Matthew Stevenson  
The printers profit not my pride hath this Idea finisyed. For he pushed out the m●rrie pay and M● Gaywood made it gay.    

NORFOLK DROLLERY.  
Or, a Complete COLLECTION OF The Newest Songs, Jovial Poems, and, Catches, etc.  
By the Author, M. Stevenson.  Qui capit, ille facit. 
London, Printed for R Reynolds at the 〈◊〉 and Bible, and John Lutton at the 〈◊〉 Anchor in the Poultry, 1673.   

TO THE Most Virtuous and Ingenious Madam MARY HUNT, Of Sharington-Hall in Norfolk.  
Madam,  
I Am surprised betwixt Doubt and Duty; The former, lest I presume: The following, lest I fail. And as resolved, and unresolved at once, I am dilemmaed, whether it should live, or die; I that am Judge dread my own sentence, if I condemn it? Why did I write it? If I reprieve it, I am a fool in Print. Thus guilty, or not guilty, I must suffer.  
But Madam, I am at a favourable Bar, and waving Merit, submit to Mercy; I have heard of some, who by Themselves condemned, have been by their Judge's 〈◊〉; And who can tell but I may find is 〈◊〉 know ny Case here 〈◊〉 under the 〈◊〉 of a 〈◊〉 Eye, and if Your Candour intercede not with Your Justice? The Printer needs no Errata, for the whole Copy 〈◊〉 'tis left to Your Correction, whose very escapes are perfecter than the Original.  
For the Dedication, (presumption set aside) I thought it Equity, Madam, to make bold with You, many of them being composed under your Roof; being there the Subject of my fancy, where I myself was the Object of Your Favour. And as Hares naturally return to t●●e their Ruin, where they took their Rise. So these my Papers to die at Sharington, where they were born. If You vouchsafe this a pardon, It will be the last Error of this nature like to be committed by  
MADAM, Your most Faithful Servant, M. STEVENSON.   

To the Worshipful, My very Noble Friend, THOMAS BROWN, Esq Of Elsing-Hall in Norfolk: All Happiness, etc.  
SIR,  
TO present so generous a friend such a Trifle, such a Faroe of Folly, in return of Favours, of such Value as Yours, were to deal with You as an Indian; Class, for Gold; shadows for substances: My blushes sure (if I have any left) must needs detect the treachery of my traffic; and, for a Cheat, explode me Elsing-Hall, (which hath hitherto been my Indieses) whilst these Papers rough and impolite, I present as Pearls, which are, and let me be for once ingenuous; Not better than those petty Pebbles, I picked out of the Park Beck, would they were half so solid, or so clear! However, Sir, deign it acceptance, may be I have told You the worst, if nothing else prevails? You'll find in it the beauteous brace of Elsing, which will, I am confident, be so far my sweet and amiable Advocates, You cannot but accept it for their sakes, if not his, whose highest ambition aims but at the Honour of continuing,  
SIR, Your lowest Servant, M. Stevenson.   

To the Accomplished, and his Ingenious Friend, Mr. MATTHEW STEVENSON, On His Facetious Poems.  
TEll me no more of Lawreated Ben.,  
Shakesphear, and Fletcher, once the wiser men.  
Their Acts ('tis true) were Sublime! yet I see  
They're all Revisedly composed in Thee.  
Here the swollen Critic, Idiot, and Huff,  
Shall bite their Fingers, swear they have enough:  
Whilst that the Learned and Sagacious Wit,  
Shall speak thy worth, 'tis excellent well writ,  
So that thy Poems, justly styled, runs,  
No● defunct Johns, but living stevenson's.  
Arth. Tichborne.   

Poems.  

To the fair Madam M. H. at Sharington-Hall in Norfolk.  
INspire Me now or never (Muse)  
My Theme is higher than it use  
And yet, unless Herself inspire,  
My Muse and I are ne'er the Higher.  
Fancy sublime thyself, and raise  
Some rapture, 'tis an Angel's praise;  
I can a due to Great Ones give,  
But She is a Superlative;  
What's writ of Her must be expressed  
Above myself a Sphere at least;  
O●hers, (and that too may suffice)  
I serve with single Sacrifice:  
But to her Altar he that comes,  
Can bring no less than hecatombs.  
Ten thousand Hearts may Sacrifice  
And burn themselves in her bright Eyes.  
Her Face is a perpetual May,  
And fa●rer than Jove's 〈◊〉 way,  
Something there's in't does ravish Me,  
But I cannot tell what 'tis I see:  
For▪ if I could define the bliss;  
Alas! it were not what it is.  
Her Soul does through her Body shine,  
An● makes the whole, wholly Divine:  
Her Ingenuity is such  
Impossible to praise too much:  
Nor had my Language been so free,  
But here's no fear or flattery:  
For, when I've done, I've led no more  
Than all that knew Her, knew before.  
Go number all the Stars of Heaven;  
Her praises, and those Stars are even.  
I might her Trophies higher rear,  
And truly too, but I forbear  
Lest if Her Fame be further hurled  
I make a Bonfire of the World;  
Some happier Pen, his own and virtue's Friend  
Come and Begin Her Praises where I End.   

To my Lord B.  
I Never had, as yet, the grace,  
My Lord to see Your Honour's Face.  
And yet I know You, ●y that Name,  
Spreads and perfumes the Wings of Fame.  
A Name that may (as well as She)  
Pretend to an Ubiquity.  
For Your Extraction, 'tis so High,  
As it transcends my Heraldry;  
But, what is Higher yet th●n it,  
You are the Prodigy of Wit,  
Which does You to the World evince,  
By Birth a Lord, by Parts a Prince  
I might say more, but this is such,  
Troth, I'm afraid I've said too much.   

To the Boy that brought up the Bottles of bad Wine.  
BAstard to Bacchus Pluto's Ganymed!  
Is this your Sack? D●m ' ye 'tis pa●d, ' 'tis dead,  
'Tis flat, 'tis worse, 'thorspoxed with a stum  
Beneath the Vault of Vituperium.  
Faugh! bring such paltry Porte●s wash to me?  
Tartar, take heed, I ●e lay ye by the Lee,  
(Rat) I will Thee into the Bunghole drive  
And Digby-like ingredient Thee alive,  
With Snakes and Vipers by my Chemic craft,  
And quaff thy Youth up for my Morning's draft.  
But, if your Master shall in fault appear?  
As seldom Vintner but's Adulterer:  
Then, sirrah, you shall run and press a Carr,  
Mean while I'll sentence him at his own Bar;  
Yet, if he would another Vintage live?  
(A perro●l that ●y patience scarce can give)  
Let him run down and draw me in a trice,  
Sack 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Bacchus' self would sacrifice:  
A Frowe th●● no ra● property may lack,  
Sprightly, and Unctio●s, Rich, and Racie Sack,  
Sack that would make the gods of old so crank  
To swear, till now, they never Nectar drank:  
Then shall his House and Cellar have my praise  
And for a Bush, I'll give Him my own Bays.   

Upon Madam A. C. a fair Lady that died of the Smallpox.  
SO the unruly Blood did over-boil,  
That beauty is itself become a foil,  
The furious Fever all advantage takes,  
And thus a shadow of a Sunbeam makes.  
Her crystal cheeks, that challenged once all praise  
Are now berainbowed with refracted Rays.  
Form! yet forbear, and not a reason ask,  
Since Heaven is pleased to put thee on this mask;  
Let no repining open any Lips,  
Shall Heaven the Sun, and not thy Face Eclipse?  
Heaven has revoked the radianc that he gave,  
Where Love had once his Throne, has now his grave.  
Not but her Soul, that Spark Immortal▪ burns  
Bright in Dark-Lanthorns, or obscurer Urns.  
Whose form, though faded, and her Face uneven,  
Through this red-latice found the way to heaven.  
What though distempers moulder the Mudwall,  
Captives are racemed where the Prisons fall.  
Was it not time to quit that battered Fort,  
Where very Pimple was a Sally-port?  
But she has ended now her Christian wars,  
And thus in triumph carries off her scars.   

Upon John Robinson, a pretty Witty Boy, that never Sucked.  
SEe here what rarely comes to pass,  
A Babe that never Suckling was.  
No Milk did ever Him refresh,  
But such as he might eat, the flesh:  
His Mother's breast oft made him quiet;  
Yet, as his Pillow, not his Diet.  
His Infancy He so outran,  
That Adam like, He was born Man.  
Within a Year, or such a Space  
Hi● Feet and Tongue kept equals pace;  
His Understanding, had it room,  
Had spoken in his Mother's Womb.  
Where he in silence lived, until  
His Organs could pronounce his will.  
His Face presents in every thing  
A lively Landscape of the Spring.  
He that for June or July seeks,  
No Almanac needs, but his cheeks;  
When brisker Rays shoot from his Eyes,  
'Tis May, and April when he cries.  
For roundness, and complexion,  
His Face is just an Apple- John.  
His Locks are Gold, and every Hair,  
Nature has curled into a snare,  
His Body is all over bright,  
As Pelops shoulder, Heavenly white;  
And as it is as white as Milk,  
It is again as soft as Silk.  
Say, have ye not in Temples seen  
The Portrait of a Cherubin?  
Suffice it, though ye know him not,  
You have his very Picture got.   

Upon Madam E. B. of Blakeny in Norfolk a beautiful Child▪  
SWeet pretty blossom, bloomy thing,  
The pride, and glory of the Spring.  
Come Painters, come improve your Arts,  
In due proportions; See, her parts  
So equal, so harmonious be,  
As Nature's choicest Symmetric.  
Apelles need not wand'ring go,  
For scattered features to and fro;  
For did he hither but repair,  
In her they all Collective are.  
The sparkling Planets of her Eyes,  
Are Rivals to the spangled Skies:  
The liquid Rubies of her Lips,  
The Orient Pearls within Eclipse.  
Her Cheeks are made up of delight,  
Like Roses, damaskt red and white:  
With a sweet dimple in her Chin,  
For Cupid to inhabit in.  
Her Nose the Gnomon of her Face,  
As it were Points at every Grace.  
Over which Paradise of bliss,  
Stands a diviner Frontispiece,  
Two myrtle Groves her Ey-brows are,  
If Groves might but with them compare:  
The Hair that on her shoulder lies,  
Is but the shadow of her Eyes.  
Whilst the pale drooping Lily stands  
Ashamed to see her withered hands.  
What then may we expect, when time  
Has ripened her into her prime?  
— inest sua gratia parvis.   

Upon some Gentlemen Rowing down the River, on Friday, June the last, an exceeding hot Day.  
WHen Rosy June was in effect  
Ended, and July New Elect;  
A jolly crew together met,  
Some parched with heat, some stewed in sweat:  
A goodly Barge, and gorgeous Sail,  
They had, but (save their sighs) no Gale.  
To swell their Canvas; sure as Death,  
The Elements were out of breath.  
Yet gentle Zephyr, thought not far,  
Fanned 'em along the Crystal Yarr:  
Whose Water-Citizens did play,  
And made Themselves a Holiday.  
The frisking fry wore Coats of Males,  
Which Nature made them of their Scales.  
And all so full of Courage were,  
As every Fish had been a Dare.  
True Trout above, as they did row,  
Sat tippling to the Trout below.  
So pleasantly they licked their Dishes,  
You would have sworn they drank like Fishes.  
On either side, each Brimmer fills,  
Till they grew red about the Gills.  
But all this while Phoebus stood by,  
As he had other Fish to fry;  
And charged 'em with his piercing beams,  
Reflected from the smooth-raced streams;  
His furious Rays doubly designed,  
To ●ele 'em, and to make 'em blind,  
'Tis pit●y none a Cloak had on,  
And more, no Wind engaged the Sun.  
Nor none, whose fervour could invoke  
A Cloud to lend the Sun a Cloak.  
But see, and ne'er more need than now,  
A gentle Willow gave a Bough:  
And made 'em the compleatest Arbour,  
Never had Vessel such a Harbour:  
There did they deck the Board with cheer,  
And what is not a dainty there?  
Where every One a stomach got,  
Would even defy a Mustard-pot.  
For Beer, the Men were so well bred,  
Always to speak well of the dead.  
And for Tobacco, as 'tis fit,  
The Pipes did play the prai●e of it.  
The Wine well watered, and well stopped.  
Drank cool as Snow from Mountains dropped.  
But, as They in their ambush snuged,  
And sometimes Piped, and sometimes Juged;  
They kend a Fleet, but from the Main-yard,  
Could not discover Dutch, or Spaniard:  
Some said, whose Eyes could better ●ee't,  
'Twas the white Squadron, or Place fleet.  
But they proved Silver-feathered Galleys,  
That used to make Freshwater sallies.  
Their Necks their Masts, which no storm reels,  
Their Feet, their Oars, and Bellies, keels.  
Their Wings, their Sails, their battery charms,  
And therefore they stood to their Arms.  
And as they did in Triumph Ride,  
They gave the Bargers a Broadside;  
Their Admiral bore up so stout,  
They durst have sworn he would have fought.  
Yet not a Gun fired from their Bark,  
Though never Men had fairer mark:  
Yet they had Fire, and Match, and All,  
But neither Powder, nor yet Ball.  
And, what is worse, their Teeth now grew  
In want of Ammunition too,  
Time came to part, for new the Wine,  
Tobacco, Beer, and Sun decline.  
The back of many a Tench they had  
But not the Belly of one Maid:  
Venus had sent 'em Females fair and flesh,  
But Friday (though her day) was not for Flesh.   

