EPIGRAMS OF All Sorts.  
I. BOOK.  
Written by RICHARD FLECKNOE.  
LONDON, Printed for the Author. 1669.   

TO HIS NOBLE FRIENDS, The Readers.  
EPigrams; In Verse are the same, as Characters in Prose; a short and easy kind of writing; and therefore most fit for me, who Love not long discourses, and cannot take pains in any thing; and if the Reader be of my disposition, I'm glad of it; for we shall well agree. I writ them to avoid Idleness and publish them to avoid the Impute of it; And as others write to live, after they are dead: I do it, not to be thought dead, whilst I am alive; for as to conceal what one does, little differs from Idleness; so so to be Idle, little differs from being dead.  
They are most of them newly writ, or newly published; And if any of them have been published before, there is somewhat added to them that makes them in manner new. To Dedicate them in particular to any one, were to do Injury to the rest; by appropriateing that, which should be in common amongst you all. Take them amongst you then, since they were chiefly writ for you; and if you like them, they are the First Book; if not, the Last, of  
Your humble Servant, RICHARD FLECKNOE.   

EPIGRAM In Praise of Epigrams.  
WIth Epigrams, just as with Music 'tis,  
Their chiefest Grace is in their Cadences,  
And point o'th' close; just like some Gentle Dart  
Does strike our Ears, as Love does strike our Heart.  
In every kind, be th'writing what it will,  
'Tis Epigram does most delight us still.  
And in its Wit consists the Harmony,  
And Beauty of 't, what ere the subject be.  
Poet's can't write, nor Orators declaim,  
But all their wit is chiefly Epigram:  
Nor any well discourse, but 'tis that which  
Does chiefly charm, and chiefly does bewitch  
To End, in Verse and Prose and every thing,  
Your Epigram is writing for a King.   

EPIGRAMS Of all Sorts.  

To a fair Lady, too confident of her Innocence.  
POor Innocent Beauty how it pities me!  
To see thee thus exposed to Calumny.  
Whilst men so vicious are, they won't allow  
That any can be fair and Virtuous now.  
In Saturn's reign perhaps it might suffice,  
When to be Innocent was to be wise,  
But now without the Serpent's wisdom too,  
The Innocence of the Dove will hardly do.  
Trust then no more to harmless Innocence,  
For you and Virtue, but a poor defence,  
For Innocence, but Virtue is unarmed,  
The more you trust unto't, the more you're harmed.   

To his Honourable Friend H. H.  
I Grant you, Sir, I have a mind unfit  
For my low Fortune, and too high for it,  
But sure you'll grant 'tis better, have it so  
Than for high Fortune, t'have a mind too low.  
I'm none of these same Cringing things that stoops  
Just like a Tumbler when he vaults through hoops,  
Or Daw, or Magpie, when at fruit it pecks,  
Alternately their Tails above their becks.  
If wealth i'th' vulgar way doth only lie  
For me, let low minds stoop for't min's too high  
Who ne'er thought any thing was truly wealth,  
That was below, or else without myself.  
Nor care I what the talking vulgar say  
For being not of their number, nor their way,  
They do but talk, and can't in judgement sit,  
Nor lies it in their verge to judge of it.  
I put myself upon the only few  
That is the best and worthiest, such as you.   

Who is the Richest and happiest man.  
WHo cares for nothing that he cannot have  
And nothing others can deprive him of,  
With no disquiet of a guilty Breast  
To break his sleep, or to disturb his rest;  
In state and fortune neither Rich nor poor,  
But has enough and does desire no more,  
And lives a life no Prince's smile nor frown  
Can either raise him up, nor throw him down,  
And neither hopes to rise, or fears to fall  
Is richest and the happiest man of all.   

On an Avaricious person.  
WHo wholly spends his Life in getting wealth,  
And to increase his store, consumes himself,  
Does no less Fool, than those to me appear,  
Who sell their Horse, to buy him Provender.   

On certain Ladies, who said, they liked not our old Wits.  
LAdies you like not our old wits, you say,  
And what new ones are those, you like, I pray?  
As Squibs and Crackers are to solid fire,  
So to the old, as th'new ones you admire.  
But 'tis the Nature of Green-sickness wits,  
As 'tis of your Green-sickness appetits,  
That in the Soul's, this in the Body's food,  
To like the bad, and to mislike the Good.  
And just as Heresy at first begun,  
With crying down the old Religion,  
So 'tis a kind of Heresy in you,  
To cry down old wits, and cry up the new.  
If so with your good leave, say what you will  
Of your new wits, I'm for the old ones still.   

On the death of Charles Lord Gerard of Bromley.  
WHo alive so far had been,  
He almost every Land had seen,  
And almost every thing did know,  
As man could in this World below.  
At last his knowledge to improve,  
Is gone unto the World above.  
Where his knowledge is so much;  
And his Happiness is such,  
Twoved Envy and not sorrow seem,  
In those too much should grieve for him.   

On Pen careless.  
SLighted by all, Pen said; she did not care  
For others more, than others did for her,  
If so she's happy, for I do not see  
Any one lives more free from Care, than she.   

On married Ministers.  
IF both it'h Spiritual and Temporal war,  
Your Wives but Baggages o'th' Armies are,  
We well may say, your Ministers who marry,  
Whilst others fight, do with the Baggage tarry.   

