POEMS AND SONGS.  
BY Thomas Flatman.  
LONDON, Printed by S. and B. G. for Benjamin Took at the Ship in St. Paul's Churchyard, and jonathan Edwin at the three Roses in Ludgate Street, 1674.   

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER.  
BY long Prescription time out of mind, the next Leaf to the Title Page claims an EPISTLE to the READER; I had the Project once in my own thoughts too: But the Market is so ahominably forestalled already with all manner of excuses for Printing, that I could not possibly contrive one, that would look any thing New: And besides I never found, amongst all the EPISTLES that I have read, that the best Rhetoric in 'em could persuade me to have a better opinion of the Books for Their sakes: I am apt to believe the rest of Mankind much of my humour in this particular, and therefore do here expose these few Results of my many Idle hours, to the mercy of the wide World, quite guiltless of Address or Ceremony. And that Reader, who will not believe I had some tolerable Reason for This Publication, cannot give me much disturbance, because I'm sure he is not at all acquainted with  
T. F. April 10▪ 1674.   

TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN on the publishing of his Poems.  

I.  
I think, thou art not well advised my Friend,  
To bring thy spriteley Poems on the stage,  
Now, when the Muse's Empire's at an end,  
And there's none left that feel Poetic rage,  
Now Cowley's dead, the glory of the age,  
And all the lesser singing birds are starved i'th' cage.   

TWO  
Nor was it well done, to permit my Bush  
Nigh Holly Bush, to hang before thy Wine  
For friends Applauses are not worth a Rush,  
And every fool can get a gilded sign.  
In troth, I have no faculty at praise,  
My Bush is very full of thorns, though it seems Bays.   

III.  
When I would praise, I cannot find a Rhyme,  
But if I have a just pretence to rail,  
They come in numerous throngs at any time,  
Their Everlasting fountains never fail,  
They come in troops and for employment pray,  
If I have any wit, it lies only that way.   

iv  
But yet I'll try, if thou wilt rid thy mind  
Of thoughts of Rhyming, and of writing well,  
And bend thy studies to another kind,  
I mean in Craft and Riches to excel,  
If thou desert thy friends and better wine,  
And payest no more attendance on the needy Nine.   

V  
Go and renounce thy Wit and thy good parts,  
Wit and good parts great Enemies to wealth,  
And barter Honesty for more thriving Arts,  
Prise Gold, before a good name, ease, and health.  
Answer the Dog and Bottle, and maintain  
There's great Ease in a yoke, and freedom in a chain.   

VI  
I'll love thee now when this is done, I'll try  
To sing thy praise, and force my honest Muse to lie.   
WALTER POPE.   

ON THE EXCELLENT POEMS OF MY Most Worthy Friend Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN.  
YOu happy Issue of a happy wit,  
As ever yet in charming numbers writ,  
Welcome into the Light, and may we be  
Worthy so happy a Posterity:  
We long have wished for something excellent;  
But ne'er till now knew rightly what it meant:  
For though we have been gratified 'tis true,  
From Several hands with things both fine and new,  
The Wits must pardon me if I profess,  
That till this time the over-teeming press  
ne'er set out Poesy in so true a dress:  
Nor is it all, to have a share of wit,  
There must be judgement too to manage it;  
For Fancy's like a rough, but ready Horse,  
Whose mouth is governed more by skill than force;  
Wherein (my Friend) you do a mastery own,  
If not particular to you alone;  
Yet such at least as to all eyes declares  
Your Pegasus the best performs his Airs.  
Your Muse can humour all her subjects so,  
That as we read we do both feel and know;  
And the most firm impenetrable breast  
With the same passion that you writ's possessed  
Your line are Rules, which who shall well observe  
Shall even in their errors praise deserve:  
The boiling youth, whose blood is all on fire,  
Pushed on by Vanity, and hot desire,  
May learn such conduct here, men may approve  
And not excuse, but even applaud his love.  
Ovid who made an ART of what to all,  
Is in itself but too too natural,  
Had he but read your verse, might there have seen  
The stile of which his Precepts should have been  
And (which it seems he knew not) learned from thence.  
To reconcile frailty with Innocence.  
The Love you writ, Virgins and Boys may read  
And never be debauched but better bred,  
For without love Beauty would bear no price,  
And dulness than desire's a greater vice,  
Your greater subjects with such force are writ  
So full of sinewy strength, as well as wit,  
That when you are Religious, our Divines  
May emulate, but not reprove your lines.  
And when you reason, there the learned Crew  
May learn to speculate and speak from you.  
You not profane, no obscene language use  
To smut your paper or defile your Muse,  
Your gayest things, as well expressed, as meant  
Are equally both Quaint, and Innocent.  
But your Pindaric Odes indeed are such,  
That Pindar's Lyre from his own skilful touch  
ne'er yielded such an Harmony nor yet  
Verse keep such time on so unequal feet  
●o by his own generous confession  
Great Tasso by Guarini was out done  
And (which in Coppying seldom does befall)  
The Ectype's better than th' Original.  
But whilst your Fame I labour to send forth,  
By the ill doing it I cloud your worth,  
In something all mankind unhappy are  
And you as mortal too must have your share  
'Tis your misfortune to have found a friend,  
Who hurts & injures where he would commend:  
But let this be your comfort, that your Bays  
Shall flourish green, ma●ger an ill couched Praise.  
CHARLES COTTON.   

TO MY FRIEND Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN upon the publication of his POEMS.  

I.  
AS when a Prince his Standard does erect,  
And calls his Subjects to the Field:  
From such as Early take his side,  
And readily obedience yield;  
He is instructed where he may suspect;  
And where he safely may confide:  
So Mighty Friend!  
That you may see.  
A perfect Evidence of Loyalty;  
No business I pretend,  
Myself I disengage  
From all the Encumbrances of humane life  
From nourishing the sinful people's strife,  
And all th'infirmities of age.   

II.  
Domestic care, the minds incurable disease,  
That (till the last Emperiment) expects no ease,  
Dependence to the only thing  
That next to God, and (his Anointed here) the ● King)  
I will (if possible) forget;  
My thoughts I will in order set;  
My fast Allegiance I am bound to show;  
And (though I cannot quite dissolve the debt)  
I must acknowledge what I ow.   

III.  
But what alas! will our desire avail,  
When active strength and vigour fail?  
'Tis well thou hast more Potent Combatants, than I  
That may protect thy Imortality.  
If Envy that Attaqu'es' the best of things  
And into Rigid question brings  
The most undoubted Registers of Fame;  
If Envy shall assault thy white & spotless name,  
Their whole Artillery let them dispense:  
Their Peirceing wit and murdering Eloquence,  
Noble conceit and Manly Sense,  
Charming Numbers let then shine,  
And dazzle dead in every line  
The most malicious of thy Foes.  
Though Hell itself should offer to oppose,  
I (thy decrepit Subject) only can Resign  
The little life of Art is left, to Ransom thine:  
If a Dart I may prevent,  
Which at thy repute was meant;  
Let them all direct at me.  
By dying in this Holy War,  
I possibly may share,  
By accident in thy Infallible Eternity.   

iv  
But Mighty Friend!  
(Before it be too late)  
Let us a while expostulate.  
What Heat of Glory called thee on  
Thy learned Empire to extend,  
Beyond the limits of thy Vast Dominion?  
At home already thou wert crowned with Ba●es:  
Why dost thou foreign Trophies seek to raise.  
Poet's Arcana's have of Government.  
And though the Homagers of thine own Continent,  
Out of a Sense of duty do submit,  
Yet Printing (Sir) a jealous fear creates,  
And shows a laid design  
Unto the Neighbouring Potentates  
Then into all thy secret Arts they pry?  
And weigh each Circumstance of poli●y;  
Offensive and Defensive Leagues they twine,  
In Counsels and Cabals they sit  
Industriously they all Combine  
Against the universal Monarchy of wit,   

V.  
Hence then prepare for an Invasion:  
Not from any European civilised Nation.  
They differ only circumstantially,  
Concerning niceties in Poesy;  
And all allow thy Art, Order, and Rules of Decency,  
We all agree in principles, ne'er was yet  
A perfect Beauty or un●erring Wit.   

VI  
Ah Friend! I fear the Barbarous,  
(The Infidel unlettered Crew ● mean)  
That of no wit approve, but what's profane or else obscene▪  
These by far out number us,  
And by Hostility possess  
The Worlds much greater part,  
Like Mahumetans themselves, they openly profess  
The Common Enemies of our Belief and Art,  
If these should an advantage take!  
And on thy Glory depredation make,  
You must submit to the Unhappiness,  
The Vulgar, measure Arts (like Valour) by success,  
If the Battle be not won  
If the Author do not sell;  
Into their dull capacities it will not Sink,  
They cannot with deliberation think:  
How bravely the Commander led them on,  
Nor wherein the Books was written well:  
(When 'tis a thing impossible to do,)  
He cannot find his Army courage (Sir) nor you  
Your Reader●s Learning, Wit, and judgement too.    

TO HIS ESTEEMED FRIEND Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN upon the publishing of his POEMS.  
YOur Poems (Friend) come on the public Stage  
In a Debauched, and a Censorious Age;  
Where nothing now is counted Standard Wit,  
But what's Profane, Obscene, or 's Bad as it.  
For our great Wits, like Gallants of the Times,  
(And such they are) Court only those Lose Rhimes,  
Which like their Misses Patched and Painted are;  
But scorn what Virtuous is, and truly Fair  
Such as your Muse is, who with Careful Art  
For all but such, hath wisely framed a Part.  
One while (methinks) Under some Gloomy Shade  
I see the Melancholy Lover Laid,  
Pleasing himself in that his Pensive Fit  
With what you have on such Occasion writ.  
Another while (me thinks) I seem to Hear  
Amongst those, who sometimes will unbend their Care.  
And steal themselves out from the busy Throng  
Your pleasant Songs in solemn Consort Sung.  
Again (me thinks) I see the grave Divine  
Lay by his other Books, to Look on thine,  
And from thy serious and Divine Review  
See what our duty is, and his own too.  
Yet worthy Friend you can't but Guess what doom  
Is like to pass on what you've writ by some  
But there are others, now your Book Comes forth,  
Who (I am Sure) will prise it as 'tis worth,  
Who know it fully fraught with Staple ware,  
Such as the works of the brave Cow are,  
And amongst our rarest English Poems, Thine  
Next unto His, immortally shall shine,  
RIC. NEWCOURT.   

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN upon the publishing of his POEMS.  
RUde, and unpolisht as my lines can be,  
I must start forth into the world with Thee.  
That which, yet Private, did my wonder raise,  
Now 'tis made Publiqu ' challenge's my praise:  
Such Miracles thy Charming Verse can do,  
Where 'ere it goes, It draw's me with it too.  
This is a kind of Birthday to thy Muse!  
Transported with delight I cannot choose  
But bid Her Welcome to the Light, and tell,  
How much I value what is writ so well;  
Tho' Thou reap'st no advantage by my Rhyme,  
More than a Taper helps the Day to shine.  
Thus in dull Pomp does th' Empty Coach attend  
To pay respect to some departed friend!  
The difference of Regard in this does lie,  
That Honour's Dust, Mine That which cannot Die:  
For what can blast the labours of thy Pen  
While wit, and virtue are allowed by men?  
Thou entertein'st the world with such a feast,  
So cleanly and so elegantly dre'st,  
So stored with laudable varieties  
As may a modest Appetite suffice;  
Who ever is thy Guest is sure to find  
Something or other that may please his mind:  
Sometimes in Pious Flame thy Muse aspire●s  
Her bosom warmed with supernatural fires;  
In noble flights with Pindar, soar's above;  
Dallie's sometime with not-indecent Love,  
Thence down into the Grave does humbly creep,  
And renders Death desirable as Sleep.  
The Debuonair, the Melancholy Heer  
Find matter for their mirth, ease for their Care▪  
Easie thy Verse, Clean thy Conceptions are,  
Neither too proud, Nor too familiar.  
Since such Provision's made for all that come.  
He must be squeamish that goes Empty home;  
If These Refections cannot do him good,  
'Tis 'cause his stomach's Vicious, not the Food.  
FRANCIS KNOLLYS.   

TO MY DEAR FRIEND Mr. THOMAS FLATMAN upon the publication of his POEMS. PINDARIQVE ODE.  

I.  
WIthin the haunted thicket, where  
The feathered Choristers are met to play;  
And celebrate with voices clear,  
And accent sweets, the praise of May:  
The Ousel, Thrush, and speckled Lark,  
And Philomela, that loves the dawn and dark:  
These (the inspired throng)  
In numbers smooth, and strong  
Adorn their noble Theme with an immortal Song,  
While, woods, and vaults, the brook and neighbouring hill,  
Repeat the varied close, and the melodious Trill.   

II.  
Here feast your ears, but let your eye,  
Wander, and see one of the lesser fry;  
Under a leaf, or on a danceing twig,  
Ruffle his painted feathers, and look big,  
Pirk up his tail, and hop between,  
The boughs; by moving, only to be seen,  
Perhaps his troubled breast he prunes  
As he doth meditate on his tunes:  
At last (composed) his little head he rears,  
Towards (what he strives to imitate,) the Spheres;  
And chirping then gins his best,  
Falls on to Pipe among the rest;  
Deeming that all's not worth a rush,  
Without his whistle from the bush.   