Upon a Country Parson and his Man, and a Parishoner whose Name was Ivory.  
THe Parson sued him, 'cause he called him knave  
For which poor Ivory 7, and 6. pence gave:  
And so at six and seven they both drank on,  
That, ere they went away, they were quite gone.  
The seven and six pence so had Ivory stirred,  
He could not give the Parson a good word.  
Nay, such a dose he to his Temples gave,  
That, if he would? he could not call him knave;  
And, (what I could have wished had not been true)  
The liberal dose silenced the Parson too.  
This hap, alas! had never come to pass,  
Had but the Priest concluded with his Glass.  
But Copper cupped so much, the Sack ran down  
All the neglected Preface of his Gown.  
So all be-buttered too, as if (alack)  
The Priest had in his Stomach mulled the Sack.  
His Man too drunk, which made him much the bolder  
Yet got no Sack, save one upon his shoulder:  
He reeled about, and ran at every Shelf,  
And neither knew his Master, nor himself.  
Ivory asleep fell down, and in the close,  
Did, for an Ivory, get a scarlet Nose.  
They that before so great a noise did keep,  
Now slept, and in the rightest sense, Fox-sleep.  
The Popinjay one Fuddle had before,  
But when these three were there, than it had four.  
And while they slept secure, in came the Watch  
And does this pickled Congregation Catch.   

Upon a Dog called Fudle, turn-spit at the Popinjay in Norwich.  
FVdle, why so? some Fudle-cap sure came  
Into the Room, and gave him his own name.  
How should he catch a Fox? He'll turn his back  
Upon Tobacco, Beer, French-wine, or Sack.  
A Bone his Jewel is; and he does scorn  
With Aesop's Cock, to wish a Barley-corn.  
There's not a soberer Dog. I know in Norwich,  
What a pox, would ye have him drunk with porridg?  
This I confess, he goes a round, a round,  
A hundred times, and never touches ground;  
And in the middle Region of the Air,  
He draws a Circle like a Conjurer.  
With eagerness, he still does forward tend,  
Like Sisyphus, whose Journey had no end.  
He is the Soul, (if Wood has such a thing?)  
And living Posy of a wooden Ring.  
He is advanced above his Fellows, yet  
He does not for it the least Envy get.  
He does above the Isle of Dogs commence,  
And wheels th' inferior Spit by influence.  
This though befalls his more laborious Lot,  
He is the Dog-star, and his Days are hot.  
Yet, with this comfort there's no fear of burning,  
'Cause all this while ch' industrious wretch is turning:  
Then no more Fudle say, Give him no spurns,  
But wreck your tene on one that never turns.  
And call him, if a proper Name he lack,  
A Four-foot Hustler, or a Living Jack.   

Upon a Confident chaste Young LADY.  
WHen Jocabella first I saw,  
She seemed to give her looks no Law:  
Methought her Eyes like Rosia's Hair,  
Frolicked, and wantoned with the Air.  
The bold, and careless Amazon  
Fronted, and fired on every one.  
As who should say, she meant to try  
The power of her Chastity.  
She would at Masks and Plays appear,  
As neither slave to place, nor sear.  
Presuming she could, as she list,  
Those Opportunities resist.  
I know not what to think on't more,  
She was, and she was not a Whore.  
For those bewitching looks of hers,  
Made many Heart's Adulterers:  
Sometimes she'd Vizor-Mask her Face  
And Sakers in the Portholes plac●.  
Which maugre great Achilles' Shield,  
Like Basilisks, as distance killed.  
So Venus with her na●ed Breast,  
Could Mars himself in Arms decrest.  
I often pitied her, and said,  
Alas! 'tis too much for a Maid.  
The Fly that wantoness with the Flame,  
Betrays its Wings wnto the same;  
And She, for all her Provess, may  
Too soon be caught in her own Play;  
And justly fall a Sacrifice,  
To the Manslaughter of her Eyes.   

To the thrice Lovely Guiana.  
GViana's like a Cedar straight,  
Purely proportioned as to height,  
She wears a Crown of Maidenhair,  
No Chaplet half so rich, so rare.  
Her Forehead fair is smooth and high,  
A Throne befitting Majesty.  
Two Rainbows arch her Orient Eyes,  
Which them again with beams supplies.  
On her fair Cheeks enamelled are  
The Arms of York and Lancaster.  
Indeed there's nothing in her Face,  
But is a glory to the Place.  
GVIANA is Rhetorical,  
And has a ready Wit withal;  
Like Sapph, whom in former Ages  
Plato admired, and all the Sages.  
Her quick and acquaint delivery such is,  
As She outvies the Northern Dutches.  
She has the Common wealth of Wit,  
Which makes so great a dearth of it:  
If possible, her Tongue would grace,  
Beyond the Rhetoric of her Face.  
Guiana in Her Morning Dress,  
Trips like a sprightly Sheppardess.  
She dances, if She will, or no;  
As if her Feet did measures know.  
So even, so sweet are Her advances;  
That, if She do but walk, She dances '.  
Her motions, Planet- like, are made  
Traverse, Oblique and Retrograde.  
Her trips so smooth are, and so sweet,  
The Ground grows proud to kiss her Feet.  
Guiana, if She please to sing,  
Urania straight her Lute does bring;  
And hearing then so sweet a noise,  
Sets down and tunes it at her Voice.  
Where e'er her pleasant accents come,  
The Sirens of the Groves are dumb.  
Her Tongue, indeed, is tuned with blish,  
Who would not such a Consort wish?  
For Person, Parts, for Dance, or Voice,  
All are so sweet, there is no choice.   

Upon Guiana's Farewell to Sharington.  
FArewell! a pretty story faith; if I  
No better far, I need not Roast-meat cry:  
Farewell! impossible; Can I farewell,  
When she has razed and sacked my Citadel.  
Well, Go Guiana and be happy too,  
What ever Sharington or Norwich do.  
Ah sweet! ah fair! but since there's no relief,  
April shall help us to shower out our grief.  
Me thought I saw, just as she bade God by,  
The drooping flowers hang down their heads & die.  
Her haste was hence so speedy, as there was  
No Rose, or L●lly blown, but in her Face.  
Only the Violet (and that grace she deigns)  
Packed up its Purple in her purer Veins.  
Yet j●st as she was going out of Town,  
Peeps a gay Tulip, and presents a Crown.  
The Citizens of the Air their Anthems sing,  
To my Guiana Goddess of the Spring:  
She folds her fairer Lips, and at her call,  
Comes Blackbird, Linit, Alph, Thrush, Nightingal,  
Melodious warblers, with her Coach they move,  
And make the hedges and highways a Grove.  
Thus flowers, thus birds, thus all must with her go  
See, see, what those magnetic Eyes can do!  
And yet (severer stars!) myself I find  
Would be most forward, am the most-behind.  
What then adds this to me? where's my relief,  
This speaks her triumph, but, alas! my grief.  
Endymion's Miss observes her monthly wane,  
And with full Face repairs her Orb again.  
The Summer Solstice comes as Winter goes,  
Day follows Night, and ebbs succeed their flows.  
The Swallow, woodcock, Stork and C●cco too  
Know their Returns, as well as their Adieu:  
But, ah! she bids farewell, and hopeless I  
Must with the Swan sing my own Dirge and die.  
O how she packed her spoils! more captive hear●s  
Than Argus e'er had Eyes, or Cupid Darts!  
Thus beauty plays the chief, fair Rachel stole  
Her Father's Gods, Guiana fair my Soul;  
Which I could be content to let her do,  
Were she so kind to take my Body too;  
But since her stay is subject to no spell,  
Let me be miserable, so she farewell.  Vixque valed●xi pleno singultibus ore.  

To my Honoured Friend Mr. J. W. Student in Lincoln's Inn, Upon the Death of his dear Wife Mrs. A. W.  
COngratulate I cannot, nor complain,  
My Theme is equal, as to loss, or gain;  
True, a dear Wife, yet not her bereaven,  
Where would you lay up treasure, but in Heaven?  
Thus half in Heaven, and half on Earth you are;  
You keep possession here, She has it there.  
Nor is she dead, though Earth her earth still keep,  
Sinners are said to die, but Saints to sleep.  
No, she now only lives and triumphs, where  
Her Workhouse, like her Works must follow her.  
This may within your sorrows Circled fall,  
You want a Copy of th' Original:  
We can't deny it; and that this is true,  
More are to mourning Legacyed than you;  
Her Soul was not, though Body, thus bereft  
For wanting Issue, she Example left.  
To which she may for a Memorial trust,  
When Marble, and Posterity are dust.  
What if her Womb were in her wishes crossed?  
Where there's no Labour, there's no labour lost.  
For my part; I think who can scape without,  
Those pains and perils, need not to cry out.  
Some that her harmless Life knew, gather thence  
She scaped the curse, and died in Innocence.  
And, though no Mother, yet a hopeful Bride:  
She lived an Angel, and a Phoenix died.  
Sure Overbury prophesied her Life,  
Or he had been to seek for a good Wife.   

An ELEGY upon Mr. Robert Doughty of Gray's Inn, deprived of his Spouse.  
THy generous humour, and approved wit,  
To after Ages shall thy Name transmit.  
Whilst thy dear Memory lives with us, and shall  
With the World only have a Funeral.  
True, he whose Coffin in a Church finds room,  
Has both the walls, and windows for his Tomb.  
But thou dost neighbour to the vulgar lay,  
To consecrate (as 'twere) their common clay.  
That when we cease our sorrows to pursue,  
Heaven may supply thy Urn with kindlier dew.  
That on thy Grave thy Virtue flowers may grow  
Till Winter on thee Pearls and Diamonds strew.  
Thy fate, I pity, Love and Fortune's rage,  
To make Gray's Inn so long thy Hermitage.  
Ah cruel fair! Ah far from thy desert!  
Thou brok'st thy mind to her has broke thy heart.  
What time thou first didst homage to her Eyes,  
Thou wer● her Servant, now her Sacrifice:  
Let hearts play fast and loose, thou now art gone  
Unto a witness, knows she was thine own.  
Who (ah! sometimes such Planets intervene)  
But for her Mother, had a Mother been▪  
Where then is conscience? such is justice ●earth,  
That Matches made in Heaven, scarce hold on earth.  
Farewell fond faith, false fickle female breath,  
there's nothing certain this side Heaven but death.  
In this, thy fate thy greatness does proclaim,  
A noble instance of a generous flame.  
Not yet condemn we her, who knows but she  
May open thy Grave, and come to Bed to thee.  
Where you, wh●se stat●deny ' d it in your Life,  
May mingle Ashes, and be Man and Wife,  
And close in an inseparable Bliss,  
No more a prey to Parent's avarice.  
And who can think she long behind should-stay.  
Whose better half so bravely led the way?  
And now (blest shade) forgive our ruder verse,  
Whose withered Bays do but profane thy Hearse.  
Such thy beginning was, such was thy End,  
Thy death is felt does to the Life commend.  
Such Rays thy Morning, such thy Evening gate,  
The Sun ne'er brighter rose, nor clearer sat.  
Who writes thy Elegy must wake thy dust,  
And beg assistance, if he would be just.  
For ours insipid is, yet not our fault,  
Whose Eyes, at present, take up all our Salt.   

