AMANDA, A SACRIFICE To an Unknown GODDESS, OR, A freewill Offering Of a loving Heart to a Sweetheart.  
By N. H. of Trinity-college in CAMBRIDGE.  
— Unus & alter  
Forsitan haec spernet juvenis—  
— Sed quisquis es accipe chartas,  
Scribe.—  
LONDON, Printed by T. R. and E. M. for Humphrey Tuckey, at the sign of the black Spread-Eagle, near St. Dunstan's Church. 1653.   

To the Honourable EDWARD MOUNTAGVE, SON and HEIR Apparent TO THE Honours, Estate and Virtues Of the Right Honourable EDWARD LORD MONTAGUE, BARON of Boughton.  
SIR,  
IT may be happily guest I am Planet-struck, and deeply in love with some red and white rarity; I confess Beauty is a delectable philter, especially when the glances of the eyes are amorous; I know love is both Febris Diaria and Hectica: but I thank my Stars, I never as yet felt those Ephemerical Fevers; I have had as few fits, and as gentle Paroxysmes of such hearty Agues, as it is possible for flesh and blood in the like tempes to conceive; I am neither Atheistical nor Superstitious, neither hot nor cold: I give the world leave to conclude me tepid and lukewarm, and shall take the like freedom in conjectures of my next neighbour's constitution and motions: But say I were wounded, and Cupid's shast struck fast in my liver, I should think myself in no respect unblamable, but that I stood in the way, and this may pass for a child's fault: Besides, Amanda is more tempting then ordinary, and (as much as her sex admits) like yourself, good and beautiful; I mean not the issue of my fancy, for than I should not only basely fall in love with my own off spring, but commit a Soloecism, worse than that of Incest, in the comparison of things, which make no more approach to an equality of strength, than taplash and the best Nectar of the Grape; It is Amanda my Dear Mistress, that bright lamp of beauty and goodness, which vies perfections with the best constellated goddess, that ever was deified by the most amorous Enthusiast, and beyond all, with the admirable Idea of your person. She it is, in whom I love and worship your picture, in whose likeness I adore you. And in truth, I think my Religion in this transcendently reasonable to that of the common Catholic, whose best devotions have not more zeal, but less sense, and not half so lively a resemblance of a Seraphical being. Had I Vandikes pencil, I durst not give a draught of your person, I must of necessity forbear that to keep the best and most chaste Madams from longing; As for your high-born soul, we can only see the Sun in the water by some reflex beams, it is too gloriously resplendent, and dazzles our weak eyes, if we gaze on it in its fiery chariot, whose horses are flames trapped with rays, whose wheels are lightning without ratlings of thunder, and whose driver is a bright Angelical Intelligence, ever darting irresistible flashes of Beauty: I will not undertake to sound a Triumph of your Virtues, unless my trumpet were silver, and I myself more blab-checked, that the report and Echo of your name, which hereafter I am confident will run mazes in the meanders of men's ears, might be clearer, stronger and more lasting. Yet as shortwinded as I am, I cannot but venture at one blast, and I dare sound it boldly. Neither is your Honour nor Estate, (though you stand richly possessed of both) equivalent to your Beauty, nor the incomparable Fabric of your body, (from which a Tytian might learn proportion) sufficiently answerable to the complexion of your soul, which the best Princess, might securely take for her tutelar genius, and the most religious Zealot for his good Angel. And if this be not a public and more general Confession, the world hath not eyes enough to esteem you at your worth. It is no matter whether I call it want of judgement or oversight; those fine sober things which the world terms discreet, may be a little guilty of both.  
But to give you the main reason of this present to your Honour, beside the many private obligations, which enforce me; I know none a more competent Judge in Poesy then yourself. You have surveyed more ground in the sweet Tempe of the Muses, and to better purpose, than many who have walked Parnassus, as often as Duke Humphreys spider-catchers do Paul's, only to tell steps, and take the height of a cobweb fancy. You might better have writ man at fifteen, than not a few; (and those of no mean thoughts,) who have half doubled your age; At those years when others do usually ride Hobbies, and swagger astride broomsticks: Your Honour was mounting the great horse, and learning to manage the noble swift-winged Courser. Me thinks I see the best wits strive to be your Lackeys, as if you only could create Laureates, which is no small preferment, for every Poet is Apollo's footman, and consequently Worshipful, and an Esquire by his place. You differ as much from an ordinary Poet, as a Traveller from a Map- Geographer, who by the help of old Ortelius, or john Speed our English Mercator, hath gone beyond sea, and rid post over the Alps in his chamber. Thalia is proud you admit yourself her Familiar, your hands must be kissed, when others stand aloof, bareheaded like her waiting Gentlemen; you carouse with the srolique Lady at the Fountain, and sip Helicon in gold goblets, while poor vulgar Students only refresh their temples with? wet finger, and beg rhythms in a nightcap. Had you lived sooner at Sucklings Sessions, you had saved Sir W. Davenant an oath, and wiser Apollo would have known better where to bestow his Laurel, and given more content to the lesser wits. I assure you, it is seldom the Muse's Nag finds such good pasture amongst Nobleman's horses; for most commonly a Gentleman's Pegasus is as ill favoured as Pharaohs lean Cows, not pampered, plump and fair buttocked, like the Ass his Master, and yet feeds upon thistles. You are borne to that which others must ditch and hedge for, and yet come short, as if Poëta nascitur were your birthright; For my part, if your Honour shall but smile on Amanda, and entertain the chaste Girl as your Handmaid. I shall think her better adopted, then if she had brave old Ben, or some pregnant famous Courtwit for her father.  
Sir, though my sweet Amanda dare not venture abroad to see her friends without you, and your presence be the best of any I know, to make way for a Lady, yet she presumes not to take so Honourable a personage for a Gentleman-Usher, or one with broad shoulders to thrust aside the croudes and throngs of censures she shall meet with in her walks; But being yet childish, and not able to go alone, she humbly kisses the hands of her most noble Guardian, in whose arms the little Moppet loves to be dandled, and shown out at the window. Indeed she is so much an Infant, that were not the face of a Godfather, in these Anabaptistical Antichristian times, worn quite out of fashion, I should have made bold to call your Honour to the Font; Many a poor man hath had (witness Charles Murrey the Cripple) his Majesty the King himself, (some would have said, God bless him good man) for his Gossip. But I most of all wish the Sponsalia were at hand, you might affiance and betrothe my Dearest, (I know whom) to him who never knows sufficiently how to express himself, what he is ever ambitious to be  
The Humblest and most Faithful amongst your Honour's most devoted Servants, N. HOOKS.   

To the Author upon his Amanda.  
COurage, (my friend,) boldly assay the stage,  
Maugre the uncouth humours of the age,  
Though wit th' unsavoury thing be out of date,  
And judgement triumph in the fancy's fate,  
Poetry's heresy, and schism pure,  
(As is freewill or humane literature.)  
Yet shall thy Mistress thaw the Stoics breast,  
And prove Amanda to discretion's test.  
But doubtful whether Muse or Mistress be,  
The fair Amanda that is meant by thee;  
Resolved that though thy Madam lovely be,  
She paints t' enhance her endless tyranny.  
Hadst thou (without a rhythm) said, Good and Fair,  
The hadst matched the highest loves that couchant are  
In mortal breasts, thy zeal forgetting bound,  
Has quite o'ershot loves landmark, and gains ground  
On admiration, dull without desire,  
As without warmth the elemental fire:  
The famous Grecian beauty's stolen face,  
And most choice borrowed parts fell short of grace,  
She had been more than the intended she,  
Had she but filched Amanda's Poetry.  
I'll not assess thy merits, wise men soon  
Will judge thee worthy, and for this thy boon  
Each Amarado-Proselyte of thine  
Pays his devotion to Amanda's shrine.  
But if to please less knowing men seem safe,  
Rail at Socinus in a Paragraph:  
Confute Arminius in English phrase,  
So shall dull men yield suffrage to thy praise.  M. P. Midd. Temp. Gent.  

To the most ingenious Author upon his excellent Poems.  
THe Press grows honest, and in spite of fate,  
Now teems a Wit, that is legitimate:  
No thundering Muse, although Ioves daughter still,  
Drawing smooth lines 'twixt th' horns of Parnasse hill  
And yet so strong, that with these nervs I know  
Cupid will henceforth string's triumphant bow.  
Doubt not (sweet friend) the Infant-Archer will  
Brag that his shafts are feathered from thy quill.  
Within thy book an harmless Venus moves,  
Yet generous, drawn as anciently by Doves;  
Nor dost thou make her son obscenely speak,  
A bow though Cupid's too much bend may break  
Thou art not like those wits, whose numbers jump,  
Not with Apollo's Lyre, but Flora's trump.  
Thou drinkest to th' bottom of the Muses stood  
Famed Helicon, and yet canst shun the mud.  
Thy fancy's steady, not like those that rove  
Thorough Arabia, then to th' Indies move,  
To fetch in jests, but when the totall's come,  
Alas, Caligula brings cockles home.  
Thy book's thine own, so rare a Muse 'twas fit  
Should not be periwigged with dead men's wit.  
Yet lives their genius in thee: true it is,  
Arts have a kind of metempsychosis.  R. MOYLE, Trin. Col. Soc.  

Upon his ingenious friend's most ingenious Poem, entitled Amanda.  
I Am mistaken, 'tis not he,  
Though Doctor of love's Harmony;  
The Music of all Plato's bliss,  
But a Praeludium was to this.  
Sure 'tis some nobler genius, one  
That teaches him perfection  
In 5 Song, whilst he was penning it,  
His lips dropped honey as he writ.  
Nay 'tis more heavenly, more divine,  
Sweet Nectar flows from every line,  
Whilst he did quaff the god's Canary.  
An Angel was his Secretary.  
'Tis pure, although not sanctified,  
Clean gold, and current, though untried,  
A piece as full of beauty, as  
The Author's fairest object was.  
Nor less inimitable than  
That mirror, which if ever seen,  
Never expressed by th' best conceit,  
For who can reach his fancy's height?  
It makes a question whether she  
Or it, be th' greatest rarity.  
Such as some think soared above,  
And took from thence this grace for love,  
No, no, it hovered 'bout his mind,  
Amanda there a Heaven will find.  
A pretty pertly Cupid here,  
A Cherubin residing there.  
Love with all her glory waiting,  
And thus innocently prating,  
As if that were a wile to balk  
The justice to do nought but talk.  
Read him you must, admire him too,  
Courting Amanda, he'll win you.  C. IRETON, of Trin. Col. Cambr.  

To his Honoured friend the Author upon his Amanda.  
whoever shall ask what these rude lines do here,  
Tell him Amanda may black patches wear,  
Fair Amanda, whom if I name, my heart,  
As if I'd sinned in naming, feels the smart  
Of hers, not Cupid's arrow, Reader please  
To turn the leaf, thou'lt catch the same disease,  
We're all in love (Dear Sir) who e'er you see,  
Know it, he is or will your rival be;  
The world's grown lovesick, and may seem to prove,  
Your wit hath been injurious to your love.  
There's none shall read Amanda, but every line,  
(Heavens!) ten thousand worlds that she were mine!  
She's sure too good to be enjoyed (but I)  
Oh that I might but see her once, and die!  
Is't not some goddess [that having long desired]  
At length hath stolen from Heaven to be admired?  
To love her 'tis presumption, wish I could  
That I were better, she not quite so good:  
Go boy, go sleep, Cupid unbend thy bow,  
Btreak all thy darts, thou'st lost thy trading, go,  
Turn Physician, if again thou'dst be  
A heart-wounder, study Loves remedy.  
What meant you, Sir, to set the land on fire?  
Some wish, some hope, some envy, some desire;  
I pray the gods (let me not pray in vain)  
Enjoy your love, and put us out of pain;  
Amanda deserves the best, 'tis as true,  
There's none deserves Amanda's love but you.  
But let her still retain her name, that all  
May her Amanda, you Amandus call.  THO. adam's. Trin. Coll. D.  

To my deserving friend the Author upon his excellent Poem Amanda.  
I Loved thee Dear, it would soon be guest  
That I thus boldly crowd up to be pressed  
Amongst thy Giant friends, though he that will  
Draw thee to th' life must needs have thine own quill,  
For who durst boast he could have limned so well,  
As thou hast done thy truest parallel  
Amanda thou that virtue thus hast dressed,  
Dost tell the world it lived in thy breast;  
If any yet objecting say, no one,  
Thou knewest engrossed so much perfection,  
Thy only subject then they'll plainly find,  
Could be no orher than thy virtuous mind,  
From which rich wardrobe thou canst easily spare,  
Enough to deck and furnish the most rare;  
I've done, for none can reach thy Poems worth,  
Amanda wants no foils to set her forth.  I. A. Gent.  

The Author to the READER.  
Heaven bless thy sweet face, for in troth, I know,  
Though 't' ne'er so ugly, sweet thou think'st it though,  
'Tis a good cast o'th' eye, thou'st looked upon  
Things which brought here make no comparison:  
Women love gazing eyes, Amanda (Sir)  
Is such a toy, then pray now pleasure her;  
Perhaps she may seem beautiful, and then  
I'm sure she'll please and pleasure you again;  
He that cracks Optics, and doth lose his sight  
In viewing Beauty, is no loser by 't;  
Oh what a sinner that poor mortal is,  
That views and scans his Maker's Artifice!  
We draw from th' order this great world hath in't,  
An Atheist-confuting Argument;  
Then sure in women's world● so little and fair,  
More forcing Logic, better Topics are;  
Why is't w' admire th' Apostles i'th' cherry stones,  
Traduskin shows, but cause they're little ones?  
Who knows, whilst he at female Beauties stairs,  
But he may see an Angel unawares;  
Howe're'tis not unlikely he may move,  
If she be kind, into a Heaven of love;  
Yet I'll not make a Stoic an Amorato,  
No, I shall leave him still to read his Cato,  
Some fine grave head, there be, whose brains are addle,  
[A careless Nurse 'twas cracked their sculls i'th' Cradle]  
Whose dull old wrinkled brow, and rotten tooth,  
Accept of nothing that is fair and smooth,  
By whom my harmless lines will termed be,  
Nought less than speculative adultery,  
But age and eating crabs, must needs excuse  
Their doting, peevish humours, to my Muse:  
Some newfound changeling Saints, with looks precise,  
Rolling the goggles of their bloodshed eyes,  
Will call Amanda light and trull, and scorn her,  
Yet read her o'er, and kiss her in a corner.  
But how the things called wits will fling about,  
To see my paltry Mistress new come out!  
Oh these are angry beasts, they'll kick and throw,  
Beware horns, my Dear, or up thy smock will go.  
Troth rather than their flings we will endure,  
We'll get some slie-slaps for their gadflies sure:  
Yes, yes wits wanton humours to prevent,  
We'll shortly have an Act of Parliament.  
You noble, Civil souls, whoever you be  
Whose modest, frolic ingenuity  
Cleanseth your hearts from self-conceit and gall,  
If on Amanda you but smile, and call  
Her fair, may you find Mistresses as good  
As I can fancy, real flesh and blood.   

The Author to the Ladies.  
GReat and fair Madams, you whose starlike eyes,  
Sunne-burn the world and do mock the skies:  
You Constellations, who are never seen,  
But w' are half blinded, had your Beauty been  
Where Hero's blinking Conduct taper stood,  
To guide Leander sculling through the flood,  
Ne'er had he lost his way for want of light,  
He'd swum by day, though he had swum by night:  
Confessed, you might have veiled, but then your praise  
Were lost true Beauty scorns to mask its rays:  
Therefore Amanda comes with open face,  
Daring to vie this feature, or that grace,  
With the most heavenly, sweetest, lovely, she  
That deserves duel: Ladies, pardon me,  
And pardon her, she only blushing stands  
To mingle lilies with your lily hands.   

ERRATA.  
PAge 28 line 6, To Amanda his friend, desiring him, etc. for On Amanda, his friend desiring him, etc. p. 88 v. 6. down my stairs for down stairs. p, 94. l, 3, & è contra, pro ut è contra, p, 160, l, 1, nutres cambucá nguines, pro putris cambucam inguinis. p, 162. fracessis pro fraceseis. p, 128, notho pro noto p. 120. Ità pro Ito, & fuis pro fuit, in the Epist. Dedic. blab-cheeked for blub-checked. p, 80, l, 23, Tradesmen for Aradesmen, ibid., Querp. coat for Querpo coat.   

AMANDA.  

Beauty.  

BEAUTY is Nature's, and the Woman's glory,  
The loudest Emphasis in the story  
Of female worth and praise, the Alphabet  
Where love doth spell its first desire,  
The field where red and white are met  
To mingle wonder; 'tis the match,  
The spark and tinder, which doth quickly catch  
And light the fire  
O'th' lamp of love,  
Which flames within the eyes  
Of those who towards Cupid's Altar move  
To offer up their hearts in sacrifice.   

2.  
Beauty's an honest kind of sorcery  
It hath a sweet bewitching faculty;  
It is the sauce doth tempt loves appetite,  
Which to intemperance it doth oft incite,  
Till it provoke a lustful gluttony  
Beyond the satisfaction of the eye;  
Love is but Beauty's creature,  
It hath its being from its Maker's feature;  
'Tis Beauty deifies  
The goddess Woman,  
She whom we now so idolise;  
Without it, would be adored by no man.   

3.  
Beauty is Magic works by qualities  
Are less occult, how it doth charm the eyes  
Is visible, but ne'er enough: for still  
The more 'tis seen and viewed, more lovely 'twill  
Appear, and tempt with stronger Argument  
Than the first glances raised, i'th' cast  
Of puny thoughts and fancies, till at last  
It breeds a discontent  
I'th' other senses, which all mutiny,  
(Starved in the surfeit of the eye)  
To share in its delight,  
And never lin  
Till they are slain, or fairly win  
The place where Beauties flags to love invite.   

4.  
Both eyes were made for Beauty purposely,  
The most delightful object we can see,  
'Tis that gilds Cupid's wings, and makes the boy  
Be entertained with ecstasies of joy;  
'Tis the best kind of Nature's handicraft,  
Her choicest piece of pencil-work, her draft,  
In colours to the life, suppose  
The spotless lily and the rose,  
Should blend their damask and their snow,  
The mixture which doth flow  
From their embrace,  
Is Beauty in its pride and state,  
Which (ne'er till then) I spied of late  
In the rare features of Amanda's face.    

LOVE.  

1.  
LOve is that harmony doth sympathise  
Betwixt two souls tuned Diapason-wise;  
'Tis waking man's most pleasant dream, delight  
And comfort, makes day pass as sleep doth night,  
'Tis the best part of Heaven man hath on earth,  
And heaven in heaven 'twill be  
Nothing but lovely, loving souls to see  
Souls mingling loves, love getting love i'th' birth.   

2.  
Love is the Gordian knot, which once untied  
Or cut, gives way to th' Tyrant Victor's pride,  
'Tis honest Cupid's Atlas of the world;  
Into a Chaos all things would be hurled,  
Were't not for love, the people's hate  
Or love, make or undo  
The best of Kings and Kingdoms too:  
Love is the moving sinew of the State.   

3.  
Where it is absent, nothing present is,  
But envy, hatred, malice, jealousies,  
Deceit and baseness, whence are always born  
Horror and anguish, grief, despite and scorn,  
Mischief, revenge and wrath, which do torment,  
Distract and tear the heart,  
Gripe, and unhinge the man in every part,  
Till all his bowels burst, and life be spent.   

4  
Love is our Empress, all that beauteous be  
Are maids of Honour to her Majesty,  
Yet Love to Beauty often Presents brings,  
Presented by the hands o'th' greatest King;  
And 'tis no wonder Love this course doth take,  
That th' Mistress thus should fee  
Her maids, 'tis pretty riddling Usury,  
For Love bribe's Love, for Love and Beauty's sake.   

5.  
Love is our Governess, me thinks on high  
I see her, greatest goddess in the sky,  
Sitting and holding all in chains; I see  
She labours hard, that all things joined may be  
To their most proper objects; but base spite,  
Her black Antagonist,  
By man and th' devils help, whom e'er she list,  
Forces to deeds of discord, sin and night.   

6.  
Love is man's health and food, a wealthy feast  
Where Beauty oft hath made great jove her guest,  
Then my Dear, fairer than the fairest she,  
Amanda shall be courted by Divinity,  
If in her sacred love she prove devout,  
With all the viand-joyes that be  
In Love, she shall be fed eternally,  
Angels themselves shall set the banquet out.    

Against Platonic Court-Love.  

1.  
NO greater comfort to well-minded men,  
Then 'tis to love and be beloved again:  
And this sweet love hath goodness for its mother,  
On which one love doth still beget another;  
Though beauty nourish love, and make it grow,  
Love feeds on other food,  
Which is as pleasant, and as highly good;  
From other richer sweeter springs doth flow.   

2.  
Love several cellsi' th' womb, and Cradles hath,  
To breed and rock, it's Cupid's in; the path  
Wherein, with close desire it doth pursue,  
The started object may be divers too,  
But who the same hare chase, their loves do hit,  
And ever meet in this:  
What e'er their feigned speech and progress is,  
All i' th' shine sent do hunt and follow it.   

3.  
Loves of one rise, ne'er differ in their end,  
What ever Lovers in their love pretend,  
Making blind Cupid nothing else but eye,  
'Tis counterfeit, false, cheating modesty,  
Whilst superficial beauty strikes the eyes  
The Consort heartstrings move,  
And play, within a tempting fit of love  
To every sense; love itself multiplies.   

4.  
'Tis of a spreading nature, not content  
To be at stands, till all its strength be spent;  
It is a pleasant itch, infects the blood,  
Still gathers heat, whilst it receives its food;  
It cannot rest i'th' eye, the senses do  
Mingle joys, what e'er we see  
And like, if sweet and edible it be,  
Surely, we have some mind to eat it too.   

5.  
'Tis true, I know sometimes we use to play,  
With fruit that's pleasing to the eye, and say,  
'Tis pity troth to eat them, they're so fair,  
So often keep them till they rotten are,  
Yet the teeth water while they rotting lie;  
But love provides for you  
To eat your apple and have it too:  
Cloy th'appetite, and after feast your eye.   

6.  
Is Admiration love? 'tis nothing so,  
'Tis but love's Herald, which before doth go  
To usher in that Regent Queen to th'heart,  
It's Palace-royal; only acts the part  
Of love's Scenographer, to pitch the tent  
In that Elysian field,  
Where it encamps; the Ensign who doth wield  
And flourish beauties flags of ornament.   

7.  
Platonic love! 'tis monstrous heresy,  
Would scare an Adamtte, in's innocence:  
No Eunuch holds it, but where e'er he likes  
And loves the bait, at least in wish he strikes;  
And curses him that blanched him so; the Nun  
When she can please her eye,  
Though her vow curb her thoughts, yet happily  
She wishes all that might be done, were done.   

8.  
Platonic love if love it called may be,  
Is nothing else but lust in 'tis infancy;  
Lust in the womb of thought, which stays not there,  
(If thought miscarry not through startling fear,)  
But comes abroad and lives, doth act and move  
To reach its centre-end;  
And in the birth, (both which the child commend,)  
Francie is Midwife, Beauty Nurse to Love.   

9  
Love only placed in Admiration!  
Complacency in Contemplation!  
Love and no Cupid! It can never be,  
To fancy beauty is thoughts venery:  
'Tis newborn childish lust, which puling lies,  
Like th' babe more innocent  
I'th' Cradle then the standing stool, where penned  
It gads, and at each pleasing object flies.   

10.  
Love flows like time, our motions cause and measure;  
What's past is lost; the life of all our pleasure,  
Is in our present instant joy; but yet  
As thoughts of past enjoyments do beget  
New hopes, and those new hopes get new desire,  
Which differs not, but is all one  
With lustful love and fond devotion,  
So last night's sparks kindle the morning fire.   

11.  
Nor doth a glance only a glance beget,  
One looks gets love, the next doth nourish it,  
And so the next, and next, and th' other doth,  
Till it attain and rise to 'tis perfect growth:  
I must confess love may be starved, or fed  
With daisy roots or so,  
But let it take its course, 'twill surely grow  
To flames, and though't must lose its maidenhead.   

12.  
If beauty do but once enslave the eyes,  
It strait takes captive all the faculties;  
The Soul invites the senses to a feast,  
Wishing the object would allow each guest  
The dish it liketh most, it would employ  
(If nothing hinder from without)  
Contrive, and lay its utmostpowers out  
T' enrich itself with loves most wealthy joy.   

13.  
Affection is not fed to please one sense,  
'Tis ne'er maintained at so high expense  
Of spirits, to so small and poor intents,  
As t' have a thing to please with compliments:  
In such love-masques, what e'er we speak or do,  
Surely there is some promise made  
[Which hopes and fancy easily persuade]  
That we shall please our other senses too.   

14.  
That love Chameleon-like can live by air  
Of women's breath, without some better fare;  
That man can love, and yet confine his bliss  
To th' outside kickshaw pleasure of a kiss,  
Nay, be surprised with such thin joys as these,  
And like them too; yet wish no more,  
Platonic love! Say Plato kept a whore,  
And lost his smell-smock nose by th' French disease.   

15.  
Well my Amanda, 'tis no glance o'th' eye  
I court thee for, that will not satisfy;  
'Tis not the pretty babies there I praise,  
As if to love were nothing but to gaze;  
No, guess the best; that love what e'er it be,  
Chaste, lawful, clean, sincere,  
And without smoke, if it be any where;  
'Tis, 'tis Amanda betwixt thee and me.    

A Mistress.  
A Mistress is not what the fancy makes her,  
But what her virtue and her beauty speaks her;  
She is a jewel, which a rich esteem  
Values below its worth, she doth not deem  
Each servant mad in love, but reconciles  
Their fears and hopes, she only smiles  
When others laugh and giggle; her lips severe  
And close, as if each kiss a promise were:  
Fresh as the blossoms of the Appletree,  
Sweet in the perfumes of Virginity:  
She puts a price on love; not proudly coy,  
But modest in returns; the life of joy  
Which she conceives, i'th'thought o'th' nuptial bed,  
Is not the losing of her Maidenhead,  
Or some such ticklish point, but to unite  
And knit her Bridegroom's soul in the delight  
Of a close twine, and when their lips do greet,  
She mingles flesh, that heart with heart may meet.  
She's wary in her gift and choice, but yet  
Like an enchanted Lady doth not set,  
Making her Lover a green-armour-Knight  
In a Romance-adventure, who must fight  
With monstrous giants, and with conquering hand  
Win her from a fantastick-fairie-land;  
No she's discreetly chaste, not fond of love,  
Nor cruel in her frowns; her heart doth move,  
Poised with her servants worth, and the advice  
Of her good friends; she's neither cold as ice,  
Nor yet inflamed; she's neat and delicate,  
Yet not lascivious in her dress; her gate  
Tempting, yet not affected, it hath more  
Of nature then the dance; her cast o'th' eye  
Is amorous, yet not a glance doth fly,  
That hath a sparkle of lust; she's all divine,  
And to be courted like a Cherubin:  
Such is Amanda, who deserves to be  
Mistress in Cupid's University.   

In praise of Amanda's beauty.  
THe daring and most learned Grotius Writ,  
(I must not venture, though to credit it,)  
The book of Canticles was made in love:  
Love to some tempting beauty, which did move,  
Turn and command the wisest solomon's heart,  
Forcing a King to play the Courtier's part:  
The little foxes which so much displease,  
In spoiling of his Vine, are little fleas,  
Rude fleas which still leave freckles, where they stood  
To suck the Nectar of a Lady's blood:  
But who so e'er that royal creature were,  
Compared to all that's good beyond compare,  
To whom that Prince the Song of Songs did sing,  
Though to the daughter of th' Egyptian King,  
Or some more lovely amorous Concubine,  
My fair Amanda who is more divine,  
Can make me, if my heart she breath upon,  
Court her beyond the Critics Solomon.   

