WIT RESTORED In several Select POEMS Not formerly published.  
LONDON, Printed for R. Pollard, N. Brooks, and T. Dring, and are to be sold at the Old Exchange, and in Fleetstreet. 1658.   

WIT RESTORED.  

Mr. Smith, to Captain Mennis then commanding a Troop of Horse in the North, against the Scots.  

WHy what (a good year) means my john?  
So staunch a Muse as thine never won  
The Grecian prize; how did she earn?  
The bays she brought from Epsom Fearne?  
There teemed she freely as the hips,  
The Hermit kissed with trembling lips.  
And can she be thus costive now  
While things are carried (heaven knows how)  
While Church and State with fury parch,  
Or zeal as mad as hare in March?  
While birds of Amsterdam do flutter  
And stick as close as bread and butter:  
As straw to Jet, or burr to squall,  
Or something else unto a wall.  
Can such a dreadful tempest be,  
And yet not shake the North and thee?  
Where is thy sense, of public fears?  
wil't sit unmoved as Roman Peers,  
Till some bold Gaul pluck thee by th'beard,  
Thou and thy Muse (I think) are seared,  
As I have heard Divines to tell  
The conscience is that's marked for hell.  
Ah Noble friend, this rough, harsh way  
May pinch where I intended play.  
But blame me not, the present times  
So serious are, that even my Rhymes  
In the same hurry rapt, are so,  
Indeed whether I will or no.  
And otherwise my Numbers fly  
Than meant, in spite of drollery:  
'tis good to end when words do nipp  
And thus out of their harness slip.  
Besides, the thing which men misspend  
Called Time, as precious is as friend,  
Take't not unkindly, I profess  
None loves you better than I. S.  
From London where the snow hath been  
As white as milk, and high as shin  
From Viscount Conwaies house in street  
Of woman Royal, where we meet:  
The day too cold for wine and Borage  
The fourth precedent to Plum-porrage  
December month, and year of grace  
Sixteen hundred and forty to an Ace.   

To friend of mine, Captain john Mennis  
At town of York that now and then is,  
Or if you miss him there, go look  
In company of Hunks Sir Fook;  
They two perhaps may have a pull  
At Selby, Beverley, or Hull,  
Or else you'll find him at his quarter,  
Send it, and let him  
Pay the Porter.    

The same, To the same.  

MY doughty Squire of Kentissh crew  
that hast read stories old and new  
prick up thine ears unto a tale  
that will un-nerve and make thee stale:  
When thou shalt hear how many pears,  
The parliament hath had by th' ears.  
Coming as close as shirt of Nessus,  
To privy Councillors (god bless us)  
The Judges they are deep in bond,  
And fart for fear they shall be Connd,  
The Ren of Else, and the prelate  
Of Bath and Wells have had a pellat  
And they have placed (his grace's) cod  
Under the lash of Maxwoll's rod,  
But I am told the Finch is wary  
And fled after the Secretary,  
And all this is, that men may see  
Others can run as well as we.  
I hitherto have told, dear Captain,  
Of prisons that our peers are clapped in:  
And all I wrote was like a groan  
Sad as the melancholy drone.  
Of Country baggpipe, now I sing  
Matter as cheerful as the spring,  
Of wine (dear friend) will make us wanton  
Better ne'er drunk by john of Gaunt, one  
That at third glass did mount his Lance  
And got a boy whose son got France:  
Besides, the reckoning will be more  
(Humble I mean) then heretofore;  
For now the Alderman height Abel  
Has given his parchment up with label,  
To no more purpose is his patent  
Then that the fool had shitt and sat in't:  
Now may we freely laugh, and drink,  
And overcharged go piss i'th' sink  
Then too't again, begin a health  
Of twelve goe-downes to th'commonwealth  
Then mount a stall, and sleep, and when  
We rise again be ne'er th' worse men:  
This fitt's my freindshipp, but not me,  
I must be sober as the Bee  
That often sips, yet doth not stray  
But to his own hive finds the way,  
So shalt thou not blush to acknowledge  
Him that was once of Lincolne-Colledge,  
But now of Bromely Hall near Bow  
Look, and you'll find his name below.  I. Smith.  

From spacious lodgings of Lord mine  
In street of female majesty, past nine;  
The day whereon we whet our knives  
As men to eat even for their lives.  
He that has none 'tis time to borrow,  
For Christmas day is e'en to morrow.    

The same, to the same.  

MY note which cost thee pennies Six  
(It seems) still in thy stomach stick's  
O hadst thou but beheld how willing  
I was for thine to pay a shilling  
(For footman forth the money laid  
Which must with interest be defrayed)  
Hereafter thou wouldst not be nice  
For every note to part with since.  
Thy journey to the foe with Coin  
Would madded have a saint or twain,  
So silly Bee with weary thighs  
Home to her master's storehouse hie's;  
Whence (her rich fraught unladed) she  
Again returns an empty Bee.  
I joy to hear thou reign'st in place  
Of the defunct Arch bishop's grace,  
For thou (I doubt not) will't be grea'st:  
By friend for prebendry i'th' fist:  
Me thinks I fancy prester james  
In Cope enveloped without seams.  
With silk and gold embroidered o'er,  
And brestplat like a belt before:  
As Pedlar has to bear his pack,  
Or Cripple with a child at's back.  
Else when my Bettie dropp's away  
(That fourteen years hath been my Toy)  
Some one I'll marry that's thy Niece  
And Livings have with Bellie-peece,  
This some call Simony oth'smock,  
Or Codpiece, that's against the Nock.  
The health you meant me in the Quart  
I have, and partly thank you for't,  
But yet I muse (as well I may)  
At pot so funished, without pay,  
For at that time we were told here  
You all were six weeks in arreare;  
Hast thou made merchandise, of Crop?  
Or sold some lands, lefed out o'th' map?  
Or hast thou nimmed from saddle bow  
A pistol through thy troop, or so?  
Leaveing halfe-naked horses Crest  
Like Amazon with but one breast;  
Well, let it go: I think this gear  
Fit to be scanned, but not too near  
However, sure I should find john  
Thrifty, but yet an honest man,  
Yet taken heed in these pinching times  
And age so catching after crimes,  
It be not given out how you quafed  
Sugar, and eggs, in morning's draught;  
I grudge thee not; for if I met  
Vulpone's potion, or could get  
Nectar, or else dissolved to dew  
Th'Elixir, which the gods ne'er knew:  
'Twere thine, yea I would save the drops  
For thee that fell besides thy chops:  
But yet the needy state (I fear)  
May think much of thy costly cheer;  
The best is, if they bar thy maw  
From sodden drink, thou'lt have it raw:  
And reason good, the heavens defend,  
That thou shouldst want, and I thy friend.  I. S.  

From house of Viscount Conway, where  
Kenelm hath food, and Down's Count Lare,  
December month, day of St. john  
That amongst th' Evangelists made one,  
Forty, (besides the sixteen hundred)  
We count years past since Fiend was foundered,  
And this Bissextile, that, sans pumps,  
Frisk's, and is called the year that Jum'ps.    

The same, to the same.  

I must call from between thy thighs]  
Thy urine back into thine eyes,  
And make thee when my tale thou hearest  
Channel thy cheeks with Launt rever'st;  
Thy Landlady that made thee broth  
When drug made orifice to froth,  
That every fortnight shifted sheet  
To keep thy nest, and body sweet;  
That heard thee knock at peep of day  
When boy snor'de that on palate lay;  
Rose in her smock, and gave thee counsel  
To lift thy foot for fear of groundsel,  
That often warned thee of the quart  
And prayed (in vain) to turn thy heart,  
This Landlady in grave is penned  
Now shed thy moisture, man of Kent:  
Two rings she left, for thee tone, to ' there  
For Andrew that does call thee brother,  
This dries thy tears that were a brewing;  
Now liest to news of State ensuing.  
judge Littleton is made Lord Keeper.  
And feeds on chick and pigeon peeper,  
The king's Attorney Sir john Banks  
Succeds him, but may spare his thanks.  
Herbert is thought the meetest man  
To fill the place of Banks Sir john,  
London-Recorder thence doth jog,  
In Herbert's room to trudge, and fog:  
And St john's one that's sharp and witty  
Is made wind-instrument o'th'Citty.  
Thus 'tis in town; but in the Camp  
There's one preferred will make thee stamp,  
For Sr Iohn Berkly's Sergeant Mayor  
To Willmott, let it not bread Jarre,  
Nor can the Viscount whom john puts  
In trust, prevent it for his guts  
More shalt thou know when 'tis more fit,  
When thou and I in Tavern fit;  
Till when, and ever, heaven thee send  
The wishes of thy constant friend,  I. S.  

In street of Coleman from swan Ally  
Where while I stay in town, I shall lie  
In house of Mistress Street, relict  
Of Robert, whom for mate she picked:  
And where, with eels, and flounders fried,  
And tongve of Neat that never lied  
I filled my paunch, but when I belsh,  
It thinks language worse than welsh.  
janus' the month that holds us tack,  
One, with a face be hind his back:  
Full sixteen hundred years we score  
And fifty, (bating six, and fowr)  
And this leap-year we count to be,  
A year that comes but once in three.    

The same, to the same.  

THy wants wherewith thou long hast tugged  
And been as sad as Bear that's lugged,  
Thou'lt laugh at, when thou hearest how oddly  
Thy fellows shift in Town ungodly.  
Commodities we took on trust,  
And promised Tradesmen payment just,  
To be returned from Northern part,  
When treasure hence arrived in Cart.  
And, but till now of late, they crep  
From stair to stair, with trembling step;  
So modest, that they blushed to name,  
For what they to our Chambers came.  
Impatient now, both young and old,  
Assault my fort with knuckle bold.  
And as in bed perplexed I lie,  
I hear one say, The Cart's gone by.  
With that they all attempt my door,  
With pulse more daring then before;  
And of their parcels make a din  
Louder, than when they drew me in.  
Roused with this rudeness, first, I chop  
Upon some foreman of the shop;  
Take him by ' th'hand aside, and there  
I tell him wonders in his ear.  
So by degrees I send them jogging,  
Suppled with Ale, and language cogging.  
But news of this makes Scrivener wary,  
And eight i'th' hundred Don look awry  
That we do stoop to sums as small,  
As children venture at Cock-all.  
And lives we lead, (I cry heaven mercy)  
Worse than a Troop that has the Farfie,  
While man that keeps the Ordinary,  
Will not believe, nor Landlord tarry.  
O happy Captain, that may'st houze  
In Quarter free, and unchecked browse  
On teeming hedge, when purse is light,  
Or on the wholesome Salad bite:  
While we have nought, when money fails,  
To bite upon, but our own nails;  
And they so short with often tewing,  
There's not much left to hold us chewing;  
Or if there were, 'twould only whet  
Stomach, for what it could not get,  
And make more keen the appetite,  
Like tyring-bitt for Faulkner's Kite.  
To mend my commons, clad in jerkin,  
On Friday last I road to Berkin,  
Where lowering heavens with welcome saucst us  
As when the Fiends were sent for Faustus;  
Such claps of thunder, and such rain,  
That Poets will not stick to feign,  
The gods with too much Nectar sped,  
Their truckles drew, and pissed a bed,  
And that they belshed from stomach musty  
Vapour, that made the weather gusty.  
Well, 'tis a sad condition, where  
A man must fast, or feed in fear.  
I lately thee from North did call,  
Now stay, or else bring wherewithal,  
Unless thy credit here prove better,  
Than does thy friend's, that wrote this Letter.  I. S.  

Day tenth thrice told, the morning fair,  
The month still with a face to spare.    

The same, to the same.  

NO sooner I from supper rose,  
But Letter came, though not in prose,  
Which tells of fight, and Duel famous,  
Performed between a man and a mouse.  
An English Captain, and a Scot,  
The one disarmed, the other not.  
It speaks moreover of some stirring,  
To make a Covenant new as Herring.  
Carr, and Mountrosse, and eke Argile:  
Well was that Nation termed a Boyl,  
In breach of England, that doth stick,  
And vex the body Politic.  
But (whatsoever be the pretence)  
Doubtless they strive about the pence;  
While English Trooper, like a Gull,  
Serves but to hold the Cow to th'Bull.  
Pray tell me, john, did it not nettle  
Thee, and thy Myrmidons of Mettle,  
To see the boy with country-lash,  
Drive on the jades that drew the cash?  
And by thy needy quarters go,  
Ask the way to Camp of foe?  
So Tantalus with hungry maw,  
And thirsty gullet, daily saw  
Water and fruit swim by his chaps,  
While he in vain at either snaps.  
Or else as Phoebus, when full fraught,  
And tippled with his morning's draught,  
Reels like a drunken Jackanapes,  
With bladder tied, o'er soil that gapes:  
And afterwards in corner odd,  
Perhaps less thirsty, empties cod.  
So fares it with my friends, (god wot)  
Whom treasure skips t'enrich the Scot  
Leave then that wretched Climate, where  
Thy wants have rid thee like the Mare;  
And haste to Town, where thou shalt find  
Thy friend, that now hath newly dined.  I. S.  

Day twenty sixth, and when john says,  
Faces about, the Month obays.    

The same, to the same.  

WHy how now friend, why comest not hither?  
Hast thou not leave as light as feather?  
Here have I marked a Butt of Sack  
Whose maidenhead shall welcome jack,  
‛ Against which when drawer advanced gimlet  
I suffered him not, but did him let.  
And yet thou com'st not; Why dost pause  
And there continue, keeping Daws?  
Does Hostess stay thy steed perforce,  
For that which was not fault of Horse?  
Thou haste command of more than one,  
For I have seen at tail of john,  
Full Palfreys sixty in array,  
(I mean upon the Muster-day)  
Or art thou entertained to give  
Physic to one, that else might live,  
Some aged Sir, whose wife is bend  
To change him for a Cock of Kent.  
Well, be it what it will, I'll swear,  
There's something in't, that thou stayest there  
Howe'er, let business, wine, or friendship,  
Draw thee from out that Northern endship.  
If none of those provoke thy straddle,  
Take pity on my rhyming noddle,  
That restless runs with numbers fierce,  
And's troubled with a flux of verse.  
On that condition I'll relate,  
Once more to Captain, news of State:  
Judge Bartlet sitting on his stall,  
In Westminster, with's back to the wall,  
Was there surprised, and gripped by th'wrist  
By Maxwell, with his clouter fist;  
Who trussed the Judge, and bore him hot,  
To the Sheriff's house, but plumed him not;  
For there he set him down i'th' Hall,  
And left him to them, robes and all.  
As when a pack of eager Hounds,  
Hunting full cry along the grounds,  
Take o'er some common moor, that's fraught  
With old cast Jades, and good for nought:  
Who, conscious of their fates, do hale up  
Their thin short tails, and try to gallop,  
Get out o'th' way for life and limb,  
Each fearing they are come for him.  
So fared the Judges, such fears wrung'em,  
When Maxwell spent his mouth among 'em.  
Then come away, man, places stoop,  
Yet thou remainest in fortune's poop.  
If thou wert set to ride the Circuit,  
In Bartlet's room, how thou wouldst firk it.  
The art is, to forget acquaintance,  
And break a jest in giving Sentence,  
Which thou wilt learn, and then be quick  
With Sherif's, and thou hast the trick.  
These lessons con, and keep in store,  
From S that hath an I before.  
From Bromely, where I ghuess by th' Mill-Dike  
That 'tis the Month surnamed Fill-Dike  
Which govern's now, and I believe  
The day is Tom of strafford's Eve,  
Full sixteen hundred years (I hold)  
And fifty (bating five twice told)  
Expired are since year of grace  
I'th' Almanac first showed his face:  
Or (which is nearer to our trade)  
Twelve score and two, since Guns were made.    

The Gallants of the Times.  
Supposed to be made by Mr. William Murrey of His Majesty's Bedchamber.  

COme hither the maddest of all the Land,  
The Bear at the Bridge-foot this day must be baited  
Gallants flock thither on every hand  
Waggswantonly minded, & merry conceited  
there's Wentworth, and Willmott, and Weston and Cave  
If these are not mad boys, who the devil would you have,  
To drink to Will Murray, they all do agree  
And every one cries, To me, boy's, to me!   

A great Burgandine for Will Murray's sake  
George Symonds, he vows the first course to take:  
When straddling a Grecian dog let fly,  
Who took the Bear by the nose immediately;  
To see them so forward Hugh Pollard did smile  
Who had an old Cur of Canary Oil,  
And held up his head that George Goring might see,  
Who then cried aloud, To me, boys to me!   

'tis pleasure to drink among these men  
For they have wit and valour good store,  
They all can handle a sword and a pen  
Can court a lady and tickle a whore,  
And in the middle of all their wine,  
Discourse of Plato, and Arretine.  
And when the health comes falldown on their knees,  
And he that wants, cry, to me boys to me   

Cornwallais was set in an upper room  
With half a duzzen small wits of his size:  
He sent twice or thrice to have him come down,  
But they would admit him in no manner wise  
Though, in a full bowl of Rhenishhe swear,  
he'd never tell more, when women were there,  
But they all cried aloud his tongue is too free  
He is not company for such as we.    

The Answer,  By Mr. Peter Apsley. 

THough Marray be, undoubtedlie,  
His country's chiefest wit;  
And none but those converse with him  
Are held companions fit:  
Yet I do know some Holland blades  
Shall vie with him for it, hay down, ho down  
Hay down down derry dery down!  
Think not all praises due,  
For some that buff do wear  
Can whore and roar and swear  
And drink and talk and fight as well as you.   

Your Wentworth and your Weston  
Your straddling and your Tred,  
I know they are as jovial boys  
As ever Tavern bred  
And can sometimes like soldiers live  
A week without a bed, hay down etc.   

George General of Guenifrieds  
He is a jovial Lad;  
Though his Heart and Fortunes disagree  
Oft times to make him sad:  
Yet give him but a flout or two  
And straight you'll swear he's mad: hay down, etc.   

There's Sydenham Crofts and Kelligrew  
Must not be left behind  
And that old smooth-faced Epicure  
They call him Harry Wind  
For if you do discourse with him  
Such company you'll find: hay down, etc.   

There's little Geoffrey Peter,  
As good as any of those  
If he'd leave his preventing way  
Of abusing his great nose  
He s wit and Poet good enough  
That he can pawn his clothes: hay down, etc.   

There is a jovial Parson  
Who to these men doth preach:  
On the week days he does learn of them,  
And on Sundays does them teach.  
Of books and of good company  
He takes his share of each, hay down ho down,  
hay down down dery dery down!  
Think not all praises due  
For if he did not wear  
A gown he'd roar and swear  
And drink and talk and fight as well as you.    

The Burse of Reformation.  

WE will go no more to the old Exchange,  
There's no good ware at all:  
Their bodkins and their thimbles too  
Went long since to Guildhall.  
But we will to the new Exchange  
Where all things are in fashion  
And we will have it hence forth called  
The Burse of reformation.  
Come lads and lasses, what do you lack  
Here is wear of all prizes  
Here's long & short; here's wide & strait;  
Here are things of all sizes.   

Madam, you may fit yourself  
With all sorts of good pinns,  
Sirs, here is jet and here is hair,  
Gold and cornelian rings,  
Here is an english coney fur,  
Rushia hath no such stuff,  
Which for to keep your fingers warm,  
Excels your sables muff.  
come lads, etc.   

Pray you Madam sit, i'll show good ware  
For crowding ne'er fear that,  
Against a stall or on a stool  
You'll ne'er hurt a crevatt.  
Heers children's baubles and men's too,  
To play with for delight.  
here's roundheads when turned every way  
At length will stand upright.  
Come lads, etc.   

here's dice, and boxes if you please  
To play at in and inn,  
Heers horns for brows, & brows for horns,  
Which never will be seen.  
Here is a set of kettle pinns  
With bowl at them to roll:  
And if you like such trundling sport  
Here is my ladies hole.  
Come lads, etc.   

here's shadow ribboned of all sorts,  
As various as your mind,  
And here's a Windmill like yourself  
Will turn with every wind.  
And here's a church of the same stuff  
Cutt out in the new fashion,  
Hard by's a priest stands twice a day  
Will serve your congregation.  
Come lads, etc.   

Here are some presbyterian things,  
Fallen lately out of fashion,  
●…ecause we hear that Prester john  
Doth circumcize his nation.  
And here are independent knacks,  
Raised with his spirits humour.  
And here's cheap ware was sequestered,  
For a malignant tumour. Come lads, etc.   

Here patches are of every cut,  
For pimples and for scars,  
Here's all the wand'ring planett signs,  
And some o'th' fixed stars,  
Already gummed to make them stick,  
They need no other sky,  
Nor stars for Lily for to vow  
To tell your fortunes by,  
Come lads, etc.   

To eject Powder in your hair,  
Here is a pretty puff;  
Would for clis●…er case serve too,  
Were it filled with such stuff.  
Madam, here are Pistachie nuts,  
Strengthening O●…ingo roots;  
And heeas a preserved Apricock  
With the stones pendant too't.  
Come Lads, etc.   

Here are Perriwiggs will fit all Hairs,  
False beards for adisguise;  
I can help lasses which are bare  
In all parts, as their thighs.  
If you'll engage well, here you may  
Take up sine Holland Smocks.  
We have all things that women want  
Except Italian Locks.  
Come Lads, etc.   

Here are hot Boys have backs like bulls,  
At first sight can leap lasles;  
And bearded Lads hold out like Goats:  
And here are some like Asses.  
Here are Gallants can outdo  
Your Usher or your Page;  
You need not go to Ludgate more  
Till threescore years of age.  
Come Lads, etc.   

Madam, here is a Politicus  
Was Pragmaticus of late,  
And here is an Elentichus  
That Fallacies doth prate:  
Here is the Intelligencer too,  
See how 'bout him they throng!  
Whilst Melanchollicus alone  
Walks here to make this song.  
Come Lads, etc.   

Then let's no more to the Old Exchange  
There's no good ware at all,  
Their Bodkins, and their Thimbles too,  
Went long since to Guild-Hall.  
But we will to the New Exchange  
Where all things are in Fashion,  
And we will have it henceforth called,  
The Burse of Reformation.  
Come Lads, & Lasses, what do you lack?  
Here is ware of all prizes;  
Here's long and short, here's wide and strait,  
here are things of all sizes.    

The Answer.  

WE will go no more to the new Exchange  
Their Credit's like to fall,  
Their Money and their Loyalty  
Is gone to Goldsmith's Hall.  
But we will keep our Old Exchange,  
Where wealth is still in Fashion,  
Gold Chains and Ruffs shalt bear the Bell,  
For all your Reformation.  
Look on our Walls and Pillars too  
You'll find us much the sounder:  
Sir Thomas Gresham stands upright  
But Crook-back was your founder.   

There you have points and pinns and rings,  
With such like toys as those,  
There Patches Gloves and Ribbons gay,  
And O our money goes.  
But when a Fammily is sunk,  
And Titles are a fading,  
Some Merchant's daughter sets you up,  
Thus great ones lives by trading.  
Look, etc.   

Mark the Nobility throughout,  
Modern and Ancient too,  
You'll see what power the City had  
And how much it could do.  
Not many houses you'll observe  
Of honour true or seeming,  
But have received from the Burse  
Creation or redeeming.  
Look, etc.   

