WIT IN A wilderness Of Promiscuous poesy.  
By the Author Tho. Jordan  
Hunc novere modum nostri servare Libelli,  
Parcere personis, dicere de vitiis.  
LONDON Printed by R. A.   

TO THE liberal LOVER, CHARITABLE CHERISHER, AND PIOUS PRESERVER OF 

INDUSTRY,  
HONESTY,  
Chaste INGENUITY,  
SCIENCE and CIVILITY    
THE much honoured GEORGE Lord Bishop of St Ashaph WITH Due Addresses, I present and Dedicate the dull devotion of these imperfect and unpolished POEMS.   

WIT IN A wilderness Of Promiscuous poesy: THE CHARACTERS OF A complete POET. WITH An Apology for POETRY.  
HE is a man from profanation free,  
Unreverend railings, or obscoenity;  
His Muse commits no treason against trust,  
Doth not invite to vengeance, pride or lust;  
He is Truth's Favourite, and ne'er exalts  
His Mean Degree, by guilding great men's faults;  
Who sitting in his own sublimed height,  
Surveys, and weighs the billow-beaten fate  
Of towering Statists, who do vainly raise,  
Their Arms on bladders blown with vulgar praise  
Popular throats, who in one hour, will cry  
Both Halelujah, and crucify:  
Whose lungs (like Whirlwinds in tempestuous weathers)  
Do bear down Churches, whilft they blow up Feathers.  
This, and much more than this, we safely fee  
Through the clear optics of pure Pectry:  
There we see one, whose head within few years  
Did bear a mitre, now wears Band o liars:  
Would it not move a poet's spleen with jest,  
To see a Crosier made a Musket Rest?  
Yonder's another (by swift alteration)  
Struck dumb, that was the Tongue of a wholeNation:  
The Scene is changed, and He whose high command  
Held up his head, must now hold up his hand;  
He that in Law did hold such learned strife,  
Must show by what tenure he holds his Life;  
What Act so firm that strength cannot devour?  
For Laws are but the favourites of Power:  
What's he that will submit, his Sword and Tent  
To the tame vigour of an Argument?  
Or will resign his ravished power upon  
The phlegmatic results of Pro and can?  
These are the vile vicisitudes which we  
Are not obnoxious to in ‛ Poetry:  
Such storms fly over us, when have ye known  
Parnassus under Sequestration?  
Or Pegasus his winged shoulders stoop  
To the Conductor of a County Troop?  
What Sequestrator yet could ever call  
The Muses unto Hab●rdashers Hall?  
Go search the books where Prize accounts are writ,  
You'll scarce find Item took ten tun of wit,  
For what they have, so tenderly theyhandle,  
It may be vented by one inch of candle:  
A poet's poverty is a defence  
'Gainst the most honourable insolence:  
We have no Ships at Sea, doubt no distress  
Our hopes are little, and our fears are less:  
Whilst the poor Merchant (Robbed by Dutch or French)  
Sinks in th' Exchange, to rise in the King's Bench:  
Show me that Age a Poet can produce,  
Who ever lost a thousand pound at Use?  
Or who can say a Poet hath undone  
An hundred families to raise one Son?  
Whilst the grave miser, and his powdered Sir  
Study to be damned in Diameter:  
Pray tell me (you that lie upon the lurch)  
What brack in State, or Schism in the Church  
Hath Poetry begot? what Kingdom lies  
Drowned in its tears for poets' villanics?  
Wealth and ambition tempt not us, we pity  
The careful Country, and the subtle City;  
Where one man's bounds a hundred fields embrace  
To pick out three yards for his burying place:  
Whilst we under the shadow of one tree  
Extract more absolute content than he  
Finds in the fertile substance; we have more  
Wealth at command, than rolls along the shore  
Of golden Ganges; He is only poor  
That hath too much, if he do wish for more:  
And he is truly rich that in his dish,  
And on his back hath all that he can wish:  
Sometimes we're wound●d with love's dart, but then  
Our Contemplation licks us whole again:  
Content is our elixir, what a stir  
The Patient Reason-rackt Philosopher  
Keeps for the Stone, attending all events  
That fall from fast, and loose Experiments:  
He says he will make Gold of Lead and Brass:  
But (in the end) turns his own Gold to Glass:  
His Furnace then as bad as hell doth grow;  
And he (Poor man) is damned in Balneo,  
Whilst he that sits upon the muse's hill,  
Crowned with content, turns all to what he will;  
Pain into pleasure, Misery to mirth,  
By sacred skill ext●acts Heaven out of earth,  
All out of nothing, and (at length) can die  
With a difiance to all Tyranny:  
Like Lucan in his Bathing Tub, that stood  
Speaking of verses, whi'lst his eyes ran blood:  
Nor are they Poets that can only chime  
In numbers, and put gi●gles into Rhyme:  
But he whose Catholic Conceptions can  
Demonstrate to the Intellect of man  
By active Metaphor and allegory,  
Remote design, Antique and modern story,  
Descriptions of Battalia's, Sea-fights,  
The Characters of sorrows and delights;  
Annual seasons, rivers, weeping fountains,  
The fertile Valleys, and the mineral Mountains:  
All foreign Countries, Cities, and King's Courts,  
Their trade, war, Law, Religion, food and sports;  
All contrarieties, and what doth border  
Upon the Banks of Beauty and disorder;  
All passions and affections that do lie  
Revealed, or hid in man's capacity:  
Great Kings you are our Subjects, though more true  
You are to us, than yours have been to you:  
We can embalm your virtues with pure Spices,  
And make a Pickle shall preserve State-vices  
Five hundred years, the rage a P●●● vents,  
Can raze a thousand Marble Monuments:  
The Factious people do but vainly strive  
To kill that Fame which we will keep alive.  
What are the deeds of the most valiant men,  
If Poets do not write them o'er again?  
'Twas not Achilles' Lance, nor Hector's Shield,  
But Homer's Poetry that won the Field;  
Caesar and Pompey, Worthies more than men,  
Were made, not by their Acts, but Lucan's pen;  
What are your best Orations, if they be  
Not guilded by the Beams of Poetry?  
It is a sweet Compendium of all Arts,  
Divide the Bible in four equal parts,  
And (by your disquisition) 'twill be known  
(Without offence) that Poetry is one;  
(Though not the first in order) th' other three  
Treat of Law, History, and Propheey:  
Then blush for shame you that do bid defiance  
To the bright Beams of so serene a Science;  
For he that dares give it an ill report,  
His understanding is a foot too short.   