The Author of a Good Play not Acted, to the Author of an Ill one Acted.  
THeir wit and judgement's small, we well may say,  
By the acting or not acting, judge the Play,  
For 'tis not the act 〈…〉 ightly understood  
But writing makes the Play or bad or Good;  
If Good, like mine, it is the Actor's fault,  
And not the Writers, if they act it not,  
But if't be bad, like thine, then if they do,  
'Tis both the Actors and the Writers too.   

To Mis: Davies, on her Excellent dancing.  
DEar Mis: delight of all the nobler sort;  
Pride of the Stage and darling of the Court,  
Who would not think to see thee dance so light,  
Thou were't all air? or else all soul and spirit?  
Or who'd not say to see thee only tread,  
Thy feet were feathers! others feet but lead?  
Athlanta well could run, and Hermes flee,  
But none ere moved more Gracefully, than thee;  
And Circe's charmed with wand and Magic lore,  
But none, like thee, ere charmed with Feet before.  
Thou Miracle! whom all men must admire  
To see thee move like air, and mount like fire.  
Who ere would follow thee or come but nigh  
To thy perfection, must not dance but fly.   

AEnigma. On the Name of a fair Lady.  
HEr first name somewhat of Elysium has,  
Her second is (in a more mystic phrase)  
That colour which shows venerable Age,  
And does it'h morning a fair day presage;  
Unriddle now and tell whose name this is,  
Or forfeit a discretion, if you miss.   

On Mrs. A. C. blushing when the King looked on her.  
SO Roses blush when looked on by the Sun,  
As Cicilanna when the King looks on,  
And so of all fair Things, we nothing see  
More fair in Nature, than the Rose and she.  
If things take name from their Original,  
We well her blushes Royal ones may call;  
And if tha've lost the Royal purples slain,  
It in her cheeks may well be found again,  
Mean Time as Excellent matter best does fit  
An excellent Artisan to work on it,  
The King could ne'er have found a fitter place  
To look upon, than Cicilanna's face.   

The dedication of his Book of Characters to his Majesty.  
VOuchsafe Great Sire on these to cast your sight,  
Made chiefly for your Majesty's delight,  
By one has cast off all Ambition  
But pleasing and delighting you alone.  
Counting it, highest honour can befall  
To delight him, who's the delight of all.   

On Madam Master.  
OF Madam it may well be said,  
That Madam has but little wit,  
Since Madam's Husband is her head,  
And Madam makes a Fool of it.   

On Doctor Cornuto.  
WHo so famous was of late,  
He was with finger pointed at,  
What cannot learning do and single state?  
Being married, he so famous grew  
As he was pointed at with two,  
What cannot learning and a wife now do?   

To Clarissa.  
ANd why Clarissa so much pains and care  
To gain repute of beautiful and fair?  
When without all this Care and all this pain,  
You have already what you strive to gain:  
Beauty and Truth need so small setting forth  
As all you add to't, takes but from its worth,  
And the Sun and you need far more Art to hide  
Your Glittering beams, than make them more espied.  
All other Arts in you would show as poor  
As his should seek to giled Gold Ingots o'er,  
And you'd appear, as vain in it, as they  
Should go about to Blanche the milky way.  
No, no, you're fair enough, leave unto those  
These petty Arts, whose Beauty's chief clothes,  
So Politics when th' Lion's skin does fail,  
Do use to piece it with the Fox's Tail,  
But when th'ave Lions skin enough, 'tis poor  
And beggarly, to add a piece to't mote   

On those who sell their Liberty for a little Gain.  
WHilst those for wealth do sell their Liberty,  
Call't Angling for the Golden Fish, for me,  
Loving my Liberty as I do, I look  
Upon't, as fishing with a Goldenhook.   

To the truly Noble Lord.  
EVen such a person, such a mind, as thine  
Brave Hero, Emperors had in ancient time,  
When choosing men for Empire only fit,  
The bravest mind and person carried it.  
And now, although the Times be changed, we see,  
They make their Favourites still of such, as thee,  
Whom for their noble persons and their mind,  
They best and fittest for Employment find.  
So howsoe'er the World goes, thou at least  
Shalt always be the best, or nigh the best.   

The Lives of the Patrons.  
FIrst of all they never care  
Nor for Clock nor Calendar,  
Next they ne'er desire to know  
How affairs o'th' World do go.  
Above all, they ne'er resort  
To the busy Hall nor Court,  
Where poor men do nothing else  
But trouble others and themselves.  
All the business they look after,  
Only is their sport and Laughter,  
With a friend, and cheerful cup  
Merrily to dine and sup,  
Hear good Music, see a Play,  
Thus they pass the Time away.   

Of an Epicure.  
HE's one, of nothing else does think,  
But only of Good cheer and drink,  
And never is in better mood  
Than when you talk of drink and food.  
Who for his palate and his gust  
Has quite forgot all other lust,  
And hugs a bottle, as he would  
a Mistress, when the Wine is good.  
Who lays about him like a Giant  
When he meets a morsel fryand.  
And so long does cram his Gut  
He's nothing else from head to foot▪  
When you such an one do see  
For many a year ne'er saw his knee,  
And now scarce sees at all, be sure  
That such an one's an Epicure.   

On the Play, of she would, if she could, To the Duke of N.  
TO tell you what I think of Etridg Play  
Since you command this, I will only say,  
Th'as sparks of wit, as much as you'd desire,  
But sparks alone, as far from solid fire.  
In former days none ever went away  
But with a glowing bosom from a Play,  
With somewhat they had heard or seen, so fired  
You'd think they were Celestially inspired.  
●ow you have only a few light conceits  
●ike squibs and crackers, neither warms nor heats,  
But cause at best a little giggling laughter  
Which quickly passed, makes you but colder after.  
●o hard 'tis now for any one to write  
With Johnson's fire, or Fletcher's flame and spirit.  
Much less Inimitable Shakspear's way  
Promethean-like to animate a Play.   

