness: the night Is now far spent: O Day spring, bring the Light. To behold wondrous things my sight's too dull, Unless through Him, whose Name is WONDERFUL. I am weary with my groaning, all the night make I my bed to swim, I water my Couch with my tears. Psal. 6 6. MY Lungs are worn with Groaning; often Moans Infect my Breath; my very words turn groans. Drawn through (that Pipe, so blown with sighs) my Throat, Their sound is tainted with a dole full note. My Panting heart breathes after some relief; But still 'tis Heavy, through the weight of Grief. It weeps, so Stony, it's own Misery, Like (Sorrows Emblem) stupid NIOBE. This Rock ●ields (Teary) water, smote by th' Rod Of Moses Teacher, our, and Moses God. In silent night, when closed eyes look for rest, I hear the outcries of a troubled breast: Then Clouds of Melancholy (by th'wind of Fears Blown to and fro) drop into Showers of Tears; Which stream so fast, as 'twere to wash mine eye Polluted by beholding Vanity. I make my bed to swim with Tears) as though 'Twere Charon's Boat, tossed on the Flood of woe. My Body thus, and soul (at once) want-light; The one Black Fate o'erwhelms, the other Night. Wretch that I am! nothing quite vanquisheth These I wins of Darkness, but the Day of Death. I see another law in my members warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin, Rom. 7. 23. AH! Shall my restless Mind for ever be Thus Captive made by too much liberty? When, Lord, wilt thou me bind, With th'Cords of thy Soul-keeping Love, That my affections may not rove, But justly be confined? My Thoughts so Frothy are, as though they came Out of the Bosom of the Cyprian Dame: But yet I hate my Folly; And when I laugh, as heretofore, I do but throw Mirth out at door, Within I'm Melancholy. My Lust submits not to my Will's command, Can my Souls Household thus divided stand? That these Home-wars may cease, Come to my Soul, and speedily Confirmed in Christian Unity. Come quickly, Prince of peace. Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth. Eccle. 12. 1. THy Youthful Heat should still Aspire To the Bright Flame of Zeals pure Fire: That will (no Atheist dares control) Prove Vital Heat unto thy Soul. Those Youthful Veins, That Proudly Swell, Do Boil, as 'twere with th' Fire of Hell. He, whose First Years are spent in Evil, Shows that He is the Child o'th' Devil. Remember then, i'th' Days of Youth, To find the WAY, and learn the TRUTH. Wash thy New Soul, and keep it clean With th' Well of Life's continual Stream; Now Fortify Thyself within; Maintain it 'gainst Approaching Sin: Be Pious, and Live Strictly 〈◊〉 so, Shut up, thou wilt keep out thy Foe. Whilst that thy Growth in Grace, and Years are even, Degrees of Age are but the Steps to Heaven. In Obitum VITAE. On the Death of JESUS. He gave up the Ghost. Luke 23. 46. GAve up the Ghost? how so! O where could He Dislodge his Soul, who had Ubiquity? Could God be Mortal? and could He that made The World's Great Lights, become Himself a Shade? O Mystic Truth! which can't on Earth be Shown: He Knows it best that thinks it can't be Known. Thus * Mat. 27. 55. Darkness set it forth; by which the Sky Seemed th' Emblem of some losty Mystery: Whilst that bold Death durst to assault the † Joh. 1. 5. LIGHT The Heavens wore Mourning, and the Day turned Night. That we might Live, so did our Jesus Die; ‛ Sthough He Gave us His Life by Legacy: But He's Revived, and now has made us be Partakers of His Immortality: So shall we find, when th' whole World vanisheth, Ourselves Refreshed by the sleep of Death. I have washed my feet, how shall I defile them? Cant. 5. 3. I'Ve washed my feet, even in the Blood O'th'Lamb of God; How shall I them again defile? I'll fly Sins Guile, Which draws to those foul Paths that lead Down to the Chambers of the Dead. No more I'll wallow in the Mire Of Fond Desire: I'll ever shun Uncleanness: I th'worlds Sp 〈…〉 defy: To show them th'Clean way (as 〈◊〉 meet) Gods Word's a Lamp unto my Feet. Oh let me walk (through holy Aw) LORD, in thy Law, That * Ps. 119. 