Upon His MAJESTY'S Progress into Norfolk, Sept. 28, 1671.  
YArmouth had first (O more than happy Port!)  
The honour to receive the King and Court;  
And entertain, Season providing dishes,  
The King of England, with the King of Fishes.  
A Royal Mess, what Herrings p●ay were they?  
Not red, nor white; pickled, nor bloat they say;  
No milch, but all hard rows, strange kind of meat!  
Herrings you might d●g●st but could not eat  
Whose eyes were rubies, and whose seals were gold.  
Herrings that never stink though ne'er so old.  
The Senate of the Shoal, whose golden Chain,  
Argues 'em the Triumvirate of the Main.  
A glittering Trine, but by the way, me thinks,  
'Twas no good Supper-meat, Herrings and Links.  
Yet, for all that, it was good Fish when caught,  
Would I'd a swill of such at Twelve a Groat.  
Should Norwich put such Herrings in their Pies,  
Their Charter would be heavier than Excise.  
Oysters may of their Pearls high value set,  
But these are Herrings for a Royal Net.  
To which, add all that Art or Nature could,  
Nothing could be too dear, nothing too good:  
The treat was what, or wit, or wealth could give,  
The Cates being like the Guests superlative.  
Whose superabundance did contribute more,  
Than some can feast their Kings with to the poor.  
Next to his Majesty, at the Town-hall,  
His Royal Highness, Lord High-Admiral,  
Vouchsafed his Princely Presence (save the Crown)  
The highest honour ever deigned the Town.  
The Duke of Buckingham, and Monmouth's Graces,  
In the next Sphere took their Illustrious Places.  
With other Lords of principal account,  
Whose grandieurs my poor Heraldry surmount,  
When the Town sparkeled with such Cavaliers,  
Yarmouth was sure Nobly supplied with Peers.  
Had you the Gold the flew about, there seen,  
You would have thought you had in Guiny been.  
Pieces did answer Pieces shot for shot,  
As if that Gold the art of Guns had got.  
Sure Caesar's beams, and Sun like Equipage,  
Gilded the Town, and made this Golden Age.  
No Bristol Milk out of the Conduits spun,  
Though not the Conduits, yet the Pipes did run.  
Goblets, and Gold, they shovel out their wealth,  
And think their Wine too little for his health.  
Soldiers and Servants with the Court come down,  
Might, at the Feathers, gratis, be highflown.  
They say his Majesty there Knighted Four,  
I only wonder He did Knight no more:  
For, who observes how they set all to rights,  
Would think they acted more like Lord, than K●●.  
To those He added, but He gave no Names,  
But answered for a Ship, and called i' James,  
All pleased the King, and the King all did please,  
Never was Day more full of Happiness!  
The general joy to see his Majesty,  
Their Acclamations witness to the Sky.  
Twelve hundred shot, add yet a thousand more,  
From shore to Sea, and from the Sea to shore,  
With such salutes did one another greet,  
You would have feared that Heaven and earth would meet.  
Salutes are thundered all abroad the Main,  
Which Neptune answers to his Lord again.  
For while the Earth did Echo with their joys,  
The Sea could not forbear to make a noise,  
The very Waves in tumults fret, and foam  
For madness, that they could no nearer come.  
Thus was the King, whilst Mount to Mount roar out  
Besieged with Salutations round abou●.  
The smoke rose up in Clouds, and made a Night,  
And Lynstocks were the Candles gave us Light.  
The pr●●ing Powders at the t'uch holes flash,  
And every Mount a Mountain Aetna was:  
Thus Earth and Water carol to their King,  
And, as in Consort, Jopaean sing;  
Farewell 〈◊〉 air Yarmouth, and again farewell,  
Where noble hearts, in noble houses dwell.  
Thy King has judged thy great, thy generous Town  
A Jewel worthy of a Monarch's Crown.  
Next Norwich ward great Caesar sets his face,  
Like Sunshine to a long benighted place.  
The mounted Magistrates to meet ●lim rid,  
And their Formal ties his welcome bid.  
Whose Persons, though confined to City ground,  
Their Love and Loyalty yet knows no bound.  
First the Recorder did the whole present,  
And gave the King a solemn Compliment:  
Not empty words, but truth in such a dress,  
●A man might through it see her nakedness.  
'Twas pat and pithy, not a formal story,  
And he's as well now, as Sir Francis Corye.  
Next, they surrender on their Loyal K●ees,  
The Cup, the Sword, the Maces, and the Keys,  
Ensigns of Power; and Caesar takes 'em too,  
And what does Caesar take but Caesar's d●e?  
Whilst He, whom our Election did prefer  
To be the Major, is made the Sword-bearer.  
This was September right, the Senates' fall,  
But Royal R●yes raised 'em ag●n withal.  
And redelivered into hands so just,  
The Ensigns of Authority, and trust.  
Next Aaron, with his Sons, observe their course,  
My Lord, with all the Lords Embossed ●urs,  
As th'Holy Priesthood in Procession rod,  
To invite the King unto the House of God,  
As once a part of the Lev●●●●● ●tem,  
Met Alexander from Hie●usalem.  
Then highborn Howard waits, the King's approaches  
With's prancing horses, and his Prince'y Coache●  
And withal grace attends his Sovereign home,  
And does a Landlord to his Lord become.  
Receives his Majesty's a● the Duke's Place,  
Which at that 〈◊〉 Prince was.  
A City rather, and to thronged above,  
As Norwich City seemed a Suburbs to't.  
But that the king 〈◊〉 both; for People run  
To Royal beams, as Atoms to the Sun.  
Next ●lockt the Gentry, who as numerous were  
As twinkles in the Star be-dappeled Sphere.  
Fame filled the streets, there was no room to pass,  
Sure Norwich then a Populous City was.  
The King may thank Sir Peter Glean that Day;  
For, but for him, the King had no Highway.  
He cleared Him a free pass, where he might ride,  
And Paled it in with Pikes on either sides:  
And Muskets in close order, all in new  
Red Co●ts, and all alike lined with true blue.  
Thus representing to His Majesty  
Their Unity and Uniformity.  
Nor may I here that gorgeous Troop forget,  
Hundreds of florid Citizens that met,  
Their Sovereign Equipt in black and white,  
An object both of wonder and delight:  
With Scarlet Ribbons in their Hats, to show  
Their Blood was likewise at his Service too.  
Argus had there met objects worth his Eyes,  
But twice as many would not half suffice:  
Windows and walls were nothing else you'd think  
Yet deemed disloyal to themselves to wink.  
But had you heard the Tempest of their Lungs,  
You would have thought them nothing else but tongues  
Their Vocal Volleys deafened every Ear,  
And Drums and Trumpets no loud Music were.  
They rend the Skies, and tore the very Ground,  
Muskets and Canons in the vogue were drowned.  
And Bells, that with such sweat & pains were reared,  
Might have rung backward for aught they were heard.  
'Twas such a clamour, so transcending measure,  
That Bells themselves could not appeal to Caesar.  
But face about, here's more yet to be seen,  
Two wonders in a Day, the King and Queen.  
With such a train of Beauties, might outdare  
Bold Saladine, and Crown a holy War.  
Now, Norwich, say, to grace thy Hemisphere,  
The Sun and Moon and Stars at once shone there.  
Thus the Pairroyal are together met,  
And the Duke's Place more graced than ever yet.  
Where they conducted are into a Room,  
Hung all with Arras fresh come off the Loom.  
Adorned with all magnificence, and quite  
Set round with Flambeux made a Day of Night.  
For Supper, there I beg to hold my peace;  
Think what the Eye, the Ear, the razed would please,  
All that they had, nothing did want that Night,  
(Except by too too much,) an Appetite.  
In sum the Bill of fare, let him pronounce,  
Knows what it is to treat two Courts at once.  
Paston and Hobart did bring in the Meat,  
Who the next day at their own houses treat:  
Paston to Oxney did his Sovereign bring;  
And, like Aranuah, offered as a King.  
Blecklyn two Monarchs' and two Queens has seen,  
One King fetched thence, another brought a Queen.  
Great Townsend of the treats brought up the rear,  
And doubly was my Lord Lieutenant there.  
And now with Norwich, for whose sake I writ,  
Let me conclude; Norwich did what was fit:  
Or, what with them was possible, at least;  
That City does enuff, that does its best.  
There the King Knighted the ●o famous Brown.  
Whose worth & learning to the world are known.  
They offered to the K●ng at the New-hall,  
Banqu●ts and Guynies, and their hearts withal▪  
For Norwich true, others may treat more high,  
But to her Power, none more heart●ly:  
S'has long a Widow been, and 'tis but right  
T'accep● a Widow, for a Widow's Mite:  
Norwich strained all, that Norwich could extend,  
Nor could she more, should Jove himself descend.  
Tandem progreditur magna comitante Caterva.   

Observations upon lilly's Almanac.  
HArk how the angry Comet here portends  
Woes to some Weals, whilst others he befriends:  
And from his glittering Library of Stars,  
Denounces what he pleases, peace or wars:  
Nor must you say he speaks besides his Books,  
Though he but judge their meaning by their looks▪  
When People know, no forehead can impart  
All the intrigues and angles of the heart:  
Then gentle Reader, take what he has said,  
Sometimes direct, and sometimes Retrograde.  
His knowledge can't be deep, that has expressed,  
But superficial judgement at the best.  
For I'll maintain it, he may see as far  
Into a ●eather Mill stone, as a Star.  
Endymion that had Luna 'bout the middle,  
Could none of all her mysteries unridle,  
And Lily 〈◊〉, that all this toil doth keep,  
Had, with Endymion been as well asleep.  
Show me a 〈◊〉 from the Mani'th ' Moon,  
I'll grant his Book writ with a beam of noon.  
Crotchets and hay●ro nes govern our affairs,  
Just so we see our dooms at Tavern-barrs.  
He that so oft does the twelve houses name,  
Ne'er set a 〈◊〉 in any of the same.  
Yet all that there is done, he does record,  
As 〈◊〉 he their Aseen●lant were, and Lord.  
And yet for al' th●s noise, and six-penry Cut,  
Shall his twelve House's in my Pocket put.  
Believe't, if he no better Lodging meet,  
He may for all these houses lie ●'th street.  
And shake his drinkeled locks half starved & dead,  
Although he has twelve Houses o'er his head.  
For these are Castles, Houses in the Air,  
And tho' he know their signs, he can't come there.  
And even these signs our wonders too invite,  
By day you cannot see'um, but by night.  
From whence, I think, I justly may infer,  
An Owl may make a good ginger.  
I neither Jupiter nor Saturn dread;  
The first rules Pewter, and the second Lead.  
'Tis not improbable, Saturn may rage,  
'Cause the old dotard lost his golden Age:  
For my part, I ne'er found it; for alas!  
My age is sometimes silver, sometimes brass.  
Sometimes so empty, so Poetical,  
That I protest it is nothing at all.  
And, if thy Son has still the Sovereignty;  
I think he has gelt me as well as thee.  
Let me alone with Bacchus and his Grapes,  
I shall not envy Jove, nor his escapes.  
But, I confess, I hardly can refrain,  
From envying thee, that Star that dropped thy Chain.  
An Almanac's a store-house, where old wives  
May furnished be with Fables all their Lives.  
His worship's weather-wise, this month he says,  
That many aged People end their days:  
As if there were a moment, wherein some,  
Or other do not to their long homes come.  
These Lord Ascendants pronounce war or peace,  
open ' and shut Janus Temple as they please.  
Hippocrates himself might undertake,  
To learn Prognostics of an Almanac.  
Nay, they must ne'er outstrip him Cent. per Cent,  
They the Disease foretell, he but th' event.  
This Proverb (It is easier to believe,  
Than to disprove) does them advantage give.  
L●es borrow faith; but they get nothing by't  
At the years' end; for Time brings truth to light.   

Upon the Norfolk Largess.  
WE have a custom, no where else is known,  
For here we reap, where nothing e'er was sown,  
Our Harvest-men shall run ye, cap and leg,  
And leave their work at any time to beg.  
They make a Harvest of each Passenger,  
And therefore have they a Lord-treasurer.  
Here ye must pence, as well as Prayers bestow;  
'Tis not enough to say, God speed the Blow.  
These ask as Men, that meant to make ye stand;  
For they Petition with their Arms in hand.  
And till ye give, or some good sign appears,  
They listen to ye with their Harvest-eares.  
If nothing drops into the gaping Purse,  
Ye carry with ye, to be sure, a Curse.  
But, if a Largess come, they shout ye deaf,  
Had you as many Ears as a Wheatsheaf.  
Sometimes the hollow greater is by odds,  
As when 'tis answered from the Ivye tods.  
Here all unite; and each his accent bears,  
That were but now together by the ears.  
And, which a Contradiction doth imply,  
Because they get a Largess they must cry;  
Cry with a Pox? whoever of it hears,  
May with their tankard had no other tears:  
Thus in a word our Reapers now a days,  
Reap in the Field, and glean in the Highways.   

To my dear Friend Mr. Sam: Stainer new come from Messina.  

[I]  
As to the thirsty, a full Cup,  
Or to a Schoolboy, breaking up,  
Or to the poor, who would relieve,  
Or to a Man condemned, Reprieve.  
Such is my Friend Stainer to me,  
But none so welcome yet as he.   

[2]  
As June to a tired Traveller,  
Or Port to a long tossed Mariner;  
Or to the Dutch their Indie-Fleet,  
Or us, that we in Thames could see't:  
Such is my Friend Stainer to me,  
As much a joy as these could be.   

[3]  
〈◊〉 to Insurers Ship arrived,  
●r Coward that wars shock survived,  
●r Feast to Gluttons appetite,  
●r to a Bride her Wedding night:  
Such is my Friend Stainer to me,  
Nothing so welcome though, as he.   

[4]  
〈◊〉 Honour to a haughty mind,  
〈◊〉 Lady to a lecher kind,  
〈◊〉 Money to a Miser's clutch,  
〈◊〉 brave Victory o'er the Dutch:  
Such is my Friend of whom I've spoken,  
Messina sent me for a Token.    

The Cook's Catastrophe, Occasioned by a Soldier killing a Cook's Boy carrying a covered Mess through the street.  
UNhappy Boy, thus to be sent upon  
Death's Errand, with accursed Bellerophon!  
Where God found Meat (here the old Proverb took  
The Devil and the Soldier found the Cook.  
First Mess was serving; but ah cruel force!  
The Cook himself became the second course.  
For as the Corpse he carried to the Womb,  
The Bearer by the way, met his own tomb.  
But with this d●fference, as he lost his breath,  
The stone, should be above, was underneath.  
And yet he could not without marble part,  
Had there been none else, but the Soldier's heart.  
The Boy might prate, alas! in such a case,  
Is not a Cook allowed a little sauce?  
A milk white Naplin o'er the Mess was laid,  
No Ladies Apron such temptations had!  
Hunger, that breaks Stonewalls, at such a sight  
Had pointed teeth, and made a Coward fight.  
The Air was raisor-keen, and might afford  
A stomach, that was sharper than his Sword.  
For Mars his Sons, and Neptune's too they say,  
Do watch, and fast, far oftener than they pray:  
But the Boy moved with't, fast as he was able,  
For there his Master kept no standing table.  
With whom the hungry soldier pace would keep,  
'Twould vex a Dog to see a Pudding creep:  
The cloth was spread, but on it nothing lay,  
The Red-coat therefore needs would take away.  
They both tugged for't, neither could other brook  
The hasty Soldier, nor the tasty Cook.  
At last it happened the unlucky cloth  
Did prove, well-nigh, a winding-sheet to both.  
The poor Cook's Boy, that little dreamt of it,  
ere he could take a turn, dropped from the Spit.  
And yet he had a turn, ah, a shrewd turn!  
Has turned him now, alas! into his Urn.  
And though for this, the Soldier suffered not,  
Know it, his hands are redder than his Coat.   

Upon Shortwhite, the Nob● Hampstead Cock.  
TO you that love the knight of fowls, I wri●  
The Tragi-comedy of brave Shortwhite.  
First in a Well, but by good fortune found,  
This winged Hero, Icarus was drowned:  
But drawn up and cast into a warm Blanket,  
Next morning he revived, did crow and crank it  
Next was he (O that Murderer of Cocks!)  
Surprised in his Seraglio by a Fox:  
And when a Captive past all hope he seemed,  
Was by a Dog that charged the Foe redeemed;  
Unhurt, he marched off, suffering nothing there  
Except he could, what Shortwhite could not, fear,  
Another time he was by Dogs waylaid,  
And unto Men, more Curs than they, betrayed,  
Who had him to the Mews, what meant their Cunning  
A Cock is for a walk, and not for Running.  
But there so loud he uttered his Disaster,  
That Hampstead Rung with'●, and informed his Mister  
Who soon delivered Shortwhite from the Lock,  
And kicked those Coxcombs, that had stolen his Cock,  
Six armed Knights he has in Battle killed,  
And never drop of his own blood yet spilled,  
And yet his Milk-white Wings enamelled be,  
With drops, his heels drew from his Enemy.  
Thus over all his foul, and fairer foes,  
He claps his Pinions, and in triumph crows.  
And tells his Master, Let his match be found,  
He'll lose his Life, or win him Twenty Pound.   