On our late Prologue and Epilouge.  
AS Horse-coursers their Horses set to sale  
With Ribbons on their foreheads and their tail,  
So most o'th' Poet's wit lies now a days  
it'h Prologue and the Epilouge of their Plays.   

On the Poetess.  
'tWas wonder knowing the Poet they should press,  
And run so far to see his Poetess,  
But 'twas no wonder seeing it, at last  
They pressed and ran away from it, as fast.   

Epitaph on the same.  
UNder this Stage together with Queen Bess,  
Deeply entombed here lies the Poetess,  
'tis fit such Plays for obsequies should have  
Actors for Mourners, and the Stage for Grave.   

Question On a Lady's letting Blood.  
OF this just mixture and equality  
Of water and blood what should the Reason be?  
The Reasons clear, forced to part with her  
Each drop of blood for grief did shed a Tear.   

On the Lady Rockingham's Nursing her Children herself.  
HOw like to Charity this Lady stands  
With one Child sucking, t'other in her hands  
Whilst bounteous Nature Mother of us all,  
Of her fair Breasts is not more Liberal.  
Those Parents, but half Mothers are at best  
Who whilst they give their wombs, deny their breast  
And none true Mothers are, but such as you  
Who when th'ave brought them forth, do Nurse them too.  
Mirror of Mothers! In whom all may see  
By what you are, what they themselves should be,  
Ready, like Pelicans for children's good,  
To give their very lives and vital blood.  
And if that milk be only blood turned white  
You show yourself great Strafford's daughter right,  
Both alike ready for the Kingdom's good,  
You for to give your milk, as he his blood.   

On Simple.  
SImple kept much ado, and much offence  
He took for saying, he scarce had common sense,  
Till saying, he had, and very Common too,  
He was well pleased, and made no more ado.   

In Execration of small Beer.  
NOw pox and plague to boot on this same small-  
Beer, we may well the Devil's Julip call,  
distilled i'th' Limbeck of some Lap-land witch  
With North winds bellows blowing in her breech,  
Or stale of some old Hag o'th' Marshes, who  
Than water never better Liquor knew.  
A penitential drink for none by right  
But those it'h ' morning who were drunk o'er night.  
Sure 'twas the poison, (as we well may think)  
They gave Condemned Socrates to drink,  
Or that the Macedonian drunk, so cold  
As nothing but an Ass' hoof could hold.  
They were deceived it was not Niobe's moan,  
But drinking small-beer turned her unto stone.  
And that which since Infallibly has made  
Our Charity so cold, and the world so bad.  
If then Divines would mend it, let them preach  
'Gainst small-beer only, and no Doctrine teach  
But drinking wine, and then we soon should see  
All in Religion easily would agree.  
This were a study worthy of the pains  
Of breaking both their own and others brains,  
This were a Doctrine worthy of their heat,  
And furious beating the pulpit, till they sweat.   

In the Small pox.  
THou greatest Enemy that Beauty has,  
The very Goth and Vandal of a face,  
On which thou mak'st as bad or worse work  
Than does thy fellow Meazels upon Pork,  
What Execration can be enough  
For one like thee is long since all curse-proof?  
For should we bid the Plague on thee, that curse  
Thou Anticipased already, for thou'rt worse,  
Or great Pox on thee, we should Curse, but ill,  
Since thou'rt more great in being the small Pox sti●●  
Be still thyself then, but for ever be  
Banished all fair and gentle Company  
To live with Beasts, as Horses, Dogs and Swin●  
Or Divel's, old Companions of thine.   

To Sir K. D. Recommending a Memorial to him in Italy, during our Troubles here.  
I Must beg of you, Sir, nay, what is more,  
'tis a Disease so Infectious to be poor,  
Must beg, you'd beg for me, which whilst I do,  
What is't but even to make you beggar too?  
But povety being as honourable now  
As 'twas when Cincinnatus held the plough,  
Senators sowed and reaped, and who had been  
In Car of Triumph, fetched the Harvest in.  
Whilst mightiest Peers do want, nay, what is worse  
Even greatest Princes live on others purse,  
And very Kings themselves are Beggars made  
No shame for any, Sir, to be o't'h' Trade.   

On the Riches of the Barbados to Col. Henry Drax.  
HOw rich Barbados is, and how much worth,  
We well may see by Sugars, it brings forth,  
Of all the rest, the Richest Merchandise.  
And if by th' pattern, we may judge o't'h' piece,  
How Rich it is in men, we well may see  
By bringing forth brave Drax such men as thee.   

Of the difference of Travellers.  
AS Bees and Spiders by their different powe●  
Suck Hony and poison from the selfsame flowe●  
So there no less a difference doth appear  
Betwixt the wise and foolish Traveller,  
Whilst t'one makes wise Election of the best  
Of every thing he sees, and leavs the rest:  
Tother as foolishly does only choose  
The worst of things, and better still refuse,  
T'one brings their Virtue's home, t'other again  
Their Vices, only brings along with him.   

On a Hector, beaten and dragged through the Streets by the Watch and Constable.  
STill to be dragged! still to be beaten thus!  
Hector, thy name (I fear) is ominous,  
And thou for fight didst but ill provide,  
To take thy name thus from the beaten side.  
To have every watch like Band of Myrmidons,  
Beat thee with Halberds down, and break thy bone●  
And every petty Constable thou meets  
Achylles-like to drag thee through the streets.  
Poor Hector, when thou'rt beaten blind and lam●  
I hope thou'lt learn to take another name.   