His love to Amanda.  
THere's nought like love that pleaseth me,  
Love, love, Amanda, love to thee:  
My fancy hath no other theme,  
Nor while I'wake, nor while I dream;  
Not gold, that's made a god by men;  
Not gold, which makes men gods again;  
Gold which makes men most sordidly,  
To Mules and Asses bend the knee;  
Not Honour, Glory, or Renown,  
To have my name fly up and down:  
No title of Worship pleaseth me,  
'Tis every Beggar's bribery;  
I nothing will commit to Fame,  
Only my dear Amanda's name;  
I only care to live with thee,  
To live without thee death 'twill be:  
I envy not the Heirs delight,  
The hound in's course, the hawk in's flight  
Love plays a better game with me,  
I always hawk and hunt for thee;  
I ne'er frequent the bowling green,  
In those mad antic postures seen,  
Where in their bowls men court and pray,  
And curse and swear their time away:  
On what design so ere I go,  
Whatever bowl it be I throw,  
Amanda's hand doth bias it,  
She is the Mistress I would hit:  
If with they voice thou bless my ear,  
May I no other Music hear;  
I'll never drink one drop of wine,  
May I but sip those lips of thine;  
I'll never go abroad to feast:  
Oh that I were thy constant guest!  
How gladly would I make on you,  
My breakfast and my Beaver too!  
On thee I'd always dine and sup,  
Oh I could almost eat thee up!  
All night on thee might I be fed,  
Supperless would go to bed:  
Thy sweetest flesh if I might taste,  
Fore such a feast who would not fast?  
No greater pleasure can I seek,  
Then 'tis to kiss thy blushing cheek:  
No further joy will I demand,  
Then 'tis to touch thy lily hand;  
My heart so lively ne'er doth move,  
As when I hear thee call me love;  
No flowers pleasant are to me,  
But roses which do smell of thee:  
The primrose and the violet,  
Which from thy breast their odours get;  
No rich delights can please my eyes,  
With all their coloured rarities;  
But those that represent my Fair,  
Such as the matchless, tulips are,  
Where Beauty's flourished flags invite,  
I'th' purest streams of red and white.  
Here, here, Amanda, take my heart,  
There's my soul where ere thou art:  
I'll be the Monarch, thou to me  
A Kingdom and a Queen shalt be:  
I'll be the Elm, and thou the Vine  
About me close shall twist and twine;  
And whilst my Dear like th' Ivy cleaves,  
The Oak shall bend to kiss her leaves;  
I'll be thy Landlord, and content,  
My body be thy tenement;  
I'll be thy Landlord, and consent  
That thou with kisses pay me rend;  
Then shall I kiss thee o'er and o'er,  
And daily raise my rent the more:  
'Tis thee, my Dear, I love alone,  
No beauty draws me but thine own;  
I ne'er shall see, I ne'er shall find  
Another so much to my mind;  
Should I pick, and choose, and cull,  
Amongst a whole Seraglio full:  
There's nought like love that pleaseth me,  
Love, love, Amanda, love to thee.   

To Amanda doubting her mortality.  
I Cannot be an Atheist in my love;  
And as the dull Cretenses did for jove,  
Build thee a Sepulchre, no, goddess, no;  
I ne'er shall weeping to thy grave-stone go,  
And beg thy lovely ghost, to represent  
To one short glance thy beauty's monument;  
Nor haunt the melancholy tombs, to try  
If my strong fancy can possess my eye,  
With ablest shadow, like to thee my Fair,  
Drawing thy portraiture and shape i'th' air;  
Then gaze and wonder till my soul desert  
Its trembling dust, and where thou never wert,  
Fly t' an embrace; then look so long about,  
To find my fancies vanished Consort out;  
Till my unruly Atoms dispossess  
The Agent spirits of their Governess;  
And me to marble fear do petrify,  
Leaving my hand to write thy Elegis:  
No these are dreams fit for an Infidel,  
Whose saucy reason doth against faith rebel;  
I'm better taught, and with an Eagles eye,  
Admit the rays of thy Divinity;  
Diana baths her in the purer Springs  
Of thy chaste blood; and when Amanda sings,  
My greedy ears let chanting Angels in,  
And each notes Echo calls thec Cherubin:  
Even at noon, thy blushing modesty  
Calls up Aurora; Canst thou mortal be?  
Then Venus and the graces too must die,  
For they're confined, and live within thine eye.   

A Sacrifice to Amanda.  

1.  
I Have an eye for her that's fair,  
An ear for her that sings,  
Yet don't I care  
For golden hair,  
I scorn the portion lech'ry brings,  
To bawdy beauty I'm a churl,  
And hate though a melodious girl  
Her that is nought but air.   

2.  
I have a heart for her that's kind,  
A lip for her that smiles;  
But if her mind  
Be like the wind,  
I'd rather foot it twenty miles,  
Then kiss a lass whose moisture reeks,  
Left in her clammy glew-pie cheeks  
I leave my beard behind.   

3.  
Is thy voice mellow, is it smart?  
Art Venus for thy beauty?  
If kind and tart,  
And chaste thou art,  
Then am I bound to do thee duty:  
Though pretty Malipiero, or bonny Kate,  
Hast thou one hair adulterate,  
I'm blind, and deaf, and out of heart.   

4.  
Amanda, thou art fair, well-bred,  
Harmonious, sweetly kind;  
If thou wilt wed  
My Virgin-bed,  
And taste my love, thou 'rt to my mind;  
Take hands, lips, heart and eyes,  
All are too mean a sacrifice  
To th' Altar of thy maidenhead.    

To Amanda putting flowers in her bosom.  
'tIs not the pink I gaze upon,  
Nor th' pleasant Cowslip I look on;  
No nor the lovely violet,  
Shutting its purple Cabinet:  
Nor the white lily now and then,  
For envy looking pale and wan.  
Nor th' ruddy scarlet damask rose,  
Like thy lips where Coral grows;  
Nor th' yellow Caltha, whose fair leaves,  
From thy bright beauty day receives;  
That gilt Sunne-dial which doth catch  
And hug the Sunbeams, Nature's watch,  
Which by its strange horoscopic,  
To the working whispering Bee,  
What time of day 'twas once did tell,  
Now like the pretty Pimpernel,  
When shut, when open it shall lie,  
Takes its direction from thine eye:  
No nor the primrose, though it be  
Modest, and simper too like thee:  
Which gladly spoiled of its balm,  
Ravished this morning in its bed,  
Bequeath's thy hand its maidenhead.  
No, but the rarest of the bower,  
Leap-up-come-kisse me, is the flower;  
I look to see how that looks proud  
Made in thy bosom Cupid's shroud,  
Then whilst you there those flowers, strew,  
My love doth in Procession go;  
Cupid awakes, and is not dead,  
His shrouds a garland on his head;  
Throu'dst make a posy fit for me,  
Oh that my hand might gather thee.  
Or could those flowers leave me when they die,  
Those sweeter flower-pots a legacy.   

To Amanda overhearing her Sing.  
Hark to the changes of the trembling air!  
What Nightingales do play in consort there!  
See in the clouds the Cherubs listen you,  
Each Angel with an Otocousticon!  
Hark how she shakes the palsy element,  
Dwells on that note, as if 'twould ne'er be spent!  
What a sweer fall was there! how she catched in:  
That parting air, and ran it o'er again!  
In emulation of that dying breath,  
Linnets would strain and sing themselves to death;  
Once more to hear that melting Echo move,  
Narcissus-like, who would not die in love!  
Sing on sweet Chauntresse soul of melody;  
Closely attentive to thy harmony:  
The Heavens checked and stopped their rumbling spheres,  
And all the world turned itself into ears;  
But if in silence thy face once appear,  
With all those jewels which are treasured there,  
And show that beauty which so far outvies  
Thy voice; 'twill quickly change its ears for eyes.   

To Amanda Reading.  
WHat Book or subject. Fairest, can it be,  
Which can instruct, delight or pleasure thee?  
Poems! Kiss me but once and I'll outvie  
The Author's Masterpiece of Poetry;  
And rather than not win and please thee in't,  
All the nine Muses shall be dressed in print;  
I'll quaff Pyrene off, and write a line  
Shall charm Amanda's heart, and make her mine,  
I'll drink a Helicon of sack to thee,  
And fox thy sense wieh Lovers stuponie.  
Read on my Fairest, I am reading too,  
A better book, my Dear, I'm reading you;  
A fine neat volume, and full fraught with wit,  
The woman's best Encomium e'er was writ;  
Off of my book I never cast my eye,  
A Scholar I shall be most certainly;  
Nay, who so ere derives his learning hence,  
Doctor of Civil Courtship may commence;  
For who (my pretty Fancy) reads but thee,  
Reads o'er a whole Vatican Library  
Of woman's worth, most women in compare  
But Ballads, Pamphlets and Diurnals are:  
The life and beauty of Art and Learning is  
I'th' very Preface and the Frontispiece;  
If in my Study read thee o'er I might,  
Oh I could con my lesson day and night;  
I and my book in all things treat of thee,  
Then prithee dedicate thy book to me;  
Make me the binding to't, I only plead  
I may be cover to the book I read.  
On these my lines if e'er thou chance to look,  
Read me, Amanda, when thou readest my book;  
If in the print there any errors be,  
Accuse the careless Press, and blame not me.   

To Amanda leaving him alone.  
WHat business calls thee hence, and calls not me?  
My business ever is to wait on thee;  
Therefore where ere you go  
I must go too  
What e'er your business is,  
Be't that or this:  
Yet still my business is to wait on you;  
Nay prithee, my Dearest, why  
So coy and shy?  
Yes, yes, you'll come again,  
But prithee when?  
Here must I moap alone;  
Whilst you some other love,  
Or in your Cabinet above,  
Some letters dote upon,  
Which teach you how to say me nay;  
But know, Amanda, if too long you stay,  
My soul shall vanish into air,  
And haunt and dodge thee every where.  
'Tis sit when thou tak'st Heaven from me,  
Thou take at least my soul with thee.   

A melancholy Fit.  
SAd news was sent me that a friend was dead,  
It dashed my brains, and my dull heavy head,  
Drowsy with thoughts of death, could hardly be  
Supported in its doleful agony;  
Nature was lost, grief stopped, my circling blood,  
All things alike were ill, and nothing good;  
Awaked I dreamt, then round about I saw  
Death sable Curtains of confusion draw;  
All things were black where e'er I cast my eye,  
The wainscot walls mourned in dark Ebony,  
My giddy fancy into th' earth did sink,  
I wept, and saw the clouds weep tears of ink;  
Ruin and death me thoughts were penitent,  
And did in shears and veils their sins lament:  
Then ghosts and shades in mourning did I see,  
All threw deaths-heads, and dead men's bones at me;  
But when the pale Idea of my friend  
Past by, I wished my life were at an end;  
And courting-night to shut my sullen eyes,  
In came Amanda, and did me surprise;  
Taught me to live in death, kissed me, and then  
Out of a Chaos made me man again.   

An Enthusiasm to Amanda feasting.  
COme fill a glass with the best blood o'th' Vine,  
Troth it looks well; 'tis a fresh vaulting wine;  
A perfumed Nectar, yet beyond compare,  
Amanda's lips more brisk and lively are;  
See, see, here's pretty Hebe brings from jove  
A golden Cup filled to the brims in love!  
Amongst the tippling gods, me thinks I see  
Blithe purple-faced Augustus' drink to thee:  
Come, ye immortal Feasters, quaff it round,  
With heads in stead of hats Hung to the ground;  
Lay down your godheads in idolatry,  
Turn Priests to my Amanda's Deity;  
Ne'er fear to stoop and change yourselves to men,  
Amanda can create you gods again.   

To Amanda pledging him.  
HOw the wine smiles, and as she sips,  
Tempts her most sweet, coy, modest lips!  
The Claret frisks, and fain it wooed  
Help its pale colour in her blood,  
And mingling spirits hopes to be  
Within her veins immortally;  
I envy it perhaps for ever,  
It may dwell within her liver;  
Howe'er 'twill be conveyed at least  
Through the chaste cloisters of thy breast,  
And entertained before it part,  
In both the chambers of thy heart;  
Oh might I too obtain my Fair,  
Such friendly entertainment there:  
Most happy man than should I be,  
As thy heartblood is dear to thee,   

To Amanda drinking to him.  
A Better Cordial Heaven cannot give,  
Sprinkle a dead man with't, 'twill make him live;  
And force the soul, huddling its atoms up  
To a retreat only to kiss the Cup;  
'Tis a soulsaving kindness, can recall  
Love to a frolic in its Funeral:  
My heart shall ne'er be sad more through despair,  
I feel a world of Heavens created there;  
I conceive swarms of Cupid's newly born,  
To which Amanda's Midwife; I'll be sworn,  
My flesh turns all to Cupid's; here, and there  
How I engender Cupid's every where!  
Still I teem Cupid's; Cupid's chaste and pure,  
I shall be eaten up with Cupid's sure;  
On my chaped heart I feel them creep about,  
Like Emmets at their crannies in and out;  
More and more Cupids still are borne anew,  
And all these Cupids are begot on you;  
You are their Mother-nurse; Dear, prithee then  
Drink to thy Dearest once again.  
Then I'll be all o'er Cupid●, my best blood  
Shall be their drink, my heart their chiefest food;  
Cupid's shall eat me whilst thou drinkest to me.  
Eat whilst I pledge thee too; who would not be  
Meat for such pretty loving worms my Fair,  
Such loving worms as these sweet Cupids are?  
Whilst me their feast these worms, these Cupids have,  
Amanda shall inter me, she's my grave.   

To Amanda not drinking off her wine.  

1.  
PIsh, modest tippler, to't again  
My sweetest joy,  
The wine's not coy  
As women are;  
My Dearest puling, prithee then,  
Prithee, My Fair,  
Once more bedew those lips of thine,  
Mend thy draught, and mend the wine.   

2.  
Since it hath tasted of thy lip,  
(Too quickly cloyed)  
How overjoyed,  
It cheerfully  
Invites thee to another sip!  
Me thinks I see  
(The wine perfumed by thee, my Fair,)  
Bacchus himself is dabbling there.   

3.  
Once more, dear soul, nay prithee try;  
bath that cherry  
In the sherry;  
The jocant wine,  
Which sweetly smiles and courts thy eye,  
As more divine.  
Though thou take none to drink to me,  
Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee.   

4.  
Nay, my Fair, off with't, off with't clean;  
Well I perceive  
Why this you leave,  
My love reveals,  
And makes me guests what 'tis you mean,  
Because at meals  
My lips are kept from kissing thee,  
Thou needest must kiss the glass to me.    

To Amanda upon her smile.  
NOw in the joy of strength me thinks I find  
Armies of pleasures, troop and storm my mind!  
How with a Giants arms I could embrace,  
And closely clasp my sweet she Boniface!  
Amanda gave a pleasant glance, and while  
Her flowery lips bloomed in the modest smile,  
Winter withdrew, I felt a forward spring,  
As when great Birtha doth Elixir bring,  
To drench the boughs, which by her Chemistry,  
Mantles i'th' blossoms of the Appletree,  
Styled from the cloisters of the spongy earth;  
Dead drunk I was, and all embalmed in mirth;  
Heaven passed through my soul, th' Elysian fields,  
Are but mere shadows of the joy it yields:  
My heartstrings move in tune, to its Almains  
My panting breast keeps time; through all my veins,  
Bubbling in wantonness, now here, now there,  
My fresh blood frisks in circles every where:  
Thus in the Court the fawning Favourite,  
When from the King his Master he can get  
One pleasing look with vigour tuggs and hales,  
Hope and Ambition hoist his full-cheeked sails,  
Top and top-gallant-wise, worth or no worth,  
Into preferments Ocean lancheth forth.  
Thus the blithe Merchant, when with even train,  
His wealthy vessel glides through th' marble main  
Hugs his good fortune, and begins to sport,  
While Neptune kindly laughs him to the Port,  
Propitious lights which at my birth did shine!  
My stars speak dotage in this smile of thine.   

To Amanda his friend, desiring him to fall to  

A Thousand thanks, good Sir, thanks for you cheer  
And this good sign of welcome to your feast;  
If you observe your guest,  
How heartily he feeds  
On these delicious viands h●re:  
You'll find his love no invitation needs,  
Believe me, Sir, I do not spare.   

2.  
I am all appetite, my hungry mind  
Feeds almost to a surfeit on desire,  
This dish 'tis I admire,  
No cates so sweet as these;  
Here, here, I feed, here I am pined;  
And starved with meat, these juncates only please,  
Hither my senses are confined.   

3.  
Here's my rich banquet, hither, the little lad  
Cupid invites, in sugar here are store,  
Of sweet meats candid o'er,  
From those fair lips I see  
What choice of Conserves may be had,  
The modest cherry and the barberrie,  
The best and sweetest marmalade.   

4.  
Here I can taste the grape and mulberry,  
No blush of fruits (though served in they are  
In pure white China ware)  
Is like those cheeks of thine,  
Where the freshest strawberries be,  
Most finely tippled in brisk Claret-wine,  
Me thinks they seem to swim to me.   

5.  
Beauty in stead of tempting sauce doth woo,  
Love feeds my heart, love feeds my eyes,  
I for no rarities  
Of quails and pheasants wish  
(Sir, I am welcomed well by you)  
Amanda is my first and second dish:  
Would she would make me welcome too.    

To Amanda desirous to go to bed.  
Sleepy, my Dear? yes, yes, I see  
Morpheus is fallen in love with thee,  
Morpheus, my worst of rivals, tries  
To draw the Curtains of thine eyes;  
And fans them with his wing asleep,  
Makes drowsy love play at hopeep;  
How prettily his feathers blow,  
Those fleshy shutting to and fro!  
Oh how he makes me Tantalise  
With those fair Apples of thine eyes!  
Equivocates and cheats me still,  
Opening and shutting at his will;  
Now both now one, the doting god  
Plays with thine eyes at even and odd;  
My stammering tongue doubts which it might  
Bid thee good-morrow or good-night;  
So thy eyes twinkle brighter far,  
Then the bright trembling, evening star;  
So a wax taper burnt within  
The socket plays at out and in:  
Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye,  
Meaning there all night to lie;  
Cupid and he play hoop-all hid,  
Thy eye 's their bed and cover-lid;  
Fairest, let me thy night-clotheses air,  
Come I le unlace thy stomacher;  
Make me thy maiden-chamber-man,  
Or let me be thy warming-pan;  
Oh that I may but lay my head  
At thy bed's feet i'th' trundle-bed;  
Then i'th' morning ere I rose  
I'd kiss thy pretty pettitoes.  
Those smaller feet, with which i'th' day  
My love so neatly trips away:  
Since you I must not wait upon,  
Most modest Lady, I'll be gone,  
And though I cannot sleep with thee,  
Oh may my dearest dream of me,  
All the night long dream that we move  
To the main centre of our love;  
And if I chance to dream to thee,  
Oh may I dream eternally:  
Dream that we freely act and play,  
Those postures which we dream by day,  
Spending our thoughts i th' best delight.  
Chaste dreams allow of in the night.   

To Amanda igoing to Prayer.  
STay, stay, Amanda, take a wish from me,  
And bless a cushion with thy softer knee;  
Whither are all those Virgin- Angels gone,  
Who strew their wings, for thee to kneel upon,  
Those pretty pinioned boys, fat, plump and fair,  
Who joy to be the Echoes of thy prayer.  
Those golden Cupids fallen in love with thee  
Thy little Nancioes to thy Deity.  
Prithee, Amanda, Dearest, prithee stay,  
The Cushion, wench, where art? come bring't away  
You use your Mistress kindly; here, my love,  
Come kneel upon't, and kneel to none but jove:  
What o'th' bare boards! no sure it cannot be,  
Look how they sink, and will not touch thy knee;  
They dare not sin so far (my Dear) to press  
That flesh, and make it know their stubbornness,  
Were there no bones within, thou shouldst command  
Under each tender knee thy lover's hand;  
Nay, my Amanda, take my better part,  
And at thy prayers kneel upon my heart.   

On Amanda praying.  
AManda kneeled, I strait a Canopy  
Of Saints and Angels o'er her head did see;  
Amanda prayed, and all the Spheres stood still,  
The Heavens bowed, and stooped to know her will:  
She prayed with zeal, and then the chanting quires  
Of Cherubs, lift'ning to her chaste desires,  
Stopped their sweet Anthems; still Amanda prayed;  
Then on her bosom her pure hand she laid.  
Called for her heart, and lifting up her eyes,  
Turned her prayer into sacrifice;  
Her heart was fixed, She more and more devout,  
Did sob and groan as if she'd sigh it out;  
At length she wept, but could not shed a tear  
To wash her cheeks, or th' roses that grew there,  
Fine, pretty lads came thick about her still,  
Their Crystal bottles at her eyes to fill;  
Some lodged upon her lips, all as they pass,  
Hover, and make her eye their Looking-glass;  
Some set upon her cheeks, hard by the springs,  
Her blush reflecting on their golden wings,  
Some on her eyelids sat, so greedy were,  
They spoiled the pearl, and snatched at half a tear:  
At last she ended all in giving praise,  
Her head was sainted with a crown of rays,  
Then I no longer could Spectator be,  
Amanda's glory had so dazzled me;  
But than I heard all Heaven cry Amen,  
And pray, and sing her prayers o'er again.   

To Amanda after her Prayers.  
WHat watery still with relics of a tear?  
Oh prithee let me kiss them dry, my Dear.  
Religious fountains which still deluged stand,  
Where Infant-Angels wade it hand in hand!  
What still bedewed? sure yet remaining there  
Some of those pretty tankard-bearers are,  
Thy late Attendant at thy sacrifice,  
Yes, yes, I see those babies in thine eyes,  
Those yellow-winged Fairies in thy well  
Till thou shalt pray again intent to dwell,  
Earnest expectants for a tear to fall,  
They make within thine eyes a watergall.  
Amanda prayed, I saw the Angels fly  
To hear her lectures of Divinity,  
And when my Fairest held up those hands of hers,  
Thousands of sweet celestial Choristers  
Danced on each finger's end, delighting there  
To fan themselves in the perfumed air  
Of my Ammanda's breath, swarmed at her lip,  
As Bees o'er flowers, where they Nectar sip,  
Then some did on her silver bosom rest,  
Prunning their golden feathers in her breast,  
And when my Dearest sang Te Deum out,  
Th' Intelligences twirled the Orbs about,  
But when she chanted her Magnificat,  
The Angels than first learned to imitate.  
Yes, yes, thy prayer always so pithy is,  
So full of noly zeal and emphasis,  
So fraught with Hallelujahs it might be,  
Heavens Landamus, and man's Litany,  
Prithee, my Dearest, since with greatest jove,  
Thy prayers are so prevalent above:  
IceIce now thy subject, once thy Prince may be,  
Pray for thy Prince, Amanda, pray for me.   

To Amanda undressing her.  
THy hood's pulled off, nay then I'm dead and gone,  
Prithee, Amanda put thy night-coif on.  
I see a thousand amorous Cupids there.  
Which lie in Ambush, lurking in thy hair;  
Look with what haste within those locks of thine,  
They string their bows to shoot these eyes of mine?  
Look how that little blind rogue there with his dart,  
Stands aiming and lays level at my heart!  
The sympthomes of my wounds, Amanda, see,  
Oh I bleed inwards, prithee pity me.  
I am all stuck with arrows which are shot  
So thick and fast, that there is ne'er a spot  
About me free, each distinct atom smarts  
By't self, pierced with a thousand thousand darts,  
And as a man with pangs surprised by death  
Struggles for life to keep his parting breath;  
My nerves and sinews stretch, and all within  
My body earn to grasp and reach thee in;  
How could I knit and wove eternally,  
And mingle limbs into a Gordian tie?  
Shoot on, sweet Archers, till I'm slain with love,  
Then like the bedlam who in's talk doth prove  
What made him mad, my happy blessed ghost  
Of this night's vision shall for ever boast.  
Kill me, my boys, 'tis mercy to be killed  
With love; who would not die in such a field  
Of damask rose, slain by her lily hand?  
Dart me to death, you pretty b●yes, that stand  
Upon her breast, the shafts which thence you send,  
Tell me, I am Amanda's bosom-friend.   

To Amanda lying in bed.  
IN bed, my Dearest? thus my eye perceives  
A primrose lodged betwixt its rugged leaves;  
Lain down, Amanda? thus have I often seen  
A lily cast upon a bed of green;  
So the sweet Alabaster Baby lies  
Cradled in fresher moss; thy sparkling eyes  
Dart forth such active beams, the god of sleep  
Dare not come in his nightly court to keep,  
He dares not lull thee, whilst so bright they shine.  
All Argus eyes watch in each eye of thine:  
But when the humour takes you, that you please  
To draw your eyelids close, and take your ease;  
He hovers o'er the tester of your bed,  
And gently on them will his poppies shed:  
Then, my Amanda, (with his leaden crown  
And sceptre queened) let those fair vallins down,  
Those fine white satin vallins o'er thy eye,  
With their silk linings of a scarlet die.  
Let that soft hand into the bed repair,  
Safe from the moisture of the dampish air,  
Yet let me taste it first; so keep thee warm,  
Lie close, would I might lay thee in mine arm.  
Good night, my Dear, ne'er say good night to me,  
Till I all night, Amanda sleep with thee.   

On Amanda fallen asleep.  

SLeep is a kind of death, why may not I  
Write my Deer Epitaph, her Elegy?  
Here lies Amanda fast asleep,  
Whom Cupid guards, and Angels keep;  
Here lies the rarest prize  
Two pearls within her eyes,  
So have I seen a gem  
A Princely diadem  
Shut in a Cabinet,  
A whole treasury  
In a small box of ivory,  
Inlaid with bars and grates of jet.  
For such Amanda's eyelids are  
White and fringed with black hair.   

Here lies Amanda dead asleep:  
Hither lovers come and weep:  
Here's a hand which doth outgo  
In whiteness driven snow;  
Upon that sweet bag cast your eye,  
There on fine, fresh, green satin see it lie,  
With knots of scarlet ribbon by:  
Thus interwoven have I seen  
Virgius wax candles red and green,  
Proud with a fine white twist between.  
Hither lovers haste and see,  
Her slender fingers circled be,  
Like Rings enamelled with the Galaxy;  
Her locks as soft as sloven silk,  
Through her Alps do make their way,  
And on her breasts which do outvie  
The icy rocks of frozen milk,  
And th' lovely Swans soft downy thigh,  
Her stately amorous curls  
The saucy wantoness play.  
Whilst two fierce Cupids on her nipples sit,  
To wound the hearts of stupid churls,  
Who pass Amanda's tombstone by,  
And with so much as half an eye,  
Will not vouchsafe to look on it.   

Here lies my Dear Amanda chaste and fair,  
Don-cupids' charge and Angels care,  
Here she lies, and yet not here,  
For she's buried otherwhere.  
She's prisoner in my heart,  
From whence she can no sooner part  
Then dead men from the grave;  
And yet she there doth move,  
Not only in the ghost of love,  
No, though a prisoner, yet she's free,  
Alas, too free for me,  
She lives my bleeding heart t' enslave.   

Here my sweetest sweet Amanda lies,  
The best, the rarest of all rarities,  
Shrouded she is from top to toe,  
With lilies which all o'er her grow,  
In stead of bays and rosemary,  
Roses in her cheeks there be,  
Oh would I thy coffin were!  
Amanda's living sepulchre!  
Or would within that winding sheet  
Our happy limbs might closely meet!  
There would I chastely lie till th' day of doom,  
And mingle dust till th' resurrection come;  
But since as yet this cannot be,  
For Heaven's sake,  
My Dearest, now awake,  
For whilst Amanda sleeps, she's dead to me.    