To a Nonsensical Barber would seem Poetical.  
Barber, go scrape, it troubles me that I,  
Can't write so low, as thy Capacity.  
Shrubs are beneath the Wind, had I an Oak,  
Or some tall Cedar, did my Rage provoke?  
His top should kiss his toe; I hatch a satire,  
Should bow the Zenith down to the Aequator.  
But who would at a Hedge bird spend his shot,  
Or fire a Canon at a Cockle-boat?  
Varlet in Verse, thou scriblest, but I see,  
Nor R'yme, nor Reason, Sense, nor Quantity.  
No, nor true English; it were strange, if you,  
That cannot speak true English, should write true.  
Pure Parallels, pure disingenuous Nidgit,  
This an Elboick is, and that a Digit:  
Just so he cuts men's hair, here 'tis too short,  
And there as much too long, as amends for't.  
Go Fustian Shaver, Go to; You must get  
Your living by your Hands, and not your Feet.   

Upon one Day that ran away, and laid the Key under the Door.  
HEre Night and Day conspire a cheating flight,  
For Day, they say, is run away by Night.  
The Day is past, why Landlord! where's your rent:  
Could you not see the Day is almost spent.  
Had you but kept the Watch we'll, I suppose,  
'Twas no hard thing to know how the Day goes?  
Day sold, and pawned, and put off what he might,  
Though it were ne'er so dark Day would be light:  
That he away with so much Rent should get,  
Though Day were light, 'twas no light matter yet.  
You had one Day a Tenant and would fain  
Your Eyes might one day see that Day again.  
No, Landlord, no; you now may truly say,  
And to your Cost too, you have lost a Day.  
By twilight, Day is neither Day nor Night;  
What then? 'twixt both, he's an Hermaphrodite.  
Day is departed in a Mist, I fear,  
For Day is broke, yet does not Day appear:  
His paleface now does Day in Owl-light shroud,  
Truth is, at present Day's under a Cloud.  
If you would meet with Day you must be wiser,  
And up betimes, for Day's an early riser.  
Broad Day is early up, but you begin  
To rouse, and then broad Day is shutting in.  
From Sun to Sun, are the set-times of Pay,  
But you should have been up by break of Day:  
Yet, if you had? you had got nothing by't.  
For Day was Cunning, and broke over Night,  
Day, like a Candle, is gone out, and where,  
None knows, except to th'other Hemisphere.  
You must go look the Day with Candle light,  
This Day was sure begotten in the Night.  
The Lanthorn-looker, if he now began:  
Might find the Day, but scarce the honest man.  
Well, Day farewel, be't spoke to thy small praise,  
There's little honesty found now a Day's.  
In vain you do yourself this trouble give,  
You'll never make an even day while you live;  
And yet who trusted him for any Sum,  
Might have their money, if the Day were come.  
And, when will that be? when the Devil's blind;  
You will this Day at the Greek Calends find.  
For, it the Sun does hang behind the Change;  
If you can find the Day before, 'tis strange.  
Then to the Tavern, Landlord, let's away,  
Cheat up your heart, hang't, 'tis a broken Day;  
And for your Rent, never thus Rend your Soul,  
ere long you'll see Day at a little hole:  
Look at the Counter, when you go that way;  
Early enough, and you'll see peep of Day.  
But, how now Landlord? what's the matter pray?  
What, can't you sleep, you do so long for Day?  
Have you a mind, Sir, to arrest the Day?  
There's no such Sergeant as a Joshua.  
Why, Landlord, Is the Quarter out I pray;  
That you keep such a quarter for the Day?  
Put off your passion, pray; true, 'tis a Sum:  
But done't you know that a Payday will come?  
I'll warrant you, do you but banish sorrow,  
My life for yours Day comes again to morrow.  — Phosphore red Die●s.  

To T. B. Esq wanting a Son, and Heir; and upon his two fair Daughters.  
YOu have the Morning and the Evening Star,  
To whom, except each other, none compare.  
And what in all Men adoration moves,  
Fairer than Virgin-Snow, or Venus' Doves,  
Whom Nature in her Silver-mantle wraps,  
A pair of Pendants for a pair of Paps.  
So sweet, so pure, as if they did commence,  
Whiteness itself, even by reflection thence.  
Had Paris been so blest to see their Eyes,  
The Queen of Beauty must have missed her Prize.  
But, Sir, you want, and wish I know, a Son  
An Heir, of Elsing-Hall entailed on One.  
I wish it too, so that prodigious Tree,  
The wonder of the World should Bondfires be.  
I hope it shall, that those auspicious fires,  
May put a Period to your just desires.  
And more than that, could I once see that Boy,  
I'd burn my Cap, a sacrifice to Joy.  
Spain, I have heard, whose judgement's not the worst  
Have blest the Womb opened by a Female first.  
And by experience, say it does fore run  
The joyful Omen of a prosperous Son.  
Do you the like; great joys come by degrees,  
And take your Daughters from Heaven's hostages.  
They led the way, and for a Son left room:  
There's no despairing of a pregnant Womb.  
At least your Daughters, this, may promise you,  
Instead of one Son, they'll present you two.  
And you, for aught I know, without Male-Heir.  
May be as happy in a Sex more fair.   

An ELEGY on the Reverend John Crofts, D. D. and Dean of Norwich.  

HEre let his Reverend Dust in silence sleep,  
I could add rears, were't not a sin to weep.  
Which Heathens won't, what else in grief should we,  
But doubt, or Envy his Felicity.  
Death, as in duty, came and snuffed the light,  
As who should say to make it shine more bright.  
As to the shutting in of Nature's day,  
His Evening Red was, but his Morning Grey.  
The Elements disputed Deaths control,  
Nature was loath to part with such a Soul.   

As to his quality he doubly owes;  
But which, to Birth, or Breeding more, who knows?  
The first has him among the great ones reckoned,  
And in the second he to none was second.  
But some have troubled at his passion been,  
Why should they so? a Fly will have her spleen.  
He could be angry; and who lives but can?  
For could he not, he should be less than Man.  
True, he was hasty at some cross event,  
But was again as hasty to repent.  
And be his choler at the worst believed,  
Whom his right hand depressed, his left relieved.  
His strictness at the Church's Gates did well,  
No Gates stand always open, but those of Hell.  
And since the Lord his Vineyard did restore,  
'Twas Zeal, not choler to keep out the Boar.   

Should I forbear a Trophy here to raise him,  
(With Reverence to the Text) his works would praise Him.  
Impartial Eyes survey what he has done,  
And you'll not say Church-work went slowly on.  
Whose Elegy each grateful Stone presents,  
From th'humble Base, to th'highest Battlements.  
Others themselves wrap up in lasting Lead,  
But he wrapped up the Church in his own stead.  
Whose Pinnacle he reared so high, it even  
Climes up the Clouds to reach his alms to heaven.  
Upon whose Top, St. Peter may behold  
His Monitor in Characters of Gold.  
Not but in this, others pretend a share,  
But the Dead challenge what the living spare:  
Now then for Epitaph, this let him take,  
Here lies the Temples great Jehoz adack.  
Who for the Sums he, to repair it, spent;  
Has the whole Church to be his Monument.    

An ELEGY upon a Reverend Divine Buried in the Ruins of his Church.  
SO falls a Star, when it deludes our sight,  
For look but up, you'll see it still shine bright.  
What fell was Earth, which, all its substance spent,  
Subsided to its proper Element.  
Such was our friend, of whom we are bereaven,  
A composition made of Earth and Heaven.  
Heaven challenged his immortal Soul, and then  
The Elements took what they gave, again.  
He's now at's Father's house, his ever home,  
Whither at last his Body too shall come;  
Where he the Company of Angels keeps,  
Whilst weary Nature in her Causes sleeps:  
Not that his part diviner does forsake it,  
But lets it rest, till the last Trump awake it.  
Then he will come in the Angelic shore,  
And put it on, that put it off before:  
〈◊〉 as he left it, a poor lump of Clay,  
No; but as bright and glorious as the Day;  
Refined from all that drossy is, and soul;  
And now Immortal, as his heavenborn soul.  
Then what embrace, what a heavenly greeting,  
〈◊〉, it is Heaven itself to see the Meeting.  
Then shall they meet, never to part at all.  
And rise again, never again to fall.  
●ll this considered rightly, I may well  
●●d truly say, he rather rose than fell.  
However, according to the Apostles word,  
〈◊〉 now is blest, because dead in the Lord.  
●e from his labours rests, and his Works do  
●●h follow him, and stay behind him too.  
Tho being dead, yet speaketh; In the Night  
〈◊〉 Ignorance, he left a Paper light.  
●hich we still ●eep, though of himself bereaven,  
●nd are his Heirs, to make us Heirs of Heaven.  
Thus as his Heavenborn Soul her Earth declines,  
He plays the Glow-worm, and in darkness shines.  
Thus like a Taper burning, Heavenly bright,  
He spent himself in giving others light.  
God's fight he fought, o'ercome the fatal Three,  
Which Christians call the common Enemy.  
He kept the Faith his ever trusty Shield,  
And more than Conqueror marched off the Field!  
'Tis not in Rhetoric, an applause to lend him,  
Say but what's true, and you then most commend him.  
His Church and he, as if agreed by either,  
Fell in a manner, I may say, together.  
Where long he preached, until put out by Men,  
But Death was kind, and put him in again.  
There his Remains are treasured up, content  
To take her Ruins for his Monument.   

Upon the Reverend Herbert Ashley, LL. B. Elected Dean of Norwich, from many Rivals.  
THe Racers mounted with Day-breaking Phosphor,  
Hard did they ride, though not ride on and prosper.  
Some to the place, suspicious of their Right,  
As if they meant to steal it? went by Night:  
Thus whipped and spurred the Rivals at those rates,  
Their very Horses look like Candidates;  
Whilst Reverend Ashley with a sober pace,  
Went gravely on, and came off with a Grace.  
Nobly presented to his Prince's view,  
By the most Reverend, and right Reverend too.  
I might Right Honourable add too, where  
Northampton carried it from Derby clear:  
And happy was it; for, Christ-Church, if I may say't●  
Has been too truly Militant of late.  
But now those animosities shall cease,  
And Janus Temple give a sign of Peace.  
Joy to themselves, and us, to see 'em so,  
In Order to the God of Order go.  
Heaven and his Majesty, has in this choice  
Made your glad Walls of Zion to rejoice.  
Welfare their holy Fatherhoods, for you  
Want but one step to be a Father too.  
Your name even prophesies of its own accord,  
Herbert, or Ashley, which you please, 'tis Lord.   

Upon the Famous Sun Tavern behind the Exchange.  

BEhind! I'll ne'er believe't; you may as soon  
Persuade me that the Sun stands behind noon;  
We should be then more than Cymmerian blind,  
If the World's Eye, the Sun should stand behind:  
Nay, rather than Heaven's Lamp should so estrange  
His proper sight, the Change itself must change,  
Gresham must face about, under the Rose;  
The Kings themselves must go as the Sun goes.  
Yet notwithstanding what is here expressed,  
I am a Brownist as to East or West.  
What time the Peers did the Sun's rising stay,  
He found it first looked the contrary way:  
Cornhill may in her southside still take pride;  
But, where the Sun is, there's the warmer side.  
Yet some Astrologers, they say, maintain  
Three Suns late set, will never rise again.  
Three Meteors rather, if they were three Suns?  
Suns guided sure by giddy Phaeton's.  
But Noble Wadlow, this a Palace is,  
A Superstructure on a Base of Bliss.  
When thy transcendent Arch I'm passing through,  
Me thinks in Triumph I to Tavern go:  
To Tavern said? I recall it, No;  
Me thinks I rather to a Temple go,  
Where the great Room (and who would judge it less?)  
A Church is, and the rest Chapels of ease.  
At least a Presence, fit to entertain,  
(As once thy Predecessor) Kings again.  
So pompous, so pyramidal, as if  
It would on tiptoes checkmate Tenariff.  
Such are the All-magnificent contrives,  
Wolsie can ne'er be dead whilst Wadlow lives.  
The Turkywork about the Dyning-Room,  
Would make a Sultan think himself at home.  
The Chimny-Piece does Modern Art surpass,  
No hand can do the like, but Phidias.  
Pictures so quaint, so to the Life excel,  
You would not think 'em hanged, they look so well.  
Cathedral Windows carry there the Bay,  
Where many quarrels are, but not a fray,  
I need no story of the Hangings tell,  
Arras itself's sufficient Chronicle.  
Here every Chamber has an Aquaeduct,  
As if the Sun had Fire for Water trucked.  
Water as 'twere exhaled up to Heavens shrouds,  
To cool the Cups and Glasses in the Clouds;  
Which having done, from the Celestial Towers,  
Like Jove himself you send it down in showers.  
For Gold and Silver, Brass and Pewter, Iron,  
A Mine of each seems the whole house t' environ,  
Latin and Led, and what not? All agree,  
Here the Seven Planets keep their Heptarchy.   