1. undefiled still I may Be in the Way: Make me to go (led by thy word) I'th' Path * Ps. 119. 35. of thy Commandments Lord. Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth, and slew all the children etc. Mat. 2. 16. THrice happy Babes! weaned from the world so soon, They suck the breasts of consolation. They pass to Canaan through a crimson flood, They die for Christ, baptised in their own blood. O wrathful Herod! were thy storms so stout, To blow the Tapers of their lives quite out? Could nothing, but young (half milk) blood assuage The boisterous WILDFIRE of thy dismal rage? Fond man! (whom wrath beside himself hath hurled) Wouldst kill the Life, that's come to save the world. Most cruel Fox! that would have sucked the blood Of (sheep, and Shepherd too) the Lamb of God. Lament not, Rachel, Moans bring no relief: These brinish tears exasperate thy grief. Grudge not thy Children th' happiness to die; They could do nothing in this life, but cry. Their bitter cup they but a potion found, Which purged their souls of flesh, and made them sound. I'th'body, pierced by that Rabble-rout, There's made a breach to let the soul 'scape out. And so they went to their long home, this day, The soldiers showed them (missed themselves) the WAY. BACK-SLIDING: OR, A Spiritual Relapse. A wounded spirit who can bear? Prov. 18. 14. MY Heart bleeds: Wounded spirit! oh! 'Twas Sin gave me this deadly blow. Sin thus Revived I Die: for neither Can be content to Live together: We fight like two fierce Combatants, that meet To get a Trophy, or a Winding-sheet. But, must I Die indeed? and can The Sinner thus Destroy the Man? Self-Murtherer I am: O! I Have Slain myself, yet would not Die. Ah! I am Dead in Trespasses and Sin: The Worm already feeds on me within. Heale my back-slidings, LORD: O draw Me from the Roaring Lions Paw, That tears my Soul: O Jesus, give Me once more Will, and Power to Live. Cure but the wounded spirit that I bear, I'll fight th'Good Fight; be more than Conqueror. How can I do this great wickedness and sin against God? Gen. 39 9 HOld! hold! I will not do't: Shall I Turn Traitor to heavens Majesty? Shall I do this? Sin 'gainst my God? Such Folly will provoke his Rod. Dread, my soul, this Impiety, Startle into an Ecstasy: So may'st thou seem Thyself to Flee, Which is thy Greatest Enemy. O! shall I sin 'gainst God, whose Arm Protects me from Eternal Harm? How! sin 'gainst God, whose gracious Eyes Dispel my Clouds of Miseries? Without whose Countenance's Light, My Mirth is Anguish, Day is Night. I will not do't: but, Lord, do Thou Now make me Able not to Do. Homo Lapsus. She took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also to her husband with her, and he did eat. Gen. 3. 6. THe Universe at once th' Old Serpent Stung: A World of Mischief in a woman's Tongue. She Tempts her Husband: and her Noisome Breath Blasts Him, and His Posterity to Death. And he did Eat (by th' Counsel of a wife) Not to Sustain, but to Destroy His Life. But, ah! He Erred not thus alone: He Fell On Us so hard. He pressed Us down to Hell: Where we had stayed, but that th' Jesus of Men Went down Himself to fetch Us up again. His Mouth was made our Slaughter-House: and we, Being in His Loins, had there our Destiny: His Jaws Crush his own Happiness; and Ours: We Surfeit too at that which He Devours. Oh! we are Sick to Death; can't Eased be But by the Fruit, Born on a better Tree, Which is our Living Food: yea, (strange! yet true) '●is both our Physic, and Physician too. I said of Laughter, It is mad, and of mirth, What doth it! Eccl. 2. 