A Poem composed, and spoken by the Author to the late King at the Dedication of Mr. Tho. Bushel's Rock at Enston in Oxon, 1638. in the porson of Calliope.  
Lo I Calliope chief of the Nine  
And first in order of that triple Trine;  
The muse's Sisterhood; (for who is he  
That knows not of our sacred Hierarchy)  
Am now at length, through many a weary mile  
Safely arrived upon the British Isle:  
The causes of my coming, what they were  
That drew me to this Western Hemisphere,  
Are these, the Muses heard (for nothing's done  
Which they discern not in a Vision)  
Of a strange Rock discovered under ground,  
That with fresh streams and wonders doth abound,  
Which Nature unto such perfection brought,  
It looks like day from the old Chaos wrought;  
And hath the Pomp and pleasures of the place  
That a great King and Queen have daign'd to grace,  
And with their presence (far transcending ours)  
Oft visit those pure Wells and hallowed Bowers:  
When these glad tidings from our Servant Fame  
Were whispered in our ear, I straight way came  
In person mounted on the fiery wings  
Of our own Pegasus, to view these Springs,  
To make a strict survey what waters flow,  
What walks are in it, and what woods do grow;  
And (as I liked them) they (on my report)  
Would hither come, and hasten their resort:  
But 'tis known Maids may long, and I would fain,  
(Ere my return) first see that sovereign,  
That royal Charlemagne whose actions are  
Worthy the Muses and their Register;  
Whose deeds a pattern, and whose life a Law,  
Doth the whole Court to imitation draw  
Of his rare virtues, (without flattery)  
The height of my ambition is to be  
Made happy in the object of his sight  
And his dear Spouse the Consort of his light;  
Kiss her fair hand, who is (as Fame doth say)  
More bright than is our own Urania:  
But stay! what sudden lustre strikes my sense  
With some quick, but seraphic influence?  
Who ever asked for Phoebus in the skies,  
Or which was love amongst the Deities?  
Fool that I am, 'tis easy to divine,  
Where e'er the beams of Majesty do shine:  
Then I address myself great Sir to you,  
To whom these Titles and these Rites are due:  
By me the Muses humbly fall before  
Your sacred feet, and prostrate them adore,  
●owing their ancient dwellings to forsake,  
●hat they your Princely favours may partake:  
●da, Parnassus, and the flowery Plain  
Of Thessaly no longer shall detain  
Their swift approach, but all the Virgin Pack  
●n glory seated on the winged back  
Of fertile Zephyrus, shall hither come,  
And make these Springs their everlasting home;  
Here will they sit, and Carol forth your Fame,  
Your nursing Nature, and your noble Name:  
Then in exalted numbers tell how great  
You are, when mounted in your Mercy Seat;  
And that this pregnant lsle you do inherit,  
Not more by right of blood, then right of Merit.  
Could you disclaim the line of your extraction,  
And (amongst millions) stand for Saul's election,  
It would appear conspicuous to beholders,  
That you excel in soul, as he in shoulders:  
This Trinity of Crowns you wear, respect  
Your will, your memory, and intellect;  
(The number of perfection) for you are  
The muse's Evening, and their Morning Star.   

On Fickle, and his Mistress Lydia.  
FIckle is vexed at heart (he says) to see  
His Lydia look on him so s●urvily;  
Thou art a most unconscionable man,  
Wouldst have the Wench look better than she can?   

A double acrostic and Anagram on the Noble Name of the much honoured Sir Tho. Fisher Baronet.  
Though the tall Cedar, and the loyal shrub  
Fall at the fury of the Zealots tub  
Hopes yet are pregnant, that the good old way  
In Presents merit no Anathem  
Oblations of this harmless nature are  
Surely no motives for another war  
Much honoured Sir, then grant him pardon, who  
Hath done, but what your favours move him to  
All ●oly happiness that men have known  
Ere since our saviour's Incarnation  
Secure your soul and body, goods and name,  
Renown your Family, and guard your Fame  
May all, and more than I can say or write,  
Contribute to your next new-year's deligh   

Sir Thomas Fisher Baronet (Anagram) Starri Beams shine forth.  
HOw well your Title, and your honoured Name  
Comply in this apposet A●agram;  
For in an Age when learning's laureate Head  
Is with Cimmerian darkness overspread,  
That men can scarce discover wit or worth,  
Most men confess your Starri Beams shine forth.   

On a Love-Bag which a Gentleman found, and concealed from a Lady, when they were playing at Questions and Commands.  
I Will confess, rack me no more, 'twas I  
(Not out of gain, but curiofity)  
That hid your Crewil Love-hood in a place  
Obscure, because it did obscure your face;  
Who would vot (were he near) some hazard run  
To take away that Cloud which hides the Sun?  
Or what is he, that would not (if he might)  
Withdraw that Curtain which divides the light;  
This is my Fact, and had a judge been by  
He would have been guilty as well as I.  
I must confess when I was held in bands.  
By curious Questions, and with kind Commands;  
I pleaded guiltless, though 'twas understood  
I did but wear two faces in one Hood:  
Yet now I hope submission and confession  
Will wave my Doom, and nullify the Session;  
The gentle judge will lay aside his fury,  
And fright my sense no more with a grand Jury;  
For I was much afraid (Ere I did part)  
That I should be burned in the hand or heart,  
The fear is past, and (to end controversy)  
Prey let my restitution meet your mercy:  
Pardon the Crime, and cease to think upon  
His fact, that doth return you two for one.   