But to the Cellar now, that happy Port,  
Where Bacchus in the Arches keeps his Court.  
No more of the Exchange, Let People talk;  
Here's the High Germane, French, and Spanish walk;  
In this low Country, is high Country Wine,  
Here's your old mellow Malaga, Muscadine,  
Canary, Florence, and Mederas here:  
Or in a word, here is Wine with one Eare.  
What shall I say? in vain I further write,  
Here's all that's Rare that's Racy, Rich & Right●▪  
Such choice of choices, none amiss can call,  
'Twould almost fudle me to name 'em all.  
But that's a task no Poet can fulfil,  
Except he write with a Canary quill.  
Thus, thus the Sun, as with invisible Ropes,  
Draws all the Change, and makes 'em Heliotropes;  
You'd think, to see the Crowds that thither run,  
A Man in Paul's were but a Moat i'th' Sun.   Regia Solis ibi sublimibus alta columnis, Clara micante auro est—  

Upon a Silver Box presented to His Mistress, with this Paper in It.  
A Box, and nothing else, were to address  
Myself unto You but in emptiness:  
I therefore thought convenient to impart,  
This Paper as the Picture of my heart;  
Think it Pandora's Box; for I would here,  
All that is pure or precious should appear.  
Here are no Rings or Rubies in it, but  
What's fairer, there a faithful heart is put.  
A love shall last, and all esteem surmount,  
When Pearls like Pebbles turn to no account,  
Nor brings it Civet; what alas, is that?  
The Excrement of an outlandish Cat.  
'Tis no Tobacco Box, whose Indian smoke,  
Should your pure Nostrils, like a Chimney choke.  
No; To send such a Box to thee (my dear)  
Another Box might well become my Ear.  
But here's a choice perfume, shall hence arise,  
Grateful as Incense lighted by your Eyes.  
'Tis no Tin Box, nor offspring of the Ketel;  
But Silver, ever better Pocket mettle,  
'Tis good, yet not so great as your desert:  
However open it, and you open my heart.  
Accept it then a Present from a Lover,  
Be You the Bottom, and I le be the Cover.   

Upon the Virtuous Brown (I know who) at the Popinjay.  
Lilies and Roses, let who will go suit ye,  
I'm for the lovely Brown, the lasting beauty.  
Her Cheeks are Roses, need no thorny fence,  
And there's no Lily like her Innocence.  
Their blossoms are but slaves to every blast;  
But she's the same, when Spring and Autumn's past.  
Her May's Eternal; S●e, when envious Time  
Shall be no more, Is then but in her Prime,  
She shall bid all these fading Former's adieu,  
And Heaven and Earth shall for her sake be new.  
You see the out side of the Cabinet,  
But 'tis within her crowned graces set.  
Were you into an Angel but refined,  
You t●en might e●● the Mirror of her mind,  
Not but the lustre of her lovelyer lace,  
Need not▪ nay ough▪ not too the best give place.  
Her thoughts are chaster than the Virgin snow:  
Diana for a Temple there might go.  
Arabtan Odours have her bosom blest,  
The Phoenix there might come and find her Nest,  
Such, so all pure is her Complexion known,  
Sweeter than Cinnamon, softer than Down.  
Nature in silence tells us to this brown,  
Not the World's eye has tanned her, but her own;  
Her Sweet symmetrick looks that so control,  
Are but the Mask, and shadow of her Soul.  
Where all perfections to that height aspire,  
Women may envy, but Men must admire.   

Upon a Token drunk at the Star, sent Me by Honest Tho. Ridland, at the Popinjay in Norwich.  

[1]  
A Token (Tom!) believe't 'twas kindly done;  
It made us forthwith to Star Tavern run,  
To taste the Claret, from the Hogshead spun.   

[2]  
We washed it down, and bravely, ask Frank Barton,  
With the other, t' other, t' other, t' other quart on,  
We only wanted thee (Tom) and Jack Wharton.   

[3]  
It was indeed a seasonable boon,  
Soon we concluded on't, and went as soon.  
And drank by Starlight all the Afternoon.   

[4]  
Thou hast thy mind in Silver to me broken,  
For such, who always have me fairly spoken,  
And nothing sent, I value not a Token.   

[5]  
My Book I now do to the Press design,  
And take so well this kindness (Tom) of thine,  
As I'm in thy books, thou shalt be in mine.   

[6]  
I this, amongst the special favours rank;  
And, both the Bearer, and bestower thank,  
For thou art Free (Tom) and the Bearer Frank.    

Upon a SPARROW catcht at a Pipe of Canary.  
THis is a wonder, Drawer, score it up;  
A Sparrow taking of a chirping Cup?  
'Tis like the Bird, his fancy somewhat ripe,  
To the Canary flew to tune the Pipe.  
Why? if the Pipe was out of tune? then pray,  
Why should the Sparrow to his Ruin play?  
The curious Bird played on the Pipe, perchance  
To see the Rats unto the Sackbutt dance.  
The Drawer's eye, th' unlucky Bird beset,  
Who stead of drawing Wine, did draw his Net,  
Sure says the Drawer, when h'as drunk his fill,  
He means to pay me, for he has a Bill.  
Why should thy eye, and spirit be so narrow?  
Poor Bird, alas! he drinks but like a Sparrow.  
May be, and do you on its ruins look;  
The Sparrow this for a Hedg-Tavern took:  
If any mischief then, you to him do;  
You'll prove yourself worse hedg-bird of the two,  
He sips, he sips, the Drawer says, and reels,  
But certainly he'll never take his heels:  
No, nor he need not, had he drunk till night,  
Like Icarus, he was prepared for flight.  
But when the Drawer saw he drank all weathers,  
Not trusting to his heels, but to his feathers,  
In rage says he, and then himself bestirred,  
This Sparrow sure, is a Canary bird:  
He caught him fast, and brought him to the Bar,  
Who had recovered, had he come i'th' Ayr.  
He was a Cup to low; for be it known,  
he'd ne'er been over-taken, if highflown.   

The Willow Garland.  
HOw many Coronets of Daffodillies?  
Of purer Roses, and of Paphian Lilies,  
Wove thy false hope, for her thou thought'st thine own,  
When Fate was wreathing Willows for thy Crown?  
Unhappy faith, to trust so false a Love,  
Could fast and lose thee in thy Myrtle Grove!  
Those blissful shades, where every sacred bough  
Offered itself to kiss, and Crown thy brow!  
Thy Tongue, alas! is lost in the surprise,  
And nothing now is fluent, but thine Eyes.  
From whose all watery banks, these Willows spread  
And plate a woeful Willow for thy Head.  
On every Leaf crowns thy neglected hair,  
Hang all thy fears, cares, doubts, sighs and despair;  
Whilst o'er thy Crown, as other crowns, the loss  
Of all thy Presents is a real Cross▪  
Unfortunate! that all Herbs Powers could not  
Cure thy deep wounds, and unkind Hymen would not!  
But, since their virtues fail, seek it in death,  
And change thy Willow for a Cypress wreath.  
Forsaken? 'tis a sound to be abhorred;  
Some blasted Air formed that unlucky word.  
Suppose, since for her Sex thou canst not fight Her;  
Thy choler, sulphur, and thy fury Nitre.  
To this thy Willow add, and thou hast Powder:  
And couldst thou fance rage, or vengeance louder,  
Thy heavy heart, next into Bullets cast;  
Sure thou for her wilt be prepared at last.  
Then from her flinty bosom strike a spark,  
And fire it at her heart, she's a fair mark.  
But now I think upon 't, thou mayst desist,  
It is a White thy destiny has missed:  
Content then with thy Chaplet, set thee down:  
Who can despair, when sorrow has a Crown?   

Upon a Miller's Son, Sometimes a Peticannon, but turned out for disaffectedness to Episcopacy.  
LOng have I laboured betwixt wrath and scorn  
And not in pity, but contempt forborn.  
I should ere this, have smit him hip and thigh,  
But that my honour and disdain cried fie,  
Yet lest my temper he as soft should blame,  
And say I would, but could not right my fame.  
I'll carbonade him with my Catstooth Pen,  
And kick his collops into form again;  
I'll give the Brute a mark to know him by,  
More legible than Cleveland's Hue and Cry.  
Imprimis, He's a Revelation Beast,  
A Linsle-woolfie, Brownish, Piebald Priest▪  
He's round and royal; what you please, a man,  
That's both a Jew, and a Samaritan.  
He is a kind of a Nine Acred fop,  
A Maypole with a Weathercock a top▪  
His stature might a Ship for a Mast fit,  
And yet this Giant is a dwarf in wit.  
Of one that sprung from such a wellwrought Mill,  
Never was upper Room furnished so ill.  
He loves his Body better than his Soul,  
Nor would he come at Church, but to take Toll.  
He's a dilemma betwixt heart and tongue,  
As his Religion in the Hopper hung.  
He comes as one had of the loaves a sense,  
And serves St. Peter for St. Peter's Pence.  
When payday comes the Surplice has no harm in 't.  
When pay-day's past, a Babilonish Garment.  
Truly, whines he, the Anthems would be sweeter,  
Were they but tagged with Mr. Sternhold's Meeter;  
Yet as for Company, he bears a part,  
But he has only Hopkins in his heart.  
And when an Anthem in the Choir they name,  
He warbles to another of the same:  
A second part, which he can sweetly do,  
And play to 't on the living Organ too.  
Observe the Buzzard at the Eagles tail,  
He furls his Surplice like a Wind mill Sail:  
And wryths himself into as many shapes,  
As Proteus, or a Colony of Apes.  
As if that decency and order were,  
Fitter for Peter's Lunsford far, than here,  
Where he does loll, and wear more Cushions forth,  
Than all the Sermons ere he preached were worth.  
Brundel, and Brazen, and a Christ-Church Cannon,  
Are Cures too trivial to employ this Man on.  
But he has Strumpshall, Augustine's, Peter's too,  
More than this Tobit, and his Dog can do.  
To travel to 'um. Yet you'll often see,  
This Man inveigh against Plurality.  
These his six Livings are, but he does say,  
Had he but seven, he'd one for the Lord's Day?  
And yet he has, (as he does things contrive)  
So many Livings that he cannot live.  
So he himself, so he his Cures has served:  
He's like his Congregation, almost starved.  
But now he quacks, a Doctor of great skill,  
To Cure their bodies, though their souls he kill;  
Thus kill or Cure, he thrives; if the Corpse fall,  
He than gets Money for the burial.  
But this indeed does seem a natural smack,  
The Miller that begat him was a Quack.  
He does himself 'twixt this and t' other side,  
Like Beckles Steeple, from the Church divide.  
What is he? He is neither wise, nor fool,  
A Tertium Neutrum: Or an upstart Mule.  
He is, and guests by what is said before,  
A Cannon of a Presbyterian boar.  
A Cannon said I? he alas! is none,  
He is a Blunderbuss, an Elder Gun.  
He's ever loving, and he's ever loathing,  
He is so many things indeed, he's Nothing.   

Defiance to the Dutch.  
Robbed of our Rights? and by such Water-rats?  
We'll doff their Heads, if they won't doff their Hats;  
Affront too Hogen-Mogen to Endure!  
'Tis time to box these Butter-Boxes sure.  
If they the Flags undoubted Right deny Us?  
Who won't strike to us, must be stricken by Us.  
A Crew of Boars, and Sooterkins, that know,  
Themselves, they to our Blood and Valour owe▪  
Did we for this, knock off their Spanish setters,  
To make 'em able to abuse their betters?  
If at this Rate they Rave; I think 'tis good,  
Not to omit the Spring, but let 'em blood.  
Rouz then Heroic Britain's, 'tis not words,  
But wounds must work with Leather Apron Lords.  
Since they are deaf, to them your meaning break,  
With mouths of brass, that words of Iron speak,  
I hope we shall to purpose the next bout  
Cure 'em, as we did Opdam of the Gout.  
And when i'th' bottom of the Sea they come,  
They'll have enough of Mare Liberum.  
Our brandished steel, though now they seem so tall,  
Shall make 'em lower than Low-Country, fall.  
But they'll e'er long, come to themselves you'll see,  
When we in Earnest are at Snick a Snee.  
When once the Boars perceive our Swords are drawn  
And we converting are those Boars to brawn.  
Me thinks the Ruin of their Belgic banners  
Last Fight, almost as ragged as their manners,  
Might have persuaded 'em to better things,  
Than be so saucy to their betters, Kings.  
Is it of Wealth they are so proud become?  
Charles has a Wain I hope to fetch it home:  
And with it pay himself his just Arrears,  
Of Fishing Tribute for this Hundred Years.  
That we may say, as all the store comes in,  
The Dutch, alas, have but our Factors been,  
They fathom Sea and Land, we when we please  
Have both the Indies brought to our own Seas.  
For Rich, and proud, they bring in Ships by shoals,  
And then we humble them to save their Souls.  
Pox of their Pictures, if we had 'em here,  
We'd found 'em frames at Tyburn, or else where.  
The next they draw, be it their Admirals  
Transpeciated into Fynnes, and Scales;  
Or, which would do as well, draw if they please  
Opdam, with the Seven sinking Provinces:  
Or draw their Captains from the conquering Main  
First beaten home, then beaten back again.  
And after this so just, though fatal strife,  
Draw their dead Boars again unto the Life:  
Lastly, remember to prevent all laughter,  
Drawing goes first, but hanging follows after,  
If then Lampooning thus be their undoing,  
Who pities them, that purchase their own ruin?  
Or will hereafter trust their Treacheries,  
Until they leave their Heads for Hostages.  
For, as the Proverb has of Women said—  
Believe 'em not, nay though you'd swear theyare dead.  
The Dutch are stubborn, and will yield no fruit,  
Till, like the Walnut Tree, ye beat 'em to 't.  I. Orat. Injuries & non redditas, causam huiusce, esse belli audisse videor.  