Somewhat to Mr. I. A. On his Excellent Poem of Nothing.  
OF nothing, nothing's made they say, but show  
By what thou'st writ, disprov'st that saying now,  
And provest thyself maker of Poems right,  
Canst out of Nothing bring such one's to light,  
Which I (as Creatures, him who does create)  
Only on somewhat dully imitate.  
Mean time at least say all they can again it,  
I hope they needs must say there's somewhat in it.  
Or granting it, as good as Nothing be  
The greater honour still, for it and me.   

A Rural Dialogue.  Cho. 
ONce a Nymph and Shepherd meeting,  
Never passed there such a Greeting,  
Nor was heard 'twixt such a pair  
Plainer dealing, than was there.  
He scorns Women, and she men,  
He slights her, she him again.  
Words with words wer'e overthwarted  
Thus they meet, and greet, and parted.  Shep. 
He who never takes a Wife,  
Lives a most Contented Life.  Nim. 
She, her whole Contentment loses  
Who a Husband ever chooses.  Shep. 
I of Women know too much,  
Ere to care for any such.  Nim. 
I of men too much do know  
To care where ere you do or no.  Shep. 
Since y'are so resolved, farewell,  
Look, you lead not Apes in Hell.  Nim. 
Better lead Apes thither, than  
Thither to be led by men.  Shep. 
Be ruled, and do, but as they bid you.  
They to Paradise would lead you,  Nim. 
To Fool's Paradise; 'tis true,  
Woven they, but be ruled by you.  Cho. 
Thus they parted as they met,  
Hard to say, who best did get,  
Or of Love was least afraid,  
When being parted, either said  Ambo. 
Love, what Fools, thou mak'st of men,  
When theyare in thy power! but when  
From thy power they once are free,  
Love, what a Fool men make of thee!   

To story, of the meeting of Love and Death.  
LOve and Death o't'h' way once meeting,  
Having past a friendly greeting,  
Sleep their weary Eyelids closing,  
Lay them down themselves reposing.  
Love whom divers cares molested,  
Could not sleep, but whilst Death rested,  
All in haste away he posts him,  
But his haste full dearly costs him.  
For it chanced that going to sleeping,  
They had given their Darts in keeping,  
Unto Night, who Error's Mother  
Blindly knowing, not t'one from tother.  
Gave Love, Death's and ne'er perceived it,  
Whilst as blindly Love received it.  
Since which Time their Darts confounding:  
Love now kills instead of wounding.  
Death our hearts with sweetness filling,  
Gently wounds instead of killing.   

Epithalamium, Or a Nuptial Song for the marriage of the Lord Brackley with the Lady Elizabeth Cranfield.  

THe fairest Flower of Cranfield's race,  
And noblest branch of Egerton,  
Accompanied with every Grace,  
By Hymen now are joined in one.   

Go happy youth, and taste a bed  
The pleasures fair Eliza. yields,  
By far surpassing all that's said  
O'th' pleasures of the Elysian fields.   

And fair Eliza. be'nt afraid  
O'th' bugbears of a married life,  
Those Fears which haunt you now a Maid,  
Will vanish soon, when y'are a Wife.   

And when y'are once a Mother grown,  
Such Joy they in their place shall leave,  
Can ne'er be exprost by human Tongue,  
Nor human heart can e'er conceive!    

To George Duke of Albermarle.  
IF others have their honours well deserved,  
Who nobly have their King and Country served▪  
None ever yet deserved them more, than you,  
Who have not only served, but saved them too.   

In Recommending the Acting of a Play out of the French, unto his Majesty.  
Most Royal Sir,  
THis Play won't Court the Actors, and much less  
To any others humbly make address.  
'Twas made for you, and has the Ambition  
To owe its Acting unto you alone.  
All other Courtship and address is poor,  
'tis pure Moliere, I need to say no more.   

Prologue. For the Revival of his damoisels, a-la-mode.  
THis Play of ours just like some Vest or Jupe,  
Worn twice or thrice, was carefully laid up,  
And after a little while it so had lain,  
Is now brought forth, as good as new again.  
For having the Honour of our Master's sight,  
And happiness of giving him delight.  
Our Author thought his business was done,  
But great part of our business is to come.  
He only looks after the pleasure of it,  
But we must look as well, unto our profit.  
He cared but for an Audience or two,  
But if we could, we'd every day have new.  
And to conclude, he had his end again,  
In pleasing those, who only saw it then,  
But we must please you now, or we'd be sorry,  
Since only for that end w'ave kept it for ye.   

On Sir Critic.  
WHilst thou on every one so fast dost spend  
Thy Judgement as 'twou'd never have an end,  
Prithee take heed thou spend it not so fast,  
To leave thyself no Judgement at the last.   

On the same.  
'tIs but a Cruel sport for men to go  
To th' Theatre, as to Bear-bayting they do,  
And Bandog-like to fall upon the Play,  
Worry the Poet, and then go away,  
As they some great and mighty Act had done,  
When every day, Dogs do as great an one.   

On the Play of Periocles Prince of Tyre.  
Are longa, vita brevis, as they say,  
But who Inverst that saying, made this Play.   