III.  
Th' harmonious sound did reach my ear,  
That echoed Thy clear name,  
Which all must know, who e'er did hear,  
Of Cowley or Orinda's fame:  
I heard the Genius, with surprising grace,  
Would visit us with his fair off spring, gay  
As is the morning Spring in May;  
But fairer much and of immortal race:   

IU.  
Delighted greatly, as I listening stood,  
The sound came from each corner of the wood;  
It both the shrubs, and Cedars shaked,  
And my drowsy Muse awaked;  
Strange, that the sound should be so shrill,  
That had its passage through a Quill.  
Then I resolved Thy praises to rehearse,  
The wonders of Thy Pen, among the Crowd  
Of thy learned Friends that sing so loud:  
But 'twas not to be sung, or reached in verse.  
For all that Lying Greece and Latium too  
Have told us of, Thou (only Thou) makest true.  
And all the Miracles which they could show,  
Remain no longer Faith; but Science now,  
Thou dost those things that noman else durst do,  
Thou Paint'st the lightning and the Thunder too!  
The Soul and Voice!  
Thou'lt make Turks, jews, with Romanist consent,  
To Break the Second great Commandments:  
And them persuade an Adoration giv●n  
In Picture, will as Grateful be to Heaven  
As one in Metre. Th' Art is in Excess;  
But yet thy ingenuity makes it less▪  
With Pen and Pencil thou dost all out shine  
In Speaking Picture, Poesy Divine.  
Poets, Creators are! You make us Know  
Those are Above, and Dread those are Below;  
But 'tis no Wonder you such things can Dare  
That Painter, Poet, and A Prophet are.  
The Stars themselves, think it no Scorn to be  
Placed, and Directed in their Way by Thee.  
Thou Know'st their Virtue, and th●ir Situation,  
The Fa●e of Yea●s, and every great Mutation,  
With the same Kindness let them look on Earth;  
As when they gave thee first thy Happy Birth!  
The sober Saturn Aspects, Cynthia bright,  
Resigning Hers, to give us thy New Light▪  
The Gentle Venus' Rose with Mercury,  
(Presage of Softness in thy Poesy)  
And jove, and Mars in Amicable Trine  
Do still give Spirit to thy Polished Line.  
Thou mayst do what thou wilt without control:  
Only thyself and Heaven can Paint thy Soul.   
FRANC. BERNARD.   

THE CONTENTS.  

TO the memory of the incomparable Orinda Pindaric Ode. Page. 1  
The Review. to Dr. W. S. Pindaric Ode. 7  
To my worthy friend Mr. Sam. Woodford on his excellent version of the Psalms. Pindaric Ode. 18  
On the Death of the truly valiant George Duke of Albemarle. Pindaric Ode. 2●  
The Retirement. Pindaric Ode made in the time of the great sickness 1665. 31  
Translated out of a Part of Petronious Arbiter's Satyricon. 35  
A Thought of Death. 41  
The Desperate Lover. 42  
Psalm 39, verses 4. th'. and 5. th'. 45  
The Fatigue, a Song. 46  
Hymn for the Morning. 47  
Anthem for the Evening 48  
Death. a Song. 49  
The Happy Man. 50  
An Elegy on the Earl of Sandwich. 52  
An Epitaph on the Earl of Sandwich. 53  
On Mr. Johnson's several shipwrecks. 54  
The Resolve. 56  
Pastoral. 58  
Love's Bravo, Song. 62  
The Batchelor's Song. 63  
The Batchelor's Song, Second part. 64  
Advice to an old man of 63 about to Marry a Girl of 16. Song. 65  
The Expectation. Song. 66  
Coridon converted, Song. 67  
The Humourist, Song. 69  
The 'Slight. Song. 70  
The Penitent, Song. 71  
The Defiance, Song. 72  
The Surrender, Song. 74  
F●deing Beauty, Song. 75  
The Whim, Song. 76  
A Dialogue, Cloris and Parthenissa. 77  
The Renegado, Song. 79  
Phillis withdrawn. 80  
Weeping at parting, Song. 82  
the Malcontent, Song 84  
The Indifferent, Song. 85  
The Harbour, Song. 86  
The Vnconcerned, Song. 87  
To Mr. Sam. Austin of Wadham Col. Oxon on his most unintelligible Poems. 88  
To my Ingenious Friend Mr. William Faithorn on his Book of Drawing, Etching and Graving. 90  
An Explanation of an Emblem engraven by U. H. 92  
For Thoughts. 93  
Against Thoughts. 98  
Doomsday Thought. 103  
Virtus Sola manet, caetera Mortis erunt. 107  
Translated. 109  
The Immovable. 111  
The Wish. 113  
The Cordial made in the year 1657. 115  
Celadon on Delia singing. 117  
A Character of a Belly God Catius & Horace. 118  
The Advice. 127  
Psalm the 15 paraphrased 128  
job. 132  
A Dialogue Orpheus and Eurydice. ●33  
Nudus Redibo. 135  
On the Commentaries of Messire Blaire de Montluc, To the worthy Translator Charles Cotton Esque 136  
The Disappointment. Pindaric Ode 138    

POEMS.  
To the memory of the incomparable ORINDA.  
Pindaric Ode.  

Stanza I.  
A Long Adieu to all that's bright,  
Noble or brave in womankind;  
To all the wonders of their wit,  
And Trophies of their mind▪  
The glowing heat of th'holy fire is gone:  
To th'Altar, whence 'twas kindled, flown;  
There's nought on earth, but ashes left behind:  
E'er since the amazing sound was spread  
Orinda's dead,  
Every soft and fragrant word,  
All that language could afford;  
Every high and lofty thing  
That's wont to set the Soul on wing,  
No longer with this worthless world would stay:  
Thus, when the death of the great Pan was told,  
A long the shore the dismal tidings rolled;  
The lesser Gods their Fanes forsaken,  
Confounded with the mighty stroke,  
They could not over live that fatal day,  
But sighed & groaned their gasping Oracles away.   

II.  
How rigid are the Laws of Fate!  
And how severe that black decree!  
No sublunary thing is free,  
But all must enter th' Adamantine Gate:  
Sooner, or later must we come  
To Nature's dark retiring Room:  
And yet 'tis pity, Is it not?  
The Learned, as the Fool should die,  
One, full as low, as t'other high;  
Together blended in the general lot!  
Distinguished only from the common Crowd  
By an hinged Coffin or a Holland Shro●d,  
Tho Fame and Honour speak them ne'er so loud.  
Alas Orinda! even Thou!  
Whose happy Verse made others live,  
And certain Immortality could give,  
Blasted are all thy blooming glories now  
The Laurel withers o'er the brow▪  
Methinks it should disturb Thee to conceive  
That when poor I, this artless breath resign,  
My dust should have as much of Poetry as thine!   

III.  
Too soon we languish with desire,  
Of what we never could enough admire.  
On th'billows of this world sometimes we rise,  
So dangerously high,  
We are to Heaven too nigh:  
When all in rage,  
(Grown hoary with one minute's age,)  
The very selfsame fickle wave,  
Which the entrancing Prospect gave  
Swollen to a Mountain sinks into a Grave.  
Too happy Mortals if the powers above,  
As merciful would be,  
And easy to preserve the thing we love,  
As in the giving they are free!  
But they too oft delude our wearied eyes,  
They fix a flaming sword 'twixt us and Paradise!  
A weeping evening blur's a smiling day,  
Yet why should heads of gold have feet of Clay?  
Why should the man that waved th' Almighty wand,  
That led the murmuring Crowd  
By Pillar and by Cloud,  
shivering a top of A●ry Pisgab stand  
Only to see, but never, never tread the Promised Land   

IU.  
Throw your swords and gauntlets by  
You daring Sons of War!  
You cannot purchase ere you die  
One honourable scar,  
Since that fair hand that guilded all your Bays;  
That in Heroic numbers wrote your praise,  
That you might safely sleep in Honour's bed,  
Itself alas is withered, cold, and dead,  
Cold and dead are all those charms  
That burnished your victorious arms;  
Those useless things hereafter must  
Blush first in blood, and then in rust?  
No oil, but that of her smooth words can serve,  
Weapon and Warrior to preserve.  
Expect no more from this Dull Age  
But folly, or Poëtick rage,  
Short-lived nothings of the stage,  
Vented to day, and cried tomorrow down;  
With her the soul of Poesy is gone,  
Gone, while our expectations flew  
As high a pitch, as she has done,  
Exhaled to Heaven like early dew,  
Betimes the little shining drops are flown.  
ere th'drowsy world perceived that Manna was come down.   

V  
You of the Sex that would be fair,  
Exceeding lovely, hither come,  
Would you be pure as Angels are,  
Come dress you by Orinda's Tomb,  
And leave your flattering glass at home,  
Within that marble Mirror see,  
How one day such as she  
You must, and yet alas! can never be!  
Think on the heights of that vast Soul,  
And then admire, and then condole,  
Think on the wonders of her generous Pen,  
IT was she made Pompey truly Great;  
Neither the purchase of his sweat  
Nor yet Cornelia's kindness made him live again  
With envy think, when to the grave you go,  
How very little must be said of you,  
Since all that can be said of virtuous Woman was her due.    

The Review.  
Pindaric Ode to Dr. W. S.  

Stanza I.  
WHen first I stepped into th'alluring Maze  
To tread the world's mysterious ways,  
Alas! I had nor guide nor clue,  
No Ariadne lent her hand,  
Not one of virtue's Guards did bid me stand,  
Or asked me what I meant to do,  
Or whither I would go:  
This labyrinth so pleasant did appear,  
I lost myself with much content,  
Infinite hazards underwent,  
Out straggled Homer's cra●ty Wanderer,  
And ten years more than he, in fruitless Travels spent;  
The one half of my Life is gone,  
The shadow the Meridian past;  
Death's dismal even drawing on,  
Which will with damps and mists be overcast,  
An Evening, that will surely come,  
'tis time, high time to give myself the welcome home.   

II.  
Had I but hearty believed,  
That all the Royal Preacher said, was true,  
When first I entered on the Stage,  
And vanity so hotly did pursue;  
Convinced by his experience, not my age:  
I had myself long since retrieved,  
I should have let the Curtain down,  
Before the fools part had begun:  
But I throughout the tedious play have been  
Concerned in every busy Scene;  
Too too inquisitive I tried  
Now this, anon another Face,  
And then a third, more odd, took place,  
Was every thing, but what I was,  
Such was my Protean folly, such my pride  
Befooled through all the Tragicomedy,  
Where others met with hissing to expect a Plaudite.   

III.  
I had a mind the Pastoral to prove,  
Searching for happiness in Love,  
And finding Venus painted with a Dove,  
A little naked Boy hard by,  
The Dove, which has no gall,  
The Boy no dangerous arms at all;  
They do thee wrong (great Love) said I,  
Much wrong, great Love!— scarce had I spoke  
‛ E'er into my unwary bosom came  
An inextinguishable flame:  
From fair Amira's eyes the lightning broke,  
That left me, more than Thunderstroke;  
She carries tempest in that lovely name:  
Love's mighty, and tumultuous pain  
Disorders Nature like an Hurricane.  
Yet could'nt I believe such storms could be,  
When I launched forth to Sea;  
Promised myself a calm, and easy way,  
Though I had seen before,  
Piteous ruins on the shore,  
And on the naked beach Leander breathless lay.   

iv  
To extricate myself from Love  
Which I could ill obey, but worse command,  
I took my Pencils in my hand,  
With that Artillery for Conquest strove,  
Like wise Pygmalion then did I  
Myself design my Deity;  
Made my own Saint, made my own Shrine:  
If she did frown, one dash could make her smile,  
All bicker one easy stroke could reconcile,  
Plato feigned no Idea so divine:  
Thus did I quiet many a froward day,  
While in my eyes my Soul did play,  
Thus did the time, and thus myself beguile;  
Till on a day, but then I knew not why,  
A tear fallen from my ●y,  
Washed out my Saint, my Shrine, my Deity:  
Prophetic chance; the lines are gone,  
And I must mourn o'er what I doted on:  
I find even Giotto's Circle has not all perfection.   

V  
To Poetry I then inclined;  
Verse that emancipates the mind,  
Verse that unbends the Soul;  
That Amulet of sickly fame,  
Verse that from wind articulate's Name;  
Verse for both fortunes fit, to smile & to condole.  
‛ Ere I had long the trial made,  
A serious thought made me afraid:  
For I had heard Parnassus sacred Hill,  
Was so prodigiously high,  
‛ Its barren up so near the Sky;  
The Aether there  
So very pure, so subtle, and so rare,  
'Twould a Camaeleon kill  
The beast that is all lungs, and feeds on air:  
Poets the higher up that Hill they go,  
Like Pilgrims, share the less of what's below:  
Hence 'tis they go repining on,  
And murmur more than their own Helicon.  
I heard them curse their stars in ponderous Rhimes.  
And in grave numbers grumble at the times;  
Yet where th'Illustrious Cowley led the way,  
I thought it great discretion there to go astray.   

VI  
From liberal arts, to the litigious Law,  
Obedience, not ambition did me draw;  
I looked at awful Coif, and scarlet Gown  
Through others optics not my own:  
Untie the Gordian knot that will,  
I see no Rhetoric at all  
In them that learnedly can brawl,  
And fill with mercenary breath the spacious Hall;  
Let me be peaceable, let me be still:  
The solitary Tisbite heard the wind,  
With strength and violence combined,  
That rend the Mountains and did make  
The solid Earth's foundations shake,  
He saw the dreadful fire, & heard the horrid noise,  
But found what he expected in the small still voice.   