Upon a Friend Lamenting the Loss of Learning.  
ARe there such Arts, as Scholars liberal call?  
To me, alas! they are not Liberal;  
Well then, by this I see that every Man  
Is not cut out for a Corinthian.  
But could there be, or did my Friends divine,  
No Merc'rie carved one of this block of mine?  
Did they so bitter Root, my Youth deter,  
Bi●ter? ah me! my loss is bitterer,  
For wanting Learning, O how pleasant fruit!  
Whilst others freely talk, I must sit mute,  
I'm no● a Man ordained for Dover Court.  
For I'm a hearer still, where I resort.  
And give attention to the words I hear,  
As if even then I at some Sermon were.  
I am a shadow, or a Bell without  
A Clapper, for my noise comes never out.  
Let others by my looks my meaning spell,  
I must say nothing, if I would say well.  
The Proverb says, Art has no Enemy,  
But Ignorance, that Proverb's crossed in me,  
I envy no Man his acquired Parts,  
But am an honourer of the generous Arts,  
However my brains be coffinded up in bark,  
For though my eyes be clear, my head is dark.  
Nay, even an Echo in the witty throng,  
Can answer better, though she have no Tongue.  
Thus, while I'm mute, to purchase wisdom by ',  
My very face does play the Hypocrite.   

To a Coy Lady that would not come to a Treat.  
ANd would not that imperious Clora come?  
Troth I'm glad on't, let her keep at home.  
And banquet on the barren walls, proud creature  
Whilst I for this small charge escape a greater.  
My wishes are no more to see her face,  
ere such a Juno, I'll a Cloud embrace.  
Her fancy, faith, will ne'er with mine agree,  
If she presume I should her shadow be.  
I'm of too clear a spirit, never stir,  
Run to the Devil, I'll ne'er follow her.  
Let her create a Mantle of the dark,  
Dap●●c be damned and smotheted in her bark.  
Has she so much, or else so little grace,  
She dare not look an honest Man i'th' face?  
If shame with held her? be that shame proclaimed  
A shame of which, even shame might be ashamed.   

Upon the great FIRE at St. Catharines', on Whitsunday, 1672.  
WHat our Whitsunday was, St. Catharin may  
Too sadly say, was her Ash-wednesday.  
Or, which indeed may be too truly said,  
What our Whitsunday was, ah! 'twas her Red.  
Imperious Element ●'cause thy hand was in,  
Couldst not conclude there where thoudidst begin.  
One house (fierce Fire) had been to large a share,  
Must those that struck thee not have neighbours sare?  
Could nothing intercept thy running on,  
Must every house have an Ucaligon?  
Couldst thou devour poor Widows houses too,  
And not have so much as pretence to show?  
Wouldst thou with Phaeton once more aspire  
To heaven, and set the world again on Fire?  
Or didst design the Hamlets to undo,  
To make the Suburbs, like the City, new?  
O that since Floods of tears could not suffice,  
Nile's Cataracts had pissed out both thine eyes!  
Or he that Tagus up a Mountain drew,  
Had drawn the Thames up here, and drowned theè too.  
That hadst no pity lest, but to destroy  
So many houses at a Tide of Joy.  
Ah cruel Tyrant, Fire! who can express  
The aching hearts of the poor harbourless!  
In a condition worse than Snails now grown,  
For they have houses, these alas! have none.  
Whose glittering Canopy o'er their sad heads  
Are sky, and stars, and the cold earth their beds.  
Such as but yesterday could Thousands boast,  
Have in a moment, all their substance lost.  
And now exposed to wind and weather lie,  
Examples of this World's inconstancy:  
Whilst they poor wretches are constrained to come  
Abroad these holy days, for want of home.  
Proud spark! did ever Deity do so?  
To burn thy Altars, and thy Temples too?  
Henceforth I'll warm with wine, and exercise,  
Let Salamanders to the Sacrifice.  
Colds not, at least the Collier's Ships reprieve,  
But for Newcastle (fire) thou couldst not live.  
Was ever Tyrant yet so senseless seen,  
Like thee, to blow up his own Megazin?  
Famish for want of Fuel, and expire  
In thine own Rubbish, as neglected Fire.  
Yet pity I thy Pitchy servant's ruin,  
Whose Ribs contribute to their own undoing.  
Bold fire! would we had let thee still alone,  
Locked in the silent bosom of a stone.  
And not have made ourselves so overwise,  
To find what heaven had hidden from out eyes.  
Must we still Phoenix like from Ashes grow?  
See what our sins, and senseless Servants do!  
Well, well, wild Fire, remember for this rout,  
When I lock in my doors, I'll put thee out.   

Upon a Rusty Patch on an Iron Face.  
MAd Scab have at ye; you expect a claw,  
To keep the lechery of your itch in awe.  
But 'twill not do, I dare not come so nigh,  
For scabs are Cabins where the Vermin lie.  
Why hast thou like a fool, thy Money spent,  
To make that pocky blotch a Persian Tent?  
Thou didst a Whore and Clap together get,  
And thou hadst to●n her Scart to cover it.  
The Pop won'd f●in pee● out there, but that you  
Are so ashamed, you clap the Casement too.  
Thou shouldst to contradiction be a kin,  
To wear a beauty spot upon thy Chin:  
No, no; there is no beauty in the case;  
'Tis but a knot upon thy Wainscoat face.  
But will your Copyhold endure the tutching,  
Why then in plain, 'tis a blot in your Scutcheon.  
Which we must not a patch, but plaster call,  
Not bought at Change, but begged at th'Hospital.  
Nor dost thou patch, but botch; why dost not send  
And draw the hole up with a Cobler's End?  
Your goodness is broke out, and therefore (Sir)  
The wooden Draper's turned a Plasterer.  
Why dost thou fingered so? and keep a coil,  
To trim a face, that is itself a foil.  
Indeed I question which the foil would be,  
The leprous looks, or rusty taff●tie.  
Yet hast thou, when a Gyrn thou dost advance,  
A merry, of a murry countenance.  
Westphalia here brings her resemblance in,  
Thy Face the Bacon is, thy Spot the Skin.  
Yet not to bring thy Visage in disgrace,  
Come, hang't, 'twill serve for a good riding face.   

Upon one that promised me Four Cravats, boasting he had Fi●ty.  
SUre, (Will.) you got, by some facete designs,  
All Danaus' Daughters for your Valentines.  
'twas but a dream I fear, and truly I  
Did never dream you would tell such a lie.  
If you have Ten? thank an industrious Wife,  
One Hempen one, would serve you all your life.  
You promised me Four, in a high carouse,  
The Mountain swelled, & it brought forth a Mouse.   

Upon a Trusty Tailor.  
THat shrid of Gentry, nicked Sir Thomas.  
Chameleon, ●ed with Ai●e of promise.  
A true believer, but he hath  
Not the least jot of saving Faith;  
For, as he lived among the Turks,  
He's damned already for his Works:  
Did ever Tailor venture so?  
For damage, and damnation too.  
Poor Taylor working thus t'this loss,  
He represents the Thief on th' Cross.   

To the gentile Drapers in St. Paul's Churchyard, retorting to the Play called, The Citizen turned Gentleman.  
THe Citizan turned Gentleman? what then?  
The Gentleman is here turned Citizen.  
The Court, and City, like those silken worms,  
Meet in the vast vicissitude of Forms.  
Me thinks, in your brave presences, I view  
The City's Glory, and the Country's too.  
In worst of times you have the best appeared,  
The Church's Champions, and S. Paul's Lifeguard.  
We can read Royalty on every brow;  
'Tis therefore rightly styled the Royal Row.  
Whom we, for this, the Churches Guard ians call,  
For you have built your Houses, as its wall.  
And showed, as well your duty, as your skill,  
Though there no Temple be, thet's Templars still.  
And when fanatics one antother call  
To Meetings, you are constant to Saint Paul.  
Whom from the factions, giddy, rude, and vain,  
Paul has distinguished, even by St. Paul's Chain.  
Or thus read the distinction, if you please?  
The Christians from the Scribes and Pharisees.  
These, those the honoured Citizens, are all  
Brave Fellow-commoners of the Kingdoms Ha'l.  
These younger Brothers are, that Money get,  
And purchase primogeniture by wit.  
Who failing Families rear up again,  
And prove themselves the better Gentlemen:  
They prop the falling Houses, and restore  
That lustre the dull Heir had dimmed before.  
Though they, as Sheriffs, spend at such a rate,  
Would shake the moy'cie of a good estate,  
The swelling Thames, like that of seven mouthed Nile.  
Enriches round about her all the Soil.  
This City sets in her Triumphant Chair, (Nile.  
And all the Country, but her Tenants are.   

Upon one Mrs. K—, who sets all her Neighbours together by the Ears with lying Tales.  
CEase superannuate, mischievous Creature;  
Thou art a K▪— by name, a Slut by nature.  
Dam'd Author of Division, thou art one  
The Devil stamped his cloven foot upon.  
Dissensions seminary; Thou art but  
A busy body, and an idle Slut.  
Yea thou art she, that hád'st thou power to d'ye,  
Wouldst tear in twain our Saviour's seamless Coat?  
Thou shouldst the Goddess sure of Envy be,  
Thou art her Picture, if thou art not she.  
Tygress, thou waitest to tear the harmlels Lamb,  
And art the Devil, or the Devil's Dam.  
Arch Enemy of Peace! Thou may'st be styled  
The Harlot, would divide the living Child.  
Thy Tongue is set on fire of Hell, and thou  
Dost Act above, but what they Act below.  
Thou liv'st a Rebel to the Prince of Peace,  
Until the Grave on thee, as Prisoner seize.  
Accursed tale of hers! she runs along  
And claps both men and women with her tongue;  
Go wicked woman, go; the End on't mark,  
Thy tales have ruined more than Whetston's Park.   

CAROLINA.  

SONG.  

[1]  
SHould I sigh out my days in grief,  
And as my Beads count miseries,  
My wound would meet with no relief;  
For all the Balsam of mine Eyes,  
I'll therefore set my heart at rest,  
And of bad market make the best.   

[2]  
Some set their hearts on winged wealth,  
Others to honours Towers aspire,  
But give me freedom and my health,  
And there's the Sum of my desire;  
If all the World should pay me Rent,  
It could not add to my content.   

[3]  
There is no fence against our fate,  
Eves Daughters all are born to sorrow,  
Vicissitudes upon us wait,  
That laugh to day, and lour to morrow.  
Why should we then with wrinckeled care  
Deface what Nature made so fair.     

Fair and Faithful.  

SONG.  

[1]  
GO now, thou mighty God of Love,  
And plough me up yond craggy crest,  
Where the proud Eagle rears her Nest;  
But if thou canst not Rocks remove,  
In vain thou comest my faith to prove.   

[2]  
Let Courtesans on Carpets tread,  
Embroidered all with Gold and Pearls,  
And talk of nothing under Earls;  
Yet I more honour bring to Bed,  
In an unspotted Maidenhead.   

[3]  
Some pity me to see me free,  
To see me frolic, see me drink,  
Of which they know not what to think:  
Think what they will, I'll honest be,  
Till those that pity, envy me.     

The Quakers Wedding.  
O Times! O Manners! whither's Levi fled,  
That Law and Gospel are abolished?  
The Red-nosed Dragon with his Complices,  
To Fundamental Truth's Antipodes,  
That Cockatrice this cursed Egg has batcht,  
And taught us worse than ever to be matched.  
They published then at Whipping-Posts the Banes,  
And well I think deserved 'em for their pains.  
But we can marry now, hand over head,  
And not have so much as a form to plead:  
We are not now unto the Justice packed,  
(Though then there was small Justice in the Act.)  
But we can marry of our own accord,  
Like Jack and Gill, but leaping cross a Sword;  
But against Parties coupled on this wise,  
Westminster Weddings will in Judgement rise.  
That they should stumble, and pretend such light!  
They marry wrong, and call't a Marriage Rite.  
The Libertine comes in the Levites room,  
And is at once the Parson and the Groom.  
He babbles like a Bruit, and by, and by;  
He takes the Bride, and goes to multiply:  
The Bride? I do recall what I have said,  
'Tis not a Bridal, but a Brothel-bed.  
They for Conjunction copulative would pass,  
When the Conjunction a Disjunctive was:  
For having lain together all their Life,  
They are▪ but as they met, not Man and Wife.  
And for a mitigation of their Cares,  
They may have many Children, but no Heirs.  
And, what a married Man loved never yet,  
He may a Bastard of his Wife beget.  
For wanting Licence and Certificate,  
He leaves his Issue Illegitimate.  
T● Sons and Daughters of the common Earth,  
An offspring outlawed in their very birth.  
What made them Jews and Gentiles to invite●  
Sure they could never hope a Proselyte.  
How Heaven approved the juggle you may tell,  
When Thunder, Lightning, and a l'empest fell;  
So dreadful too, though at one clap it stopped,  
As if the Heavens into Earth's lap had dropped.  
Confusion waited on both Men, and Meat;  
Their Marriage and their Feast were both a cheat.  
A wedding and no wedding brought before ye,  
The Devil doubtless was the Directory.  
Some Hellebor restore 'em to recant,  
This sordid League, and sens● less Covenant.  
O that such vileness should asfront the Sun!  
Would make a Corner blush to see it done!  
Whilst almost mad as they, the People ran,  
To see a S●nner take a Publican.   