2. THrice Cursed be Wanton Pleasure, Hell's Fine Daughter, That Tickles us into such Fits of Laughter! What is't on Earth can make us be so Jolly? Like Fools in grain, Laugh we at our own Folly? Solace, by Laughter, breaks forth to Excess, Outgoes its self, and turns to Heaviness. Laughter but the last Blaze of Mirth: Full-Blown Our Joys strait Fade: from greatest come to none. He Laugh no more for Mirth: but, if thou see Me Laugh, vain World, be sure I Laugh at Thee. FINIS. EPIGRAMS, etc. By E. E. Carpere vel noli nostra, vel ede tua. ENCOMIAST: To J. C. NO Verse, Grand Poet, can express Thy Praises, they are Numberless. Thy worth's so Weighty, 'tis not meet 'T should stand upon Poetic Feet, Which (hence they mount to such a Height) Like Poet's Heads, are always Light. But, sith I am thus thrown upon Thy Muse's Commendation; Blots (my Pen's lssue) I shall place, For some Black Patches, in Her Face. So may thy Phoebus' dart His Rays More Bright out of my Cloud of Praise. Thy Verse Runs in a Way so rare, That it must needs be Singular: Thy Muse so chaste thus seems alone To Bath herself in Helicon. That Offspring, which from Her we see, Was only sure begot of Thee: Mixture of Fancy she doth fly As if 'twere Wit's Adultery. Thy Lines have such a glittering Strain, ‛ Sthough Tagus had washed o'er thy Brain. Thy Sense doth with huge mysteries swell, As 'twere Apollo's Oracle. Our Judgement should dig deep to find The Hidden Treasure of thy Mind. Thy Wit (like Tersian Kings) we see, Keeps close in show of Majesty. Thy Fancy to such Height is Flown, No words can reach it but thine own: To show how much a Poet can do, Thou mak'st new Matter, and Words too: Thus in Arts most curious Schools, The Best workmen make their own Tools: Thus some Limners I could name, Who make both Picture, and its Frame. Each Verse of thine with Lustre streams, As though 'twere one of Phoebus' Beams. Who e'er dislikes thy Book, his sight Of Judgement's dazzled at its light. On a dull Poet, but good Logician. IF his Verse charactered may be, 'Tis Laurel' graft on P●r●h'ry●s tree: He dresses his Poor Poetry I'th' rags of Old Philosophy: As if indeed on Feet Poetic, he'd seem a true Peripatetic. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. On a Little Gentleman of Great Parts. DOes Nature act the Limner's part, Shaping less things with rarest Art? Or (like some Ladies) does she set Her best Gems ●'th ' less Cabinet? Great Volumes useless oft we see, He's Nature's acquaint Epitome: Or else he may deserve the name Of her wittiest Epigram. So small in Stature and in Age, Yet learned he seems Minerva's Page: No wonder then if she him dress In such abundant gaudiness. Short (like him) are my Verses Feet; O were they also (like him) sweet. To a falsehearted Poet. thou'rt double-tongued, and double-footed to boot; Thy false Verse savours of a Cloven foot. On a Gentlewoman of a Brown Complexion, but Handsome Features. WHilst Lovely Her Black Features prove, They seem like COALS ' o'th' Fire of Love. On a Gentleman who Died with Lord in his Mouth. WHen he had breathed out LORD! His Soul thought fit, As loath to leave't, to leap forth after it. On the Death of Leander. THe Saying proved too true, by his Distress, That FIRE and Water, are both Merciless. But, Cold Death did assuage his Hot Desire: The Fatal Water served to Quench His FIRE. To one that gets his Living by writing Satyrs. THou Feedest on thine own Brains, 'tis said: With thy wit's Tooth thou Eatest thy Bread. Nec Fonte labra prolui Caballino. MY Mouldy Brains I ne'er washed clean In the fond streams of HIPPOCRENE: To which some wisely have recourse To be made Poets: Gra ' mercy Horse. — Vino pellite Curas. HORACE, thou'rt out: Bacchus, thy Wits harsh Master, But lops thy Cares to make them grow the faster. Be Drunk at Evening, and thou'●t find o'th' Morrow, That too much Liquor pickles up thy Sorrow. Of Vulgar Critics. THeir Blindfold Censures out of Order Range; Their words are WIND indeed, as often Change: Sometimes they're Tempests too: but I Defy them; I'll ne'er be Puffed up, or be Blasted by them. To the Eye Adulterer. LEnd Eyes to Cupid: View thy Handsome Lasses: Drink Streams of Pleasure in those Crystal Glass. But yet consider that this Splendid show Can only light thee to the Shades below. On a Gentlewoman that