An Epitbalamium on the Names and Nuptials of Mr. William Drayton, and the most devoutly vertnous Mrs. Grace Drayton.  
Worth crown your Nuptials, may your Union prove  
Great as the Sacred Bonds of angel's love:  
Joy kindle your bright zeals, may the flame rise  
Resplendent as the Phoenix Sacrifice:  
Love, health, wit, wealth, with all delights that can  
Advance the honour of deserving man:  
Lend lustre to your Loyalties, may you  
Command all good your wish can prompt ye to.  
If Poets may prove Prophets, I foretell  
Exceeding pleasures, without parallel,  
Are moving toward you; ye ne'er shall know  
Division, nor no other Wedlock woe:  
Many fair Babies may the Bride bring forth  
replete with all things, which wise men call worth:  
Dutiful, gracious, beautiful and bright,  
As are the Stars in number, and in light:  
Riches shall flow so fast upon your shore,  
You may as well Count sands, as tell your store;  
And you shall see your children's Children prove,  
That they are offsprings of a loyal love:  
You never shall know jealousy, but be  
Our purest patterns of integrity:  
These things may come to pass, for we all know  
Nothing's impossible to him we owe  
Our Faith, and our allegiance; but however,  
Let nothing dull the edge of your endeavour,  
Nor at the chances of this world be vexed,  
What's wanting here, will be supplied i'th' next.  
Sic Vaticinatur, Your Servant, J. T.   

An Encomium to the much honoured Rich. Cheyny of Hackney Esquire, his bountiful Patron, and to his incomparably virtuous Consort.  
HEalth, wealth, worth, wit, with all that can be brought  
In the circumference of human thought  
Exalt your soul and body; may the breath  
Of Praise and Prayer guard your life and death:  
Nothing appear to you, but what may be  
A badge of honour, or of amity;  
What God can give, or wisest men entreat,  
Fall upon you, till you are good and great:  
May your dear Consort▪ and her issue grow  
Brighter than lilies on the Banks of Po●:  
All Excellence that waits on human breath,  
From the disquiet Cradle to the death,  
Remain with you two, in whose Spirits move  
Concord's elixir, and the soul of Love:  
May all that man can wish, or Angels do,  
(In sacred consultations) fall on you:  
Wit wait upon your wealth, what e'er is fit  
For man to ask, may you accomplish it;  
May Providence defend ye from those jars  
That sink great families in Civil wars:  
Religion rule my poesy, that all  
Which I have said, may prove Prophetical.  
These are the wishes, and the prayers of one,  
Who makes your welfare his devotion.   

A Poetical Parley, with a threadbare Cloak; Dedicated to his worthy friend, M. HEN. STONESTREET.  
CLoak! (If I may so call thee) though thou art  
My old Acquaintance, prithee now let's part;  
Tho● wert my equal friend in thirty-one,  
But now thou look'st like a mere Hanger-on:  
And ar● so useless to me, I scarce know  
Sometimes, whether I have thee on or no;  
But this I needs must say, when thou goest fro me,  
These ten years thou hast been no burden to me:  
Yet that's thy Accusation, for if I  
Divorce thee from me, 'tis for Levity;  
Thou hast abused my bed, that is, thou hast  
Not kept me warm when thou wert overcast:  
Transparent Garment, proof against no weather,  
Men wonder by what art thou hangest together;  
Nor can the eyes of the best reason pry  
●nto thy new occult Geometry.  
A fellow t'other day but cast his Eye-on,  
And swore I went mantled in Dandelion:  
Another asked me, (who was somewhat bolder,)  
●f I did wear a Love-bag on my shoulder;  
fear a fire, as fair Maids the small pox,  
And dare not look towards a tinderbox;  
Nor he that sells them up and down I know,  
●f he come near it, 'tis but touch and go:  
A red faced fellow frights me, though some fear,  
That which makes his Nose red, made my Cloak bare;  
They say my thick back and thin Cloak appear  
Very like powdered beef and vinegar.  
Another vowed (whose tongue had no restriction)  
It was no garment, but the poet's fiction.  
Did ever man discover such a knack,  
To walk in Querpo with a Cloak on's back?  
A very zealous Brother did begin  
To jeer, and say, Sir! your original sin  
Is not washed out, (pray do not take it ill)  
I see you wear your father's figleafe still.  
A scholar (in an elevated thought)  
Protested 'twas the web Arachne wrought,  
When she contended with Minerva, but  
Another Rascal had his finger cut,  
And begged a piece to wrap about it; thus  
You see (kind Cobweb) how they laugh at us:  
Good cambric Lawn depart, let me not be  
For ever, thus fettered in Tiffany:  
Although I never yet did merit praise,  
I'd rather have my shoulders crowned with bays,  
Then hung with Cypress, if this fortune be  
Always dependent upon Poetry,  
I would my kinder destiny would call  
Me to be one o'th' Clerks of Blackwel Hall;  
For though their easy studies are more dull,  
Yet what they want in wit, they have in wool.  
Once more farewell, these are no times for thee,  
Thick Cloaks are only fit for knavery:  
The only Cloaks that now are most in fashion,  
Are Liberty, Religion, Reformation;  
All these are faced with zeal, and buttoned down  
With Jewels dropped from an Imperial Crown:  
He that would cloak it in the new translation,  
Must have his tailor cut it Pulpit fashion.  
Do not appear within the City, there  
They mind not what men are, but what men wear:  
The habit speaks the man, how canst thou thrive,  
Where a good Cloak's a Representative?  
The females will not wear thee, they put on  
Such cloaks as do obscure the rising Sun.  
How canst thou hope for entertainment, when  
Women make cloaks even of Committee men?  
Farewell poor Coverwit, upon this Brier  
I'll hang thee up, if any do inquire,  
Where his brains were, that let his cloak there swing,  
Tell them his wits are gone a-wooll-gathring.   

A Defence for women, in an answer to a vulgar invective.  

1  
SHall scurrilous pens for ever be free,  
Whilst our just vengeance smothers?  
The ballad of Bagnol's and yours may agree,  
For I think they are sworn brothers:  
Your fragments of fancy are cheaper than chaff,  
For when in a Tavern ye swagger and quaff,  
So you may but make a few drunkards laugh,  
You will abuse your mothers.   