Our wont meetings are at twelve,  
Which all the world approves,  
But you keep off till candle-time,  
To make your secret Loves.  
Then you come flocking in a main  
Like birds of the same feather,  
Or beasts repairing to the Ark  
Unclean and clean together.  
Look, &c,   

We strike a bargain on the Exchange,  
But make it good else where,  
And your proceedings are alike  
Though not so good I fear.  
For your commodities are naught,  
How ever you may prise them,  
Than corners and dark holes are sought,  
The better to disguise them,  
Look, etc.   

We walk o'er cellars richly filled;  
With spices of each kind,  
You have a Tavern underneath,  
And so you're undermined.  
If such a building long endure  
All sober men may wonder,  
When giddy and light heads prevail,  
Both above ground and under.  
Look, etc.   

We have an Office, to ensure  
Our ships and goods at sea:  
No tempest, rock, or pirate, can  
Deprive us of that plea.  
But if your Lady's spring a leak  
Or boarded be and taken;  
Who shall secure your Capitol  
And save your heads from aching!  
Look, etc.   

Then we'll go no more to the new Eexchange  
Their credit's like to fall,  
Their money and their loyalty,  
Is gone to Goldsmith's hall.  
But we will keep our old exchange,  
Where wealth is still in fashion,  
Gold chains and ruffs shall bear the bell,  
For all your reformation.  
Look on our walls and pillars too,  
You'll find us much the sounder:  
Sir Thomas Gresham stands upright,  
But Crook-back was your founder.    

On S. W. S. and L. P.  

She that admires her servant's face,  
His stature, limbs, or hair,  
Does not conceive the modern ways  
Of Ladies, wise and fair.  
he's but short,  
Care not for't,  
There be tall ones enough,  
Though his head  
Be all red,  
Let his coin be so too.   

What though his nose turn in and out  
With passage wide and large,  
Not much unlike a rainy spout,  
His humours to discharge,  
Though his back,  
Wear a pack  
'tis a toy among friends,  
So by hook,  
Or by crook,  
We may compass our ends.   

'Tis not your wit nor language charm,  
That takes a female ear  
A pair of pendants worth a farm  
Are held more welcome there.  
You abuse  
Your poor muse,  
When you write us fine fancies;  
For no love  
Can improve  
Without suppers or dances.   

God dammee is a good conceit,  
If they who swear present us;  
For that's your only taking bait  
Words ne'er can circumvent us.  
There belongs  
More than songs  
To a necklace or gown,  
When your plays  
And essays  
May be had for a crown.    

The Tytre-Tues, or A Mock- Song  
to the tune of Chive-Chase.  By Mr George Chambers. 

TWo madcaps were committed late,  
For treason, as some say;  
It was the wisdom of the State,  
Admire it all you may.  
Brave Andrew Windsor was the prince  
George Chambers favourite.  
These two bred this unknown offence  
I would they had been be—   

They call themselves the Tytere-tues  
And wore a blue Rib— been,  
And when a dry, would not refuse,  
To drink— O fearful sin!  
The Council, which is thought most wise,  
Did set so long upon't,  
That they grew weary, and did rise,  
And could make nothing on't.   

But still, the common people cried,  
This must not be forgot;  
Some had for smaller matters died  
They'd done— we know not what:  
Hanged, drawn, and quartered, must they be,  
So Law doth set it down,  
It's punishment for papistry  
That are of high renown.   

My Lord of canterbury's grace  
This treason brought ot light  
El's had it been a piteous case  
But that his power and might  
Had quelled their pride which swelled to high;  
For which the child ungot  
May with him live e'en till he die  
As silly sheep that rot.   

Let Papist frown what need we care  
He lives above their reach:  
And will his silver Mitre wear  
Though now forgot to preach.  
If he were but hehind me now,  
And should this ballad hear;  
Sure he'd revenge with bended bow  
And I die like a Deer.    

A Northern Ballet.  

THere dwelled a man in fair Westmoreland  
jonne Armstrong men did him call,  
He had nither lands nor rents coming in,  
Yet he kept eight score men in his hall.   

He had Horse and Harness for them all,  
Goodly Steeds were all milk white,  
O the golden bands an about their necks;  
And their weapons they were all alike.   

News than was brought unto the King,  
That there was sick a won as he,  
That lived sick a bold outlaw  
And rob all the north country.   

The King he writ an a letter then  
A letter which was large and long,  
He signed it with his own hand,  
And he promised to do him no wrong;   

When this letter came jonne until  
His heart it was as blithe as birds on the tree,  
Never was I sent for before any King  
My father, my Grandfather, nor none but me.   

And if we go the King before,  
I wolud we went most orderly,  
Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak  
Laced with silver lace's three.   

Every won of you shall have his velvett coat  
Laced with sillver lace so white,  
O the golden bands an about your neck's  
Black hats, white feathers, all alike.   

By the morrow morning at ten of the clock  
Towards Edenburough gone was he  
And with him all his eight score men,  
Good lord it was a goodly sight for to see,   

When jonne came befower the King  
He fell down on his knee,  
O pardon my Sovereign Liege, he said  
O pardon my eight score men and me.   

Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traitor strong  
For thy eight score men not thee  
For to morrow morning by ten of the clock,  
Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow tree.   

But jonne looked over his left shoulder  
Good Lord what a grievous look looked he;  
Saying ask grace of a graceless face,  
Why there is none for you nor me.   

But jonne had a bright sword by his side,  
And it was made of the mettle so Free,  
That had not the king stepped his foot aside  
He had smitten his head from his fair bodde.   

Saying, fight on my merry men all,  
And see that none of you be ta'en,  
For rather than men shall say we were hangeed  
Let them report how we were slain.   

Then god wot fair Eddenburrough rose  
And so besett poor jonne round  
That fourscore and ten of jonnes best men  
Lay gasping all upon the ground.   

Then like a mad man jonne laid about,  
And like a mad man than fought he,  
Until a false Scot came jonne behind,  
And run him through the fair boddee.   

Saying, Fight on my merry men all,  
And see that none of you be ta'en,  
For I will stand by and bleed but a while,  
And then will I come and fight again.   

News than was brought to young jonne Armstrong,  
As he stood by his nurse's knee,  
Who vowed if ere he liveed for to be a man,  
Oth' the treacherous Scots revenged hee'dbe.    

By Mr. Richard Barnslay.  

FAme told me, Lady, your fair hands would make  
A willow garland for me; O forsake  
That dismal office, it does not agree  
With those sweet looks, that fair aspect in thee.  
Fairest of women, canst thou be my friend?  
And with thine own hand hasten on my end?  
If I must lose thee, let me lose thee so  
As not to be my utter overthrow.   

Time lessons sorrow, we endure our crosses,  
And happier fortunes may redeem our losses,  
But if I wear one branch of that sad tree,  
I shall remember it eternally,  
What prise I lost; and then in some sad grove  
Of discontent, where fearful ghosts do rove  
Of the forsaken lovers, there I'll be  
And only they shall keep me company.  
Until these eyes, in some unpolished cave  
Running like fountains, wear me forth a grave,  
And then I'll die, yet first I will curse thee  
Damned, unlucky, fruitless willow-tree  
Still mayest thou withered stand, mayst never be seen  
Clad in sweet summer's pride, may'st never grow green;  
May every briar, and every bramble be,  
Like a full Cedar, or huge Oak to thee:  
And when some cankered axe shall hew thee down,  
Come never nearer city, house or town,  
But be thou burned, yet never mayst thou be  
A christmas block for jovial company.  
But be thou placed near some ugly ditch  
To burn some murderer, or damned witch.   

Cast away Willow, Lady, then, and choose,  
Dog-tree, or hemlock, or the mornfull yewes  
Torn from some churchyard side, the cursed thorn  
Or else the weed, which still before it's borne  
Nine times the devil sees; if you command  
I'll wear them all, composed by your fair hand  
So that you'll grant me, that I may go free  
From the sad branches of the willow tree.    

Ad Johannuelem Leporem, Lepidissimum, Carmen Heroicum.  

I Sing the furious battles of the Spheres  
Acted in eight and twenty fathom deep,  
And from that 
a There began the Utopian account of years, Mor: Lib. 1. circa finem.  time, reckon so many years  
You'll find 
b Endymion was a handsome young Welshman, whom one Luce Moon loved for his sweet breath; and would never hang off his lips: but he not caring for her, eat a abundance of toasted cheese, purposely to make his breath unsavoury; upon which, the lest him presently, and ever since 'tis proverbially spoken [as inconstant as Luce Moon.] The Uatican copy of Hesiod, reads her name, Mohun, but contractedly it is Moon. Hesiod. lib. 4. tom. 3.  Endymion fell fast asleep.   

And now assist me O ye 
c For all the Orbs make Music in their motion, Berosus de sphaera. lib. 3.  Musics nine  
That tell the Orbs in order as they sight,  
And thou dread 
d Atlas was a Porter in Mauritania, and because by reason of his strength, he bore burdens of stupendious weight, the Poets sained, that he carried the Heavens on his shoulders. Cicero. de nat. Deorum. lib. 7.  Atlas with thine eyes so fine,  
Smile on me now that first begin to write.   


e There were two others of these names, Aldermen of Rome. Tit. Liu. hist. lib. 28.  Pompey that once was Tapster of New-inn,  
And fought with 
f AEmathia, is a very fair Common in Northamptonshire, Strabo. lib. 321.  Caesar on th' 
g These Myrmidons were Cornish-men, and sent by Bladud, sometimes King of this Realm, to aid Pompey. Caesar de bello. civili. lib. 14.  AEmathian plains,  
First with his dreadful 
g These Myrmidons were Cornish-men, and sent by Bladud, sometimes King of this Realm, to aid Pompey. Caesar de bello. civili. lib. 14.  Myrmidons came in  
And let them blood in the Hepatick veins.   

But then an Antelope in Sable blue,  
Clad like the 
h It seems not to be meant by Count Henry, but his brother Maurice, by comparing his picture to the thing here spoken of. jansen, de praed. lib. 22.  Prince of Aurange in his Cloak,  
Studded with Satyrs, on his Army drew,  
And presently 
i Pheander was so modest, that he was called the Maiden Knight; and yet so valiant, that a French cavalier wrote his life, and called his Book, Pheandir the Mailen Knight. Hon. d'Vrsec. Tom. 45.  Pheander's Army broke.   


k This seems not to be that King, that was Son of Amintas, and King of Macedon; but one who it seems was very lascivious: for I suspect there is some obscene conceit in that word Club in the third verse following besides, mark his violence.  Philip, for hardiness surnamed Chubb,  
In Beauty equal to fork-bearing 
l Bacchus, was a drunken yeoman of the Guard to Queen Elizabeth, and a great Archer; so that it seems the Author mistook his halberd, for a fork.  Bacchus,  
Made such a thrust at 
m This was Long-Megg of Westminster, who after this conflict with Philip, followed him in all his wars. justinian. lib. 35.  Phoebe, with his Club,  
That made the 
n These were Lancashire-men, and sent by King Gorbadug (for this war seems to have been in the time of the Heptarchy in England) to the aid of Caesar. Caesar. lib. citat. prope finem.  Parthians cry, she will be-cack us.   

Which heard, the Delphic Oracle drew nigh,  
To wipe fair Phoebe, if aught were amiss,  
But 
o And therefore, the herb into which he was turned, was called Turnsole. Ovid. Metam. lib. 25.  Heliotrope, a little crafty spy,  
Cried clouts were needless, for she did but piss   

A subtle Glow-worm lying in a hedge  
And heard the story of sweet cheeked 
p Apollo, was Caesar's Page, and a Monomatapan by birth, whose name by inversion was Ollopa: which in the old language of that Country, signifies as much as fair youth: but, Euphoniae Gratia, called Apollo, Gor. Bec. lib. 46.  Apollo,  
Snarched from bright 
q Styropes, was a lame Smiths-man dwelling in S. johnsstreet; but how he was called Bright, I know not, except it were by reason of the Luster of his eyes.  Styropes his Antic sledge  
And to the buttered Flounder cried out, 
r Holla, mistaken for Apollo.  Holla.   

Holla you pampered Jades, quoth he, look here,  
And mounting strait upon a Lobsters thigh  
An English man inflamed with 
s Cervisia (apud Medicos, vinum hordeaceum) potus est Anglis longè charissimus; Inventum Ferrarij Londinensis, Cui nomen Smuggo, Polydor. Virgil, de Invent. rerum. lib. 2.  double Beer,  
Swore never to 
t Impp. Germaniae, antiquitus solebant, statis temporibus, adire Basingstochium; ubi, de more, jusjurandum solenne praestabant, de non viro propinando, praesente muliere: Hic Mos, jamdudum apud Anglos, pene vim legis obtinuit; quip gens illa, long humanissima morem istum, in hodiernum usque diem, magna Curiositate, pari Comitate conjuncta, usurpant. Pancirol— utriusque imperij. lib. 6. cap. 5.  drink to Man, a Woman by.   

By this time grew the conflict to be 
u It seems this was a great battle, both by the fury of it, & the aids of each side; but hereof read more, in Cornel. Tacit. lib. de moribus German.  hot,  
Boots against boots against 
x This is in imitation of Lucan— Signis Signa, & pila— etc. Pharsali●…. lib. 1. in principio.  Sandals, Sandals, fly.  
Many poor thirsty men went to the pot,  
Feathers lopped off, spurs every where did lie. Caetera desiderantur.    

Bagnall's Ballet, supplied of what was left out in Musarum Deliciae.  

A Ballet, a ballet! let every Poet,  
A ballett make with speed:  
And he that has wit, now let him show it;  
For never was greater need:  
And I that never made ballett before;  
Will make one now, though I never make more.  
Oh Women, monstrous women,  
What do you mean to do!   

It is their pride and strange attire,  
Which binds me to this task;  
Which King, and Court, did much admire,  
At the last Christmas mask,  
But by your entertainment then,  
You should have small cause to come there again.  
Oh Women, etc.   

You cannot be contented to go,  
As did the women of old;  
But you are all for pride and show,  
As they were for weather and cold,  
O Women, women! fie, fie, fie,  
I wonder you are not ashamed.  
O Women, etc.   

Where is the decency become;  
Which your fore-mothers had?  
With Gowns of Cloth, and Caps of Thrum,  
They went full meanly clad.  
But you must jet it in silks and gold;  
Your pride, though in winter, is never a cold.  
O Women, etc.   

Your faces tricked and painted be,  
Your breasts all open bare:  
So far that a man may almost see  
Unto your Lady ware:  
And in the church, to tell you true,  
Men cannot serve God for looking on you,  
O Women, etc.   

And at the Devil's shops you buy,  
A dress of powdered hair,  
On which your feathers flaunt and fly,  
But i'd wish you have a care,  
Lest Lucifer's self who is not prouder  
Do one day dress up your hair with a powder.  
O Women, etc.   

And many thereare of those that go  
Attired from head to heel,  
That them from men you cannot know  
Unless you do them feel,  
But oh for shame though they have none,  
'tis better believe, and let them alone,  
O Women, etc.   

Both round and short they cut their hair  
Whose length should women grace,  
Lose like themselves, their hats they wear.  
And when they come in place,  
Where courtshipp and compliments must be,  
They do it like men with cap and knee.  
O Women, etc.   

They at their sides against our laws,  
With little punyards go,  
Which surely is, (I think) because,  
They love men's weapons so;  
Or else it is they'll stobb all men,  
That do refuse to stab them again.  
O Women, &c,   

Doublets like to men they wear,  
As if they meant to flout us,  
Trust round with points and ribbons fair,  
But I pray let's look about us;  
For since the doublet so well doth fit 'em,  
They will have the breeches; and if they can get 'um.  
O Women, etc.   

Nor do they care what a wise man saith,  
Or preachers in their defame.  
But jeer and hold him an ass; but I faith  
They'd blush if they had any shame:  
For city and country do both deride 'em  
And our King, God bless him, cannot abide 'um.  
O Women, etc.   

And when the mask was at the court,  
Before the King to be shown,  
They got upon seats to see the sport,  
But soon they were pulled down;  
And many were thrust out of doors,  
Their coats well cudgeled, & they called whores.  
O King, Religious King,  
Godsave thy Majesty.   

And so with prayers to God on high,  
To grant his highness' peace,  
We hope we shall find remedy  
To make this mischief cease:  
Since he in Court has ta'en so good order,  
The city leave to the Mayor and Recorder,  
O King, Religious King,  
God bless thy majesty.   

And women all whom this concerns,  
Though you offended be;  
And now in foul and railing terms  
Do swagger and scold at me;  
I tell you, if you mend not your ways  
The devil will fetch you all, one of these days,  
Oh Women monstrous Women!  
What do you mean to do?    

Mr. Smith, to Sir John Mennis, upon the surrender of Conway Castle  by the Are, BY. 

ANd how? and how? hast thou cried quittance  
With Mountain, Bishop, and his Britons  
Who after all his changes, had  
Yet one trick more, to make John mad?  
Hadst thou, for this, charge of the Keys  
Old as the Castle? and the pays  
Of Men unborn? that never took  
A name, but from thy Muster-Book?  
Hast thou been honoured with the knee  
Of the Time-aged-Porter? He  
Who after reverence, humbly sat  
Below the Salt, and munched his Sprat,  
And after all this to be vexed  
Past sufferance, by a Man o'th' Text!  
Well! now thou'rt come in sight of Paul's,  
Hast thou compounded for thy Coals  
And swallowed glib in hope to thrive,  
The Covenant, and Oath Negative  
With hand lift up, like those that are  
Indicted for less crimes at Bar?  
Believe me, friend, it is a Burden  
Worse than a close-stool with a Turd in.  
Yet if from British rocks th' hast brought  
A heard of Goats, or Runts, or aught  
That Country yields; Flannel, Carnoggins,  
Store of Metheglin in thy wagons;  
Less needst thou dwindle to appear Man  
At Goldsmiths-Hall before the Chaire-man:  
Or if thoust plundered Pedlars-pack  
And trussed it on thy knightly back,  
Rich in Box-whistles, combs in cases,  
Tape white and blue, points, inkle, laces,  
'T may satisfy those hungry Kings;  
They'll hang thee else in thine own strings.   

And now I call to mind the tale,  
How mounted in thy nights of ale  
Thou rod'st home duly to thy Den  
On back of resty Citizen,  
Still pressing as the cattle grew  
Weary, at every stage, a new:  
Some thorough-paced, and sure of foot  
Some tripping, with string-halt to boot,  
Now 'tis their time, and thou art o'er-  
Ridden by them, thou roadst before.  
So have I seen the flies in Summer,  
Yellow as was the neighbouring scummer,  
With shambling thighs, each other back  
By turns, and traverse o'er the rack.  
Ah! worthy friend, it makes me mad  
To count the days, that we have had;  
When we might freely meet and drink  
And each man speak what he did think.  
Now every step we doubt, and word  
As men to pass some unknown for'd.  
As Patridges divide their way  
When stooped at by the Birds of prey,  
And dare not from their coverts peep  
Till nights come on, and all's asleep,  
Then from their several brakes they hast,  
And call together to repast.  
So frighted by these buzzards, fly  
Our scattered friends, and skulking lie  
Till covered in the night, they chant  
And call each other to the haunt,   

Some trusty Tavern, where in bowls  
They drown their fears, & chirp pooresouls,  
What sad plight are we in? what pickles?  
That we must drink in conventicles?  
Search all the Centuries, there's none  
Like this fell Persecution;  
But when Time sorts, do but but command,  
At noon I'll meet thee, here's my hand.  I. S.  

Dated,  
From house of Knight, in Nympton-Regis,  
Where one drinks, and another pledges,  
I mean at meals, the day is Jack,  
The 15 of the month that's black,  
Forty eight years, and sixteen hundred  
Since that of Grace, away are squandered,  
And since Parliament begon  
(I hope you'll not forget that john)  
Nothing remains, but that I say,  
Good morrow; that's the time o'th' day.    

An answer to a Letter from Sr. John Mennis, wherein he jeers him for falling so quickly to the use of the Directory.  

FRiend, thou dost lash me with a story,  
A long one too, of Directory;  
When thou alone deserves the Birch  
That brought'st the bondage on the Church.  
Didst thou not treat for Bristol City  
And yield it up? the more's the pity.  
And saw'st thou not, how right or wrong  
The common prayer-book went along?  
Didst thou not scorse, as if enchanted,  
For Articles Sir Thomas granted,  
And barter, as an Author saith,  
The Articles o'th' Christian faith?  
And now the Directory jostles  
Christ out o'th' Church, and his Apostles;  
And tears down the commnion-rayles  
That Men may take it on their tails.  
Imagine friend, Bochus the King,  
Engraven on Sylla's Signet ring,  
Delivering up into his hands  
Fugurth, and with him all his Lands,  
Whom Sylla took and sent to Rome  
There to abide the Senate's doom,   

In the same posture, I suppose,  
john standing in's doublet and hose,  
Delivering up, amidst the throng,  
The common-prayer and wisdom's song  
To hands of Fairfax to be sent  
A sacrifice to the Parliament:  
Thou little thoughtst what gear began  
Wrapped in that Treaty, Busy john,  
There lurked the fire, that turned to cinder  
The Church; her ornaments to tinder.  
There bound up in that Treaty lies  
The fate of all our Christmas pies,  
Our holy-days there went to wrack  
Our Wakes were laid upon their back;  
Our Gossip's spoons away were lurched  
Our feasts and fees for women churched,  
All this and more ascribe we might  
To thee at Bristol, wretched knight,  
Yet thou upbraidst, and rail'st in rhyme  
On me, for that, which was thy crime,  
So froward Children in the Sun,  
Amid ' their sports some shrewd turn done  
The faulty youth begins to prate,  
And lays it on his harmless mate,   

Dated  
From Nympton where the Cider smiles  
And james has horse as lame as Gyles  
The fourth of May; and dost thou hear,  
'Tis as I take it, the eighth year  
Since Portugal by Duke Braganza  
Was cut from Spain without a handsaw.   I. S.  

Mr. Smith's taking a Purge.  

IN morn when Phoebus' peep't through crevice,  
Bold as our British Guy or Bevis  
I powder took, and by his beams  
befriended, made a draught for jeames.  
Long had it not in stomach been  
But from each part, came powdering in  
Of uncouth gear such pregnant store  
That gut began grumble, knock run o'er.  
Have ye beheld with eager haste  
The truant Citts when scene is past,  
(As if they meant their ribs to burst  
While each bears up to get our first)  
Cloy up the door, till passage small  
Into one body rams 'em all,  
And then in steed of men and wit  
Delivers up a lump of citt.  
With no less fury in a throng  
Away these tachie humours flung,  
And downwards in a rage they drew  
To ramble, and bid knock adieu:  
But when they came to portal nasty  
Bum was so straight, and they so hasty,  
That many a worthy pellett must  
Into one Booming shot be thrust,  
At rumbling noise the mastive growls  
The frighted mice forsake their holes,  
And Soldiers to my window come  
Invited thither by my drum,  
Tired with this hideous coil behind  
Nocke laid a b●…ut him hard for wind,  
He chafed, and foamed, as buck embo'st,  
And painted like a toad that's tossed.  
At length he gained a little time,  
And cleared his Organ from the slime;  
Palewas his look, (for to be blunt),  
Arse could not set a good face on't.  
But yet he strove with visage wan  
To vent himself; and thus began.  
Oh dismal Dose! oh cursed gear!  
Will all thy body run out here?  
Will veins, and sinews, flesh, and bone  
Be gadding, and leave knock alone?  
Is it decreed, oh cruel fates!  
So Mindus at her city gates  
As was suspected there about  
Some time or other might run out,  
A Devil sure baked, and stale  
Was grated in my posset-ale,  
Or else 'twas powder of the bones  
Of some foot soldier dead for the nonce,  
For all the way he travails North  
Through stomach, belly, and so forth.  
Some what he seizes in each town,  
And takes it with him as his own;  
Well, what so ere thou were't, be sure  
Thy vengeance 'i'll no more endure,  
Nor shall the head or stomach put  
More than is fitting into gut.  
Why could not nostrils, eyes, or ear,  
By mild expenses vent you there?  
Or vomit, by a nearer way,  
Discharge what in the stomach lay?  
Or is't not justice they that passed  
The pleasure, should the bitter taste?  
Can you accuse me? ever came  
Aught in by me did body blame?  
Unless your keeping open my door  
Drew wind, to make the fabric roar;  
I was contented once a day  
While you were temperate, to obey,  
But he is cur'st that's forced to stand  
All the day long with hose in hand.  
Nor was the spincter muscle put  
At every turn to open and shut,  
But there to stand, and notice take  
Who passed, and when, and for whose sake.  
Therefore be warned keep better diet  
That all of us may live at quiett.  
Or I'll stopp up the abuseed course  
And send up fumes will make you worse  
And you (as Mayerne doth) they say  
Divert the vent another way,  
Then spite of physic, in a word,  
I'll make your palate taste a turd,  
And when you belch I'll turn the sent  
To perfect smell of fundament.    