would be married to none but a Rich man. THus her Example proves, that Ovid told, That Cupid's Arrow must be gilded with Gold. Lasciva est nobis Pagina, vita proba. To the Author. WRiting's a Poet's Life; then, sure, if thou Dost Write Lasciviously, thou Liv'st so too. To the same. THou studiest Mischief when thou writest it: Thy Bawdy Verse is but Adulterate Wit. To an Epigrammatist, that inveighs against Women. THe Muses, Man, are Female; may'st thou know it, A Foe to their Sex can't be a good Poet. On the perfect Conclusion of a fierce War. THose Thunderbolts of Mars, which lately fell, Were but a V●ll●y to bid War Farewell. To a Virtuous Gentlewoman, weeping for the Death of her Eldest Brother, my Bosom-Friend. ALas! sweet Lady! must you sup So deeply of this Bitter Cup? Your Brinish Tears increase the Smart O'th' Wounds of my Afflicted Heart. Your grief's Infectious, I believe: I'm Grieved afresh to see you Grieve. Double Grief my Thought endures, My Sighs, like Echoes, answer Yours. My Plaints are most; beside mine own, I've yours too by Reflection: I can't hear Moans for Him, but I Must be engaged to Sympathy. Lament not you; let me engross The Lamentation of this Loss. You've now a Second-self, but I Lost such a one when He did die: Nay, more than such did's Title Merit, You are One Flesh, we were One Spirit. How sadly then may I complain? Grief! Break my Heart, and Crack my Brain. To the same. YOur wet Eyes are (as I may say) Like Sunshine in a Rainy day. On the Tempestuous season of Wind and Rain, 1654. FOr th' Growth of our Iniquity, I fear, our Fields will Barren be: For Sin that hath ●a'n Root so deep, The Heavens sure thus Sigh, and Weep. Strong Drink. DRink's Strong indeed: with Stygian water Purled, Like Alexander, it o'ercomes the World. Charity. Where Charity takes Cold, the Country's Sick: That's th' Vital Heat o'th' Body Politic. — Stupet hic vitio—— Nescit quid perdat: & alto Demersus summa rursus non bullit in ●●dâ. Per. Sa. 3. HIs Soul's so Dark all o'er, He cannot see The Ugly Face of His Iniquity. Fallen so in love with Vice, He cannot Rise: For, Samson like, He'th lost both Strength & Eyes. His Dread- Cooled Heart's Benumbed: He's void of Sense His Burning Lust hath Scared His Conscience. An unquiet-bad Conscience. THe Worm of Conscience Feedeth on Our natural Corruption. Whiles Hell, and Death lodge in our Breast, Our Hearts may Sleep, but cannot Rest. Temptation. THe Devil only Tempts: but (wretched Elves) We oft turn Devils, and so Tempt ourselves. Pride. PRide's the Soul's Blister, scald by th' fire of Hell; Ill Humours only make the Mind to swell. The World ne'er saw one yet, did entertain Pride, Thought's Impostume, but in a Sick-brain. To a Lascivi●m P 〈…〉. FOr shame, for shame, leave off: for, as we're told, Cupid, and Phoebus have been 〈◊〉 of old. On Poetry. THe Muse's Sauce, my Study's Strong-meat: These Shall be my Play-mates, not my Mistresses. Of Partiality. men's Judgements often Err, that are too kind: They See not what they Say, for Love is Blind. The World's Fine Gentleman. HE makes a Dainty Leg, and Nod, thus He Is every Inch well-bred, even Cap-a-pe. To Unlearned Critics. WE don't estrange at your Grammatick War, We know Rough Judgements must be prone to Jar. To an Hireling Poet. Winged Riches Hatch thy Muses Young; and thus Thou mak'st an Hackney of thy Pegasus. To his Displeased Pater in Phoebo, Mr. F. M. YOu're not in earnest, sure: and thus 'Tis but Furor Poetic 〈…〉. Your Anger's Feigned, though't seem so Great, You're Incensed by Poetic Heat. Why man! I spoke but like a Poet: I said 'twas bad; I won't stand to it. Come, let's be Friends: and do not move Phoebus again to Quarrel with Love. How much I'm Grieved, Good Sir, pray think: My Muse for Mourning wears this Ink. On a NEWES-MONGER. FAr, and near all th' News He hears: Asses always have long Ears. To an Honourable Lady Rarely Accomplished with Wit, and Beauty. FAir Venus and Minerva show, That They're