CLARAPHIL AND CLARINDA: IN A forest OF FANCIES.  
By THO: JORDAN, Gent.  
Sat mihi sunt pauci Lectores; est satis unus;  
Si me nemo legate, sat mihi nullus erit.  
Owen, Epigram.  
London, Printed by R. Wood.   

To the Worthily Honoured Mr. GEO: STRIPLING  
SIR,  
IF the Name of Stranger (a word in its genuine sense never despicable) do not deface the formality of this present Oblation, and put the to the expense of such an apology, as shall render me ruder than that Act which may be the object of my Accusation. I hope these imperfect mixtures of Fancy, may gain a liberty to approach the presence of your leisure, and attend the truce of your neore serious retirements. I dare not manifest the multiplicity of motives that have induced me to this uncustomary confidence, lest the representation of your own clear deservings, cause me to be accused for flattery (a practice, which to me, is equally detestable with Rebellion, and sacrilege:) Sir, you will, in this weak Volume, find such a little Wilderness of vain Varieties, that you will think the Author was only studious, to contrive an orderly Confusion. If any thing in it may be the object of your Approbation, I have an absolute accomplishment of all my Expectations; how ever, I shall cherish myself with hopes to enjoy the benefit of your pardon, and have licence to subscribe my Ambition, in the honour of being  
SIR, Your much devoted Servant:  
THO: JORDAN.   

CLARAPHIL AND CLARINDA.  

TO CLARINDA: On Her Perfection.  

I Will not Saint my fair Clarinda, SHE  
More glorious is in her humanity;  
Nor (in the heat of Fancy) pluck a Star  
To rob the needy World, and place her these,  
These are the subtle Raptures of the Times,  
With which the wanton Poets make their Rhymes,  
Rise high as doth their blood, till some proud She,  
Pampered with such new-cooked Divinity,  
Surfeits; believing (in a pride of Soul)  
These fictions true, and Sins without control;  
Do Angels boast habitual purity?  
No 'tis in them impeccability,  
And therefore not praiseworthy, they've, nor will,  
Nor power to think, much less to practice Ill:  
With thee 'tis otherwise, for thou mayst sin  
Beyond hope of Repentance, and therein  
Appears the odds, for maugre Flesh and blood,  
Devil, Temptation, Beauty, thou art Good.    

To Clarinda (his Love) upon Refusal of a Kiss.  

WHat not a Kiss? Clarinda, this is strange,  
What is the slender motive of this Change?  
Nay, I'll not strive with you, 'tis no content  
To me to take a Kiss by Ravishment:  
Didst ever think I joined my Lips to thine,  
But when I thought thy Bliss as large as mine?  
How strangely courtesies misconstrued be;  
That's thought Offence, which I meant Charity▪  
Not long time since, if I did once neglect  
This kind of Kissing-duty, I was checked,  
And not enforced only to restore it,  
But (as a fault) to pay a Million for it:  
And let me never be recorded where  
The little God unfolds his Register,  
But I did pay this amorous Duty down  
As much for your Delight, as for my own:  
And must your self-conceit make you so rude,  
To pay my Merit with Ingratitude?  
Forgetful Vanity, can you deride  
The Man whose Folly gave you cause of Pride?  
Was it not I who (when ye did despair  
To have the last fruits of an undone Heir)  
Saluted ye with love? though since indeed,  
Ye are well-furnished Suitors ride full speed:  
Who yet cannot conceive Merit in you,  
But trust my Judgement, love ye 'cause I do:  
Before I brought ye choice, you had not any;  
I was that One Fool that hath made your Many:  
Had not I been, your maidenhead would be  
Fifteen years hence, of some Antiquity;  
Perhaps lead Apes (Virginities perdition,  
According to the Country superstition)  
I did not only love you, but did strive  
To make you worthy of me, did contrive  
To mend heavens' work, changing that Eye, that Lip,  
Controlling Nature's courser Workmanship:  
I did applaud you 'bove a Deity  
And make you Sacred, with my heresy:  
But now I see Fate will not be withstood:  
Nature, nor I, nor both, can make you Good:  
I stole a Constellation for you Eye:  
Polished you Brow with Indian Ivory:  
Feigned from your Lips, Nectar to Flow and Ebb;  
Made your hair softer than Arachne's web;  
fetched Pyramids of snow, to veil your breast,  
Brought the red Morning from the early East,  
To deck your Cheek; your Lips (that wanted blood)  
Had liquid Coral from the furious flood,  
To make them ruddy; I perfumed your breath  
More sweet than is the Phoenix at her Death.  
I sent you Summer spices from Sabea,  
Arabian Aromats', Balm from Judea;  
Such odours for your Breath, I did invent,  
Till they became a gluttony of Scent:  
Your Voice, so full of Concord, some might be  
Brought to believe, 'twas Heaven's hierarchy.  
Nor only gave these to your Outward Feature,  
Within I made ye a more glorious Creature;  
I did conceit you Innocent to be,  
As Angels in their immortality;  
chaste as the Virgin Infant, newly hurled  
From the warm Womb, to weep in th' treacherous  
Or the first Man, ere Misery made suit (World;  
He should know Eve, the Serpent, and the Fruit:  
I thought Thee as constant (without variation)  
As rising Titan to his declination.  
And the great cause of thy Ambition, is▪  
Thy Vanity made thee believe all this:  
But (by the magic of that poesy  
That brought them to thee) from thee they shall  
And never see thee more, thy Glass shall be (fly,  
The only Mirror of Deformity;  
This recompense I will return thy Ill,  
Thou shalt have leave to say, I love thee still,  
That thou mayst keep thy Loves, who (if they know  
How thou quittest me) will quickly leave thee to,  
Whilst I with humbled Knees, in devout Prayer,  
Purge out the sin that made me feign thee fair.    

A Wish for a Widow, in the Character of a good Husband.  