2  
Whilst you are railing at the Sex,  
Your drowsy Muse so drunk is,  
That you would give all the ware in your packs,  
But to know where a punk is:  
You make your addresses to Cloris and Phillis,  
Ye say they outrival the Roses and lilies,  
But when they will not perform what your will is,  
You grow as sick as Monkeys.   

3  
You are so zealous at the fport.  
By turns you'll watch an entry,  
Some Citizens do curse ye for't,  
Who in their shops stand ccntry.  
Thus whilst you range in other men's Parks,  
And would have the world look upon you as Sparks  
You are but spruce tailors, and councillors Clark●  
For such is our new Gentry.   

4  
You swagger, as if ye rise from the bed  
Where Venus and great Mars lay,  
Though against us your poetical head,  
Did rhyme it so perversely:  
Yet with a word to express you in brief,  
Many there are which be Ranters in chief,  
Who do wear powdered hair, though they want powdered bee●  
Well boiled and stuffed with parsley.   

5  
You with your ranting railing words  
Do seek our Sex to batter,  
Although for wit each head affords  
As much as makes no matter;  
So patched, perfumed, and painted you be,  
Ye look almost as like women as we,  
The diff'r●nce is only a span above knee,  
Which makes your chops to chatter.   

6  
Here is a toy tied to a sword,  
Though much he doth not trouble it:  
And to vent wit in every word,  
His frothy brain doth bubble it,  
His pitiful pate with sweet oil he anoints,  
With rainbow-like-ribbons he ties up his joints,  
Whose father before did wear blue-leather points,  
Brass buttons, and tawny doublet.   

7  
Here is another perywiged youth,  
Whose every hair's a fetter.  
And he would very fain live forsooth,  
With Cribbidg, Dice, and Setter;  
He pranks it, and looks like a crow in a gutter,  
And though he want bread (a sad story to utter)  
His hair hath a breakfa●t of Gesemin butter,  
A three penny chop were better.   

8  
I wonder what the women find  
In these weak slashing tapers,  
That they'll continue to be kind,  
Though so abused in papers:  
Were I as your Mistresses, I would trust no man,  
They merit contempt for their being so common,  
That the best word they'll give, is a Pox o God on'em.  
I hate to see such vapers.   

9  
Religion they have none at all,  
For they know no such thing,  
But that which from full glasses fall,  
Directed to their King;  
In whose cause, they say, thehave had many slashes,  
Though powders, perfumes, sack, music, and slashes,  
Instead of mourning in sackcloth and ashes,  
From their devotions spring.   

10  
Here is another formal Lad  
Was governor of a town,  
Who says he hath lost all he had,  
By being true tothth' crown:  
But when he should fight he was coming the Caster,  
Which was the occasion of many a disaster,  
He'll scarce love his Mistress, that ne'er loved his Master,  
Let him wear sword or gown.   

11  
I hope, though you abuse our sex,  
The thriving party will  
Hang large Encomiums 'bout our necks,  
For it is known full well  
By some, that in high places be men,  
Who in the Church and State are freemen,  
They were beholding at first to the zeal of the women.  
A doleful tale to tell.   

12  
Yet never woman erred so much  
In this, as did the man,  
Whose wild and frantic zeal was such,  
Decide it yet none can.  
The one would keep his old found diddle,  
The tother was clear against surpless and fiddle,  
They fell out like two fools, who should ly● in the middle.  
And so the wars began.   

13  
Now some repent, and some rejoyee,  
And some are quite confounded,  
But 'twixt them both, swcet Peace's voice,  
With drum and trumpets wounded.  
'Gainst Crosses and Crossiers the people did roar,  
Until they had beat down proud Babylon's Whore,  
But its thought they have let in ten thousand more;  
'T may be they have compounded.   

14  
This jar did make you to engage  
Almost all Christian Nations,  
For then was brought upon the Stage  
All sorts of sects and fashions.  
Ye levied the Scotch, & the Welsh shone A-morgans',  
And now ye dispute with the Dutch Demigorgons',  
The dangerous difference twixt Bagpipes & Organs,  
Did first provoke your passions.   

15  
Now let your threadbare Poet say,  
Which of our worst offences  
Can any whit compare with they  
That made these blue pretences?  
Although ye think women such dull-edged tools,  
Your wit, and your reading, your travel, and schools,  
Have but made ye the fitter for quarrelling fools,  
Or I have lost my senses.   

16  
Then cease yo●r clapper, and give o'er,  
Let women bear the Bell,  
The faults which you commit are more  
Than I can write or tell.  
I never did know such a surly season,  
For nothing is done by Religion or Reason.  
Moreover— 'dsfoot, I'd almost spoke treason,  
I'll leave off while 'tis well.    

A dissuasion to a very virtuous Lady, who resolved to be a Nun.  
REcall this Resolution, or you'll prove  
Sinful to God, to Nature, and to Love:  
He that did form all creatures for increasing,  
Made fruitful Amity the first great blessing.  
Why were you made a woman? Why were we  
(By different Sex) put in capacity  
Of getting Children? you cross God's decree,  
You will live single, God bids multiply:  
You wrong the Law of Nature, every thing  
Contributes to the store-house of the Spring:  
Beasts, Fish, fowl, Grain, one ear of corn will yield  
(With husbandry) enough to fill a field:  
Were every thing fruitless (as you would be)  
You'd eat the walls down of your Nunnery.  
But your transgression unto Love is such,  
As no man's pen can aggravate too much;  
Were those blue veins, red lips, white hands black eyes  
Made only for a vestal sacrifice?  
But you reply, 'tis to prevent those crimes,  
And hot allurements which pollute the times:  
Madam, are you so weak, or sin so stout,  
That nothing but stone walls can keep it out?  
" Ulysses when he feared to be imbraeed  
" By Syreus, bound himself to the ship mast;  
Because he found his soul so much inclined  
Unto temptation, did his body bind;  
And is it so with you? must you needs run  
This tempting race, unless y'have fetters on?  
Are Maids so frail, can Virgins find no trick  
For chastity, but to be buried quick?  
And yet when all this straight prevention's wrought,  
Not all your walls, nor bars, can keep out thought:  
In my conceit those hearts have firmest stations,  
That can be chaste in spite of all temptations:  
Chaste wedlock was at first designed, that we  
Might not abuse, but keep our chastity.  
You may do so, and yet not live alone,  
That woman's chaste enough that knows but one;  
Stop your resolve then e'er it further runs,  
For virtuous wives are chaster than some Nuns.   