VII.  
Nor here did my unbridled fancy rest,  
But I must try  
A pitch more high,  
To read the starry language of the East;  
And with Caldean Curiosity  
Presumed to solve the Riddles of the Sky;  
Impatient till I knew my doom,  
Dejected till the good direction come,  
I ripped up Fate's forbidden womb,  
Nor would I stay till it brought forth  
An easy and a natural birth,  
But was solicitous to know  
The yet misshapen Embryo,  
(Preposterous crime)  
Without the formal Midwifery of time:  
Fond man! as if too little grief were given  
On earth, draws down inquietudes from Heaven;  
Permits himself with fear to be unmanned,  
Bels●azz●r like grows won and pale,  
His very heart gins to fail,  
Is frighted at the writing of the hand,  
Which yet nor he, nor all his learned Magicians understand.   

VIII.  
And now at last what's the result of all?  
Should the strict Audit come,  
And for th'account too early call;  
A numerous heap of cyphers would be found the total sum  
When incompassionate Age shall blow  
The delicate Amira's brow,  
And draw his furrows deep and long,  
What hardy youth is he  
Will after that a Reaper be,  
Or sing the harvest Song?  
And what is Verse, but an effeminate vent  
Either of Lust or Discontent?  
Colours will starve, and all their glories die,  
Invented only to deceive the eye;  
And he that wily Law does love,  
Much more of Serpent has than Dove,  
There's nothing in Astrology,  
But Delphic ambiguity;  
We are misguided in the dark, and thus  
Each Star becomes an Ignis fatuus▪  
Yet pardon me you glorious lamps of light,  
'Twas one of you that led the way,  
Dispelled the gloomy night,  
Became a Phosper to th'Eternal Day▪  
And showed the Magis where th' Almighty Infant lay.   

IX.  
At length the doubtful Victory's won,  
It was a cunning ambuscade  
The world for my felicities had laid;  
Yet now at length the day's our own.  
Now Conqueror like let us new Laws set down,  
Henceforth let all our Love Seraphic turn,  
The sprightly and the vigorons flame  
On th' Altar let it ever burn,  
And sacrifice its ancient name  
A Tablet on my heart, next I'll prepare  
Where I would draw the holy Sepulchre,  
Behind it a soft Landscape I would lay  
Of Melancholy Golgotha:  
On th'Altar let me all my spoils lay down,  
And if I had One, there I'd hang my Laurel Crown.  
Give me the Pa●●lects of the Law divine,  
Such was the Law made Moses face to shine.  
Thus beyond Satur's heavy Orb I'll tow●,  
And laugh at his malicious power,  
Raptur'd in Contemplation thus I'll go  
Above unactive Earth, and leave the Stars below.   

X.  
Tossed on the wings of every wind,  
After these hoverings too and fro;  
(And still the waters higher grow)  
Not knowing where a resting place to find,  
Whether for Sanctuary should I go  
But (Reverend Friend▪) to you,  
You that have triumphed o'er th'impetuous flood,  
That Noah like, in bad times durst be good,  
And the stiff Torrent manfully withstood,  
Can save me too;  
One that have long in fear of drowning been,  
Surrounded by the rolling waves of sin,  
Do You but reach out a propitious hand  
And charitably take me in,  
I will not yet despair to see dry land.  
'Tis done;— I and no longer fluctuate  
I've made the Church my Ark, and Zions Hill my Ararat.    

To my worthy Friend Mr. Sam. Woodford, on his exc●llent Version of the Psalms.  
Pindaric Ode.  

Stanza I.  
SEe (worthy friend) what I would do;  
(Whom neither Muse nor art inspire)  
That have no friend in all the sacred Choir,  
To show my kindness for your Book, and you,  
Forced to disparage, what I would admire:  
Bold man that dares attempt Pindariqu' now,  
Since the great Pindar's greatest son  
From the ingrateful Age is gone,  
Cowley has bid th'ingrateful Age adieu;  
Apollo's rare Columbus, he  
Found out new worlds of Pocsie:  
He, like an Eagle ●oar'd alo●t  
To seize his noble prey;  
Yet as a Dove's, his soul was soft;  
Quiet as night, but bright as Day:  
To heaven in a fiery chariot He  
Ascended by Seraphiqu poetry;  
Yet which of us dull Mortals since can find  
Any inspiring Mantle, that He left behind?   

II.  
His powerful Numbers might have done you right;  
He could have spared you immortality,  
Under that Cheiftaines banners you might fight  
Assured of Laurels, and of Victory  
Over devouring time, and sword, and fire,  
And Jove's important ire:  
My humble verse would better sing  
David the shepherd, than the King:  
And yet methinks 'tis stately to be one,  
Tho' of the meaner sort,  
Of them that may approach a Prince's Throne,  
If'twere but to be seen at Court.  
Such (Sir) is my ambition for a name,  
Which I shall rather take from you, than give,  
For in your Book I cannot miss of Fame,  
But by contact shall live.  
Thus on your Chariot Wheel shall I  
Ride safe, and look as big as Aesop's Fly,  
Who from th' Olympian race new come,  
And now triumphantly flown home,  
To's neighbours of the swarm, thus, proudly said,  
Don't you remember what a dust I made!   

III.  
Where e'er the Son of Iesse's harp shall sound,  
Or Israel's sweetest Songs be sung  
(Like Sampson's Lion sweet and strong)  
You and your happy Muse shall be renowned,  
To whose kind hand the Son of jesse owes  
His last deliverance from all his Foes.  
Bloodthirsty Saul less barbarous than they,  
His person only sought to kill;  
These did his deathless Poems stay,  
And sought immortal blood to spill,  
To sing whose Songs in Babylon would be  
A new Captivity:  
Deposed by these Rebels, you alone  
Restore the glorious David to his Throne.  
Long in disguise the Royal Prophet lay,  
Long from his own thoughts banished,  
ne'er since his death till this illustrious day  
Was Sceptre in his haad, or Crown placed on his head:  
He seemed as if at Gath he still had been,  
As once before proud Achish he appeared,  
His Face besmeared,  
With spittle on his sacred beard,  
A laughing stock to the insulting Philistine.  
Dressed in their Rhimes, he looked as he were mad,  
In tissue you, and Tyrian Purple have him clad.    

On the Death of the truly valiant Geoge Duke o● Albemarle.  
Pindaric Ode.  

Stanza I.  
NOw blush thyself into confusion  
Ridiculous mortality;  
With indignation to be trampled on  
By them that court Eternity;  
Whose generous deeds, and prosperous state  
Seem poorly set within the reach of fate,  
Whose every Trophy, and each Laurel wreath  
Depends upon a little breath;  
Confined within the narrow bounds of time,  
And of incertain age,  
With doubtful hazards they engage,  
Thrown down, while victory bids them higher climb;  
Their glories are eclipsed by death  
Hard circumstances of illustrious men  
Whom nature (like the Scythian Prince) detaines  
Within the Body's chains  
(Nature that rigorous Tamburlaine)  
Stout Bajazet disdained the barbarous rage  
Of that insulting Conqueror,  
Bravely himself usurped his own expiring power  
By dashing out his brains against his Iron Cage   

II.  
But 'tis indecent to complain,  
And wretched mortals curse their stars in vain,  
In vain they wast their tears for them that die,  
Themselves involved in the same destiny,  
No more with sorrow let it then be said  
The glorious Albemarle is dead;  
Let● what is said of Him triumphant be,  
Words as gay, as is His fame,  
And as manly as his name,  
Words as ample as his praise,  
And as verdant as his bays▪  
An Epinition, not an Elegy.  
Yet why shouldst thou, ambitious Muse, believe  
Thy gloomy Verse, can any splendours give,  
Or make him one small moment longer live?  
Nothing but what is vulgar thou canst say;  
Or misbecoming numbers sing  
What Tribute to his memory canst thou pay,  
Whose virtue saved a Crown, and could oblige a King!   

III.  
Many a year distressed Albion lay  
By her unnatural Offspring torn,  
Once the World's terror, than its scorn,  
At home a Prison, and a broad a Prey:  
Her valiant Youth, her valiant Youth did kill,  
And mutual blood did spill,  
Usurpers then, and many a Mushroom Peer  
Within her Palaces did domineer;  
There did the Vulture build his Nest,  
There the Owls, and Satyrs rest,  
By Zim and Ohim all possessed,  
Till England's Angel Guardian, Thou,  
With pity, and with anger moved  
For Albion thy belov'd  
(Olive Chapplets on thy brow)  
With bloudless hands upheld'st her drooping head,  
And with thy Trumpets called'st her from the dead.  
Bright Phosper to the rising Sun!  
That Royal Lamp, by Thee did first appear  
Ushered into our happy Hemisphere;  
O may it still shine bright and clear!  
No Cloud, nor Night approach it, but a constant Noon!   

iv  
Nor thus did thy undaunted Valour cease;  
Or whither with unactive peace:  
Scarce were our Civil broils allayed,  
While yet the wound of an intestine war,  
Hadle●t a tender scar,  
When of our new Prosperities afraid  
Our Jealous Neighbours fatal arms prepare;  
In floating groves the enemy drew near,  
Loud did the Belgian Lyan roar,  
Upon our Coasts th' Armada did appear,  
And boldly durst attempt our native shore,  
Till His victorious squadrons checked their pride '  
And did in Triumph are the Ocean ride.  
With thunder, lightning, & with clouds of smoke  
He did their insolence restrain,  
And gave his dreadful Law to all the Main,  
Whose surly billows trembled when he spoke,  
And put their willing necks unde his Yoke;  
This the stupendious Vanquisher has done,  
Whose high prerogative it was a loan  
To raise a ruin'd, and secure an Envied Throne.   

V  
Then angry Heaven began to frown,  
From heaven a dreadful Pestilence came down:  
On very side did lamentations rise,  
Baleful sigh, and heavy groan,  
All was plained, and all was moan!  
The pious friend with trembling Love  
Scarce had his latest kindness done  
In sealing up his dead friends eyes,  
Ere with his own surprising fate he strove,  
And wanted one to close his own,  
Death's Iron sceptre bore the sway  
O'er our Imperial Golgotha,  
Yet He with kind tho' unconcerned eyes  
Durst stay and see those numerous Tragedies.  
He in the field had seen Death's grisly shape,  
Herd him in volleys talk aloud,  
Beheld his grandeur in a glittering Crowd  
And unamazed seen him in Cannons gape:  
Ever unterrified His valour stood  
Like some tall Rock amidst a Sea of Blood:  
'Twas loyalty from Sword & Pest kept him alive,  
The safest Armour, and the best Preservative.   

VI  
The flaming City next implored his aid,  
And seasonably prayed  
His force against the fire, whose arms the Seas obeyed,  
Wide did th● impetuous torrent spread,  
Then those goodly Fabrics fell  
Temples themselves promiscuously there  
Dropped down, and in the common ruin buried were,  
The City turned into one Mongibel:  
The haughty Tyrant shook his curled head,  
His breath with vengeance black, his face with fury red.  
Then every cheek grew wan and pale,  
Every heart did yield and fail,  
Nought but Thy presence could its power suppress,  
Whose stronger light put out the less,  
As London's noble structure rise,  
Together shall His memory grow,  
To whom that beauteous Town so much does owe.  
London! joint Favourite with Him Thou were't,  
As both possessed a Room within one heart,  
So now with thine indulgent Sovereign join,  
Respect his great Friends ashes, for He wept o'er Thine.   

V  
Thus did the Duke perform his mighty Stage,  
Thus did that Atlas of our State,  
With his prodigious acts amaze the Age,  
While Worlds of wonders on his shoulders sat,  
Full of glories, and of years,  
He trod his shining, and immortal way,  
Whilst Albion compassed with new floods of tears  
Besought his longer stay.  
Profane that pen, that dares describe thy bliss;  
Or writ thine Apothcosis!  
Whom heaven and thy Prince to pleasure strove,  
Entrusted with their Armies, and their love.  
In other Courts'tis dangerous to deserve,  
Thou didst a kind, and grateful Master serve,  
Who, to express his gratitude to Thee,  
Scorned those it natured arts of Policy.  
Happy had Bellisarius been  
(Whose forward fortune was his sin)  
By many Victories undone,  
He had not lived neglected, died obscure,  
If for thy Prince those Battles he had won,  
Thy Prince, magnificent above his Emperor.   

VIII.  
Among the Gods, those Gods that died like thee,  
As great as theirs, and full of Majesty  
Thy sacred dust shall sleep secure,  
Thy Monument as long as theirs endure:  
There ' free from envy, Thou with them,  
Shalt have thy share of Diadem;  
Among their Badges shall be set  
Thy Garter and thy Coronet;  
Or (which is statelyer) thou shalt have  
A Mausolaeum in thy Prince's breast,  
There thine enbalmed name shall rest,  
That Sanctuary shall thee save,  
From the dishonours of a Regal grave:  
And every wondrous History  
Read by in●iedulous Posterity,  
That writes of Him, shall honourably mention Thëe,  
Who by an humble Loyalty hast shown,  
How much sublimer gallantry, and renown  
'Tis to restore, than to ●surp a Monarch's Crown.    