IF a white Wish, winged with a Zeal, more bright  
Than Prayers, proceeding from an Anchorite,  
When he bedews with tears the sacred shrine,  
May prove propitious, pray accept of mine:  
If't be decreed, Hymen shall once more light  
His holy Tapers for your Bridal Night,  
May he be such a Consort, as excels  
The vast extent of largest parallels;  
May the renowned Endowments of his Mind,  
Be the epitome of all Mankind:  
May the Effigies of his Beauties, be  
Th' Exact Idea of a Deity;  
Let him in such high seas of Learning swim,  
That all the Sciences may study Him.  
Next, I would him Valiant, and further  
From Tyranny, than Mercy is from murder;  
And his own Actions such a volume be,  
As shall exceed all Rules of Heraldry:  
May he be one, whose most auspicious stars  
Designs him to compose these Civil wars;  
For you are Mistress of such merit, that  
None but one destined to erect a State,  
Is worthy of you; But if he should prove  
Short of all this, May he supplied with Love,  
And Court you with such a divine respect  
As (at last day) the Saints shall the Elect:  
So loyal to your Bed, that he may deem  
No Woman but yourself was made for him,  
So shall you ne'er be jealous, but expel  
That plague which turns a Marriage to a Hell:  
May you live free from Sorrows, nay, from Fears,  
Growing no less in Graces, than in years:  
But if a widowed life you think more bliss,  
May that prove full as happy to you as this.    

An Epithalamium on the much honoured Pair T. S. Esquire, and Mrs. D. E.  

SO at the first the Soul and Body met,  
When the Creator did in council set  
To make a Little world command the Great.   

Nor are your Flames less Innocent than they  
Before the Grand Impostor did betray  
Their fatal Freedoms to the world's decay.   

Therefore let all that Heaven can dispense  
To royal mankind in the Soul and Sense,  
Possess ye with seraphic influence.   

May all the promised Blessings on each Nation  
From Genesis, to John's high Revelation,  
Contribute to your Cordial Coronation.   

May both your Brows be circled with such Beams  
Of Glory, as appeared in Jacob's Dreams,  
Or the Dove darted upon Jordan's Streams.   

May Lovers light their Torches at your Flame,  
And may the power of Stanley's single Name  
Prove the sublimest Epithet of Fame.   

May your hearts fix above the force of Fate,  
May neither Prince's frown, nor people's hate,  
Your fair Affections disunanimate.   

May ye have all ye can desire, And when  
Your wishes have out-vied the thoughts of Men,  
Some Power direct you how to wish again.    

An acrostic on two Pairs of Inseparable Friends married in one Day.  
Jove join these Pairs, and May each Blessed Bride, Obtain A Guard of Angels for A Guide: Heaven, Nature, virtue, Reason (in communion) Nobilitate, every, and Love Your Union: Grace, Faith, and Knowledge, Bind ye; may ye be, Each Others Bliss; No Evil Injure ye: Let nothing redivide; Eternal Rest, Love, Dwell, and Last, in each Diviner breast.   

An Epithalamium in a double acrostic, written on the noble Names, and sacred Nuptials, of the worthily honoured Edward Marrow Esquire, and the truly virtuous Mrs Anne Grantham.  

E minent Palr, what ever Sidney saw, I  
In ARGALUS and his PARTHENI A  
D lineate your Excellence, how then  
Shall I depict ye, with so poor a PeN  
What Power shall I implore? Apollo's gone  
For whom my Muse lies drenched in Helico N  
A rts are malignant, Poems, out of Date,  
The layman calls Learning a Reprobat- E  
Reason is banished, and what e'er did spring  
From those fair Banks where Peace was flourishin G  
D ivinest Pair, whose bright Perfections are  
More luminary than the morning Sta R  
M ay all the Pleasures Phoebus ever saw  
In Europe, Asia, or Americ A  
A ttend your Genial joys; What Nature can  
Contribute to the Excellence of Ma N  
R edouble your felicity, May Night  
And Day, contend, which shall yield most deligh T  
Riches, and honour, Virtue (the best Wealth)  
Beauty, with all the circumstance of Healt H  
Obey your wish, and he that will not pray  
As I have done, is Love's Anathem A  
W are never fright ye, wheresoever ye come,  
May bright Apollo's Harp drown Mars his DruM    

An Aerostical eulogy, written on the worthy name of Mr. William Legassick, second son to Mr. Henry Legassick, of little Hempstead in the County of Devon.  

With a heart free from Flatteries fair crimes,  
L et me salute you in these rural Rhymes;  
I must confess the favours you have done,  
E xceed my best Congratulation.  
Love (whose bright Laws you never disobey)  
G vides you to do more than a Verse can pay:  
L earning and those accommodations which  
A mplifie Nature, and make Spirits rich,  
I mprove their fertile Faculties, and do  
Shine forth the brighter, 'cause they dwell in you:  
A great Apostle 'twas, that said, if I  
Speak angel's language without Charity,  
M y words are but as tinkling cymbals. You  
I mitate him, have Love and Learning too:  
CHRIST guard your Family, and may your Name  
K eep up, till all the world fly in a flame.  
Sic Vaticinatur: T. J.    

A double acrostic, composed on the Names of Mr. Francis Jordan of Ensham in the County of Oxon, and Th. Jordan the author.  

F Aith, Hope, and Charity, Wealth, Worth, and Wit,  
Wait on their Names for whom this Poem's wri T;  
r, Reason, Temperance, and Truth,  
The peace of Conscience, and the joys of Your H,  
A ttend upon their Actions; may they know,  
No change, that bears the name or badge of w O;  
n ill approach their Natures, may the gem  
Of mutual friendship ever dwell with the M;  
C ontent be their beatitude, and may  
Their love's increase, and meet no Remor A;  
Ioy crown their days, and may no sad distress,  
At any time expel their happiness S;  
Saints be their Guardians, let nothing be  
Obnoxious to their lawful amit i;  
i ehovah join their spirits, may they grow,  
Brighter than lilies on the Banks of P O;  
O mnipotence defend them from that Star,  
Whose influence brings Famine, Plague, or Wa R.  
R ebellion and those bloody crimes that stand,  
Upon the red account of this black Lan D,  
D epart from their designs as large a way,  
As 'tis from Europe to Americ A.  
a happiness that ever hath been known,  
From Adam's death to Christ's Ascenscio N,  
N obilitate their souls; every their lives,  
And grant them handsome Graves, or chaster Wives.    

A Cross acrostic, on two crossed Lovers.  

Though crossed in our Affection, still the flames,  
Of Honour, shall secure our Noble Names▪  
Nor shall Our Fate divorce our Faith, Or cause,  
The least Mislike of Love's Diviner Laws.  
Crosses sometimes Are Cures, Now let us prove,  
That no strength Shall Abate the Power of Love.  
Honour, Wit, Beauty, Riches, Wisemen call,  
Frail Fortune's Badges, In true Love lies all.  
Therefore to him we yield; our Vows shall be  
Paid, Read, and written in E ternity:  
That All may know, when men grant no Redress▪  
Much Love can sweeten the unhappinesS.    