Thrones, anagram, Thornes.  
THe late Kings sad distresses, scoffs and scorns,  
Have made it manifest that thrones are thorns.   

On the late K. departure, 1642.  
WHen ill advice hurried the K. from hence,  
Virtue was held with vicious violence.   

On his conclusion.  
THe ranting rout ruined the Royal head,  
With a beer bowl, a banquet, and a bed.   

An Encomium, written in the commendation of red Noses; contrived at the request of a friend, and dedicated to all of that Livery.  

1  
Farewel pale Beauties, you that deal  
In chalk and oatmeal, salt and meal,  
Which your curral current hinders;  
You that feed on loam and cinders,  
Parched pease, and biscuit, till ye walk  
Like moving figures cut in chalk;  
Depart, and give my muse leave to disclose,  
The ranting riches of a rubric Nose.   

2  
Give ear to me you scarlet finners,  
That swallow Seas in Fish-street dinners;  
Who deal in gimlets, quills, and fawcets,  
Hate morning ca●dles, broths, and possets,  
And think there may be lesser errings,  
In gammous, tongues, and pickled herrings:  
You know what costly composition goes  
To the well forming of a right red Nose.   

3  
My fancy shall make large defence  
Of the red Nose his excellence;  
As Pond in's almanacs doth paint,  
It is the tincture of the Saint;  
The thriving colour; what a loss  
The Dutch have had by George his Cross;  
And can he want of dignity and grace,  
That wears the badge of England in his face?   

4  
Walk i'th' garden, can your nose,  
Or eyes choose better than the Rose?  
Look in Cabinets, can you be  
Better pleased, then with a Ruby?  
The flaming Topaz, blazing Stone,  
The Garnet, and Vermilion?  
Then he that hath a right red nose on's own,  
Commands the brightest Jewels of a Crown.   

5  
If the men of old had chose,  
Not by stature, but by Nose;  
Their proper Prince, it was most fit,  
That the red Nose should carry it;  
For than he partly might make good  
His title, by the right of blood:  
Yet had they voted it, I much surmise,  
Their noah's had been too hard for all their I's.   

6  
How like a Comet doth he show,  
That wears the brightness on his brow?  
So leaps the Sun from Thetis bed,  
As he from his sublime hogshead  
Of rich Canary, when he flings  
His healths abroad ●o Queens and Kings:  
Nay more, I'll find in a good fellows Snout,  
A banquet of fish, flesh, fowl, wine, and fruit:   

7  
A Crab well boiled, a Salmon raw,  
Prawns, Crawfish, and the Lobsters claw;  
And for flesh, ●ere you may spy  
The corner of a red Deer Pye,  
Pe●●cks thighs, and turkeys heads,  
Cherries, Strawberries in beds,  
Ripe Respas, red cheeked coddlings, and (for wine)  
Claret, Tent, Aligant, and Muscadine.   

8  
Then let your paler fronts give place  
Unto the Royal red nosed face,  
For it contains (without an oath)  
Land and Trade, Meat, Drink, and Cloth,  
'Tis a Garden, 'tis a Ship,  
A Treasury, a Lady's lip:  
To leave particulars, and sum up all,  
The red ●ose carries it in General.    

A Panegirick, written at the invitation of a Gentleman, who was then going to the Press with a book, entitled, The Praise of Podex.  
INgenuous Sir prepare your petty Codex,  
For I am come with paper to your Podex,  
I have perused your volume, and in it  
I find no fragments of a costive wit;  
Your Readers all are ravished, each one feels,  
These liquid labours issue down the heels  
Of apprehension, nay I dare be bold  
To say, each line shows like a chain of gold  
On satin shoulders, bright as his (I think)  
The letters of whose name do yield A STINK:  
That popular physician Doctor B.  
Who proudly told me he hates Poetry;  
Should I but bring him such sweet lines as these,  
Would lay by Galen and Hypocrates,  
To read my rhimes, whose powerful Energy  
Exceeds his Salt, Sulphur and Mercury:  
For he that views them w●ll, cannot forbear,  
To think he hath a clyster pipe in's ear:  
'Tis Podex that we praise, the theme hath been  
Very much handled, but thus I begin;  
Podex is Master of Arts, and is, I see  
Of late, so versed in Lay Divinity,  
That he hath subtly wrought his sliding joints,  
From Hooks and Eyes, to Fundamental Points:  
Babylon's Baggage, and the tailor's stitches,  
Have sown such strife, that Podex wears the breeches▪  
Podex in study of the Law ascends,  
And will have most of it at's fingers ends  
'Tis thought within this twelfmoneth, but the ills  
He fears is, that the copious Chancery Bills  
Will grow too small, by which he understands,  
He shall not deal in-justice with both hands:  
Much may be said of him, though some do vent,  
Mischievous words in his disparagement:  
They say he's company for Whores, and Gluttons,  
And that the best on's kindred now make Battons.  
I know not what they mean, I'll keep below decks,  
lest I (as one of late) do lose my Podex;  
'tis thought that many men have been undone,  
Only by Podex and his hangers on.  
Some think he is a Coward 'cause they find,  
When men are fighting, he still keeps behind;  
They are deceived, he best maintains the fray,  
When as his face is turned another way.  
Some carp at his descent, and say that he  
Hath his Extraction from low Pedigree;  
Because in latter times he hath been able,  
To rise from cobbler's stall to council table:  
They envy at his Greatness, but 'tis well  
Known to the Wise, Podex doth so excel,  
That give him but some Grains to mend his weight,  
And he may fully fill a Chair of State.  
Many men mutter many things, some say,  
It is not fit that he should live a day:  
This man would have him crushed, and that man crowned▪  
Another says Podex shall kiss the ground;  
A fourth swears dam him, if he had a broad axe,  
And time, and place, he would dismember Podex:  
But Ladies to your feathered fingers I  
Commit soft Podex for security;  
You love him for the worth that is about him,  
And cannot go to pluck a Rose without him:  
You like him at your Boards, and in your Beds,  
He bears the Keys of all your maidenheads.  
Though you were made the Mint of Mankind, yet  
'tis lovely Podex hath the Stamp of it:  
Then use him gently, do not overthrow him,  
And, when you please, present him with this Poem.   