To Amanda waking.  
AWake at length! oh quickly, Fairest, rise,  
And let the day break from thy brighter eyes,  
Hark how the early cockrel crows, my Dear,  
'Tis not Aurora's, but thy chaunticlere;  
Hark how the merry cherpers of the spring  
To thee their goddess do their matins sing!  
The purple violets startle from their beds,  
Gently erecting their sweet pearly heads  
On their fresh leaved bolsters, each would be  
A Benefactresse to thy treasury,  
And shake into thy snowy breast a tear,  
To be congealed into a jewel there:  
Look how that woodh●ne at the window peeps,  
And slily underneath the casement creeps!  
It's honeysuckle shows, and tempting stands  
To spend its morning Nectar in thy hands;  
Look in the gardens of thy cheeks, and see  
Aurora painting in thy rosary:  
The ripest mulberries do blush it thus,  
Made guilty of the blood of Pyramus:  
Nay had that modest fruit been stained with thine,  
How like thy lips far brighter would it shine!  
Compared with which, who e'er betimes hath seen  
The ruddy, damask, Nabathean Queen,  
With her red crimson morning waistcoat on,  
Though in her glory she were looked upon  
Newly with Sunbeams brushed, shall say at th' best;  
'Tis a pale waterish redness in the East;  
Nay, and that beauty which in her we see,  
Is not her own, but borrowed too from thee;  
The Sun himself reflects, he's but thy Moon,  
Hide but thy face, and he is eclipsed at noon.  
Cast off that drowsy mantle of the night,  
And rise, Amanda, or 'twill ne'er be light,  
Thy beauty only can drive night away,  
Rise, rise, my Fairest, or we lose a day.   

A morning Salute to Amanda.  
NOw a good morning to my sweetest love,  
Health from all mankind and the Saints above;  
Ave, Amanda; spare that dew that lies  
On thy fair hand to wash my lovesick eyes,  
That at my prayers I may better see,  
Virgin most sweet, to tell my beads to thee:  
I am a Papist, zealous, strict, precise,  
Amanda is the Saint I idolise.   

To Amanda washing her hands.  
HOw prettily those dabchick fingers play,  
And sport with the cool Nymph, which doth obey  
Their doubtful motions, opens every where,  
Where e'er they please to dive and ravish her!  
Cupid with a gold basin and Ewer stands,  
Shedding rose-water on thy lily hands;  
Officious Venus too herself stands by  
With towels like thy maid to wipe them dry.  
See from thy fingers pretty bubbles fall,  
A fair Narcissus cloistered in them all!  
No, no, that broken bubbles echo there,  
Told me Narcissus was not half so fair:  
See in each bubble a bright smiling lass,  
Each bubble is Amanda's lookingglass.   

To Amanda after she had washed.  
Hark how these bubbles talk of thee, and break  
Themselves in their last breath thy name to speak!  
Hark how they sigh and wish they Crystal were,  
They might be ever pendents in thy ear!  
That water slung away! No, no, my Fair,  
With it no Chemic Essence can compare;  
'Tis clarified and quickened with the balm,  
The morning philter of thy dewy palm.  
The sweetness of thy hands remaineth yet,  
'Twill make me fair to wash my face with it:  
Oh I must drink; Amanda, give it me,  
'Tis Nectarella, and doth taste of thee.   

To Amanda walking in the Garden.  
ANd now what Monarch would not Gardener be,  
My fair Amanda's stately gate to see;  
How her feet tempt! how soft and light she treads,  
Fearing to wake the flowers from their beds!  
Yet from their sweet green pillows every where,  
They start and gaze about to see my Fair;  
Look at yond flower yonder, how it grows  
Sensibly! how it opes its leaves and blows,  
Puts its best Easter clothes on, neat and gay!  
Amanda's presence makes it holiday:  
Look how on tiptoe that fair lily stands  
To look on thee, and court thy whiter hands  
To gather it! I saw in yonder crowd  
That Tulip-bed, of which Dame-Flora's proud,  
A short dwarf flower did enlarge its stalk,  
And shoot an inch to see Amanda walk;  
Nay, look, my Fairest, look how fast they grow!  
Into a scaffold method spring! as though  
Riding to parliament were to be seen  
In pomp and state some royal amorous Queen:  
The gravelled walks, though even as a die,  
Lest some loose pebble should offensive lie,  
Quilt themselves o'er with downy moss for thee,  
The walls are hanged with blossomed tapestry;  
To hide her nakedness when looked upon,  
The maiden figtree puts Eves apron on;  
The broad-leaved Sycomore, and every tree  
Shakes like the trembling Asp, and bends to thee,  
And each leaf proudly strives with fresher air,  
To fan the curled tresses of thy hair;  
Nay, and the Bee too, with his wealthy thigh,  
Mistakes his hive, and to thy lips doth fly;  
Willing to treasure up his honey there,  
Where honey-combs so sweet and plenty are:  
Look how that pretty modest Columbine  
Hangs down its head to view those feet of thine!  
See the fond motion of the strawberry,  
Creeping on th' earth to go along with thee!  
The lovely violet makes after too,  
Unwilling yet, my Dear, to part with you;  
The knotgrass and the daisies catch thy toes  
To kiss my Fair ones feet before she goes;  
All court and wish me lay Amanda down,  
And give my Dear a new green flowered gown.  
Come let me kiss thee falling, kiss at rise,  
Thou in the Garden, I in Paradise.   

To Amanda seeming to deny his request.  
PRetty, coy, modest thing! how lovingly  
She seems to grant me, what she doth deny!  
Troth, little Cupid, 'tis a pretty Art  
To look another way, and strike a heart;  
But why, my boy dost teach the women it,  
Who whilst they say they will not shoot, do hit?  
Well-plaid, good Angler, with thy sportive bait,  
To catch it from me when I think I have't.  
But why, Amanda, am I thus denied,  
And after so long treaty cast aside?  
Perhaps thou lov'st to hear me ask of thee,  
To laugh at my poor Courtship beggary:  
Canst thou be so unkind? must I forbear  
To love Amanda? Strange! well though, my Fair,  
We must return our Pledges, prithee then  
Take all thy surety kisses back again.  
First my indebted lips shall pay thee thine,  
Then thou shalt kiss me till thou payest me mine:  
Paying our debts shall makes indebted more,  
we'll kissing pay, and paying run o'th' score,  
And run so long, so deep in debt, my Dear,  
Till neither on's can pay his vast Arrear;  
So in loves lawful action by my troth  
The catch-heart Cupid shall arrest us both;  
And if that little hum-Bayliffe in my suit  
Arrest Amanda, and she prosecute  
Her Creditor for debt again; for thee  
I'll take no bail, none shall be given for me,  
But these my arms shall thy close prison be,  
And thou shalt find a prison too for me;  
Bridewell or Gatehouse, Heaven to my heart,  
Whilst thou my Keeper and my Prison art:  
Nor do I care, but pray there may not be  
These hundred years a Goal-delivery.  
But what's the meaning of this feigned denial,  
Was it to check my hopes, or make a trial  
Of my undoubted love? Amanda, know,  
The hasty current stopped doth overflow.  
Thou art a richer jewel, 'tis not fit  
So little ask should obtain thee yet;  
Porters with whom such wealthy treasures are,  
Open not the door till they know who is there;  
Let my Dear know I will not pillage her,  
I only ask to be her treasurer.  
I love to feel that hand that pats me so,  
And seems to say me yes in saying no.   

To Amanda desirous to drink.  
CAlling for beer! know not the gods they ought  
To send thee Nectar for thy morning's draught  
I'm sure the Heavens do allow it you,  
Ambrosia-Caudles for your breakfast too;  
How is't? surely this lazy Ganymede  
Sleeps it, and is not yet got out of's bed:  
What not yet come! Amanda, by that face  
I'll turn this puny Butler out of's place.  
And drain the skies till there no Nectar be,  
But what the gods shall beg as alms from thee.   

To Amanda inviting her to walk.  
COme, 'tis a morning like thyself, my Fair,  
Sweet as thy breath the spring perfumes the air  
With the fresh fragrant odours of its balm,  
Stilled from the last night's dew, a pleasing calm  
Invites thee forth; there's no unruly blast,  
No saucy wind to give the least distaste;  
In the disordering of those curls, which move  
As if each hair were with itself in love;  
Thy fingers made those rings, and every hair,  
Thinks it doth still embrace thy finger there:  
Hark how the birds play Consorts o'er and o'er!  
Hark to that modest beggar at the door,  
Whose lungs breathe spices! gentle Zephyrus  
Whispers, and through the keyhole calls to us;  
The Sun himself yonder expectant stays,  
And strews the golden atoms of his rays,  
To gild thy paths; though in post-haste he be,  
Yet he stands still to look and gaze on thee.  
The Heavens court thee, Princely Oberon  
And Mab his Empress both expect thee yond,  
They wait to see thee, sport the time away,  
And on green beds of daisies dance the hay;  
In their small acorn posnets, as they meet  
Quaff off the dew, lest it should wet thy feet.  
The blackbirds whistle, and the Finches sing  
To welcome thy approach, and not the Spring.  
Come then, my Turtle, let us make our flight,  
And browse it in the arbours of delight;  
To the next me low-Tempe let us move;  
Let's fly to Heaven on the wings of love,  
And when kind Cupid has conveyed us thither,  
we'll chastely sit and mingle bills together.   

To Amanda walking abroad.  
COme, come, Amanda, hand in hand we'll walk  
Hark how the birds of Love and Cupid talk  
As if they lately had been drinking wine,  
Each chirps a dialogue to his Valentine:  
Nay, to their downy breasted Ladies yet,  
At yond clear Crystal spring they're bibbing it,  
As if all bowls too narrow-bellied were,  
And cups too shallow, with a hearty prayer.  
Health afret health, each to his plumy lass  
Carowseth in the brook, and scorns the glass,  
Nay, and as if they feared to drink it dry,  
The hot cock-sparrow doth still, Fill it, cry;  
See how to's Mistress with his tippling bill,  
The Nightingale doth sweetly jugge it still!  
That pretty Linnet seems to drink to me,  
I'll pledge thy health, Amanda, kissing thee.  
And whilst those feathered lovers water sip,  
I'll quaff the Orleans-claret of thy lip,  
And suck those bloody mulberries in,  
Till like that fruit my lips seemed stained with sin;  
Then sin in 'tis blush shall make me more devout,  
I'll kiss and sin, and sin a pardon out;  
For thou 'rt so chaste, that who once kiss thee may,  
In that one kiss wipes all his sin away;  
Though blasphemy and murder it remit,  
Pope joans Indulgence doth come short of it,  
'Tis Heaven itself, and on that lip to dwell  
Is to be sainted; of no greater hell  
Can lovers dream, no greater sin commit  
Then to leave kissing, and to part with it.   

To Amanda like to be taken in a shower.  
WEll done, kind unexpected AEolus,  
Thy boys have bravely kept the rain from us,  
Thank thee, as yet we have not wet a thread;  
Me thoughts I saw over Amanda's head  
Thy huff't-puffed blub-cheeked Caitiffs hover,  
And stretch their lungs to blow th' last shower over;  
Then the sweet plump-faced rogues, when fair  
And clear it was, as if they breathless were  
To save Amanda, begged and kept a stir  
To get my leave they might take breath from her  
I gave my grant, they kissed, each kiss did prove  
They were no winds, but Angels fallen in love.  
How can my Dearest, than my dotage blame,  
If I so oft call on Amanda's name;  
The courtly Cherubims my rivals be,  
And Heaven makes thee it's Penelope.   

To Amanda fearing a second shower.  
WHat means this woman-like unconstant weather,  
These spongy clouds so strangely squeezed together!  
Should my Deer face be once so overcast,  
My eyes would deluge till the storm were passed;  
But when her pleasing Sunshine once appears,  
Her rays of beauty dry up all my tears:  
See the clouds blown away, be then to me  
Kind as the storms and tempests are to thee;  
And like the Heavens cast those veils away,  
Unmuffle, sweetest, and thy beams display;  
It has cleared up, yet still 'tis cloudy though,  
The weather's fair, when my Fair makes it so  
Fear not, Amanda, but unmask thy eyes,  
Come prithee, I'll unpin those mummeries.  
'Twill rain no more, I'll kiss thy cheeks, my Fair,  
'Tis May without an April shower there.   

An Answer to Amanda's question.  
Philosopher's, who in old days did live,  
Say it is jove makes water through a sieve;  
Perhaps their god is drunk he leaks so fast,  
Or else some Doctor must his urine cast;  
I'll tell thee Fairest, Heaven's bank'ront King,  
Grown poor through lust doth silver hailstones fling  
In stead of gold, the shower aimed at thee,  
He fain would take thee as his Danäe.  
I'll tell thee, my Amanda, whence it is,  
It reigned so much to day, the reason's this,  
The Sun espied thy beauty, looked upon't,  
And Heaven sneezed with looking too much on't.   

To a Rival.  
KEep off presumption; horrid impudence,  
Bold monstrous traitor to my love, get hence;  
Strange daring faith! venture to step between  
A jealous Monarch, and a chaster Queen,  
Go tempt a Kingdom kept by the magic spell  
Of a Prince politic; I'm loves Machavel;  
This is my Florence, and thou temptest from me  
Not an Italians wife, but Italy;  
Ransack the great Turk's Seraglio, try  
THE out-pimp the lustful Sultan's jealousy;  
Hug the coy laurel, and expect to see  
Daphne throw off her bark and follow thee:  
Make old Endymion Pander, and confer  
With Luna, till thou get new moons on her;  
Surprise an Abbess and her Nunnery,  
Reconcile love to its antipathy;  
Go dive amongst the haddocks and the whales,  
Make love to Mermaid's and their Conger-tailes  
Court some fair skillet-face, and swear she's neat,  
For pricking skewers well and spitting meat;  
Some greasy Cookmaid whose sweet dugs suck in  
Receive and mingle dripping with her chin,  
Who nightly with her knife her smock put off,  
Scrapes thence some pipkins full of kitchen-stuff,  
Or woo some driv'ling Hag, whose pitfal skin  
Makes lust mistake the wont place of sin.  
On some thrummed Baucis spend thy hopes and labour,  
Where thou mayest bathe thy lips in slime and slabber.  
Cuckold the devil, get some Proserpina,  
Some Succuba to be thy Concubine.  
Engender with the nightmare, and beget  
Dreams which may stang thy blood, and jelly it;  
This once accomplished, thou may'st freely ask  
Amanda's love, but before thou'st done thy task,  
If thou dare once come near this sacred Court,  
Wherein my Princess love and beauty sport,  
I le stifle thy rebel heart in clotted gore  
Of blood, with knives and daggers shrowded thee o'er,  
And make thee bear i'th' face, throat, heart and back,  
More signs than he in Swallows Almanac.   

A game at Chess with Amanda.  
I And Amanda on a day,  
Sat down a game at Chess to play,  
Passing my Bishops with their Lawns,  
She was still for taking pawns,  
She played, I played, she chect me strait,  
She wished, I wished it might be mate:  
But then (said I) I must check you,  
Or else you'll check and beat me too.   

To his most Noble Friend Sir T. L. B. of Shingle hall.  
SIR, THat th' only virtue is Nobility,  
'Twas spoke in malice, and you'll prove't a lie.  
The Author of that sentence, lived he now  
Would know his wit a scandal, knew he you.  
Nay, Sir, that Nobles are the better sort;  
Alas! the very times upbraid him for't;  
And yet some hope to see our Noblemen  
Some such as you confute the times again;  
Though in their wisdoms now they dormantly,  
Hushed in their private mansions quietly;  
Had they such Martial souls, such fight hands,  
Redemption of their rights, three and lands  
Were easy work, and they might bravely get  
More honour than a bene latuit,  
And th' Art of keeping heads on safe; But I  
Intent no plots, although a liberty  
Of tongue to speak in this and th' other sense,  
Is safer far than that of conscience;  
Yet te'nt allowed of; but howe'er 'tis fit,  
That Poets still should have their Quidlibet:  
It is their charter, notwithstanding now  
I'll make no use on't; only thus to you.  
Sir, in each cast of your commanding eye,  
Such reverend imperious glances fly,  
Such royal stately looks, so sweet a grace  
Of presence, that when now there is no face  
Of Monarch in the land, amongst so many  
Kings of the times, if'twill agree to any;  
Better I cannot make the Court-salute,  
Then with your stature and your greatness suit  
(Setting all Steeples and all Fat-guts by)  
If't please your Highness or your Majesty:  
Such a well-timbered man, of such a height,  
And yet your years be hardly ten and eight!  
What ever Nature's second thoughts might be,  
Her first allowance was for Gemini.  
Sir, there's such mixture in your countenance  
Of Mars and Cupid, such a riddling glance,  
We doubt what in your eyes those sparklings move;  
Or warlike lightnings or the flames of love?  
Sometimes I've seen you (like Prince Paris stand  
Ready to kiss his Helen's lilie-hand)  
All smiles, and then again me thinks I see  
Within your face a whole Artillery:  
Thus looks a bold adventurous Amazon,  
A Lady with Knight-Errant's armour on:  
Sure that Greek Cavalier looked something like  
To you, who amongst the Spinsters tossed a pike,  
Which you may be, I doubt, and pause upon't,  
A young Achilles or a Bradamant;  
Would any see Venus and Mars embrace,  
They meet, and mingle loves upon your face;  
By which I mean there's to be seen in you,  
Sir Thomas Leventhorp, and Madam too;  
Minos was such a Gallant sure, had you been there,  
Nisus had sooner lost his purple hair,  
(Sylla as lovesick, and as mad to wed)  
You'd had a Kingdom and a Maidenhead;  
Of all the beauties which in women shine,  
Your Nature's wardrobe, but yet masculine.  
Sir, in all this, I must commend with you;  
Your well-beloved, the Princely Mount ague.   

To Mr. LILLY, Musick-Master in Cambridge.  
SIR, I have seen your scip-jack singers fly,  
As if their motion taughed Ubiquity:  
I've seen the trembling Cat'lin's smart and brisk  
Start from the frets, dance, leap, and nimbly frisk  
In palsy capers, prattling (a most sweet  
Language of Notes) Currantoes as they meet:  
I've heard each string speak in so short a space  
As if all spoke at once; with stately grace  
The surly tenor grumble at your touch,  
And th' ticklish-maiden treble laugh as much,  
Which (if your bowe-hand whip it wantonly,)  
Most pertly chirps and jabbers merrily;  
Li'e frolic Nightingales, whose narrow throats  
Suck Music in and out, and gargoyle notes;  
Each strain makes smooth, and curls the air again,  
Like currents sucked by narrow whirlepits in;  
Sometimes they murmur like the shallow springs,  
Whose hasty streams forced into Crystal rings,  
And checked by pebbles, pretty Music make  
In kisses and such language as they speak,  
'Tis soft and easy, Heaven can't out-doed,  
That under Fairie-ground is nothing to't:  
Who e'er that earthly mortal Cherub be,  
Whose well-tuned soul delights in melody:  
He ventures hard, if for an hour he dares  
To your surprising strains apply his ears,  
We find such Magic in your Harmony,  
As if to hear you were to hear and die.  
Were you a Bachelor, and bold to try  
Fortunes, what Lady's she, though ne'er so high  
And rich by birth, should see the tickling sport  
Your finger makes, and would not have you for't;  
Beyond those Saints who speak ex tempore,  
Your well-spoke viol scorns tautology;  
And I in truth had rather hear you teach  
O'th' Lyra, than the rarest tub-man preach:  
In's holy speeches he may strike my ears  
With more of Heaven; you with more o'th' spheres,  
I've heard your base mumble and mutter too,  
Made angry with your choleric hand, while you  
With hasty jirks to vex and angered more  
Correct its stubbornness and lash it o'er:  
I've heard you pause, and dwell upon an air,  
(Then make't i'th' end (as lost to part it were)  
Languish and melt away so leisurely,)  
As if 'twere pity that its Echo die;  
Then snatch up notes, as if your viol broke,  
And in the breaking every splinter spoke:  
I've seen your active hands vault to and fro,  
This to give grace, that to command your bow;  
As if your singers and your instrument  
By conspiration made you eminent.  
We have good Music and Musicians here,  
If not the best, as good as any where:  
A brave old Irish Harper, and you know  
English or French way few or none outgo  
Our Lutanists; the Lusemores too I think  
For Organists, the Sackbuts breath may stink,  
And yet old Brownes be sweet, o'th' Violin  
Saunders plays well, where Magge or Mel han't been.  
Then on his Cornet brave thanksgiving Mun,  
Plays on King's Chapel after Sermon's done:  
At those loud blasts, though he's outgone by none,  
Yet Cambridge glories in yourself alone:  
No more but thus, he that hears only you,  
Heares Lily play, and Doctor Coleman too.  
You in the swiftness of your hand excel  
All others, my Amanda sings as well,  
No Music like to hers; I wish in troth,  
That we with her might play in Consort both;  
Might I myself, and you my friend prefer,  
You with her voice should play, and I with her.   

A Passion.  

1.  
SOlicit not my chaster eyes,  
With those fair breasts that fall and rise,  
I'll not lie betwixt those dugs  
Where Cupid nestles, sleeps and snugs;  
There is no goddess I adore,  
To fight with those that call her whore:  
Thou shalt not surfeit in thy pride,  
By me so falsely deified.  
No, hang a Mistress, I le ha' none,  
No such toy to dote upon.   

2.  
Beauty's faring, Loves conceit,  
" Though her face be eighty-eight;  
Called faithful, constant, fair,  
Though Vaux i'th' dark plot treason there;  
The Phoenix too must build his nest,  
I'th' blessed Arabia of her breast;  
Without her little dog though she  
Or musk or civet dare not be.  
Fie, fie, a Mistress I'll ha' none,  
No such toy to dote upon.   

3  
I'll be no Merchant; nor sail nigh,  
Those tempting India's of thy thigh;  
Make an adventure, hit or miss,  
And wrack my fancy for a kiss;  
Fool to your laughing Ladyship,  
To get a smile, or touch your lip;  
Protest with oaths high and mighty,  
That your spittle is aqua vitae.  
No, hang a Mistress, etc.   

4.  
Amongst the gallants swear and rant,  
And of your kindness boast and vaunt;  
Then drink diseases down, and wave  
All thoughts of sickness or the grave,  
Pledge your health, and pledge it stoutly,  
Pray o'er my cups, and drink devoutly;  
Increase the Fever of my lust,  
And never dream I am but dust.  
Oh hang a Mistress, etc.   

5.  
Then vault and do some tumblers knack  
That speaks me man, and shows my back;  
Run in debt and pawn my goods,  
To buy you fancies, gloves and hoods;  
Then if the catchpole chance to hale  
And drag me to the loathsome goal;  
There may your servant die and rot,  
You never send, you see him not.  
Shame on't, a Mistress, etc.   

6.  
At least I shall be cursed in this,  
Your love, your beauty common is,  
Then I receive my Rival's glove,  
Murder, or else renounce my love;  
Or late at night must walk the street,  
Where ten to one some rogues I meet,  
Only to watch till one o'th' clock  
I'th' cold to see you in your smock;  
And nothing do  
But look at you  
And through the keyhole too.  
Oh hang a Mistress, I'll ha' none  
No such toy to dote upon.  
All that fair and amorous be,  
Are Mistresses alike to me;  
I'm in love with every one,  
No, hang't, in love with none.  
Amanda prithee pardon me,  
In love with none, with none but thee.    

To Amanda mistrusting her love.  
IF any Stranger but appear,  
Thy jealous Lover strait begins to fear;  
If any letters come to thee,  
Suspicion swiftly doth come post to me;  
In private if thou read them o'er,  
I read 'tis love, and still suspect the more;  
If after this thou chance to frown,  
Despair brings night on, and my Sun goes down;  
From me in anger if thou part,  
A fearful palsy shakes my trembling heart;  
But shouldst thou bid me once abstain,  
My breath would go, and ne'er return again:  
To rid me of these kill doubts,  
Would I could see thee once make Babie-clouts.   

To Amanda, on her picture drawn with a Lute in her hand  
A Sweet fair draught, yet not completely true,  
No, it must paint again to be like you;  
Niggardly Art must be at greater cost,  
Else your complexion is in colours lost;  
A neat resemblance, yet who e'er did do't,  
Envied my eye, and drew a curtain to't;  
A whimsy limner strange, what meant the toy,  
Not like yourself to make your picture coy!  
Oh it was providence, thoughts of a wife,  
Had killed me there, had you been drawn to th' life;  
But Fairest; that's beyond our modern powers,  
Apelles' hand ought to be seen in yours,  
And Art must to that work a pupil show,  
Durst cut a line with skilful Angelo;  
Yet in the cast o' th' eye would likeed you'd be,  
And then where e'er I stand, you'd look on me;  
It was my chance to see't by candlelight,  
Had you been there I could have stayed all night;  
I kissed those hands, no less nor more could do,  
But yet my fancy kissed the substance too,  
Me thoughts my lips did some impressions make,  
The awful Cat'line seemed to tremble and shake:  
Had you been there to play as I did wis,  
I'd have kept time with an observant kiss;  
A sweeter Lute for you would I prepare,  
In tune you should have found my heartstrings were;  
So mingling airs and lips till break of day,  
We would a sweet chaste ravishing Consort play  
Without a discord, only this I'd do,  
I'd keep false time, false time in kissing you.  
Oh Fairest, that thou were't but drawn on me,  
Then blest should I thy happy picture be;  
I stretch my arms out, and still wish the same,  
Oh that you were but hanging on this frame;  
Then for your beauty's sake, strait should I be,  
Hanged in some princely Monarch's gallery;  
Nor would I care could I but often see,  
You come, and kindly look and smile on me.  
Then would I draw ye again upon my heart,  
And be loves masterpiece of Love and Art.   

A Dream.  
AS in the perfumed garden yesterday,  
Amongst the primrose fast asleep I lay,  
My busy soul upon a ramble went,  
By love and fancy on an errand sent.  
In at Amanda's private chamber door  
She made her slight, and viewed her o'er and o'er.  
The more she looked, the more she liked, and fain  
She would have stayed, and ne'er returned again;  
First on her cherry lip she played, and then  
On her fair cheek, so to her lip again;  
Where having sucked till she was filled with love,  
She dropped into her downy breast; the next remove  
Was to the chamber of her heart, to see  
If she could take possession there for me;  
When in she came, there pretty Cupid sat  
In state, and laughed at her, she glad of that  
Kindly embraced and kissed the smiling boy,  
And whilst they kissed, my Sweetheart leapt for joy;  
Then could my jocant soul no longer stay,  
But strait to bring the news came post away:  
Her flight was swift, and with her lovingly  
She brought along, [most willing company]  
Amanda's soul, so loath to part they were;  
The best on't is, she left a Cupid there.   