at length made Friends by you: you've given both Content: both prize The APPLES of your Glis'tring Eyes, Which t'each of them Assigned are: For, still you look both wise, and Fair. Your winged Soul at each Glance doth Fly Out of the Casement of your Eye; Whose Splendid Beams, like Phoebus' Rays, Create new Blossoms to my Bays. My Muse's weak Eye, gazing on This Dazzling Sight, Drops Helicon: But its Streams are at best too base, To wash your Ladyships Sweet Face; Which is set in such Symmetry, That, like the Soul, 't seems Harmony, Which, sith it comes not to our Ears, Is like the Music of the Spheres. Your Body is (all Symptoms show it) So Fine that your Clear Soul shines through it: 'Tis Quaintly ordered, as we find, By th' Lady Governnesse, your Mind. Both your Parts thus, as 'twere, Allone, Are like a Constellation. Your very Face (my Muse dares say) Is Parallel to th' Milky way. Your Wit and Beauty thus take Equal Place; Yourself make up these Twins; A MUSE and GRACE. On the fifth of November. THus rend the Bowels of the Earth! 'tis well; Dig deeper yet, and so dig down to Hell: Incarnate Fiend's! seek out the way, by th' Light Of your Dark Lantern, to Eternal Night. Think you with Royal Limbs to fill the Air, Because your Master's Lord and Sovereign there? Wretches! He cannot help you, but Grim Death Shall, in the Air, you struggle out of Breath. Thus of Advancement, which you hoped to see, The Fruit you'll have, but from a Gallow Tree. So may all Craft taught by th' Old Serpent fail, And Serpent like, still bear a sting i'th' Tail, To wound its Owners: so may Traitorous Elves, Find Death ●'th ' Pit, which they have Digged themselves. Kicking at us, the Ugly Beast at Rome Hath spurned his Whelps, & given them the Doom: Pushing He'th broke his Horns: thus oft 'tis known, The Stone 〈…〉 burst 'gainst that at which 'tis thrown. Now than that we are safe, and that our Land Hath cast the Vipers, which stuck to her hand, Into the Fire: Enslamed with Love let's bring Our Zeal-fir●d Hearts, as a Burnt off r●ng, To Great Jehovah, whose Foreseeing Eye Hath struck these Bas'lisks with Mortality. Let Quick-foot Verse Dance nimbly on the Rope, Of Hanged Traitors; and let's wish the Pope Swinged in our Bell-ropes, or Consumed 〈…〉 th' Flame O● this Night's Bonfire; so shall His dire Name Be Cursed in his own Fashion; we handle No other Curse but his, BELL BOOK and CANDLE. And now let's fill the Skies with shouts, that even Our Joys Rebound (from whence they came) to Heaven. To an Handsome Gentlewoman on this part of her Anagram: EACH BEAUTY SHOOTS. EACH BEAUTY that your Features show, SHOOTS at some Mark with Cupid's Bow. Your Beauties pierce through, and melt Hearts, As though they were Love's Fiery Darts. Each Beauty Shoots; your Beauteous Eyes Shed Rays, like Stars shot through the Skies. To the same. YOur Forehead's Semicircled so, The young God takes it for His Bow. Swearing and Cursing. FOnd Oaths, backed on with Curses, are the fell Oaths of Allegiance to the Prince of Hell. Such Boisterous Breath ' its owner's Soul will shake, And Blow the Fire of the Infernal Lake. Melancholy. 'TIs Pia Mater in Discoloured Weeds: A Chequered Plate form of Fantastic Deeds: The Brain-Filme wrought into a Dismal Shroud: The Sun o'th' Little World in a thick Cloud: Swift Thought turned Fairy: Wild wit gone astray: A Fancy, that i'th' Dark hath lost its way. To Mr. F. M. YOur Strong-winged Fancy, mounting with such Grace, Is Eagle-eyed, looks Phoebus in the Face: He is the Parent of your High born Strain; His best Blood runs in your Poetic veyn, To One marrying for Love, not Money. THou dost as all men ought to do: Heartstrings are best for Cupid's Bow. Thanks To a Virtuous Gentlewoman, who gave him a Dish of Sweet Meats. WHat Modest Favour's This forsooth? T'avoid my Thanks it stops my Mouth. My Tongue's confined to ●ast o'th' Meat: I'm forced, as 'twere, my Words to EAT. Your Ears thus ●scape my Thanks, but I Present them here unto