On Filcher.  
FIlcher reports that he's a Lawyer grown,  
And he says true, but 'tis a highway one.   

On Silence.  
THe liberal Lips are liable to wrong,  
If you would hold your peace, pray hold your tongue.   

On Chat's Wife.  
Chat's Wife in speaking many tongues is known,  
If he had mine, he'd find enough of one.   

An apology for Danceing, Dedicate to all the active Proficients, but more peculiarly unto Mr. R. L.  
MY Muse, which fornerly was wont to prize  
Ladies fair hands, white necks, red lips, black eyes;  
Flies with reformed wings and (as its meet)  
Lays by the head to magnify the Feet:  
The subject of this half hours thought shall be  
On dancing's regular Activity:  
And it is fit this Quality should be  
Exalted with the feet of Poetry:  
For scholars when their flaming souls advance  
To write a Poem, all their spirits dance:  
First I will tell you what the essential part  
Of Danceing is, and then, Have at the Art:  
It is an Act, if rightly understood,  
Consisting of three parts, Time, Tune, and Mood;  
Time limits, Tune doth regulate, the vigour  
Of Mood, doth aptly form posture, and figure:  
Thus are the parts distinguished, I shall next  
Give you a Comment on this tempting Text  
In orderly Gradations, not by leaps,  
But soberly ascend to it by steps.  
What can be more allicient then to see  
Men move with mathematic majesty?  
Whose gliding feet so press the buxom earth  
As if their Motion gave the music birth.  
Where not alone the foot, but head, arm, thigh  
Contribute to complete the harmony;  
It is a fit of order where our eyes,  
Have glimpses of the Spheres Rotundities:  
'Tis music to the sight, a swift and sweet  
Concord of spirits; Language of the feet,  
It moves the soul with such secret devotion,  
That it compels the standers by to motion:  
All creatures since the world (at first did start  
From Chaos) are presented by this Art:  
In motion or in station, look upon,  
The active glory of the rising Sun;  
Where time and tune do both (at once) confine  
His flaming feet along th' ecliptic line;  
Exactly to a minute, some will say,  
He danceth to, upon an Easter day.  
The Moon doth more than he, for (like our Apes,  
In Antiques) she appears in several shapes;  
Whilst round about her, (by divine command)  
In figure all the Constellations stand:  
And he that will on Pliny's volume call,  
Shall find much order in each Animal.  
The whole Creation is a Dance, where men  
Rise, walk, turn, side so to their seats again.  
An Army is a Dance, where (though an Ocean,  
Of mingled men) they measure all their motion;  
Who (as the trumpets sound, or drums do beat)  
Lead up, that is, March on, Fall back, Retreat:  
But if it chance they by the Foe are foiled,  
They're all disfigured, and the dance is spoilt.  
A Common-w●alth's a Dance, (mark it) Her's one  
Leads up quick time, and doth as fast fall down:  
This subtle fellow sides, and that is found,  
(Or rather lost) to be still turning round:  
But leaving these at each hand, in the middle  
A man whose feet keep time to Fortune's Fiddle:  
With a Coranto pace, the rest surprises,  
Sets best●leg forward, makes a chase and rises:  
I could enlarge upon it, but I must  
In Dancing's use and the abuse be just;  
In modest men, and virtuous women this  
Cannot conduce to any thing amiss:  
Besides, some Dances and some Dancers be  
So grave, they move like a solemnity;  
Rather than such as titilate the blood,  
With any Appetite that is not good:  
The true intent of dancing to me seems,  
Only an Artful perfecting the limbs  
In gracious postures, such as Nature would,  
Herself have brought to pass if that she could  
This Art is necessary, if it were,  
Only to make the Feet familiar  
To walk the streets with handsomeness, or come,  
With civil motion to a stranger's Room:  
But (in a word) these active Recreations  
Are ancient, good, and practised by all Nations:  
Th' abuses are, where persons void of fame  
And full of lnst, use this to feed the flame:  
What's this to th' Art? the Spider and the Bee  
Extract, by one rule of philosophy:  
And that which is an ornament in one,  
May in another breed destruction:  
I fear that Scripture phrase, where mischief's hid,  
Hath done more hurt than ever dancing did:  
All things may be corrupted, meat, drink, health;  
The Seat of Justice, an whole Commonwealth:  
If it be so, than I may boldly say,  
That Danceing is as innocent as they.   

An Epitaph in an acrostic, on the Name of his worthy Friend THOMAS MILWARD Gent. whose face (by general conception) was very like the late King.  

Though men from Law, Love, Loyalty, do fall,  
Here lies a Cabinet contained them all;  
One in whose unconfined soul did dwell  
More worth than I can write, or thou canst tell:  
A man of merits, he that further dives,  
Shall find he had all in superlatives.   

Much of that man's dear feature he had on,  
In whose late loss so many are undone;  
Loyal in love he was, though strangely crossed,  
With some who had just cause to prize him most;  
A man more full of faith ●nto his friends  
Remains not upon earth, without self ends:  
Died., and lived well, of whom my Muse thus sing  
He was a Copy of the best of Kings.    


To his worthy friend Mr. THO. JORDAN.  
SIR,  
SInce you pleased, not only to accept, but to allow my last your commendation, I have adventured once more to command my M●se to give you a visit, and in that visit to present his respects to you, who is desirous of the title of your friend (to which let experience add the epithet of faithful)  
HEN. STONESTREET.   