The Retirement.  
Pindaric Ode made in the time of the Great Sickness 1665.  

Stanza I.  
IN the mild close of an hot Summer's day,  
When a cool Breeze had fanned the air,  
And Heaven's face looked smooth and fair;  
Lovely as sleeping Infants be,  
That in their slumbers smilingly,  
Dandled on the Mother's knee,  
You hear no cry,  
No harsh, nor inharmonious voice,  
But all is innocence without a noise:  
When every sweet, which the Sun's greedy ray  
So lately from us drew,  
Began to trickle down again in dew;  
Weary, and faint, and full of thought,  
Tho for what cause I knew not well,  
What I ailed, I could not tell,  
I sat me down at an aged Poplar's root,  
Whose chiding leaves excepted and my breast,  
All the impertinently-busi'd-world inclined to rest.   

II.  
I listened heedfully around,  
But not a whisper there was found.  
The murmuring Brook hard by,  
As heavy, and as dull as I,  
Seemed drowsily along to creep;  
It ran with undiscovered pace,  
And if a pebble stopped the lazy race,  
'Twas but as if it started in its sleep,  
Echo herself, that ever lent an ear  
To any piteous tone;  
Want to groan, with them that groan,  
Echo herself, was speechless here.  
Thrice did I sigh, Thrice miserably cry,  
Ai me! the Nymph ai me! would not reply,  
Or churlish, or she was a sleep for company.   

III.  
I thought on every pensive thing,  
That might my passion strongly move,  
That might the sweetest sadness bring;  
Oft did I tkink on death, and oft on Love,  
The triumphs of the little God, and that same ghastly King;  
The ghastly King what has he done,  
How his pale Territories spread!  
Straight scantlings now of consecrated ground  
His swelling Empire cannot bond,  
But every day new Colonies of dead  
Enhance his Conquests, and advance his Throne.  
The mighty City said from storms of war,  
Exempted from the Crimson flood,  
When all the Land o'er flowed with blood,  
Stoop's yet once more to a new Conqueror:  
The City which so many Rivals bred,  
Sackcloth is on her loins, and ashes on her head.   

iv  
When will the frowning heaven begin to smile?  
Those pitchy clouds be overblown,  
That hid the mighty Town,  
That I may see the mighty pile!  
When will the angry Angel cease to slay;  
And turn his brandished sword away  
From that illustrious Golgotha,  
London, the great Aceldama!  
When will that stately Landscape open lie,  
The mist withdrawn that intercepts my eye!  
That heap of Pyramids appear,  
Which now, too much like those of Egypt's are:  
Eternal Monuments of Pride and Sin,  
Magnificent and tall without, but Dead men's bones within.    

Translated out of a Part of Petronius Arbiters Satyricon.  

I.  
AFter a blustering tedious night,  
The winds now hushed, & the black tempest o're'  
Which the crazy vesiel miserably tore,  
Behold a lamentable sight!  
Rolling far off, upon a briny wave  
Compassionate Philander spi●d  
A floating Carcase ride,  
That seemed to beg the kindness of a grave.   

II.  
Sad, and concerned Philander then  
Weighed with himself the frail, uncertain state  
Of silly, strangely disappointed men,  
Whose projects are the sport of Fate,  
Perhaps (said he) this poor man's desolate Wife  
In a strange Conntry far away,  
Expects some happy day,  
This ghastly thing, the comfort of her life:   

III.  
His Son it may be dreads no harm,  
But kindly waits his Father's coming home,  
Himself secure, he apprehends no storm,  
But fancies that he sees him come.  
Perhaps the good Old man, that kissed this Son,  
And left a blessing on his head,  
His arms about him spread,  
Hopes yet to see him ere his glass be run.   

iv  
These are the grand intrigues of man,  
These his huge thoughts, and these his vast desires  
Restless, and swelling like the Ocean  
From his birth till he expires.  
See where the naked, breathless Body lies  
To every puff of wind a slave,  
At the beck of every wave,  
That once perhaps was fair, rich, stout, and wise!   

V  
While thus Philander pensive said,  
Touched only with a pity for Mankind,  
At nearer view, he thought he knew the Dead,  
And called the wretched Man to mind:  
Alas, said he, art Thou that angry Thing,  
That with thy looks didst threaten Death,  
Plagues and destruction breath,  
But two days since, little beneath a King!   

VI  
Ai me! where is thy fury now,  
Thine insolence, and all thy boundless power,  
O most ridiculously dreadful thou!  
Exposed for Beasts and Fishes to devour.  
Go sottish Mortals, let your Breasts swell high,  
All your designs laid deep as hell,  
A small mischance can quell,  
Out witted by the deeper plots of Destiny.   

VII.  
This haughty lump a while before  
Soothed up Itself, perhaps with hopes of Life,  
What It would do, when It came safe on shore,  
What for Its Son, what for Its Wife;  
See where the Man, and all his Politics lie!  
Ye Gods! what Gulfs are set between,  
What we have, and what we ween,  
Whilst lulled in dreams of years to come, we die!   

VIII.  
Nor are we liable alone,  
To misadventures on the mercyless Sea,  
A thousand other things our Fate bring on,  
And shipwrecked every where we be.  
One in the tumult of a Battle dies  
Big with conceit of victory,  
And routing th'Enemy,  
With Garlands decked, himself the Sacrifice.   

IX.  
Another, while he pays his vows  
On bended knees, & Heaven with tears invokes,  
With adoratious as he humbly bows,  
While with gums the Altar smokes,  
In th' presence of his God, the Temple falls,  
And then religious in vain,  
The flattered Bigot slain,  
Breathes out his last within the sacred walls.   

X.  
Another with gay Trophies proud,  
From his triumphant Chariot overthrown,  
Makes pastime for the Gazers of the Crowd,  
That envied him his purchased Crown,  
Some with full meals, & sparkling bowls of wine,  
As if it made too long delay,  
Spur on their fatal day,  
Whilst others, (needy Souls) at theirs repine.   

XI.  
Consider well and every place,  
Offers a ready Road to thy long home,  
Sometimes with frowns, sometimes with smiling face  
Th' Ambassadors of Death do come.  
By open force or secret ambuscade,  
By unintelligable ways,  
We end our anxious days,  
And stock the large Plantations of the Dead,   

XII.  
But (some may say) 'tis very hard,  
With them, whom heavy chance has Cast away,  
With no solemnities at all interred,  
To roam unburied on the sea:  
No— 'tis all one wherereceive our doom,  
Since, some where, 'tis our certain lot  
Our Carcases must rot,  
And they whom heaven covers need no Tomb,    

A Thought of Death.  
WHen on my sick bed I languish,  
Full of sorrow, full of anguish,  
Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying,  
Panting, groaning, speechless, dying,  
My soul just now about to take her flight  
Into the Regions of eternal night;  
Oh tell me you,  
That have been long below,  
What shall I do▪  
What shall I think, when cruel Death appears,  
That may extenuate my fears.  
Methinks I hear some gentle Spirit say,  
Be not fearful, come away!  
Think with thyself that now thou shalt be free,  
And find thy long expected liberty,  
Better thou mayest, but worse thou canst not be  
Than in this Vale of Tears, and misery.  
Like Caesar, with assurance then come on,  
And unamazed, attempt the Laurel Crown,  
That lies on t'other side Death's Rubicon.   

The Desperate Lover.  

O Mighty King of Terrors, come!  
Command thy Slave to his long home  
Great Sanctuary Grave! to thee  
In throngs the miserable fly;  
Encircled in thy frozen arms,  
They bid defiance to their harms,  
Regardless of those ponderous little things,  
That discompose th' uneasy heads of Kings.   

II.  
In the cold earth the Prisoner lies  
Ransomed from all his miseries,  
Himself forgotten, he forgets  
His cruel Creditors, and Debts;  
And there in everlasting peace  
Contentions with their Authors cease.  
A turf of grass or Monument of Stone  
Umpires the petty competition,   

III.  
The disappointed Lover, there,  
Breathes not a sigh nor sheds a tear;  
With us (fond fools) he never shares  
In sad perplexities and cares;  
The willow near his tomb that grows  
Reviv's his memory, not his woes,  
Or rain, or shine, he is advanced above  
Th' affronts of heaven, and stratagems of Love.   

iv  
Then mighty King of Terrors come  
Command thy slave to his long home.  
And thou my friend that lov'st me best  
Seals up these eyes that broke my rest;  
Put out the lights, bespeak my knell,  
And then eternally farewel.  
'Tis all th' amends our wretched Fates can give,  
That none can force a desperate man to Live.    

Psalm 39 Verses 4 th'. 5 th'.  

VERSE 4th.  
LOrd let me know the Period of my age,  
The length of this my weary pilgrimage,  
How long this miserable life shall last,  
This Life that stays so long, yet flies so fast!   

VRRSE 5th.  
Thou by a Span measurest those days of mine,  
Eternity's the spacious bound of Thine:  
Who shall compare his little span with thee,  
With Thine incomprehensibility!  
Man born to trouble leavs this World with pain,  
His best Estate is altogether vain.    

The Fatigue.  
A SONG.  
A Dieu fond World, and all thy wiles,  
Thy haughty frowns, & treacherous smiles,  
They that behold thee with my eyes,  
Thy double dealing will despise:  
From thee false world, my deadly Foe,  
Into some Desert let me go;  
Some gloomy melancholy Cave,  
Dark and silent as the Grave,  
Let me withdraw; where I may be  
From thine impertinencies free:  
There, when I hear the Turtle groan,  
How sweetly would I make my moan!  
Kind Philomela would teach me there  
My sorrows pleasantly to bear:  
There could I correspond with none  
But Heaven, and my own breast alone.   

Hymn for the Morning.  
AWake my Soul! Awake mine eyes!  
Awake my drowsy faculties;  
Awake, and see the new born Light  
Spring from the darksome womb of night!  
Look up and see th' unwearied Sun,  
Already is his Race begun:  
The pretty Lark is mounted high,  
And sings her Matins in the Sky;  
Arise my Soul! and thou my voice,  
In Songs of Praise early rejoice!  
O ●reat Creator! Heavenly King!  
Thy Praises let me ever sing!  
Thy Power has made, thy Goodness kept  
This fenceless body while I slept,  
Yet one day more haste given me  
From all the Powers of darkness free:  
O keep my heart from Sin secure,  
My Life unblameable and pure,  
That when the last of all my days is come,  
Cheerful, and fearless I may wait my doom.   

Anthem for the Evening.  
SLeep! downy sleep! come close my eyes,  
Tired with beholding vanities!  
Sweet slumbers come and chase away  
The toils and follies of the day:  
On your soft bosom will I lie,  
Forget the World and learn to die.  
O Israel's watchful shepherd spread  
Tents of Angels round my bed;  
Let not the spirits of the air,  
While I slumber, me ensnare,  
But save thy suppliant free from harms,  
Clasped in thine everlasting arms.  
Clouds and thick darkness is thy throne,  
Thy wonderful Pavilion:  
Oh dart from thence a shining ray,  
And then my midnight shall be day!  
Thus when the morn in crim son dressed,  
Breaks through the windows of the East,  
My Hymns of thankful praises shall arise  
Like incense, or the morning sacrifice.   

DEATH.  
SONG.  
OH the sad Day,  
When friends shall shake their heads and say  
Of miserable me,  
Hark how he groans, look how he pants for breath,  
See how he struggles with the pangs of Death!  
When they shall say of these poor eyes,  
How Hollow, and how dim they be,  
Mark how his breast does swell and rise,  
Against his potent enemy!  
When some old Friend shall step to my bedside,  
Touch my i'll face, & thence shall gently slide,  
And when his next companions say,  
How does he do? what hopes? shall turn away,  
Answering only with a lift up hand,  
Who can his fate withstand?  
Then shall a gasp or two, do more  
Then ere my Rhetoric could before,  
Persuade the peevish World to trouble me no more!   

The Happy Man.  
PEaceful is he, and most secure,  
Whose heart, and actions all are pure;  
How smooth and pleasant is his way,  
Whilst Life's Meander slides away  
If a fierce Thunderbolt do fly,  
This Man can unconcerned lie;  
Knows 'tis not levelled at his head,  
So neither noise, nor flash can dread:  
Tho' a swift whirlwind tear in sunder  
Heaven above him, or Earth under;  
Tho the Rocks on heaps do tumble,  
Or the World to ashes crumble,  
Tho' the stupendious Mountains from on high  
Drop down, and in their humble Valleys lie:  
Should the unruly Ocean roar,  
And dash its faome against the shore;  
He finds no tempest in his mind,  
Fears no billow, feels no wind:  
All is serene, all quiet there,  
There's not one blast of troubled air,  
Old stars may fall, or new ones blaze,  
Yet none of these his Soul amaze,  
Such is the man can smile at irksome death,  
And with an easy sigh g●ve up his breath.   