The Miller and the King's Daughter,  By Mr. Smith. 

There were two Sisters they went a playing,  
With a high down, down, a downe-a-  
To see their father's ships come sailing in  
With a hy down, down, a downe-o-   

And when they came unto the sea-brim,  
With, &c,  
The elder did push the younger in;  
With, etc.   

O Sister, O Sister, take me by the gown,  
With, &c,  
And draw me up upon the dry ground.  
With, etc.   

O Sister, O Sister, that may not be,  
With, etc.  
Till salt and oatmeal grow both of a tree;  
With, etc.   

Sometimes she sank, Sometimes she swum,  
With, etc.  
Until she came unto the mill-dam;  
With, etc.   

The miller run hastily down the cliff,  
With &c,  
And up he be took her withouten her life,  
With, etc.   

What did he do with her breast bone?  
With, etc.  
He made him a vial to play thereupon,  
With, etc.   

What did he do with her fingers so small?  
With, etc.  
He made him pegs to his Viol withal;  
With, etc.   

What did he do with her nose-ridge?  
With, etc.  
Unto his Viol he made him a bridge,  
With, etc.   

What did he do with her Veins so blue?  
with, etc.  
He made him strings to his Viol thereto;  
with, etc.   

What did he do with her eyes so bright?  
with, etc.  
Upon his Viol he played at first sight;  
with, etc.   

What did he do with her tongue so rough?  
with, etc.  
Unto the viol it spoke enough;  
with, etc.   

What did he do with her two shins?  
with, etc.  
Unto the viol they danced Moll Syms;  
with, etc.   

Then bespoke the treble string,  
with, etc.  
O yonder is my father the King;  
with, etc.   

Then bespoke the second string,  
with etc.  
O yonder sits my mother the Queen:  
with, etc.   

And then bespoke the strings all three;  
with, etc.  
O yonder is my sister that drowned me.  
with, etc.   

Now pay the miller for his pain,  
with, etc.  
And let him be gone in the devil's name.  
with, etc.    

Mr. Smith, to Tom Pollard, and Mr. Mering.  

MY hearty commendations first remembered  
To Tom, & Robin tall men, and well timbered  
Hoping of both your welfares, and your bliss  
Such as myself enjoyed when I wrote this;  
These are to let you understand and know,  
That love will creep there where it cannot go  
And that each morning I do drink your healths  
After our Generals, & the Commonwealths;  
For nothing is more fatal than disorder  
Especially now Lesly's on the Border;  
That done we gather into Ranks and files,  
That a far off we look like greeat wood piles;  
And then we practise over all our knacks  
With as much ease as men make Almanacs,  
Size all our bullets to a dram, we hate  
To kill a foe with waste unto the State,  
And for our carriage here, it hath been such  
Declare't I cannot, but I'll give a touch:  
Here is no outrage done, not one that Robs  
Perhaps you think it strange Tom, so does Nobbs  
But 'tis as true as steel, for on my word;  
Their worst is drinking Ale, brown as their sword.  
But hark the fiends are come close to Carlisle,  
Lidsdale is copeed with Rebell-Scotts the while  
To us they send for help, the postboy skudds;  
And scours his pallfrie in his proper suds,  
More I could write dear friends, but bad's the weather  
And time's as precious as you both to gether.  
But take not this unkindly; I profess  
There's no man more your servant then  I S.  

New castle where the drought has been  
That makes grass short, and gelding thin:  
july the fifth I wrote this letter  
One thousand six hundred, & somewhat better    

Upon john Felton's hanging in Chains at Ports-mouth, for killing the Duke of Buckingham.  

HEre uninterd suspends (though not to save  
Surviving friends the expenses of a grave  
nng dead earth, which to the world must be  
His own sad monument, his Elegy  
As large as fame, but whither bad or good  
I say not, by himself 'twas writ in blood  
For with his body thus entombed in air  
Arched o'er with Heaven, set with thousand fair  
And glorious Diamond-starrs; a Sepulchre  
Which time can never ruinate, and where  
Th'impartial worm (which is not bribed to spare  
Princes when wrapped in Marble) cannot share  
His flesh (which oft the charitable skies  
Embalm with tears doing those obsequies  
Belong to men) shall last till pitying foul  
Contend to reach his body to his Soul.    

To Felton in the Tower.  

ENjoy thy bondage; make thy prison know,  
Thou hast a liberty thou canst not owe  
To such base punishment; keep't entire, since  
Nothing but guilt shackles they conscience.  
I dare not tempt thy valiant blood to whey  
In feebling it with pity, nor dare pray  
Thine act may mercy find, lest thy great story  
Lose something of its miracle and glory.  
I wish thy merit studied cruelty,  
Short vengeance befreinds thy memory  
For I would have posterity to hear  
He that can bravely die can bravely bear.  
Torture seems great unto a coward's eye  
'Tis no great thing to suffer, less to die.  
Should all the clouds fall out, & in that strife  
Lightning and thunder send to take my life,  
I should applaud the wisdom of my fate  
That knew to value me at such a rate  
As at my fall to trouble all the sky,  
Emptying itself upon me Jove's full Armoty;  
Thy soul before was straightened, thank thy doom  
To show her virtue she hath larger Room,  
Yet sure if every artery were broke  
Thou wouldst find strength for such another stroke.  
And now I leave thee unto death and fame  
Which lives to shake ambition at thy name,  
And (if it were no sin) the Court by it  
Should hourly swear before a favourite.  
Farewell, for thy beam sake we shall not send  
Henceforth Commanders that will foes defend  
Nor will it ever our just Monarch please  
To keep an Admiral to lose the Seas.  
Farewell, undaunted stand, and joy to be  
Of public sorrow the Epitome,  
Let the Duke's name suffer, and crown thy thrall  
All we in him did suffer; thou for all.  
And I dare boldly write, as thou dar'st die,  
Stout Felton, England's ransom, here doth lie.    

To the Duke of Buckingham.  

THe King loves you, you him; both love the same,  
You love the King, he you, both Buckingame  
Of sport the King loves game, of game the Buck  
Of all men you, why you? Why see your luck.    

To the Same.  

SOme say, the Duke was virtuous, gracious, good,  
And Felton basely did, to spill his blood.  
If it be so, what did he then amiss,  
In sending him the sooner to his bliss?  
All deaths seem pleasant to a goodman's Eye  
And bad men only are afraid to die;  
Changed he this Kingdom to possess a better,  
Then is the Duke become john Felton's debtor.    

The Lawyer.  

Lawyer's themselves up hold the Common weal,  
They punish such as do offend and steal;  
They free with subtle art the innocent,  
From any danger, loss, or punishment,  
They can, but will not, keep the world in awe  
By mis-expounded and distorted law;  
Always they have great store of charity,  
And love they want, not keeping amity.    

The Client's Transcription of the same Copy, having experienced the contrary.  

Lawyer's themselves uphold the Commonweal  
They punish such as do offend and steal.  
They free with subtle art the innocent,  
From any danger, loss, or punishment;  
They can, but will not keep, the world in awe  
By mis-expounded and distorted law  
Always they have, great store of charity  
And love they want, not keeping amity.    

The reverend Canvas.  

SO loud a lie on Sunday rung,  
So thick a troop, so grave a thrung,  
Assembled in a Church, to laugh,  
At nothing? pardon heavens; when half  
Had God's mark on them? none so good  
To satisfy the hungry crowd;  
With wholesome doctrine; none so hardy  
With an hours talk to quit the tardy?  
All silent brethren, and yet none  
Can speak by inspiration?  
Dares none so conscious of his merit,  
Or presuming on the spirit,  
With an edifying greeting  
Gratulate this zealous meeting?  
Is this a day or place (O sin!)  
For such to have a canuse in?  
Lord! how we sat like Queen Candace's  
Eunuch, reading each other faces!  
Expecting when some Philip's heir  
Would come to ascend the sacred chair.  
Whilst cozening Miles the bell still knocked  
T' increase the number of the mocked?  
But in conclusion all the city  
Was bidden to a nunc dimitte,  
And yet found no man to supply  
The office of dumb Zacharie  
In our dismission, till we tiring  
The bell and pullpit both conspiring,  
Deprived of sound, and vesture told us  
The tenor only preached that called us;    

A non sequitur, by Dr. Corbett.  

Mark how the Lanterns cloud mine eyes  
See where a moon drake gins to rise  
Saturn crawls much like an Iron Catt,  
To see the naked moon in a slippshott hat,  
Thunder thumping toad stools crock the pots  
To see the Meremaids tumble  
Leather catt-a-mountaines shake their heels  
To hear the gosh-hawke grumble  
The rusty thread,  
Begins to bleed,  
And cobwebs elbows itches  
The putrid skies  
Eat mulsacke pies  
Backed up in logic brecehes  
Monday trenchers make good hay  
The Lobster wears no dagger  
Meal-mouthed shee-peacockes poll the stars  
And make the lowbell stagger  
Blue Crocodiles foam in the toe  
Blind meal-bagges do follow the do  
A rib of apple brain spice  
Will follow the Lancasheire dice  
Hark how the chime of Pluto's pisspot cracks,  
To see the rainbows wheel g●…nne, made of flax.  
On Oxford Scholars going to Woodstock  
to hear Dr. Corbet preach before the King.   

THe King, and the Court  
Desirous of sport,  
At woodstock six days did lie  
Thither came the Doctors  
With their velvet sleeved Proctors,  
And the rest of the learned frie.  
Some faces did shine  
More withale than with wine;  
So that each man there was thought  
And judged by their hue  
(As it was then true).  
They were better fed then taught.  
A number beside  
With their wenches did ride  
(For Scholars you know are kind)  
And riding before  
Leaned back evermore  
To kiss their wenches behind.  
A number on foot  
Without cloak, or boot  
And yet to the Court they would  
Which was for to show  
How far they would go  
To do his Majesty good,  
The reverend Dean  
With his ruff, starched clean  
Did preach before the King  
A Ring there was spied  
In his bandstring tide  
Was not this a pretty thing?  
The Ring without doubt  
Was the thing put him out:  
So oft he forgot what was next  
That all that were there  
Did think, and dare swear,  
He handled it more than his Text.    

Horat. 34. Carm. odd 10. ad. Ligurium.  

'tIs true (proud boy) thy beauty may presume  
Thank Venus for't but when thy cheeks shall plume,  
When manly down shall shade thy Childish pride  
And when thy locks (which dangle on each side  
Of thy white shoulders) shall no more remain;  
When thy vermilion cheeks (which do disdain,  
The glorious colour of the purple rose)  
Begin to fade, and Ligarinas lose  
His lovely face, being rudely stuck with hairs  
Hard hearted boy) then wilt thou say with tears  
(When looking for thy fair self in a glass  
Thou findest another there) Ah me! alas!  
What do I now perceive? why had not I?  
These thoughts when I was lovely smooth? or why?  
To these my thoughts which I now entertain  
Do not my Cheeks grow flik & young again?    

To his Mistress.  

I'll tell you whence the rose did first grow red  
And whence the lily whiteness borrowed  
You blushed and then the rose with red was dight.  
The lily kissed your hands and so came white  
Before that time the rose was but a stain  
The lily nought but paleness did contain  
You have the native colour; these they die  
And only flourish in your livery.    

Upon a Cobbler.  

COme hither, read (my gentle friend)  
And here behold a Cobbler's End,  
Long in length his life had gone  
But that he had no Last so long.  
O mighty death whose darts can kill.  
The man that made him souls at will.    

On the death of the Lord Treasurer.  

IMmodest death, that would not once confer  
Dispose or part with our Lord Treasurer!  
Had he been thee, or of thy fatal tribe,  
He would have spared thy life, and ta'en a bribe,  
He that so often had with gold and wit,  
Perverted law and almost conjured it.  
He that could lengthen causes, and was able  
To starve a suitor at the councill-table  
At last not having Evidence to show  
Was fain (perforce) to take a deadly blow.    

The lover's Melancholy.  

HEnce, hence, all you vain delights  
As short as are the nights  
Wherein you spend your folly!  
there's nought in this life sweet,  
If men were wise to see 't  
But only melancholy.  
Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes,  
A sight that pearcing mortifies,  
A look that's fastened to the ground,  
A tongue chained up without a sound,  
Fountaines-heades and pathless groves  
Places which pale passion loves.  
Moonlight walks when all the fowls  
Are warmly housed, save Bats and owls;  
A midnight knell, a parting groan,  
These are the sounds we feed upon;  
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley  
there's nothing truly sweet, but melancholy;    

The answer, by Dr. Stroad.  

Return my joys and hither bring  
A tongue not made to speak, but sing;  
A jowl ye spleen, an inward feast,  
A causeless laugh without a jest;  
A face which gladness doth anoint,  
An arm for joy flung out of joint;  
A spriteful gate that leaves no print,  
And make a feather of a flint:  
A heart that's lighter than the air  
An eye still dancing in its sphere.  
Strong which mirth nothing shall control  
A body nimbler than a soul:  
Free wand'ring thoughts not tied to muse  
Which thinking all things, nothing choose;  
Which ere we see them come, are gone,  
These, life itself doth feed upon.  
Then take no care but only to be jolly,  
To be more wretched than we must, is folly.    

A Blush.  

STay hasty blood! where canst thou seek  
So blest a place as in her cheek?  
How canst thou from the place retire  
Where beauty doth command desire?  
But if thou canst not stay, then show;  
Down to her painting paps below  
Flow like a deluge from her breast  
Where Venus' Swans have built their nest,  
And so take glory to distain  
The azure of each swelling vain;  
Thence run thou boiling through each part  
Till thou hast warmed her frozen heart;  
But if from love she would retire  
Then martyr her with gentle fire  
And having searched each secret place  
Fly back again into her face;  
Where blessed live in changing those  
White lilies to a Ruddy rose:    

To his Mistress.  

Last when I saw thee, thou didst sweetly play  
The gentle thief, and stolst my heart away,  
Rendered again or else give me thine own  
In change, for two for thee (when I have none)  
Too many are, else I must say, Thou art  
A sweet facd creature with a double heart.    

On Christ-church window, and Magdalen College wall.  

Ye men of Galilee why gaze ye so  
On Mandlins' necessary print, as though  
't'had been enough for that pure virgin's son  
That was incarnate, died, & rose, to have done  
Those heavenly acts, that ransomed all from hell  
And yet no visible effigies tell  
The eye, the manner how. Ye misconceive  
Who think these sacred mysteries must leave  
Impression only in the soul; how then  
Shall those that bear more shape than mind of men,  
(Unless their outward sense inform them) know  
What accidents their Saviour long ago  
Sustained? each wise man sees 'tis not the fate  
Of every idiot to be literate.  
And who can then forbid (ye Lay) to look  
And read those things without or line or book.  
Besides (if modesty may judge) what is't  
But a supply to each Evangelist?  
Long may the learned study, peace and scratch  
Before the form of th' manger, or the cratch  
Wherein Babe Christ was laid be understood.  
Each bungling joiner now may ken what wood  
The stall was made of where the long eared steed  
And his associate Ox did stand and feed.  
Each practised oastler knows their meat, can say  
There is their provender, this is their hay.  
Ye now may learn the naked shepherds hue  
The stripling boy, and him it'h cap of blue,  
As perfectly as it had seen the clowns  
Each day a sunning on the jewish downs;  
'Tis strange the doggs not there, perhaps the Cur  
Was left behind, for fear of noise or stir:  
But view the venerable face whereon  
The horn and candle cast reflection,  
Observe it well if ere you chance to meet  
In paradise, you'll know't as soon as see't,  
'tis reverend Joseph's portraiture, see how  
The very image seems to cringe and bow,  
Mark well his beard, his eyes, his nose, if ought  
Be missed, 'tis yours, and not the painter's fault.  
Then lead your eyes unto the beauteous one  
Who ne'er knew man, yet mother to a son.  
Doth not her face more fully speak her heart  
And joy, than text or comment can impart?  
But oh how little like herself when she  
Whose up-cast, down cast looks, behold the tree?  
That fatal tree whereon the Lord of breath  
Exposed himself to th'tyranny of death;  
Was ever sorrow so set forth? and yet  
To make the choir of heaviness complete,  
The loved disciple bears his part, and so  
Doth that brave lass that eclipse the Cross below.  
Consult allauthors, English Greek & Latin,  
You ne'er saw truer grief or finer satin.  
Fowl fall the bird whose undiscerning mute  
Presumes to turpifye so rich a suit;  
'Twas very strange they durst so boldly grieve  
When those untutored hackster's of the Shreeve  
Close by sat armed Cap-a-pee with spears,  
And swords, and glittering helmets, o'er their ears  
Bestriding fiery steeds so marked so made  
Bucephalu's himself was but a jade  
Compared to these, why? who would be but vexed  
To see such palfreys here, and none it'h text?  
Next let your eyes and thoughts be fixed upon  
The sad-sad story of the passion;  
See how from side, from feet, from hands as yet  
The crimson blood trills down, you'll swear 'twere wet;  
Were Thomas here himself, he would not linger  
But sooner trust his eyes then erst his finger.  
Mark how death's sable cloud doth overspread  
His lips, his cheeks, his eyes, his sacred head.  
Behold death drawn to th'life, as if that he  
Thus wracked and stretched upon th' accursed tree,  
Had been of purpose nailed to th' cross to try  
The Painter's cunning hand, more than to die.  
He left him dead, but 'twas not in the power  
Of grave, or hell to keep him, there one hour  
Beyond his own determination.  
Three days are past, and Ionah's type is done  
He walks, and in full glory leaps from tomb:  
As Lazarus from th' earth's insatiate womb,  
But not to die again: mean while the guard  
Who vigilantly slept, soon as they heard  
Death's prisoner, and theirs so strangely rise  
Start up with frighted hearts and ghastly eyes.  
They stare and muse, and swear, the herdsmen talk  
Strange things, but ne'er till now saw dead men walk:  
Do but take notice how the rascals look  
As if some prodigy had thunderstruck  
The villain's hearts, or some strange power had shown  
Medufae's head, and turned them all to stone.  
Sure small persuasion would have made the Elves  
For fear of further pains to hang themselves:  
And blame them not, the Lord was now calcined  
Bright as the Sun, his body so refined  
That not the sauciness of mortal eye  
Could stare upon such lustre and not die.  
His glorified humanity can stay  
No more on earth, heaven calls, he must away;  
Yet ere he part he'll take his leave, th'eleven,  
Attend, and see him ravished into heaven.  
Their eyes (until an interposing cloud  
Did interdict access of sight, and shroud  
His godlike countenance from mortal ken)  
Still wait upon th'ascending Lord; but when  
Distance had snat cht him from their view, they lift  
Their hands to th' sky, as if they made some shift  
To draw him down again, such was their love  
Thei le scarce assent to his ascent above.  
Where once more, note, the text supplied which tells  
Th'Apostles were spectators and none else  
But count byth' pole you'll find th' eleven increased  
Their troops amount to five or six at least.  
Were Luke alive, he'd thank the painter's wit,  
Who saw his oversight and mended it.  
Let's yield to reason then, let him that lists  
Dispute the number of th' Evangelists;  
If Judgement ever please this thing to lift  
Or Greenbury or none must be the fifth  
I've done, burr first I'll pray, hail holy cloth  
And live in spite of rottenness or moth.  
Nor time nor vermin ere shall dare to be  
Corruptors of so much Divinity;  
But men of Galilee why do ye gaze,  
On that which may delight, but not amaze?  
That's left for us; let any wise man bend  
His eyes towards our oriental end  
Heell bless himself indeed, grow wise; withal  
Approaching take the window for a wall  
And then conclude that Wadehams' perspective  
Nor Lincoln's stately types can long survive;  
They'll break for envy (spite of wise) to find  
Us to transcend themselves so far behind;  
But I'll not praise our own, 'tis far more fit  
To leave the talk to some fine Maud'lin wit,  
Who may enrol in some well languished stain  
As we their walls, so they our lights again  
Only I fear they will, (lest we surpass)  
Pull down their hall to build up Eastern glass.    

An Elegy.  

WHy fair vow-breaker, have thy sins thought fit  
That I be cursed example of thy wit  
As well as scorns? (bad womn) have not I  
Deserved as much as quiet misery?  
Be wise and trouble not my suffering fit  
For every sin I have repentance yet,  
Except for loving thee; do not thou press  
My easy madness to a wickedness  
As high as that, lest I be driven so  
As far from heaven as thou art, which I know  
Is not thy aim, for thou hast sinned to be  
In place, as in affection, far from me.  
Am I thy friend or kinsman? have I aught  
That is familiar with thee bettering thought  
A dream and some few letters too, yet lie  
Neglected records of my injury.  
I know no itch my silent sorrows moves:  
To beg a bridal kiss or pair of gloves  
These are the lighter duties which they seek  
Whose sleep is sound & constant as the week  
Is in her nights, who never met the chance  
Of love amiss, but in a dreameing trance  
And waked to gladness; 'tis not so with me  
My night and day are twins in misery.  
These spendthrift eyes have been prepared with fears  
To keep a solemn revelling in tears;  
Hadst thou been silent I had known the shame  
Of that day's union by my grief, not fame.  
Priva'te as sorrows lodging had I dwelled  
Followed with my despair and never felt  
Anger except for living hadst thou been  
Content with my undoinge 'Tis a sin  
My love cannot forgive there to upbraid  
Awret chednesse which thou thyself hast made.  
Heaven knows I suffered, and I suffered so  
That by me 'twas as infallible to know  
How passive man is, fate knew not a curse  
Except thy new contempt to make me worse  
And that thou gav'st when I so low was brought  
I knew not if I lived but yet I thought,  
And counted sighs and tears, as if to scann  
The air and water would make up a man.  
Hadst thou not broke the peace of my decay  
E'er this I think I 'de wept some sins away,  
Being diseased, diseased past mine own cure  
Thou wouldst needs kill which made me to endure  
My patience: why (joys murderess) wouldst thou prove  
Whether that be as passive as my love?  
Had woman such a way as she can give  
To man denial, as of love to live?  
Why then th' abhored reason meers me; why  
Successless lovers do so quickly die,  
So be it with me, but if any curse  
First can be fastened on thee which is worse  
Than thy unwept for vow-breach may it come  
As my grief heavye; may the tedious sum  
Of thy great sins stand sentinel to keep  
Repentance from thy thoughts reach. May thy  
Sleep Be broken as my hopes, 'bove all may be  
Thou choosest husband ripe to jealousye.  
And find it true, to tell thee; may the themes  
On which thy sleep doth paraphrase in dreams  
Be my sad wrongs: and when some other shall  
(Whom chance hath made with me apocryphal  
In loving stories) search an instance forth  
To curse his Mistress for her little worth,  
May thy name meet him, under whom must be  
The Common place of woman's perjury.  
May heaven make all this: and if thou pray  
May heaven esteem as that thou didst that day  
Of thy last promises, I've said, be free  
This penance done, than my days destiny  
By thee is antedated. But three sighs  
Must first pay my admission to the skies.  
One for my madness, loving woman so  
That I could think her true; the next i'll throw  
For wounded lovers, that i'll breathe a new;  
The third shall pray my curses may prove true.    