To Amanda on her dimples.  
WHen e'er I let my meditations fly,  
And give them wings to take their liberty,  
Like the neat Cyprian bird, the cleanly Dove,  
Which no fowl sloven stenement doth love,  
But a fair stately house and ne'er forsakes  
The pleasant fabric to which once it takes,  
So my thoughts fly, (from whence they ne'er will part)  
So th' comely mansion of a candid heart;  
Each winged thought to thee, Amanda, flies,  
And under th' crystal windows of thine eyes  
Lights on thy damask cheeks, where they do play,  
The wooing turtles winding every way,  
Till by young Cupid's craft they're taken in,  
Love's dimpled pitfalls of thy cheeks and chin,  
Three nests of new-flown smiles on roses near,  
To which a thousand unslegged Angels are,  
Chirping pin-feathered, pirking Cherubs sit,  
Sweet blushing Babes playing at cherrie-pit,  
Some win and smile, some lose their cherries, than  
Down to thy lips, and gather fresh again,  
Sweet kissing lips, which all the Winter show  
The ripest cherries, and their blossoms too,  
When e'er thou weep'st, each Grace doth snatch a tear,  
And fill a dimple with't, then wash her there,  
That pimping Cupid's come, to cool their wings,  
In these chaste veils, each from thine eyelid bring  
A liquid crystal pearl, whose parts in love  
Unto each other as a centre move,  
So it remains a gem (though moist and wet)  
Whose superficies is its Cabinet,  
And loath to break it is, till hastily,  
An Infant having snatched it from thine eye,  
Flies to a pleasant dimple, and within't  
Dissolve the Jewel, and so bathe him in't,  
Baths in a dimple, which of rosebuds smells,  
Thine eyen and cheeks the Grace's Bath and Wells.   

On Amanda's black eyebrows.  
NEar to an eye that sparkles so,  
'Tis strange so dark an hair should grow  
Upon a skin so white and fair,  
'Tis strange there is so black an hair,  
At first 'cause it so near doth lie,  
I guest 'twas Sunne-burnt with thine eye,  
But then I thought if so it were,  
'T would melt the snow which lies as near,  
And scorch and make those lilies die,  
Upon the shutting of thine eye,  
And those fresh roses to which grow,  
Upon thy sweeter cheeks below.  
Then I conceived that there might be,  
In those black brows a mystery,  
That Venus for Adonis' sake,  
Commanded nature there to make.  
(A pretty strange conceited thing)  
Two arches of a mourning ring.  
Thence 'tis that those black hairs do grow,  
Thence are thy brows enamelled so.   

Good wishes to Amanda.  

MAy my Amanda live,  
And live in health,  
May no disease, no cross,  
No sudden loss,  
Nor want of wealth,  
No angry push, no pain nor smart,  
Afflict or grieve,  
Her tender melting heart.   

2.  
May th' Heavens and the earth  
Conspire her mirth,  
By Io I conjure thee Love,  
May all that's good  
Club her delight,  
May Cupid give her all the sweets of love,  
And kindly in the coolest night  
Most chastely warm her blood.   

3.  
Ne'er may she wipe a tear,  
From her bright eye,  
Ne'er may she sigh or wear,  
A mourning vale,  
In black, look pale,  
Till in her cheeks those fresher roses die,  
And where they blush it so,  
Nothing but ghastly lilies grow.   

4.  
Ne'er may she scowl or frown,  
Or chafe or fret.  
Ne'er may she meet a Clown,  
That smells of sweat,  
By him be kissed  
Ne'er may the bristles of a bumpkin's chin,  
Or th' gripes o's callow fist,  
Injure her softer sweeter skin.   

5.  
Ne'er may my Dearest die,  
A sudden death  
Nor on her deathbed lie,  
Gasping for breath,  
Whilst all about  
Her friends drop tears.  
But like a brighter lamp i'th' end,  
May she burn clear and spend,  
Her store of oil, and so go out.   

6.  
Ne'er may her slender wrist,  
Be overpress,  
Nor rudely wrung too hard;  
May her fair hand,  
Be lucky still;  
At what e'er game she plays, may she command  
The surest winning card,  
And never may she want her will.   

7.  
Amongst great Madams whatsoever,  
My fair appear,  
Ne'er may she want an eye,  
T' admire and gaze,  
Nor tongue to praise  
Her rare well-featured phisnomy,  
Still may she called be  
The sweetest and the fairest she.   

8.  
And if the greatest Love  
Shall bless me so,  
So as to make her mine,  
And she shall know  
No other love,  
All the night long upon her slumbering eyen,  
May Cupid's lodge in swarms,  
Ne'er may she startle from mine arms.   

9  
But if I can't be thought  
Worthy that love,  
For which so long I've sought,  
For which I've strove,  
So zealously,  
When I am gone and lost, oh may she find  
A heart as kind,  
That knows to love as well as I.    

Amanda's Beauty preferred.  

OF noted peerless beauties I shall tell,  
Yet leave Amanda without parallel,  
From thy bright eyes I have received a wound,  
Deeper than Henry from his Rosamond,  
I'll be thy Knight and Vaughan's office do,  
I'll be thy Labyrinth and Keeper too   

As thou art fairer than French Isabel,  
So in thy breast far greater comforts dwell;  
Thy love can me to richer joys prefer,  
Then, ere she did her lovely Mortimer:  
Hadst thou been living when that famous Lass  
Fitzwater daughter so admired was,  
Sweetest Matilda when to Dunmow gone,  
Had ne'er been courted by the Princely john;  
If my Amanda e'er shall be a Nun,  
Oh Heavens may she be a wedded one,  
I'll answer all her Vows of chastity,  
I'll be her constant Monk and Monastery,  
I'll be the careful Abbot, she shall be  
My pretty Abbess and my Nunnery,  
What though the Nunn'rie fall, we'll love, and then  
Replenish with young Monks and Nuns again;   

Because thy beauty is of greater power,  
Then that of Alice walking on the tower,  
Stormed by all features in their excellence,  
Edward the black (that stout victorious Prince,)  
With less disdain might have been checked by thee,  
Then by the Lady of Count Sal'sburie,   

If Owen Tudor praised his Madam's hue,  
'Cause in her cheeks the rose and lily grew,  
thou'rt more praiseworthy than was Katherine,  
There's fresher York and Lancaster in thine:   

Had thy sweet features with thy beauty met  
In William de-la-pool's fair Margaret,  
The Peers surprised had never given consent,  
For th' Duke of Suffolk's five years' banishment,  
For the Exchange of Mauns, Anjou and Main,  
T' have given a Kingdom for thee had been gain:   

What King would not his Crown and Sceptre pawn,  
To purchase lilies, and the whitest lawn,  
From thy pure hands, gems from thy sparkling eyes,  
Thy ruby lips, and such rich rarities?  
Who would not leave a throne one night to lie  
Upon the sweet bags of thy rosary?   

Most princely Virgin, hadst thou lived, when  
The goddess Beauty was adored by men;  
Edward would have preferred thee far before,  
The Goldsmith's Jewel, famous Missresse Shore,  
Had he but seen thy face, and heard thy wit,  
To thee that King his sugared lines had writ,  
The great Controller Love had made thee be,  
Great Lady Governess to's Majesty:  
For who Amanda would not put off state,  
And lose a Heav●n with thee t'inoculate?  
Who would not forfeit all his liberty,  
Locked up and folded in thine arms to be?   

Were I a Sultan or an Emperor,  
Thus would I write to thee my Paramour.  
" Off go my robes and these gold chains of mine,  
" To twist my legs with those fost legs of thine;  
" I'll be no longer Prince, may I but be,  
" Square o'th' body to so fair a she;  
" I'll lose my honour and my royal throne,  
" And think I have them all in thee alone;  
" I who am worshipped with a bended knee,  
" Will be thy servant, and bend mine to thee;  
" Off goes my Crown, I'll be no King of men,  
" That Princely name I'll ne'er put on again;  
" Till thou unto thine arms when I am hurled,  
Shalt make me King of thy sweet lesser world;  
" No kingly pleasure like to love's delight,  
" Thy kiss shall crown me, I'll be crowned all night;  
" And when the pleasant night is passed away,  
" Then shall succeed my Coronation day;  
" we'll spend our time in love's sweet merriments,  
" In stately tiltings, justs and tournaments;  
" Like the stout Brandon in the Court of France.  
" His loved Mary's honour to advance;  
" Had he then took (thou brightest Queen of light  
" Thy name his signal when he began to fight,  
" Without chastisements from his piercing steel,  
" The Giant Almain had been forced to kneel;   

" Were Surrey travelled now to Tuskanie,  
" Offering to reach his gauntlet out for thee;  
" If on the guilt tree in the Lift he set.  
" Thy pretty, lovely, pretty counterfeit,  
" All Planet-struck with those two stars, thy eyen,  
" (Outshining far, his heavenly Geraldine;)  
" There would no staff be shivered, none would dare,  
" A beauty with Amanda's to compare:   

" All those fair Ladies which we Beauties call,  
" Are Mauritanians, and not fair at all,  
" The proudest Madam, and the brightest she,  
" Is but a Gipsy, if compared with thee,  
" And all those Princely fair ones that live nigh,  
" Are tawny, tanned and sunburnt with thine eye;  
" Off goes my robe, and these gold chains of mine,  
" To twist my legs with those soft legs of thine.   

Thou art so fair, that in a Sunshine day,  
When Phoebus' beams are darted every way,  
If thou walk out with thy encountering eyes,  
Sweet Daphne fills me with strange jealousies,  
Should thy chaste body turn t' a Laurel tree,  
Oh may my brows be e'er impaled with thee;  
If I'm a Poet thou hast made me so;  
Then if thy arms to Laurel branches grow,  
'Tis fit in justice, and in love thou twine,  
Those leavy arms about this head of mine.   

In the green pastures, if thou walk about,  
Where crooked crystal streams flow in and out,  
If jove should change thee as his Inach is,  
Straight would I wish my metempsychosis;  
A female shape my loving soul should take,  
So would I be a Milkmaid for thy sake;  
My lips should milk thee, and thy milk should be  
Sack possets, and sweet Syllibubs to me;  
Into a Cow by jove wert thou bettaid,  
I'd struck thy tetts, and be thy darie-maid;  
The god must needs change me in changing you,  
If thou wert Iò I'd be Argus too.   

Within the wood, when thou walkest here and there,  
The chaste Calisto's story makes me fear;  
Up to the Sun if thou but lift thy eyes,  
I'd read the peevish Clytie's jealousies;  
Thinking thou may'st by Phoebus be preferred,  
I think on her who was alive interred,  
Interred alive shouldst thou (my Dearest) be,  
For Phoebus' sake, as was Lencothoe;  
Surely the mournful Sun to solemnize  
His fairest well_beloved obsequies;  
Would weep upon thy grave, (to sprinkle thee)  
Showers of Nectar to eternity;  
Styled from thy Corpse then would arise from thence  
Nothing but perfumes and sweet frankincense;  
From thy dewed grave still there would flow again,  
Odours and incense for the gods of men.   

When e'er I see the kindled fire flame,  
I think how jove unto AEgina came;  
Though I am not so hot a flame as jove,  
His flame was fire, mine's the flame of love;  
And if good laws shall stand in force with us,  
We will beget the world an AEacn●:   

I fear all shapes what ere appear to me,  
Lest in't some god be come to ravish thee;  
It was a Bull that took Europa up,  
Bright Theophane makes me dread the tup;  
The shepherd minds me of Mnemosyne.  
The Eagle, Astria makes me think on thee,  
Still I suspect when e'er from thee I go,  
Some rival counterfeit Amphitryo,  
For Leda's sake I hate the lovely Swan,  
I hate not only animals but man.  
Nay when I drink a Cup of wine to thee,  
I think how Bacchus took Erigone.   

Shouldst thou be crusted up like Niobe,  
And turned to marble like the Parian she,  
In Guido's Temple hugged by th' noble boy,)  
Thou couldst not lover want, nor they love's joy;  
For shouldst thou die, and o'er thy grave have set,  
Thy heavenly featured carved counterfeit;  
Hard by thy tomb I'd stand immovably,  
And on thy image ever fix my eye,  
As if both eyes (too narrow flood gates) kept  
The moisture back, and I too slowly wept;  
Like marble I'd sweat, each poor should drop a tear,  
Tear after tear, till dry as dust I were;  
Then should my body into ashes fall,  
Black ashes, mourners for thy Funeral;  
Sweet Cupid, Sexton to this dust of mine,  
Should throw in dust to dust, my dust to thine;   

Shouldst thou not love me whilst thou livest here,  
But give thy heart to some one other where,  
If thou t' Elysium 'fore thy servant went,  
I'd make thy very Statue penitent,  
So strange a mourner for thy death I'd be.  
Thy tomb or ghost should fall in love with me,   

Wert thou to pass over Cocytus' ferry  
In that old Sculler, Grandsire Charon's wherrie,  
The wrizled graybeard for his hapennie  
Would lick his lips, and ask a kiss of thee;  
On those black lakes shouldst thou but drop a tear,  
Styx and Cocytus would run crystal clear;  
The Cells of darkness shouldst thou go to view,  
The scorched souls would begin their Barichu;  
If with one kiss great jove thou wouldst but please,  
Ixion's ransomed and the Bellides;  
Heaven would readmit poor Tantalus,  
And grant reprieve to th' Pirate Sisyphus:  
For one sweet smile from thy pure lip can quell  
The wrath of furies, and redeem half hell;   

Oh my Amanda thou'rt so rate a she,  
There's none hath features to compare with thee,  
Should the age present, and the ages past  
Club for a beauty, they'll come short at last;  
I'll name no Helen snatched by old Priam's boy,  
For whom a ten years' siege was laid at Troy,  
With so great slaughter both of horse and men;  
Those we count trulls would have been handsome then:   

I'll name no Hero, for the stars have blest us,  
With better beauties than that star of Sestus;  
Holland's Diana, and another Moon,  
The fair Philippe, like the Sun at noon.  
A heavenly daughter of Northumberland's,  
Young Cappell's glory, and the Lady Sands,  
That blithe smooth Madam; had I thee alone  
Amanda, I'd enjoy these all in one;  
Thou art a matchless peerless Paragon,  
One that an Angel might well dote upon;   

Had that comparison been made by thee,  
Which once was made by proud Cassiope,  
Those water Fairies the Neriades.  
Sending no horrid Monster from the seas,  
To eat up beasts, and men; would proudly tell,  
That thy sweet Beauty was their parallel;  
Or to a rock suppose thou chained were,  
To be devoured by a Monster there,  
As was the heavenly fair Andromeda,  
The rock would moulder or else melt away:  
With thy sweet self, as deeply fallen in love;  
Each Angel would thy Guardian Perseus prove:  
With less presumption than Antigone,  
Heaven's proud juno can't compare with thee;  
No, my Amanda, for I dare prefer,  
Thee ' sore the stately Queen o'th' Thunderer,  
Fore her and comely Venus both together,  
Though jove bring bolts, and Mars his gauntlet hither.    

On Amanda's dimples.  
ONce more I'm fallen into an ecstasy!  
How I could gaze, gaze till I've lost my eye  
Gaze on those dimples in thy cheeks and chin,  
Where the three Grace's play at in and in:  
Three sacred vaults within whose rosy wombs,  
Sweet Venus all her pretty smiles entombs;  
Babes which born laughing, laughing live and die  
Then are interred within thy rosary:  
They haunt thy lovely cheeks, and here and there,  
Their smiling ghosts appearing disappear;  
Each from his head hath hanging down to's feet,  
A lily leaf in stead of's winding sheet;  
Shrouded in damask rose from top to toe,  
About thy dimples they pass to and fro,  
Still to thy dimples little shades do come,  
Thinking thy dimples their Elysium;  
And I myself find such an Eden there,  
Such heavenly features, Heaven so every where,  
That with a willing heart I could resign,  
My clay to th' dust and shut my dying eyen;  
Might my soul be when from my Corpse it flies,  
Amanda's Saint, and she its Paradise.   

To Amanda on her black brows.  
thou'rt fair and black, thy brows as black as jet,  
But ne'er were black and white so lovely met,  
The MoorsMoors black Prince would court thee, there's in you  
The English Beauty and the Negroes too:  
I've read of Goshen which the light did cover,  
When a thick darkness was all Egypt over,  
Here's a transcendent wonder, here is even,  
Cimmerian darkness in the face of Heaven:  
Enamelled black upon thy brows is set,  
Which other Madams do but counterfeit;  
And those black patches which our Ladies wear,  
To set their lily out, is in thy hair:  
Nor do thy twinkling eyes like two, clear, bright  
Fair stars appear, 'cause in thy brows 'tis night,  
No but thy brows because so nigh they stand  
With thy bright eyes, are Sun-burned, blacked and tanned,  
Thy brows do mourn, and sit it is if e'er  
Thy ey'n, Amanda, shed one single tear;  
●fe're thou weep'st but once, although thou never,  
Weep more, 'tis sit thy eyebrows mourn for ever.   

To his best friend Mr. T.H.  
True SIR, THe Country Gentleman who never missed,  
When he walked out his Faulc'ner at his fist:  
Who once besides his hounds was able,  
To keep a pack of servants at his Table;  
Now trudges through the streets in any fashion,  
To a Committee, and returns in passion,  
Chewing his lips for cud; it is not hard,  
To known by's silver-haire malignant beard,  
And his delinquent boots, in which he goes,  
Wetshod i'th' sweat of's dirty mellow toes;  
'Tis pity troth such good old Gentlemen,  
Are forced to wear their old boots o'er again.  
Nay Sir, the Prelates beg, his Lordship's grace,  
Walks with a scurvy Sequestration face,  
The good old honest Priest is grown so poor,  
He says his grace at another man's door;  
You may known by the reliqus of's old Querp-coat,  
By's Canonical rags he's a Priest you must know't,  
His girdle is greasy, he doth all to befat it,  
Black puddings he hangs, and sauciges at it,  
Though once he preached well, and learnedly spoke,  
Now he hath not so much as a pig in a poke.  
True Sir, the Clergy suffers, none can teach,  
The truth with freedom, or with courage preach,  
In stead of some good worthy pious Knox,  
W' have nothing now but a jack in a box;  
The people without life or soul lie dead,  
As under th' aspect of Medusa's head;  
The Gentry groans, the Nobles muzzled are,  
The heavy taxes make the Bumpkins swear,  
And Aradesmen break; the truth o'th' story's this,  
The times are bad, and all things are amiss;  
It is an iron age, an age that swarms  
With vipers, yet had I within mine arms  
My lovely sweet one, that same Fairest she,  
Whose love accepts my bribing Poetry;  
Pretty Amanda's kissing Alchemy,  
Can make this age a golden age to me.   

To my Noblest and ever-Honoured friend, Sir Thomas Leventhorp, Baronet.  

SIR, ME thinks 'tis time to know the joys of love,  
‛ Toward great Hymen's altar time to move;  
And now no longer ward, 'tis fit you be  
Guardian to some transcendent Deity,  
And make some wealthy beauty fortunate,  
Not only in the share of your estate  
And honours, but i'th' richer treasury  
Of your fair person, and your sparkling eye,  
Where a bright, radiant soul displays  
Its chaster twinkling flames, like the Sun's rays  
In a clear Crystal font, when Zephyrus  
That modest, lukewarm, Virgin- incubus  
Makes the sweet Nymph hold out (the lover's bliss)  
Cool trembling lips to take a passant kiss:   

'Tis pity that so rare a soul should be  
Confined to thought, and in the Nunnery  
Of its own lodge, lead a monastic life,  
Barred of all Consort joys, which a good wife  
Diffuseth like an Amber-box, wherein  
Unguents, balm, spice, and perfumed oil have been  
Closely imprisoned, which now first take th' air,  
Like myrrh and spikenard, when they bruised are,  
And vie their odours with the violet,  
The roses and carnations which are set  
In my Amanda's cheeks, whose early breath  
I'th' morning is an Antidote to death;  
Sweeter than Cinnamon, like Frankincense,  
Preservative against the pestilence  
Of melancholy fits, the dull disease  
Of nods, brown studies, and such plagues as these;   

'Tis fit so rare a body be possessed  
By two fair souls; so fair a soul be blest  
With two fair bodies too; may both your mind  
And body pleasure in its likeness find;  
May she you choose be such, whose shape and feature  
Shall speak her goddess rather than a creature;  
May she be Echo to your worth, in which  
I fully wish she may be rarely rich,  
In whatsoever doth Admiration move,  
In all the dainties of her sex and love,   

As for a single life, 'tis nothing less  
Than Hermitage amongst a wilderness  
Of women, who do veil their rarities,  
Or else are fruitless or forbidden trees;  
Besides, he studies Nature best 'tis known,  
Who hath a Physick-garden of his own;  
Which is most state, another's land to till  
And plough in common, or be Lord at will  
In a freehold? Nay, then consider, Sir,  
In robbing Orchards what the troubles are;  
Though now from climbing private walls you free  
Yet think what 'tis that tempts to th'robbery;  
Youth and fair lovely fruit, though ne'er so good  
And clean, sometimes the chastest flesh and blood  
Must needs be bobbing, now to Tantalise,  
And always live by feeding of the eyes,  
Is a poor silly banquet, on the thin,  
Small, sapless species that are served in,  
By coloured atoms, which an Elephant  
Is as soon cloyed with as the smallest Ant.   

I know you have a Martial warlike heart,  
Your looks speak valour, which 'tis fit ye impart  
To the next age, and though you'd rather make  
Your sword eat men, then have a woman take  
Your noble spirits prisoners, ' yet to give  
Birth to an heir, and that your name may live,  
Do like your fathers, left you guilty be  
O'th' murder of your blood and family.    

Nothing like his love to Amanda.  

GO ye great Ranters, into th' wild embraces  
Of your stewed Madams; lick their varnished faces,  
Where slimy snails have crept; brag of the fee,  
Wherewith they bribe your spending lechery;  
Then swash it to the Tavern, and confess  
That lust maintains your pride and drunkenness.   

Go, you mad City-Huffs, who fright young heirs,  
And fill those Lack-wits with strange jealous fears  
Of your pretended valour make fair shows,  
But dare as little as they to come to blows;  
Go with your Guardian Hector's who maintain  
(Some petty booty, some small prize to gain,)  
A windfall Lady's honour, keep for pay  
The old Troy-ruines of some Hecuba;  
Jumble her bones within her shriuled skin,  
And take the mud-walls of her carcase in;  
Hug rotten Countesses which pockeaten are,  
As if their Master-Coffin-wormes were there,  
Who for a legacy would swear 'twere sweet  
To spend o'th' stinking Corpse i'th' winding sheet.   

Go, cursed Misers, dammed o'er and o'er,  
For grinding the lean faces of the poor;  
Mortgage your carking souls and bodies to  
A Usurer as merciless as you:  
To fill your bags seek and scrape every where,  
Dig to the centre, and die beggars there;  
Go cheat and overreach only to fill,  
And take up paper with a tedious Will;  
Create trouble to th' Executors to prise  
Your wealthy goods, and pay out legacies,  
Then your heir laughing, play at Hoop-all-hid  
As once yonr rusty cossined money did:  
Depart in hopes to be saved after all,  
For the repairing an old Hospital,  
Or some poor Schoolmasters augmentation,  
An exhibition to some Corporation  
To set young Tradesmen up or so, then die  
Rich in your gifts, and poor in charity.   

Go, ye State-leaches, in your blessings cursed,  
Sweetly suck blood and money till you burst,  
Fleece a whole Kingdom, then like silly sheep,  
Which butchers in some fattening pastures keep  
Only for slaughter, amongst cutthroats fall,  
Piled, polled and sniped, shiered and cashiered of all,  
empson's and Dudleyes, Speakers and men o'th' chair,  
Spoiled as the Sultan's griping Bassa's are.   

Go, ye Court-spaniels, quest in honours sent,  
Perfumed and polished with a compliment,  
Fawn and shake tails to Ladies, keep them fed  
With bribing viands of the banquet-bed,  
With them their little dogs and Cupid's play,  
Till you be cracked and broken too as they,  
Than your hope's lost, you slighted and forgot,  
Down quickly to some Country goal, and rot;  
But say, your Prince's Favourite you be,  
Graceed with the loose-hammed Courtier's knee,  
Know there is Autumn in the midst o'th' spring  
●'th ' Court, and if the smiling face o'th' King  
In which your honour lives, be overcast  
With clouds, you only blossom to a blast.   

Go, plodding Students, ramble through the Arts,  
Learn all that science to the soul imparts,  
Let notions huddle, swim and multiply,  
Till they do muster into heresy;  
Receive those Centaurs and Chimeras in,  
Which monsterlike against true Reason sin;  
Go crack your brains with Elenches which are bred  
By swarms within a crazy brooding head,  
Bring to the wrack your judgement, reason, sense,  
To screw a truth from non-Intelligence;  
Infect thy wits, with buzzing thoughts which fly  
About like gnats, and sting out Reason's eye;  
Read errors till thou squint on truth; and make  
Unity double and treble seem, so mistake,  
And then at last be served like th' Logic elf,  
Proved two eggs three, supped on the third himself;  
What a great business ' 'tis! what strength we spend,  
What wit and time, all to no other end  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 parts and words, and wrangle still,  
As 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, we needs must prove freewill!  
To hold predistimation or decrees,  
Or some such riddling, needless points as these!  
What an act 'tis to write a book, then die,  
And be confuted by posterity!   

These are sad heavy thoughts of working brains,  
Most fruitless projects, yet require pains;  
The Huffs and Hector do contrive and plot  
To hug a Madam or a pottle-pot.   

Both which they love alike, although their drink  
And wine be sweet, perhaps their Madam's stink:  
The Miser toils, and all his carking care  
Can seldom purchase from his heir a tear,  
Nay, whilst he labours, strives and gasps for breath  
The frolic wag laughs the old fool to death,  
The Statesman hatches Cuckoos eggs, gets in  
A stock, then bever-like dies for his skin:  
The Courtier lives on hopes, his Prince's frown  
Till the next smile kills him, and casts him down,  
Still his preferment is adulterate,  
Subject alike to honour and to hate:  
The Scholar keeps a stir t' immortalize  
His name, tumbles and tosses Libraries,  
Puts on his doting winter-rug at night,  
Sits up till two, two or three lines to write.   

Well, well, Amanda, be but ruled by me,  
We'll spend our time in no such foolery,  
May I but make thee Dearest to my mind,  
We will leave children, and not books behind.    

To Amanda supposing and wishing she were with child.  

WIth what delight and joy, me thinks I see  
Thy swelling womb increase its treasury!  
What a sweet poison ' 'twas! if all maids past  
Fifteen, could themselves poison so, how fast  
They'd kick up heels, be venomed in their beds;  
And murder those Chimeras Maidenheads;  
How stately my Amanda looks! she seems to me  
Diana in her crescent Majesty.  
What frozen creature is't, won't wish as soon  
As Phebe's spied himself the man i'th' Moon?  
What Virgin thy fair Lunar globe can see,  
And not strait wish to be i'th' full like thee?   

I wish, my Dearest, I could hear thee say,  
The little boy kicks, willing to make his way  
Into his father's arms: Oh may he be  
His own sweet mother's picture, not like me  
Ah could I hear it, [I have often smiled  
To think upon't] Amanda's great with child!  
She looks within a month; would past all fear  
I once might say, Welcome down my stairs, my Dear;  
Would thou were't churched, and the good wives were come  
A gossiping! Now 'twil be guest by some  
The main thing that I wish implicitly  
Is this, would I were brought to bed with thee.     

MISCELLANEA Poetica: Carmina exequialia, Epigrammata & diversi generis Poëmata colligata in Manipulum; cui Annectuntur Epistolae, ROSAMUNDAE HENRICO, ET HENRICI ROSAMUNDAE, Quas clarissimus olim Poëta nostras MICHAEL DRAITON Armiger Nostratibus dedit; Carminibus Latinis redditae; Quarum quae secunda est OVIDIANO plané stylo nobilitatur ab Elegantissimo & Honoratissimo juvene, Dno EDVARDO MONTACUTIO.  
Di● quis Patronus, quis nunc erit?—  
Nos tamen haec agimus, tenuique in pulvere sulcos  
Ducimus.—  
LONDINI, Excusum Anno Dom. 1653.   