your Eye: They come at last clad all in Black, As Mourning that they come so slack. So High my Grateful Thoughts do Swell, I like the Dish so hugely well; I Fancy you're a Goddess, and dare say, Your Sweetmeat is Divine- Ambrosia. To his Honoured Friend, W. W. Esq. Sigh that I can't at full set forth My great Love, and Thy greater Worth; My Pen, its hard Task hath forsaken: I'll say't By Heart, and not By Book. To Mrs. M. S. in her Childbed Dress. IN Childbed look so Fine! thus (all confess) Phoebus looks Fairest in His Morning Dress, Come newly out of Bed: my bold Muse says, Your Sparkling Glances do out vie His Rays. My Fancy, like the Lark 〈◊〉 Fowler's GLASS, Plays in the MIRROIR of your lovely Face: With wonder Caught, she's at a Non plus Set; And thinks herself with VENUS in the NET. To the same, newly Married, on her Anagram: SO! YOV'RE MATCHED. SO! YOU'RE (well MATCHED: & I dare say, Love Saw upon your Marriage-Day. Fit Marriage is a Match, thus) you May see the Anagram is True, You're Fitly Married sure (say I) Fore-joyned by Consanguinity: So you this Paradox make good: Two may become One Flesh, and Blood. Mars Togatus: Or, Fight in the Schools. Fool! What! dost strive with might, and main, For a Broke Pate to a Cracked Brain? Thy Brains leak out already, man; And wouldst for Anger Break the Pan? Thy Head swollen in this boyish Fight, By Rising, shows that it is Light. Thy Black Eyes, by such Marks, as these, Wear Mourning for thy wit's Decease. Such Apish Brawls who'd not despise, Whose Fume had not put out his Eyes. Throughout the Schools such Hissing are, ‛ Sthough all the Furies Snakes were there. Grave Zabarells, and Aristotle's (Whose Thirsts ne'er reach beyond Beer-Bottles) Come fiercely on (who'd not decline 〈◊〉?) With Argumentum Bacillinum Young Preachers too stare, stamp, and Hum, As if they'd Kill both all, and some: Who ●●e but saw their Fifty pushing, Would swear they learned to Beat the Cushion. Mad Poets too come Vapouring here, ‛ Sthough Helicon were Bottle Beer. Each all his Faculties combines T 〈…〉 show his Arm as Strong's his Lines. Had but ●i●stes seen these men, He'd Startled into● wit again: Here seeing's Emblem, wretched Else, Act●on-like He d fled H mselfe. Go, Sirs, you are Fools Rampant: and (To which even Mad men set their Hand) The WORM, that gnaws your Pates was Bred By some Snake on Medusa's Head. Hac Ignis: Sive Lues Venerea. BEware, Fond Lads, of a shrewd turn: Loves Flames at last will surely Burn Another. Damned Venus! whose Embrace is Pimp to Slaughter; Thou burnest men's Bodies here, their Souls hereafter. Lust. WHen Satan shoots such Fiery Darts, to Fl● Is th'only way to get the Victory. Lust, like a Baited Engine, ne'er annoys, If Passed by; but being Touched, destroys. To the Reader. I fear no Carping: Reader spare not: What e'er thy Judgement be, I care not. Young Muses (like Young Men) I hold, For want of Wit should be more Bold. To Mr. E. F. The only Son of Sir E. F. Knight. SO much of Virtue's Light appears In (Ages Dawn) your tender Years: We hope you'll ever show yourself to be True Heir of your Illustrious Family. Plain Verse. MY Verse is Plain: I'd have it so: why not? My Pegasus shall Amble still, not Trot. To M A. S. on the Death of her Two first Children. YOur Fair Cheeks with Tears sprinkled show Like Roses Pearled o'er with Dew. But be not so Discomforted: Your Babes Departed are not Dead. To keep them from all casual Harms, Their Saviour takes them in His Arms. These Olive-Branches, by His care, In Paradise Transplanted are. So they become, by their Decease, A Garland to the Prince of Peace. Allusion. 