Another kind of acrostic.  

S weet Soul of goodness in whose Saintlike brief  
V irtue V owes dwelling to make Beauty blessed:  
Sure S ighing Cytherea fits, your Eyes  
be A ltars, whereon she might sacrifice;  
N owe N one will of the Paphean Order be,  
Nature's N ewe work transcends a Deity;  
A rabia's A romaticks Court your scent,  
B right B eauty makes your gazer's Eloquent;  
L et L ittle Cupid his lost Eyes obtain,  
V ailed, V iewing you, would strike him blind again,  
n, N ever think I flatter, if you be  
T hus T o none else, by Love you are to me.    

A new-year's Gift in the ordinary acrostic to his Friend Mr. John Curling.  

i f I were one of those that lately sold  
C onscience and Country for a Gripe of Gold,  
Or had I now a power to surprise  
u England with a worse Excise  
H appily I might lend ye from my store  
R esplendent Jewels, or the Indian Oar,  
n I can send ye nought but empty Dishes,  
L ove, larded o'er with Language & good wishes.  
I ehovah grant that upon Sea and Land,  
Nothing prove profitless you take in hand:  
G o forth and prosper, May your Labours end  
E rect more wealth than wit, or Time can spend  
May all the Good you can attempt, prevail,  
Fate find you fraught, & fair Winds fill your Sail.    

On the hononored Services of the most worthy Col. Rokeby, under the Command of Monsieur Gashion the French General against the Spanish Forces. Anno 1646, & 1647  

SIr, since in Ages past, Verses have been  
The Balm to Valour, and preserved green,  
The Acts of antique Heroes, such as made  
The Reader ravished with the royal Trade  
Of righteous War, upon the Crest of those  
Whom Fate and disaffection made their Foes,  
I hope my maimed Muse (late trodden down  
By the red fury of Rhamnusa's frown)  
May re-erect her drooping head, and be  
A Tomb to Royal Rokeby's Memory,  
Whose Acts do want a Homer to rehearse,  
Being fitter for a Volume, than a Verse:  
Witness the wise Entrenchment that was made  
Before country, Where the ingenious Spade  
Furrowed the fiery Field, and did engage  
The slow-paced fury of Spain's subtlest Rage;  
Which soon approached in a relieving Power,  
Fleshed with four Thousand Men, whose fatal hour  
Rokeby commanded, whose magnetic Sword  
Drew blood at any distance, and whose word  
Gave life to all the Cavalry, in brief,  
He forced their Retreat, and killed their Chief;  
This is not all, nor must his faithful Fame  
Content itself with such a single Flame,  
Mardyke looks big, a Fort that did impart  
The Labyrinths of mathematic Art,  
Whose well-maned Bastions might Defiance give  
To all the world, and (unsupported) live  
Upon their thrifty Store, till Rokeby's Men  
Made a fierce On-set, and into their Den  
Shot so much fire, that all within it, say,  
The French Compounded with the Latter Day;  
Next Dunkirk, (which so many years hath been  
The Trap of Flanders) straight was taken in  
By Rokeby's bold Assistance, whose fair Fate  
Attempted nought too early, or too late:  
Labassay (next to this) the French oblige  
With the hot compliment of a close Siege:  
Lans being then retaken, there was slain (Spain,  
A Man whose worth outweighed the Crown of  
Royal Gashion, whose Name the Army would  
Rather than Tears, enbalm with Spanish blood:  
Which shall not cease to run till all are made  
The Subject of a charnel-house and Spade;  
Until which time, my due Devotion sues,  
That (He who now is Subject of my Muse)  
The noble Rokeby, may (undaunted) stand;  
The fixed glory of his Native Land,  
Till honoured Age conclude his Life, and then  
I wish his Worth may meet some better Pen.    

The Antiplatonick by I. C. with an Answer by T. I.  

FOr shame thou Everlasting wooer,  
Still saying Grace, and ne'er fall to her:  
Love that's in Contemplation placed,  
Is Venus drawn but to the Waste,  
Unless his heat confess his Gender,  
And the Parley cause Surrender:  
They are Salamanders of a cold Desire  
That live un-scorched amidst the wildest Fire.   

What though she be a Dame of Stone,  
The Image of Pygmalion,  
As hard, and unrelenting She  
As the new-crusted Niobe;  
Or (what doth more of Statue carry)  
A Nun of the Platonic quarry:  
Love melts the rigor, which the Rocks have bred▪  
A Flint will break upon a featherbed.   

Then leave ye pretty Female Elves,  
To candy and preserve yourselves,  
Women commence by Cupid's Dart,  
As the King's Hunting dubbs a Hart:  
No more ye Sectaries of the Game  
No more of your Calcining Flame:  
love's Votaries enthrall each others' Soul,  
Till both of them do live upon Parol.   

Virtue's no more in women kind  
Than the Green-sickness of the mind,  
Philosophy, they're new Delight:  
A kind of Charcoal Appetite:  
There is no Sophistry prevails  
When Love a loving heart assails:  
But the disputing petticoat will warp,  
As skilful Fencers use to check at Sharp:   

The soldier, that man of Iron,  
Whom Ribs of Horror all environ,  
who strong with Wyer instead of Veins,  
In whose Embraces y' are in Chains,  
Let a magnetic Girl appear,  
And he turns Cupid's Curaseer;  
Love storms his Breast, and takes the Fortress in  
For all the bristled Turn-pikes of his Chin.   

Since Love's Artillery (their Cheeks)  
The Breast-work which the firmest seeks;  
Come, let us in affection Riot,  
They 're sickly Pleasures, keep their Diet;  
Give me a Lover bold and free,  
Not impeached with formality;  
Like an ambassador that beds a Queen,  
With the nice Caution of a Sword between.  
I. C.    

The Answer.  

LEave thy salt lascivious Lover,  
Is't no more but Come and Cover,  
Love that is by Lust mislead,  
Is Helen drawn upon her head:  
And the luxurious Garb is stranger  
Than the Horse-tail tied to th' Manger:  
That scorching Salamander kills his Sire,  
Who will confound his alimental Fire.   

Although she be no Dame of Snow,  
Which with every Smile will flow;  
Or be transformed (by brackish blood)  
From a Figure, to a flood:  
Her Love will last, when (after loathing)  
Thy Marchpane Mistress melts to nothing:  
Love is a Gem in the Celestial Crown,  
A Diamond is never broke with Down.   