Ornatissimo viro, M●o. ALEXANDRO AKEHVRST, S. S. & Individuae Trin. Col. Cantab. Vice-Praesuli Dignissimo.  
NE essem ingratitudinis [quâ non est turpior naevus] vel diutulè notatissimus labe, paginas hasce, nominis tu● & virtutis breve monumentum, tibi, (Gravissime vir) tutelaris Angeli mei fidelis cultor, non imprudenter, tun bonâ, cum veniâ, dedicaverim; Nec revera naihi t● ore meo colliquescere solet, qui memoriam adimat, Galectites, nec socordiâ seu papaveris lacte, consopitus discubui, ut qui tantae tuae Beneficentiae indormire potuerim; saciliùs utique decrevero, benè merenli non omninò deberi gratias, quam à me non usquequ aque pro virili meo & obnixiùs animo rependi: Beneficia vestra, non adeò sinam deperdita esse, ut quae simul ac data sint, labantur illicò & avolent; Humanitas vestra, tot literis & characteribus se expressit, tot sententias aureas est locuta, ut, si in me esse●, amori tuo & Bonitatis gloriae, praesens aetas, nec comma sufsigcret, nec periodum posteritas. At ero ingenii mei egreg●us Gnatho si eas me putem honori tuo, hoc dispalato carmine, columnas ponere, quas Poëtae majorum Gentium Moecenatibus suis, — Quas nec Jovis ira nec ignis, etc.  
Quinimè tam diversum cogito, & è contrà persentiscam h●nc Camoenam meam, (si vita suppetat) iisdem auspiciis tuis superfuturam quibus olim est nata, nec enim agere potestillam animam quam à te hausit, quam & puram insuper & vivacem conservas. Gloriabor tutiùs tuo nomine, quam si singulus propemodum versus stricto gladio se defenderet, & quaeque pagina acutissime mucronata frameas pugionesque minitaret.  
At quidego tibi Heliconem cui nihil sapit praeterq●●●● anima Saturni & Jovis Spiritus qui Chymicorum — Caput inter nubila condis. Et adea tantum lectionem adhibes, quae scribuntur calamis, à Philosophorum Aquilâ & Phoenicia desumptis? Verim Doctrissime Vir, nonsunt genus hominum inter se t●● omninò dissimile Poëta & Chymicus; Hic 〈◊〉 Aphronitrum & Salem gemmae, ille Veneres & slorem Salis; Clibanos hic furnòsque & equisimum ille Pegasum & mellificia Attica; Hic venenum & philtrum jactas, ille quesvis in Cupidinis ignem, imi potest in patibulum agere; Hicherbarum cineribus pristi●as sormas & 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 induit, 
Ille etiam jubet ut vivat post funera virtus,  
Sac neque vei cineri glora ferò venit,  Quin & homines facit Poëta, quam diù manserit mortalitas, immortales; pulcherrimas fabulas hic & ille ventilat, esque 〈…〉, quae veritatem magìs significare, quám exprimere videntur verisimile; jam verò etiam, quicquid id est quod ostentavit Agrippa, iste scilicet Simon Magus vester, quod medicorum omnium praestantissimus Theophrastus, quod Hispanus ille cum campanula, quod illa denique Maga Virgiliana. 
Quae se carminibus promisit solvere mentes,  
Quas velit, ast aliis duras immittere curas,  
Sistere aquam fluviis, etc.  Quantácunque sint, à nobilissimis Chymicis, vel effecta, vel excogitata & ficta tantummodò, non minora a certè prodigia, nec veritatis ratione impari inventa, attribuebantur olim & etiam nunc hodie ascribuntur Poëtis. Vtrique in monte quodam sublimi & aureo  
Quaerunt quod nusquam est gentium, reperiunt tamen. Notum est quod effutiunt labeones quique, utriusvis facultatis studiosos degeneratum iri in pannosos mendiculos, at illi nequam homines 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 qui otiosam pecuniam, nummulorum aeruginem, & captensularum sordes, Chymicorum Poëtarúmque sapientiae praefexunt invincibilis ignorantiae rei, me judice, damnabuntur ad Plutonem; quo nimirum in pretio fuerint, quam ubique gentium cohonestati & celebres, satìs eloqui possunt in Pandulphi Cathedra Rheginus, pro Archia Poëta ipse Cicero.  
At ne hîc molem struam, Chymicorum Poetarúmque laudes accumulando, inclyta nomina recensendo, & percurrendo virtutes reciprocas, Argumenti & amoris duplici catenâ, eos breviter astringam; qui etenim magis continuò invicem ad complexum currant & oscula, quam (fraterrima capita Gemellorum) Poëta & Chymicus? uterque nimirum naturae primogenitus; hic materno gremio delectatur; ille matris subuculá involvebatur delicatulus pusio; & — Post obitum supremaque funera.— inter flores & herbas utriusquc circumvolabit animula, hortulorum illa, haec Parnassi apecula, vagula, blandula;  
Quare (Spectatissime Vir) ut comitatem tuam & mansuetudinem taceam (de quibus permulta nunc essent dicenda) si haec cerebri mei aqua stillatitia percoletur in capitello tuo, si lagunculam è doliolo nostro, si pusillum hoc & levidense munusculum, bono animo acceperis, Humanitas tua erit mihi 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, Et precabor superos, ut Adech tuus & bonus Daemon, Antimonii Ar●ana ac novum indies 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 tibi suggerat, ut idem ille Cherubin coelestis tibi ipsi, qui & ipsi olim Paracelso opituletur jugiter, & semper adsit ad manus usque eo dum à coelo avoles spagyrico ad Aniada Paradisi.  
VALE. Amplissimo nomini vestro perpetua observantia & officio devotissimus. N. H.   


In obitum gravissimi senis Dni Doctori- COLLINS, Theologiae Professoris Regii Cantabrigiae.  
AMica, (Lector) suneri pedissequa  
Attendat aemula lacryma,  
Viduaque mater lugeat Academia  
Sponsi ad senilis naenias,  
Et veste nubilâ induantur lugubres  
Ecclesiastici chori;  
Non janu●e Libitina cardines quatit  
Non ostium excussit modò,  
Sed ausa vel scientiarum Regium  
Evertere monasterium.  
Compressus est silentio sidissimus  
Propheta & Interpres Dei  
Veteranus emeritúsque linguae Hebraica  
Professor clinguis silet.  
Exhaustus est ditissimus Theologiae  
Thesaurus, & Oraculum.  
Casúsque jam tandem per omnes mors rudis  
Heterocliton flexit vagum.  
Variatur ille quem monoptoton diù  
Credidimus invariabile;  
●niqua certè mortis absurdae manus  
Hominem ferire tam senem,  
Veneranda fatis occubuit Antiquitas  
Obiit senectus non senex.   

Somnus mortis imago.  
STabat in Eliaco, nebulis vestita, sacello,  
Foemina poenè suo nescia stare loco,  
Sydera su adebant circumlucentia somnum,  
Miscebátque suas Cynthia amica faces;  
Visa est nutare & pulvinar quaerere mento,  
Inque suo sirm● labra sepulta sinu;  
Nox fuit haec, laeuâ nigrum est amplexa puellum,  
Et puer ad dextram qui stetit albus erat,  
Illa fuit somni, fuit alter a mortis imago,  
Sic morti semilis somnus, & alba nigris,   

To his loving friend M T. G. upon covering his head in the Colledge-Butteries.  
WHat is the matter Tom, thou 'rt grown so old,  
Hoary and white o'th' sudden? fearest thou cold  
Salt brackish rheums should falling on thy chest  
Thy windpipe rot, thy spongy lungs infest?  
Yes, taplash breeds catarrhs, and thereupon  
The Butler needs must starch thy nightcap on;  
Tom, thou wert sudled o'er night, and 'twas for fear,  
Thou shouldst i'th' morning drink too much small beer  
After so hot an Orgyan sacrifice,  
'Twas wholesome moral Physic not to size.  
O'er night thou knowst it was thy fatal lot,  
To mug, to quaff, carouse and bounce the pot;  
Next morn I hastened to the butterie-hatch,  
How much Col-tisse thou'dst drink I meant to watch;  
But when I came, I viewed, looked every where,  
The duce of any Tom or heal was there.  
First from the bottom of the Tables I spied,  
And upwards every name I straightly eyed;  
Each name a round o'th' ladder seemed to me  
Then come to th' blank which put my in mind of thee;  
It emblem'd out a thief, who 'fore he dies  
Looks like thy head with's nightcap o'er his eyes:  
How! proud and coy! Prithee now what dost ail,  
That like the wenches thou must mask and veil,  
And hide thy face (like them in heat of blood,)  
In such a dainty, fine, white sarc'net hood?  
Way with that muster, show thy face, let's see't:  
Prithee leave off doing penance in a sheet.  
Thou look'st like some old scurvy Country- Hag,  
That makes a biggen of an oatmeal bag,  
Whose face is masked with chin-cloth fine and gay,  
To ride on Dick or Brown o'th' market-day:  
Thou 'rt like a Corpse old women have laid out,  
Whose meager visage is covered with a clout;  
I think they'll shroud thee too with time and bays;  
For they complain how thou hast spent thy days;  
Die, Tom, in these bad times? thou must despair  
Of being interred with Common-prayer.  
Rise prithee, fear not, thou shalt nameless be,  
Rascal, dost think, we can't new christian thee;  
Nay in the old way too boy, and rather  
Than not, I mean to be thy Godfather:  
'Tis but small charges Sirrah; there needs no fee  
Unto the Midwife or the Nursery;  
Nor need I give my Golson some fine boon,  
A Coral-whistle with bells, or silver-spoon:  
When thou art grown, canst go alone and prattle,  
Please thy Nurse and Godfather with tittle tattle;  
I'll give thee schooling; for thy books I'll pay,  
Horne-books and Primmers, child, to sling away;  
Then thou shalt ask me blessing, pretty toy,  
I'll struck th' o'th' head, God bless thee, rise my boy;  
Then chuck the o'th' chin, and with a Godfathers grace,  
'Tis my good boy, here's for thee, learn apace:  
Now if the black-coat come and cat'chize thee;  
Answer him M. or N. Sir, T. or G,  
If urgent still he ask thee, what's thy name?  
Conjure and mum, cry, Oh Sir, Yes, that same.  
But hark thee Tom, hast lost thy Surname quite?  
Wert thou degraded like a new dubbed Knight,  
Cashiered with good Sir Hal, Sir james, Sir john,  
Who had their Honours dated forty one,  
Whose pride by act of State was made a sin,  
Calling the last edition of titles in?  
Stay th' next Platonic forty one, and then  
For some few years you shall be Knights again  
Thou i'th' mean while (it is an honourable word  
Amongst the Hunch-backs) shalt be called my Lord:  
Or else some Carter, rather than have none,  
Shall lash and name thee, Robin, Hob or Rhoan;  
Yes, yes, thou'dst make a Stallion rare,  
To earn thy Master Clod some groat a mare,  
Then for thy motions the, ho, but will do,  
The Alderman's Thiller thy namesake too.  
And then all day to have thy Tutor sing,  
Lash thee and whistle, (than rogue) fresh grass i'th' spring;  
Yes and i'th' wintertime to have a maw,  
To feed on hawme of pease and barley-straw;  
Then draw up hill, and when the cart goes dead,  
To be well-puned with whips i'th' slanck or head,  
And then thy Mastet when thou'st spent thy force,  
To clap thy buttocks with Gra-mercie-horse.  
But prithee, Tom, tell what the reason is,  
thou'rt harnessed in this met amorphosis?  
They say that thou wert mad, horn-mad, and now  
Thou wear'st a kind of Bondgrace like a Cow.  
Heaven bless thee, my best chicken, I dare say  
Thou were't unkindly used, who will say nay?  
For troth I know thy heart and temper well,  
'Tis plain and easy for the world to spell;  
Open and free, and lodged within a breast,  
Wherein no swelling envious serpent's nest;  
It always in a grateful posture lies  
Thy loving friends most ready sacrifice;  
And from thy bosom should he it command,  
Thy bosom strait lies open to his hand:  
I know thee well, I've read thee o'er and o'er;  
Thou only want'st two or three faces more;  
One for thy public use, t' Hippocritize,  
A Chappel-mask, a garb and Sunday-eyes.  
But let that falsehood pass, thou know●st I know  
The men o'th' world are riddles, so let them go,  
My civil charity doth speak it sin,  
To rifle others closerts or look in;  
Yet if their hearts were hell, I'd never doubt  
To venture in, to fetch the devil out;  
For some have thought the worst they can of you,  
Who dare I'm sure no worse than they dare do;  
But I'll not preach in verse, left some of those  
Should envy me, who can't do't well in prose;  
No, Tom, at present thou my theme shalt be,  
And as men name a text, so I'll name thee;  
As they do little or nought to th' purpose say,  
So I'll but name thee just, and then away;  
And rather than thou still shalt nothing be,  
But Entelechia and haecceitie;  
I'll name thee Cambridge-Tom, and of thee vaunt,  
As they of Munster-Iack, and john of Gaunt;  
Thomas Thomasius thou shalt be,  
Or Thompson of the Danish progeny;  
Or Thom ap Thomas like that Welsh device.  
And link of names, ap Owen, ap Hugh, ap Rice;  
Or else with them I'll borrow from the jews,  
Name thee as they the sons of Rabbi's use,  
Rabbi-ben-Majim, who Majims loins came from,  
So will I name thee Rabbi Tom-ben-Tom.   

An ELEGY on the death of Mr. Frear Fellow of Trin. Coll. in Cambridge, who died of a Consumption.  

AT length upon the wing, haste to possess  
Th' eternal mansions of true happiness;  
To Saints and Angels go, and Fellow be  
Amongst those Doctors of Divinity;  
Long were't admitted, and now sit it were  
Thou take thy journey to continue there;  
Pity thy soul should be no otherwise  
Employed, then to hold open dying eyes,  
And yet how loath she fled, as if sh'had rather  
Stayed here to keep thy skin and bones together.  
Some few days longer hadst thou drawn thy breath,  
Thy frighted friends had taken thee for death;  
For which thy meager shape as well might pass,  
As that which holds the spade and hourglass;  
Thou look'st as if thou'dst passed through Chir'rgions' hall  
A live Anatomy, the Belfree wall  
Doth nothing never so grim a shape present:  
So thy kind soul, till all its oil was spent,  
Glimmered i'th' socket, as if when 't went out  
Thy friends should be i'th' dark, and all about  
The scritchowls' of the sable-winged night,  
Hither in errors clouds would make their slight;  
Thus whilst thou seems to be johs living story,  
Thy death's head was our best Memento mori.   

Alas poor threadbare, worn out Skeleton,  
With one short rag of flesh scarce clothed upon,  
More bare than in the womb, unto thy Urn  
How truly naked did thy Corpse return?  
What stranger who had seen thy shriv'led skin,  
Thy thin, pale, ghastly face, would not have been  
Conceited he had seen a ghost i'th' bed  
New risen from the grave, not lately dead!  
Those things in vaults, whose gently touched shrine  
Falls into dust, look fresher far than thine.  
Which was so dry, as if thy carcase were  
For many years embalmed and buried there;  
Who e'er had argued that thou ne'er wouldst die,  
Would have disputed very probably:  
At least he might have made this topic good.  
Thou wert immortal, 'cause not flesh and blood.  
But we who know thou spak'st so many tongues,  
Will cease to wonder at thy wasted lungs;  
And from thy loss of flesh, it was not fit,  
We will conclude the worms should feed on it.  
'Twas pity such a piece to th' grave was hurled,  
For th' curious volume of thy lesser world  
An Enoch-like Translation fitter were,  
Then Critic death for an Interpreter:  
Thy learning was so rich, that I would dare  
[Were it hereditary, I thy heir]  
To spend with wealthy Caesars, and outvie  
Europe's most learned living library;  
Clad all in sackcloth if I were to mourn  
In dust and ashes [like a soul forlorn]  
Could these externals make me more divine,  
Or add to Piety, I'd call for thine.   

'Tis pity nature did but lend thee us,  
Give, and then take away her jewel thus;  
Alas! when she perceived how suddenly,  
Dull counterfeits would all in fashion be,  
And gems that are the right at nought be set,  
She locked thee up within her cabinet.  
Sow were losers all. But mark his end,  
How like a traveller to's loving friend,  
He just at's farewell takes a parting cup,  
Biddeth us all adieu, and drinks it up;  
Reader, 'twas to thy health, and though in beer  
Yet prithee kindly pledge him in a tear.    

An ELEGY on the death of Mr. Crane, Apothecary in Cambridge.  

AShes to ashes! who! our AEsculape!  
Our Cambridge-Chiron! can't such skill escape?  
Such Peons die! strange! dust to dust! who is't!  
What noble Crane, that golden Alchemist?  
Is't he! then proud Dame Vesta certainly  
Will vaunt those atoms to eternity.  
Swell, boast, look big, and in her womb  
‛ Teem him an everlasting, growing tomb;   

Embalm him Reader in thy memory,  
Shrowded him with silver-blossomed rosemary;  
With pennie-royal, marigold-flowers,  
And yellow saffron, emblem out what powers  
Of Sol and Luna in his coffers lie,  
Forced in by his great Art and Industry:   

'Tis fit this great Preservative of forms  
Should never want a medicine against the worms:  
Tired with dull elements, he's gone from hence  
T'extract and cloth his soul with quintessence;  
There is no all-heal, but a funeral;  
All things before are mixed with wormwood, gall,  
And vinegar; Now he is gone from us;  
'tis benedictus without carduus;  
No sulphur tinctures, tartar, no disease;  
'Tis lignum vitae, and no aloes.  
His house and shop since death hath overcome,  
Is furnished with Caput mortuum,  
Let your Alembics freely crystallize,  
Fill gallipots with catarrhs from your eyes,  
Or rather wipe them, let them not be misty,  
He's gone for Manna or for manus Christi.    

On the immature death of his hopeful friend, Mr. Alexander Rookesby.  

1.  
MOst cruel death! be so precise?  
Take no excuse!  
Could not thy nature, nor  
Thy well promising youth apologise!   

2.  
This fit of sickness should have been,  
The smallest stop,  
Only a comma to thy health.  
A short deliquium, then life again.   

3.  
What so unskilful in Orthography?  
Illiterate fate?  
To put a period thus,  
Where but a colon at the most should be!   

4.  
Was't not unmannerly in death  
Before his tale  
Were told, or he had spoke  
His better sentence out, to stop his breath!   

5.  
O'th' dawning of his life I look,  
As on a short  
Brief preface, or a kind salute  
To th'gentle Reader, but w' have lost the book.   

6.  
'Tis fit each Scholar o'er his Hearse,  
Weep Elegies,  
Nature was scanning him,  
As though she meant to make a golden verse.   

7.  
But death instead of long Hexameters,  
Making Adonicks,  
Served a warrant in  
Which fate had writ in shorthand characters,   

8.  
So left the learned Hypocrates,  
(Giving a dash  
Rude Ignoramus like)  
To make a guess and spell out the disease.   

9  
Himself read only his Contents,  
The Chapter must  
Be read at's grave, while down  
His coffin ives drill watery monuments.   

10.  
Farewell, farewel, dear heart,  
Is't thine, my friend?  
I bid this longest farewell to,  
Or rather is't my own with which I part?   

11.  
Alas! good soul, thou'rt gone;  
And were it not  
That I should with my death,  
I'd wish 'twere time to follow on.   

12.  
Nor would I any other knell  
To drive away  
Bad spirits from my grave,  
Only the Echo of thy passing bell.    

An Epithalantium sacred to the Nuptials of the truly Religious Lady, the Lady A. H. and the Valiant and Worthy Sir W. W. Knight.  

JOy, most victorious, Madam; pardon me,  
If I recall a past solemnity;  
'Tis a review of joy, which is a dish  
Not like some strange, outlandish fowl or fish,  
Or some new-fangled sauce, some bopeep meat,  
Which th' Antipodes, and we by turns do eat,  
Some sullen cates which out of season fly,  
To tempt the Ladies with their rarity;  
But like your Conserves, with more choice delight.  
Feeds all the humours of the appetite,  
Plays with a curious palate, and from thence.  
Leaps to the eye, then to another sense,  
So doth enrich the soul, till it surmise,  
The body an Elysian Paradise:   

This wealthy joy, which at the marriage-tide  
Sparkles i'th' Bridegrooms eyes, perfumes the Bride  
With her own cheerful spirits, till they dart  
Laughter into her spouses ticklish heart;  
This balsam joy, great Lady, I present  
In a reunction, to renew its scent,  
And call its quickening virtues out, which lie  
Not dead, but dormant in their treasury;  
I do but rub the herb, and wake from thence  
Such fragrant savours, as may feast the sense,  
Tell you what flowers in your posy are,  
Repeat some notes in shorthand character.   

Then pardon, Madam though I come so late,  
Joy's never out of season, still in date,  
Where love is fresh, joy never can decay,  
Though years be spent, 'tis still the wedding day.   

Then, great triumphant Madam, once again,  
joy to your second Conquest, you have ta'en  
Two noble Warriors Captives in your breast,  
Nature hath ransomed one, the other's pressed  
To succeed prisoner; oh blessed captive he  
That's prisoner in so chaste a Nunnery!  
'Twas pity since your first was forced to yield,  
Your second stayed so long, as if the field  
Were voted by some pious bosome-law,  
For so long time Sir Simons Golgotha;  
Good wife! whose body for some years must be  
Her first Deare's charnel house, his calvary.   

But now that cloud of Funeral Obsequies  
Hath spent itself in tears, and in your eyes  
Mirth 'gins to startle and resume its seat;  
Fresh blushes vault in triumph, smiles curveat:  
All speak your Conquest of the Conqueror,  
What a commanding Amazon you are;  
Unto whose service Champions are drawn forth,  
Upon the Altar of whose glorious worth,  
Great Hymen bids me offer sacrifice,  
And th' god of war hath done devotion twice,  
Stately Bellona courts your Ladyship,  
And amorous Mars fights duels at your lip:  
You take your Spouse in prisoner by your charms,  
Sir William takes you in by force of arms,  
And then such volley shots of kisses fly,  
Would tempe and ravish sworn Virginity.  
Now may those chaster lips so closely meet,  
At each salute as if your souls did greet,  
And since Sir William here hath taken quarter,  
'Tis for his honour to be Knight o'th' garter:   

Nor will I leave him there; no from above  
The Heavens greet you with new joys of love;  
joys which must always needs be fresh to you,  
Where Christ to both is Bride and Bridegroom too;  
Within whose heart the lily o'th' valley grows,  
That clustered Camphire, that sweet Sharon-rose,  
That bundle of myrrh, he whom the Virgin's love,  
Whose scarlet lips drop honey as they move.   

Oh may your Dear Beloved, kiss is Vine  
With kisses of his mouth, more sweet than wine;  
So shall you spread your fruitful branch, and see  
Your children like the plants o'th' Olive-tree.  
These are my hearty wishes, and you know  
Although I am no great Divine,  
Not only rich but poor men's coin will go,  
So may these prayers of mine.    

To Mr. john Mors, Merchant in King Lynne, on the death of Ms. A. Mors his wife. Mors in a Mors Christi.  

ALas, good Gentleman, hath that sweetest love  
That spouse of yours made out her last remove  
Hath death that great Knight-Errent, who doth play  
And dodge in's motions, here, there, every way,  
Checkmated you in taking of your Queen,  
Or is't a Sthale? No 'tis more, then be'nt o'er seen,  
For now she's taken as your pawn, and when  
Your time is come, 'twill be checkmate again;  
But i'th' mean while you're loser in a word,  
It is but setting another Queen o'th' board;  
Yet must you not begin the game anew,  
Till th' loser pay what for the l●st was due;  
Then 〈◊〉 Sir, for this six or seven years  
You must be daily paying sums of tears,  
And all your friends like faithful Clerks stand by  
IT help tell, lest for a tear you tell an eye.   

With you good S●●thrists common 'tis to mourn  
And weep at th'unconsiderable loss of worn,  
Old, decayed b●●ks, whose Stowage is nothing mo●  
Than Haberdeen, poor john, or Indigo;  
For which such streams th' prodigal humour sheds,  
That with your ships your eyes sink in your heads;  
Then, Sir, at what expense ought you to be,  
Your great misfortune will discover t'e;  
The best of all your vessels buldged and lost,  
To be recovered by no charge or cost,  
Yonr family- rudder broke, and all your store  
Of spice and amber, your perfumes and ore,  
Thrown to the deep; for she was more to you,  
More than all these, your India, your Peru;   

If women's souls be Planets in the air,  
And rule like potent Constellations there,  
Surely the Merchant's wives will there reside,  
Darting kind beams their husband's ships to guide;  
Then in your voyage if a storm arise,  
Lost in the clouds, look for her brighter eyes,  
And if a conduct Cynosure you see,  
Fall down, do homage and strike sail, 'tis she.   

She who whilst living was more than your Star,  
Your heaven on earth, a blessing greater far:  
She that did make all beasts, fowl fish and men,  
As though she'd work th' Creation o'er again,  
Who wrought the stars into a Canopy,  
And in her Samplers taught Astrology,  
Where th' Heaven's face she made so bright appear,  
That Tycho might have read new 〈◊〉 there,  
Birds feathered with her ●●ik you'd swear did sly,  
Camels have passed too through her needle's eye;  
Saw you how the hath wrought Eves n●●ed thighs,  
You'd think, yourself with her in Para life:  
She hath made the Muses, Venus and her elf,  
And fair Diana, too look like herself;  
Then the three Graces all so sweet and neat,  
That would ●●ame Nature make a piece complete,  
To ●●vish and surprise the world's eye,  
Hence she must take the pattern to work it by:  
Then Io, Dan●●e, such pretty things,  
You'd swear they're made for gods, and not for Kings.  
In shadows she would veil a phisnomy,  
Then work a candle and light, to see it by;  
'Tis true most women good at nightwork be,  
But few or none so good, so neat as she.   

Admired fancies! Oh they are so good.  
That could she but have wrought in flesh and blood,  
And made those beauties speak, and something do,  
Surely she might have made my Mistress too;  
Nay she hath wrought a face, so much to th'life,  
I fear you'll court it for your second wife.   

Troth, Sir, who e'er she be shall tempt your blood,  
See how she's like your first, so far she's good;  
You'll make yourself and all your friends rejoice,  
To draw her picture in your second choice;  
And as i'th' India's when you walk about,  
To find some precious mineral out,  
Some richer rocks of gold, you search and try,  
By signs and tokens where the vein doth lie:  
Be as exact in choosing your new Bride,  
Let your last wife's Idea be your guide;  
Let her fair visage teach your rambling eye  
To know the cloisters of a treasury;  
If any like her be, know she's divine,  
And fall to work, for she's a wealthy mine,  
A pearl fit to be worn on Merchant's necks,  
Like her the choicest Sampler of her sex,   

Oh could you find but such a Matron out,  
So loving, chaste, prudent, discreet, devout;  
So constant a Colleague, so fair as she,  
Who is there that would not your Factor be?  
What Coward is't would not make out for her,  
Hoist sails, and be a Merchant-venturer?  
All Courtship storms, tempests and tides defy,  
Waving the flashes of her lightning eye;  
And though she threatened shipwreck, think it sport  
To split, and so swim naked to the Port.   

Then, Sir, be chary in your second choice,  
And let the pleasant music of her voice  
Speak your first Consort, let your second be  
Your first wife's Monument, her Elegy;  
Fairly recruit, be the most blessed of men,  
And in your second choose your first again:  
So let your virtuous spouse survive in this,  
That you are wedded to her Emphasis.    