An Elegy on the Earl of SANDWICH.  
IF there were aught in Verse, at once could raise,  
Or tender pity, and or immortal praise,  
Thine Obsequies, brave Sandwich, would require  
What ever might our nobler thoughts inspire;  
But since thou findest by thy unhappy fate,  
What 'tis to be unfortunately Great,  
And purchase honour at too dear a rate:  
The Muses Best attempt, how e'er designed,  
Cannot but prove impertinently kind.  
Thy glorious valour is a Theme too high,  
For all the humble arts of Poesy,  
To side with chance, and Kingdoms overrun.  
Are little things Ambitious men have done;  
But on a flaming Ship thus to despise  
That life, which others did so highly prize;  
To fight with Fire, and struggle with a wave,  
And Neptune with unwearied Arms out brave,  
Are deeds surpassing fabulous Chronicle,  
And which no future Age can parallel;  
Leviathan himselfe●s out done by Thee,  
Thou greater wonder of the Deep, than he:  
Nor could the Deep thy mighty ashes hold,  
The Deep that swallows Diamonds and Gold,  
Fame even thy sacred Relics does pursue,  
Richer than all the treasures of Peru:  
While the kind Sea, thy breathless body bring▪  
Safe to the bed of Honour, and of Kings.   

An Epitaph on the Earl of Sandwich.  
HEre lies the Dust of that illustrious Man,  
That triumphed o'er the Ocean;  
Who for his Country nobly courted death,  
And dearly sold his glorious Breath,  
Or in a word▪ in this cold narrow Grave  
Sandwich the Good, the Great, the Brave,  
(Oh frail Estate of Sublunary things!)  
Lies equal here with England's greatest Kings.   

On Mr. JONSON'S several Shipwrecks  
HE that has never yet acquainted been  
With cruel chance, nor Virtue naked seen,  
Stripped from th'advantages (which vices wear)  
Of happy, plausible, successful, fair;  
Nor learned how long the lowering cloud may last,  
Wherewith her beauteous face is overcast,  
Till she her native glories does recover,  
And brighter shine, after the Storm is over;  
To be informed, he need no further go,  
Than this divine Epitome of woe;  
In Johnson's life, and writings he may find,  
What Homer in his Odysseys designed,  
A virtuous man by miserable fate  
Rendered ten thousand ways unfortunate;  
Sometimes within a leaking Vessel tossed,  
All hopes of life, and the loved Shore quite lo●▪  
While hidden sands, and every greedy wave,  
With horror gaped themselves into a grave:  
Sometimes upon a Rock with fury thrown,  
Moaning himself, where none could hear his moan;  
Sometimes cast out upon the barren sand,  
Exposed to th' mercy of a Barbarous land:  
Such was the pious johnson, till kind Heaven  
A blessed end to all his toils had given:  
To show, that virtuous men, tho' they appear,  
But Fortune's sport, are Providence's care.   

The Resolve.  

I.  
HAd Phillis neither charms, nor Graces  
More than the rest of women wear,  
Leveled by Fate with common faces,  
Yet Damon could esteem her fair.   

II.  
Good natured Love can soon forgive  
Those petty injuries of time,  
And all th'affronts of years impute  
To her misfortune, not her crime.   

III.  
Wedlock put's love upon the wrack,  
Makes it confess 'tis still the same  
In icy age, as it appeared,  
At first when all was lively flame.   

iv  
If Hymen's slaves, whose ears are bored,  
Thus constant by compulsion be,  
Why should not choice endear us more  
Than Them their hard necessity,   

V.  
Phillis! 'tis true, thy glass does run,  
But since mine too keep's equal pace,  
My silver hairs may trouble thee,  
As much as me thy ruin'd face.   

VI  
Then let us constant be as Heaven,  
Whose Laws inviolable are,  
Not like those rambling Meteors there,  
That foretell ills, and disappear.   

VII.  
So shall a pleasing calm attend,  
Our long uneasy Destiny,  
So shall our loves, and lives exp●r●  
From Storms and Tempests ever free.    

PASTORAL.  

I.  
AT break of day poor Celadon  
Hard by his Sheepfolds walked alone,  
His arms a cross, his head bowed down,  
His oaten pipe besides him thrown,  
When Thirs●s hidden in a Thicket by,  
Thus heard the discontented Shepherd cry.   

II.  
What is it Celadon has done,  
That all his happiness is gone!  
The Curtains of the dark are drawn,  
And cheerful morn gins to dawn,  
Yet in my breast 'tis ever dead of night,  
That can admit no beam of pleasant light.   

III.  
You pretty Lambs do leap and play  
To welcome the new kindled day,  
Your Shepherd harmless, as are you,  
Why is he not as frolic too!  
If such disturbance th' Innocent attend,  
How differs he from them that dare offend!   

iv  
Ye Gods! or let me die, or live,  
If I must die, why this reprieve?  
If you would have me live, O why  
Is it with me as those that die!  
I faint, I gasp, I pant, my eyes are set,  
My Cheeks are pale, and I am living yet.   

V  
Ye Gods! I never did withhold  
The fattest Lamb of all my fold,  
But on your Altars laid it down,  
And with a Garland did it crown.  
Is it in vain to make your Altar's smoke?  
Is it all one, to please, and to provoke?   

VI  
Time was that I could sit and smile,  
Or with a dance the time beguile,  
My ●oul like that smooth lake was still,  
Bright as the Sun behind yond hill,  
Like yonder stately Mountain clear, and high,  
Swift, soft, and gay as that same Butterfly.   

XII.  
But now Within there's Civil war,  
In arms my rebel Passions are,  
Their old Allegiance laid aside,  
The Traitors now in Triumph ride;  
That many headed monster has thrown down  
It's lawful Monarch Reason, from its throne,   

VIII.  
See unrelenting Sylvia see,  
All this, and more is long of Thee:  
For e'er I saw that charming face,  
Uninterrupted was my peace,  
Thy glorious ●eamy eyes have struck me blind  
To my own Soul the way I cannot find.   

IX.  
Yet is it not thy fault nor mine,  
Heaven is too blame, that did not shine  
Upon us both with equal rays,  
It made thine bright, mine gloomy days,  
To Sylvia beauty gave, and riches store,  
All Celadon's offence is, he is poor.   

X.  
Unlucky stars poor Shepherds have,  
Whose love is fickle Fortunes' Slave  
Those golden days are out of date,  
When every Turtle chose his Mate:  
Cupid that mighty Prince then uncontrolled  
Now like a little Negroes bought and sold.    

LOVE'S Bravo.  
SONG.  
WHy should we murmur, why repine  
Phillis at thy fate, or mine?  
Like Prisoners, why do we those fetters shake,  
Which neither thou, nor I can break?  
There is a better way to baffle fate,  
If Mortals would but mind it,  
And 'tis not hard to find it:  
Who would be happy, must be desperate;  
He must despise those Stars that fright  
Only Fools that dread the night▪  
Time and chance he must out brave,  
He that crouches is their Slave.  
Thus the wise Pagans ill at ease,  
Bravely chastised their surly Deities.   

The Bachelor's Song.  
LIke a Dog with a bottle, fast tied to his tail,  
Like Vermin in a trap, or a Thief in a Jail,  
Or like a Tory in a Bog,  
Or an Ape with a Clog:  
Such is the man, who when he might go free,  
Does his liberty lose,  
For a Matrimony noose,  
And sells himself into Captivity;  
The Dog he does howl, when his bottle does jog,  
The Vermin, the Thief, and the Tory in vain  
Of the trap, of the Jail, of the Quagmire complain▪  
But welfare poor Pug! for he plays with his Clog;  
And tho' he would be rid on't rather than his life,  
Yet he lugg's it, and he hug's it, as a man does his wife.   

The Second Part.  
SONG.  
HOw happy a thing were a wedding and a bedding,  
If a man might purchase a wife  
For a twelve month, and a day;  
But to live with her all a man's life,  
For ever and for ay,  
Till she grow as grey as a Cat,  
Good faith Mr. Parson, I thank you for that.   

Advice to an Old man of sixty three about to marry a Girl of sixteen.  
SONG.  

I.  
NOw fie upon him! what is Man,  
Whose life at best is but a span?  
When to an inch it dwindles down,  
Ice in his bones, snow on his Crown,  
That he within his crazy brain,  
Kind thoughts of Love should entertain,  
That he, when Harvest comes should blow  
And when 'tis time to reap, go sow,  
Who in imagination only strong,  
Tho' twice a Child, can never twice grow young.   

II.  
Nature did those design for Fools,  
That sue for work, yet have no tools.  
What fellow feeling can there be  
In such a strange disparity?  
Old age mistakes the youthful breast,  
Love dwells not there, but interest:  
Alas Good Man! take thy repo●e,  
Get ribbon for thy thumbs, and toes,  
Provide thee flannel, and a sheet o● lead,  
Think on thy Coffin, not thy bridal bed.    

The Expectation.  
SONG.  

I.  
WHy did I ever see those glorious eyes  
My famished Soul to Tantalise?  
I hoped for Heaven, which I had lately seen,  
But ne'er perceived the Gulf between:  
In vain for bliss did my presumptions seek,  
My love so strong  
I could not hold my tongue,  
My heart so feeble that I durst not speak.   

II.  
Yet why do I my constitution blame  
Since all my heart is out of frame!  
●Twere better (sure) my passion to appease,  
With hope to palliate my disease:  
And 'twill be something like Tranquillity,  
To hope for that  
I must not compass yet  
And make a virtue of necessity.    

CORIDON converted.  
SONG.  

I.  
WHen Coridon a Slave did lie,  
Entangled in his Phillis eye,  
How did he sigh! how did he groan!  
How melancholy was his tone!  
He ●old his story to the woods  
And wept his passion by the floods;  
But Phillis, cruel Phillis, too too blame,  
Regarded not his sufferings, nor his flame;   

II.  
Then Coridon resolved no more  
His mistress mercy to implore;  
How did he laugh how did he sing!  
How did he make the forest ring!  
He told his conquests to the woods,  
And drowned his passions in the floods:  
Then Phillis, cruel Phillis, less severe  
Would have had him, But he would none of her.    

The Humourist.  
SONG.  

I.  
GOod faith I never was but once so mad  
To dote upon an idle woman's face,  
And then alas! my fortune was so bad  
To see another chosen in my place,  
And yet I courted her I'm very sure!  
With Love as true as his was, and as pure.   

II.  
But if I ever be so fond again  
To undertake the second part of love,  
To reassume that most unmanlike pain,  
Or after shipwreck do the Ocean prove;  
My Mistress must be gentle, kind, and free,  
Or I'●e be as indifferent as she.    

The SLIGHT.  
SONG.  

I.  
I Did but crave that I might kiss,  
If not her lip, at least her hand,  
The coolest Lover's frequent bliss  
And rude is she that will withstand  
That inoffensive liberty;  
She (would you think it) in a fume  
Turned her about and left the room,  
Not she, she vowed not she.   

II.  
Well Chariessa then said I,  
If it must thus for ever be,  
I can renounce my slavery,  
And since you will not, can be free:  
Many a time she made me die,  
Yet (would you think) I loved the more,  
But I'll not take't as heretofore,  
Not I, I'll vow not I.    

The PENITENT.  
SONG.  

I.  
HAd I but known some years ago  
What wretched lovers undergo;  
The tempests and the storms that rise  
From their beloved's dangerous eyes,  
With how much torment they endure  
That Ague, and that Calenture;  
Long since I had my error seen,  
Long since repent of my sin:  
Too late the soldier dread's the Trumpets sound  
That newly has received his mortal wound.   

II.  
But so adventurous was I  
My fortunes all alone to try,  
Needs must I kiss the burning light,  
Because it shined, because 'twas bright,  
My heart with youthful heat on fire,  
I thought some God did me inspire;  
And that blind zeal emboldened me,  
T'attempt Althaea's Deity;  
Surely those happy Powers that dwell above,  
Or never courted, or enjoyed their love.    

The Defiance.  
SONG.  

I.  
BE not too proud imperious Dame,  
Your charms are transitory things,  
May melt, while you at heaven aim,  
Like Icarus' waxed wings;  
And you a part in his misfortues bear,  
Drowned in a briny Ocean of despair.   

II.  
You think your beauties are above  
The Poet's brain, and Painter's hand,  
As if upon the throne of Love  
You only should the world command:  
Yet know though you presume your title true,  
There are pretenders, that will Rival you.   

III.  
There's an experienced Rebel Time,  
And in his squadarns poverty;  
There's Age that bring's along with him  
A terrible Artillery:  
And if against all these thou keep'st thy Crown,  
Th' Usurper Death will make thee lay it down.    

The Surrender.  
SONG.  
I Yield, I yield! Divine Althaea see  
How prostrate at thy feet I bow,  
Fond in love with my Captivity,  
So weak am I, so mighty Thou!  
Not long ago I could defy  
Armed with wine and company,  
beauty's whole Artillery:  
Quite vanquished now by thy miraculous Charms:  
Here fair Althaea take my arms:  
For sure he cannot be of humane race  
That can resist so bright, so sweet a face.   

Fadeing Beauty.  
SONG.  

I.  
AS poor Aurelia sat alone,  
Hard by a Rivulets flowery side,  
Envious at Nature's new born pride,  
Her slighted self, she thus reflected on.   

II.  
Alas! that Nature should revive  
These flowers, which after Winter's snow  
Spring fresh again and brighter show,  
But for our fairer Sex, so ill contrive!   

III.  
Beauty like theirs a short lived thing,  
On us in vain she did bestow,  
Beauty that only once can grow,  
An Autumn has, but knows no second Spring▪    

The Whim.  
SONG.  