On the Duchess of Newcastles Closet.  
What place is this! looks like some sacred Cell,  
Where holy Hermits anciently did dwell.  
And never left Importunating Heaven,  
Till some great Blessing unto Earth was given?  
Is this a Lady's Closet, it can't be?  
For nothing here of vanity we see,  
Nothing of Curiosity, or pride  
As most of Lady's Closets have beside.  
Scarcely a Glass or Mirror in't you find,  
Excepting Books, the Mirrors of the mind.  
Nor is't a Library, but only as she  
Makes each place where she comes, a Library.  
Here she's in Rapture, here in Ecstasy,  
With studying high and deep Philosophy.  
Here those clear lights descend into her mind,  
Which by reflection in her Books we find.  
And those high Notions and Ideas too,  
Which, but herself, no Woman ever knew.  
Whence she's her Sex's Ornament, and Grace,  
And Glory of her Time, hail Sacred place!  
To which the World in aftertimes shall come,  
As unto Homer's shrine, or Virgil's Tomb,  
Honouring the Walls, in which she made abode,  
The air she breathed, and ground on which she trod.  
So Fame rewards the Arts, and so again  
The Arts reward all those who honour them,  
Whilst who in any other hopes do trust,  
Shall after Death lie in forgotten dust.   

To Mr. Henry Jermin on occasion of some demanding, why he had no higher Titles.  
STill Noble, Gallant, Generous and brave!  
What more of Titles would these people have?  
Or what can they imagine more to express  
How great thou art, that would not make thee less?  
He, who is proud of other Titles, is  
Proud of a thing, that's fortune's, none of his,  
A thing, that's but the Title-page o'th' Book,  
On which your Ignorant Vulgar only look,  
Or garnishment of dishes, not to eat,  
But only▪ better to set off the meat.  
Thou envy'st none their honours, but wouldst be  
Sorry they should deserve them more, than thee.  
And 'twere in thee, but vain Ambition,  
To seek by other Titles to be known.  
When Harry Iermin's name alone affords  
As great and loud a sound as any Lords.  
Be still Thyself then, and let others be  
High as they list in place, what's that to thee?  
Their worth's without, but Thine is all within,  
And man 'tis fills the place, but worth fills him.  
The Title of a worthy person's more  
Than all the rest the World does so adore.  
And there's no Office we may greater call,  
Than doing of Good offices to all.  
This is Thy Office, these Thy Titles are,  
Let who's will take the rest, thou dost not care.   

In one who slandered a fair and virtuous Lady.  
THou Enemy of all that's fair and bright,  
As fowls of darkness are unto the Light.  
Monster of Monsters! Basilick of spite,  
Who killest with Tongue, as t'other does with sight.  
Slanderer of Ladies, and of them the best,  
thoust done an Art which all men must detest.  
BeautiesBeauties a thing Divine, and he that would  
Wrong that, would wrong Divinity, if he could.  
Whence thouart not only highly injurious,  
But impious too, in slandering of her thus.  
Who takes our wealth, does but as Robbers do,  
Who takes our Farms, robs us and kills us too.  
And's worse, than he who does another slay,  
He takes but Life, thou life of life away.  
The Soul of honour, and with poisonous breath,  
Wouldst if thou couldst, even kill them after death.  
But I mistake, it is no infamy  
To be calumniated by such as thee.  
Thou rather praisest her against thy will,  
As he who cured by chance, whom he would kill.  
For 'tis the same thing, rightly understood,  
To be dispraised by th' bad, as praised by th' good.   

On Mistress Stuart.  
STuart, a Royal name that springs  
From Race of Caledonian Kings.  
Whose Virtuous mind and Beauteous Frame,  
Adds honour to that Royal name.  
What praises can I worthy find,  
To celebtate thy Form and mind?  
The greatest power that is on earth,  
Is given to Princes by their Birth.  
But there's no power in Earth nor Heaven,  
More great, than what's to Beauty given.  
Thât makes not only men relent,  
When unto Rage and Fury bend,  
But Lion's tame, and Tigers mild,  
All fierceness from their breasts exiled.  
Such wonders yet could ne'er be done  
By beauty's force and power alone,  
Without the power and force to boot,  
O● excellent goodness added to't.  
For just, as Jewels we behold,  
More brightly shine, when set in Gold,  
So Beauty shines far brighter yet  
In Goodness, and in Virtue set.  
Continue then but what you are,  
So Excellently Good, and Fair,  
Let Princes by their birthright's sway,  
You'll have a power, as great as they.   

On Mistress Stuarts dancing in Whitehall, all shining with jewels.  
SO Cytherea in th' Olympic Hall,  
And rest o'th' Stars dance their Celestial Ball,  
As Stuart with the rest o'th' Nymphs does here,  
The brightest Glories of the British sphere.  
Who would not think her Heaven, to see her, thus  
All shine with Starry Jewels as she does?  
Or somewhat more than Heaven, to see her Eyes  
Outshine the Starry Jewels of the Skies?  
Only their splendor's so exceeding bright,  
Th' Excess confounds and blinds us with the sight,  
Just as the Sun, who's bright to that degree,  
Nothing is more, nothing less seen, than he.  
Mean time the rapid motion of the Spheres,  
Is not so sweet and ravishing, as hers,  
Nor is't the Harmony makes her dance, but she  
In dancing, 'tis that makes the Harmony.  
Next to divinest Cynthia, Queen of Light,  
Never was seen a Nymph more fair and bright.  
Nor ever shall mongst all her Starry Train  
Though those in Heaven should all come down again.   