Then cease to frisk it so like Elves,  
And make French Monkeys of yourselves;  
Why should Cowardice prevail?  
Valiant Men do ne'er turn tail:  
Love is no Faction, the direct  
And true Religion, is no Sect:  
Luxurious Lovers do (like rebels) frame  
A War against their King in his own Name.   

Virtue is a virgin's wealth,  
The Magazine of mental Health;  
And (since Philosophy should be  
The handmaid to Divinity)  
Her sacred syllogisms shall  
Maintain, Lust is apocryphal:  
The particoloured codpiece than shall be  
Struck dumb, with Farthing all Philosophy.   

Your pineer-fingered soldier which  
Doth deal in heat of blood, and itch:  
May, when the Dog-days do increase,  
Court Venus in her Verdigrese;  
Or find some Tyndar-hearted Saint,  
Where he may wallow in her Paint:  
For such a piece of potent Pleasure can  
(It's ten to one) charge both your Horse and Man.   

Since Lust is nothing but the foul  
And fierce Consumption of the Soul,  
Let our embracing Spirits prove  
The joys of incorporeal Love;  
Let Wantons in their wild Desires  
Call us Cupid's Crucifiers:  
We will the Wonders of our Love rehearse,  
When Fire shall vitnifie the Universe.    

A Blessing to my Creditors.  

THe Debtor to the Creditor did fall,  
Crying, Be patient, and I'll pay you all;  
With such humility come I to you,  
Believing Men, and, with his Words, I sue,  
That you'll have Patience, 'tis a Virtue which  
Will not Impoverish, but make ye Rich  
In Heaven's high esteem, And from that Store  
Who ever hath his Wealth, cannot be poor:  
You know the Scripture doth these words afford  
Who gives the Poor lends Money to the Lord;  
Then whatsoever is scored for their expense,  
Your Interest, shall be treble recompense:  
Is not this well now? Who would not give all  
To have his Use exceed his Principal?  
And yet there shall not on your Conscience lie  
The burden of extorting Usury:  
If Giving get such Gain, be not afraid,  
For what ye lend, shall surely be repaid;  
I, but you'll ask me when? why there's th' offence  
Y'are guilty of, ye must have patience.  
Ye tell me, when I say, I cannot pay;  
You'll take an Order with me, what, I pray?  
You will imprison me, where I shall lie  
As much indebted to your charity;  
This is the way to have God's Curse to sink ye;  
But is't the way to have your Money, think ye?  
Will it not make your very Souls to quake,  
When I shall ask ye Bread for the Lord's sake?  
An hundred hungry Christians likewise lie,  
And you must make me keep 'em Company:  
Have Patience pray, if ye do chance to die  
Before y'are paid, I'll write your elegy,  
And such a serious one, void of all Flashes,  
That shall revive ye; when your Tomb's turned Ashes;  
I'll make your Names to Men sweeter than Spices.  
Who else would curse ye for your young beirs vices  
But what's all this to Money? 'twill not pierce  
Your greedy minds, you'll not be paid in Verse,  
Nor yet in Prose, I see; you hold it sweeter,  
To have your Debt in Money than in Meeter:  
Why, ye shall ha''t: Nay, do not thank me, prey,  
Not yet I mean; you know there is a Day  
Shall pay for all; and then kind courteous Men,  
In every Hundred I'll allow ye Ten:  
Why now, your Looks plead pity, ye shall see  
The blessings I have kept in store for ye,  
Blessings that shall prevail beyond your Purses,  
And free ye from Tom Randolph's witty Curses,  
May all your Wives turn honest, and your Mothers,  
And waste your wealth no more on younger Bro  
I wish a blessing upon all your Seed, (there's:  
May all your Children learn to write and read,  
And cast Account well, which, in vulgar sense,  
Is to dispose your Pounds, Shillings, and Pence.  
May they to Riot never be inclined,  
Or to the female Gender give their mind,  
But if it happen so, they needs must turn  
Their minds to careful Marriage, or else burn,  
Let them in heaven's name wed, and never cease  
To be laborious for the world's increase;  
And (though you ne'er were any) I wish then  
Their Children may be Sons of Gentlemen,  
Have all their Carriage lie in the French road,  
To wear their Gloaths Gentile, and all le mode,  
These and such other Blessings, sure will stay ye,  
'Las these may come to pass yet ere I pay ye.    

The echoes Oracle, an Eclogue betwixt Melancholicus and Aulicus.  Mel. 
REport relates that in this forest lies  
(Hid in mysterious Concavities)  
A famous echo, she they say that is  
Recorded in the Metamorphosis.  Aul. 
'Tis said, she is Oraculous, and can  
(By a most quaint reflection) give a Man  
Such Answer to his Question that affords  
Another Sense extracted from his Words.  Mel. 
Prithee let's try: what shall we ask?  Aul. 
No matter  
What, ask her any thing.  Mel. 
Why then have at her;  
I'll whisper first— Mysterious Mother, thou  
That mockest the bleating Lamb, and lowing Cow,  
Or any sound that doth thy Cavern pass,  
harken—  Aul. 
Unto the braying of an Ass.  Mel. 
Prithee be silent.  Aul. 
Prithee speak in season;  
Ask her who shall be King.  Mel. 
No, no, that's Treason,  
She dares not answer.  Aul. 
Why? She need not fear,  
For an whole Army cannot wound the Air.  Mel. 
What Heir?  Aul. 
Air of this forest.  Mel. 
Yes they may  
Cleave it with fire.  Aul. 
She'll be as fierce as they,  
Besides she is so able to retort,  
Do what they can, she'll give the last Report.  Mel. 
She's very old, I'll ask her if she know  
Acts that were done a thousand years ago:  
Tell me (Great echo) where (with such high fury)  
Did Christ receive his Injury?  Echo. 
In jury.  Mel. 
A perfect Oracle; She that so well  
(With direct Readiness) things past can tell,  
Knows something yet to come, I am on fire,  
Till I hear more of this: Now do you try her.  Aul. 
Come echo, say, what's a more monstrous Evil,  
Then we have read in Mandevil?  Echo. 
Mandevil.  Aul. 
What are those men that Faction so inspires  
To be our church's Edifiers?  Echo. 
Fires.  Aul. 
What did they think of our Comunion-table  
When they were so un-affable?  Echo. 
A Fable.  Mel. 
Thou knew'st the Jews i'th' days of great Herodias,  
Will Scotchmen be Commodious?  Echo. 
Become odious.  
But if our Persons in their power fall,  
Will they prove Rational?  Ecch. 
Prove rash on all.  Aul. 
How can they be our Commonwealths deflourers?  
They were our Peace-Endeavourers.  Echo. 
Devourers.  Mel. 
Peace is pure sweetness, though we care not for her,  
What is their due that do abhor her?  Echo. 
Horror.  Aul. 
Come come, I'll ask no more, for she affords,  
Nothing but by advantage of our Words;  
Let us depart, 'tis likely we can find,  
Little to do, that wanton with the wind:  
No, prithee stay, I have two questions more  
To ask, and I have done.  Aul. 
Prithee give o'er.  Mel. 
A Lady loves me, echo, shall I choose her,  
To be my Mistress, or refuse her?  Echo. 
Use her.  Mel. 
I call her Dear, and she styles me her honey,  
What can be greater Harmony?  Echo. 
Her money.  Mel. 
Whilst that is lasting, I will ne'er forsake her,  
If thou wilt have me undertake her.  Echo. 
Take her.  Aul. 
This is mere humour (and indeed) no more  
Than what is daily practised, for before  
Some do propound, those thoughts that do disease 'em,  
They angle for such Answers as may please 'em:  
And do commit unto the Hearers trust,  
The charge of pleasing, not of being just:  
So a weak Prince, and Parasites accord,  
He asks is't well? They answer, Well my Lord.   