I.  
WHy so serious, why so grave?  
Man of business, why so muddy?  
Thyself from chance thou canst not save  
With all thy care and study.  
Look merrily then, and take thy repose;  
For 'tis to no purpose to look so forlorn,  
Since the World was as bad, before thou were't born,  
And when it will mend who knows?  
And a thousand years hence 'tis all one,  
If thou layest on a Dunghill, or satst on a Throne,   

II.  
To be troubled to be sad,  
Carking Mortal 'tis a folly,  
For a pound of pleasure's not so bad  
As an ounce of Melancholy:  
Since all our lives long we travel towards Death  
Let us rest us sometimes, and bait by the way;  
'Tis but dying at last; in our race let us stay,  
And we shan't be so soon out of breath.  
Sat the Comedy out, and that done,  
When the Play's at an end, let the Curtain fall down.    

A DIALOGUE.  Cloris and Parthenissa. C. 
WHy dost thou all address deny?  
Hard hearted Parthenissa, why?  
See how the trembling Lovers come,  
That from thy lips expect their doom.  P. 
Chloris! I hate them all, they know,  
Nay I have often told them so;  
Their silly politicks abhorred  
I scorn to make my slave my Lord:  C. 
But Strephon's eyes proclaim his love  
Too brave, tyrannical to prove,  P. 
Oh Chloris! when we lose our power  
We must obey the Conqueror.  C. 
Yet where a gentle Prince bear's sway  
It is no bondage to obey:  P. 
But if like Nero, for a while,  
With arts of kindness he beguile;  
How shall the Tyrant be withstood,  
When he has writ his laws in blood!  C. 
Love, (Parthenissa) all commands  
It fetters Kings in charming bands,  
Mars yields his arms to Cupid's darts,  
But Beauty soften's savage hearts.  Chorus, 
If nothing else can pull the Tyrant down,  
Kill him with kindness, and the day's yonr own.   

The RENEGADO.  
SONG.  

I.  
Removed from fair Vrania's eyes  
Into a village far away,  
Fond Astrophil began to say,  
Thy charms Urania I despise;  
●o bid some other shepherd for thee die,  
That never understood thy Tyranny.   

II.  
Returned at length th' amorous swain,  
Soon as he saw his Deity,  
Adored again and bowed his knee,  
Became her slave, and wore her Chain;  
The needle thus that motionless did lie  
Trembles, and moves when the loved Loadstone's nigh.    

PHILLIS withdrawn.  

I.  
I Did but see her, and she's snatched away,  
I find I did but happy seem;  
So small a while did my contentments stay,  
As short and pleasant as a dream:  
Yet such are all our satisfactions here,  
They raise our hopes, and then they disappear.   

II.  
Ill natured Stars that evermore conspire  
To quench poor Strephon's flame,  
To stop the progress of his swift desire,  
And leave him but an Aery name;  
Why art thou doomed (of no pretences proud)  
Ixion-like thus to embrace a Cloud?   

III.  
Yet why should Strephon murmur, why complain,  
Or envy Phillis her delight,  
Why should her pleasures be to him a pain,  
Easier perhaps out of his sight?  
No, Strephon no! If Phillis happy be,  
Thou shouldst rejoice, what e'er becomes of Thee.   

iv  
Amidst the charming glories of the Spring  
In pleasant Fields and goodly Bowers  
Indulgent Nature seems concerned to bring  
All that may bless her innocent hours,  
While thy disastrous Fate has tied thee down  
To all the noise and Tumult of the Town.   

V  
Strephon that for himself expects no good  
To Phillis wishes every where,  
A long serenity without a Cloud,  
Sweet as these smiles of th' Infant year,  
May Halcyons in her bosom build their nest  
What ever storms shall discompose my breast.    

Weeping at Parting.  
SONG.  

I.  
GO gentle Oriana, go,  
Thou seest the Gods will have it so;  
Alas! Alas! 'tis much in vain  
Of their ill usage to complain,  
To curse them when we want relief,  
Lessens our courage not our grief:  
Dear Oriana wipe thine eye,  
The time may come, that thou, and I  
Shall meet again, long, long to prove  
What Vigour absence adds to love,  
Smile Orania then, and let me see,  
That look again, which stole my liberty.   

II.  
But say that Oriana die,  
And that sad moment may be nigh,  
The Gods that for a year can sever,  
If it please them can part us ever,  
They that refresh, can make us weep.  
And into Death can lengthen sleep,  
Kind Oriana should I hear  
The thing I so extremely fear,  
'Twill not be strange, if it be said,  
After a while, I too, am dead.  
Weep Oriana weep, for who does know,  
Whether we e'er shall meet again below.    

The Malcontent.  
SONG.  
PHillis, O Phillis! Thou art fond vain,  
My wavering thoughts thus to molest,  
Why should my pleasure be the only pain,  
That must torment my easy breast?  
If with Prometheus I had stolen fire,  
Fire from above,  
As scorching and as bright, as that of love,  
I might deserve Jove's ire,  
A Vulture than might on my liver feed,  
But now eternally I bleed,  
And yet on Thee, on Thee lies all the blame,  
Who freely gav'st the fuel and the flame,   

The Indifferent.  
SONG.  
PRithee confess for my sake, and your own,  
Am I the Man or no?  
If I am he, thou canst not do ' t too soon,  
If not, thou canst not be too slow;  
If Woman cannot love, Man's folly's great  
Your Sex with so much zeal to treat;  
But if we freely proffer to pursue  
Our tender thoughts and spotless love,  
Which nothing shall remove,  
And you despise all this, pray what are you?   

The HARBOUR.  
SONG.  
O Tedious hopes! when will the storm be o'er!  
When will the beaten Vessel reach the shore!  
Long have I striv'n with blustering winds & tides,  
Clouds o'er my head, Waves on my sides!  
Which in my dark adventures high did swell,  
While heaven was black as hell.  
O Love, tempestuous Love, yet, yet at last,  
Let me my Anchor cast,  
And for the troubles I have undergone,  
O bring me to a Port which I may call my own.   

The Vnconcerned.  
SONG.  
NOw that the world is all in amaze,  
Drums, & Trumpets rending heavens,  
Wounds a bleeding, Mortals dying,  
Widows and Orphans piteously crying;  
Armies marching, Towns in a blaze,  
Kingdoms and States at six and ●evens:  
What should an honest Fellow do,  
Whose courage, and fortunes run equally low?  
Let him live say I till his glass be ru●,  
As easily as he may,  
Let the wine, and the sand of his glass flow together,  
For Life's but a winter's day;  
Alas from Sun to Sun,  
The time's very short, very dirty the weather,  
And we silently creep away.  
Let him nothing do, he could wish undone;  
And keep himself safe from the noise of a Gun.   

To Mr. Sam. Austin of Wadham Col. Oxon on his most unintelligible Poems.  
SIR,  
IN that small inch of time I stole, to look  
On th'obscure depths of your mysterious Book  
(Heaven bless my eye sight!) what strains did I see?  
What Steropegeretick Poetry!  
What Hieroglyphic words, what all,  
In Letters more than Cabalistical!  
Our little fingers may our Verses scan,  
But all our Noddles understand them can  
No more, than read that dung fork, pothook hand  
That in Queen's College Library does stand.  
The cutting Hanger of your wit I can't●see,  
For that same scabbard that conceals your Fancy:  
Thus a black velvet Casket hides a Jewel;  
And a dark woodhouse, wholesome winter fuel;  
Thus john Tradeskin starves our greedy eyes,  
By boxing up his new found Rarities;  
We dread Actaeon's Fate, dare not look on,  
When you do scour your skin in Helicon;  
We cannot (Lynceus like) see through the wall  
Of your strong Mortered Poems; nor can all  
The small shot of our brains make one hole in  
The Bulwark of your Book, that Fort to win.  
Open your meanings door, O do not lock it!  
Undo the Buttons of your smaller Pocket,  
And charitably spend those Angels there,  
Let them enrich and actuate our sphere.  
Take off our Bongraces, and shine upon us,  
Though your resplendent beams should chance to tan us.  
Had you but stolen your verses, than we might  
Hope in good time they would have come to light;  
And felt I not a strange Poetic heat  
Flaming within, which reading makes me sweat,  
Vulcan should take 'em, and I'd not exempt 'em,  
Because they be things Quibus lumen ademptum.  
I thought to have commended something there,  
But all exceeds my commendations far,  
I can say nothing; but stand still, and stare,  
And cry O wondrous, strange, profound, & rare,  
Vast Wits must fathom you better than thus.  
You merit more than their praise: as for us  
The Beetles of our Rhimes shall drive full fast in  
The wedges of your worth to everlasting.   

To my Ingenious Friend Mr. Wil●liam Faithorn on his Book of drawing, Etching, and Graving.  
SHould I attempt an Elegy, or Frame  
A Paper-structure to secure thy name,  
The lightning of one Censure, one stern frown  
Might quickly hazard that, and thy renown,  
But this thy Book prevents that fruitless pain,  
One line speaks purelier Thee, than my best●strain.  
Those mysteries (once like the spiteful mould,  
Which bars the greedy Spaniard from his Gold.)  
Thou dost unfold in every friendly Page,  
Kind to the present, and succeeding Age.  
That Hand, whose curious Art prolongs the date  
Of frail Mortality, and battle's Fate  
With Brass and Steel, can surely potent be  
To rear a lasting monument for Thee:  
For my part I prefer (to guard the Dead)  
A Copperplate beyond a Sheet of Lead.  
So long as Brass, so long as Books endure,  
So long as neat wrought-Pieces thou'rt secure.  
A [Faithorn sculpsit] is a charm can save  
From dull oblivion, and a gapeing grave.   

An Explanation of an Emblem engraven by V H.  
Seest thou those Rays, the Light 'bove them?  
And that gay thing the Diadem?  
The Wheel and Balance, which are tied  
T'th Gold, black Clouds on either side?  
Seest thou the winged Trumpeters with all  
That kick the World's blue tottering ball?  
The flying Globe, the Glass thereon,  
Those fragments of a Skeleton?  
The Bays, the Palms, the Fight men,  
And written Scroul?— Come tell me then,  
Did thy o'er curious eye e'er see  
An apt Scheme of Misery?  
What's all that Gold, and sparkling Stones  
To that bald scull, to those Cross bones?  
What mean those Blades (whom men adore)  
To slain the Earth with purple gore?  
Sack stately Towns, ●ilk Banners spread,  
Gallop their Coursers o'er the dead,  
Far more than this? and all to sway  
But till those sands shall glide away.  
For when the Bubble World shall fly  
With stretched out Plumes, when the brisk eye  
Shall close with anguish, sink with tears,  
And th'Angels trumpets pierce our ears,  
What's haughty Man or those fine things,  
Which Heaven calls Men, though Men style Kings?  
Vain World adieu! and farewell fond renown!  
Give me the Glory, that's above the Crown!   

For Thoughts.  

I.  
Thought? what are they?  
They are my constant Friends,  
Who when harsh Fate it's dull brow bends,  
Uncloud me with a smiling Ray,  
And in the depth of midnight force a day.   

II.  
When I retire, and flee  
The busy throngs of Company,  
To hug myself in privacy;  
O the discourse! the pleasant talk,  
'Twixt us (my Thoughts) a long a lonely walk!   

III.  
You like the stupifying Wine  
The dying malefactors sip  
With shivering lip,  
T' abate the rigour of their doom,  
By a less troublous cut to their long home;  
Make me slight Crosses, though they piled up lie,  
All by th'enchantments of an ecstasy.   

iv  
Do I desire to see  
The throne and Majesty  
Of that proud one  
Brother and Uncle to the Stars and Sun?  
Those can conduct me where such Toys reside,  
And waft me cross the Main, sans wind and tide.   

V  
Would I descry  
Those radiant Mansions 'bove the Sky,  
Invisible by Mortal eye?  
My Thoughts, my Thoughts can lay  
A shining Track thereto,  
And nimbly fleeting go:  
Through all the eleven Orbs can shove away.  
These too, like jacobs' ladder, are  
A most Angelic Thoroughfare.   

VI  
The wealth that shines  
In th' Oriental Mines;  
Those sparkling gems which Nature keeps  
Within her Cabinets, the deeps;  
The Verdant Fields,  
The Rarities the Rich world yields;  
Rare Structures, whose each gilded spire  
Glisters like lihgtning; which, while men admire,  
They deem the neighbouring Sky on fire,  
These can I gaze upon and glut mine eyes  
With fancies of varieties.  
As on the front of Pisgah, I  
Can th' Holy Land through these my Optics spy.   

VII.  
Contemn we then  
The peevish rage of men,  
Whose violence ne'er can divorce  
Our mutual amity,  
Or lay so damned a Curse  
As non addresses, 'twixt my thoughts and me:  
For though I sigh in Irons, They  
Use their old freedom, readily obey;  
And when my bosome-friends desert me, stay.   

VIII.  
Come then my darlings, I'll embrace  
My Privilege; make known  
The high prerogative I own,  
By making all allurements give you place;  
Whose sweet society to me,  
A sanctuary and a shield shall be  
‛ Gainest the full Quivers of my Destiny.    

Against Thoughts.  

I.  
INtolerable Racks!  
Distend my Soul no more,  
Loud as the billows when they roar,  
More dreadful than the hideous thunder cracks.  
Foes inappeasable! that slay  
My best contents, around me stand,  
Each like a Fury, with a Torch in hand;  
An● fright me from the hopes of one good day.   

II.  
When I seclude myself, and say  
How frolic will I be,  
Unfettered from my Company  
I'll bathe me in felicity!  
In come these Guests,  
They Harpy like defile my Feasts,  
Oh the damned Dialogues, the cursed talk,  
'Twixt us (my thoughts) along a sullen walk.   

