JEWELS OF INGENVITY, Set in a CORONET OF POETRY.  
By the Industry of T. I.  
Cormina qui facimus, mittamus Carmina tantum.  
Name Chorus ante alios aptus Amore sumus,  Ovid. de Art. Amand, lib. 1. 
LONDON, Printed by I. M.   

To the most absolute Lover of Arts and Ingenuity, The worthily honoured, Matrhew Gilley Esq  
Most honoured Sir,  
WHen you shall make a review of your own Merits, and peruse with pausing Curiosity these Poetical imperfections, my fears are that you will condemn my confidence, but my hopes are as great that you will commend my prudence from whence I extract this presumption, that though all Critics should comply to cry down my wit in Composing my Poems, they shall applaud my judgement in the choiee of my Patron.  
Sir, Your own deservings declare you to be no less than a Palace of Honour, if these Poems, like a Vine or Woodbine may support themselves upon Your Edifice, they may by this fortunate transplantation grow more fragrant, and gratify Your Indulgence. Sir, in one Word, Your Candour hath compelled me to make these Poetical Addresses, if any thing in them may either provoke Your praise or pardon, I shall congratulate that happy means which (through this martial mist of violence and ignorance) hath safely conducted me to so splendid a Sphere of Love and Ingenuity, and be always studious to deserve (what I have been ever ambitious to desire) a seat in Your memory, and liberty to subscribe  
Sir, the humblest of all Your Servants, and the devoutest of Your honourers T. I.   

An Acrostical Encomium, Composed on the Noble Name, and Heroic Nature of Sir FRANCIS ENGLEFIELD, Baronet.  

Fame (in the noblest sense) whose wand'ring wings  
Renown the Actions of Triumphant Kings:  
All this year is at leisure to set forth,  
No other Excellency, but your worth  
Could I court every Muse, and should I be  
Inspired with all Poetic Mystery;  
Should I rich Gems from every Science pick   

Englefield's name would teach new Rhetoric,  
Nothing can be said, read, or understood,  
Great Sir, but what your merits can make good,  
Love is your constitution, and you fit,  
Every action to the rules of Wit:  
Fidelity and Honour both comply,  
In consort, to complete your gallantry;  
Every favour in your Gifts or Letters,  
Leaves the Receiver bound in Golden Fetters:  
Don, Johnson, Fletcher, and (your namesake) Francis   

Beaumond in you might find new Themes for Fancies  
Arts are your Privy Council: He doth know  
Reason enough, that hath but studied you:  
One of your lowest, single virtues, would  
Nobilitate a Clown, and change his blood:  
Englefield's honour shall ne'er leave his name,  
Till England and the World meet in one flame.    

An Acrostic, Consecrated to the renowned name of the most Youthful, Beautiful, Virtuous, and truly Honourable, The Lady CECILIA ARUNDEL, Daughter to the Right Honourable, the Lord Arundel of Warder.  
Could I contain all Languages, and be  
A Prelate in the Art of Poetry:  
Eminent Lady! I should scarce inherit  
Rhetoric enough to write your meanest merit:  
Cherubims tongues, are fittest to relate,  
Virtues (like yours) which none can imitate:  
If I should call you beautiful, and wise,  
Noble, chaste, merciful, and say your Eyes  
Lend lustre to the day, they'd think I do  
Dissemble though all these come short of you:  
If I should say but what your virtues be,  
Every Truth would look like Flattery;  
As men that round about the World have been,  
Live mute, and dare not tell what they have seen.  
Lady you are a Jewel to be set  
In a true Heart, the noblest Coronet.   

MUSIC Anagram.  
CUM KIS.  
there's harmony in Love, I know by this,  
The Anagram of Musiok, is CUM KIS.   

POEMS.  
Three Marriage Songs.  

The first at their going to the Temple.  

I.  
Now our bright joy'gins to appear,  
And the white Boy Cupid comes near:  
Unto Juno's Altar we run,  
Where you know what's to be done  
Bright Hymen in glory before them doth go,  
In season with reason to make one of two.   

II.  
May you never meet with those woes  
Which may sever your hands when they close;  
May blisses fall from above,  
And kisses keep you in love:  
May all you can wish, or good Heaven can give,  
Present ye with Plenty so long as you live.    

Second Song at Dinner.  

I.  
Now the Board is filled with Plenty,  
And the Wine runs round the room,  
Eat and drink what jove hath sent ye,  
Joy like this doth seldom come.   

II.  
Fill us off the sprightly Claret,  
And let every one beside  
Drink it free, and roundly share it  
To the Bridegroom and the Bride.   

III.  
Now me thinks the roof is reeling,  
And the very sky looks blue,  
Every Virgin hath a feeling,  
What the Bride must undergo,  
Every Lady would be willing,  
But to do as she must do.    