In imitation of Sir Philip Sydnie's Encomium of Mopsa.  

ASsist me Love, and love's, great Queen of Paphos  
Inspire my muse with strains more rich than Sappho!  
Approach you Heliconiau lasses, even  
Chaste Erato, Thalie and th' other seven.  
Direct my quill whilst I her praises carol out  
Whose paralle's not found in all the world about  
In loveliness she excels (and 'tis no wonder)  
Those brave Cicilian, forgers of Jove's thunder,  
For chastity I'm sure her equal none is  
Not Venus' self that loved the fair Adonis.  
Medea's not more mild, who as the talk is  
Made jason steal the golden fleece from Cholchos.  
For modest silence, I dare say she'll fit ye  
Wherein she's not an ace behind Xanthippe,  
But Oh! the comely graces of her feature  
Great Pluto's Cor affords not such a creature,  
Her golden tresses far surpass Megaera's  
In compass her lofty forehead, whereas  
No frown nor wrinkle ere appears to fright ye  
But still more calm than smooth faced Amphirité.  
Beneath those vaulted cells are fixed those torches  
From whence proceeds that flame so fiercely siorches.  
Between both which her precious nose is placed,  
With fairest pearls and rubies rich encased.  
Next comes her heavenly mouth whose sweet composure  
Falls not within expressions, limits, no sure.  
This even unto her precious ears doth guide us,  
Which makes her full as fair as great King Midas.  
She's smooth as Pan, her skin (which you'll admire) is  
Like purest gold, more glorious far than Iris,  
And to close up this Magazine of pleasures  
She most exactly treads god- Vulcan's measures  
This is my Mistress Character, and if in  
These lines her name you miss; 'tis fair Befs Griffin.    

A Scholar that sold his Cussion.  

TOm I commend thy care of all I know,  
That sold'st this Cushion for a pipe of To—  
Now art thou like though not to study more  
Yet ten times harder than thou didst before.    

On the death of Cut. Cobbler.  

DEath and an honest Cobbler fell at bate  
And finding him worn out, would needs translate;  
He was a trusty so'le, and time had been  
He would well liquored go through thick and thin.  
Death put a trick upon him, and what was't?  
The Cobbler called for All, death brought his last;  
'Twas not uprightly done to cut his thread,  
That mended more and more till he was dead:  
But since he's gone, 'tis all that can be said,  
Honest Gut-Cobler here is underlayd.    

A Letter to Ben. Johnson.  

DIe johnson, cross not our Religion so  
As to be thought immortal; let us know  
Thou art no God; thy works make us mistake  
Thy person, and thy great creations make  
Us I doll thee, and cause we see thee do  
Eternal things, think thee eternal too,  
Restore us to our faith and die, thy doom  
Will do as much good as the fall of Rome:  
'Twill crush an heresy, we ne'er must hope  
For truth till thou be gone, thou and the Pope.  
And though we may be certain in thy fall  
To lose both wit and judgement, brains and all,  
Thou Sack, nor Love, nor Time recover us  
Better be fools then superstitious.  
Dye! to what end should we thee now adore  
There is not Scholarship to live to more,  
Our language is refined: professors doubt  
Their Greek and Hebrew both shall be put out  
And we that Latin studied have so long  
Shall now dispute & write in johnsons' tongue,  
Nay, courtiers yield, & every beauteous wench  
Had rather speak thy English then her French.  
But for thy matter fancy stands aghast  
Wondering to see her strength thus best at last.  
Invention stops her course and bids the world  
Look for no more; she hath already hurled  
Her treasure all on one, thou hast outdone  
So much our wit and expectation,  
That were it not for thee, we scarce had known  
Nature herself could ere so far have gone.  
Dye! seems it not enough thy verse's date  
Is endless; but thine own prolonged fate  
Must equal it; for shame engross not age  
But now (the fith act ended) leave the stage.  
And let us clap, we know the Stars that do  
Give others one sife, give a laureate two.  
But thou, if thus thy body long survives,  
Hast two eternities, and not two lives.  
Die for thine own sake, seest thou not thy praise  
Is shortened only by this length of days.  
Men may talk this, and that, to part the strife,  
My tenet is, thou hast no fault but life.  
Old Authors do speed best, methinks thy warm breath  
Casts a thick mist betwixt thy worth, which death  
Would quickly dissipate. If thou wouldst have  
Thy Bays to flourish, plant them on thy grave.  
Gold now is dross, and Oracles are stuff  
With us, for why? Thou art not low enough.  
We still look under thee. Stoop, and submit  
Thy glory to the meanest of our wit.  
The Rhodsan Colossus, ere it fell,  
Could not be scanned and measured, half so well.  
Lie level to our view, so shall we see,  
Our third and richest University.  
Art's length, Art's height, Art's depth, can ne'er be found,  
Till thou art prostrate, stretched upon the ground.  
Learning no farther than thy life extends,  
With thee began all Arts, with thee it ends.    

On a young Lady, and her Knight.  

A Virtuous Lady sitting in a muse,  
(As fair and virtuous, Ladies often use,)  
With elbow leaned upon one knee so hard,  
The other distant from it half a yard.  
Her Knight, to quip her by a secret token,  
Said, Wife, arise, your Cabinet stands open.  
She rising, blushed, and smilingly did say,  
Lock it then, if you please, you keep the key.    

On a Welch-man's devotion.  

THe way to make a Welshman thirst for bliss,  
And daily say his prayers on his knees,  
Is, to persuade him, that most certain 'tis,  
The Moon is made of nothing but green cheese:  
Then he'll desire nought else, nor greater boon,  
Then placed in heaven, to feed upon the Moon.    

On a Maid's Leg.  

FAir Betty used to tuck her coats up high,  
That men her foot and leg might soon espy.  
Thou hast a pretty leg, (saith one) fair Duck.  
Yea, two, (saith she) or else I have ill luck.  
They're two indeed, they're twins, I think, quoth he,  
They are, and yet they are not, Sir, said she;  
They're birth was both at once, I dare be sworn  
And yet between them both a man was born.    

To his Sister.  

LOving sister, every line  
Of your last Letter, was so fine,  
With the best mettle, that the grain,  
Of Scrivener's pin-dust had been vain.  
The touch of gold did sure instill  
Some virtue, more than did your quill.  
And since you write no cleanly hand,  
Your tokens make me understand.  
Mine eyes have here a remedy,  
Whereby to read more easily.  
I do but jest; Your love alone,  
Is my interpretation,  
My words I will recall, and swear,  
I know your hand is wondrous fair.    

On the death of Hobson, the Cambridge-Carrier.  

HEre Hobson lies, amongst his many betters,  
A man not learned, yet of many Letters;  
The Scholars well can justify as much,  
Who have received them from his pregnant pouch.  
His carriage is well known, oft hath he gone  
An Embassy, 'twixt father and the son.  
In Cambridge few (in good time be it spoken)  
But will remember him by some good token.  
From thence to London road he day by day,  
Till death benighting him, he lost his way.  
Nor wonder is it, that he thus is gone,  
Since most men know, he long was drawing on.  
His Team was of the best, nor could he have  
Them mired in any ground, but in the grave;  
And there he sticks indeed, still like to stand,  
Until some Angel lend his helping hand.  
So rests in peace the ever toiling Swain,  
And supreme Waggoner, next Charles his wain.    

Another on the same.  

HEre lieth one, who did most truly prove,  
That he could never die, whilst he could move.  
So hung his destiny, never to rot,  
Whilst he could but jog on, and keep his trot.  
Made of Sphere mettle, never to decay,  
Until his resolution made of stay.  
Time numbers motion, yet without a crime,  
Against old truth, motion numbered out his time.  
And like some Engine moved, with wheels and weight,  
His principles once ceased, he ended straight.  
Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,  
And too much breathing put him out of breath.  
For had his doings lasted as they were  
He had been an immortal Carrier.    

Another.  

HEre lies old Hobson! Death hath his desire,  
And here (alas) hath left him in the mire;  
Or else the ways being foul, twenty to one,  
He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.  
'Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known,  
Death was half glad that he had got him down.  
For he hath any time this ten years full,  
Dog'dd him 'twixt Cambridge and the London-Bull.  
And surely death could never have prevailed,  
Had not his weekly course of carriage failed.  
But lately finding him so long at home,  
And thinking now his journey's end was come;  
And that he had ta'en up his latest Inn,  
Death in the likeness of a Chamberlain,  
Showed him his room, where he must lodge that night,  
Pulled off his boots, and took away the light.  
If any ask for him, it shall be said,  
Hobson has supped, and newly gone to bed.    

Fr. Clark, Porter of St. John's, To the Precedent.  

HElp Silvanus, help god Pan,  
To show my love to this kind man,  
Who out of's love and nature good,  
Hath well increased my store of wood.  
And whilst he the same peruses,  
Wood-Nymphs help instead of Muses.  
Oh thou that sit'st at St. john's helm,  
I humbly thank thee for my Elm;  
Or if it chance an Oak to prove,  
With heart of Oak I thank your love.  
This Tree (to leave all Ovid's fables)  
Shall be the Tree of Predicables.  
Or if you like not that opinion,  
The kindred Tree of great justinian.  
Thus finer Wits may run upon't,  
But I do mean to make fire on't:  
By which I'll sit and sing, in spite of wealth,  
And drink in Lambs-wool to your Worship's health.    

An Epitaph.  

HEre underneath this stone doth lie,  
That worthy Knight, brave Sir john Dry;  
At whose funeral there was no weeping,  
He died before Christmas, to save house-keeping.    

A Wife.  

A Lusty young Wife, that of late was sped,  
With all the pleasures of a marriagebed,  
Oft a grave Doctor asked, whether's more right  
For Venus' sports, the morning or the night.  
The good old man replied, as he thought meet,  
The morn's more wholesome, but the night more sweet.  
Nay then (said she) since we have time and leisure,  
We'll to't each morn for health, each night for pleasure.    

The constant man.  

HE that with frowns is not dejected,  
Nor with soothing smiles erected;  
Nor at the baits of pleasure biteth,  
He whom no thoughts nor cross affrighteth  
But, centre to himself, controleth,  
Change and fortune when she rouleth.  
Who when the silent night begins,  
Makes even reckoning with his sins:  
Who not deferreth till to morrow,  
To wipe out his black scores of sorrow.  
Who sets hell-pains at six and seven,  
And feareth not the fall of heaven.  
But's full resolved without denial,  
To yield his life to any trial;  
Making his death his meditation,  
And longing for his transmigration.  
This is the constant man, who never  
From himself, nor God doth sever.    

To his Mistress.  

COme let's hug and kiss each other,  
Sacrificing to Love's mother:  
These are duties which she loves,  
More than thousand milky Doves  
Fresh bleeding on her altars. We  
Will not use our piety  
In such slaughters. Cruelty  
Is no devotion, nor can I  
Believe, that she can pleasure take  
In blood, unless for Mars his sake.  
No: Let us to Cythera's Queen,  
Burn for sacrifice our green,  
And tender youth, with those divine  
Flames, which thine eyes begot of mine.  
And lest the while our zeal catch cold,  
In warm embraces we'll enfold  
Each other, to produce a heat.  
Thus pleasing her, we pleasure get.  
Then let's kiss and hug each other,  
Sacrificing to love's mother.    

Swearing.  

IN elder times, an ancient custom was,  
In weighty matters to swear by the Mass.  
And when the Mass was down, as all men note,  
Then swore they by the cross of the grey Groat.  
And when the cross was likewise held in scorn,  
Then faith and troth was all the oath was sworn.  
But when they had outworn both faith and troth,  
Then, Damn my soul, became a common oath.  
So custom kept decorum in gradation:  
Mass, cross, faith, troth out-sworn, then came damnation.    

On a good Legg and Foot.  

IF Hercules tall stature might be guessed  
But by his thumb, the Index of the rest,  
In due proportion, the best rule that I  
Would choose, to measure Venus' beauty by,  
Should be her leg and foot: Why gaze we so  
On th'upper parts, as proud to look below,  
(In choosing Wives) when 'tis too often known,  
The colours of their face are not their own.  
As for their legs, whether they mince or stride,  
Those native compasses are seldom wide  
Oftelling truth. The round and slender foot,  
Is a proved token of a secret note,  
Of hidden parts, and well this way may lead,  
Unto the closet of a maidenhead.  
Here emblems of our youth, we Roses tie;  
And here the Garter, love's dear mystery.  
For want of beauty here, the Peacock's pride,  
Let's fall her train, and fearing to bespyed,  
Shuts up her painted witnesses, to let  
Those eyes from view, which are but counterfeit.  
Who looks not if this part be good or evil,  
May meet with cloven feet, and match the devil.  
For this did make the difference between  
The more unhallowed creatures, and the clean.  
Well may you judge her other parts are light,  
Her thoughts are wry that doth not tread aright.  
But then there's true perfection, when we see,  
Those parts more absolute which hidden be.  
Nature ne'er lent a fair foundation,  
For an unworthy frame to rest thereon.  
Let others view the top, and limbs throughout,  
The deeper knowledge is to know the root.  
In viewing of the face, the weakest know  
What beauty is, the learned look more low:  
And in the feet the other parts descry,  
As in a pool the Moon we use to spy.  
Pardon, sweetheart, the pride of my desire,  
If but to kiss your toe it should aspire.    

Upon the view of his Mistress face in a Glass.  

AH cruel Glass didst thou not see,  
Chloris alone too hard for me?  
Perceiv'dst thou not her charming sight,  
Did ravish mine in cruel fight?  
But then another she must frame,  
Whose single forces well might tame  
A lover's heart; no humane one,  
Is proof against her force alone.  
Yet did I venture, though struck mute,  
The beauteous vision to salute.  
But that like air in figured charms,  
Deceived the ambush of my arms.  
'Twas some wise Angel her shape took,  
That so he might more heavenly look.  
I her old captive, now do yield  
Her shadowed self another field:  
By such odds overcome, to die,  
Is no dishonoured victory.    

On Bond the Usurer.  

HEre lies a Bond under this tomb,  
Sealed and delivered to, god knows whom.    

To the Duke of Buckingham.  

WHen I can pay my Parents, or my King '  
For life, or peace, or any dearer thing,  
Then, dearest Lord, expect my debt to you  
Shall be as truly paid, as it is due.  
But as no other price or recompense  
Serves them, but love, and my obedience.  
So nothing pays my Lord, but what's above  
The reach of hands, his virtue, and my love.  
For when as goodness doth so overflowe,  
The conscience binds not to restore but owe,  
Requital were presumption, and you may,  
Call me ungrateful, when I strive to pay.  
Nor with this moral lesson do I shift  
Like one that meant to save a better gift.  
Like very poor or connterfeit poor men,  
Who to preserve their Turkey or their hen  
Do offer up themselves. No, I have sent  
(A kind of gift, will last by being spent)  
Thanks-starling, far above the bullion rate  
Of horses, hangings, jewels, coin, or plate.  
Oh you that should in choosing of your own,  
Know a true Diamond from a Bristol stone,  
You that do know they are not always best  
In their intent, that loudest do portest  
But that a prayer from the Convocation,  
Is better than the Commons protestation,  
Trust them that at your feet their lives will lay  
And know no arts but to perform and pray  
Whilst they that buy perferment without praying  
Begin with bribes, and finish with betraying.    

The Gentleman's verses before he Killed himself.  

HAst Night unto thy Centre, are thy wings  
Ruled by the course of dull clockt plummetings?  
If so, mount on my thoughts, & we'll exceed  
All time that's past t'gain midnight with our speed  
The day more favourable hasted on  
And by its death sent me instruction  
To make thy darkness tomb my life, let then  
Thy wont hours seize on the eyes of men  
Make them imagine by their sleep, what I  
Must truly act, let each star veil his Eye  
With masks of mourning clouds: methinks the owls  
Prodigious summons strike me, and she howls  
My Epicedium, with whose tragic quill  
I'll pencil in this map my hapless ill.  
Caused first by her, whose fowl apostasy  
In love for ever brand her; and when I  
Am dead, dear paper (my minds heir) convey  
This epitaph unto her view, and pray  
Her to inscribe it on my tomb.  
Here lies  
One murdered by a woman's perjuryes  
Who from the time, she scorned him, scorned to live  
No rival shall him of his death deprive.    

A Song in commendation of Music.  

WHen whispering strains do softly steal  
With creeping passion through the heart  
And when at every touch we feel  
Our pulses beat and bear a part  
When threads can make  
A hart string quake  
Philosophy  
Can scarce deny  
The soul consists of harmony.   

When unto heavenly joys we feign  
What ere the soul affecteth most  
Which only thus we can explain  
By music of the winged host.  
Whose lays we think  
Make stars to wink  
Philosophy  
Cannot deny  
Our soul consists of harmony.  
O lull me, lull me, charming air  
My senses rocked with wonder sweet  
Like snow on wool, thy fall are  
Soft, like a spirit, are thy feet  
Grief who need fear  
That hath an ear  
Down let him lie  
And slumbering dye  
And change his soul for harmony.    

A Dialogue betwixt Cupid and a Country-Swaine.  

AS Cupid took his bow and bolt  
Some birding-sport to find;  
He lightt upon a shepherd's swain  
That was some good man's hind.   Swa. 
Well met fair Boy, what sport abroad  
It is a goodly day:  
The birds will sit this frosty morn  
You cannot choose but slay.  
Gods-ouches look, your eyes are out  
You will not bird I trow:  
Alas go home or else I think  
The birds will laugh at you.  Cup. 
Why man thou dost deceive thyself  
Or else my mother lies  
Who said that though that I were blind  
My arrows yet had eyes.  Swa. 
Why then thy mother is a fool  
And thou art but an elf,  
To let thy arrows to have eyes  
And go with out thyself,  Cup. 
Not, so Sir Swain, but hold thy prate,  
If I do take a shaft  
I'll make thee know what I can do  
(At this the young Swain laughed:)  
Then angry Cupid drew his bow  Swa. 
For God's sake kill me not.  Cup. 
I'll make thy lither liver ache  Swa. 
Nay I'd be loath of that.  
The singing arrow hit the mark  
And pierced his silly soul  
You might see by his hollow eyes  
Where love had made a hole.  
And so the Swain went bleeding home,  
To stay it was no boot:  
And found that he could see to hit,  
That could not see to shoot.   

Sighs.  

O Tell me, tell, thou god of wind  
In all thy caverns canst thou find  
A vapour, flame, a gale or blast  
Like to a sigh which love doth cast?  
Can any whirlwind in thy vault  
Plough up Earth's breath with like assault.  
Go Wind and blow then where thou please  
Yea breathless leave me to my ease.   

If thou be'st wind, O then refrain  
From wracking me whilst I complain;  
If thou be'st wind, then leight thou art  
And yet how heavy is my heart?  
If thou be'st wind, then purge thy way  
Let care, that clogs thy force, obey,  
Go wind and blow, etc.   

These blasts of sighing raised are  
By th'influence of my bright star;  
The AEolus from whence they came  
Is love that strains to blow the same:  
The angry Sway of whose behest  
Makes hearth and bellows of one breast.  
Go wind and blow, etc.   

Know 'tis a wind that longs to blow  
Upon my Saint where ere she go,  
And stealing through her fan it bears  
Soft errands to her lips and ears,  
And then perhaps a passage makes  
Down to the heart when breath she takes.  
Go wind and blow, etc.   

Yea gentle gale, try it again,  
Oh do not pass from me in vain;  
Go mingle with her soul divine  
Engendering spirits like to mine:  
Yea take my soul along with thee  
To work a stronger Sympathy.  
Go wind and blow, etc.   

My soul before the grosser part  
Thus to her heaven should depart,  
And when my body cannot lie  
On wings of wind, she soon shall fly;  
Though not one soul our bodies join,  
Our bodies shall our souls combine.  
Go wind and blow thou where thou please,  
Yea breathless leave me to my ease.    

Women.  

Women are borne in Wilsheire,  
Brought up in Cumberland.  
Led their lives in Bedfordsheire  
Bring their husbands to Buckingame  
And die in Shrewsbury.    

On a dissembler.  

COuld any show where Pliny's people dwell  
Whose head stand in their breasts, who cannot tell,  
A smoothinge lie, because their open heart  
And lips are joined so near. I would depart  
As quick as thought, and there forget the wrongs  
Which I have suffered by deceitful tongues.  
I would depart, where souls departed be  
Which being freed from cloudy flesh, can see  
Each other so immediately, so clear,  
That none need tongues to speak nor ears to hear:  
Were tongues intended to express the soul  
And can we better do with none at all?  
Where words first made our meanings to reveal?  
And as they used our meaning to conceal;  
The air by which we breathe, will that turn fog?  
Or breath turn missed; will that become a Clog  
Which should unload the mind? fall we upon  
Another babels Sub-confusion?  
And in the self same language must we find,  
A divers faction of the words and mind?  
Dull as I am, that hug such empty air,  
And never marked the deeds, (a phrase more fair  
More trusty and univocal) join well,  
Three or four actions we may quickly spell  
A hollow heart; if these no sight will lend,  
Read the whole sentence and observe the end.  
I will not wait so long: the guilty man  
(On whom I ground my speech) no longer can  
Delude my sense, nor can the graceful art  
Of kind dissembling, button up his heart.  
His well-spoke wrongs, are such as hurtful words  
Writ in a comely hand, or bloody swords,  
Sheathed up in velvet, if he draw on me  
My armour proof is incredulity.    

To a Friend.  

LIke as the hand which hath been used to play  
One lesson long, still runs the usual way:  
And waits not what the hearers bid it strike,  
But doth presume by custom this will like.  
So run my thoughts which are so perfect grown,  
So well acquainted with my passion;  
That now they do prevent me with their haste  
And ere I think to sigh, my sigh is past;  
Is past and flown to you, for you alone  
Are all the object that I think upon;  
And did not you supply my soul with thought  
For want of action it to none were brought.  
What though our absent arms may not enfold  
Real embraces; yet we firmly hold  
Each other in possession; thus we see  
The Lord enjoys his Lands where ere he be.  
If Knights possessed no more than where they sat  
What were they greater than a meaner state?  
This makes me firmly yours, you firmly mine  
That something more than bodies us combine.    

A Poetical Poem, by Mr. Stephen Locket to Mistress Bess Sarney.  