To Mr. T. J. on his Poems.  
MUch like a prisoner, that hath long time lay  
In darksome Cells, without a glimpse of day,  
Dazzled at first approach into the light,  
Can scarce distinguish where't be day or night;  
So my abused Muse too long confined  
To silence, by my negligence grew blind:  
Her optics are so weak, she can't descry  
(Without her Spectacles) true Poetry:  
Yet (thanks to great Apollo) she retains  
A love of those that write poetic strains;  
She loves the name of Poet, though she be  
Unskilful in the Art of poesy:  
She loves the company of those that write  
Well-polished verses, though she ●an't indite:  
Such as whose wits t' illustrate all their themes  
Fetch Pearls from th' depth of Heliconian streams:  
This makes me hope they'll thrive, because desire  
Is th' only way to gain poetic fire;  
And if by your good favour she obtain  
More strength, that grace shan't be received in vain;  
For she hath vowed if e'er such glorious rays  
Enlighten her to echo forth your praise.    


To the much honoured HEN. STONESTREET Gent. on London Bridg.  
SIR,  
I received from the innocent hand of your immaculate Muse such a salute, as would invite a late sick man to be in love with visitations; you do very aptly say, that you have commanded your Muse to present it, for (without flattery) I find you have no less command of the whole choir, then of  
Sir, your servant, THO. JORDAN.   

To Mr. H. S. in answer of his ingenious Poem.  
NOt much unlike that Captive which we see  
Fettered with favours, chained with charity:  
Do I appear, your candid contribution  
(Mysteriously) designs my diminution:  
Your love doth over-lay me, I shall die,  
(If you persist) not knowing how or why:  
Your Poems make me lose my apprehension,  
And soar above the sense of my ascension:  
But why (dear Stonestreet) do you thus confine  
In your own Cabinet the noble Nine?  
What have the Virgins done, that they must be  
Compressed with such divine captivity?  
You are more strict than Statesmen, they that sit  
At Westminster will not sequester wit:  
But I repent this rudeness, and think rather  
You do secure them like a Foster-father:  
From ignorant pretenders, or from those  
That wrong the Laws of God and man in Proes:  
That (nameless) number, which more evil do,  
Than man can think, or hell can look into:  
You have done well in't, may the Muses be  
Fertile, as is your own fidelity:  
Whilst I justly declare (if you go on)  
That London bridge stands over Helicon.    

On a Cavalier.  
A Cavalier did in an highway theft,  
Lose one of's arms, but his right hand was left.   

Slut (the anagram) Lust.  
SLoth needs must be a wrong to female Fame  
Since Slut and Lust lodge in one anagram:  
But this you may conclude, if Sloth do hurt you  
To be a busy body is a virtue.   

An Aerostical Eulogy composed on the name of his much respected Coz●n M. FRANCIS JORDAN of Ensham, in the County of Oxon.  
From fair pretending in unfaithful friends,  
Innocent looks that hide injurious ends;  
Religious traitors, which two faces hold,  
One of Divinity, tother of Gold:  
Armies of such as do with one accord  
Ruin Religion, to advance God's Word.  
New Reformation, in an oath that stands  
Diameter to all which God commands;  
Conjealing Winters, and contagious Summers,  
All such Divines as deal in Guns and Drummers,  
Intemperate feasts, false women, and bad wine,  
Neutrality in things that are divine;  
Secret Consumptions, and such deeds as do  
Wast wealth and wit, Good Lord deliver you.   

A Comparison.  
QUick-wit reports, that his wild Brother Randle  
Hath loved a Whore, as a Moth loves a Candle.   

On Lay-Elders.  
ARe Elders (now) so virtuous in their ways?  
They were not found so in Susanna's days.   

An Elegy and Epitaph on the death of the right worshipful SIR NATH. BRENT KNIGHT, Doctor of Law, and judge of the Pr●rogative Court, who exchanged this present life in the year 1653.  
DRy eyes depart, all that come hither shall  
Not go, but flow unto our Funeral:  
This Mare mortuum admits of none  
But such a Fleet, whose sails with sighs are blown.  
If any Merchant hath by war and weather,  
Lost both his ship, and lading, bring him hither:  
That proselyte which our Religion bears,  
Must learn from us not to drop Beads, but tears:  
We hate Disputers, they are of our Ranks,  
Whose Maxims are to suffer and give thanks.  
Our sorrows do not with that man accord,  
Whose point of doctrine is upon his sword:  
Therefore no statesman comes, unless he coned  
Vent as much water, as he hath drawn blood;  
His Donatives are too severely dealt,  
That wears the Key of heaven at his Belt;  
And not for our Society, the loss  
We have sustained, allows of no such dross:  
We have inter'd a man, whose fertile name  
Enriched his Title, and gave Spurs to Fame,  
Whose noble well-weighed actions might impart  
New rules unto the mathematic Art.  
One whose Religion never understood  
How to gain heaven by the right of blood;  
Who thought no man more desperate than he  
That could not bless and love his enemy;  
That to be courteous only to our friends,  
Is but the subtle issue of self-ends:  
He was a man, whose wide extended store  
Gave thankful invitations to the poor;  
Who ne'er thought that man's charity profound,  
That doled a farthing from a thousand pound;  
One whose essential virtues did outvie  
A zealot in his best formality;  
His meanest acts (in every man's esteem)  
Did shine more bright than other men could seem:  
The perfectest hieroglyphic of all good,  
That hath (of late) been mixed with flesh and blood,  
More real merit in his soul did lie,  
Than any Metaphor can magnify.  
Good Readers let our eyes persuade your ears,  
And what we want in tongues, take out in tears.   

The Epitaph.  
REader, canst thou weep to see  
The loss of Law and Piety?  
Hadst thou rather meet thy death,  
Then have learning out of breath?  
Will thy eyes confess thy grief,  
To view virtue, want relief?  
Wouldst thou let thy fountain run,  
If thy Country were undone?  
Can thy tears proclaim a tide,  
To see Gospel crucified?  
Will thy holy eyes wear mourning,  
When thou seest the Church a-burning?  
If th''ve weped for any thing  
Since bold Rebels killed the King  
Of our Salvation, (Jesus Christ)  
Weep now, or none will when thou diest;  
For underneath this stone there lies,  
A subject for all mourning eyes.   

An Epitaph on a good wife.  
HEre lies a soul that loved her Saviour Christ,  
Her parents, partner, patterns, Prince, and Priest.   