The third Song at their preparation to Bed.  
Welcome gentle night  
Thou bring'st all delight,  
When thy sable Curtain spreads  
Upon the melting mirth of marriage Beds.  
Here those joys are free,  
Which no eye may see  
But the Bridegroom and the Bride,  
Between the twilight and the morning-tide.  
In Cupid's Bushes.  
They hide their Blushes.  
This Battle breeds no scar,  
Such sights as these  
Did sweetly please,  
The Queen of Pleasure, and the God of War.  
When this is doing,  
There ends the Wooing,  
I will no further pry  
What more I know,  
I dare not show,  
Each Lover here can tell as well as I.    

On three Gentlemen that did accidentally meet in a Tavern, all black men, and every man's name John Crow.  
Three (birds by accident) all met together  
That never met before, Birds of a feather:  
All of a Name too, if you did but call  
Gently upon John Crow; ye named them all.  
A Trinity of Crows, a very riddle,  
John Crow is sirst, and last and in the middle:  
John Crow doth wear six legs, six hands, three faces,  
And (at one time) is in three several places:  
Yet in the royal and more noble part,  
They were but one (videlicet) one heart;  
Such as did all rebellious birds detest,  
And paid true homage to the Eagles nest.  
These Crows do roost in Churches, and could ne'er  
Eudure the Rooks that built at Westminster.  
No City Ravens, nor old country Dawes,  
That fluttered and cried out the Cause, the Cause;  
But in a word, to have the the truth expressed,  
They are three birds, that scorn to foul their nest,  
Nor need they fear cold in the sharpest weather,  
If every late plucked bird, own had his feather.   

Orthography.  
HOw can such men be innocent that spell  
Reason with T and write God with an L.   

An Acrostic on the Names of Mr. TIMOTHY STEEVENSON, and Mr. FRANCIS JORDAN.  
True hearts united underneath one roof,  
Excludes all ill, and makes them mischief-prooF  
In union, all sorts of Virtues are:  
Love is the bond of Peace, and strength of WaR  
Mars must use Love, as well as Martial Law,  
If ever England gain AmericA  
Order, guide all your consultations, then  
Zealous affection makes ye happy meN  
The World is false, the Bonds of friendship crack,  
And Amity herself is on the RaC  
How happy then, are those few friends that be  
Bound to each other in FidelitI  
You two are such, may all that Love profess  
Express their hearts towards you to be no lesS  
Sincerity and Secrecy comply,  
To keep your firm and lasting AmitI  
The greatest strength, division hath brought low  
Heaven were't not for Union would be sO  
Emperors, Kings, Princes, all Powers that are,  
Totter to pieces in a Civil WaR  
Envy doth then grow fat, when she can tread  
Upon the Limbs of a divided heaD  
Use but these Contemplations, and you may  
Count yourselves richer than all AffricA  
Excuse my rugged Counsel, you are Men  
Know better guides to lead you, than my PeN  
Nothing that may disturb your Peace appear,  
Suspicion-like, to put your thoughts in fear:  
One bond contain ye, and may false misprision  
Never have any power to work division:  
Hearts (like the Flint and Steel) each other strike,  
And Need Not Err, But Each Doth Each Love Like:  
They Love for Love, that's a true Lover's action,  
Such as the Cause is, such the Satisfaction.   

A Panigericks Composed on the meritorious Name of the most accomplished Mr. GEORGE SLAUGHTER.  

Greatness and goodness that but seldom do  
Enter into one man, are both in you;  
One single heart, at one time doth inherit  
(Rightfully to) one great, and one good spirit:  
Graceful in all your actions, you are what  
Every gallant man should imitate.   

Slaughter and Mercy in one Man agree,  
Love mixed with strength, valour with courtesy:  
And may you ne'er be thought a Lady's friend  
Unless you use them to a noble end:  
Go forth and prosper, may you always be  
Happy in Love; and in Hostility.  
Truth guide your will, Reality your thought,  
Errors in Love and Loyalty are naught:  
Return victorious, and may nothing prove  
Repugnant to your Valour and your Love    

On Love.  
HHe that endures the rack of Love's desire  
Doth fry in frost, and he doth freeze in fire.   

On women's Love.  
IN these extremities most Women move,  
Rack where they hate, and cloy men where they love   

On a little Gentleman and one Mr. Story that quarreled in the street.  
THe little man, by t'other man's vainglory,  
It seems was roughly used, so says the Story.  
But being a little heated, and high blown  
In anger, flies on Story, plucks him down:  
And when they rise, I know not how it fated,  
One got the worst, the Story was translated  
From white to red, but ere the fight was ended  
It seems a Gentleman that one befriended  
Came in and parted them. The little blade  
there's no man could desire or yet persuade  
But he would fight still, till another came  
And with persuasions counsel'd'gninst the same.  
'Twas in this manner, friend you shall not fight  
With one that's so unequal to your height,  
Story is tall, the tother made reply,  
I'd pluck him down were he three stories high.   

On Ben Johnson and a Country man.  
Been. Johnson in a Tavern once began  
Rudely to talk to a plain Country man.  
And thus it was, Thou dull laborious Moil  
That I believe wert made for nought but toil;  
For every Acre of thy Land I have  
Twenty of wit: Such Acres Sir, are brave,  
Replied the Country man: What great Mistakers,  
Have we been of your wealth, Mr. Wise Acres.   