TO my Bess Sarney, quintessence of beauty,  
I Steven Locket do present my duty.  
In rythem deign goddess to accept my verses,  
I wis with worse wise men have wiped their A—  
O thou which able art to take to task all  
(Pox! what will rythme to that?) oh, I'm a rascal,  
But I'm turned poet late, and for thy credit,  
Have penned this poem, prithee take't and read it.  
Thou needs not be ashamed of't, for it raises  
Trophies as high as maypoles to thy praises.  
But first in order it thy head doth handle  
That's more orbicular than a quadrangle.  
On top of which doth grow a Turst of tresses  
Winter herself, raid in her hoary dresses  
Of frost, looks not more lovely; thy brows truly  
Have larger furrows, than a field ploughed newly.  
Thy eyes, ha eyes (Zounds I'am so full of clinches)  
Are not sunk in thy head above six inches;  
From which distraining gently, there doth stream  
Rivers of whey, mixed with curdled cream.  
Strait as a Ram's horn is thy nose, more marrow  
Lies in thy nostrils, than would fill a barrow.  
And at your lip to make't more ornamental,  
Hangs down a jewel of S— Oriental.  
The bright gold & thy face are of one colour,  
But if compared with thine, that is the duller.  
Thy lips are white as tallow, never man did  
Buss sweeter things, (sure they are sugarcandid.)  
Thy teeth more comely than two dirty rakes are,  
Thy breath is stronger than a dozen jakes are.  
A fart for all perfumes, a turd for roses  
Smell men but thee, they wish themselves all noses.  
Thy voice as sweet, as musical, as fine is,  
As any phlegmy Haggs, that ninty nine is.  
And when thou speak'st, (as if th'had been the wonder  
Of women kind) thy tongus as still as thunder  
But oh thy shoulders large; 'tis six to seven,  
Should Atla's fail, but thou wouldst bear up heaven.  
Thou dost excel, I warrant thee for a button,  
Hercules and Cacus too, that stole mutton.  
About the waist, there thou art three times fuller,  
Then was the Wadham Garagantuan Buller.  
Thy buttock and thy fashion are so all one,  
That I'd a swore thou hadst a Farthingale on  
Thy legs are Badger like, and go as even,  
As do jambick verses or I Steven,  
And now I'm come unto thy feet, where I do  
Prostrate myself, with reverence to thy shoe,  
Which for antiquity ne'er a jot behind is.  
Tom Coriats, that travelled both the Indies.  
For thy sweet sake, I will go down to Pluto,  
And in thy quarrel beat him black & blue too;  
And lest Sir Cerberus should be too lusty,  
I have a loaf will hold him play, 'tis crusty.  
I'll bring the devil back with me in a snaffle,  
For in that kind I scorn to take a baffle.  
And so I take my leave; prithee sweet Thumkin,  
Hold up thy coats, that I may kiss thy bumkin.    

Thanks for a welcome.  

FOr your good looks, and for your Claret  
For often bidding, Do not spare it;  
For tossing glasses to the top,  
And after sucking of a drop,  
When scarce a drop was left behind,  
Or what doth nickname wine e'vn wind:  
For healthful mirth and lusty Sherry,  
Such as made grave old Cato merry;  
Such are our thanks that you may have  
In blood the Claret that you gave.  
And in your service shall be spent  
The spirits which your Sack hath lent.    

To Phillis.  

Fie on this Courtly life, full of displeasure  
Where neither frowns nor smiles keep any measure,  
But every passion governs in extremes,  
True love and faith from hence falsehood doth banish:  
And vows of friendship here like vapours vanish,  
Loyalty's counted but a dream,  
Inconstant favours like rivers gliding,  
Truth is despised  
Whilst flatterie's prized,  
Poor virtue here hath no certain abiding.  
Then let's no longer stay, my fairest Phillis,  
But let us fly from hence where so much ill is;  
Into some some desert place there to abide  
True love shall go with us and faith unfeigned  
Pure thoughts, embraces chaste, and vows unstained.  
Virtue herself shall ever be our guide,  
In Cottage poor where neither frowning fortune,  
Nor change of fate  
Can once abate,  
Our sweet content, or peace at all importune.  
There will we drive our flocks from hills and valleys,  
And whilst they feeding are, we'll sit & dally;  
And thy sweet voice to sing birds shall invite  
Whilst I with roses, violets, and lilies  
Will flowery garlands make to crown my Phillis.  
Or numbered verses to thy praise indite  
And when the Sun is Westwardly declining,  
Our flocks and we,  
Will home wards flee  
And rest ourselves until the Sun's next shining.    

Women.  

ONce I must confess I loved  
And expected love again,  
But so often as I proved  
My expectance was in vain.   

Women joy to be attempted,  
And do glory when they see  
Themselves from loves force exempted,  
And that men captived be.   

If they love, they can conceal it,  
And dissemble when they please,  
When as men will strait reveal it  
And make known their heart's disease.   

Men must beg and crave their favour,  
Making many an idle vow;  
Whilst they froward in behaviour,  
Feign would yield, but know not how.   

Sweet stolne-sport to them is grateful,  
And in heart they wish to have it;  
Yet they do account it hateful  
Upon any terms to crave it.   

But would men not go about it  
But leave off at all to woe,  
Ere they would be long without it,  
They would beg and crave it too.    

The World.  

WHether men do laugh or weep,  
Whether they do wake or sleep,  
Whether they feel heat or cold,  
Whether they be young or old;  
There is underneath the Sun  
Nothing in true earnest done.  
All our pride is but a jest,  
None are worst and none are best;  
Grief and joy, and hope and fear,  
Play their pageants every where;  
Vain opinion all doth sway  
And the world is but a play.  
Powers above in clouds doth sit,  
Marking our poor apish wit,  
That so lamely without state,  
Their high glory imitate.  
No ill can be felt but pain,  
And that happy men disdain.    

On his absent Mistress.  

Absence's, hear thou my protestation  
Against thy strength,  
Distance and length;  
Do what thou canst for alteration:  
For hearts where love's refined  
Are absent joined, by time combined.   

Who loves but where the Graces be,  
His mind hath found  
Affectious ground  
Beyond time place mortality,  
That heart that cannot vary,  
Absence is present time doth carry.   

By absence this good mean I gain  
That I can catch her,  
Where none can watch her,  
In some close corner of my brain,  
There I embrace her, and there kiss her  
And so enjoy her, and so miss her.    

The Constant Lover.  

I Know as well as you, she is not fair,  
Nor hath she sparkling eyes or curled hair;  
Nor can she brag of virtue or of truth,  
Or any thing about her save her youth.  
She is woman too, and to no End  
I know, I verses write and letters send:  
And nought I do can to compassion move her  
All this I know, yet cannot choose but love her.  
Yet am not blind as you and others be;  
Who think and swear they littile Cupid see  
Play in their Mistress eyes, and that there dwell  
Roses on cheeks, and that her breast excel  
The whitest snow, as if that love were built  
On fading red and white ' the bodies quilt.  
And that I cannot love unless I tell  
Wherein or on what part my love doth dwell.  
Vain Heretics you be, for I love more  
Than ever any did that told wherefore:  
Then trouble me no more, nor tell me why,  
'tis! because she is she, and I am I:    

The Irish Beggar.  

I Pray you save poor Irish knave,  
A hone a hone  
Round about the town throughout  
Is poor Shone gone,  
Master to find,  
Loving and kind  
But Shone to his mind's  
Near the near,  
Poor Shone can find none here  
Which makes him cry for fear,  
A hone a hone.   

Sh●…n being poor, his feet being sore,  
For which he'll no more  
Trot about,  
To find Master out,  
He had radir go without  
And cry a hone,  
I was so cursed that I was forced  
A hone a hone.   

To go bare foot and strips to boot  
And no shoes, none,  
None English could I speak,  
My mind for to break,  
And many laughed to hear the moan I made,  
I like a tired jade,  
That had no work or trade,  
Cried, a hone a hone.   

In stead of breakfast,  
Was fain run a pace  
To get more stomach to my hungry throat,  
And when for friend I sought,  
They called me all to nought,  
A hone a hone.   

For Lady's sake some pity take;  
A hone a hone.  
I served a lass where was no mass  
No faith none;  
Oft was I beat 'cause I'd not eat,  
On fridays, beef and meat,  
Twice a day,  
And when I went to pray,  
took holy bead away;  
A hone a hone.   

Make Church to go  
Whether will or no  
I'll die, or I do so,  
Grace a Christ,  
Poor Shone loves Popish Priest,  
Good Catholic thou seest.  
A hone a hone.    

Answer.  

I prithee Shone make no more moan  
For thy Mr lost.  
I do intend something to spend,,  
On Catholics thus Crossed.  
Take this small gift,  
And with it make a shift;  
And be not thou bereft of thy mind,  
All though he be unkind;  
To leave thee thus behind  
To cry a hone.   

Buy thee some beer,  
And then some good cheer,  
There's nought for thee too dear;  
What ere ensue  
Be constant still and true,  
Thy country do not rue  
Nor cry a hone.   

Shone  
Good shentry men that do intend  
To help poor Shone at's need  
Mine patron here hath given me beer  
And meat whereon to feed,  
Yea and money too  
And so I hope that you,  
Will do as he did do for my relief,  
To ease my pain and grief;  
I'll eat no powdered beef;  
What ere ensue   

I'll keep my fast  
As in times past,  
And all my prayers and vows I will renew  
Cause friends I find but few,  
Poor Shone will still prove true,  
And so adieu.    

A Question.  

I ask thee whence those ashes were  
Which shrine themselves in plaits of hair?  
Unknown to me, sure each morn dies.  
A Phoenix for a sacrifice.   

I ask whence are those airs that fly  
From birds in sweetest harmony?  
Unknown to me, but sure the choice  
Of accents echoed from her voice.   

I ask thee whence those active fires  
Take light which glide through burnished air?  
Unknown to me, unless there flies  
A flash of lightning from her eyes.   

I ask thee whence those ruddy blooms  
Pierce on her cheeks on scarlet gowns?  
Unknown to me? Sure that which flies  
From fading roses, her cheek dies.   

I'll ask thee of the lily, whence  
It gained that type of innocence?  
Unknown to me, sure nature's deck  
Was ravished from her snowy neck.    

The Reply.  

Ask me no more, whither do stray  
The golden atoms of the day;  
For in pure love, heaven did prepare  
Those powders, to enrich your hair.   

Ask me no more whither doth haste  
The nightingale when summer's past;  
For in your sweet divided throat  
She winters, and keeps warm her note.   

Ask me no more where those stars light  
Which downwards stoop in dead of night;  
For in your eyes they set; and there  
Fixed become, as in their sphere.   

Ask me no more where jove bestows,  
When june is past, the fading rose;  
For in your beauties Orient deep,  
All flowers as in their beds do sleep.   

Ask me no more if East or West,  
The Phoenix builds her spiced nest;  
For unto you at last she flies,  
And in your fragrant bosom dies.    

The Mock-Song.  

I Tell you true, whereon doth light  
The dusky shade of banished night,  
For in just vengeance heavens allow  
It still should shine upon your brow.   

I tell you true where men may seek  
The sound which once the owl did shriek,  
For in your false deviding throat  
It lies, and death is in its note.   

I tell you true whither do pass  
The siniling look out of a glass;  
It leaps into your face, for there  
A falser shadow doth appear.   

I'll tell you true whither are blown  
The airy wheels of Thistle down,  
They fly into your mind, whose care  
Is to be light as thistles are.   

I tell you true within what nest  
The stranger Cuckoe's eggs do rest,  
It is your bosom which can keep  
Nor him, nor him, where one should sleep.    

The Moderatix.  

I'll tell you where another sun  
That sets, as rising it begun.  
It is myself who keeps one sphere  
And were the same if men so were.   

What need I tell, that life and death,  
May pass in sentence from one breath;  
So issue from my equal heart  
Both love and scorn for men's desert.   

I'll tell you in what heavenly hell  
An Angel and a friend may dwell:  
It is mine eye whose glassy book  
Sends back the gazer's divers look.   

I'll tell you in a divers scale  
One weight can up and downwards hale:  
You call me thistle, you a rose;  
I neither am, yet both of those.   

I'll tell you where both frost and fire  
In peace of common feat conspire;  
My frozen breast that flint is like,  
Yet yields a fire if you will strike.   

Then you that love, and you that loath.  
With one aspect I answer both;  
For round about me glows a fire,  
Can melt and harden gross desire.    

The affirmative answer.  

OH no, heaven saw men's fancies stray  
To idolise but dust and clay;  
That emblem gave that they might see,  
Your beautye's date but dust must be.   

No Philomela when summers gone  
Hasts to the wood her rape to moan;  
(Unwilling hers) a shamed to see  
Your (unlike hers) unchastity.   

Oh no, those stars fly but the sight  
Of what you act in dead of night,  
A shamed themselves should Panders prove  
In your unsatiate beastly love.   

Oh no, that rose when june is passed  
Looks pale as with a poisonous blast;  
And such your beauty, when as time  
Like winter shall o'ertake your prime.   

Oh no the Phoenix shuns the place,  
And fears the lustful fires t'embrace,  
Of your hot breast and barren womb,  
As death or some perpetual tomb.    

A discourse between a Poet and a Painter.  Poet. 
PAinter, I prithee pencil to the life  
The woman thou wouldst willingly call wife,  
Fashion her from the head unto the heel,  
So perfect that but gazing thou mayst feel  
Pigmaleons' passion: colour her fair hair,  
Like amber, or to something else more rare,  
Temper a white shall pass Pyrenean snow,  
To raise her temples, and on it bestow  
Such artificial azure, that the Eye,  
May make the heart believe the marble sky,  
To perfect her had melted in soft reins,  
Lending a blue to brawch her swelling veins,  
Then Painter, to come lower, her sweet chin,  
I would have small and white, not much trenched in;  
Nor altogether plain, but such an one  
The nicest thought may judge equal to none.  
Her nose I would have comely, not too high,  
Though men call it, in Physiognomy,  
A type of honour; nor too low, for then  
They say, she's known (God knows) how many men;  
Nor broad, nor flat, that's the hard favoured mould:  
Nor thin, nor sharp, for then they'll call her scold.  
Apparel it in such a speaking grace,  
That men may read Majesty in her face.  
Her lips a pair of blushing twins so red,  
Nice fancy may depart away full fed.  
But, Painter, when thou com'st unto her eye,  
There let thy Pencil play; there cunningly  
Express thyself, for as at feasts, so here  
The dainties I keep last to crown the cheer.  
Make her eye Love's sweet argument, a look  
That may discourse, make it a well writ book,  
Whereas in fair set characters of art,  
Men there may read the story of her heart.  
Whiter than white, if you would pourtray aught,  
Display her neck cure as the purest thought.  
To make her gracious give her a broad breast  
Topped with two milky mountains; down her chest.  
Between those hills let Loves sweet valley lie,  
The pleasing thraldom of a Lovesick eye.  
Still, Painter, to fall lower paint her waste  
Strait as the Cedar, or the Norway Mast,  
To take a modest step, let men but guess  
By her neat foot a hidden handsomeness.  
Thus, Painter, I would have her in each part,  
Remain unmatched by nature or by art.  
Canst thou do this?  Painter. 
— Yes Sir, I'll draw a feature,  
You shall conclude that art hath outdone nature,  
The Pencil Sir, shall force you to confess,  
It can more lively than your pen express.  Poet. 
That by this then let me find,  
To this body draw a mind;  
O Painter, to your pencil fall,  
And draw me something rational:  
Give her thoughts, serious, secure,  
Holy, chaste, religious, pure.  
From virtue never known to start,  
Make her an understanding heart.  
Seat the Graces in her mind,  
A well taught truth, a faith refined  
From doubts and jealousies; and give  
Unto her heart a hope may live  
Longer than time, until it be  
Perfected by Eternity.  
Give her an honest loving mind,  
Neither too coy, nor yet too kind:  
But let her equal thoughts so raise her,  
Loose thoughts may fear, and the chaste praise her.  
Then, Painter, next observe this rule,  
A principle in Apelles School;  
Leave not too much space between  
Her tongue and heart, 'tis seldom seen  
That such tell truth; but let there be,  
Between them both a sympathy:  
For she whose tongue and heart keep even  
In every syllable, courts heaven:  
If otherwise, this maxim know,  
False above's not true below.  
Thus mind and body let her be all over,  
A golden text bound in a golden cover.  
Canst thou do this?  Painter. 
— But Sir, ' Is't your intent  
I should draw her in both parts excellent?  Poet. 
It is.  Paint. 
Then in plain words, not in dark sense to lurk,  
Find you the woman; and I'll fall to work.   

To B. R. for her Bracelets.  

'tIs not (Dear Love) that Amber twist  
Which circles round thy captive wrist,  
Can have the power to make me more  
Your prisoner than I was before.  
Though I that bracelet dearer hold,  
Than Misers would a chain of gold.  
Yet this but ties my outward part,  
Heartstrings alone can tie my heart.   

'Tis not that soft and silken wreath,  
Your hands did unto mine bequeath;  
Can bind with half so powerful charms,  
As the Embraces of your arms;  
Although not iron bands (my fair)  
Can bind more fiercely than your hair.  
Yet that will chain me most will be,  
Your heart in True Love's-knot to me.   

'tis not those beams, your hairs, nor all  
Your glorious outside doth me thrall;  
Although your looks have force enough  
To make the stateliest Tyrants bow:  
Nor any angel could deny,  
Your person his idolatry.  
Yet I do not so much adore  
The temple, but the goddess more.   

If then my soul you would confine  
To prison, tie your heart to mine;  
Your noble virtues, constant love,  
The only powerful chains will prove;  
To bind me ever, such as those  
The hands of death shall ne'er unloose.  
Until I such a prisoner be  
No liberty can make me free.    

On Tom Holland and Nell Cotton.  

A Light young man lay with a lighter woman,  
And did request their things might be in common;  
And gave her (when her good will he had gotten,  
A yard of Holland for an ell of Cotton.    

A We lchman.  

JEnkin a welchman having suits in law  
Journeying to London chance to steal a Cow;  
For which (pox on her luck as ere man saw)  
Was burnt with in the fist, her know not how.  
Being asked how well the case did with him stand  
Wees have her now (quoth jenkin) in her hand.    

A Woman that scratched her Husband.  

A Woman lately fiercely did assail  
Her husband with sharp speech, but sharper nail;  
On that stood by and saw her, to her said  
Why do you use him so? he is your head.  
He is my head (quoth she) indeed 'tis true,  
I do but scratch my head, and so may you.    

A Mistress.  

HEr for a Mistress, would I fain enjoy,  
That hangs the lip and pouts for every toy:  
Speaks like a wag, is bold, dares boldly stand  
And bid love welcome with a wanton hand.  
Laughs loud, and for one blow will give you three  
And when she's stabbd, will fall a kissing me.  
If she be modest wise and chaste of life,  
Hang her she's good for nothing but a wife.    

One fight with his wife.  

MEg and her husband Tom, not long ago,  
Were at it close, exchanging blow for blow.  
Both being eager, both of a stout heart,  
Endured many a bang ere they would part.  
Peter looked on & would not stint the strife,  
He's cursed (quoth he) that parteth man and wife.    

Ambition.  

THe whistling winds methinks do witness this,  
No grief so great as to have lived in bliss.  
Then only this poor plain song will I sing.  
I was not borne, nor shall I die a King.  
To leap at honour is a dangerous case,  
See but the gudgeons they will bite a pace.  
Until the fatal hook be swallowed down,  
Wherewith ambition angel's for a crown:  
Then be content and let the bait pass by,  
He hath enough that lives contentedly.  
But if thou must advancement have, then see  
This is the way thou must advanced be.  
True temporising is the means to climb  
There is no music without keeping time.    

Upon a Gardener.  

COuld he forget his death? that every hour  
Was emblem'd to it by the fading flower:  
Should he not mind his end? yes needshe must,  
That still was conversant'mongst beds of dust.  
Then let no on yond in an handchercher  
Tempt your sad eyes unto a needless fear;  
If he that thinks on death well lives & dies,  
The gardener sure is gone to paradise.    

On his first Love.  

MY first love whom all beauties did adorn  
Firing my heart, suppressed it with her scorn.  
And since like tinder in my heart it lies  
By every sparkle made a sacrifice.  
Each wanton eye now kindleth my desire  
And that is free to all which was entire.  
For now my wand'ring thoughts are not confined  
Unto one woman, but to womankind.  
This for her shape I love, that for her face,  
This for her gesture, or some other grace:  
And sometimes when I none of these can find  
I choose her by the kernel not the rind.  
And so do hope though my chief hope is gone  
To find in many what I lost in one.  
And like to merchants which have some great loss  
Trade by retail which cannot do in gross.  
She is in fault, which caused me first to stray  
Needs must he wander, who hath lost his way;  
Guiltless I am, she did the change provoke,  
Which made that charcoal which at first was oak  
For as a looking glass to the aspect,  
Whilst it was whole doth but one face reflect;  
But cract or broke in pieces, there is shown  
Many less faces, where was first but one.  
So-love unto my heart did first prefer  
Her image, and there planted none but her:  
But when 'twas cracked & martyred by her scorn  
Many less faces in her seat were borne,  
Thus like to tinder I am prone to catch  
Each falling sparkle, fit for any match.    

To his Mistress.  

I Will not do sacrifice  
To thy face, or to thy eyes  
Nor unto thy lily palm  
Nor thy breath that wounding balm:  
But the part  
To which my heart  
In vows is sealed,  
Is that mine  
Of bliss divine  
Which is concealed.  
What's the golden fruit to me  
So I may not shake the tree?  
What's that golden architecture  
If I may not touch the nectar?  
Bare enjoying all the rest  
Is but like a golden feast,  
Which at need,  
Can never feed  
Our love sick-wishes  
Let me eat,  
Substantial meat,  
Not view the dishes.    

To his letter.  

FLy paper, kiss those hands  
Whence I am bard of late:  
She quickly will unloose thy bands,  
O wish me thine estate.   

Appear unto her eyes  
Though they do burn to fumes:  
For happy is the sacrifice,  
Which heaven-fire consumes.   

Yet even with this depart  
With a soft dying breath,  
Whisper the truths into her heart,  
And take them on thy death.   

Tell her thou canst not now  
New oaths or give or take,  
Or to repeat the former vow  
We did each other make.   

Say thou cam'st to complain  
But not of love, nor her  
But on my fortune being fain  
Thus absent to confer.   

When thou hast offered this  
Perhaps then for thy pain,  
She will inpart to thee a kiss  
And read the o'er again.   

Perhaps when form my sake,  
Her lips have made thee blest,  
That so embalmed thee, she will make  
Thy grave within her breast.   

Oh never then desire  
To rise from such a room:  
Who would not leave his life t'aspire  
In death to such a tomb.   

And in these joys excess,  
Melt, languish, faint, and die;  
For might I have so good access  
To her, even so would I.    

An Epitaph upon Hurry the Tailor.  

WIthin this tomb is honest Hurry laid,  
Who in good fashion lived, good fashion died.  
'tis strange that death so soon cut off his thread  
Some say his end not full done, he was dead.   

But here the knot is, and I thus it scann  
He took a yard, whose due was but a spann.  
How ere he's happy, and I know full well  
He's now in heaven since here he had his hell.    

Scylla toothless.  

SCylla is toouthlesse; yet when she was young,  
She had both tooth enough, and too much tongue:  
What should I now of toothless Scylla say?  
But that her tongue hath worn her teeth away.    

AVicar.  

AN honest Vicar riding by the way,  
Not knowing better how to spend the day  
Did sing unto himself Genevaes' psalms;  
A blind man hearing him strait asked an alms  
To whom (quoth he) with coin I cannot part,  
But god bless thee good man with all my heart,  
O said the man the greater is my loss,  
When such as you do bless without a cross.    