On Mistress Stuarts Marriage with the Duke of Richmond.  
THe brightest Nymph of all Diana's Train,  
For whom so many sighed, and sighed in vain,  
She who so oft had others Captive made  
And who so oft o'er others triumphed had.  
Is Venus Captive now herself, and led  
In Triumph to the Noble Richmond's bed.  
Nor is it strange to see about her fly  
As many Cupids as are Stars i'th' Sky,  
As many Graces as are Sands i'th' Sea,  
Nor yet as many Venus' as they;  
But to behold so many Virtue's throng  
About a Nymph so Beautiful and young,  
Is strange indeed to admiration!  
And Joy and Gladness too of every one.  
But now whilst so much Joy and Gladness is,  
To see how mighty jove does frown at this,  
Is stranger yet! and does too clearly prove,  
theyare near to-Thunder, who are near to jove.  
Oh may he think amongst his milder thoughts,  
How Godlike▪ 'tis to pardon Mortals faults,  
And how of all the rest, the faults of Love  
Lest move the Anger of the Gods above.   

Of Friends and Foes.  

JUst as a Friend and Foe should go about  
To paint Antigonus, whose one Eye was out.  
Which at half Face, either to show or hide,  
T'one turns his blind, t'other his better side.  
So betwixt Friends and Foes men are expressed,  
By halfs set forth, whilst they conceal the rest.   

No man's so bad, as Foes depaint him would,  
No man, as Friends would make him, half so good.    

To Lily drawing the Countess of Castlemains Picture.  

STay daring man, and ne'er presume to draw  
Her Picture, till thou mayst such colours get,  
As Xerxes and Apelles never saw,  
Nor ere were known by any Painter yet.   

Till from all Beauties thou extract'st the Grace.  
And from the Sun, the Beams, that giled the Skies,  
Never presume to draw her beauteous face,  
Nor paint the Radiant brightness of her Eyes.   

In vain the whilst thou dost the labour take,  
Since none can set her forth to her desert;  
She who's above all, nature ere did make,  
much more's above all, can be made by Art.   

Yet been't discouraged, since who ere does see't,  
At least with Admiration must confess  
It has an air for charming and for sweet,  
Much more, than others though than her's much less.   

So those bold Giants, who would scale the Sky,  
Although they in their high attempt did fall,  
This comfort had they, mounted yet more high  
Than those who never strove to climb at all.   

Comfort thee then, and think it no disgrace,  
From that great height a little to decline,  
Since all must grant the Reason of it was  
Her too great Excellence, and no want of Thine.    

On a fair and virtuous Lady's embracing a Religious Life.  
A Gentle Shepherdess as ere did tread  
Upon the Plains, whereon her flocks were fed,  
Inspired by him who all good thoughts inspires,  
Felt in her breast, till than unfelt desires,  
To taste Heavens pleasures, since the Earth had none,  
A Soul in longing, long could feed upon.  
But changing one, weary of the first,  
She found the latter pleasure still, the worst.  
And so went still deluded in her mind,  
Seeking for that which she could never find.  
This Infant thought with pious care she fed,  
And with Religious Education bred.  
Giving it now an aspiration,  
Or wish for that blessed Life to feed upon,  
And now a sigh, and now a Tear again,  
Never to have known that blessedness, till then.  
Avoiding carefully those Rocks and Shelves,  
On which so many Souls had wracked themselves,  
Those two extremes on which so many fall,  
To undertake too much, or nought at all,  
For 'tis with newborn Children of desire,  
As 'tis with sparks you kindle unto fire,  
Starved with too little fuel 'twill not light,  
Oppressed with too much, 'tis extinguished quite,  
And now she's all a fire, happiness be  
Fair Virgin to thy blessed desires, and thee,  
So full, so high, so great a happiness,  
As nothing can be more that is not less,  
Nothing beyond, but down the Hill again,  
And all Addition rather loss than gain.  
By glad Experience mayst thou find all store  
Of heart's contentment thou expectest, and more,  
And learn that Magic of Religion there,  
Makes every thing quite contrary appear,  
To you than unto us, Rich poverty  
Triumphant sufferance, brave Humility.  
Soft hardness, hardness difficulties slight,  
Sweet bitterness, and heaviest burdens light.  
Ease in your labour, pleasure in your pain,  
A Heaven on Earth, and all things else but vain.    

Pious EPIGRAMS To her MAJESTY.  

Of the Force and Efficacy of Prayer.  

HEaven is God's Throne, and Earth his Footstool is,  
To that on wings of Prayer, Souls fly from this,  
Where they almost Omnipotent become  
By being joined to the Almighty's Throne,  
To this height (Madam) from your Infancy  
Your Majesty by Prayer was taught to fly,  
In Company of those, to whom 'tis given  
To have their Conversation in Heaven,  
Where those stupendious Miracles are wrought  
Surpass all human force and human thought,  
And if Heaven suffer violence, from whence  
But only Prayer, proceeds this violence?   

there's nothing then that England may despair  
To obtain of Heaven by Katherina's Prayer,  
Let us have faith in her, but to confide,  
And she has faith enough for all beside.    

Of Easter and Christmas.  
OF Easter a great word was said  
This is the Day the Lord has made:  
Of Christmas now a greater word,  
This is the Day that made the Lord.   

On the Magii's following the Star.  
YOur other Magii knew that every Star  
In Heaven, was greater than this world by far  
But now so well professed what they'd known  
As these, who left the World to follow one.   

On these words of our B. S. be ye perfect.  
YOu bid us to be perfect, Lord, and we  
Continue still imperfect, as you see,  
What should we say, O Lord, but only this,  
Give what you bid, and bid us what you please.   