A POEM COMMENDATORY, To the incomparable Pattern of inimitable Perfection, Mrs. ELINOR ENGLEFIELD Sister unto the justly honoured, Sir Francis Englefield, Baronet.  
Madam,  
YOur Merit at this minute raises  
My Pen to paint the Picture of your Praises;  
And 'tis most fit some good hand should hold forth,  
Their virtues who are modest in their worth;  
For he whose wary eyes shall look upon  
Your features with examination,  
May easily discern as many charms  
As theirs that are locked in great Princes Arms:  
I do not say your Eyes are Stars, or that  
Your Lip and Cheek are to be wondered at;  
Nor that your Alabaster Brow and Breast,  
Outshine the Snow, out-scent the Phoenix nest:  
But that in every part of you doth move,  
Something for every one to fall in Love:  
That man which would all female feature view,  
Hath lost his eyes that finds it not in you:  
Love leads you by the hand, and your fair yonth,  
Knows nothing but what's relative to truth:  
Imperial innocence in either eye,  
Declares whole volumes of divinity:  
Such looks as yours would make a Poet grow  
Fluent and chaste but love in Folio:  
Arts are your honourers, the Wise do sip  
Sententious sweetness from your sacred Lip:  
Beauty and Grace, the only perfect path  
Of Love and Honour your perfection hath:  
Excuse my language, Madam, for your high  
Deservings are above all flattery:  
Truth fills me with these praises, you excel  
In merit more than I can write or tell:  
Heaven inspire you, may the crowned crew  
Of Cherubims for ever wait on you;  
Faith fills your frame it shows where ere you pass  
Transparent as a Lily closed in Glass:  
Opinions not your rule, what ere you see,  
Is through the Optics of pure Piety:  
Wisdom with true Religion is your Law,  
And kept like the Decrees in Persia,  
Knowing no alteration: May the bright  
Beams of eternal glory be your light;  
Eternal joys dwell with you: May you do  
Nothing but what your Maker prompts you to:  
Noble intentions, guide your thoughts, and may  
No evil meet you till your Funeral day:  
As you are blest with Beauty, so may you  
Be faithful where you find a Servant true:  
Love is a Princely Passion, if it be  
Accommodated with Fidelity:  
Constancy Crowns all Union, if that Virtue  
Knit a firm knot, falsehood can never hurt you.  
Excuse these rude expressions, what I do  
Madam! your fair deserts invite me to.   

An Elegy and Epitaph, Sacred to the immortal memory of that deplored, and unparallelled Lady, The Lady MARY ROPER. Lately a Loyal Wife to the Right Honourable CHRISTOPHER Lord ROPER, Baron of Tenham, and Sister to the Worshipful, Sir FRANCIS ENGLEFIELD, Baronet. Who in her prime of Youth, Beauty, and Virtue, Cancelled the Bonds of her Creation, by exchanging this Temporal Life, for Eternal Felicity.  

The Elegy.  
TAke heed good Reader, for unless thy eyes  
Are fitted to become a Sacrifice,  
This is no Object for thy sight: We have  
Emptied a Sea of Sorrow in one Grave:  
She is deceased in whose bright Soul did move,  
All that good men admire and Angels love;  
To whose bright eyes more lustre did resort,  
Then would illuminate a Prince's Court:  
Whose Beauty, though in yond Celestial Sphere,  
Cannot, be sure, much brighter than 'twas here:  
Fair as unshaded light, or as the day  
In its first birth, when all the year was May;  
Sweet as the Altars smoke when as it flies,  
In zeal from an accepted Sacrifice;  
Fragrant as Beds of Roses, or the blue  
Violet whose veins swell with the morning dew.  
Kind as the willing Saints and chaster far  
Then in their Prayers forgiven Hermits are:  
In brief, she had whatever was called good  
That wore the interest of flesh and blood;  
You'd say (had you this beauty looked upon)  
The Soul had then her best apparel on.  
Reader, I see thy Tears begin to fall,  
Therefore this brevity shall shut up all;  
For fear thou flow from hence (in a Springtide)  
To Heaven to be further satisfied:  
Yet ere thou dri'st thy eyes, prithee vouchsafe  
With reverend care to read her Epitaph.   

The Epitaph.  
HEre grows a Plant, whose fertile root doth even  
Extend its branches to the height of Heaven:  
So sweet a flower it bears for sight and touch;  
That God's own Garden, is composed of such:  
Eden was beautiful, but this bright Stem  
Reaches the Walls of new jerusalem;  
Chaplets of such sweet Flowers transplanted there  
Redeemed Saints, and mighty Martyrs were:  
Arch-Angels sing to see her second birth,  
Yield such occasion to advance their mirth:  
Farewell fair innocent, may every Reader  
Only desire to follow such a Leader:  
Rest in thy joy, whilst we with many a tear,  
Do grieve cause thou art gone, and we are here.   
FINIS.