On a Ribbon.  

THis silken wreath that circles-in my arms  
Is but an emblem of your mystic charms;  
Wherewith the magic of your beauty binds  
My Captive soul, and round about it winds;  
Time may wear out these soft weak bands, but those:  
Strong chains of brass fate shall not discompose  
This holy relic may preserve my wrist,  
But my whole frame by th'other doth subsist:  
To that my prayers and sacrifice, to this  
I only pay a superstitious kiss.  
This but the idol, that the deity;  
Religion there is due, here ceremony.  
That I receive by faith, this but in trust;  
Here I may tender duty, there I must:  
This other like a layman I may bear  
But I become love's priest when that I wear;  
This moves like air, that as the centre stands,  
That knot your virtue tyes, this but your hands.  
That nature framed, but this is made by art  
This makes my arm your prisoner, that my heart.    

To a Gentlewoman, desiring a copy of Verses.  

Fair Madam, cast those Diamonds away,  
What need their torchlight in so bright a day:  
These show within your beauties glorious noon  
No more than spangles fixed in the moon:  
Such jewels than the truest lustre bear  
When they hang dangling in an Aethiop's ear  
But placed near a beauty, that's so bright  
Like stars in daytime they are lost from sight  
In this you do your sex a great abuse,  
These are not precious stems for women's use.  
Nature to men hath better jewels sent,  
Which serve for active use not ornament.  
Then let us make exchange, since that those be  
Fitter for you, and these more fit for me.    

On Dr. Corbett's Marriage.  

COme all ye Muses and rejoice,  
At our Apollo's happy choice.  
Phoebus has conquered Cupid's charm,  
Fair Daphne flies into his arm.  
If Daphne be a tree, then mark,  
Apollo is become the bark.  
If Daphne be a branch of bay,  
He wears her for a crown to day:  
O happy bridegroom which dost wed  
Thyself unto a virgin's bed.  
Let thy love burn with hot desire,  
She lacks no oil to feed the fire.  
You know not poor Pigmaleons' lot  
Nor have you a mere idol got.  
You no Ixion, you no proud  
juno makes embrace a cloud.  
Look how pure Diana's skin  
Appears as it is shadowed in  
A crystal stream; or look what grace,  
Shines in fair Venus' lovely face;  
Whilst She Adonis' courts and woes  
Such beauties, yea and more than those,  
Sparkle in her; see but her soul,  
And you will judge those beauties foul.  
Her rarest beauty is within,  
She's fairest where she is not seen;  
Now her perfection's character  
You have approved and chosen her.  
Oh precious she! at this wedding,  
The jewel wears the marriage ring.  
Her understanding's deep, like the  
Venetian Duke you wed the sea,  
A sea deep, bottomless, profound,  
And which none but yourself may sound.  
Blind Cupid shot not this love-dart,  
Your reason chose, and not your heart;  
You knew her little, and when her  
Apron was but a muckender,  
When that same Coral which doth deck  
Her lips, she wore about her neck:  
You courted her, you wooed her not  
Out of a window; she was got,  
And borne your wife; it may be said,  
Her cradle was her marriage bed.  
The ring too was laid up for it  
Until her finger was grown fit;  
You once gave her to play withal  
A baby, and I hope you shall  
This day your ancient gift renew,  
So she will do the same for you:  
In Virgin wax imprint upon  
Her breast your own impression,  
You may (there is no treason in't,)  
Coin sterling, now you have a mint.  
You now are stronger than before,  
Your side hath in it on rib more.  
Before she was a kin to me  
Only in soul and amity.  
But now we are, since she your bride,  
In soul and body both allied.  
'tis this hath made me less to do,  
And I in one can honour two.  
This match a riddle may be styld,  
Two mothers now have but on child;  
Yet need we not a Solomon  
Each mother here enjoys her own.  
Many there are I know have tried,  
To make her their own lovely bride;  
But it is Alexander's lot,  
To cut in twain the Gordian knot:  
Claudia to prove that she was chaste,  
Tied but a girdle to her waist;  
And drew a ship to Rome by land  
But now the world may understand;  
Here is a Claudia to fair bride,  
Thy spotless innocence is tried,  
None but thy girdle could have led,  
Our Corbet to a marriage bed.  
Come all ye muses and rejoice,  
At this your nursling's happy choice:  
Come Flora straw the bridemayds' bed  
And with a garden crown her head,  
Or if thy flowers be to seek,  
Come gather roses at her cheek.  
Come Hymen light thy torches, let  
Thy bed with tapers be beset.  
And if there be no fire by,  
Come light thy taper at her eye,  
In that bright eye there dwells a star,  
And wisemen by it guided are.  
In those delicious eyes there be,  
Two little balls of ivory;  
How happy is he then that may  
With these two dainty balls go play,  
Let not a tear drop from that eye  
Unless for very joy to cry.  
O let your joy continue; may  
A whole age be your wedding day.  
O happy virgin, it is true,  
That your dear spouse embraceth you.  
Then you from heaven are not far,  
But sure in Abraham's bosom are,  
Come all ye muses and rejoice  
At our Apollo's happy choice.    

Mart. Epigr. 59 lib: 5.  

Thouled mend to morrow, thus thou still tell'st me  
fain would I know but this, when that will be?  
Where might a man that blissful morning find,  
In vast Armenia, or in urmost Ind?  
This morning comes as slow as Plato's year,  
What might this morning cost (for sure 'tis dear?)  
Thou'lt mend to morrow: Now's too late; I say  
He's only wise that mended yesterday.    

In Richardum quendam, Divitem, Avarum.  

DEvising on a time what name I might  
Best give unto a dry illiberal chuff,  
After long search on his own name I light,  
Nay then (said I) No more, I have enough;  
His name and nature do full well agree  
For's name is Rich and hard; and so is he.    

In Thomam quendam Catharum.  

THomas the puritan, cannot abide  
The name of Christmas, Candlemas, or such  
But calls them ever Christide, Candletide,  
At all to name the mass (forsooth) to much:  
Thomas by this your rule the sacred font  
In Baptism must be-wash your limbs again,  
And a new name you must receive upon't  
For superstitious Thomas you'll disdain.  
Then might I be your godsire, or his guide,  
Instead of Thomas you shall have Tom-tyde.    

Epilogus Incerti Authoris.  

LIke to the mowing tone of unspoken speeches,  
Or like two lobsters clad in logic breeches;  
Or like the grey fleece of a crimson cat,  
Or like a mooncalf in a slippshoo hat;  
Or like the shadow when the sun is gone,  
Or like a thought, that never was thought upon,  
Even such is man who never was begotten,  
Until his children were both dead and rotten.   

Like to the fiery touchhole of a cabbage,  
Or like a crablowse with his bag and baggage.  
Or like the guilt reflection of the wind,  
Or like th' abortive issue borne behind,  
Or like the four square circle of a ring,  
Or like high down a ding a ding a ding.  
Even such is man who breathless without doubt  
Spoke to small purpose when his tongue was out.   

Like the fresh colours of a withered Rose  
Or like a running verse that's writ in prose.  
Or like the umbleses of a tinder box,  
Or like a sound man, troubled with the pox.  
Or like to hobbnayles coined in single pence,  
Lest they should lose their preterperfecttence  
Even such is man who died, and yet did laugh,  
To read these strong lines for his Epitaph.     

THE INNOVATION OF PENELOPE AND ULYSSES, A Mock-Poem.  
By I. S.  
LONDON, Printed Anno Dom. 1658.   

The Epistle Dedicatory to the Reader.  
COurteous Reader, I had not gone my full time, when by a sudden flight occasioned by the Bear and Wheel-barrow on the Bankside, I fell in travail, and therefore cannot call this, a timely Issue, but a Mischance, which I must put out to the world to nurse; hoping it will be fostered with the greater care, because of its own innocency. The reasons why the Dedication is so general, is to avoid Carp in the Fishpond of this world, for now no man may read it, but must patronise it. 
And must protect what he would greet perchance,  
If he were not the Patron with def-iance.  You see here I have much ado to hold in my muse from her jumping meeter: 'tis time to let slip. For as the cunning statuarist did by Alcides' foot guess at the proportion of his whole body, so do I forbear the application of this Simile and rest,  
Yours ever. I. S.   

To his Worthy Friend Mr. I. S. upon his happy Innovation of Penelope and Ulysses.  

IT was no idle fancy, I beheld  
A real object, that around did gild  
The neighbouring valleys and the mountain tops,  
That sided to Parnassus, with the drops  
From her disheveled hair. I sought the cause.  
And lo, she had her dwelling in the jaws  
Of pearly Helicon, assigned to be  
Guide o'er the Comic strains of poetry.  
She loured her flight, and soon assembled all,  
That since old Chaucer had ta'en leave to call,  
Upon her name in print: But O the rabble  
Of pamphleteers even from the court tothth' stable,  
Knights, and discarded Captains, with the scribe;  
Famous in water-works, besides the tribe  
Of the true poets, they attended on  
The birth of this great Convocation.  
Sacred Thalia, in an angry heat  
That well became her zeal, rose from her seat;  
And beckoning for silence, there disclaimed,  
Protection of the poets, and then named  
The cause of her revoke, for that (quoth she)  
So many panders along to poetry:  
A crew of Scribblers that with brazen face  
Prostitute art and work unto disgrace  
My patronage, each calling out on me  
For midwife to his bastard progeny.  
Thus standing as protectress of that brood  
My care's ill construed by the sisterhood.  
With that she paused a while, and glanc'st her eye  
Amongst the mingled pen-wrights, to descry  
One to distinguish by a different style,  
Dull Latmus from Diviner Pindus soil,  
At length she fix't on thee, and then anon  
Proclaimed the her selected champion.  
Then was this work presented to her care.  
She smiled at it, and was pleased to hear  
Dunces so well traduced; and by this rule,  
Discovered all that ne'er were of the school  
Of noble poesy, and them she threw  
far from her care and her aquantance too;  
Thus were they found and lost, and this the test,  
They writ in earnest what's here meant in jest.   James Atkins.  

To his Precious Friend I. S. upon his choice conceit of Penelope and Ulysses.  

LOng looked for comes at last; 'twas said of old,  
I'll use the proverb; herein I am bold:  
For if the ancient Poets don't belie us  
Nihil jam dictum quod non dictum priùs:  
But let that pass: the thing I would intend,  
With my unpolist lines, is to commend  
A work that may to an ingenious care  
Be its own or ator; for nothing here,  
But grate's this stupid age, wherein each mate  
That can but rhyme, is poet laureate.  
It is the scorn of time, and for my part  
That at the best am but a freind to art,  
My senses ache to hear the cry advance  
And dote upon the works of ignorance;  
Let focles admire folly: while I thee  
That into pastime turn'st their poetry.    

To his Son, upon his Minerva.  

THou art my son, in that my choice is spoke;  
Thine with thy father's muse strikes equal stroke,  
It showed more art in Virgil to relate,  
And make it worth th' hearing, his Gnats fate;  
Then to conceive what those great minds must be  
That sought and found out fruitful Italic.  
And such as read and do not apprehend  
And with applause the purpose and the end  
Of this neat Poem, in themselves confess  
A dull stupidity and barrenness.  
Methinks I do behold in this rare birth  
A temple built up to facetious mirth,  
Pleased Phoebus smiling on it; doubt not then,  
But that the suffrage of judicious men  
Will honour this Thalia; and for those  
That praise Sr. Bevis, or what's worse in prose,  
Let them dwell still in ignorance. To write  
In a new strain, and from it raise delight  
As thou in this hast done, doth not by chance  
But merit, crown thee with the laurel branch.   Philip Massinger.  

To his Dear Friend Mr. I. S. upon his acquaint Innovation of Penelope and Ulysses.  

FLy, Fly my muse, this is the time if ever  
To try thy wings, now sore aloftor never;  
Importune fame, for 'tis her hand must owe  
A glory to this temple. Bid her blow,  
Till her lungs crack and call the world to see  
A work that else wil●…●…'ts own trumpet be.  
I would not have the squeamish Age to jeer  
Or slight my muse for bringing up the rear:  
Nor let the garish rabble look a squint,  
As though I were one of their tribe in print;  
It is a Trust that fitly does become  
My matchless friendship to have such a Rome  
For know no vulgar pen could ever glory  
To be the Master of so choice a story.  
Blush, Blush, for shame, ye wood-be-poets all,  
Here see your faces, let this glass recall  
Your faults to your remembrance, numbers, rym  
Your long parentheses, and verse that clime  
Up to the elbow; here you may descry  
Such stuff as weaker wits call poetry:  
From henceforth let no peddling rhymers dare  
Profane Thalias altars with such ware.  
For which great cure, this book unto thy name  
Shallbe a trophy of immortal fame.   I. M.  

The Author to the Author. To his worthy Friend I. S. upon his happy Translation of Ulysses and Penelope.  

LEt joy possess the universal Globe,  
The work is done, bright Sol is in his robe,  
Let time and nature breathe, and let the arts,  
Pause here a while, they have performed their parts  
And as a Man, that from the Alps doth fall  
Being in drink, and has no hurt at all:  
When afterwards he has considered well,  
And viewed the Altitude, from whence he fell,  
When in his sober thoughts he has the hint on't  
It frights him more than to endure the dint on't;  
Even so our Author, when he veiwes aright  
What time and industry have brought to light,  
May more be troubled both in Mind and Wit,  
To think what's done, then in the doing it,   

If at the spring and Birthday of Glendour,  
Whom stories treat of for a Man and more,  
If then I say there was such notice taken,  
That Wales and all her Mountaniers were shaken,  
What Alteration must there needs be now,  
To usher in thine Issue! who knows how  
To fathom thought, or tie the stars in strings?  
Such must his learning be that ken these things.  
Methinks the spheres should falter, and the sage  
Should from this time reckon another age,  
Gossips shall make it famous, It shall be  
The common Meatpole to Posterity:  
The time of edmond's and of Gertrude's birth,  
Was three years after such a-work came forth,  
Then was the great eclipse, and that the time  
When this Man's Granfather was in his prime;  
Hackster the Back-sword-man than broke his Arm,  
That year old Hony-man his Bees did swarm,  
And if I guess aright, began that year  
The Hollanders Plantation in Yorkshire.  
Thus shall all Accidents be brought about,  
And this the only time to find 'em out.   

Men did of old count from the days of Adam,  
And Eve the spinster (no news then of Madam,)  
Some from Diana's Temple, that rare piece,  
Some from the stealing of the Golden fleece;  
From modern Matters some their Reckoning make  
From the great voyage of Sr: Francis Drake,  
Other's from 88, and some there are  
That count from bringing of the Brook from Ware.  
But all these things shall be abolished quite,  
And no Man now shall apprehend delight,  
To have a son a daughter or a niece,  
Their age not dated with this masterpiece.  
More I would say, much more; but that I fear  
My liberal commendations would appear  
Like to the Gates of Thebes, where all, and some,  
Feared lest the city should run out at 'em,  
Such may my error be, whilst here I sing,  
Great Neptune's Anthems, to salute a spring,  
Bùt such a spring, as all that ere have seen it  
Confess there's nought but spirit of waters in it.   

And here let me excuse that pretty Elf  
Thy froward Muse that left thee to thyself;  
Whom thou upbraidst for that; which I reply,  
Was nought but Advantageous Policy;  
'Twas a good Omen when she backward went  
That she would arm herself with double hint  
And so she did, they'll say, that do peruse o'er  
This seeming pamphlet which anon ensues your   
Loving Friend. I. S.   

The Author to himself.  

HIgh as the Alps my towering muse does wing it,  
To snach the laurel from fame's fane, & fling it  
Even at thy crown, thy crown; where may it sit,  
Till time itself, being non-plused, whither it.  
Each stroke that herein of thy pen made proof,  
Is like the stamp of Pegasus his hoof,  
And does uncurtaine where does sit and sing,  
The Heliconians, round about the spring.  
I wish the world this pamphlet had not seen,  
Or having viewed it, it had faulty been.  
Then might I still have loved thee, cruel fate  
Has made the now the object of my hate:  
For envy feeds on merit, but believe me,  
I love thy person, though thy worth does grieve me.   I. S.  

The Preface to that most elaborate piece of Poetry, entitled, Penelope and Ulysses.  

NO, I protest, not that I wish the gains  
To spoil the trade of mercenary brains,  
I am indifferently bend, so, so,  
Whether I ever sell my works or no.  
Nor was't my aim when I took pen in fingers,  
To take employment from the Ballad-singers;  
Nor none of these: But on a gloomy day,  
My genius stepped to me, and thus 'gan say;  
Listen to me, I give you information,  
This History deserves a grave translation;  
And if comparisons be free from slanders,  
I say, as well as Hero and Leander's.  
This said, I took my chair, in colours wrought,  
Which at an outcry, with two stools I bought.  
The stools of Dornix, which that you may know well  
Are certain stuffs, Upholsters use to sell.  
Stuffs, said I? No: some Linsey- Wolsey-monger mixed them,  
They were not Stuff nor Cloth sure, but betwixt them.  
The Ward I bought them in, it was without  
Hight Faringdon, and there a greasy lout  
Bid for them shillings six, but I bid seven,  
A sum that is accounted odd, not eeven:  
The Crier thereat seemed to be willing,  
Quoth he, there's no man better than seven shilling,  
He thought it was a reasonable price,  
So struck upon the Table, once, twice, thrice,  
My pen in one hand, Penknife in the other,  
My Ink was good, my Paper was no other.  
So sat me down, being with sadness moved,  
To sing this new Song, sung of old by Ovid.  
But would you think, as I was thus preparing  
All in a readiness, here and there staring  
To find my implements, that th' untoward Elf,  
My Muse, should steal away, and hide herself,  
Just so it was, faith, neither worse nor better.  
A way she run, ere I had writ a Letter.  
I after her a pace, and beat the Bushes,  
Rank Grass, Sirs, Ferne, and the tall Banks of Rushes  
At last I found my Muse, and wot you what,  
I put her up, for lo she was at squat.  
Thou slut quoth I, hadst thou not run away,  
I had made Verses all this livelong day.  
But in good sooth, o'er much I durst not chide her,  
Lest she should run away, and hide her  
But when my heat was o'er I spoke thus to her;  
Why didst thou play the wag? I'm very sure.  
I have commended thee, above old Chaucer;  
And in a Tavern once I had a Saucer  
Of White-wine Vinegar, dashed in my face,  
For saying thou deservedst a better grace:  
Thou know'st that then I took a Sausage up,  
Upon the knaves face it gave such a clap,  
That he repented him that he had spoken  
Against thy Fame, he struck by the same token,  
I oft have sung thy Metres, and sometimes,  
I laughed to set on others at thy rhymes,  
When that my Muse considered had this gear,  
She sighed so sore, it grieved my heart to hear,  
She said she had done ill, and was not blameless,  
And Polyhymney (one that shall be nameless,  
Was present when she spoke it) and before her,  
My Muse's lamentation was the soarer.  
And then to show she was not quite unkind,  
She sounded out these strong lines of her mind.    

THE INNOVATION OF Ulysses and Penelope.  

O All ye 
1 The harder the word is, the easier it is to be understood.  Cliptick Spirits of the Spheres  
That have or 
2 In varying the use of the senses, the Author shows himself to be in his wits.  sense to hear or 
3 In varying the use of the senses, the Author shows himself to be in his wits.  use of ears,  
And you in number 
4 There the Author shows himself to be well versed in the Almanac.  twelve Celestial Signs  
That Poets have made use of in their lines,  
And by which men do know what Seasons good  
To geld their Bore-piggs, and let Horses blood;  
List to my doleful glee, o 
5 Being twice repeated, it argues an elegant fancy in the Poet.  list I say,  
Unto the Complaint of Penelopay.  
She was a Lover, ay, and so was he  
As loving unto her, and he to 
6 To makefalse English, argues as much knowledge as to make true latin.  she:  
But mark how things were altered in a moment  
Ulysses was a Grecian born, I so meant  
To have informed you first; but since 't is o'er,  
It is as 
7 Better once done then never.  well, as had it been before:  
He being as I said, a Greek there rose  
A Quarrel 'twixt the Trojans and their 
8 For sometimes there may happen a quarrel amongst friends.  foes,  
I mean the Grecians, whereof he was 
9 Till he was married, he could be but one.  one,  
But let that pass, he was Laertes Son.  
Yet lest some of the difference be ig-norant,  
It was about a 
1 There is no mischief, but a woman is at one end of it.  Wench, you may hear more 
2 The more you hear on't, the worse you'll like it.  on't  
In Virgil's Aeneids, and in Homer too;  
How Paris loved her, and no more ado  
But goes and steals her from her Husband: wherefore  
The Grecians took their Tools, and fighted therefore.  
And that you may perceive they were stout 
3 There was a Spanish regiment amongst them.  Signiors,  
The Combat lasted for the space of ten 
4 That may be done in an hour, which we may repent all our life after.  years.  
This Gallant bideing where full many a Mother  
Is oft bereaved of Child, Sister of Brothe,  
His Lady greatly longing for his presence  

5 Being up to the Elbows in trouble, she expressed it in this line.  Writ him a Letter, whereof this the Sense.  
" My pretty Duck, my Pigsney, my Ulysses,  
" Thy poor Penelope sends a 
6 Even Reckoning, makes long friends.  thousand Kisses  
" As to her only joy, a hearty greeting;  
" Wishing thy Company, but not thy meeting  
" With enemies, and fiery Spirits in Armour,  
" And which perchance may do thy bedy harme-or  
" May take thee Pisoner, and clap on thee bolts  
" And locks upon thy legs, such as wear Colts.  
" But send me word, and e'er that thou want ransom  
" Being a man so comely, and so handsome,  
" i'll sell my Smock both from my back and 
7 As a pudding has two ends, so a smock has two sides.  belly  
" ere you want Money, Meat, or clothes, I tell ye.  
When that Ulysses, all in grief enveloped,  
Had marked how right this Letter was Peneloped.  
Laid one hand on his heart, and saided was guilty,  
Resting the other on his Dagger-hilty,  
Thus 'gan to speak: O thou that dost control  
All beauties else, thou hast so banged my soul  
With this thy lamentation, that I swear,  
I love thee strangely, without wit or fear;  
I could have wished (quoth he,) myself the Paper  
Ink, Standish, Sandbox, or the burning Taper,  
That were the Instruments of this thy writing  
Or else the Stool whereon thou satst inditing:  
And so might have been near that lovely breech  
That never yet was troubled with the 
8 As Love doth commonly break out into an itch, yet with her it did not so.  Itch.  
And with the thought of that, his Sorrow doubled  
His heart with woe, was so Cuffed and Cornubled,  
That he approved one of his Lady's Verses,  
(The which my Author in his book rehearses)  
'Tis true quoth he, 
9 There the Author translates out of Ovid, as Ben Johnson does in Sejanus out of Homer.  Loves troubles make me tamer,  
Res est Soliciti plena timoris Amor.  
This said, he blamed himself, and chid his folly  
For being so overruled with melancholy,  
He called himself, Fool, Coxcomb, Ass, and Fop,  
And many ascurvy name he reckoned up,  
But to himself, this language was too rough,  
For certainly the Man had wit enough:  
For he resolves to leave his Trojan foes,  
And go to see his Love in his best clothes.  
But mark how he was crossed in his intent,  
His friends suspected him incontinent:  
And some of them supposed he was in love,  
Because his eyes all in his head did move,  
Or more or less than used, I know not which  
But I am sure they did not move so mich  
As they were wont to do: and than 'twas blasted.  
Ulysses was in love, and whilst that lasted  
No other news within the Camp was spoke of,  
And many did suppose the Match was broke off,  
But he concealed himself, nor was o'er hasty  
To shift his clothes, though now grown somewhat nasty.  
But having washed his hands in Pewter Bason,  
Determines for to get a Girl or a Son,  
On fair Penelope, for he looked trimmer  
Than young Leander when he learned his 
1 By this you may perceive, that primers were first printed at Abydos.  Primer,  
To Graece he wends apace, for all his hope  
Was only now to see fair Penelope:  
She combed her head, and washed her face in Cream  
And pinched her cheeks to make the 
2 For distinction sake, because many men's noses bleed white blood.  red blood stream  
She donned new clothes, and sent the old ones packing,  
And had her shoes rubbed over with Lamp 
3 Black is the beauty of the shoe.  blacking,  
Her new rabato, and a falling band,  
And Rings with several poesies on her hand.  
A stomacher upon her breast so bare.  
For Strips and Gorgets was not then the wear.  
She thus adorned to meet her youthful Lover  
Herd by a Post-boy, he was new come over:  
She than prepares a banquet very neat  

4 Because a Cow, was amongst the ancient Grecians called a Neat, Gesner in his Etymolog. lib. 103. Tom 16.  Yet there was not a bit of Butcher's meat  
But Pies, and Capons, Rabbits, Larks, and Fruit;  
Orion on a Dolphin, with his 
5 Better falsify the Rhyme, than the Story, etc.  Harp,  
And in the midst of all these dishes stood  
A platter of Pease-porridg, wondrous good,  
And next to that the god of Love was placed,  
His Image being made out of Rye-paste,  
To make that good, which the old Proverb speaks  
[The one the Heart, 't other the belly breaks.]  
Ulysses seeing himself a welcome Guest  
Resolves to have some Fiddlers at the Feast:  
And amongst the various Consort choosing them  
That in their sleeves the arms of Agamemnon-  
Non, in the next verse, wore: Cried in a rage  
Sing me some Song made in the Iron-Age.  
The Iron-Age, quoth he that used to sing?  
This to my mind the Black-Smith's Song doth bring  
The Black-Smiths, quoth Ulysses? and there holloweth,  
Whoop! is there such a Song? Let's have't. It followeth,   

The Blacksmith. As it was sung before Ulysses and Penelope at their Feast, when he returned from their Trojan Wars, collected out of Homer, Virgil and Ovid, by some of the Modern Family of the Fancies.  