Upon a Camp should have been played, near the black house by Kirby for a Crown a piece, and was not.  
THis morning when we came to see the Camp,  
Some had the Crotchets go●, & some the cramp.  
Where are the pledges of this hot contest?  
I doubt in earnest you were but in jest.  
Ye talk of Crowns, to heighten your renowns,  
And meet like Princes, that contend for Crowns.  
But you did talk, and I as much dare swear,  
Of Crowns, when you in the Crown Office were.  
Ale makes a bargain, and claps hasty hand to't,  
And when they cannot stand, they swear to stand to't.  
'Tis well designs are overnight forborn,  
The Evening is too valiant for the Morn;  
Bodies are▪ than too narrow for their souls:  
Foxes are best at burroughs, not at Goals.  
Yet saved your credit I presume, and cost,  
Where there is nothing laid, there's nothing lost.  
Lancashire Law, no lawful bargain makes,  
Ye robbed the hedges, if ye left your stakes:  
Or, if indeed you le●t your stakes in pawn;  
Go get your Spades, & ditch, where they are drawn.  
'Tis reason you your Collar, should force  
Into the 〈◊〉 you draw out yours.  
Well, thou that brok'st the match, thou best deservest,  
For legs and arms are in request in harvest;  
Had you been maimed? ye might have cursed your tipple,  
A Harvest Lady does abhor a Cripple,  
But yet that none did Coat or Double● d●,  
At the black house ye came but blew ●y off.  
Ropes that would meet the ground can't draw ye to't  
And yet▪ a hair of the same dog would do't.  
They rendezvous, and run away like men,  
Would Mr. Hais●t were alive again.   

To Tom. Sharington, Commendations to mine Hostess, where his Mare was at Cure.  
Commend us (Tom) to all at Bale,  
Where once we drank a Cup of Ale.  
How does your good old friend there fare,  
Sh'has been a Mother to your Mare;  
You may remember who I mean,  
In tru●h, I have forgot her clean.  
Forget her clean, how can I too.  
Whom clean indeed I never Knew.  
Or, if I ever did, 'tis yet  
So long ago, I may forget.  
I know not but she may be clean,  
By this, for she was washing then.  
And, if she be not; No way but  
To give her over for a Slut.  
And when e●er her washings done,  
Hang het and let her clothes alone.  
Do you not call to mind the Kitchen,  
My Landlady sat like a Witch in.  
There where we did Mundungo smoke,  
No Guynie Pepper would so choke;  
Nothing (except her Washbowl) could;  
A sense-confusion with it hold.  
You know the Cellar's j●st between,  
Kitchen and Stable, there I mean.  
There where your eyesore Mare turned tail,  
Upon the bousing Tub of Ale;  
And with her launt did it supply,  
F'ast as mine Hostess drew it dry.  
Where she did batten on the dang,  
And ●ake i● for a good Ale Bung.  
O! if you chance pass by her Door,  
I prithee (Tom) commend me to her:  
And send me word next Post, that I may tell  
Our Mother Damnable, her Sisters well.   

Upon a great Windy Night,  
WHat time soft Slumber in her arms did lock me,  
My Bed turned Cradle, and the Wind did rock me.  
But fear of a dead sleep me waking kept,  
The more that I was rocked, the less I slept.  
Suspicion bade me quickly quit my Bed,  
For fear I brought an old house on my head.  
But faster than I could get on my clothes,  
The unseen winds from misty caverns rose.  
The Earth's delivered of a Tympany,  
And all the Captives of her womb set free.  
I envied the instinct of Rats and M●ce,  
That run away by their own Prophecies.  
Sometime I think, and that my dread reforms,  
Old houses oftener fall in calms than storms;  
But all that Observation could impart,  
Was blown up by an earthquake of my heart.  
Thou God of winds said I, some pity have,  
And reeling ships, and rotten houses save.  
My Anchor ' hope fled with the flitting sand,  
Whilst I was almost cast away by Land.  
The wanton signs did on wind-musick play,  
Whilst tottering turrets tripped themselves away.  
Fair Edifices in the furious storms,  
Relapsed to rubbish, and forgot their forms.   

An ELEGY upon old Freeman, used hardly by the Committee, for lying in the Cathedral, and in Church-Porches, praying the Common-prayer by heart, etc.  
HEre in this homely Cabinet,  
Resteth a poor old Anchoret;  
Upon the ground he laid all weathers,  
Not as most Men, gooslike on feathers.  
For so indeed it came to pass,  
The Lord of Lords his Landlord was.  
He lived instead of wainscoat rooms,  
Like the possessed, among the tombs.  
As by some Spirit thither led,  
To be acquainted with the Dead.  
Each morning from his bed so hallowed,  
He ●ose, took up his cross, and followed.  
To every porch he did repair,  
To vent himself in Common-Prayer.  
Wherein he was alone devout,  
When preaching justled praying out.  
In such procession, through the City,  
Maugre the Devil and Committee,  
He daily went; for which he fell,  
Not into Jacob's, but Bridewell.  
Where you might see his loyal back,  
Red lettered like an Almanac.  
Or, I may rather else aver,  
Dominick● like a Calendar.  
And him triumphing at the harm,  
Having naught else to keep it warm.  
With Paul he always prayed, no wonder;  
The lash did keep his flesh still under.  
Yet whipcord seemed to lose its sting,  
When for the Church, or for the King.  
High Loyal●y; in such a dearth,  
Could basle torments with mean Earth,  
He did not for his sufferings pass,  
Who, spite of bonds, still Freeman was.  
'Tis well his Pate was weather-proof,  
For Palace-like it had no Roof:  
The hair was off, and 'twas the fashion,  
The Crown being under Seque●●ation.  
Though bald as Time, and Mendicant,  
No Friar yet, but Prot●seant.  
His head each Morning, and each Even,  
Was watered with the dew of Heaven.  
He lodged ali●e, ●ead and alive, 
Buried on a Hill in the cloister yard, where he slept, & sund himself with his Head upon a Stone.   
As one that 〈◊〉 grave survive.  
For he is still, though he be dead,  
But in a manner put to bed.  
His Cabin being above ground yet,  
U●●ser a thin Turf coverlet.  
Pity he in no porch does lay,  
That did in Porches so much pray;  
Yet let him have this Epitaph,  
Here sleeps old Jacob Stone and Staff.   

An ELEGY upon Sir Joseph pain, sometimes Major and Colonel of the Trained Bands of the City of Norwich, who died in Harvest.  
SO falls a shock in season; Heaven we see,  
Has begun Harvest then as well as we:  
Not without rain too, though in deep laments,  
Our Eyes outvie the melting Elements.  
Yet weep not; Joseph is but sent before ye,  
The Grave his Egypt is, the Heavens his Glory.  
Such was his just, and generous behaviour,  
Got him the People's love and Prince's favour.  
To the King's hand he owes his great renown:  
But still the merit of it to his own.  
He was till Nature's oil decayed, a Lamp  
That did enlighten both the Court and Camp.  
Whilst like the Orbs commanding from a far,  
He that our Pilot was, is now our Star.  
Which though by many spheres divided hence,  
Governs this City still by influence.  
The solemn pomp that did attend his Hearse,  
Looked, as if death and triumph had converse.  
They parley, and deliberate of dying,  
With lighted Matches, and with colours flying.  
As if his Soul of honour ever tender,  
In spite of death, would upon terms surrender,  
And bravely braved it out, till like Ostend,  
Nothing remained, but Rubbish to defend.  
With folded arms the men at arms marched on  
As from the Victory of Absalon.  
The stand of Pikes their lofty heads did hide,  
And Swords like Bandeliers hung a to-fide.  
Muskets are charged, recoil from off their Rests,  
And Funeral-fire knocks at the Soldier's breasts.  
At last they roar it out as thither led,  
Like the last Trumpet to awake the dead.  
Whilst every Volley as it rends and raves,  
Forestals an Earthquake and presents them graves.  
To Charity the way he nobly led,  
And died to let us see she was not dead.  
But what his bounty, with the highest, ranks,  
It was not known till it could know no thanks.  
That empty puff of praise he cared not for,  
The Benefactor is God's Creditor.  
Before the Famine, Joseph lays up Corn;  
And milk provided is for Babes unborn.  
Just thus the God of Charity began,  
First he made ready meat, and then made Man.  
Pure Eleemosyne thus to contrive,  
Like providence to keep the World alive.  
Mammon well laid out, money wisely given:  
Like Foreign Bills paid at first fight in heaven.  
What can I further add? here in a word,  
Lies the controller of the Gown, & Sword.   

An ELEGY Perpetuated to the Memory of Henry Terne, Esq Captain of the Triumph.  
THus fell he at hard fates command,  
Yet like himself with Sword in hand.  
What pity 'twas he could not get  
So near, as to make use of it.  
To try it out with manly strife  
Of Sword! He then had sold his life.  
So dear a bargain to the Dutch,  
They ne'er had wished another such;  
He had so handy-griped his foe,  
But Bullets no distinction know.  
For Canons are a like disease,  
To Clineas, and to Pyrocles.  
Four Spanish ships at once he fought,  
And from 'em all the Garland brought.  
But afterwards, (pity say I)  
Where Cowards live, the Valiant dye:  
This Son of Honour laid his head,  
With honour, down on Honour's Bed.  
And certainly he wants no room,  
That has the Ocean for his Tomb.  
Whom now in scorn of future harms,  
The Seas embrace with outstretched Arms.  
The Royal Herring brings his Crown,  
And at his Feet he lays it down:  
Ten Thousand Dolphins next resort,  
And play about to make him sport.  
A Sea-Horse was his Horse of State,  
For Champion, he a Sword Fish gate.  
And Nepi●n●, coming to the place,  
Converts this Tr●dent to a Mace.  
Only of he slyrens from him swim,  
Afraid to be out-charmed by him;  
Thus high for low, be where he will,  
He's Captain of the Triumph still.  
But, shaving thus the Ocean crossed,  
Let me now tell ye what we lost.  
No 〈◊〉 could his Learning sound,  
Alive, and dead too, he's profound.  
So qualified, he could prevail,  
Alike with Gown, and Coat of Mail.  
He had a hand would all things suit,  
Either the Sword, the Pen, or Lute.  
Thus we in one have lost all three,  
Apollo, Mars, and Mercury.  
No more than on the question stand,  
The Seas now richer than the Land.  
And we may well say Loyalty,  
Lies in the bottom of the Sea.   

An ELEGY upon the Right Worshipful Sir Thomas Rant.  
LOoks take your leave of smiles; let every eye  
Be dressed in sorrows saddest Livery.  
Prepare for news, for news that will depress  
Your Spirits with a load of Heaviness.  
Where every Mourner cause has to be chief.  
There needs gradation to so great a grief!  
He's fallen, he's fallen! a Man of that renown,  
The wonder, and the glory of the Gown.  
Whom Norfolk called (that well his learning knew)  
Laws Oracle, and Lord Chief Justice too.  
Were cases ne'er so nice, he needed not  
With Alexander cut the Gordian knot:  
His piercing Eye enlightened by his wit,  
What others tore a pieces could unknit:  
Such was his love to Justice too, that Might  
Could never boast the Victory of Right.  
His Poise so just was, and his Scales so even,  
Men thought Astrea came again from heaven.  
He still made Peace, delivered the Oppress,  
And therefore had the promise to be blest.  
Thus, thus he lived, and went at his decease,  
As a Peacemaker, to the Prince of Peace.  
He got enuff, and when enuff, did know,  
I would all other Lawyers would do so.  
Heaven, out of doubt (& heaven alone knows best)  
In kindness gave him his ovietus est.  
His charity, which with the best compares,  
He writ himself in living Charactars'.  
He has, as it sufficiently is known,  
Provided for more Widows than his own.  
Learned he was, and Loyal too, if we  
Mayn't rather say, Learning and Loyalty.  
In sum, he such accomplishments engrossed,  
'Tis not one Age can say what we have lost.  
Well may we then go weep our fountains dry,  
And leave a deluge for posterity.   

An ELEGY upon Miles Hobart, Esque who died the Friday before good Friday.  
WHat time we thought our fasting almost done,  
Another Lent our mourning has begun.  
A Le●t two Fridays hath, both died in blood,  
Ah me (swe●t Miles) the bad forestalls the good:  
And yet, please you? we'll both good Fridays ca●l,  
His for himself, our Saviour's for us all.  
He left no Widow to bedew his Hearse,  
With fruitless, if not hypocritick tears.  
But, as an Angel of a nobler Sphere,  
He was in this, as all things, singular.  
Such was his lofty, and prodigious Wit,  
No Jacobs staff could take the height of it.  
And such his candour, Titus like, he sent  
None from his presence sad, or dis● ontent.  
So just, so generous, so gentile was he,  
No Man can say, h'as lost an Enemy.  
Coaches and numerous Horsemen have wel-proved,  
How much lamented, and how much beloved.  
Who thought it not enuff at home to mourn,  
But many Miles rid weeping to his Urn.  
Where neither Brass, nor Marble need be spent  
Name but Miles Hobart, 'tis a Monument.   

An Elegy upon the Reverend John Porter, D. D. and Prebend of Christ-Church in Norwich.  
A Star is fallen, an Orb does disappear,  
Was late the glory of our Hemisphere.  
So v●st his Learning, this all-knowing Man,  
Was looked on as a l●ving Vatican.  
For Piety, he was so all divine  
That Moses like his very face did shine.  
His Loyalty I need not here maintain,  
His sufferings show he loved his Sovereign.  
But maugre Men and Devils, he laid down  
His head in peace, and with a silver Crown.  
Yet lived to see his Prince, and give God praise,  
For ten illustrious Restauration days.  
His Sors all prosper, and his Daughters are,  
Like polish● Corners of the Temple, fair.  
As if indulgent Heaven intended he  
Should have amends in his Posterity.  
For his humility, this all Men know,  
Of parts so high, ne'er Man had mind more low.   

Upon a Red Face,  
A Bucket ho! He should be of the race,  
Of William Rusus, by his rueful face.  
His Nose according to the Herald's rules,  
Powdered with Ermines is, in a field Gules.  
His face else, which does so with Rubies shine,  
A Jeweller's shop is, and his Nose the sign.  
When a black Suit his Tailor does him send,  
He is a Charcoal lighted at one end.  
His bow-dye Flag in the Red-squadron pl●●e,  
But he showed a Fireship by his face.  
He is an Olivarian, and no wonder,  
His precious looks, what are they else but plunder?  
For, as a Maxim, this have I held ever,  
That a red face is sign of a bad Liver.  
Yet to speak truth, he has a Snout as fair,  
As rising Sun, or Turkey-leather Chair.  
And say no Coals, we from Newcastle get,  
His fiery face would roast a Joint of Meat.   