'tIs Janus wit: th' Two Splits of a learned Quill Th' best Emblem of Two-topped Parnassus Hill. To that Pretty Piece of Perfection M L. C. Nature's Fine Thing! Best Show that e'er Came on the World's The-tre! My Young Muse takes you out to Hay, And vows she'll ha' you Queen of May. But oh, she cannot Deck you more Then Natureed self has done before: Whatever of you she can say Is but to give Light to the Day. Had sweet Ad●nis but you seen, How he'd have scorned the Cyprian Queen! I'd almost thought the Fiction true, That Gods Beget, when I saw you. Your Eyes, your Cheeks, are all so Fine, I'd think 'em, but they're Flesh Divine. Yet this is but your Beauty's Spring, What Plenty will the Harvest bring When you are Ripe, in Years? sure than Love will begin to love again. For you Blind Cupid need not shoot: Your Glances, Darts o'th' Eyes, will do't. A Garland Hymen need not seek: He may have't in your Rosy Cheek: When e'er He shall join Male to you, May no Division make you Two: In Virtue, and true Amity Shine, as Bright's the GEMINI. So may you be, before all other, In Goodness Great; even like your Mother. To Mrs. K. G. having been lately sick of the Small Pox. 'tWere Blasphemy 'gainst th' God of Love to say, Aught can Deform you, till you're turned to Clay. Spots by your Eyes are Brightened: each Pock hole Shows (at a Distance) but like Venus' Mole: Th'Rose spreading o'er your Cheeks my Fancy spies; The lovely L●lly in your Sickness Dies. Your welfare will Reviveed: your Eyes once open, Their Radiant Beams turned to an Heli●trope. You only look, come newly out of Bed, Like Fair Aurora, at Her Rising, Red. Always to Shine no Beauties are allo ved: The Sun itself sometimes endures a Cloud. I've spent my present Stock of Poet's Wealth, In Aganippe thus to Drink your Health. A Love sick Gentleman to a Fair Lady scorning him. G. ALas! Love's Darts wound me to Death! Not t'hear me speaks to stop my Breath! L. I'd give thee leave to show thy Art, But thy Sharp Wit would Pierce my Heart. G. No Subtle wit leads on my love: I'm Innocent as Venus' Dove. L. Why! hath fond Grief now made thee Stupid, Are thy thoughts Blind, to be like Cupid? G. Yes; My sharp Wit so Blunt is grown, By working on your Heart of Stone. L. Out of this Stone (cease thy Desire) Thy Love strikes not one Spark of Fire. G. Have mercy Goddess! Hold! O hold! Without your Fire my Heart grows Cold. L. Fie, fie! art not ashamed to Faint? G. I Fall but to Adore my Saint. L. Farewell: I can't persuaded be: Bid thy vain Love Depart with me. G. Ah! Life, * Z●d, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. and Soul she is to me: Her absence is my Ecstasy. Why should I keep my Fruitless Breath? My panting Heart Beats me to Death. Love's Warriors Die, or Overcome: Sith She is Deaf, I will be Dumb. To a Fantastic Vagabond, Professor of Satirical ●●t ●'octrie. Wild Colt of PE●ASVS! what wouldst thou do? Are th' Muse's Priests Itinerary too? Thou art no Poet, man, thy false High strain Is but the Bubbling of a Frothy Brain. No Masculine Strength lies in a Drunken Line: A Tavern Flash is but a Spark o th'▪ Wine. A mounting Vapour, a Fantastic Fit. The Off scouring, the Excrement of wit. Thy best Jests are but Old: for all thy Brags, Thou rt but a Swaggerer in Scarlet Rags. Thy Magpie Muse delights to Scold, not Sing: Thy Crawling Fancy has a Vermins Sting. Thy Aged Whimsies, like old Wizards, lower; And thy Stale Wit (even like Stale Beer) grows sour: Judicious men Disgust it; they disdain Th' Vnsav'ry Outlets of thy Addle Brain: Our haughty Muse scorns such poor Prey: The Carr●on Stinks: she flurts away. Fame. Who would not shun the People's Breath? we find 'Tis but a Wind; Which still has puffed up th' Owner, or else blown The Dangerous Fires of Emulation. To his Book. COme on, my Book, no Page of thine Shall Beat men's Brains with a strong line: thou'rt Plain (no Phrase- Crags in thee placed) Apollo's Temples Paved, not Caused. 'Tis true; thou art no Gallant, Fine, Clad with Silk W●rds, and full of Wine: But yet, I doubt not, some confess, thou'rt Comely, though in a Plain Dress. Our Eagle-Muse her Young ones Tries By none, but true Phoebaan Eyes. But if some Minor Critic Carp, With satire Wit would Fight at Sharps; His Heavy Censures I'll despise: Pressed by Lead▪ Wits my Palm shall Rise. FINIS.