OF all the trades that ever I see,  
There's none with the Blacksmith compared may be,  
With so many several tools works he  
Which Nobody can deny,   

The first that ever thunderbolt made,  
Was a Cyclops of the Blacksmiths trade,  
As in a learned author is said,  
Which Nobody, etc.   

When Thunderingly we lay about  
The fire like lightning flasheth out;  
Which suddenly with water we d'out.  
Which No, etc.   

The fairest Goddess in the skies  
To marry with Vulcan did devise,  
Which was a Blacksmith grave and wise  
Which, etc.   

Mulciber to do her all right  
Did build her a Town by day and by night,  
Which afterwards he Hammersmith height  
Which, etc.   

And that no Enemy might wrong her  
He gave her Fort she need no stronger,  
Then is the lane of Ironmonger,  
Which, etc.   

Vulcan farther did acquaint her  
That a pretty estate he would appoint her,  
And leave her Seacoale-lane for ajoynture.  
Which, &c   

Smithfeild he did free from dirt,  
And he had sure great reason for't  
It stood very near to 
* Turn- mill street  venus' court  
Which, etc.   

But after in good time and tide,  
It was to the Blacksmiths rectified,  
And given'em by Edmond Ironside,  
Which, etc.   

At last 
* Vulcan.  he made a Net or train,  
In which the God of war was taken,  
Which ever since was called Paul's chain  
Which, etc.   

The common proverb, as it is read,  
That we should hit the nail o'the head:  
Without the Blacksmith cannot be said,  
Which, etc.   

There is another must not be forgot  
Which falls unto the Blacksmiths lot,  
That we should strike while the I'rons hit,  
Which, etc.   

A third lies in the Blacksmiths way  
When things are safe as oldwives say,  
They have 'em under lock and key,  
Which, etc.   

Another proverb makes me laugh  
Because the Smith can challenge but half;  
When things are as Plain as a Pike staff,  
Which, etc.   

But't other half to him does belong;  
And therefore, do the Smith no wrong,  
When one is held to it hard, buckle and thong,  
Which, etc.   

Then there is a whole one proper and fit  
And the Blacksmith's justice is seen in it,  
When you give a man roast-meat and beat him with spit,  
Which, etc.   

Another proverb does seldom fail,  
When you meet with naughty beer or ale,  
You cry it is as dead as a door nail,  
Which, etc.   

If you stick to one when fortunes wheel  
Doth make him many losses feel  
We say such a friend is as true as steel.  
Which &c.   

there's one that's in the Blacksmith's books,  
And from him alone for remedy looks.  
And that is he that is offo'the hooks.  
Which, etc.   

there's ner'a slut, if filth over-smutch her  
But owes to the Blacksmith for her lecher:  
For without a pair of tongs no man will touch her  
Which, etc.   

There is a law in merry England  
In which the Smith has some command  
When any one is burnt in the hand;  
Which, etc.   

Banbury ale a halfe-yard-pott,  
The Devil a Tinker dares stand to't;  
If once the tossed be hizzing-hott.  
Which, etc.   

If any Tailor has the Itch,  
Your Blacksmith's water, as black as pitch,  
Will make his fingers go thorow-stitch.  
Which, etc.   

A Sullen-woman needs no leech,  
Your Blacksmiths bellows restores her speech  
And will fetch her again with wind in her Breech.  
Which, etc.   

Your snuffling Puritans do surmise,  
That without the Blacksmiths mysteries,  
St: Peter had never gotten his keys,  
Which every one can deny,   

And further more there are of those  
That without the Blacksmiths help do suppose  
St: Dunstan had never ta'en the Devil by the nose  
Which Nobody can deny.   

And though they are so rigid and nice  
And rail against Drabs, and Drink, and Dice  
Yet they do allow the Blacksmith his vice  
Which, etc.   

Now when so many Heresies fly about,  
And every sect grows still more in doubt  
The Blacksmith he is hammering it out,  
Which, etc.   

Though Sergeants at law grow richer far,  
And with long pleading a good cause can mar  
Yet your Blacksmith takes more pains at the Bar,  
Which, etc.   

And though he has no Commander's look  
Nor can brag of those he hath slain and took,  
Yet he is as good as ever struck.  
Which, etc.   

For though he does lay on many a blow  
It ruins neither friend nor foe;  
Would our plundering-souldiers had done so,  
Which every one can deny.   

Though Bankrupts lie lurking in their holes  
And laugh at their Creditors, and catchpoles,  
Yet your Smith can fetch 'em over the coals.  
Which Nobody can deny.   

Our laws do punish severely still,  
Such as countersit, deed, bond, or bill,  
But your Smith may freely forge what he will  
Which, etc.   

To be a Jockey is thought a fine fear,  
As to train up a horse, and prescribe him his meat  
Yet your smith knows best to give a heat.  
Which, etc.   

The Roreing-Boy who every one quails  
And swaggers, & drinks, & swears and rails,  
Could never yet make the Smith eat his nails.  
Which, etc.   

Then if to know him men did desire,  
They would not scorn him but rank him higher  
For what he gets is out of the fire.  
Which. etc.   

Though Ulysses himself has gone many miles  
And in the war has all the craft & the wiles,  
Yet your Smith can sooner double his files.  
Which, &c,   

Sayst thou so, quoth Ulysses, and then he did call  
For wine to drink to the Black-Smiths all,  
And he vowed it should go round as a Ball  
Which Nobody should deny.   

And cause he had such pleasure taken,  
At this honest fiddlers merry strain,  
He gave him the Horse-Shoe in Drury-lane  
Which Nobody can deny.   

Where his posterity ever since  
Are ready with wine, both Spanish & French,  
For those that can bring in another Clench  
Which Nobody can deny.   

The song being done they drank the health, they rose  
They would in verse, and went to bed in prose.    

A Prologue to the Mayor of Quinborough.  

Lo I the Mayor of Quinborough Town by name,  
With all my brethren saving one that's lame;  
Are come as fast as fiery mill-horse gallops,  
To meet thy grace, thy Queen, & her fair Trollops,  
For reason of our coming do no look,  
It must be done, I find it i'th' Town-book:  
And yet not I myself, I scorn to read,  
I keep a Clerk to do these jobs at need.  
And now respect a rare conceit before Thong castle see thee,  
Reach me the thing, to give the King, that other too, I prithee,  
Now here they be, for Queen and he, the guist's all steel, and leather,  
But the conceit of much weight, and here they be come together,  
To show two loves must join in one, our Town presents to thee,  
This gilded scabbard to the Queen, this dagger unto Thee.    

A Song.  

He that a happy life will lead,  
In these times of distraction,  
Let him list'n to me and I will him read  
A lecture without faction.  
Let him want three things whence misery springs,  
They all begin with a letter.  
Let him bound his desires to what nature requires,  
And with reason his humour fetter.   

Let not his wealth prodigious grow,  
For that breeds care and dangers;  
Makes him envied above, and hated below,  
And a constant slave to strangers.  
They're happiest of all whose estates are small  
Though but enough to maintain 'em  
They may do, they may say, having nothing to pay,  
It will not quit cost to arraign 'em.   

Nor would I have him clogged with a wife,  
For househould care and cumber,  
Nor to one place confine a man's lise:  
'Cause he cannot remove his lumber.  
They are happier far that unwedded are,  
And forage on all in common,  
For all storms they may fly, & if they should die  
They undo neither child nor woman.   

Nor let his brains overflow with wit,  
That savours on discretion;  
'Tis costly to get and hard to keep  
And dangerous. in the possession.  
They are happiest men that can scarce tell ten,  
And beat not their brains about reason;  
They may say what will serve, themselves to preserve,  
And their words are near taken for treason.   

Of fools there is none like to the Wit  
For he takes pains to show it,  
When his pride and his drink brings him into his fit;  
Then strait he must be a poet  
Now his jests he flings at States and at Kings  
For applause of bays and shadows;  
Thinks a verse serves as well, as circled or spell  
Till he rhimes himself to the Barbadoss.   

He that within his bounds will keep,  
May baffle all dysasters;  
To fortune and fate commands he may give  
Which worldlings call their masters;  
He may dance, he may laugh, he may sing, he may quaff,  
May be mad, may be sad may be jolly,  
He may walk without fear, and sleep without care,  
And a fig for the world and its folly.    

The drunken Lover. J. D. Delight.  

I Dore, I dote, but am a sot to show't,  
I was a very fool to let her know't;  
For now she doth so cunning grow,  
She proves a friend worse than a foe:  
She will not hold me fast nor let me go,  
She tells me, I cannot forsake her;  
Then strait I endeavour to leave her,  
But to make me stay throws a kiss in my way,  
Oh then I could tarry for ever.   

Then I retire, salute, and sit down by her,  
There do I five in frost, and freeze in fire,  
New Nectar from her lips I sup.  
And though I do not drink all up;  
Yet am I drunk with kissing of the cup:  
For her lips are two brimmers of Claret,  
Where first I begin to miscarry:  
Her breasts of delight, are two bottles of white,  
And her eyes are two cups of Canary.   

Drunk as I live, dead drunk beyond reprieve  
For all my secrets dribble through a sieve,  
Her arm about my neck she laith,  
Now all is Scripture that she saith  
Which I lay hold on, with my fuddled faith,  
I find a fond lover's a drunkard;  
And dangerous is when he flies out,  
With hips and with lips, with black eyes and white thighs,  
Blind Cupid sure tippled his eyes out.   

She bids me, Arise, tells me I must be wise,  
Like her, for she is not in love she cries;  
Then do I fret and fling and throw,  
Shall I be fettered to my foe?  
Then I begin to run but cannot go  
I pray thee, sweet, use me more kindly.  
You had better for to hold me fast,  
If you once disengage your bird from his cage,  
Believe me he'll leave you at last.   

Like a sot I sit that filled the town with wit,  
But now confess I have most need of it;  
I have been drunk with duck and dear,  
A 'bove aquarter of a year:  
Beyond the cure of sleeping or small beer,  
think I can number the months to,  
july, August, September, October  
Thus goes my account a mischief upon't  
But sure I shall go when I am sober.   

My legs are lame, my courage is quite tamed,  
My heart and all my body is inflamed;  
Now by experience I can prove.  
And swear by all the powers above;  
'tis better to be drunk with wine than love.  
Good sack makes us merry and witty,  
Our faces with jwells adorning;  
And though that we grope yet, there is some hope,  
That a man may be sober next morning.   

Then with command she throws me from her hand,  
She bids me go yet knows I cannot stand;  
I measure all the ground by trips,  
Was ever Sot so drunk in sips,  
Or ever man so over seen in lips,  
I pray, madam fickle, be faithful,  
And leave off your damnable dodging,  
Pray do not deceive me, either love me or leave me,  
And let me go home to my lodging.   

I love too much but yet my sollie's such  
I cannot leave, I must love to ' their touch.  
Here's a Health unto the King, how now?  
I am drunk and speak treason I vow;  
Lovers and fools say any thing you know,  
I fear I have tired your patience,  
But I am sure, 'tis I have the wrong on't,  
My wit is bereft me; for all that I have left me  
Will but just serve to make me a song on't,  
My mistress and I shall never comply,  
And there is the short and the long on't.    

To the Tune of The beginning of the World.  
R. P. Delight.  

O Mother, c have been a bachelor,  
This twelve and twanty year;  
And I'll have often been a wowing,  
And yet I'm never the near:  
jone Gromball chee'l ha' non s' me,  
I'll look so like a lout;  
But I vaith, I'm as proper a man as zhe.  
Zhee need not be so stout.   

She zaies ifize, con dance and zing,  
As Thomas Miller con,  
Or cut a cauper, as little jack Tailor:  
O how cheeed love me thou.  
But zoft and fair, I'll none of that,  
I vaith cham not so nimble;  
The Tailor hath nought to trouble his thought  
But his needel and his thimble,   

O zon, thouart of a lawful age,  
And a jolly tidy boy,  
I'd have thee try her once a gain,  
She can but say thee nay:  
Then O Gramercy mother,  
I'll zet a good face o' the matter,  
I'll dress up my zon as fine as a dog  
And I'll have a fresh bout at her.   

And first I'll put on my zunday apparel  
That's laced about the quarters;  
With a pair of buckram slops,  
And a ulanting pair of garters.  
With my sword tie vast to my zide,  
And my grandvathers dug'en and dagger  
And a Peacock's veather in my cap  
Then oh how I'ch shall swagger.   

Nay taken thee a lockrum napkin son,  
To wipe thy snotty nose,  
't's no matter vor that, I'll snort it out,  
And ulurt it athart my clothes:  
Odds, bodikins nay fie away,  
I prithee son do not so:  
Be mannerly son till thou canst tell,  
Whether she'll ha' thee or Noah,   

But zirrah Mother hark a while  
Whoes that that comes so near?  
'tis jone Grumball, hold thy peace,  
For fear that she do hear.  
Nay on't be she, I'll dress my words  
In zuch a scholars grace,  
But virst of all chall take my honds,  
And lay them athwart her face.   

Good morrow my honey my sugger-candy,  
My little pretty mouse,  
Cha hopes thy father and mother be well,  
At home at thine own house.  
I'ch am zhame vaced to show my mind,  
I'm zure thou know'st my arrant:  
Zum zenocrate, Jug, that I must a thee.  
At leisure Sir I warrant.   

You must (Sir Clown) is for the King,  
And not for such a mome,  
You might have said, by leave fair maid.  
And let your (must) alone.  
Ich am no more nor clown thats ulat,  
Cham in my zunday apparel,  
I'ch came for love and I pray so take't,  
I hopes i will not quarrel.   

O Robin dost thou love me so well?  
I vaith, abommination,  
Why then you should have framed your words  
Into a finer fashion.  
Vine vashions and vine speeches too  
As scholars volks con utter,  
Chad wrather speak but twa words plain  
Thon half a score and stutter.   

C have land, c have houss, c have twa vat beasts,  
That's better thou vine speeches;  
't's a sign that Fortune favours fools  
She lets them have such riches.  
Hark how she comes upon me now,  
I'd wish it be a good zine,  
He that will steal any wit from thee  
Had need to rise betime.    

An Old Song.  

BAck and sides go bare go bare,  
And feet and hands go cold,  
But let my belly have Ale enough  
Whether it be new or old,  
Whether it be new or old,  
Boys, whether it be new or old:  
But let my belly have ale enough,  
Whether it be new or old,   

A beggar's a thing as good as a King,  
If you ask me the reason why  
For a King cannot swagger  
And drink like a beggar  
No King so happy as I:   

Some call me knave and rascal slave,  
But I know, how to collogue  
Come upon 'Em, and upon 'em;  
Will your worships and honour 'em,  
Then I am an honest rogue, than I  
Come upon 'em, and upon 'em will you worships:  
If a sart fie away where he makes his stay,  
Can any man think or suppose?  
For a fart cannot tell, when it's out where to dwell,  
Unless it be in your nose, unless it be in your nose boys, Unless it be in your nose.  
For a fart cannot tell, when it's out where to dwell  
Unless it be in your nose.    

The Sowgelder's Song, in the Beggers-Bush.  

I Met with the Devil in the shape of a Ram,  
Over and over the Sowgelder came,  
I took him and haltred him fast by the horn,  
And picked out his stones as you'd pick out your corns.  
Oh quoth the Devil and with that he shrunk,  
And left me a carcase of mutton that stunk.   

Walking alone but a mile and a half,  
I saw where he lay in the shape of a calf;  
I took him and gelt him e'er he thought any evil,  
And found him to be but a sucking Devil.  
Blanvel quoth the Devil and clapped down his tail,  
And that was sold after for excellent veale.   

I met with the Devil in the shape of a Pig,  
I looked at the rogue, and he looked something big;  
ere a man cold fart thrice, I had made him a hog,  
Oh quoth the Devil and then gave a Jerke  
That the Jew was converted by eating of pork.   

In woman's attire I met him full fine,  
I took him at least for an Angel divine;  
But viewing his crabb-face I fell to my trade,  
And I made him forswear ever acting a maid.  
O quoth the Devil, and so ran away,  
And hid him in a Friars grey weeds, as they say.   

For half a year after it was my great chance  
To meet with a grey coat that lay in a Trance,  
I took him and I grasped him fast by the cod's;  
Betwixt his tongue and his tail I left little odds.  
Oh, quoth the Devil, much harm hast thou done,  
Thou art sure to be cursed of many a man.   

My ram, calf, my pork, my punk and my friar,  
I have left them unfurnished of their best Lady ware;  
And now he runs roaring from alehouse to Tavern,  
And swears he'll turn tutor to the swaggering gallant:  
But if I catch him I'll serve him no worse  
For Isle lib him, and leave him not a penny in his purse.    

A Song.  

Three merry lads met at the Rose  
To speak the praises of the Nose,  
The nose which stands in middle place  
Sets out the beauty of the face;  
The nose with which we have begun,  
Will serve to make our verses run,  
Invention often barren grows;  
But still their's matter in the nose.   

The nose is of so high a price,  
That men prefer't before their eyes;  
And no man counts him for his friend,  
That boldly takes his nose by the end.  
The nose that like Euripus flows,  
The sea that did the wiseman pose.  
Invention, etc.   

The nose is of as many kinds,  
As mariners can reckon winds,  
The long, the short, the nose displayed;  
The great nose which did fright the maid;  
The nose through which the brotherhood  
Did parley for their sister's good.  
Invention, etc.   

The slat, the sharp, the roman snout,  
The hawks nose Circled round about:  
The crooked nose that stands awry,  
The ruby nose of Scarlet dye,  
The Brazen-nose without a face  
That doth the learned College grace;  
Invention, etc.   

The long nose when the teeth appear,  
Shows what's a clock if the day be clear,  
The broad nose stands in buckler place,  
And takes the blows from off the face;  
The nose being plain without a ridge,  
Will serve sometimes to make a bridge.  
Invention, etc.   

The short nose is the Lover's bliss,  
Because it hinders not a kiss.  
The toating nose is a monstrous thing,  
That's he that did the bottle bring:  
And he that brought the bottle hither,  
Will drink; oh monstrous! out of measure.  
Invention, etc.   

The fiery nose, in Lanterns stead,  
Will light its Master to his bed;  
And who so ere that treasure owes,  
Grows poor in purse, though rich in nose.  
The brazen nose that's o'er the gate,  
Maintains full many a Latin-pate.  
Invention, etc.   

If any nose take this in snuff,  
And think it more than is enough;  
We answer them, we did not fear,  
Nor think such noses had been here.  
But if there be, we need not care;  
A nose of wax our Statutes are.  
Invention now is barren grown;  
The matters out, the nose is blown.    

Phillada flouts me.  

Oh! what a pain is love,  
How shall I bear it?  
She will inconstant prove,  
I greatly fear it.  
She so torments my mind,  
That my strength faileth;  
And wavers with the wind,  
As a ship that saileth.  
Please her the best I may,  
She looks another way.  
A lack and well a day  
Phillada flouts me.   

All the fair yesterday,  
She did pass by me;  
She looked another way,  
And would not spy me.  
I wooed her for to dine,  
But could not get her.  
Will had her to the wine,  
He might entreat her.  
With Daniel she did dance,  
On me she looked a sconce.  
Oh thrice unhappy chance,  
Phillada flouts me.   

Fair Maid, be not so coy,  
Do not disdain me:  
I am my mother's joy  
Sweet entertain me.  
she'll give me when she dies,  
All that is fitting,  
Her Poultry and her Bees  
And her Geese sitting.  
A pair of mattrisse beds,  
And a bag full of shredds.  
And yet for all this goods,  
Phillada flouts me.   

She hath a clout of mine  
Wrought with good Coventry,  
Which she keeps for a sign  
Of my fidelity.  
But i'faith, if she flinch,  
She shall not wear it.  
To Tibb my t'other wench  
I mean to bear it.  
And yet it grieves my heart,  
So soon from her to part.  
Death strikes me with his dart,  
Phillada flouts me.   

Thou shalt eat Curds & Cream,  
All the year lasting;  
And drink the Crystal stream,  
Pleasant in tasting;  
Wigge and whey whilst thou burst,  
And ramble berry;  
Pye-lid and pasty crust,  
Pears, Plums, and Cherrey.  
Thy raiment shallbe thin,  
Made of a weaver's skin,  
Yet all's not worth a pin,  
Phillada flouts me.   

Fair maidens, have a care,  
And in time take me:  
I can have those as fair,  
If you forsake me.  
For Doll the dairy-maide,  
Laughed on me lately,  
And wanton Winifrid  
Favours me greatly.  
One throws milk on my clothes,  
Tother plays with my nose;  
What wanton signs are those?  
Phillada flouts me.   

I cannot work and sleep  
All at a season;  
Love wounds my heart so deep,  
Without all reason.  
I'gin to pine a way,  
With grief and sorrow,  
Like to a fatted beast,  
Penned in a meadow.  
I shall be dead I fear,  
With in this thousand year;  
And all for very fear.  
Phillada flouts me.    

The Milkmaids.  