On the anniversary of the fifth of Novem. to the Fellows of Trin. Coll.  
'twere no absurdity if I should wish;  
You had dark lanterns for a second dish,  
Sculls and deaths heads will not be out of season,  
To put you all in mind of Vaux his treason,  
Yet least poor Scholars should have nought to pick  
But bones, pray let your feast be Catholic  
And superstitious too, so you'll afford  
Some holy relics, for Prince Arthur's board,  
Let your mirth this day, and your joys be much,  
Had the powder gone off w'had been in a pickle,  
And which invention were most damnable,  
Pope or sal Peter had been disputable.  
But the plot was found, so by accident  
Wicked Pope Urban was Pope Innocent.   

An ELEGY on the death of Dr. MEDCALFE, late Vice-Master of Trin. Col. in Cambr.  

MOst sacred Relics, at whose Obsequies  
Devotion bids us weep not tears but eyes;  
'Tis but weak sorrow which commands we must  
Sprinkle some water only to lay thy dust,  
And huddle up th' Atoms at so poor expense,  
As if we meant to sweep thy ashes hence;  
We'll rather spend our springs, and when we're dry  
Weep for more tears, another Elegy,  
Old Ennius shall preach no Funeral here,  
Nor make ᶜ, (without a sigh, a sob, or tear)  
Expose thee with a Diogenes staff,  
Which served the Cynic for an Epitaph;  
No we'll command the Muses to thy Hearse;  
And make Apollo weep in golden verse.  
Parnassus' clothed in mourning weeds to grace  
Thy Corpse, shall stoop to give thee burying place:  
And so it for a Golgotha we'll have,  
And weep a Helicon into thy grave;  
Nay, it is fit when such great Doctors die,  
Parnassus should appear Mount-Calvarie.   

Then shed your grief and labour to outvie  
The grave-stone sweeting in its Agony,  
With crystal gems, which from your eyes distil,  
In stead of dust the Sexton's shovel fill,  
Speak and weep volumes at his sepulchre,  
As if in learned Medcalves Coffin were  
The ruins of a famous Library,  
A Chronicle, a three-ages registry;  
And since w' have lost this jewel-house,  
— This treasury,  
'Tis fit each Scholar ware  
— A watery pearl in's eye.    

In obitum Revereudi Senis Doctoris R. METCALFI. Carmen Lapidarium.  
HEus! heus! morare qui sepulchra obambulas  
Siste paulisper gradum,  
Vbi semper aliquando sistes,  
Moraberis aeternùm semél.  
C●●cunque jam spei incumbis & invigilas somnio  
Hic nonnunquam recubandum & obdermiendum est tibi;  
Incertissimum est & quando tu me & quomodo  
quam quod sequêris tandem nibil certius,  
Imò incertum est hinc quò veneris  
An abeas denuò & te vivum abstuleris:  
At priusquam transeas Palabunde mortalis  
Sacra haec in monumenta saltem oculos fige  
Lacrymisque duri marmoris immisce sletus,  
Hîc intus urna est in quâ cineres suos  
Custodiendos misit venerandus senex Robertus Metcalfus  
Theologiae Doctor, communis Index & Interpres Theologicus.  
S. S. & Individuae Trinitatis Collegii,  
Sagax Vice-praesul & Cardinalis Presbyter  
Qui crebris curavit Eleemosynis  
Refocillandos pauperes:  
Qui juventutis indigentioris  
Et promovendis usque & usque alendis studiis  
Maecenatem se ostendit, sedulò munisicum & munificè sedulum  
Sermonis Hebraei radix & Professor longè emeritus  
Linguarum Orientalium phosphorus occidit:  
Oh quam optavit Mater Academia  
Ad eruenda sacra artium mysteria  
Ejusdem ut aetatis & annis pares forent  
Metcalfus & Methusalem  
Sic quam optimus fuisset labentis ad Academiae Catastrophen  
Scientiarum & doctrinae Epilogus:  
Agesis viator vale.  
Video te festinare hinc quò festinant omnia;  
Vale ut festines lentè.   

An ELEGY on the death of Dr. Cumber, late Deane of Carlisle, and sometimes Master of Trin. Coll. in Camb.  

WHat gone to sleep? hush't Reader, let him lie,  
And with an easy funeral- lullaby,  
Weep o'er his Cradle, which (poor Sexton's fee)  
At the next Earthquake may be rocked for thee,  
For w' are all sleepy, and fore-morning light  
May from our friends receive our last good night;  
Nay, 'tis odds if thou or I shall watch so long,  
As this good father did to's evensong,  
Who wanting but just one year of fourscore,  
I'th' College of the Trinity once more,  
Under the World's Tutor is gone to be  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to Eternity;  
Would 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 bosome-pupil were,  
Oh but they be 〈◊〉 Fellows, all Masters there,  
And with the glorious Founder of the place,  
Still richly feasting, yet still saying grace.   

Now, Royal soul, you shall enjoy your due,  
Heaven's mansion- lodge, more sit for you,  
There the great King of Kings shall set you down,  
And for your Dividend give y'a princely crown,  
And that white precious stone of mystery,  
Which none except thyself can read to thee.   

Those five great Princes, seen by thy dying eye,  
Were five of Heavens Kings of Heraldry,  
Sent thence of be thy Conducts on the way,  
Thy souls safe convoy from its bedrid clay;  
And those sweet youths which thou 'fore death didst see,  
Were Cherubims with crowns to wait on thee;  
Farewell, brave Prelate, go and shine with them,  
Sainted with a celestial diadem;  
Go and be ravished on God's holy hill  
With melting Echoes, which double and double still  
Sweet Hallelujahs with ten thousand charms  
By Angels which lie couchant in thy arms,   

Farewell, good soul, thou'st bravely done thy task,  
Acted thy part, and left us in a mask.  
Tired out with our first Scene of Tragedy  
And mischief, thou'dst no more Spectator be,  
To see Mountebank-worldly goblins play,  
The devil juggling the jugglers souls away;  
No, thou couldst wear no vizard, nor pretend,  
And be a changeling for some worldly end;  
But thy firm conscience which had searched and tried  
For truth, sat up its standard, fought and died:  
I must not call thee Martyr, go and be  
Whatever thy Religion made of thee.  
Blessing on thee, Reader, and God grant we may  
‛ Wake as he did, and ' waking watch to pray.—    

In obitum Reverendi senis Doctoris THOMAE CUMBER. Carmen Lapidarium.  
AUdi, audi, fragile & caducum corpus,  
Hodierna Ephemeris, Histrio,  
Qui nullo potes gemitu, nullis artibus,  
Homicidae mortis consilia frangere;  
Etiam hic stando fracessis utique,  
Nulla sunt curarum fomenta  
Praeterquam cineres atque haec coemeteria  
Frigida hominum dormitoria  
Et tenacia ligurientium vermium coenacula:  
At en! Quis hic lassus in hypogaeo jacet?  
Gloriosus olim, grandaevus & elegans senex  
Reverendissimus Theologiae Doctor Cumberus undeoctogenarius  
Carleoli nuper Decanus Colendissimus  
S. S. & Individuae Trinitatis Collegii Cantabrigiae  
Aliquando praefectus apex  
Sanctissimus Ecclesiasticus Pater  
Mirificé; integri & Halcyonci pectoris,  
Heliotropium monarchicum & calendula Regia  
Literarum centimanus Briareus, & hecatonchiros glossographus  
Linguarum gazophylacium & multifaria janua  
Nempe graecissaverat in Grajugenam,  
Samarita, Chaldaeus, Arabs, AEthiops, Copticus  
Qui immutabilis epanadiplosi conscientiae  
Mundana fudit, sprevit, neglexit omnia;  
Academiarum funditus ruentium calamitatis  
Prisca ominosa praesaga calamitas.  
Coelestis jam demum Cathedrae Catholicus  
Metropolitanus factus, & Archiepiscopus.  
Hîc verò tritos reposuit centones,  
Horsum scilicet nonnunquam omnia:  
Nescis viator, nescis revera brevi,  
Qui te it a perdite amas & colis adeò  
Vermes etiam necnè coenaturiant tui,  
Campana saepiús inopinatò vocat  
Maximeque dubium est an Calvaster sepulchrum adeas  
Abi, abi, ad A podyterium tuum  
Et disce carnem exuere.   

In Praelia Navalia inter Anglos & Belgas.  
ANglia Belgiacae nimiùm suspecta sorori,  
Construit adversas, vix inimica, rates;  
Ultraque se Francos secit Gens, aemula utrinque,  
Alterutra ad sluctus naumachiámque parat.  
Concurrere rates, pugnâ miscentur in unâ  
●gnis, aquae, venti, tela trisulca, tridens.  
Angli ●entorum pugnant obstantibus alis,  
Pugnat & adjutus milite Belga notho;  
Puppium inaequalis numero non sufficit hostis,  
AEolum ia auxilium Belga fretúmque manet  
Sic contra coelos cum coelo Belga, nec audet  
Praelia, ni totus pugnet & Oceanus;  
Nostra ratis primà fracta est, sed & illa procellis,  
Et non Belgarum classe, repulsa fuit;  
Scilicet ● Belgis de ●ictos mergier Anglos,  
Est tantum fluctus naufragiúmque pati.  
Ultima testatur Vantrumpi infamia, quantus  
Quot Trumpis major Blaqueus unus erat;  
Belgarum ostentat numerosa ●adavera littus,  
Ostentat lacera undique Arena rutes;  
Nempe homines contra quosvis venisse Britannos  
Et venisse pares, usque triumphus erat:  
Heu Piscatorum caveas Gen ebria, vestra  
Piscinas nobis ni faciat Regio;  
Vestra cave ne nos donemus corpora scombris,  
Scilicet ad Rhombum haec ultima pugna fuit:  
Gallum ità Delphina voces, nam vester inundis  
Trux Leo nec pugnat, nec benè Belga natat.   

In Amboynae homicidia Belgica.  
BArbara quae semper bellis & sanguine gaudet,  
quam bene tota fuit Belgia dicta Leo?  
Saeviit Amboynae quae tàm crudelis in Anglos  
Non Leo, cum catulis saeva Leaena fuis:  
Belgia jejunam superat feritate Leaenam,  
Nempe magìs saeva est, sedgenerosa minús.   

Venerabili Viro, Dno. R. B. S.R. W. A. Et P. suo semper observando.  

Dii majorum umbris tenuem & sine pondere terram,  
Spirantésque crocos, & in urnâ perpetuum ver.  
Qui praeceptorem sancti voluêre parentis,  
Esse loco.—   

INfoelix poterit campus tibi Granta videri,  
Foecundus magìs est Oxoniensis ager.  
Filius indè alter locuples accurrit Homero,  
Et tibi Chaldaeus filius alter adest;  
Abba ego, nil nisi cunarum pueriliter Abba,  
Inter labra foret seu mihi mamma loquor;  
Mi Pater ignoscas balbo, titubantia linguae  
Festinans cerebrum & pectora plena notat;  
Mi Pater indulge veniam; balbutit inepta  
Lingua, nec affatur laxior ore Patrem;  
At cui filiolo non balbutire necesse est  
Cui dicenda Patris cura, Parentis amor?  
Quin indigna tuo tantò haec sunt nomine quantò  
His majora tuos & meliora doces.    

Scholam Regiam Westmonasteriensem Scholarum omnium Reginam alloquuntur vicissim Cantabrigiae & Oxonii Genii.  Cantab. 
SAlve Pieridúmque & Apollinis incrementum,  
Florere in aeternum te pia Granta jubet.  Oxon. 
Quin à filiolis tibi Musarum decus ingens,  
Quos habet Oxonium mittitur alma salus.  Cant. 
Te juga Parnassi nutantia fronte gemello,  
jam penè insipidis devenerantur aquis.  Oxon. 
Et tibi post casum monumenta resigere molem,  
Ipsaque te montis stareruina jubet.  Cant. 
A te si moriar claudi gaudebit ocellus,  
Ultimus inque tuos spiritus ire sinus.  Oxon. 
Same animam fletúsque meo●, nam me pereunte  
Lachryma Musarum multa bibenda tibi.  Cant. 
At ne divellar, fatis ne perdar iniquis,  
Adde, precor, votis, & tua vota meis.  Oxon. 
Atque ego ne manibus malèfiam praeda scelestis,  
Et precibus nostris tu precor adde preces.  Resp Schola, 
Stabit & invitis fatis Granta Oxoniúmque:  
Ox.— Optima promutis. (Cant.) Quae bene digna fide.  
Sed tua, Te Proles, nunquam, nunquamn● videbit  
Nos pater? (Ox.) Et viset matrem aliquando suam.  Cant ad Ox 
Te nè prius viset? prius es visenda fatemur  
Non quia sis senior, sed quia mater eras.  
Illius es (soror) & nutrix, & mater, & uno hoc  
(Quò tantum est majus) cedimus Oxonio.   

Carmen Lapidarium in obitum Machaonis Cantabrigiensis Johan. CRANE Magistri in Artibus. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  

SIste, Siste paululùm Viator  
Si non valerudinarie, mortalis tamen  
Hempskirke! vagule, Blandule  
Properasne? quò properes equidem nescio,  
Id certum ex me & id unum est certum tibi  
Properarc celeri fatum te versus pede  
Libitina pultabit aliquando importuna, inevitabilis,  
Ageris quocunque pragmaticus  
Atque in haec scias non lentè festinas loca.  
Mors etenim tenebrio, plagas & tendiculas omnibus,  
Quis huc tetendit & quo tendis attende itaque,  
Fige osculum mihi, frigidè licet rogo, fige;  
Peritissimi venerare cineres medici Apothecarii  
Odorifera inter thura, aromata & diapasmata  
Sublimatus elanguit Mercurius  
Dextra contabuit AEsculapii manus.  
Cujus memoriae eadem debentur sacra.  
[Quae divo Coronidis filio Epidaurii]  
Ludi quinquennales, gallus febricitans capra  
Illustrior hic gentis Poeoniae gloria & ipse Apollo occidit,  
Pharmacopola, olim nobilis Panacaea & Alexicacon  
Humanum Cranium calcinatum magìs,  
Defaecata Paracelsi Alembrot  
Magister Artium & Magisterii  
Metempsychosin denuo  
Passa est Hippocratis vel Galeni animula;  
Imminent is qui toties mortis secuerat ungues,  
Et fatorum castigaverat praecipitantiam,  
Tibi nunc prodromus, & praecidaneus factus:  
Meditare hospes & legendo haec facilè te intelliges,  
In exoranda nempe fatorum numina  
Qui morbis ferunt medicinam & remedium omnibus  
Simile praescribet recipe & ana simile tibi.   

VALE.  
Vale viator quantum potes. Vale  
At tùm demùm valebis cum huc redib●s.  
Vale.  
A medico etiam mortuo Vale.    

Elogium seu Sciographica descriptio S. S. & Individuae Trin. Coll. Cantab.  
EN tibi diligentiae & industriae domum,  
Scientiarum fertilem redundantiâ & Artium plethorâ!  
Collegiorum erat inter Collegia nobilissima,  
Aliquando Alpha, prae quo caetera  
Abecedaria nonnunquam & Alphabetica,  
Inter florentissima elegantior omninô slosculus,  
Britanniae aculissimi oculi Cantabrigiae  
Pupilla acies & oculus  
Reique publicae & Academiae matris cerebrum & pia Mater  
Faciésque caput, & Capitolium,  
Quod Regem habuit non Fundatorem mode  
Sed & Discipulum & Incolam:  
Nec antiquae virtutis manet  
Hodiernum solummodò adagium  
Sed Artium earundem gremium & tenax sinus  
Familiares habet cum Mercurio & Pallade Socios,  
Viros totidem Naturae apophthegmata,  
Ad controversias cataphactos milites,  
Veritatis athleticos pugiles,  
Hareseon omnium Antagonistas & antidota,  
Gratiarum delicias & Adonides,  
Reique publicae literariae  
Totidem Optimates Dictatores, Consules,  
Piet atis praeterea nardo redolet  
Theologiae Myrothecium,  
Archipraesulis reclusum manu.  
Pastorum spiritualium,  
Scaturigo, fons & seminarium  
Fundatorum Regum & Reginarum impendiis  
Opulentum ad invidiam temporum  
Academiae adjecta non Paragoge modò  
Sed & Epenthesis etiam & Prothesis  
Quid Architectonicen & lapidum aggeres loquar!  
Quid spaliosam & patentem aream,  
Augustissimum quasi Palatium,  
Musarum amoenissimam Regiam & Basilicam  
Vacerris palisque distinctam & divisam ornatiùs!  
Quae umbilici loco  
Sublimem Aquae ductum exomphalum habet  
Cujus è mastis & canalibus saliunt,  
Amatrices nymphae & perennes latices  
Tripudiantia a●statis refrigeria  
Musisque gaudet alludere  
Prae foribus Thetis Amabilis;  
Ad ostia tranatur perstuitque rivulus  
Et amphibolae ebulliunt nymphae,  
Quae abnatantes tacitè obmurmurant  
Lapillul●sque amicè remoris  
Suaviter insusurrant quam nolentes defluant,  
Quid Bibliothecam loquar!  
Quot sunt homines, tot non modò sententiae  
Sed Authentica capita & Authores Classici.  
Quid Aulae excelsa lacunaria,  
Epistilia & compactiles trabes.  
Crateres, Diotas, Phialas, & capacem illa Nevilis tinam!  
Quid coruscantia sacelli laquearia,  
Tòtque tutelares olim glabreones Angelos  
Opulentas sacerdotales vestes Phrygias  
A cupictum tapetem & vermiculata gausapa,  
Lances, patcras, & thuribula argeutea,  
Nobiliori pavimenta undique superba lapide,  
Cinctòsque peribolis amoenissimos hortulos!  
Columnis cubicula fornicatamarmoreis  
Tota Gratiarum tholamos & cubilia!  
Ostentent Collegia caetera  
Trinitatis quasi tantùm appendices  
Lateritios & diplinthios parietes  
Literarum planè gurgustia:  
Quotcunque structuram nostram spectatum veniunt,  
Ore omnes uno conclamant undique  
Praeter Oxonienses fratres grandiloquos  
Academiarum quas Europa venditat  
Omnium facil● Regina Cantabrigia  
Collegiorum quae antiquissima Cantabrigia arrogat.  
S. S. & Individuae Trinitatis Collegium primas obtinet.   

In festum S. S. Trinitatis ad Socios ejusdem Coll.  
EPistomia Collegiensia omnia,  
Saliente murmurent mero,  
Dubiaeque dum perambulant mensas dapes,  
Pingui laborantes bove  
Spuent Aristippum Diotae argenteae,  
Generosa juvenum munera;  
Ad labra mittendus bibentum non nisi  
Ingentiori maschal●  
Ore aesluans Nevilis illegrandior  
Spumet falerno cantharus  
Fluctum in rates immanis ut coetus suo,  
jaculatur è Siphunculo;  
Haurite calices, amphorásque nobiles  
Inebriato margin●,  
At ah! quid est! quid ad palatum provoco?  
Quid hortor ad cul●um gulae!  
Haec magna luoe rationis oculos conterens  
Est unicae fidei sacra,  
A Patre filius ex utrisque Spiritus  
Ambo coaeterni Patris,  
Personae in uná essen●ia●res, numina  
Non sunt tria, at Deus unicus.  
Noc Filius Pater est; nec est aut Filius,  
Aut Spiritus, dictus Pater.  
Et Spiritus nec est Pater nec Filius,  
Sed Unitas est; Trinitas  
Sic videram triplices lucernam pensilem  
Incorporare lampadas,  
Sic videram, videndo plus caecutio  
Oculique lippiunt magis  
Eloque●e verbum, Christ verbum terminos  
Hos Trinitatis explica  
Ipsum applica te menti, ut evadat mea  
Ratione doctior fides,  
Et doctior fide ratio.   

Voluptates commendat rarior usus.  
Assiduis sordet Luculli mensa palatis  
Respuit & solitas nausea multa dapes,  
Mendicis modo jejunis sportella placebit,  
Et si rara magìs dulcior esset aqua;  
Omne volup volucre est, unde est desumpta voluptas;  
Deliciasque vocant, quae quasi deliteant.  
Displiceant ne quando, Jovi superisque bibuntur  
Ad Phoebi risus Nectar & Ambrosia  
Displiceat ne quando tibi mea, Lector, Amanda,  
Rarò, quam mea sit dul●is Amanda, legas.   

To the Fellows of Trin. Coll. at a Feast.  
WHen ever you good Fellows please to feast,  
We undergraduates, dogrels at the best,  
Poor wits to help you laugh away the time,  
Must think't our duty to hold forth in rhythm;  
Would you allow us coats in honest prose,  
Like Sturbridge-puddings in their antic hose.  
In stead of halting verse, we'd dance on eggs,  
Make faces, and show owls between our legs;  
'Twould never vex us to afford you sport,  
Were but our appetite contented for't;  
Whimsies and kickshaw fancies I confess,  
Are better than a feast of laziness;  
Yet I had rather be an idle guest,  
Then call the Muses up, and get them dressed  
All nine for threepences, bonny Cleio swears  
Te'nt worth the lacing of their stomachers.  
If verses begin to grow so cheap with us,  
Smithfield shall dock and rate my Pegasus,  
I'll water Hackneys in Pyrene's streams,  
Make Helicon as common as the Thames,  
Parnassus to the Levellers I'll sell,  
Mortgage that Tempe and its sacred Well  
To that new sinner Doctor Chamberlin,  
To buck and runce his Lady dabchicks in,  
Himself shall dipper be, and Baptist too,  
I'll make my bargain he naught else may do.   

To a spurious Poet.  

BEtwixt the hawk and buzzard, bastard-kite,  
How dared thou try to make an Eagles flight,  
And with thy blear eyes in so high a place,  
To look my great Apollo in the face?  
Sirrah, 'twas mercy he was wrapped about  
With clouds, else had thy eyes been quite burnt out,  
Then to thy fancy thou wouldst seem to be  
An English Homer, as stark blind as he,  
The Ballad-singers should thy dogrels sell,  
Thou call●d the Poet with the dog and bell;  
Then rhythm i'th' streets, and on a wad of hay  
Kneel, and in verse the learned beggar play  
Amongst the scaldheads under Whitehall wall,   

If it be ne'er so little amongst you all,  
For the Muse's sake before you go yet  
Pray remember the poor blind cripple Poet;   

Then roguish waggish boys as they pass by,  
Chuck farthings in the hollow of thine eye,  
Or else spit charity in thy greasy hat,  
Blow oysters in't, There, Poet, take thee that.   

Then play the Higins for the regiment  
Of lousy tag-raggs till thy lungs be spent,  
And on the Sabbath with thy wooden dish  
Beg pottage for them, their best Sunday-wish;  
And then astride thy raw-boned Pegasus,  
Like a beggar on horseback, rant it thus.  
Mistress, I can make Psalms for you,  
One Cup of beer I pray  
On this good holiday  
For I very dry am,  
Hopkins and Sternhold too,  
Were Poets both as I am.  
Thou Sale-wit, were this sentence passed on thee,  
'Twere a just judgement for thy heresy;  
Impostor! thou a Poet so we call  
A Broker, one of Merchant-Taylors hall:  
So Crispin's boys, who scarce can mend a shoe,  
Will be no Cobblers but Translators too:  
Thus the dull scrapers, who for six pence play  
At wakes and help-ales a whole night and day:  
Those lewd squeakers, who have no other shake,  
But of their palsie-heads, say you mistake  
To call them Fiddlers, as they needs must be  
Musicians, the name of Poet's due to thee:  
So old wives study Physic, who can make  
A Poultis for a feloned thumb to break  
And ripen it, thou good at Poetry!  
anise seed-Robbin skilled in Chymistrie:  
So Pettifoggers and Attorney's Clerks,  
Inns of Court-gallants, those Ram-alley sparks,  
Who with a dash have learned to write their names,  
And say vous-aves to the City-dames,  
Teach them what fee-simple and fee-tail implies,  
Would be thought cunning Lawyers, and advise  
In cases which they ken as knowingly,  
As thou the mysteries of Poetry;  
So Academians call their Sophisters,  
That steal positions good Philosophers;  
Pin-makers are as good Goldsmiths, if they  
That deal in varnish, whose rude fancy may  
By licence wrong the creatures, in their noses,  
Mouths and eyes, painting for Lions, roses;  
Chimeras in red-oaker, naggs like hogs,  
And hares which huntsmen cannot know from dogs;  
If these rude land-skip-drawers, limners be,  
Then as a Poet we shall honour thee.   

But know thou didst that sacred name abuse,  
When thou mad'st market of thy cotquean Muse,  
Going about from door to door with her,  
Not like the Poet but the Stationer;  
Nay few o'th' Poems in thy book, 'tis known,  
Except some nonsense dull ones are thy own;  
Thou hast been simpling in a ditch, and got  
I'th' fields some Lady-smocks or Melilot,  
Blue-bottles or the like, and thou must needs  
Like girls make posies of those stinking weeds,  
Mingling some sweeter and more fragrant flowers  
Of better wits to scent and set off yours;  
And yet 'tis feared both are condemned to die,  
For thou wert forced to vent thy Poetry;  
As hags for sizing on a Scholar's head,  
A Tuttie for a loaf of Colledge-bread.   

Thou higler, who dost make a hackney Jade  
Of Pegasus, and wit a rithming trade,  
Thy book a kind of Collect is a brief,  
At first directed to the heads, and chief  
O'th' parish whom it may concern, and then  
To all other well-affected Gentlemen;  
As many Patrons to't as Authors are,  
Made like a reckoning where each clubs his share;  
Only thou payest the drawer, and wouldst get  
Credit for spending of another's wit:   

Huckster, forbear this cheating beggary,  
Or vent thy own, and better Poetry.  
Climbing too high upon Parnassus' hill,  
Thy squeamish fancy strait grew sick and ill,  
There thou didst cast and spew, the Muses fain  
Would have thee lick thy vomit up again.    

On the Rout of the disloyal Party of Scots at Dunbarre.  

Is jockey routed? Charon, rig thy boat  
If worth thy labour, with fresh rushes strewed;  
Waftage enough fear not, but yet prepare  
A strong rough stretcher, if thy naul, thy fare  
They dare deny thee, break their crags mon, do,  
Else scarce wilt have one ha'penny for two.  
If thou art wise get a blue bonnet on,  
They'll pay thee better 'cause their Country-mon.   

See here they come mon, what a Scottish drove  
Crowds in full flocks unto th' Elysian grove!  
Four thousand at the least! Hark! what a shrill  
Sad noise, the mazes of my ears doth fill!  
And on their tender parchments beat from thence  
Like drumsticks an Alarm to my sense!  
What strange confused Echoes do I hear,  
Howl for loss of Bernes, of gudes and gear!  
Oh prithee see, see how along they gang  
With kettles at their gurdles! o'er their shoulders hang  
Course oatmeal bags, as though they'd beg a boon  
Of Pluto, still to feed on Pattaloon;   

Ah Charon, launch into the deep, there make  
Conditions ere they board thee, do not take  
A mon into thy skiff till thou art paid;  
See what a tottered Regiment, how dismayed,  
Trembling with palsies they make toward thee!  
Look, look, what a rude multitude they be!  
What gibberish is't they mutter? how they call,  
With devil take boat, the Ferrie-mon and all!  
How they run hastily as if they knew  
Some death, some second Cromwell did pursue!   

Alas old graybeard, now thy whirrie breaks  
Hark, what a crack it gives! See, see, it leaks,  
Go hire a thousand Watermen to play  
Next Oars, next Sculler, 'tis a safer way,  
Get cock-boats, barges, lighters, has there been  
No Navy sunk of late to put them in?  
But no great matter, let them stay on shore,  
Drop into Styx, like Soland-geeses swim o'er.   