On these other words, O Woman great is thy Faith!  
O Lord when shall our Faiths be praised thus  
And we deserve to have thus much said of us  
Others count all things possible to thee,  
We nothing possible but what we see,  
They more to Faith, than Senses credit give,  
We more our Senses, than our Faith believe,  
They believe all, we but believe by halfs,  
Their Faiths are Giants, our Faiths only dwarves   
FINIS.   


On these Words of our B. S. I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.  
O LORD,  
THou art the Way, the Truth, and Life, thou sayest;  
As well thou may'st.  
What Fool is he then, would forsake the Way,  
To go astray?  
What Fool is he, who would the Truth refuse,  
And Falsehood choose?  
But oh! 'bove all, what Fool and mad-man's he  
Would forsake thee?  
The only Eternal Life, and choose to die  
Eternally!   

The saying of a certain Holy-man.  
MY God, and I, can all things do said one  
And if it seem too great presumption  
To name on's self with God, 'tis without doubt  
A greater yet, to name on's self without.   

On Adam's Fall.  
THose who deny freewill to man, I would  
When Adam fell, they could have made it good.   

The pleasure of doing Good.  
DO Good with pain, this pleasure in't you find,  
The pain's soon past, the Good remains behind.  
Do Ill with pleasure, this y'ave for your pains,  
The pleasure passes, and the Ill remains.   

In Contemplation of our B. S. Crucified.  
O God And wouldst thou die for me!  
And shall I nothing do for thee?  
But still continne to offend,  
So good a Lord, so dear a Friend.  
Had any Prince done this for thee,  
What wondering at it would there be!  
But since 'tis God that does it, thou  
Dost never wonder at it now.  
Strange! that one should more esteem  
A Grace or Gift, that's given to him  
By Earthly Kings, than what is given  
Unto him by the King of Heaven!   

On Man's Audaciousness, who dares offend Almighty God.  
Whilst some admire young Cato in story so,  
Durst offend those who threatened for to throw  
Him down to th'ground; I more admire them who  
Dare offend God, not only threatens to▪  
Throw them to th'ground; but what more fearful is,  
Even to th'pit o'th' bottomless Abiss.   

On our Passions.  
passions like Fire and Water are, and they  
Good Servants, but ill Masters are, they say;  
Govern them then, if thou wouldst Master be;  
If rather Servant, let them govern thee.   

On the Death of Beatrix Duchess of Lorain.  
SHe who alive, all Virtue and Beauty was,  
T'one, in her Heart, and t'other in her Face;  
Now she's dead, just reason w'ave to fear,  
Lest Virtue and Beauty all be dead with her.   

To the Right Honourable the Lord Henry Howard of Norfolk.  
IT is not Travel makes the man, 'tis true  
Unless a man Travelled (my Lord) like you;  
In putting off himself, and putting on  
The best of every Country where they come,  
Their language, fashions, manners, & their use,  
Purged of the dross, and stripped of the abuse.  
Whilst y'ur pied traveller, who nothing knows  
Of other Nations fashions but their Clothes,  
And learns their Language but as Parrots do,  
Only perchance a broken word or two;  
Goes, and returns just as he went again,  
By carrying still himself along with him.  
Mean time your own, and other Countries too,  
In this agree, That chiefly such as you  
Are honoured by their Country when at home;  
And honour of it, when abroad they come.   

Of the Choice of Friends.  
WE ought to shame, each common Carver should  
More choice & careful be in choosing wood  
To make their statuas of, than we of men  
To make our friends of, try, and prove them then,  
And know each one is not for friendship good,  
No more than Mercury's made of every wood;  
A friend is rarely found, and just as one  
Who is of every Trade is good for none:  
So he who every one a friend does call,  
Shall find in time of need, no friend at all.   

To his Royal Highness the Duke of York, Returning from our Naval Victory, An. 1665.  
MOre famous and more great than e'er  
Caesar or Alexander were!  
What those great Heroes could not do,  
Thou hast both done, and outdone too.  
Till Empire of the Seas we get,  
No Victory can be complete;  
For Land and Seas make but one Ball,  
They had but half, thou hast it all:  
Great Prince the Honour of our days,  
And utmost bound of human praise!  
Increased in stile, we well may call  
You now the whole World's Admiral:  
Whilst mighty Charles with Trident stands,  
And like some God, the Seas commands.  
Having so gloriously o'ercome,  
What now remains but to come home;  
More famous and more great than e'er  
Caesar, or Alexander were!   

To his Highness' Prince Rupert on the same.  
GReat and Heroic Prince, surpassing far  
Him, who was styled the Thunderbolt of Warr!  
Whilst with thy mighty courage we compare  
But others petty ones; methinks they are  
Like Dwarves compared to Giants; or at Sea  
Like little Schiffs to some huge Argosy  
Well for the World the whilst, thou dost not find  
Employment equal to thy mighty mind;  
With th' Macedon else it would as little seem  
Unto thee now, as than it did to him.  
Greatest Example of Heroic worth,  
As ever yet this latter Age brought forth!  
As formerly the Land of Britain was,  
So now the Sea's too narrow for thy praise:  
And 'twill in time become the work alone,  
Of Ecstasy and Admiration!  
Great and Heroic Prince surpassing far,  
Him who was styled the Thunderbolt of War!   