III.  
You like the poisonous wine  
The Gallants quaff  
To make 'em laugh,  
Yet chance at last t' endure  
From thence the tortures of a Calenture,  
Fool me with feigned reflections, till I lie.  
Stark raving in a Bedlam ecstasy.   

iv  
Do I dread  
The Starry Throne and Majesty  
Of that High God,  
Who batters Kingdoms with an Iron Rod,  
And makes the Mountains stagger with a n●d?  
That sits upon the glorious Bow,  
Smiling at changes here below.  
These go●d me to his grand Tribunal, where  
They tell me I with horror must appear,  
And antedate amazements by grim fear.   

V  
Would I descry  
Those happy Soul's blessed Mansions 'bove the Sky,  
Invisible by mortal eye,  
And in a noble speculation trace  
A journey to that shining place?  
Can I afford a sigh or two,  
Or breathe a Wish that I might thither go:  
Th●se clip my plumes, and chill my blazing Love  
That O I cannot, cannot soar above.   

VI  
The Fire that shines  
In Subterranean mines,  
The Chrystaled streams,  
The sulphur rocks that glow upon  
The torrid banks of Phlegeton;  
Those ●ooty fiends which nature keeps,  
Bolted and Barred up in the deeps;  
Black caves wide Chasmas which who see confess  
Types of the Pit so deep, so bottomless!  
These mysteries, though I fain would not behold,  
you to my view unfold:  
Like an adjudged offender, to the high  
Tarpeian Hill you force me up, that I  
May so be hurried headly down, and Die.   

VII.  
Mention not then  
The streng'th, and faculties of men;  
Whose arts cannot expel  
These anguishes, this bosome-Hell.  
When down my aching head I lay  
In hopes to slumber them away;  
Perchance I do beguile  
Their tyranny a while,  
One, or two minutes, than they throng again,  
And reassault me with a trebled pain:  
Nay though I sob in fetters, they  
Spare me not then; perplex me each sad day,  
And whom a very Turk would pity, slay.   

VIII.  
Hence, Hence, (my Jailers!) Thoughts be gone,  
Let my Tranquilities alone.  
Shall I embrace  
A Crocodile, or place  
My choice affections on the fatal Dart,  
That stabs me to the heart?  
I hate your cursed proximity,  
Worse than the venomed arrows heads that be  
Crammed in the quivers of my Destiny    

A Doomsday Thought. A ●. 1659.  
JVdgment! two syllables can make  
The haughtiest Son of Adam shake:  
'Tis coming, and 'twill surely come  
The dawning to that Day of Doom;  
O th' morning blush of that dread day,  
When Heaven and Earth shall steal away,  
Shall in their Pristine Chaos hid,  
Rather than th' angry Judge abide:  
'Tis not far off▪ methinks I see  
Among the Stars some dimmer be;  
Some tremble, as their Lamps did fear  
A Neighbouring Extinguisher.  
The greater Luminaries fail,  
Their Glories by Eclipses veil,  
Knowing e'er long their borrowed Light  
Must sink in th' Universal Night.  
When I behold a Mist arise,  
Straight to the same astonished Eyes  
Th' ascending Clouds does represent  
A scene of th' smoking Firmament.  
Oft when I hear a blustering Wind  
With a tempestuous murmur joined,  
I fancy, Nature in this blast,  
Practice's how to breathe her Last,  
Or sighs for poor Man's misery,  
Or pant's for fair Eternity.  
Go to the dull Churchyard, and see  
Those Hillocks of Mortality,  
Where proudest Man is one'ly found  
By a small swelling in the Ground;  
What crowds of Carcases are made  
Slave to the pickax and the spade!  
Dig but a foot, or two, to make  
A Cold Bed, for thy dead friends sake,  
'Tis odds but in that scantling room  
Thou robbest another of his Tomb,  
Or in thy delving smitest upon  
A shinbone, or a Cranion:  
When th' Prison's full, what next can be  
But the grand Jail Deliverie?  
The great Assize, when the pale Clay  
Shall gape, and render up its Prey;  
When from the dungeon of the Grave  
The meager Throng themselves shall heave,  
Shake off their linen chains, and gaze  
With wonder, when the world shall blaze,  
Then climb the mountains, scale the rocks,  
Force op'e the Deep's Eternal locks,  
Beseech the Cliffs to lend an ear,  
Obdurate they, and will not hear.  
What? ne'er a cavern ne'er a Grot  
To cover from the common Lot?  
No quite forgotten Hold, to lie  
Obscured, and pass the reckoning by?  
No— there's a quick all piercing Ey  
Can through the Earth's dark Centre pry,  
Search into th' bowels of the Sea,  
And comprehend Eternity.  
What shall we do then, when the voice  
Of the shrill Trump with strong fierce noise  
Shall pierce our ears, and summon all  
To th' Universe wide Judgment-Hall?  
What shall we do, we cannot hid,  
Nor yet that scrutiny abide:  
When enlarged Conscience loudly speaks,  
And all our bosom-secrets breaks;  
When flames surround, and greedy Hell  
Gapes for a Booty, (who can dwell  
With everlasting Burn!) when  
Irrevocable words shall pass on Men;  
Poor naked Men, who sometimes thought  
These frights perhaps would come to nought!  
What shall we do? we cannot run  
For Refuge, or the strict Judge shun.  
'Tis too late then to think what course to take,  
While we live here, we must Provision make.   

Virtus solamanet, caetera mortis erunt.  

I.  
NUnquam sitivi, quae vehit aureo  
Pactolus alveo flumina; quo magis  
Potatur Hermus, tanto avarae  
Mentis Hydrops sitibundus ardet.   

II.  
●rustrà caduci carceris incola  
Molirer Arces; quilibet angulus  
Sat ossa post manes reponet;  
Exiguum satis est Sepulchrum.   

III.  
Nil stemma penso, nil titulos moro●,  
Cerásve aviti sanguinis indices,  
Sunt ista fatorum, inque Leth●s.  
Naufragium paticntur undis.   

IV.  
Ergo i● quieto pectoris ambitu  
Quid Mens anhelas fulgura gloriae,  
Laudésque inanes, & loquacem  
Quae populi sedet ore, famam.   

V.  
Letho superstes gloria, som●ii  
Dulcedo vana est, fama malignior,  
Nil ta●git umbras, nec feretrum  
Ingreditur Popularis Aura.   

VI  
Mansura sector, sola sed invidi  
Expers Sepulchri sydera trajicit,  
Spernénsque fatorum tumultus  
Pellit humum generosa Virt●s.   

VII.  
Praeceps no vorum caetera meusium  
Consumet aetas, seráque temporis  
Delebit annosi vetustas  
Vtopi●ae nova Regna Lunae.    

Translated.  

I.  
I Never thirsted for the Golden Flood,  
Which o'er Pactolus' wealthy sands does roll,  
From whence the Covetous mind receives no good,  
But rather swells the dropsy of his Soul:   

II.  
On Palaces why should I set my mind,  
Imprisoned in this body's mouldering clay?  
‛ Er● long to poor six foot of Earth confined,  
Whose bones must crumble at the fatal day.   

III.  
Titles and Pedigrees what are they to me,  
Or honour gained by our Forefathers toil,  
The Sport of Fate, whose gaudiest Pageantry  
Lethe will wash out, dark Oblivion soil.   

iv  
Why then (my Soul) who fain wouldst be at ease;  
Should the World's glory dazzle thy bright Ey?  
Thyself with vain applause why shouldst thou please,  
Or dote on Fame, which Fools may take from Thee!   

V  
Praise after Death is but a pleasant dream,  
The Dead fare ne'er the worse for ill report;  
The Ghosts below know nothing of a Name,  
Nor ever Popular Caresses court,   

VI  
Give me the lasting Good, Virtue, that flies  
Above the Clouds, that tramples on dull Earth,  
Exempt from Fates tumultuous mutinies,  
Virtue, that cannot need a second Birth:   

VII.  
All other things must bend their heads to Tim●,  
By Ages mighty Torrent born away,  
Hereafter no more thought on than my Rhyme,  
Or Fa●ry Kingdoms in Utopia.    

The immovable  

SONG.  

I.  
WHat though the Sky be clouded o'er,  
And heavens Influence smile no more?  
Though Tempests rise, and Earthquakes make  
The giddy World's foundation shake?  
A gallant breast contemns the feeble blow  
Of angry Gods, and scorns what Fate can do,   

II.  
What if Alarms sounded be,  
And we must face our enemy,  
If Cannons bellow out a death,  
Or Trumpets woe away our breath?  
'Tis brave amidst the glittering Throng to die,  
Nay Samson like to fall with Company.   

III.  
Then let the Swordman domineer,  
I can, nor Pike, nor Musket fear;  
Clog me with Chains, your envies tyre,  
For when I will, I can expire;  
And when the puling fit of Life is gone,  
The worst that cruel man can do, is done.     

The Wish.  
SONG.  

I.  
NOt to the Hills where Cedars move  
Their cloudy heads, not to the grove  
Of Myrtles in th' Elysian shade,  
Nor Tempe which the Poets made;  
Not on the spicy mountains play,  
Or travail to Arabia:  
I aim not at the careful throne,  
Which Fortune's darlings sit upon;  
No, no, the best this fickle world can give  
Has but a little, little time to live.   

II.  
But let me soar, O let me fly  
Beyond poor Earth's benighted eye,  
Beyond the pitch swift eagle's tower,  
labove the reach of humane Power;  
Above the Stars, above the way,  
Whence Phoebus darts his piercing ray.  
O let me tread those Courts that are,  
So bright, so pure, so blest, so fair,  
As neither thou, nor I must never know  
On Earth 'tis thither, thither would I go.    

The Cordial. In the year 1657.  
SONG.  

I.  
DId you hear of the News (O the News) how it thunders!  
Do but see, how the block headed Multitude wonders!  
One fumes, & stamps, & stairs to think upon  
What others wish as fast, Confusion.  
One swears we're gone, another just a going,  
While a third sits and cries,  
Till his half blinded eyes,  
Call him pitiful Rogue for so doing.  
Let the tone be what 'twill that the mightyones utter,  
Let the cause be what 'twill why the poorer, sort mutter;  
I care not what your state confounders do,  
Nor what the stout repiners undergo:  
I cannot whine at any alterations;  
Let the Swed beat the Dane  
Or be beaten again,  
What am I in the crowd of the Nations?   

III.  
What care I if the North and South Poles come together;  
If the Turk, or the Pope's Antichristian, or neither;  
If fine Astraea be (as Naso said)  
From mortals in a peevish fancy fled:  
Rome, when 'twas all on fire, her people mourning▪  
'Twas an Emperor could stand  
With his harp in his hand  
Sing and play, while the City was burning.    

Celadon on Delia singing.  
O Delia! for I know 'tis she,  
It must be she, for nothing less could move  
My tuneless heart than something from Above  
I hate all earthly harmony:  
Hark, Hark ye Nymphs, and satyrs all around!  
Hark how the baffled Echo faints; see how she dies  
Look how the winged Choir all gasping lies  
At the melodious sound;  
See, while she sings  
How they droop and hang their wings!  
Angelic Delia sing no more,  
Thy songs too great for mortal ear;  
Thy charming notes we can no longer bear:  
O then in pity to the World give o'er,  
And leave us stupid as we were before.  
Fair Delia take the fatal choice,  
Or veil thy beauty, or suppress thy Voice.  
His Passions thus poor Celadon betrayed,  
When first he saw, when first he heard the lovely Maid.   

A Character of a Belly God.  Catius and Horace. Horace. 
WHence Brother Case, and whither bound so fast?  Ca 
Oh, Sir, you must excúse me I'm in haste,  
I dine with my (Lord Mayor) and can't allow  
Time for our eating Directory n●w,  
Though I must needs confess, I think my Rules  
Would prove Pythagoras and Plato Fools.  Hor. 
Grave Sir, I must acknowledge, 'tis a crime  
To interrupt at such a nick of time;  
Yet stay a little Sir, it is no Sin;  
You be to say Grace ere dinner can begin;  
Since you at food such Virtuoso are,  
Some Precepts to an hungry Poet spare.  Ca 
I grant you Sir, next pleasure taken in eating  
Is that (as we do call it) of repeating;  
I still have Kitching Systems in my mind,  
And from my Stomaches fumes a brain well lined,  Hor. 
Whence pray Sir learned you those ingenious Arts,  
From one at home, or hired from foreign parts?  Ca 
No names Sir (I beseech you,) that's foul ' play  
We ne'er name Authors, only what they say.  

1.  
" For Eggs choose long, the round are out of fashion  
" Unsavoury and distasteful to the Nation  
" ' E'er since the brooding Rump they're addle too,  
" In the long Egg lies Cock a-doodle-doo.   

2.  
" Choose Coleworts planted on a soil that's dry,  
" Even they are worse for th'wetting (verily!)   

3.  
" If friend from far shall come to visit, than  
" Say thou wouldst treat the wight with mortal Hen  
" Don't thou forthwith pluck of the cackling head  
" And impale Corpse on Spit assoon as dead;  
" For so she will be tough beyond all measure,  
" And friend shall make a trouble of a pleasure,  
" Steeped in good wine let her her life surrender,  
" OH then she'll eat most admirably tender.   