Cowards! Mars such a bastard brood disdains,  
Who whilst their blood congealed in their veins,  
Like Ague-shaken Myrmidons did fight,  
Till suddenly they thawed into a flight;  
And brooking not the lightning which did fly  
From the steeled courage of our soldiery,  
Like to i'll snow in a hot Sunshine day,  
These Northern Isickles did melt away:   

But are they vanquished, routed horse and mon?  
Must treacherous jockey visit Phlegeton?  
Let wilde-sires then cut capers on the ropes,  
Appear and vanish like their empty hopes;  
Mount rockets to the second region, higher  
Than their ambition soared, dart balls of fire;  
Let powder-devils, squibs and crackers fly,  
And dance us Scottish gigs, to testify  
How our triumphant hearts, our arteries  
Leap in us, and how mirth smiles in our eyes.   

Farewell, poor Scot, thou needest no more to come  
For coin, our States have sent a new-coined sum,  
Troopers on horseback, pieces that weigh down  
Put in the balance, more than half a crown;  
Though Magazines of Nobles (doits to us)  
Make the scales even as an over- plus.  
These new-coined pieces which we send to you,  
Augment their worth by name of Sterling too.   

Ye noxious winds, into some caverns fly:  
Vanish, Kirk-mill-dews, ignes fatui:  
Farewell, ne'er more, ye fogs of error, dare  
Taint with your breath our wholesome English air:  
Think you to blast (with your Presbytery)  
This fine fair blossom of our liberty?  
No, your Geneva black Kirk-liveries,  
Begin to grow threadbare in the people's eyes;  
And if you bened permitted to renewed,  
'Twill but just last you for a mourning suit.   

Go haste to Chaul and Cochin, there to try  
If you can live on highway charity;  
Go feed on grains the Banianes cates,  
As Catercousins with the Gusarates,  
Like beasts if any wounded, haste you all  
For salves unto Cambaia's hospital;  
March, wicked jockey, towards Bengalen,  
With th' Indian Pagods Priests, (far better men)  
To Ganges blessed streams, there cast thee in,  
With holy water purge thee of thy sin;  
Or turn a superstitious traveller,  
Find out the tombstone of Jack-Presbyter,  
(Like Turkish Pilgrims, who to Mechago,  
See th'iron coffin, then will see no moe.)  
Once having seen where th' holy relic lies,  
In zealous humour pluck our both thy eyes.  
Then if thou safe returnest, or if not,  
We'll honour thee with name of Hogie Scot   

Men worse than Gours, whom malice can't defame,  
Cupec and Canzier is too clean a name;  
It is a sin to let a Scot compound,  
Nay, should you choke and thrust them under ground,  
Know that you are no Authors of their death,  
The Coward- Scots ran themselves out of breath;  
Laugh, laugh to think on't, ere the fight begun,  
What preparations Jockey made to run;  
Laugh, laugh, to think in what a stormy night,  
Death killed their foot and light-horse in the flight;  
I know of old it hath a saying been,  
A Scottish mist 〈◊〉 th' English to the skin;  
Whether that proverb's verified or not,  
I'm sure such English showers kill a Scot    

In Fugatos Scotos.  
BEllica, vicisti trepidantes, Anglia, Scotos;  
In sua, contritus truditur, antra Aquilo  
Victor, quo fuerat victoria certior Anglus  
Scotia, quo minor est gloria, victa fuit.  
Anglia Mavortis tum demùm Filia pugnas,  
Ipsa tibi quando pugna triumphus erit  
Astutus, minimè pugnax tibi sternitur hostis,  
Nunquam bella Scotus, saepiùs arma gerit.   

〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
LAscivo, lascivus amor sedet hircus, in hirquo,  
Ortum habet ●è solo lumine, Diva Paphi;  
Turpiter Antique Venerem dixère Aphroditen,  
Non est orta mari nempe, nec orta mero;  
Constituat Venerem si spuma, vocabitur indè  
Sordidior meretrix & lupa quaeque Venus  
Nobilis illa Venus, mea quam pupilla venustam,  
Novit & orta oculo est deliciosa meo.  
Prima, oculi, Veneris sunt incunabula, primas  
Ex oculi accendit luce Cupido, faces  
Hic Puer Idalius venantem Actaeona prendit  
Sen nova in hoc capitis fonte Diana foret;  
Interdum capto capietur ocellus ocello,  
Saepè videns capitur, saepè videndo capit;  
Rhetina reticulum, & venabula cornea amoris,  
Formarum duo sunt caustica vitra oculi  
Optica sila suis puer ales cornibus aptat  
Non alios nervos arcus amoris habet.  
Infantem & Catulum caecum qui dixit Amorem  
Fallitur, est oculus totus, & Argus. Amor.   

A Mock-sonnet.  

1.  
WHy so Fair? why so sweet?  
My Fairest sweet one, why so coy?  
Why so angry? why so fretting?  
That pretty face, didst thou but see't,  
How thy soft cheeks so smooth and fair,  
Like to those full fat buttocks are,  
Where Venus claps her plump-arsed boy,  
How they rise  
About thine eyes,  
And betwixt thy nose out- jetting;  
Wouldst thou but wave thy modesty,  
And look from top to toe,  
Above, below,  
What dainty things there be,  
Thy milk-white, full-milched breast,  
Upon whose swelling hills doth rest,  
Aminta's new wash t flock,  
Where the Graces make caresses,  
Like most amorous shepherdesses,  
Surely thou canst not think I mock.   

2.  
Lovely Fair, why so chaste?  
Why so peevish? so untoward?  
At what my Dear haste took distaste?  
Sweetest fair one, why so froward?  
Wouldst thou but view impartially,  
The rolling goggles of thine eye,  
Thy unthatched brows so neatly set  
With scales of scurf all o'er,  
Thy haireless eyelids always wet  
And stiff with gum good store  
Didst thou but see  
Upon thy nose how prettily  
I'th' pimpled pockholes all about  
Cupid's play bopeep in and out,  
How thy snag-teeths stand orderly,  
Like stakes which strut by th' waterside,  
straddling to beat off the tide,  
Till green and worn to th'stumps they be;  
Wouldst thou but once, my Dearest-sweet,  
Look thyself o'er from head to feet,  
Below, above,  
Thou canst not choose but think I love.   

3.  
Beauty, beauty, what dost mean  
Cupid sucks my heartblood out,  
And well thou knowst I cannot wean  
The child, for thy sweet dugs do give him life  
When I would starve the rogue; then turn about,  
Buss me and say thou'lt be my wife,  
For troth when ere I see,  
Either what is below thy knee,  
Or if mine eyes I cast,  
On parts above thy waste;  
Where e'er my sense doth move,  
I'm more and more in love.  
Still from thine eyes there passes,  
As from great burning-glasses,  
Lightning in such frequent flashes,  
That consume my heart to ashes;  
Nay, when thou blowest thy snotty nose,  
The bellows of thy nostril blows  
The fire of love into a flame,  
And th' oil of Armpits feeds the same,  
Thy legs, breast, lips and eyes enslave me,  
But if behind thee once I come,  
And view the mountains of thy bum,  
Oh then  
I'm mad to have thee.    

On his bed standing in his study.  
WHat are the Muse's chambers made to be  
A lodge for sleep? their gard'ns his nursery?  
Mu fancy's Hymen, must the god of light  
Dance with the dull, dark Bridegroom of the night?  
Did e'er the sisters for a requiem go  
To fields, where slumbering sleepy poppies grow?  
Did ever bedstead on Parnassus stand?  
Usurping Morpheus, didst thou ere command,  
And shake thy leaden sceptre, in the Court  
Where watchful active Muses use to sport?  
Though'st thou to be, though not at all divine,  
A bedfellow to any of the nine?  
Which sister is't hath lost her maidenhead?  
The strumpet now must needs be brought to bed;  
Which Muse must waiting-Gentlewoman be,  
Turn pisse-tailed Chambermaid to tend on thee?  
What, must the noble sprightly Pegasus  
Engender with the foggy nightmare thus:  
Making a stable of my Chamber-room,  
My bed the manger, and myself the Groom?  
Know crazy god of sleep, a Poet can  
Without a nightcap make a hymn to Pan;  
Take not thy drowsy blankets, ('tis a sin)  
To toss the Muse's high-born children in;  
Poets are ne'er so dull to sacrifice,  
Watch-lights and tapers to night's Deities;  
Is there between Lethe and Pyrene's streams,  
No difference? are Enthusiasms dreams?  
Shall Phoebus' sons i'th' bed drive light away,  
And with Apollo's curtain blind the day?  
Here lies a bedrid-Poet, I'd rather have  
A dormitory without Epitaph,  
Then on my monument it should be said,  
Euterpe's smothered in a featherbed:  
Me for no hydromantick novice take,  
Who cast my water for experience sake,  
I'm no young Paeon, that thus at my hand  
My Urine always should so closely stand;  
At twelve o'th' clock it truly may be said,  
To me you're come but newly from your bed.  
Somnus the Muse's Closet must not be,  
A cabin for thine Incubus and thee.  
Yet I love sleep, good Morpheus do not frown,  
I only wish my featherbed were down.   

De Meryone & Laide ex Auson.  

CAnus rogabat Laidis noctem Myron:  
Tulit repulsam protinus.  
Causámque sensit & caput fuligine  
Fucavit atrà candidum.  
Idémque vultu, crine non idem Myron,  
Orabat oratam priús.  
Sed illa formam cum capillo comparans,  
Similèmque non ipsum rata.  
Fortasse & ipsum sed volens ludo frui  
Sic est adorta callidum,  
Inepte quid me quod recusavi rogas?  
Patri negavi jam tuo.   

GRay-headed Myron asked to lie one night  
With Lais, she in troth denied the wight,  
He knew the cause, (resolved to try once more)  
With soot and grease he blacked his head all o'er,  
Still Myron in his face, though not in's hair,  
To her he came, prayed o'er his former prayer;  
But she comparing with his hair his feature,  
Thought he was like, if not the selfsame creature.  
Perhaps she knew in, but minded then to make  
Some sport, thus to the cunning knave she spoke,  
Cox comb d'ask, why thou may not come o'er me?  
I but even now denied thy father before thee.    

Gynochimaera, Puella Abrodiaeta.  
EN formosam tibi, Amator, & delicatulam Helenam!  
Ab imis unguibus ad usque verticem,  
Pulchram, venustam blandulam,  
A prima luce mille petitam procis  
Sedulò petitam satrapis,  
Et aemuli indies Dominae accendunt pretium.  
Ubi? ubi? surrexit? dormit? hilares, anxii, lugubres,  
Audaces, desperantes, creduli,  
Percontantur, accersunt, rogant;  
jentavit nondum meum Nectar, Ambrosia,  
Epulae, dapes, cupedia, jentaculum, prandium, coena?  
Precatur hoc mane Danäe mea?  
Deorum nefas! facinus! flagitium! seclus!  
Num tale quicquam superi audent sinere?  
Surge Titane, surgat centimanus Briareus.  
Adeste furiosi Gigantum manes,  
Encelade, Polybotes, Hippolyte, Mina,  
Ossam reimponite Pelio  
Illa num tenellos poplites molliagenua?  
Juro per ipsam illam Ursulam meam  
Totus Olympus ruet,  
Digna est cui preces Jupiter:  
Vultis ut caelo parcam  
Descendite superi  
Ne fracti elabantur orbes  
Submissi & humiles veniam petit●,  
Non introspiciendas ad fenestras Cubiculi  
Citò, citò, flectite & adorate meam,  
Benè habet numina, humilitatem laudo,  
Venerari autem meam & colere,  
Qua non est major, non est pulcbrior Dea  
Nec in ipsis Superis est Humilitas:  
At tu verò, quid ità prope?  
Quisnam es? Mars? imò Mavors est●  
Ni te auferas, seriam;  
Tu autem quis?  
Auden' retrorsum oculos  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 nebulo quin te ablegas?  
Eja, hem! è transennâ tandem accersor aedipol,  
Ha, nuuc ad amoris Tempe & coelum vado  
quam bellè detorquebo cervicem meam  
Ad dispensanda & carpenda suavial  
quam gloriosè & feliciter ego  
Triumphabo hodie in certamine thalami!  
Vah graveolentem & teterrimum spiritum!  
Quam sunt nivalia & hircosa oscula!  
Huccine res! haec illa bellula?  
Nil est monstrosum nil belluinum magis,  
Mulier Decumani capitis  
Crines habet scirpeos,  
Viperis immistas colubras;  
Subcineritiam, mazonomicam, paradoxam faciem  
Inhabitatam manibus;  
Frontem aeramentario Fusori utilem,  
Scutularum instar limes ab invicem oculi  
Spumâ cervisiae stagnant,  
Pro naso gobium gerit,  
Paradromides nares & matulas,  
Labra pastomide digna  
Sugillata, livida,  
Nigriora illinitis calcantho calceis,  
In ore fujcinas habet,  
A sese abhorrentium & aberrantium dentium  
Abecedarium Arabico-persicum;  
Ad commiscenda basia  
Congrediuntur nasus & mentum simùl,  
Et senio pensilis  
Ictum minatur oculo  
Supercilii materiaria incrustatio,  
Suòque semper gargarizat phlegmate:  
Et ecce grossos tortuosos digitos  
Quorum ungues pterigia obtegunt!  
Quò plus intueor hoc inhorresco magìs,  
Ah me! Grandebalas olidas,  
Ampullas, & lagunculas pectoris!  
Meretrix est opimae Hypocondriae  
Doliaris uteri & saginati abdominis,  
En & ventris cadum  
Panarium & libidinis bulgam  
Carnosam, obesam, pinguiusculam!  
Sub gremiali carbaso furnarium habet  
Putres cambucâ inguines  
Arcuatas coxendices & Pistoris ischia,  
Protuberantes condylos  
Quos nec pelvis tegat tonsoria  
Gradu quanquam incedit grallatorio  
Uncos & dispares si respicias pedes  
Scazon est & animal catalecticum:  
Corpus scopulosum scabie  
Psorá, ulceribus, pustulis  
(Siliquas corticesque cum deglubat unguibus)  
Purgando quotidie coenovectorium non est,  
Apage te scraptia, Creationis scoria,  
Pythecium, barathrum, naturae scandalum,  
Carnis & ossium  
Tumultuariò constricta sarcina,  
Difformitatum Gerontocomii epitome.  
Quam qui ducet habiturus est,  
Et paranymphum Daemonem & Proserpinam pronubam  
Sed tamen adesdum amabo meum suavium  
Ah labellorum delicias! Ah dulcedinem!  
quam bellè disputant gazae?  
Opulenta tua si cum dote veniat  
Placebit & amabitur  
Maga quaecunque vel anilis succuba.   

Ad Academiae Matris Neronis & viperas.  
CAballinis Mercuri è fontibus  
Aqua fortis fluat stygia,  
Totis à Parnassi jugis  
Imbres aceti depluant,  
Adeste Deliani cacodaemones  
Scabiosi pastores ovium  
Ego vos perunctos & perlinitos dabo  
Oh si vestrorum cadaverum  
Nominúmque pollinctor  
Vel ambidexter corporum lictor forem!  
Mallem etenim ad eculeum & patibulum vosmet  
quam vestra ad íncudem dogmata:  
Quid Heliconiis vos in alveariis  
Literarum Cephenes & Bombylii Ecclesiae?  
Non ostracismis modo sed bannis digni,  
Relegandi non ad Anticyras sed Girgathum,  
Diaboli protomystae flamines,  
Tartarorum metropolitanis & Pontifices stygis,  
Apolyonis Heresiarchae Archangeli  
Infernalis Mustaphae satellites Janizarii  
Concionatores tympanistae  
Beelzebub cacozeli apostoli  
Non genuini Almae Matris filii  
Sed meretricis Babylonicae spurii  
Jesuitarum non tibicines modò  
Sed & utriculares tibiae  
Tam nefaria capita  
Quid ni suapte lapides & tegulae involent?  
Quin excidant vindices trabes,  
Ustulet syderatio vel percellant fulgura?  
Dii boni!  
Musasque Parnassúmque evertere  
Literatos omnes & bonos viros pessundare,  
Orthodoxam Religionem conspuere  
Christum demutilare & destruere Ecclesiam  
Quibus ipsorum etiam phaselus in portu navigat,  
Rudentem & anchor am praecidere!  
Eundèmque cui innitantur, baculum frangere!  
Tam lusciosos Myopes  
Qui quicquid in buccam venit,  
Sacrilegi eructant & blasphemi effutiunt  
Quin aufer at Charon scaphiarius?  
At exitium est felix nimis,  
Et culpand●e charitatis votum,  
Quod vos feretro & sandapilariis voveat;  
Vivos videntésque comedat scabies,  
Pediculorum & vermium AEgyptia cohors  
Intestina sacrisicentur Proserpinae  
Et Diis inferis viscera.  
O Homines!  
Qui disseminare Evangelium novum,  
Abdicare Haeredem vineae  
Dehonestare majorum mores,  
Rescindere edicta Patrum  
Consuetudines, jura, ordines,  
Perturbare & confundere  
Abhorrere à veritatis lumine,  
Sancta & Religiosa templa violare,  
Ditis atri patefacere januam,  
Bonas animas perdere,  
Judaeos & Jesuitas agere  
Dissimulare mentiri & fallere,  
Munus & pensum ducitis:  
quam net amabilis Christi videtur sponsa,  
Cujus in facie vos inhaeretis turpiter  
Ignominiosae maculae!  
Literatorum illiterata & fa'culenta eluvies,  
Sordes & segisterium Populi;  
Quin Academiae has quisquilias,  
Extercorator publicus ca'novectorio efferat!   

The Epistle of Rosamund to King HENRY the Second: Written by M. D. Esquire.  
If yet thine eyes great Henry may endure  
These tainted lines drawn with a hand impure,  
[Which fain would blush, but fear keeps blushing back,  
And therefore suited in despairing black.]  
Let me for love's sake their acceptance crave,  
But that sweet name (vile) I profaned have;  
Punish my fault, or pity mine estate;  
Read them for love, if not for love for hate.  
If with my shame, thine eyes thou fain would'st feed  
Here let them surfeit of my shame to read,  
This scribbled paper which I send to thee,  
If noted rightly doth resemble me:  
As this pure ground whereon these letters stand,  
So pure was I e'er stained by thy hand;  
ere I was blotted by this foul offence,  
So clear and spotless was my innocence:  
Now like these marks which taints this hateful scroll,  
Such the black sins which spot my leprous soul.  
What by this Conquest canst thou hope to win,  
Where thy best spoil is but the act of sin?  
Why on my name this slander dost thou bring,  
To make my fault renowned by a King?  
" Fame never stoops to things but mean and poor;  
" The more our greatness, our fault is the more;  
" Lights on the ground themselves do lessen far,  
" But in the air, each small spark seems a star:  
Why on my woman frailty shouldst thou lay,  
So strong a plot mine honour to betray?  
Or thy unlawful pleasure shouldst thou buy,  
Both with thine own shame and my infamy?  
'Twas not my mind consented to this ill,  
Then had I been transported by my will;  
For what my body was enforced to do,  
(Heaven knows) my soul yet ne'er consented to  
For through mine eyes had she her liking seen,  
Such as my love, such had my lover been  
" True love is simple, like his mother truth,  
" Kindly affections, youth to love with youth.  
" No greater corrosive to our blooming years,  
Then the cold badge of winter-blasted hairs;  
" Thy kingly power makes to withstand thy foes,  
" But cannot keep back age, with time it grows,  
" Though honour our ambitious sex doth please,  
" Yet in that honour age a soul disease:  
" Nature hath her free course in all, and then  
" Age is alike in Kings and other men.  
Which all the world will to my shame impute,  
That I myself did basely prostitute,  
And say that gold was fuel to the fire,  
Grey hairs in youth not kindling green desire.  
O no, that wicked woman wrought by thee,  
My tempter was to that forbideen tree:  
That subtle serpent, that seducing devil,  
Which bade me taste the fruit of good and evil;  
That Circe by whose magic I was charmed,  
And to this monstrous shape am thus transformed;  
That viperous Hag, that foe to her own kind,  
That devilish spirit to damn the weaker mind;  
Our frailties plague our sex's only curse,  
Hell's deep'st damnation, the worst evils worse.  
But Henry how canst thou affect me thus,  
TO whom thy remembrance now is odious?  
My hapless name with Henry's name I found,  
Cut in the glass with Henry's diamond:  
That glass from thence fain would I take away,  
But then I fear the air would me betray:  
Then do I strive to wash it out with tears,  
But then the same more evident appears;  
Then do I cover it with my guilty hand,  
Which that names witness doth against me stand:  
Once did I sin, which memory doth cherish,  
Once I offended, but I ever perish.  
" What grief can be, but time doth make it less?  
" But infamy time never can suppress.  
Sometimes to pass the tedious irksome hours,  
I climb the top of Woodstocks mounting towers;  
Where in a turret secretly I lie,  
To view from far such as do travel by;  
Whither (me thinks) all cast their eyes at me,  
As through the stones my shame did make them see:  
And with such hate the harmless walls do view,  
As even to death their eyes would me pursue.  
The married women curse my hateful life,  
Wronging a fair Queen, and a virtuous wife;  
The Maidens wish I buried quick may die,  
And from each place where my abode do fly;  
Well knewest thou what a Monster I would be,  
When thou didst build this Labyrinth for me,  
Whose strange Meanders turning every way,  
Are like the course wherein my youth did stray  
Only a clue doth guide me out and in,  
But yet still walk I circular in sin.  
As in the Gallery this other day,  
I and my woman past the time away  
Amongst many pictures, which were hanging by,  
The silly girl at length happed to espy;  
Chaste Lucrece image, and desires to know  
What she should be, herself that murdered so?  
Why Girl (quoth I) this is the Roman Dame;  
Not able then to tell the rest for shame,  
My tongue doth mine own guiltiness betray;  
With that I sent the prattling wench away,  
Lest when my lisping guilty tongue should halt,  
My looks might prove the Index to my fault.  
As that life-blood which from the heart is sent,  
In beauty's field pitching his crimson tent,  
In lovely sanguine suits thy lily cheek,  
Whilst it but for a resting place doth seek;  
And changing oftentimes with sweet delight,  
Converts the white to red, the red to white:  
The blush with paleness, for the place doth strive,  
The paleness thence the blush would gladly drive;  
Thus in my breast a thousand thoughts I carry,  
Which in my passion diversely do vary.  
When as the Sun hales toward the western shade,  
And the trees shadows hath much taller made;  
Forth go I to a little current near,  
Which like a wanton trail creeps here and there,  
Where with mine Angle casting in my bait,  
The little fishes (dreading the deceit)  
With fearful nibbling flie rh ' enticing gin,  
By nature taught what danger lies therein,  
Things reasonless thus warned by nature be,  
Yet I devoured the bait was laid for me:  
Thinking thereon, and breaking into groans,  
The bubbling spring which trips upon the stones  
Chides me away, lest sitting but too vigh,  
I should defile the native pnritie:  
Rose of the world, so doth import my name;  
Shame of the world, my life hath made the same;  
And to th' unchaste this name shall given be  
Of Rosamond, derived from sin and me.  
The Cliffords take from me that name of theirs,  
Which hath been famous for so many years;  
They blot my birth with hateful bastardy,  
That I sprung not from their Nobility;  
They my Alliance utterly refuse,  
Nor will a Strumpet shall their name abuse;  
Here in the garden wrought by curious hands,  
Naked Diana in the fountain stands,  
With all her Nymphs got round about to hide her,  
As when Actaeon had by chance espied her;  
This sacred image I no sooner viewed,  
But as that metamorphosed man, pursued  
By his own hounds, so by my thoughts am I,  
Which chase me still which way so ere I fly;  
Touching the grass, the honey dropping dew,  
Which falls in tears upon my limber shoe;  
Upon my foot consumes in weeping still,  
As it would say why wentest thou to this ill?  
Thus to no place in safety can I go,  
But every thing doth give me cause of woe.  
In that fair casket of such wondrous cost,  
Thou sentest the night before mine honour lost,  
Amimone was wrought a harmless maid,  
By Neptune that adulterous god betrayed;  
She prostrate at his feet begging with prayers,  
Wring her hands, her eyes swollen up with tears;  
This was not an intrapping bait from thee,  
But by thy virtue gently warning me,  
And to declare for what intent it came,  
Lest I therein should ever keep my shame;  
And in this casket (ill I see it now)  
That Ioves love Io turned into a Cow;  
Yet was she kept with Argus hundred eyes,  
So wakeful still be Juno's jealousies:  
By this I well might have forewarned been,  
T' have cleared myself to thy suspecting Queen;  
Who with more hundred eyes attendeth me,  
Then had poor Argus single eyes to see.  
In this thou rightly imitatest Jove,  
Into a beast thou hast transformed thy love:  
Nay, worse far (beyond their beastly kind,)  
A Monster both in body and in mind.  
The waxen taper which I burn by night,  
With the dull vaprie dimness mocks my sight,  
As though the damp which hinders the clear flame,  
Come from my breath in that night of my shame,  
When as it looked with a dark lowering eye,  
To see the loss of my Virginity:  
And if a star but by the glass appear,  
I strait entreat it not to look in here;  
I am already hateful to the light,  
And will it too betray me to the night?  
Then sith my shame so much belongs to thee,  
Rid me of that by only murdering me,  
And let it justly to my charge be laid,  
That I thy person meant to have betrayed;  
Thou shalt not need by circumstance t'accuse me,  
If I deny it, let the Heavens refuse me;  
My life's a blemish which doth cloud thy name,  
Take it away, and clear shall shine thy fame:  
Yield to my suit, if ever pity moved thee,  
In this show mercy, as I ever loved thee.   