A Bill of Love.  

BE't known to all men, by these Presents, I  
frank wildlove, late of Infidelity;  
Ith' County of Inconstant, Gentleman:  
Acknowledge (with the greatest zeal I can)  
myself to owe and be indebted to  
Maria Eair-chast Virgin, late of True,  
Ith' County of Credulity, the sum  
Of my Affections, and to tender 'em  
Upon her first Demand, to which, I bind  
My Body, Heart, Life, Soul, in this most kind  
And amorous Obligation, such a Debt  
No Heirs, nor yet Executors are set  
To see discharged, but only He that owes  
Must pay, or the fair Creditor must lose;  
Dated the one and twentieth year o'th' Reign  
Of Cupid, King of Hearts, (our Sovereign)  
Witness the Cherubims, and Common-weal  
Of Angels, here I fix my Hand and Seal.  
Fr. Wildlove.    

A Farewell to his worthy Friend, Mr John Curling upon his Voyage to the Indies.  

IF I were more enamoured with thy sight  
Than with thy safety, I should much invite  
Thy stay in England, and dissuade thee from  
Those motives which divert thy feet from home,  
But since I see the sullen Wars increase,  
And sad Destruction mortify our Peace,  
I do applaud thy Providence, and pray  
That thy Negotiations Night and Day  
May prove propitious, thou I hope, wilt find,  
Though amongst Heathen, Spirits more inclined.  
Unto Humanity, than some that here  
Usurp the name of Christians, May the clear  
Beams of divine Protection ever dwell  
In all the Good you can attempt, Farewell.    

The Pursuit betwixt Claraphil and Clarinda.  Clarinda 

AY me, fly me not,  
Good faith, I do mean no harm;  
I am out of breath,  
Support me from death,  
With thy all-curing Arm:  
Alas, I faint,  
My tiring Limbs do tremble,  
Then prove  
My Constant Love,  
No true heart can dissemble.   

Once more turn thy face,  
Encourage my failing Feet,  
That now are grown faint  
With Brambles restraint?  
For every Bush I meet  
Doth throw me down;  
And ere I can recover,  
Thy flight  
Outgoes my sight,  
What Sorrow hath a Lover.    

The Reply of Claraphil to another Air.  Claraphil. 

THough I wish fair Venus guide all,  
Those bright flames we sacrifice,  
And confess no other Idol  
Than the Altar of thine Eyes:  
Though I know thy Glories can  
Provoke a P●oselyte from prayer,  
And the Destiny of Man  
Doth lie tangled in thy hair:  
Though thy Mental Merit may  
Mollify immortal Ire,  
Mitigate the Latter Day,  
And reverse the Rage of Fire.   

Look up to your Saphir window,  
Where the Destinies appear,  
Thou on that shalt find Clarinde  
My red ruin written there,  
That no Virgin can be true,  
If my favour she implore,  
But will wander for a new,  
And invite a Million more;  
Though thy sacred Soul may be  
Fixed, yet thou in me wilt find  
Something (though unknown to me)  
Will make thee wilder than the wind.    

Chorus by Both, with a through Bass.  

THen let thy bended Knees the Gods implore  
That thou mayst love me no more:  
And we with Incense will their Altars warm,  
Till they have loosed the Charm,  
Panchean Spices, and Arabian Gums,  
Shall sweat, in whole Hecatombs,  
Our optic faculties shall ne'er be dry,  
We thus will do till we die.    

A Kiss, by Mr. T. S.  

A Kiss I begged, and she did join  
Her Lips to mine,  
Then (as afraid) snatched back her Treasure,  
And mocked my Pleasure;  
Again, my Chariessa, for in this  
Thou only gav'st Desire, and not a Kiss    

The Answer.  

A Kiss you had, the fair One gave  
What you did crave,  
But (wisely) limited her Treasure  
For further Pleasure,  
Extract no more of Honey from those Hives,  
For fear you surfeit on Preparatives.    

The Senses.  

CLarinda, in thy face,  
Is all that ever was,  
Pertaining unto Beauty, Youth, and Grace,  
I prithee let me Gaze?   

No Angel in a Sphere,  
Doth sing so sweet and clear,  
His heavenly Hallelujah to heaven's ear;  
I prithee let me Hear?   

Thy breathing doth excel,  
The air where Roses dwell,  
All pestilential peril 'twill expel;  
I prithee let me Smell?   

Upon thy Lip is placed,  
Prevention for a Fast,  
'Tis so Divine a Julip, I shall last,  
For ever, if I Tast.   

Although thy heart is steel,  
Each Limb, from Head to Heel,  
Is soft as Down, that falls from Arachne's Wheel;  
I prithee let me Feel?   

Give Ear unto my moan,  
Let me no longer groan,  
surprise me with thy Senses one by one,  
Or I shall lose my own.    

Solitude.  

POor Swain, thou must repair,  
Where neither Ear nor Eye,  
Thy sad Laments can overhear, or spy;  
Into some silent air.  
That kindly entertains,  
Thy sighs, and with no echo mocks thy pains:  
Since thy Clarinda scornfully professes,  
She cannot choose but laugh at thy distresses.   