A Similc on a fine Whore.  
AN Whore is like a squirrel, that doth veil,  
And cover all her body with her tail.   

To his faithful ingenuous friend and old acquaintance, J. T. Gent.  
FRiend (in that fertile title, I dispense  
To thee (at once) both love and reverence)  
I do salute thee, what I now hold forth,  
Is a pale prospect of thy pregnant worth,  
tricked with a pencil of less worth than will,  
And drawn by one who hath more love than skill:  
The Sun hath twenty Summers strewed the earth  
With flowers, since our Acquaintance first took birth:  
It was a season when our Drums and Flutes  
Did give precedency to Love and Lutes:  
When men by Piety were so restrained,  
They durst not think a K. could be arraigned:  
Plays were in fashion too, they did not fear,  
To have their plots brought to the theatre:  
The big-looked Hector-like bravadoes then  
(That lived on Whores, and Country Gentlemen)  
Were called the Blades, great Colonels did use  
To wear blew Frocks, and cobble Porters shoes:  
Ere Austin was put down, and Burton Sainted,  
(Thanks to my destiny) we were acquainted;  
Since then (I have observed) this annual Race  
Hath put no wrinkles on thy soul or face:  
Thy look, thy language, and thy mind are sweet  
Correlatives, and in one Consort meet;  
Thy active spirit, and thy form complies,  
To captivate men's hearts, and womenseyes:  
Thy face speaks rhetoric, and no persuasion  
Wins credit where thy person makes invasion:  
Thy Pen and Languages could not miscarry,  
Were't thou the greatest Princes Secretary:  
Thy Poetry would make great Orpheus lose  
His Lyre, and dance a part with his own trees;  
That thou art valiant, he doth better know,  
Whom his ill destiny hath made thy foe:  
I should enlarge my self in this Narration,  
But that I find great volumes out of fashion;  
Besides, when I conceive I have summed all,  
I may omit some main material;  
Yet howsoe'er these rugged lines are penned,  
No man is more your servant, than  
Your Friend, THO. JORDAN.   

On a crooked Scold.  
SCorta (a Quean, no fishwife could outscold her,  
Who wore cross natures Pack upon her shoulder)  
Fell out with Clinch, and gave him worse words  
Than Billingsgate (in mackerel time) affords;  
At which he cries (seeing it vain to prate)  
Ye cursed crooked Whore, I'll kick you straight.   

On Rant.  
RAnt is (they say) indicted for a wit,  
To which he pleads not Guilty, and is quit.   

A Mock Epithalamium, composed for the Nupti●ls of an illiterate Brewer and his Bride.  
THese Nuptial flowers the fair Maids are strewing,  
I am informed has been long time a brewing;  
Make haste to Church, good Fortune be your guide,  
Till you out-gallop all that rhyme to Ride.  
The love that lurks within your amorous holes,  
Is not false fire, but God's precious coals,  
Which will, if no ill in hinders,  
Shine bright, till all the world consume in cinders;  
May both your hands and hearts join all in one,  
Happy conjunction, like the Bolt and Tun:  
May the Bride draw your favour with more force  
Of fierce affection then your draymans' horse:  
(For Cupid coursers triumph on the ground,  
When two well yoked Lovers are shod round)  
Prove faithful to each other, let no stranger  
(With fair pretence) lie at love's rack and manger:  
May the bride's bosom be the bridegroom's charm,  
Until her belly do rebound like Barm,  
That when your liquid limbs together curl,  
You may dissolve, and intermix like pearl;  
So may the pregnant Port of pleasure prove  
The fertile furnace of inflaming Love;  
And you shall yearly reap the fruitful crops  
Of children multiplied as thick as hops;  
Which issuing from love's bed of fragrant spice,  
May well be called the grains of Paradise:  
May these wars die, and they that first begot 'em,  
That every tub may stand upon's own bottom:  
May your trade thrive, may no Excize man thwart  
Your private guile, or set a Spoke i' your Cart:  
If you or she have done amiss, I pray  
Let this conjunction prove a cleansing day:  
For they who to a married bondage stoop,  
Must be consigned in the holy hoop.  
May your fair bedfellow live above strife,  
And overflourish the innkeeper's wife:  
Although her husband can outface your Copper,  
She shall both in the Church and State o'er top her:  
Because there is (now Idols are put down)  
Small distance twixt the Copper and the Crown.   

An Epithalamium, on the noble Nuptials of Mr. WILL. CHRISTMAS Merchant, and Mis. ELIZABETH CHRISTMAS.  
STay! take my benediction ere you go,  
'tis Orthodox, Poets are Prophets to:  
Nor do I doubt but my Cromatick airs  
Have as large Pinions as the parson's prayers:  
May that felicity whose sweetness swells  
In Solomon's transcendent Canticles.  
Attend these Nuptials, may your union bo  
The great Elixir of all sympathy:  
May Doves be your Disciples, and from you  
Not only learn to love, but to be true:  
The active Sparrow which with amorous tread,  
Makes of one Creature wife and feather bed;  
Will watch your windows, & in neighbouring willow●  
Declare the doctrine of your panting pillows:  
You shall teach all things Love, Ovid was wont  
To show the Art, you know the nature on't.  
But stay, methinks the Bride begins to be  
Disturbed at loss of her Virginity;  
She views the Bed, and Bridegroom as they were  
The Scaffold, and the Executioner.  
Madam depress those fears, what greater joy  
Then lose a maidenhead to win a Boy?  
A pretty boy, as sweet and like the mother,  
As one of her bright eyes compared with t'other:  
May health, wealth, wisdom, piety, and truth,  
Support ye in your age, and crown your youth:  
May you live free from jealousies and fears  
Of foreign fury, or domestic cares:  
May the Catastrophe of both your years  
Be the sad object of all good men's tears;  
And may your date of death be on the stone  
One thousand, seven hundred, thirty one.   

A Fable.  
THey say that in a neighbouring Aviary  
The birds fell out, the eagle did miscarry;  
That was their K. but straight the factious flock  
Did choose a new, and crowned a Turkey Cock.   

The Moral.  
THis makes the Proverb true unto a letter,  
When one is gone, there seldom comes a better.