WAlkeing betimes close by a green wood side,  
High tranonny, nonny with high tranonny no;  
A pair of lovely milk maids there by chance I spied  
With hy tranonny nonny no, with tranonny no,   

One of them was fair  
As fair as fair might be;  
The other she was brown,  
With wanton rolling eye.   

Cider to make sillibubbs,  
They carried in their pails;  
And suggar in their purses,  
Hung dangling at their tails.  
waistcoat of flannel,  
And petticoats ofredd.  
Before them milk white aporns,  
And straw-hats on their heads,   

Silk points, with silver tags,  
A bout their wrists were shown;  
And jett-Rings, with poesies  
Yours more than his own.   

And to requite their lovers points and rings,  
They gave their lover's bracelets,  
And many pretty things.   

And there they did get gowns  
All on the grass so green,  
But the tailor was not skilful,  
For the stitches they were seen.   

Thus having spent the long summer's day,  
They took their nut brown milk pails,  
And so they came away.   

Well fare you merry milk maids  
That dabble in the dew  
For you have kisses plenty,  
When Ladies have but few.    

The old Ballet of shepherd Tom.  

AS I late wandered over a Plain,  
Upon a hill piping I spied a shepherd's swain:  
His slops were of green, his coat was of grey,  
And on his head a wreath of willow & of bay.  
He sighed and he piped,  
His eyes he often wiped,  
He cursed and baned the boy,  
That first brought his annoy:  
Who with the fire of desire, so inflamed his mind,  
To dote upon a lass; so various & unkind.   

Then howling, he threw his whistle a way,  
And beat his heels again the ground whereon he lay.  
He swore & he star'dhe was quite bereft of hope,  
And out of his scrip he pulled a rope:  
Quoth he, the man that woos,  
With me prepare his noose;  
For rather than I'll fry,  
By hemp I'll choose to die.  
Then up he rose, & he goes straight unto a tree,  
Where he thus complains of his lass' cruelty,   

A pox upon the devil, that ever 'twas my lot,  
To set my love upon so wooddish a trot.  
Had not I been better took jone of the mill,  
Kate of the cream house, or bony bouncing Nell:  
A Proud word I speak  
I had them at my beck;  
And they on holidays  
Would give me prick and praise.  
But Phillis she was to me dearer than my eyes,  
For whom I now endure these plaguy miseries.   

Oft have I wooed her with many a tear,  
With ribbon for her head tyre, and laces from the fair,  
With bonelace and with shoes, with bracelets and with pinns,  
And many a toy besides: good god forgive my sins.  
And yet this plaguy flirt  
Would ding them in the dirt  
And smile to see me tear,  
The locks from of my hair.  
To scratch my chaps, rend my slops, & at wakes to sit  
Like to a sot bereft both of reason sense and wit.  
Therefore from this bough Tom bids a dew  
To the shepherds of the valley, and all the jovial crew.  
Farewell Thump, my ram, and Cut my bobtaild cur,  
Behold your Mr, proves his own murderer.  
Go to my Philis, go,  
Tell her this tale of woe.  
Tell her where she may find  
Me tottering in the wind.  
Say on a tree she may see her Tom rid from all care,  
Where she may take him napping as Moss took his Mare.  
His Philis by chance stood close in a bush,  
And as the Clown did sprawl, she straight to him did rush.  
She cut in two the rope and thus to him she said,  
Despairing Tom, my Tom, thou hast undone a maid.  
Then as one amazed.  
Upon her face he gazed;  
And in this woeful case,  
She kissed his pallid face,  
He whoopt amain, swore, no swain ever more should be,  
So happy in his love, nor half so sweet as she,    

Obsequies.  

DRaw not so near  
Unless you shed a tear  
On the stone,  
Where I groan,  
And will weep,  
Until eternal sleep  
Hath charmed my weary eyes.  
Flora lies here,  
Embalmed with many a tear,  
Which the swains,  
From the plains,  
Here have paid,  
And many a vestal Maid  
Hath mourned her obsequies:  
Their snowy breasts they tear,  
And rend their golden hair;  
Casting cries.  
To Celestial deities,  
To return  
Her beauty from the urn,  
To reign  
Unparallel on earth again.  
When straight a sound,  
From the ground,  
Piercing the air,  
Cries, she's dead,  
Her soul is fled,  
Unto a place more rare.   

You spirits that do keep  
The dust of those that sleep,  
Under the ground,  
Hear the sound  
Of a swain,  
That folds his arms in vain,  
Unto the ashes he adores.  
For pity do not fright  
Him wand'ring in the night:  
Whilst he laves  
Virgins graves  
With his eyes,  
Unto their memories,  
Contributing sad showers.  
And when my name is read,  
In the number of the dead,  
Some one may,  
In Charity repay  
My sad soul,  
The tribute which she gave,   

And howl  
Some requiem on my grave.  
Then weep no more  
Grief won't restore  
Her freed from care.  
Though she be dead,  
Her soul is fled  
Unto a place more rare.    

Of a Tailor and a Louse.  

A Louse without leave a Tailor did molest,  
The Tailor was forced the louse to arrest;  
The Tailor of courtesy the louse did release,  
But she bit the harder and still broke the peace.  
In this doubtful matter, your counsel I crave,  
What law of the louse the Tailor may have,  
A jury of beggars debating the cause,  
Decreed in their verdict that lice should have laws,  
And therefore they say without further reciting  
That lice must be subject to the law of bacbiting.  
Which law doth provide for the party so grieved  
The louse so offending not to be repreived.  
But strait to be taken and had to the jail,  
And after to suffer the crush of the nail.    

The old Ballad of Little Musgrave and the Lady Barnard.  

AS it fell one holiday, hay down,  
As many be in the year,  
When young men and maids  
Together did go,  
Their Matins and Mass to hear,   

Little Musgrave came to the church door,  
The Priest was at private Mass  
But he had more mind of the fair women;  
Then he had of our lady grace   

The one of them was clad in green  
Another was clad in pale,  
And then came in my lord Bernard's wife  
The fairest amongst them all;   

She cast an eye on little Musgrave  
As bright as the summer sun,  
And then bethought this little Musgrave  
This lady's heart have I woonn.   

Quoth she I have loved thee little Musgrave  
Full long and many a day,  
So have I loved you fair Lady,  
Yet never word durst I say.   

I have a bower at Buckelsfordbery  
Full daintily it is geight.  
If thou wilt wed thither thou little Musgrave  
Thou's lig in mine arms all night.   

Quoth he, I thank ye fair lady  
This kindness thou showest to me,  
But whether it be to my weal or woe  
This night I will lig with thee.   

With that he heard a little tyne page  
By his ladies coach as he ran,  
All though I am my ladies foot page  
Yet I am lord Barnard's man   

My lord Barnard shall know of this  
Whether I sink or sin;  
And ever where the bridges were broke  
He laid him down to swim.   

A sleep or wake thou Lord Barnard,  
As thou art a man of life  
For little Musgrave is at Bucklesfordbery:  
A bed with thy own wedded wife.   

If this be true thou little tinny Page,  
This thing thou tellest to me,  
Then all the land in Bucklesfordbery  
I freely will give to thee.   

But if it be a lie, thou little tinny Page,  
This thing thou tellest to me;  
On the highest tree in Bucklesfordbery  
Then hanged shalt thou be.   

He called up his merry men all  
Come saddle me my steed,  
This night must I to Buckellsfordbery,  
For I never had greater need.   

And some of them whistled & some of them sung,  
And some these words did say;  
And ever when my lord Barnard's horn blew,  
A way Musgrave a way.   

Methinks I hear the Thresel-cock,  
Methinks I hear the Jaye,  
Methinks I hear my Lord Barnard,  
And I would I were away.   

Lie still, lie still, thou little Musgrave  
And huggell me from the cold,  
'tis nothing but a shepherd's boy,  
A driving his sheep to the fold.   

Is not thy hawk upon a perch?  
Thy steed eats oats and hay;  
And thou fair Lady in thine arms,  
And wouldst thou be away?   

With that my lord Barnard came to the door  
And lit a stone upon  
He plucked out three silver keys,  
And he opened the doors each one.   

He lifted up the coverlett,  
He lifted up the sheet,  
How now, how now, thou little Musgrave  
Dost thou find my lady sweet?   

I find her sweet, quoth little Musgrave  
The more 'tis to my pain,  
I would gladly give three hundred pounds  
That I were on yonder plain.   

Arise arise thou little Musgrave,  
And put thy cloth-es on,  
It shall ne'er be said in my country  
I have killed a naked man.   

I have two Swords in one scabbard,  
Full dear they cost my purse:  
And thou shalt have the best of them  
And I will have the worse.   

The first stroke that little Musgrave stroke,  
He hurt Lord Barnard sore  
The next stroke that Lord Barnard struck  
Little Musgrave ne'er struck more.   

With that bespoke this fair lady,  
In bed whereas she lay,  
Although thou'rt dead thou little Musgrave,  
Yet I for thee will pray,   

And wish well to thy soul will I  
So long as I have life,  
So will I not for thee Barnard  
Although I am thy wedded wife.   

He cut her paps from off her breast,  
Great pity it was to see,  
That some drops of this lady's heart's blood  
Ran trickling down her knee.   

Woe worth you, woe worth, my merry men all,  
You were ne'er borne for my good:  
Why did you not offer to stay my hand,  
When you see me wax so wood.   

For I have slain the bravest Sir Knight  
That ever road on steed,  
So have I done the fairest lady  
That ever did woman's deed.   

A grave, a grave, Lord Barnard cried  
To put these lovers in:  
But lay my lady on upper hand  
For she came of the better kin.    

The Scots arrears.  

Four hundred thousand pounds  
A lusty bag indeed!  
Was't ever known so vast a sum  
Ere past the river Tweed?   

Great pity it is, I swear,  
Whole carts was thither sent,  
Where hardly two in fifty knew,  
What forty shillings meant:  
But 'twas to some perceived,  
Three kingdoms were undone.  
And those that sit here thought it fit,  
To settle them one by one,  
Now Ireland hath no haste,  
So there they'll not begin;  
The Scottish aid must first be paid,  
For ye came freely in,  
And William Lily writes—  
Who writes the truth you know;  
In frosty weather they marched hither.  
Up to the chins in snow.   

Free quarter at excess,  
They do not weigh a feather,  
Those Crowns for coals brought in by shoals;  
Scarce kept their men together,  
Of plunder they esteem  
As trifles of no worth,  
Of force ye dote because recruite  
Issued no faster forth.  
If once this cash is paid  
I hope the Scot be sped,  
He need not steal but fairly deal  
Both to be clothed and fed.  
Our sheep and oxen may  
Safe in their pastures stand,  
What need they filch the cow  
That's milch to sojourn in their land.   

I wonder much the Scot  
With this defiles his hands,  
Because the summ's a price of Rome  
Raised out of the Bishop's lands,  
But too too well ye know  
To what intent they in came  
'twas not their pains produced this gains  
'twas sent to pack them home,  
Me thinks I hear them laugh  
To see how matters proved,  
And give ashout it so fell out,  
Ye were more feared then loved,  
If Jockey after this  
reneging hath forgot  
From 〈◊〉 fires he much retires  
And shows himself no Scott.    

Rebellis SCOTUS.  

CUrae Deo sumus, ista si cedant Scoto?  
Variata spleniis Domina Psyche est suis.  
Aut stellionatus rea. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
Campanulae omnes; totus Ucalegon suo,  
Coriaceae cui millies mille hydriae,  
Suburbicants pensiles paeoeciis  
Non sint refrigerio. Poeticus furor,  
Cometâ non minùs, vel ore flammeo  
Commune despuente fatum stellulâ,  
Dirum ominatur. Ecquis, è Stoâ, suam  
jam temperet bilem? patria quando lue  
Tam Pymmianâ, id est pediculosâ, perit?  
Bombamachidisque fit bolus myrmeciis?  
Scotos nec ausim nominare, carminum  
Nisi inter amuleta, nec meditarier  
Nisi cerebello, quod capillitio rubens  
(Quale ●…umo coluberrimum Furiis caput)  
Quot inde verba, tot venena prompserit.  
Rhadamantheum, fac, guttur esset nunc mihi,  
Sulphurque, patibulumque copiosius  
Ructans, Magus quàm coenias bombycinas;  
Poteram ut Agyrta Circulator, pillulas  
Vomicas loqui, aut 〈◊〉 Styga:  
Aut ut Genevae Stentores, Perilleis  
Tartara, & equuleos boare pulpitis:  
At machinanti par forem nunquam Scoto,  
Cunctis Sclopetis hisce gutturalibus.  
Ut digna Dii duint, vorem par est priùs,  
(Praestigator ut) sicas, & acinaces.   

Huc, huc, lamb, gressibus faxo tuis  
At huc, lamb, morsibus faxo magis.  
Satyraeque tortrices, tot huc adducite  
Flagella, quot praesens meretur seculum  
Scoti Venfieis pares; audax stylum  
Horum cruore tinge, sic nocent minus.  
Vt Martyres olim induebant belluis.  
(Quasi sisterent Regis sacros hypocritas)  
En hos eodem Schemate (at retro) Scotos,  
Extrà Scotos, intus feras, & sine tropo.  
Fallax Ierna viperae nihil foves  
Scoto Colono? Non ego Britanniam.  
Lupis carentem dixerim, vivo Scoto.  
Quin Thamesinus pyrgopolinices Scotus  
Poterat leones, tigrides, ursos, canes  
Proprii inquilinos pectoris spectaculo  
Monstrâsse; pro obolis omnibus quibus solet  
Spectare monstra Cratis, & Fori simul  
Poene ocreatum vulgus. Et patria fera  
Scotos eremus indicat terrae plaga  
Vel omnipraesentem negans Deum, nisi  
Venisset inde Carolus, cohors nisi  
Crafordiana, miles & Montrosseus,  
Feritatis eluens notam pagan●…,  
Hanc praestitisset semivictimam Deo;  
Nec Scoticus est, totus Leopardus, Leo;  
Habent & Aram sicut Arcam foederis  
Velut tabellae bifidis pictae plicis  
Fert Angelos pars haec, & haec Cacodaemonas:  
Cui somnianti tartarum suasit pavor  
Sic poenitere, viderat regnum velim  
Nigrius Scotorum semel, & esset innocens.  
Regio, malignâ quae facit votum prece,  
Relegetur ad Gyares breves nunquam incola!  
Punîsset ubi Cainum nec exilio Deus,  
Sed, ut ille trechedipnum, magis Domicaenio.  
Vt gens vagans recutita, vel contagium,  
Aut Beclzebub, si des ubiquitarium.  
Hinc crro fit semper Scotus, certos locos,  
Et hos & illos quoslihet cito nauseans,  
Vt frusta divisi orbis, & Topographiae  
Mendicitatis offulas, curtas nimis.  
Ipse universitatis haeres integrae,  
Et totus in toto, natio Epidemica,  
Nec gliscit ergo jargonre Gallicè,  
Exoticis aut Indicis modis, neque  
Iberio nutu negare, nec studet  
Callere quem de Belgicis Hoghen moghen  
Venture tumens, aut barba canthari refert.  
(Quae Coriatis una mens nostratibus)  
Pugna est in animo, atque animus in patinâ Scoto.  
Huic Struthioni suggeret cibum chalybs,  
Et denti-ductor appetitus, baltheo,  
Pro more, pendulos molares inserit.   

At interim nostras quid involant dapes?  
Serpens Edenum, non Edenburgum appetit.  
Aut Angliae, cui jam malum est Hemorrhois,  
Haematopotas hos posteris meatibus  
Natura medica supposuit hirudines  
Cruore satiandos licèt nostro prius,  
Nostro sed & cruore moribundos quoque.   

Nec computo credant priori, nos item  
Novum addituros, servitutem pristinae  
Aliam, gemellam nuperae, fraterculos  
Palpare quando caeperant charos nimis,  
(Suffragiorum scilicet poppysmata)  
Et crustulum impertire velut offam Cerbero  
Subblandiens decreverat Senatulus.   

Nos aera loculis arma visc eribus prius  
Indemus usque & usque vel capulo tenus.  
Seri videmus quo Scotum tractes modo.  
Princeps rebelli mitior tergo quasi  
Sellas equino detrahens aptat suo.   

At jus rapinas hasce defendit vetus?  
Egyptus ista perdit, aufert Israel  
An bibliorum nescis hos satellites?  
Praetorianis queis cohortibus,  
Hierusalem triariis) spes nititur novae  
Sororcularum? Cardo, cardo vertitur  
Cupediarum, primitivae legis, etc.   

O bone Deus! quanti est carere linte is!  
Orexis ut Borealis, & fames, movet!  
Victuque, vestibusque cassi, hinc Knoxio  
Sutore simul, & Knoxio utuntur coquo,  
Piè quod algeant, quod esuriant piè.   

Larvas quin usque detrahas, & nummulis  
Titulisque, (ut animabus) subest fallacia.  
Librae, & Barones (detumescant interim  
Uocabulorum tympani) quanti valent!  
Hic Cantianum paene, paene villicum,  
Solidosque totos illa, sed gratis, duos.   

Apagè superbae fraudulentiae, simul  
Prosapiâ pictos, fide & pictos procul:  
Opprobrium poetico vel stigmati  
Etiam cruci crux. Non aliter Hyperbolus  
Hyperscelestus ostracismo sit pudor.   

Americanus, ille, qui coelum horruit  
Quod Hispanorum repat eò sed pars quota!  
Viderat in Orco si Scotos, (hui tot Scotos!)  
Roterodamus pependerat medioximus.  
Sat musa! semissa fercularia  
Medullitùs vorans, diabolis invides  
Propriam sibi suam Scoti paropsidem.  
Vt Berniclis enim Scoti, sic Lucifer  
Saturatur ipsis Berniclatioribus.   

Nam lapsus à furcâ Scotus, mox & Styge  
Tinctus, suum novatur in Plaut-Anserem.   
FINIS.   

The Rebel SCOT.  

HOw! Providence! and yet a Scottish crew!  
Then Madam Nature wears black patches too?  
What shall our Nation be in bondage thus  
Unto a Land that truckles under us?  
Ring the bells backward, I am all on fire,  
Not all the buckets in a Country Choir  
Shall quench my rage. A Poet should be feared,  
When angry, like a Comet's flaming beard.  
And where's the Stoic, can his wrath appease  
To see his Country sick of Pym's disease?  
By Scotch-invasion, to be made a prey  
To such Pig-widgin Myrmidons as they?  
But that there's charm in verse, I would not quote  
The name of Scot without an antidote;  
Unless my head were red, that I might brew  
Invention there that might be poison too.  
Were I a drowsy Judge, whose dismal note  
Disgorgeth halters as a Juggler's throat  
Doth ribbons: could I (in Sir Emp'rick tone)  
Speak Pills in phrase, and quack destruction:  
Or roar like Marshal, that Genevah Bull,  
Hell and damnation a Pulpit full:  
Yet to express a Scot, to play that prize,  
Not all those mouth-Granadoes can suffice.  
Before a Scot can properly be cursed,  
I must (like Hocus) swallow daggers first.   

Come, keen iambics, with your badgers feet,  
And Badger-like, by't till your feet do meet  
Help, ye tarc Satirists, to imp my rage,  
With all the Scorpions that should whip this age,  
Scots are like Witches; do but whet your pen;  
Scratch till the blood come, they'll not hurt you then.  
Now as the Martyrs were enforced to take  
The shapes of beasts, like hypocrires at stake;  
I'll bait my Scot so, yet not cheat your eyes,  
A Scot, within a beast, is no disguise.   

No more let Ireland brag, her harmless Nation  
Fosters no Venom, since the Scot's plantation;  
Nor can our feigned antiquity maintain;  
Since they came in, England hath Wolves again,  
The Scot that kept the Tower, might have shown  
(Within the grate of his own breast alone)  
The Leopard and the Panther, and engrossed  
What all those wild Collegiates had cost:  
The honest high-shooes, in their termly fees,  
〈◊〉 to the savage Lawyer, next to these.  
Nature herself doth Scotchmen beasts confess,  
Making their Country such a wilderness,  
A Land that brings in question and suspense  
God's omni-presence, but that Charles came thence,  
But that Montrosse and crawford's loyal band  
Atoned their sins, and christened half the Land;  
Nor is it all the Nation hath these spots;  
There is a Church, as well as Kirk of Scots:  
As in a picture, where the squinting paint  
Shows fiend on this side, and on that side saint:  
He that saw Hell in's melancholy dream  
And in the twilight of his fancy's theme,  
Scared from his sins, repent in a fright,  
Had he viewed Scotland, had turned Proselyte.  
A Land, where one may pray with cursed intent,  
O may they never suffer banishment!  
Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom,  
Not forced him wander, but confined him home.  
Like Jews they spread, and as infection fly,  
As if the devil had Ubiquity.  
Hence'tis they live at Rovers, and defy  
This or that place, rags of Geography.  
They're Citizens o't'h' world; they're all in all,  
Scotland's a Nation Epidemical.  
And yet they ramble not, to learn the mode  
How to be dressed, or how to lisp abroad;  
To return knowing in the Spanish shrug.  
Or which of the Dutch-States a double Jug  
Resembles most, in belly, or in beard.  
(The Card by which the Mariners are steered.)  
No; the Scots-Errant sight, and sight to eat;  
Their Estrich-stomachs make their swords their meat  
Nature with Scots, as Tooth-drawer's hath dealt,  
Who use to hang their teeth upon their belt.   

Yet wonder not at this their happy choice;  
The Serpent's fatal still to Paradise.  
Sure England hath the Hemeroids, and these  
On the North-posture of the patient seize,  
Like Leeches, thus they physically thirst  
After our blood, but in the cure shall burst.   

Let them not think to make us run o'th' score,  
To purchase villainage as once before,  
When an Act passed to stroke them on the head,  
Call them good Subjects, buy them Gingerbread.   

Nor Gold, nor Acts of grace, 'tis Steel must tame  
The stubborn Scot: a Prince that would reclaim  
Rebels by yielding, doth like him, (or worse)  
Who saddled his own back, to shame his horse.   

Was it for this you left your leaner soil,  
Thus to lard Israel with Egypt's spoil?  
They are he Gospel's Lifeguard, but for them  
(The Garrison of new Jerusalem)  
What would the Brethren do'the cause! the cause!  
Sack possets, and the fundamental Laws!   

Lord! what a goodly thing is want of shirts!  
How a Scotch-stomack, and no meat, converts!  
They wanted food and raiment; so they took  
Religion for their Seamstress, and their Cook.   

Unmask them well; their honours and estate  
As well as conscience are sophisticate.  
Shrive but their titles, and their money poise,  
A Laird and twenty pounds pronounced with noise,   

When construed, but for a plain Yeoman go,  
And a good sober Twopences, and well so.  
Hence then, you proud Impostors, get you gone,  
You Picts in Gentry and devotion;  
You scandal to the stock of Verse, a race  
Able to bring the Gibbet in disgrace.  
Hyperbolus by suffering did traduce  
The Ostracism, and shamed it out of use,   

The Indian, that heaven did forswear,  
Because he heard the Spaniards were there,  
Had he but known what Scots in hell had been,  
He would Erasmus-like have hung between:   

My Muse hath done. A Voider for the nonce;  
I wrong the devil, should I pick their bones.  
That dish is his; for when the Scots decease,  
Hell, like their Nation, feeds on Barnacles,   

A Scot, when from the Gallow-tree got loose,  
Drops into Styx, and turns a Soland-Goose.    
The End.