Epistola Rosamundae ad HENRICUM secundum Latinis versibus reddita.  
HAEc mea si vestris oculis, Henrice, placebit,  
Adsit ut impurâ chartula scripta manu  
(Chartula quae voluit simel erubuisse sed exspes  
Pullatam jussit (proh dolor!) ire metus.)  
Accipias placido vultu, rogo nomine amoris;  
Sacrum aliquando fuit nam mihi nomen amor:  
Vel culpam plecte, aut nostri miserere doloris  
Perlege & ex odio si modò non quo james:  
Vis oculos scelerate meo satiare pudore?  
En meus impertit pabula lauta pudor.  
Est haec, quam mitto tibi sparsam, charta, lituris,  
Si benè perspicias, turpis imago mei  
Haec quam munda fuit, cum nondum scripta maneret  
Chartula, & ipsa semel tàm quoque munda fui;  
At manibus male tacta tuis, sum tota litura  
Facta, nec haec maculis tam nigra charta suis:  
Quid spolií potes ex illo sperare triumpho  
In quo vicisse est turpe patrâsse scelus?  
Dedecoris usaculà meà quid mihi nomina foedas,  
Nominibus crescit quid mea culpa tuis?  
Nobilis es? titulo scelus est illustrius illo,  
Nec solita est humiles visere fama lares;  
Elata ad coelos scintillula stella videtur,  
Stella sed in terris vix ea lumen habet.  
Quid mihi conaris charos ità perdere honores,  
Ut dicas tandem foemina victa tibi?  
Delicias emit illicitas (quam slebile lucrum!)  
Virginis intactae gloria, Regis honos!  
In tantas Venerem quae slammas ire coegit  
Non mea fax certè non meus ignis erat.  
Illa meo quondam quoe sunt in corpore facta  
Novit nusquam animae grata fuisse Deus,  
Libera si votis essem nec amator amorem  
Noster amatorem nec super âsset amor:  
Verus amor simplex, & matre potentior ipsá  
Pulchra sit ut juveni juncta puellá jubet:  
Virginibus teneris non est magìs anxia cura  
Quám sit brumalis cana pruina comae;  
Quid tua, quod saevos, fugat hostes, Regia virtus  
Interea & Regis terga senecta premit;  
Foemina conspicuos licet ambiat aemula honores,  
Non benè commendat Regia pompa senem.  
Cancellos minimè patitur natura, vagatur  
Undique conveniunt in sene Rex & homo.  
Ergo ego per gentes meretrix ingloria dicar  
Que me venalem Foemina avara dedi;  
Sordida regali dicar mercabilis aurò,  
Atque auro nostros incaluisse focos  
Squallida nam vetuli nec adurit barba puellas  
Nec senis accendit fax moritura saces;  
At mala, colligerem ve●itos ut ab arbore fructus,  
Causa fuit, jussu foemina missa tuo.  
Foemina dicebam? ser pens, subtilior anguis  
Compulit ìlla meas in glucupicra manus,  
Canidia illa, ferox Medea, venefica Circe,  
Quae magico succo pocula mista dedit;  
Quae monstri faciem dedit hanc monstrosior ipsa,  
Ipsa Hecate, generi trux inimica suo.  
Illa infernalis stygii cacodoemonis uxor,  
Faeminei sexus pestis & atra lues.  
Nostri animi morbus, fera vipera, avernus averni;  
Exitium, damnum, perniciísque stygis;  
Quid verò Henricus mihi tot prositetur amores  
Nomina cum mea sint nunc odiosa tibi.  
In vitro Henrici scriptum diademate, nostrum  
Turpe sub Henrici nomine, nomen erat.  
Tum tremulis manibus vitrum ablatura, verebar  
Ne pura impuram proderet aura manum;  
Nomina tum volui, lacrymosus ut ●luat imber,  
Nomina sunt lacrymis conspicienda magìs  
Tum super impositâ dextrâ caelásse putabam.  
Cons●ia flagitii testis & illa fuit,  
Sic vagain a ternum peccati infamia durat  
Sons ego facta semel, sed rea semper agar;  
Quis dolor, aut luctus, qui nullo tempore languet?  
Dedecoris sanat stigmata nulla dies:  
Alta supervado interdum fastigia turris  
Vt quae longa nimis facta si● ho a brevis  
Ad summos apices, inhonest as scando latebras  
Unde viatores transeo luminibus:  
In me conjiciunt oculos puto, me quasi reddat,  
Conspicuámque daret saxa per ipsa pudor,  
Insontes feriunt inimico lumine muros,  
Nostram acies oculi quaeque minata necem:  
Nunc mihi, quod spreta est Regina & castior uxor,  
Optat just a magìs, conjugis ira crucem;  
Nunc ego ut in gelidum descendam viva sepulchrum,  
Casta Puellarum vota precésque petunt:  
Me monstrum fugiunt, benè nosti quale ego monstrum  
Hic mihi constructus cum Labyrinthus erat,  
Qui gradibus dubiis & flexibus undiqne curvus,  
Maeandro est similis quem meus error habet;  
Usque quidem filo circumferor intus & intus,  
Huc illuc vitii circulus usque rapit:  
Omnia cum nuper passim per claustra vagatae,  
Trivimus, ancilla me comitante, diem,  
Picturas inter multas & anaglypha multa,  
Quae doctà artificis sculpta fuere manu  
Tarquinii Collatini castissima conjux,  
Effigie forti nobilitata stetit  
Hanc ubi conspex it simplex ancillula, mortem,  
Quoe sibi conscivit, quae precor, inquit erat?  
Haec illa est, ego tum retuli matrona Quiritum,  
Haec illa, & vetuit plura referre pudor.  
Poenè fatebatur sontem me prodiga lingua  
Garrula quocirca missa puella foras  
Turpia per dentes ne praecipitantia verba  
Vultu significent indice turpe scelus.  
Scilicet ut sanguis vitalis corde reclusus,  
Coccinea in bello castra resi it agro,  
Et placidos vultus rubicunda veste colorat  
Miscetúrque genis, ut rosa liliolis  
Cum requiem quaerens commutat saepius albo  
Coccina liliolo, liliolúmque rosa;  
Contendunt de seds simul pallòrque, rubórque  
Certat pallorem pellere ab ore pudor;  
Sic mihi mille animi dubitantia pectora versant  
Dum mea se mutat mens nova & indè nova,  
Projectis ramorum umbris, ubi Phoebus Ibero,  
Poenè fatigatos, gurgite tingit equos;  
Vicinos propero ad latices, ubi rivulus undas  
Lascivo huc illuc syrmatis instar agit,  
Fallacem hic escam injicio praedantibus hamis,  
Subdola sed praedam terret arundo suam;  
Insidias fugiunt pisces, calamóque recedunt  
Edocti timido rodere dente cibos;  
Naturae normis animalia bruta monentur  
Ipsa ego stult a mihi mista aconita bibi;  
Haec ego dum memoro suspiria tristia ducens,  
Increpat, irato flumine, bulla frequens;  
Ingemo, & objurgat lapidosus marmore rivus,  
Ni vitientur aquae lacryma, abire jubet:  
Heu Rosamunda ego sum, Rosa mundi nomine dicor  
Factáque sum mundi, non Rosa munda, pudor.  
Nomine famoso posthaec Rosamunda vocetur,  
Improba quae Thais quae modo Lais erat.  
Infensi sua Cliffordi mihi nomina demunt,  
Nomina tàm multo nobilitata die,  
Et mea, seu natae populo, natalia delent,  
Nec clarâ illorum stirpe oriunda fui;  
Sim licet affinis, cognatio nostra negatur,  
Dedixëre sui nominis esse lupam:  
Hic, dextrae melioris opus spectabile, in horto  
Fonte stat in medio nuda Diana dea.  
Nympharum densâ circumstipata cohorte  
Ut cum Cadmi aderat fortè aliquando nepos  
Nec citiùs castae speculabar imaginis ora,  
Quin ego ut Actaeon mox variata steti;  
Ille molossorum rabie laniatus, idèmque  
Supplicium curis tradita praeda luo.  
Advolitant ubieanque vagor, dum gramina tango  
Fletur & in crepidas mellea gutta cadit;  
Gemmea se solvens luge●do lacryma, visa est  
Dicere quid scelus hoc? turpe quid ausa scelus  
Nulla mibi sedes superest, loca nulla quietis  
Me luctum, luctu singula plena, monent  
A te nocte illa, sceleri quae praevia nostro,  
Mirè opulenta mihi capsula missa fuit;  
Amimone virgo castissima pingitur intus,  
Quam tulit in medias Glaucus adulter aquas;  
Contorque●s digitos tumidos attollit ocellos  
El precibus supplex sternitur ante pedes;  
Nonfuit boc, magnidolus & fallacia Regis  
Praemonuit virt us me pictísque tua  
Dixit & expressit quo sit mihi nomine missa,  
Dedecoris nostri ne monumenta foret,  
In vaccam mutasse Jovis, Mephitida, amorem  
Heu nimiùm tandem capsula serò docet.  
Centenis oculis Jò custodiit Argus,  
Zelotipòque vigil lumine Juno Jovem;  
Hac ego Reginae poteram ratione fuisse  
Inculpata tuae criminibùsque carens.  
Custodi nostrae si quis jam comparet Argum  
Argus centeno lumine pauper erat:  
Hoc Jovis obscoenas imitare fideliter artes,  
Scilicet in pecudem degener avit amor.  
Nec non sordidior quam qua vis bellua sordes?  
Totá ad prodigium carne animòque salax.  
Cerea, nocturni mult à fuligine Lychni  
Illudit teneros caeca lucerna oculos,  
Seu faculam interimens, illa sub nocte pudoris  
Atrior è nostro fluxerat ore vapor,  
cum vigil abducto prospexit lumine lampas,  
Cerneret ut rapta virginitatis opes:  
Et si per tenues lucebat stella fenestras,  
Huc noli inspicias stella precabar ego,  
Vis etiam lunae? sum dudum invisa diei,  
Stellula vis etiam prodere nocte scelus?  
Quare, ego cum tanti tibi dicar causa pudoris,  
Hanc [citòme jugules] me jugulando necas,  
Insidias, narra, meretrix tibi persida struxi,  
Dic majestatem me violasse tuam;  
Non opus est multis ambagibus insimulare,  
Si modo diffitear tartara nigra petam;  
Dum vivo, tibi sum labes, tua nomina nubes  
Obtego, at excussa nube relucet honor,  
Fac precor excutias, si quid clementia possit,  
Si quid possit amor, fac precor excutias.   

HENRY to ROSAMUND.  
WHen first the Post arrived at my Tent,  
And brought the letters Rosamond had sent,  
Think from his lips but what dear comfort came,  
When in mine ear he softly breathed thy name,  
Strait I enjoined him of thy health to tell,  
Longing to hear my Rosamond did well,  
With new inquiries than I cut him short,  
When of the same he gladly would report,  
That with the earnest haste my tongue oft trips,  
Catching the words half spoke out of his lips;  
This told, yet more I urge him to reveal,  
To lose no time, whilst I unripped the seal.  
The more I read, still do I err the more,  
As though mistaking somewhat said before,  
Missing the point, the doubtful sense is broken,  
Speaking again what I before had spoken;  
Still in a swound my heart revives and faints,  
'Twixt hopes, despairs, 'twixt smiles and deep complaints.  
As these sad accents sort in my desire.  
Smooth calms, rough storms, sharp frosts and raging fires,  
Put on with boldness, and put back with fears,  
For oft thy troubles do extort my tears;  
O, how my heart at that black line did tremble!  
That blotted paper should thyself resemble:  
O, were there paper but near half so white,  
The gods thereon their sacred laws would write,  
With pens of Angels wings, and for their ink,  
That heavenly Nectar, their immortal drink.  
Majestic courage strives to have suppressed  
This fearful passion stirred up in my breast.  
But still in vain the same I go about,  
My heart must break within, or woes break out;  
Am I at home pursued with private hate,  
And wars comes raging to my Palace-gate?  
Is meager envy stabbing at my throne,  
Treason attending when I walk alone?  
And am I branded with the curse of Rome,  
And stand condemned by a Counsels doom?  
And by the pride of my rebellion's son,  
Rich Normandy with Armies over-runne?  
Fatal my birth, unfortunate my life,  
Unkind my children, most unkind my wife.  
Grief, cares, old age, suspicion to torment me,  
Nothing on earth to quiet or content me;  
So many woes, so many plagues to find,  
Sickness of body, discontent of mind,  
Hopes left, helps rest, life wronged, joy interdicted,  
Banished, distressed, forsaken and afflicted.  
Of all relief hath fortune quite bereft me?  
Only my love yet to my comfort lest me:  
And is one beauty thought so great a thing,  
To mitigate the sorrows of a King?  
Barred of that choice the vulgar often prove,  
Have we, than they, less privilege in love?  
Is it a King the woeful widow hears?  
Is it a King dries up the Orphans tears?  
Is it a King regards the Clients cry:  
Gives life to him by law condemned to die?  
Is it his care the Commonwealth that keeps,  
As doth the Nurse her Baby whilst it sleeps?  
And that poor King of all those hopes prevented,  
Unheard, unhelped, unpitied, unlamented?  
Yet ler me be with poverty oppressed,  
Of earthly blessings robbed and dispossessed;  
Let me be scorned, rejected and reviled,  
And from my Kingdom let me live exiled,  
Let the world's curse upon me still remain,  
And let the last bring on the first again;  
All miseries that wretched man may wound,  
Leave for my comfort only ROSAMOND.  
For thee swift time his speedy course doth stay,  
At thy command the destinies obey;  
Pity is dead, that comes not from thine eyes,  
And at thy feet even mercy prostrate lies.  
If I were feeble, rheumatic or cold,  
These were true signs that I were waxed old;  
But I can march all day in massy steel,  
Nor yet my arms unwieldy weight do feel,  
Nor waked by night with bruise or bloody wound,  
The tent my bed, no pillow but the ground:  
For very age, had I lain bedrid long,  
One smile of thine again could make me yonug.  
Were there in Art a power but so divine,  
As is in that sweet Angel-tongue of thine,  
That great Enchantress which once took such pains  
To put young blood into old AEsons veins,  
And in groves, mountains, and the moorish fen,  
Sought out more herbs than had been known to men,  
And in the powerful potion that she makes,  
Put blood of men, of birds, of beasts and snakes,  
Never had needed to have gone so far,  
To seek the soils where all those simples are;  
One accent from thy lips the blood more warms,  
Then all her philters, exorcisms and charms.  
Thy presence hath repaired in one day,  
What many years with sorrows did decay,  
And made fresh beauty in her flower to spring,  
Out of the wrinkles of-times ruining.  
Even as the hungry winter-starved earth,  
When she by nature labours towards her birth,  
Still as the day upon the dark world creeps,  
One blossom forth after another peeps,  
Till the small flower, whose root (at last) unbound,  
Gets from the frosty prison of the ground,  
Spreading the leaves unto the powerful noon,  
Decked in fresh colours smiles upon the Sun.  
Never unquiet care lodged in their breast,  
Where but one thought of ROSAMOND did rest:  
Nor thirst, nor travel, which on war attend,  
ere brought the long-day to desired end:  
Nor yet did pale fear, or lean famine live,  
Where hope of thee did any comfort give:  
Ah, what injustice then is this of thee,  
That thus the guiltless do●st condemn for me?  
When only she (by means of mine offence)  
Redeems thy pureness and thy innocence,  
When to our wills perforce obey they must,  
That's just in them, whater'e in us unjust,  
Or what we do, not them account we make,  
The fault craves pardon for th' offender's sake:  
And what to work a Princes will may merit,  
Hath deep'st impression in the gentlest spirit.  
If't be my name that doth thee so offend,  
No more myself shall be mine own names friend,  
If it be that which thou dost only hate,  
That name in my name lastly hath his date,  
Say 'tis accursed, and fatal, and dispraise it,  
If written blot it, if engraven raze it:  
Say that of all names, 'tis a name of woe,  
Once a King's name, but now it is not so:  
And when all this is done, I know 'twill grieve thee,  
And therefore (Sweet) why should I now believ thee?  
Nor shouldst thou think those eyes with envy lower,  
Which passing by thee gaze up to thy tower,  
But rather praise thine own which be so clear,  
Which from thy turret like two stars appear:  
Above the Sun doth shine, beneath thine eye,  
Mocking the Heaven to make another sky.  
The little stream which by thy tower doth glide,  
Where oft thou spendest the weary evening tide,  
To view thee well his course would gladly stay,  
As loath from thee to part so soon away,  
And with salutes thyself would gladly greet,  
And offer up some small drops at thy feet;  
But finding that the envious banks restrain it,  
T' excuse itself doth in this sort complain it,  
And therefore this sad bubbling murmur keeps,  
And for thy want within the channel weep.  
And as thou dost into the water look,  
The fish, which see thy shadow in the brook,  
Forget to feed, and all amazed lie,  
So daunted with the lustre of thine eye,  
And that sweet name which thou so much dost wrong,  
In time shall be some famous Poet's Song,  
And with the very sweetness of that name,  
Lions and Tigers men shall learn to tame.  
The careful mother at her pensive breast,  
With Rosamond shall bring her Babe to rest:  
The little birds (by men's continual sound)  
Shall learn to speak and prattle Rosamond;  
And when in April they begin to sing,  
With Rosamond shall welcome in the Spring;!  
And she in whom all rarities are found,  
Shall still be said to be a Rosamond.  
The little flowers dropping their honeyed dew,  
Which (as thou writ'st) do weep upon thy shoe,  
Not for thy fault (sweet Rosamund) do moan,  
Only lament that thou so soon art gone:  
For if thy foot touch hemlock as it goes,  
That hemlock's made more sweeter than the Rose.  
Of Jove or Neptune, how they did betray,  
Speak not of, lo, or Amimone;  
When she, for whom Jove once became a bull,  
Compared with thee had been a tawny Trull,  
He a white Bull, and she a whiter Cow;  
Yet he nor she ne'er half so white as thou.  
Long since (thou knowst) my care provided for,  
To lodge thee safe from jealous Ellinor,  
The Labyrinths conveyance guides thee so,  
(Which only Vaughan, thou and I do know)  
If she do guard thee with an hundred eyes,  
I have an hundred subtle MERCURIES  
To watch that ARGUS which my love doth keep,  
Until eye after eye fall all to sleep.  
And those stars which look in, but look to see,  
(Wondering) what star here on the earth should be,  
As oft the Moon amidst the silent night,  
Hath come to joy us with her friendly light,  
And by the Curtains helped mine eyes to see,  
What envious night and darkness hid from me;  
When I have wished that she might ever stay,  
And other worlds might still enjoy the day.  
What shall I say, words, tears and sighs be spent,  
And want of time doth further help prevent,  
My Camp resounds with fearful shocks of war,  
Yet in my breast more dangerous Conflicts are,  
Yet is my Signal to the battles sound,  
The blessed name of beauteous ROSAMOND.  
Accursed be that heart, that tongue, that breath,  
Should think, should speak, or whisper of thy death:  
For in one smile or lower from thy eye  
Consists my life, my hope, my victory.  
Sweet Woodstock where my ROSAMOND doth rest,  
Be blest in her, in whom thy King is blest.  
For though in France a while my body be,  
My heart remains (Dear Paradise) in thee.  
THE END.   

HENRICUS ROSAMUNDAE.  
Appulerat nostrasubi primum nuncius oras,  
Et mihi visa tuá est chartula scriptá manu,  
Oh mihi quam gratus fuit ille su surrus in aure,  
Illáque quam placuit vox Rosamunda tua!  
Quanta per attonisum ruperunt gaudia pectus,  
Inque tuo quantum nomine laetus eram!  
Illius à tremuli, captavi verba labellis,  
Verbáque nescio quae dimidiata tuli.  
Deque tua cupidè quaesivi multa salute  
Hoc ega quam volu● tum Rosamunda valet.  
Quam voluit dixisse valet, corre●ta reliquit,  
Verba, ego quaer●bam dum nova & indè nova.  
Et raptim celeri rumpo dum pollice ceram,  
Ne mora sit lapso tempore, mille peto.  
Seu quod praecessit mendax malè verteret error  
Quo lectum magìs est, he mage fallor ego  
Plus cupio quo plura lego, dubiùsque quid hoc est,  
Quodlibet, incertus quid sit, jota lego.  
Hinc velut excusso fragili de corpore morbo,  
Sollicitum exultat pectus & inde tremit,  
Obruor hinc lacrymis, mox laetor distrahor indè  
Dum peragunt variat spésque metüsque vices  
Cor nimbis agitur, nostròque in pectore regnant,  
Cum ventis glacies, stamma, pruina gelu.  
Anxia saepé tui turbat mihi cura quietem,  
Et cadit in moestos lachrima multa sinus;  
quam tremebundus eram, quum charta simillima dicta,  
[Chartula litterulis improba facta] tibi!  
Quae si vel simili foelix splendore niteret  
Scriberet hic leges Jupiter ipse suas,  
Et sibi ab Angelicis pennam decerperet alis,  
Quae pro Atramento nectare tincta foret,  
Foemineum hunc trepido pulsasse à corde timorem  
Bellica (sed frustra) mens mea saepe velit  
Fortiùs inductae feriunt praecordia curae  
Ni rumpat dolor è pectore, rumpar ego  
Siccine privatis odiis crudeliter uror,  
Et pulsant nostras horrida bella fores?  
Invidiae tentatne manus mea sceptra ferire  
Soeva meámque petit vitam, ubi solus eo?  
Me, licet insontem, Synodi sententia damnat  
Et famoso urit stigmate Roma suo.  
Undique vexatur dives Normandia bello  
Agmen ubi infestum silius hostis agit  
Ingrati mibi natales, ingrat íque vita,  
Natus inhumanus, sponsa benigna minus  
Et curae & morbi cruciant mihi corpora, nullas  
Delicias, nullam terra ministrat opem,  
Gaudia diffugiunt, spes avolat unica cura  
Permanet, haec vitae non henè grata come,  
Fortuna, auxilium quòd erat, nimis aspera dempsit  
Solamen misero restat & unus amor.  
Forma adeóne valet Regis lenire dolores,  
Creditur antidoti forma quod una satì●?  
Plebs quaecunque velit felicior eligit ora  
Libera num Regi vota negabit amor?  
Num viduae tristis capit auris Regia quaestus?  
Orborum siccat Regia cura genas?  
Num rapit à durâ trepidantiā colla securi,  
Et dat supplicibus dextera Regis opem?  
Servat ut infantem generosum sedula nutrix  
Rex sua regna etiam tuta manere facit?  
Cogitur ille tamen Rex desperare salutem  
Infoelix, spretus, perditus, exul, inops?  
At sim tam pauper quam nec miserabilis I rus,  
Improba terrenas sors mihi demat opes.  
Exul ego longè peregrinas mittar ad oras  
Stigmaticus, diris undique onustus eam.  
Undique contemnar, me publica vota malignent  
Communésque legant in mea damna preces,  
Caeca tuis totus laedar fortuna sagittis  
Unica restabit si Rosamunda mihi:  
Pro te tardarunt fugientes tempora gressus  
Et parent jussis ardua fata tuis.  
Nata tuis si nata unquam clementia occllis,  
Quin amor ipse tuos sternitur ante pedes,  
Si vel Rheumanticus, gelidusve aut debilis essem  
Illa forent senii praescia signa mei,  
Sed cataphractus ego totis incedo diebus,  
Impositúmque humerus non grave sentit onus,  
Nec mihi sanguineum perturbant somnia vulnus,  
Saxea, promolli, sunt mihi castra toro;  
Nunc ego si centum vixissem Clinicus annos  
Verteret in juvenem me tua forma senem  
Tam modò divinum si numen in arte fuisset,  
Quale habet à linguâ vox Rosamunda tua.  
Erravit varios frustrá Medea per hortos  
Antrúque sollicitis vix adeunda viris,  
Ignotas ipsis medicis ut quaereret herbas,  
AEsoneum poterint quae reparare senem;  
Quid mixta humano pro●est medicina cruore  
Quid serpentino sanguine vel quid ave?  
Oscula chara tuis prosunt subrepta labellis,  
Plus tua quam magici pharmaca, philtra valent.  
Quantum Parca meis crescentibus addidit annis,  
Visû te, tantum detrahit una dies;  
Quáque suum ponit sulcum irreparabile tempus  
Inseruit blandis lilia mix ta rosis  
Sic nempe hyberno sterilescens tempore terra  
Naturae, ad partum, verè reposcit opem;  
Manè suburbanos dum sol prorepit in hortos  
Pullulatindè recens germen & indè recens,  
Mox exporrecto prorumpunt vertice slores  
Et stricti linquunt vincula dura soli;  
Tum fortes toto gaudent se exponere Phoebo,  
Ludit & in patulis blandior aura comis,  
Pectoribus nunquam dolor improbus haesit in illis,  
Vel dubitata quibus spes Rosamunda fuit.  
Fecere, ut cuperem noctes mutare diebus  
Nec via me, belli me nec anhelasitis  
Me, dum chara meo tu sis in pectore, belli  
Nec timor invasit, nec macilenta fames;  
Et tamen injusté de me sententia sertur,  
Insontem, miserè dum facis esse reum.  
Totus ego foedo maculatus crimine damnor,  
Tu tamen ex ipso hoc indice pura manes;  
Nempe vel invitos mihi cum submittere oportet  
Omnia justa illis quae mihi jusnta minìs  
Fas quòdcunque peto, stat pro ratione voluntas  
Et sons delictum vindicat ipse suum;  
Munificus sieri princeps quae cunque jubebit,  
Haec animo facili mens generosa capit;  
Si modò displiceant oculo mea nomina, dicas,  
Nominibúsque meis ipse inimicus ero.  
Nomina damnentur, damnentur ut impia facsis,  
Si, quoniam mea sint, sint odiosa tibi;  
Inclyta fac pereat titulorum gloria, nomen  
D●le, dic titulus Regius ille perit,  
Haec (fingas liceat) fuerint si facta dolebis  
Ergo tibi non est chara adhibenda sides,  
Invidia obductos nec credere oportet ocellos  
Qui turrim aspectant praetereundo tuam,  
Sed laudare tuos qui stellae a turre videntur,  
Sydere tam claro luminibúsque micant  
Sol supra est, tuus infra oculus, coelùmque minatur,  
AEthera deridens, velle creare novum  
Limpha tuam turrem quae flumine lambit amico  
Qua solita es fessos ludificare dies,  
Heu quam si pè, fugax, remorata est aemula ●ivos  
In vultus jactans lumina sixa tuos  
quam cupit in teneros labi fluida unda lacertos!  
Amplectique tuos quam velit illa pedes!  
Irata obstantes ripas culpare videtur,  
Et veniam, invito quod fugit amne, rogat;  
Obstrepero plangit fugientes murmure campos,  
In lacrymas abeunt flumina, tu quod abis,  
Dum nitidas oculis radiantibus inspicis, undas,  
Pisciculis, quibus es visa, nec esca placet;  
Non opus est hamis salientes ducere pisces,  
Pisciculos vultu luminibúsque capis;  
Et tua quae tantùm & toties mihi nomina damnas,  
Clara olim magni carmine vatis erunt;  
Mitescet quibus & rabidus leo, & aspera tigris,  
Sic potes Orphaeam vincere sola lyram;  
Nomine nempe tuo, non plura crepundia gestans,  
Lullabit prolem mater amica suam  
Et solitas hominum voces imitata, per hortos  
Garrula nil nisi te vere loquetur avis;  
Et posthac semper Rosamunda vocabitur illa,  
Que formá superat, quaeque de cora magìs:  
Mella super crepidas (scripsti) stillantur ab herbis,  
Et cadit in teneros lacryma fusa pedes;  
Non fletur, Rosamunda, tuas abstegere culpas,  
Flet plorátque brevem qua libet herba moram;  
Nempè tuo pede sit viridis modò tacta cicuta,  
Vertitur in blandam, saeva cicuta, rosam;  
Neptuni mihi nec raptu●, fraudisve Tonantis,  
Neve Isis sletus Amimonésve refer,  
Dummodo quam petiit nivei sub imagine tauri  
Si tecum certet corpore, foeda fuit;  
Sit bos hic niveus, sit & haec mage candida vacca,  
Sunt tamen AEthiopes, fuscus uterque tibi,  
Cura fuit (nòsti) vigilem deludere sponsam,  
Hinc tu Daedaleo carcere tuta mane●  
Et stexu vario Labyrinthi clauderis intus,  
(Quem novit Vaughan, tu quoque & unus ego)  
Quid quod centum oculis mea te custodiat uxor,  
Mercurios totidem dum meus addit amor.  
Novit & insomnes amor ille sopire dracones  
Tótque Argos, oculos quot vigil Argus habet  
Invida quaeque tuam perlustrat stellula turrim,  
Miratur quaenam pulcbrior indè nitet;  
Saepiùs inspexit mediâ nos nocte Diana,  
Induls●tque suas Cynthia amica faces;  
Sic tenuis cortina dedit spectare siguram,  
Quae prius est oculis, nocte negata meis;  
quam volui semper noctem lunàmque manere,  
AEterno Antipodes sole, dieque frui!  
Quid dicam? pereunt lacrymae, suspiria, voces,  
Quod mihi restat opis saevior hor a negat;  
Bellica terribili resonan mea castra boatu  
Pejor at in toto pectore miles amor.  
Te Rosamunda tubae, te Classica nostra loquuntur,  
Pugnandi signum tu Rosamunda mihi,  
Illius intereant & vox & spiritus, audet  
Qui meditata tuâ de nece verba loqui,  
Nempe incerta tuo victoria ridet ocello  
Illinc est mihi spes, vita triumphus, hones;  
Tuque domus quá chara manet Rosamunda, beatus  
Quá tuus & Rex est, esto beata domus;  
Detineat corpus quanquam fera Gallia, tecum  
Cor manet, Elysium deliciaeque meae.  
FINIS.