Of an unworthy Nobleman.  
SEe you yond thing, that looks as he would cry  
I am a Lord, a mile ere you come nigh.  
Look on him well, & you'd scarce find enough  
In the whole man, to make a Lackey of.  
As when a Dwarf's dressed up in Giant's clothes,  
Greater he'd seem, the lesser still he shows;  
Or petty statuas on tall Bases set,  
Their heights but only make them seem less great  
So when they in themselves have real worth,  
Titles show handsomely, and set them forth,  
When they have none, their Titles makes them show  
But less, & more contemptible and low.   

The Mock-Lover.  
SONG.  

OF all your Fools, your Lover  
Does greatest Folly discover;  
Who's alway's crying and weeping,  
Like Schoolboys after a whipping.  
So long as they're merry,  
One's never a weary:  
But still to be whining and puling,  
And still to be sad,  
As if they were mad,  
Is neither good Loving nor Fooling.   

Your Natural Fools we pity;  
And delight in those that are witty;  
But those who are Fools for Love,  
Nor delight, nor pity do move.  
These only are Toys  
For Girls and for Boys.  
And never move to compassion,  
When Lovers are wise,  
And Cupid has Eyes,  
They'll love in another fashion.    

The Excuse.  
TO excuse thy Vice thou callst it natural,  
A poor excuse the whilst, if that be all,  
For so we call a Fool a Natural too,  
But to excuse his Folly that won't do.   

The Revenge.  
GOD says, Revenge only to him belongs,  
The Laws, to them the righting others wrongs,  
For us to seek it then, what is it else,  
But to wrong them, whilst we would right ourselves   

Exhortation to Friendship.  

ENough, enough, let us be Friends again,  
And still remember weare not beasts but men;  
This baiting one another is but just  
Like Bear-bayting, where those who seem the most   

Delighted with't, nor love the Dog, nor Bear,  
But only th'sport to see them tug and tear  
Each other; & what fools are they, would hurt  
And harm themselves, for to make others sport?  
You know we are commanded not to let  
The Sun upon our Angers rise nor set.  
It is enough then, let's be Friends again,  
And still remember w'ar not Beasts, but Men.    

On Mary Duchess of Richmond.  
Whether a cheerful air does rise  
And Elevate her fairer Eyes,  
Or a pensive heaviness  
Her lovely Eyelids does depress;  
Still the same becoming Grace,  
Accompanies her Eyes and Face.  
Still you'd think that Habit best  
In which her Countenance last was dressed:  
Poor Beauties! whom a look or glance  
Can sometimes make look fair by chance,  
Or curious dress, o'er Artful care,  
Can make seem fairer than they are:  
Give me the Eyes, give me the Face  
To which no Art can add a Grace:  
Give me the Looks, no Garb nor dress  
Can ever make more fair, or less.   

The Liberty.  

FRee as I was born I'll live,  
So should every wise man do:  
Only Fools they are who give  
Their Freedoms to I know not who.   

If my weakness cannot save it,  
But 't must go, what e'er it cost:  
Some more strong than I shall have it,  
Who can keep what I have lost.   

Still some Excellency should be  
More i'th' Master than the slave;  
Which in others till I see  
None my Liberty shall have.   

Nor is't Excellency enough,  
Time or Chance can mar or make;  
But 't must be more lasting stuff  
Shall from me my Freeedom take.   

Those to whom I'll give away  
That which none too dear can buy,  
Shall be made of better clay:  
And have better Souls then I.    

Of several sorts of Wits.  
Wits like Hawks are for the Sport,  
Some are long vving'd some are short:  
The first do fly so high a flight,  
They often soar quite out of sight.  
The second, far the fitter for ye,  
Keep them close unto the quarry;  
Nor too low; nor yet too high,  
Of this latter sort am I.   

Why I write not of Love.  
I Know not what is Love, but what is more,  
I know to honour, reverence and adore  
A Mistress, so wrapped up from outward sense,  
In all that's Excellent, as one by one  
Unfolding her out every Excellence:  
You never shall to only women come.  
Whilst all my thoughts then are so far above,  
Let none admire I never write of Love.   

l' Envoye.  
Author's use to make the Feasts,  
Books their Viands, Readers Guests;  
judgement Caterer, and Wit  
The Cook to dress and season it;  
Which lastly on the Table set,  
The Author who provides them meat,  
Comes and prays his Guests to fall  
Unto't, and says, they're welcome all.   
FINIS.   


Emendations or Amendments, pag. 2. to H. H.  
I Grant you Sir I have a mind unfit  
For my low Fortune, and too high for it;  
But sure you'll grant 'tis better have it so,  
Than for high Fortune t' have a mind too low:  
For by the first w'ar almost raised to  
An Angel's height attained by only few;  
Whilst by the second we are even depressed  
Unto the Vulgar, almost to the beast, etc.   

Pag. 3. On an Avaricious person, better thus.  
Who wholly spends his life in getting wealth,  
And to increase his store, consumes himself;  
Does unto me, more Fool than him appear,  
Who sold his Horse to buy him Provender.   

Pag. 15. On the Riches of the Barbadoss  
HOw Rich Barbadoes is of other things,  
We well may see by Sugars that it brings;  
How Rich it is of Men, we well may see  
By bringing forth brave Drax such men as thee.   

Pag. 24. l. 78, read  
THe Title of a worthy Person's more  
Than all the Titles which your Fools adore:    

ERRATA.  
FOr the Faults of the Printer as p. 1. l. the last but 3 harmless for helpless: p. 11. l. the 6. from the end far for fast. p. 24. l. the last but two farms for fames: and divers other lesser ones, the Reader may please to mend.