Blessed be thou Solitude,  
That to thy Cypress Grove,  
Invites the Melancholy soul of Love;  
No murmur shall intrude,  
No flattr'ing wind invade,  
To spoil the happy quiet of thy shade:  
Here will I sit, and Venus' Son importune,  
To torture her, that laughs at my misfortune.   

Kind Cupid bend thy Bow,  
And with thy keenest shaft,  
Transfix her breast, that glories in her craft;  
Shoot home, that there may flow,  
From her obdurate heart,  
A Stream to drench the feathers of thy Dart:  
That when (like me) her flame she cannot smother,  
We both may love, and laugh, at one another.    
Eliza and Alexis, a Dialogue. Eliz. 
WOrthy Shepherd, cast thy Eyes,  
Here thy scorned Eliza lies,  
And without thy Love she dies:  
I prithee then draw near me.  Alex. 
Oh! no, fly away, I never more will hear thee.  
Faithless Shepherdess, I fly,  
'Cause I fear to cast an Eye  
In thy Love doth ruin lie,  
I may no more mistake thee,  Eliz. 
Ay me! I'm undone, My Shepherd will for sake me,  
What though I have gone astray,  
Wilt thou work my life's decay,  
Prithee do not turn away,  
But once more come and cheer me,  Alex. 
Oh! no, fly away, thou never shalt come near me.  
Didst thou only go astray,  
When thou wroughtest my Love's decay,  
And my Life thou wouldst betray,  
What Answer canst thou make me?  El. 
Ay me! I'm undone, my Shepherd will forsake me.  
I will help to fold thy Sheep,  
And myself in Garlands keep,  
I will watch whilst thou dost sleep,  
No Danger shall come near thee.  Alex. 
Oh! no, fly away, I never more will hear thee.  
Thou shalt ne'er come nigh my Sheep,  
lest thy magic work so deep,  
That they devour me in my Sleep,  
When none are near to wake me.  El. 
Ay me! I'm undone, My Shepherd will forsake me.  
Dost remember how by slight,  
Thou mad'st me thy quarrel fight?  
In hope to have me killed outright,  
By Sheep-hooks in a duel.  El. 
Sweet Shepherd now forget, or thou wilt be too cruel.  
This is only thy pretence,  
That I may be banished hence,  
Prithee pardon one offence,  
I never more will grieve thee.  Al. 
Dear Danger get thee gone, I never will believe thee.  El. 
I will rob the choicest Bowers,  
To make Coronets of Flowers,  
Merrily we'll spend the hours,  
And thou shalt be my Shepherd.  A. 
Sweet Siren get thee hence, thou'rt spotted as a Leopard  
If thou dost but touch a bower,  
Guilt will all the place deflower,  
Thy very smelling doth devour,  
And I shall ne'er be merry;  Eliz. 
Dear shepherd take my life, my soul is sick  
(and weary.   

The Adulteress.  

WHo would have thought Luxuria, when  
Thy choice made me the best of Men,  
Thou couldst contrive my life's decay,  
And wound that heart which once did pay,  
A price for thine? What Souls have they,  
That do with tears betray?   

Thou didst petition me with Prayers,  
With blubbered Eyes, and torn Hairs,  
That both our Hearts might join in one:  
Thou wert so full of melting moan,  
For fear thy life should be o'erthrown,  
I did destroy my own.   

Yet she that then did so profess,  
Faith, Truth, and Love, knows nothing less;  
But all her blood with poison flows,  
For in the bridebed where the Rose,  
And Violets did their sweets disclose,  
Henbane, and Hemlock grows.   

Such Woes are only known in Hell,  
My Love had never parallel;  
And how I hate, no tongue can tell.  
That were the World from women free,  
As 'twas at first, my soul should flee  
Her salt society.   

I would embrace a Body first,  
By Brothels twenty Winters nursed;  
And all the plagues completely, cursed  
Whose mortifying breath at ten  
Miles distance might destroy strong men,  
Ere we would meet again.   

Add to my Life ten thousand years,  
With health, and treasure, free from fears;  
I would not have them to be Hers:  
Nay should afflicting Furies frame  
A fire, and force me to my shame,  
I'd wallow in the flame,    

The Comparison.  

Fond Love that blinded Boy,  
So many keeps in Bands,  
Is like the Cold, and crystal Ice,  
In wanton children's hands;  
Which though it hurt their tender joints,  
It so delights their eye,  
Although they seem to let it fall,  
They hold it fast and cry.    

The rebel.  

LOve? No; I am not such a Foe,  
To my Peace, prithee cease,  
Say no more,  
Though her Eyes  
Are the Skies  
Where Love flies  
And Inveagles  
All the Eagles  
That in her Airy soar,  
I dare not fly, in her sky,  
'Tis too high;  
Once her frown  
Threw me down  
So low,  
That I swore, Never more  
In a sunbeam to soar,  
Love and I, will each other never know.   

He brings such Woes with him  
Nought can exceed 'em;  
Souls do in sorrow swim,  
And Tears do feed 'em;  
That every sense is dim  
To Peace and Freedom.   

Eye me, Try me,  
Can you deny me?  
Thus he beguiles the Wise,  
But if you  
To his Bow do bow  
Your Soul becomes a Sacrifice  
Fires, Mires,  
Brooks, and Briers,  
Kinder are than he,  
Then shake him off,  
With scorn and scoff,  
Sing, and drink Sack with me,    

The Departure.  

BY all thy Glories willingly I go,  
Yet could have wished thee Constant in thy Love,  
But since thou needs must prove  
Uncertain, as is thy Beauty,  
Or as the Glass, that shows it thee,  
My Hopes thus soon to overthrow,  
Shows thee more sickle, but my flames by this  
Are easter quenched than his,  
Whom flattering smiles betray,  
'Tis tyrannous delay  
Breeds all this harm,  
And makes that Fire consume, that should but warm.   

Till Time destroys the Blossoms of thy Youth,  
Thou art our Idol, worshipped at that Rate,  
But who can tell thy Fate?  
Or say that when thy Beauties gone,  
Thy lover's Torch will still burn on?  
I could have served thee with such truth  
Devoutest Pilgrims to their Saints do owe,  
Departed long ago;  
And at thy ebbing Tide  
Have used thee as a Bride,  
Who's only true  
Cause you are fair, he loves himself, not you.  
T. C.    

The Lady's Answer.  