4.  
" Mushrooms that grow in meadows are the best,  
" For aught I know there's poison in the rest.   

5.  
" He that would many happy Summers see,  
" Let him eat Mulberries fresh off the Tree,  
" Gathered before the Sun's too high, for these  
" Shall hurt his stomach less than Cheshire Cheese.   

6.  
" Aufidius (had you done so t'had undone ye)  
" Sweetened his morning's● draughts of Sack-with Honey;  
" But he did ill, to empty veins to give  
" Corroding Potion for a Lenitive.   

7.  
" If any man to drink do thee in veigle in,  
" First whet thy whistle with some good Metheglin.   

8.  
" If thou art bound, and in continual doubt  
" Thou shalt get in no more till some get out,  
" The Muscle, or the Cockle will unlock  
" Thy body's trunk, and give a vent to knock;  
" Some say that Sorrel Steeped in Wine will do,  
" But to be sure, put in some Aloes too.   

9  
" All shellfish (with the growing Moon increased)  
" Are ever when she fills her Orb the best;  
" But for brave Oysters Sir. exceeding rare,  
" They are not to be met with every where;  
" Your Wall fleet Oysters no man will prefer  
" Before the juicy Grass-green Colchester;  
" Hungerford Crawfish match me if you can,  
" There's no such crawlers in the Ocean.   

10.  
" Next for your Suppers, you (it may be) think  
" There goes no more to't, but just eat and drink;  
" But let me tell you Sir, and tell you plain,  
" To dress 'em well requires a man of brain;  
" His Palate must be quick, and smart, and strong,  
" For sauce, a very Critic in the tongue.   

11.  
" He that pays dear for Fish, nay though the best,  
" May please his Fishmonger more than his Guest,  
" If he be ignorant what sauce is proper,  
" There's Machiavelli in th' Menage of a Supper.   

12.  
" For Swine's flesh, give me that of the wild Boar,  
" Pursued and hunted all the Forest o'er;  
" He to the liberal Oak ne'er quits his love,  
" And when he finds no Acorns, grunts at jove;  
" The Hampshire Hog with Pease and Whey that's fed  
" Stied up, is neither good alive nor dead.   

13.  
" The tendrils of the Vine are Salads good  
" If when they are in season understood.   

14.  
" If servants to thy board a Rabbit bring,  
" Be wise and in the first place carve a wing.   

15.  
" When Fish and Fowl are right, and at just age,  
" A feeders curiosity t'assuage,  
" If any ask, who found the Mystery?  
" Let him inquire no farther, I am he.   

16.  
" Some fancy bread out of the Oven hot,  
" Variety's the Glutton's happiest lot.   

17.  
" It's not enough the Wine you have be pure,  
" But of your Oil as well you ought be sure.   

18.  
" If any fault be in the generous Wine,  
" Set it abroad all night, and 'twill refine,  
" But never strain it, nor let it pass through linen,  
" Wine will be worse for that, as well as Women,   

19  
" The Vintner that of Malaga and Sherry  
" With damned ingredients patcheth up Canary,  
" With segregative things as Pigeons eggs  
" Straight purifies, and takes away the dregs.   

20.  
" An ' o'ercharged Stomach roasted shrimps will ease.  
" The Cure by Lettuce is worse than the disease.   

21.  
" To quicken appetite it will behoove ye  
" To feed courageously on good Anchovie.   

22.  
" Westphalia Ham, and the Bolognia Sausage;  
" For second or third course will clear a passage,  
" But Lettuce after meals! fie on't, the Glutton  
" Had better feed upon Ram●ally-Mutton.   

23.  
" ●Twere worth one's while in Palace or in cottage,  
" Right well to know the sundry sorts of Pottage;  
" There is your French Pottage, Nativity broth,  
" Yet that of Fetter lane exceeds them both;  
" About a limb of a departed Tup  
" There may you see the green herbs boiling up,  
" And fat abundance o'er the furnace float,  
" Resembling whale-oil in a greenland Boat.   

24.  
" The Kentish Pippin's best, I dare be bold,  
" That ever blew-cap Costard-monger sold.   

25.  
" Of Grapes, I like the Raisins of the Sun;  
" I was the First immortal Glory won,  
" By mincing Pickle Herrings with these Raisin▪  
" And Apples; 'Twas I set the world a gazing,  
" When once they ●asted of this Hogan Fish,  
" Pepper and Salt enamelling the dish.   

26.  
" 'Tis ill to purchase great Fish with great matter,  
" And then to serve it up in scanty platter;  
" Nor is it less unseemly some believe,  
" From Boy with greasy fist drink to receive;  
" But the cup soul within's enough to make  
" A squeamish creature puke and turn up stomach.   

27.  
" Than Brooms and Napkins and the Flander's Tile,  
" These must be had too, or the Feast you spoil,  
" Things little thought on, and not very dear,  
" And yet how much they cost one in a year!   

28.  
" Wouldst thou rub Alabaster with hands sable,  
" Or spread a Diaper cloth on dirty Table?  
" More cost, more worship: Come, be a la mode,  
" Embellish Treat, as thou wouldst do an Ode.   Hor. 
O learned sir, how greedily I hear  
This elegant Diatriba of good cheer!  
Now by all that's good, by all provant you love,  
By sturdy Chine of Beef, and mighty Jove,  
I do conjure thy gravity, let me see  
The man that made thee this discovery;  
For he that sees Original's more happy  
Than him that draws by an ill favoured Copy;  
O bring me to the man, I so admire!  
The Flint from whence broke forth these sparks of fire,  
What satisfaction would the visions bring?  
If sweet the stream, much sweeter is the spring.   

The Advice.  
SONG.  

I.  
POor Celia once was very fair  
A quick bewitching eye she had,  
Most neatly looked her braided hair,  
Her dainty cheeks would make you mad.  
Upon her lip did all the Grace's play,  
And on her breast ten thousand C●pids lay   

II.  
Then many a doting Lover came  
From seventeen till twenty one,  
Each told her of his mighty flame,  
But she (forsooth) affected none,  
One was not handsome, t'other was not fine,  
This of Tobacco smelled; and that of Wine.   

III.  
But t'other day it was my fate,  
To walk along that way alone,  
I saw no Coach before her gate,  
But at the door I heard her moan,  
She dropped a tear, and sighing seemed to say  
Young Ladies marry, Marry while you may!    

Psalm. 15. paraphrased.  

VERSE. 1.  
WHo shall approach the dread Iehova's Throne,  
Or dwell within thy Courts O Holy one!  
That happy man whose feet shall tread the road  
Up Sion's hill, that holy hill of God.   

VERSE 2.  
He that's devout and strict in all he does,  
That through the sinful world uprightly goes,  
The desperate heights from whence the great ones fall,  
(Giddy with same) turn not his head at all:  
Stands firm on Honour's pinnacle, and so  
Fears not the dreadful precipice below.  
Of Conscience not of Man he stands in awe,  
Just to observe each tittle of the Law!  
His words and thoughts bear not a double part,  
His breast is open, and he speaks his heart.   

VERSE 3.  
He that reviles not, or with cruel words,  
(Deadly as venom, sharp as two edged swords)  
Murders his friends repute, nor dares b●●ie●e,  
That rumour which his Neighbour's soul may grieve:  
But with kind words embalme's his bleeding Name,  
Wipes of the rust, and polishes his fame,   

VERSE IU.  
He in whose eyes the bravest sinners be  
Extremely vile, though robbed in Majesty;  
But if he spies a righteous man (though poor)  
Him he can honour, love, admire, adore,  
In Israel's humbled plains had rather stay,  
Than in the tents of Kedar bore the sway:  
He that severely keeps his sacred vow,  
No mental reservation dares allow;  
But what he swears, intends; will rather die,  
Lose all he has, then tell a solemn Ly.   

VERSE V.  
He that extorts not from the needy soul,  
When Laws his Tyranny cannot control;  
He whom a thousand Empires cannot hire,  
Against a guiltless person to conspire.   

He that has these perfections, needs no more  
What treasures can be added to his store:  
The Pyramids shall turn to dust, to hid  
Their own vast bulk, and haughty Founder's pride.  
Leviathan shall die within his deep,  
The eyes of heaven close in eternal sleep;  
Confusion may o'er whelm both sea, and land  
Mountains may tumble down, but he shall stand.    

JOB.  

FEw be the days, that feeble man must breathe,  
Yet frequent Troubles antedate his death:  
Gay like a flower he comes, which newly grown,  
Fades of itself, or is untimely mown:  
Like a thin aery shadow does he fly,  
Lengthening and shortening still until he die:  
And does jehova think on such a one,  
Does he behold him from his mighty throne?  
Will he contend with such a worthless thing,  
Or dust and Ashes into judgement bring?   

Unclean, unclean is man even from the womb  
Unclean he falls into his drowsy Tomb.  
Surely, he cannot answer God▪ nor be  
Accounted pure, before such purity.    

A Dialogue.  Orpheus and Eurydice. Orpheus. 
EVridice, my fair, my fair Eurydice!  
My love, my joy, my life, if so thou be  
In Pluto's Kingdom answer me, appear  
And come to thy poor Orpheus.—  Eur. 
Oh I hear  
I hear, dear Orpheus, but I cannot come  
Beyond the bounds of dull Elysium.  
I cannot—  Or. 
And why wilt thou not draw near?  
Is there within these Courts a shade so dear  
As he that calls thee?—  Eur. 
No, there cannot be  
A thing so lovely in mine eyes as thee.  Orph. 
Why comes not then Eurydice?—  Eur. 
The fates  
The fates forbidden, and these eternal Gates  
Never unbarred, to let a prisoner go  
Deny me passage, nay grim Cerberus too  
Stands at the door—  Or: 
But cannot then  
They that o'er Lethe go, return again?  Eur: 
Never oh never!—  Orp: 
Sure they may, let●s try  
If art can null the laws of Destiny.  
My Lays compacted Thebes, made every Tree  
Loosen its roots to caper, come let's see  
What thou and I can do?  Chor. 
Perchance the throng  
Of Ghosts may be enchanted with a song  
And moved to Pity.—  Eur. 
Hark the hinges move  
The Gate's unbarred, I come, I come my love.  Chorus amborum. 
'Twas music, only music could unspel  
Helpless, undone Eurydice from Hell.   

Nudus Redibo  
NAked I came when I began to be  
A man among the sons of misery,  
Tender, unarmed, helpless and quite forlorn  
ere since 'twas my hard fortune to be born;  
And when the space of a few weary days  
Shall be expired, then must I go my ways.  
Naked I shall return, and nothing have,  
N●thing wherewith to bribe my hungry grave.  
Then what's the proudest Monarch's glittering Robe,  
Or what's he more, than I, that ruled the Globe?  
S●nce we must all without distinction die,  
And slumber both stark naked, He and I.   

On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de Montluc. To the Worthy Translator Charles Cotton, Esq  
HE that would aptly write of warlike men,  
Should make his Ink of blood, a sword his Pen;  
At least he must their memories abuse,  
Who writes with less than Maro's mighty Muse:  
All (Sir) that I could say of this great Theme  
(The Brave Montluc) would lessen his esteem;  
Whose Laurels too much native verdure have,  
To need the Praises vulgar Chaplets crave:  
His own bold hand, what it durst write, durst do,  
Grappled with Enemies, and Oblivion too;  
Hewed his own Monument, and graved thereon,  
It's deep and durable inscription.  
To you (Sir) whom the valiant Author owes,  
His second Life, and Conquest o'er his Foes,  
Ill natured Foes, Time and Detraction,  
What is a Stranger's Contribution!  
Who has not such a share of vanity,  
To drea● that one, who with such industry  
Obliges all the world, can be obliged by me.   

The Disappointment.  
Pindaric Ode.  

STANZA I.  
OFt have I pondered in my pensive heart,  
When even from myself I've stolen away,  
And heavily considered many a day,  
The cause of all my anguish, and my smart:  
Sometimes besides a shady grove,  
(As dark as were my thoughts, as close as was my Love)  
Dejected have I walked alone,  
Acquainting scarce myself with my own moan.  
Once I resolved undauntedly to hear,  
What 'twas my Passions had to say,  
To find the reason of that uproar there,  
And calmly, if I could, to end the fray:  
No sooner was my resolution known  
But I was all-Confusion;  
Fierce Anger, flattering Hope, and black D●●pair,  
Bloody Revenge, and most ignoble Fear,  
Now altogether clamorous were,  
My breast a perfect Chaös grown,  
A mass of nameless things together hurled,  
Like th' formless Embryo of the unborn world,  
Just at its rousing from eternal night,  
Before the great Creator said, Let there be light.   

II.  
Thrice happy than are Beasts said I,  
That underneath these pleasant Covertsly,  
They only sleep, and eat, and drink,  
They never meditate, nor think;  
Or if they do, have not the unhappy art  
To vent the overflowings of their heart,  
They without trouble live, without disorder die,  
Regardless of Eternity.  
I said, I would like them be wise,  
And not perplex myself in vain,  
Nor by't the uneasy Chain.  
No not said I, I will Philosophise!  
And all th'ill natured World despise:  
But when I had reflected long,  
And with deliberation thought  
How few have practised, what they gravely taught,  
(Tho' 'tis but folly to complain)  
I judged it worth a generous disdain,  
And brave defiance in Pindaric Song.   

III.  
etc.   
FINIS.