BY all the Perjuries thy Lips did wear,  
Thy formal Favours never aimed at Good,  
But what might move the blood,  
To wanton in its own self-love;  
Which Virtue bids me to reprove,  
Though to reform be to for swear,  
Yet in the holy State of Love we may  
Not swear our Souls away:  
For at the Latter Day  
We Damn if we betray  
And they that prove  
False in their Faith, uncrown the King of Love.   

Ere Time have blemished this poor bloom of mine  
Your wild Idolatry will worship more  
Than Laplenders adore:  
You cannot with your words win me,  
To think that where no Saint you see  
You ean adore an empty Shrine:  
No, dear Dissembler, the best Love doth tend,  
To a self-serving End,  
The greatest Power that is  
We do obey for Bliss,  
He that will be  
False to himself, can ne'er be true to me.    

The Fugitive.  

FLy, Fly,  
Some way, where neither Ear nor Ey  
Can ever see or hear thee;  
But those Furies that  
Daily triumph at  
The Tyranny of Truth,  
For I  
By fainting famine vow to die,  
Ere such a Sed come near me,  
In whose bosom lies  
All Hell can devise  
To ruin Age and Youth;  
From thy Lust flows a flood,  
That destroys  
All my joys  
In the Bud,  
Thou a Civil War dost move,  
'Gainst the Royalty of Love,  
Treason lodgeth in thy blood:  
She that hath bid Adieu  
And refused  
What she chused  
For a New,  
Let her Lover look to be  
In the same Extremity,  
Faith, she never can be true.   

Then welcome freedom, Farewell Fears,  
I have for Crowns exchanged my Cares,  
My Soul shall soar above the Spheres,  
And sing whilst he the burden bears.   

Who would not pardon such a Thief,  
That slily steals away his Grief,  
Then he that quarrels for relief,  
Resolves to be a Fool in Chief.    

The Humorist. A Medley containing ten airs.  

REnounce this humour and attend  
The fair advisings of a Friend;  
Thou never wilt have sober Brains:  
Whilst Love lies lurking in thy V●●●●  
These folded Arms, and broken Lutes,  
Are symptoms of forsaken suits:  
Thou sure hast seen some Lady, who  
As thou wouldst have her, will not do.  
Why then be Mute  
And cease thy Suit.  
Apply thyself to me,  
I'll teach thee who  
To win and woo  
Yet keep thy Liberty.   

Ay me!  
Will never get her thee  
Nor a sigh, nor a shrug, nor a tear,  
If she be fair and free,  
She must see that in thee,  
Or thou never shalt come near  
The thing that thy mind  
And Desires have designed;  
Some will lie down with Language and airs,  
Some in Wine  
Will resign,  
Or if praised,  
Will be raised,  
With a Puritan fall to your Prayers.   

But if a Lady Great  
You would encounter,  
Whose Fame and Family are seated high;  
'Tis honour doth the Feat,  
With that ye Mount her,  
For only Eagles do at eagle's fly;  
If you can reach her in the royal Road,  
With panegyric and seraphic Ode  
Ye do it awl mode;  
But, if the waiting Creature must procure,  
Tempt her with Treasure, and ye have her sure,  
Avostre Serviteur.   

If you meet  
With one whose Wit  
All Beauty else disdains,  
That will suppose  
A Fountain flows  
Of Violets in her Veins,  
Tell her, the Glory of her Face  
May make Scythians sue for Grace,  
And Treason turn to Truth,  
The lustre of her Eyes excel  
Those bright Spheres where Angels dwell  
With ever-yielding Youth.   

But when y'are wanting One  
To be ranting on,  
Pity 'tis you should be barred in,  
For you may repair  
Unto Lady-Fair,  
Go your ways in Grays-Inn Garden,  
There the Graces are,  
And good Faces are  
Which the grim God of War  
Never plundered,  
Have but care enough,  
You'll find Ware enouh,  
And you may spare enough  
For five hundred.   

That will love half an hour,  
If ye bring Treasure,  
Or else they bar the Door  
Against your Pleasure,  
Yet much I fear, they have met with their Matches,  
Since Musqueteers of late plundered their Patches.   

Besides enacted now they see,  
The downfall of Adultery;  
And 'tis a Paradox they vow,  
For to be fair and faithful to:  
They say the Sword destroys the Gown,  
Their Love and Liberties go down,  
Then they frown.   

But bid defiance you that can,  
Unto the farthingale and Fan,  
For no Commodity we see,  
But hath its discommodity;  
Then ho!  
Tothth' Tavern let's go,  
And drink down Disasters,  
For Madamazella is meat for your Masters,   

Be then freemen,  
And let the Women,  
Sue for an Act of Grace;  
Or not deal  
With those will tell  
Of Crime, or Person, Time and Place;  
If I can but  
Well allure thee to't  
We'll endeavour such a brace of Lives  
So fair and high  
We'll scorn to lie  
With Wenches or with Wives:  
I mean but those  
Whom the Fates dispose  
In a very noble Nuptial flame;  
All other Fires  
Are wild Desires,  
And crucisie the Fame.    

The Invitation.  

OH my dear Cloris,  
Show where the Store is,  
Of all those Sweets which man prone to adore is,  
Love makes me slavish,  
Oh! let me lavish  
Those joys that would make an Anchorite ravish,  
Sweet, do not lose 'em,  
For in thy bosom  
Are all Delights  
Of Lovers Nights,  
Time will destroy them;  
Shall I enjoy them,  
Let me enshrine  
Thy soul with mine.   

I'll build thee Bowers,  
And tinsel Towers,  
To let in twilight, and keep out the Showers;  
No Hag shall haunt thee,  
Nor Danger daunt thee,  
Such sacred Circles I'll set to enchant thee:  
Here Health and Treasure  
With pliant Pleasure,  
Shall ever spread  
Their flowery Bed;  
Then leave beguiling,  
And grant in smiling,  
The thing that I  
Must do or die.    

A Song, sung by Mr. Bushel's Miners in Devonshire, written in 1645.  

LAdies of Love and Leisure,  
Where is your Greatness gone?  
What sudden high displeasure  
Hath forced ye from your own?  
Whilst we live here obscurely  
In Cottages unknown,  
No Cares or fears  
We ever think upon.   

Our walls are highest Mountains  
For we live in a Coomb;  
We drink of flowing Fountains,  
Our dwelling is our Tomb,  
Nor look to be exalted  
Before the Day of Doom;  
Where Scibes, for Bribes,  
Shall ne'er deny us Room.   

We hear a dreadful Summons,  
Up in the high Country,  
Our gracious King and Commons  
They say cannot agree;  
This Harvest is for Cedars,  
And no such Shrubs as we,  
Yet still we will  
Pray for a Unity.   

The Day we spend in working,  
And chanting harmless Songs,  
No Malice here lies lurking,  
Our thoughts are free from Wrongs;  
And those that Civil Wars do love,  
We wish they had no Tongues,  
No Drums, no Guns,  
Or what to War belongs.   

We wound the earth's hard bowels,  
Where hidden Treasure grows,  
With Twibell, Sledge, and Trowells,  
Pick-ax, and Iron Crows,  
We search for sinful Silver,  
Which all dissension sows,  
Their Health and Wealth  
Men do so ill dispose.   

We eat the Bread of labour,  
And what Endeavour brings,  
Sorrow is no next-Neighbour.  
Our Eyes they are no Springs;  
Unless we shed a tear or two,  
When as we pity Kings,  
The Fates of States  
To us are Hebrew things.    

A Ramble by Mr. A. B.  

STay, shut the Gate,  
T'other Quart, Faith it is not so late  
As your thinking,  
Those Stars which we see  
In the Hemisphere, be  
But the Studs in our Cheeks by good Drinking,  
The Sun's gone to tipple all night in the Sea, boys,  
To morrow he'll blush, that he's paler than we, Boys,  
Drink Wine, give him Water, 'tis Sack makes us. The  
(Boys.   

Fill up the Glass,  
To the next merry Lad let it pass,  
Come away with't,  
Then set foot to foot,  
And but give your mind to't,  
'Tis heretical Six, that doth slay wit,  
Then hang up good faces, let's drink till our Noses  
Gives freedom to speak what our fancy disposes,  
Beneath whose protection now Under the Rose is.   

Drink off your Bowls,  
'Twill enrich both your Heads and your Souls,  
With Canary,  
A Carbuncled face  
Saves a tedious Race;  
For the Indies about us we carry;  
No Helicon like to the Juice of Wine is,  
For Phoebus had never had Wit, or divine is,  
Had his face not been Bow-dyed as thine is and mine  
(is.   

This must go round,  
Off w'your Hats till the Pavement be crowned,  
With our Beavers,  
A Red-coated Face  
Frights a sergeant and his Mace,  
And the Constable trembles to shivers;  
In State march our Faces like some of the Quorum,  
When the Whores do fall down, & the vulgars' adore uni  
And our Noses like Link-bayes run shining before uni.    

The Answer.  

HOld, Quaff no more,  
But restore  
If ye can) what y'have lost by your Drinking,  
Three Kingdoms and Crowns  
With their Cities and Towns,  
Whilst a King and his Progenie's sinking;  
The Studs in your Cheeks have obscured his Star Boys,  
Your Drink and Miscarriages in the late War, Boys,  
Hath brouht his Prerogative so to the Bar-Boys.   

Throw down the Glass,  
He's an Ass  
That extracts all his worth from Canary,  
That Valour will shrink  
Which is only good in Drink,  
'Twas the Cup made the Camp to miscarry;  
You thought (in the World) there was no Power could tame ye,  
Ye tippled and whored till the Foe overcame ye,  
Cuds Nigs and Nere-far-Sir, hath vanquished God  
(dam.   

Fly from the Coast,  
Or you are lost,  
And the Water will run where the Drink went;  
From hence ye must slink,  
If you swear and have no Chink,  
'Tis the Curse of a royal Delinquent,  
You love to see Beer-bowls turned over the thumb well,  
You like three fair Gamesters, four Dice, & a Drum well,  
But y''ve as live see the Devil as F. or C.   

Drink not the Round,  
You'll be drowned  
In the source of your Sack and your Sonnets,  
Try once more your Fate,  
For the Kirk against the State,  
And go bartar your Beavers for Bonnets,  
You see how you are charmed by your female Enchanters,  
And therefore Pack hence to Virginia for Planters,  
For an Act and two redcoats can rout all the Ran-  
(ters.    

The Prisoners.  

IN a Dungeon deep we lie,  
Cramped with Cold Captivity,  
Where the Bed-less bottom owns  
Nothing to relieve our Bones,  
Yet such is the sacred scope of the Soul  
That we never shrink  
At the stink,  
When cold water we drink,  
'Cause Conscience crowns the Bowl.   

Fettered in this filth we lie,  
For we know not what, nor why,  
But we guess (if understood)  
'Twill appear for being Good;  
That Law doth strangely on Conscience entrench.  
Where known true men are  
Planted (far  
From the judge) at the Bar,  
And Felony fills the Bench.   

By the Pride of impious Powers,  
This unhappy Case is ours:  
we are lost in Wealth and Fame,  
Fort a fault that knows no Name,  
If it be Reason that signs our Restraint▪  
'Tis then to be Good  
(Understood)  
A Disease of the blood,  
The Devil is turned a Saint.    

On Clarinda her Answering I and No.  

WHat Crosses are in Love; when e'er I come  
Where fair Clarinda sanctifies the Rome,  
(With my reiterated Love-suit) she  
With I and No, so tempts and tortures me,  
That I have lost my Patience; If I cry,  
Fair Lady shall I leave you? She says, I;  
Again, she answers me, when I would know,  
If I shall wait on her i'th' Evening, No;  
With these two Words (unpleasingly misplaced)  
She gives my fair Affection such Distaste,  
I know not what to ask; then do I thunder  
Against the God of Love, and (raging) wonder  
That such a form where all Perfestion grows,  
Should so afflict me with her I's and No's.    

An elegy on a Good Man.  

YOu that did love with filial fear  
The Soul that shines in yonder Sphere,  
Whose shadow is informed here,  
Put on your sackcloth and appear.   

Here lies the Map of Martyrdom,  
Let all therefore avoid the Room,  
But those that can, when as they come,  
With Tears, and Ashes, build a Tomb.   

For here the Cause of all your Cares,  
Lies floating in the church's tears,  
Who did expire, as it appears,  
Not for His Faults but Others Fears.   

You that are Valiant; Great, and Wise,  
Attend his sacred Obsequies,  
For on this holy hearse there lies,  
A Theme for Tears in unborn Eyes.   

Although he was not understood,  
Yet from his Spirit, and his blood,  
Did flow a fair and fertile flood,  
Of all that men call Great and Good.   

Religion was his daily Guest,  
Within the Treasure of his breast,  
Was more than Language ere expressed,  
Angels can only tell the rest.    
FINIS.