The Low Estate of the Low-Country Countess of Holland, on Her Deathbed, with the Advice of her Doctors, and Confessors.  
SEe how she lies in poor distressed State,  
Whom all her Doctors now judge desperate.  
Fain would her widened arms some comfort clasp,  
But comfort comes too late, at the last gasp.  
Her Children, and her near Relations run,  
About the Streets, and cry undone, undone!  
And swear that the Physicians do not come  
To Cure, but send her to her long, long home.  
The North-pole Doctor feels her Pulse to be  
As feeble now, as her Authority:  
Whose constitution sometimes since so good,  
Had she been temperate? she might still have stood.  
But with her Spice-box she kept such a coil,  
She heat her blood, and made it over-boile.  
By which Distemper she a Frenzy got,  
And said, and did at last she knew not what.  
Nay She, in this Distemper of her Brain,  
Fancied herself sole Sovereign of the Main, '  
A main mistake indeed, like Dreams of bags,  
Or such, wear Robes in sleep, but rise in rags.  
She that on Pictures doted so, may here,  
Herself the Picture see of a dear Year.  
Next Doctor to a Surfeit does impute,  
From her devouring too much Spanish Fruit:  
And not digesting Crudities, he says,  
Has turned the Butter in her Maw to grease.  
He says besides, her Tongue is very fowl,  
And he is in the right on't, o' my Soul;  
To gargoyle it, in vain ye go about,  
'Twill ne'er be clean, until it be clean out.  
Nay, she the Scurvy has too, and in truth,  
This last Sea Fight has drawn out her last tooth.  
Another says, 'tis a malignant Fever,  
Sprung from her falser heart, and fouler Liver;  
The ferment of her Stomach gives it way▪  
And it does on her very Vitals prey.  
Hotspur whips out his Lance, to let her blood,  
ere he her Malady well understood.  
Yet he an able Doctor is, although  
With her, he's no approved Physician now.  
Hold, quoth a soberer Doctor, she's too old,  
She's full a hundred, and her days are told.  
Her blood is turned to a pituitous matter,  
She's Dropsical, and drowned in her own water.  
She makes it freely, but no ease at all,  
Although it overflow the Urinal.  
Next comes a whisl●ing Doctor with a Vomit,  
But that the graver sort dissuade her from it.  
For it, alas, would but her griefs enhance,  
And make her spew out her Inhabitants:  
Her lower Region under Water lies,  
And if ye draw it up, she drowns and dies.  
What then to her do ye intent to do?  
She has a Fever, and a Dropsy too.  
Her spirits that so haughty were are fled,  
And here she bedrid lies more than half dead.  
She is departing, and the People just  
Ready to lay her honour in the dust.  
Farewell Physicians, your too costly fees,  
Have Bankrupt her, and drawn her to the Lees.  
She's in a weak estate, and now time for  
An Application to her Consessor.  
Who here, good Father, leans on the Bedpost,  
With extreme Unction, Crucifix and Host.  
If any possibility appear?  
To exorcise the Devil out of her;  
And being for her Hellish actions sorry,  
To pray her in and out of Purgatory.  
But shrive her to the bottom; when she is  
Fit for the next world, she is fit for this.  
But stay, here comes a Doctor from the Hague▪  
A Sovereign Doctor cures her of her Plague.  
She that but now was sinking, soon shall swim,  
Soon as she swears she will be ruled by him.  
We hear that she has done it; Then be sure,  
Her very Resignation is her Cure.  
Who knows what virtues in an Orange dwell!  
An Orange only 'tis, could make her well.   

The Royal Rendezvous. Or, the Magnificence of His Majesty's Fleet.  
BLess me! where am I? to what Ruin bend▪  
I should be by this moving Grove in Kent.  
Me thought, I saw a City on the Seas,  
And by the Steeples told the Parishes.  
There might be as I guess, twice seventy seven, '  
Whose Babel Towers were climbing up to Heaven▪  
Their Language was confusion, and their breath  
Darkened the Air with sentences of death.  
They seemed as 'twere a stand of Pikes, or Trees  
That over-top the humble Coppices.  
With these high towering Masts our Muse begins,  
And, where such Sign-posts are, what are the Inns?  
Those Trojan Horses, formed by Pallas charms,  
Not stuffed with Garbidg but with Men and Arms;  
Those wooden Mountains, on the Navy Main,  
As if the Giants fought with Jove again.  
If Philip King of Spain did once call h●s  
Invincible, what would he think of this?  
Away with Xerxes' Chains, fond foolery,  
'tis such a Fleet as this, fetters the Sea.  
You would have thought that the tumultuous frlsod  
Was not so much an Ocean, as a Wood:  
And that vast womb of Ships, Forest of Dean,  
Stubed by the Rebels, was grown up again.  
A floating Island, a Realm did surpass,  
Denmark and Dantzick for your choice of Masts.  
I'm confident next Month we shall advance  
Maypoles enough to make the Dutchmen dance.  
Did you but see our Frigate, you would swear,  
Norway had left scarce either Pitch or Tar.  
For Lead, you would suppose here Derby was,  
For Iron Bilbo and Corinth for Bra●s.  
And for provision, you would think you were  
In Egypt to behold the Corn that's here.  
Brandy, although sufficient, we decline,  
Spirits of Men are here, give Cowa●ds wine:  
And say, seven Provinces united be.  
Each Ship of ours is a whole Colony.  
And lofty Waves that as Spectators crowd,  
Honoured with such a Fleet, may well be proud.  
Whilst both the Waters and the Winds agree,  
To swell our Sails into a Tympany.  
What shall we not be able then to do,  
That have great Caesar, and his fortunes too.  
And superadded to this a Cause so just,  
We might to providence and cockboats trust;  
But blessed be Heaven, we have a Royal Fleet,  
Will make those Picture-mongers crouch to see'c.  
Talk not of Tempus est, Bacon's an Ass,  
Our wooden Walls are stronger than his brass.   

Upon one Bacon Robbed by a Red Coat.  
THe time and place, hunger and hazard-set,  
And th'Combatants, C●lveshead & Bacon.  
Bacon set up his brizz●ls, one would pawn,  
Their life at present, Bacon had been brawn,  
Wh●m the keen Soldier collard, and so home  
Laid at him, Bacon was all of a some;  
Who stoutly thus retorted; be ned mistaken,  
To stay your stomach, Sir, know I am Bacon.  
Bacon was of good cheer, and thought to beat him,  
But the rude Redcoat looked as he would eat him.  
And beèing stomackful, he falls aboard,  
In which sharp Conflict, Bacon lost his sword.  
About his brains he brandished his bright slasher,  
The very sight of Bacon made him rasher.  
And at each slive, cutting at Bacon's britch,  
Sixteen by honours, made poor Bacon Flitch.  
The Son of Iron followed, hacked, and chopped,  
Bacon was fat, and in the broil he dropped.  
Who now his Belly full of fight got,  
Never alas, went Bacon so to Pot!  
Tormented thus in his own grease, he fries  
Poor Bacon turning up the Eggs of's Eyes.  
And, seeing that the Soldier was so tasty,  
Bacon repented he had been so reasty.  
For now he knew not what himself to do with,  
Bacon, alas, had ne'er a ham to go with.  
The Soldier from his bones the flesh had taken,  
And made a very Sparrib now of Bacon.  
At length the Soldier having out of measure,  
Larded his leanness with fat Bacon's treasure,  
Away marched off that Rogue of the red list,  
Whom, to his cost, Bacon had greased i'th' fist.  
Bacon hoyed home too, but he could not gallop,  
A man might see Bacon had lost a Collop.  
But how must Bacon now recruit this Lent?  
Why Bacon must to Pease incontinent.  
To change conditions, Bacon did desire.  
Out of the Frying-pan, into the Fire.  
But it had been, had he been wise to hear?  
Butter for Bacon he had ne'er been there.  
Who can but pity what the whole destroys?  
Never was Bacon sliced so in a froise!  
But e'er he meet again such two-edged talk,  
Bacon swears he'll be hanged upon a bawlk:  
And that he might the powers above acquaint,  
Poor Bacon took him to his Gridiron-Saint:  
Yet when at last the matter up was taken,  
The Soldier got many a Pound of Bacon.   

Upon the New Vizor Mask.  
I Have an Offering to Lucinda's Lips,  
And would, but cannot paid, for the Eclipse.  
That keeps off my benighted Eye, I mean,  
The Curtain that divides it from the Scene.  
Why should the fair pursue the smoke? your brow  
Shows Woman is a double shadow now.  
The Raven's billing with the milky Dove;  
And Vulcan's kissing of the Queen of Love.  
The Swan has clapped her foot upon her face,  
Nor can I June for this Cloud embrace.  
Thy fair face blemished with so foul a blot,  
Is like a China Dish in a black Pot.  
The fight portends at least a Funeral,  
Where beauty lies under a Velvet Pall.  
Here we a Deity unknown adore,  
And dig for Silver buried in its Ore,  
Why shouldst load a fruitful face with soil?  
Thy beams are brighter than to need that foil.  
Let Batts, and Owls beg eyesalve of the dark,  
I cannot see my Daphne for her bark.  
Say (my Lucinda) for what discontent,  
Keep thy all Rosy cheeks so strict a Lent?  
Say, is thy face, which thou dost thus disguise,  
In mourning for the Murders of thine eyes?  
If that be so? (sweetest) I should be proud,  
To lend thee mine, as Conduits to this Cloud?  
Or, if thou hadst resolved, not to be seen?  
A frown to me had more than midnight been.  
Or, hadst thou envied me that happy sight?  
Why didst not blind me with redundant light?  
But, if to hide deformity? then crowd  
Ten thousand patches more into the cloud.   

A Vindication of the Vizor-Mask.  
THen trouble me no more, but go and ask  
Astronomers why Luna wears a Mask.  
Or, why the Stars, that of themsleves are bright?  
For want of shadows, make a Mask of Light?  
If, as to these, you ignorance confess,  
How dares your rudeness then attach my dress?  
Whose Subterfuge, I take but in Extremes,  
Of the Face-sullying fogs, and sultry beams.  
In softest skins my tender hands I case,  
And would you have me weather-beat my face?  
But hold; the fashion moves you, it appears,  
'Cause it wants tape to tack it to my ears.  
Or cause it wants, and that's the cause I doubt,  
My Grandum's Chin-cloth here, to eke it out.  
No, I shall put my Mask on here, and save  
My Muffler for my portage to my Grave.  
A suitable, though subtle field's my Veil,  
Richer by far than yours, parte per pale.  
You say it covers both, my Cheeks and Chin,  
And tell me, pray Sir, are not they a kin?  
But here's the matter makes my Mask unmeet,  
It hides my face, 'tis like when you would se●t.  
If so? I am, and with a just Excuse,  
In pity to your weakness, a Recluse.  
For fearing a Surprise, my Face I hid,  
Lest I should tempt you with the fruit forbid.  
You say you know me not, what then? the Tree  
Of Knowledge has a Root of Misery.  
You tell us thousand stories in your Books,  
That Women wound ye with their very looks.  
Mine may be poniards for aught you e'er saw.  
And are you angry that I do not draw?  
Mischiefs have Dragons Eyes, be wise, and keep  
Pandora's Box shut, and let Lions sleep.  
Be ned so foolhardy, and so fond of death,  
To dare out Steel, that slumbers in its sheath:  
Consider but, it is as safe to stare,  
Upon a Basilisk, as her that's fair,  
And have no hope; if she be otherwise?  
Her Mask is then a mercy to thine Eyes.  
Say I am to a state of Marriage come,  
Do I not well to keep my Face at home?  
Or, if unmarried; tell me why I should,  
Keep open shop, where nothing's to be sold;  
Given, or parted with; but say there were;  
Believe it, 'tis but to one Customer?  
And to direct him to this heart of mine,  
I need not set my Face out for a sign.  
Thus Maid or married fair, foul, what you will,  
The Vizor-Mask carries a favour still.   

To One that told Me, He had Three Heads.  
THree heads (dear Will.) you run too much a Head.  
If Cerberus you were; you had well said.  
A Serpent, which we Amphisbena call,  
Report allows two heads, but that is all;  
With this they say that she does forward go,  
And with that, backward; sure you do not so.  
Janus, I must confess two Faces had,  
Yet to two faces, he had but one Head.  
But you have three, or else you tell a lie,  
Do they like Hydra's heads pray multiply?  
Come rant no more at such unlikely strains;  
One head enuff is (Will.) to hold your brains.   

Upon a Hosier that carried His Wife to give Her a Lobster, and locked Her up in an apothecary's House, pretending her mad, where She was kept Fourteen Days with Bread and Water.  
WAs this the Lobster that you meant her pray?  
Well, I commend ye, you did claw'r away.  
You Lady, and the Lobster's Lady met,  
But there was too much vinegar at the Treat.  
Yet by your binding to the good behaviour,  
'Twas not a Lobster, but a Crab you gave her.  
Was this to give your Wife a cheerly dose,  
To carry her abroad to keep her close?  
Whom heaven made one, thus to divide, you are  
Worse than two Stockings, for they make a pair.  
Was this the way think you to tame a shrew?  
Beshrew my heart, I cannot think it so.  
No, no; it was in such a treacherous case,  
The way to fit a Woman for the Place.  
And, if she still her wont troth retain?  
She's mad indeed, then, send her back again.  
Would you your wife, alive, thus buried have▪  
'Cause Jealousy is cruel as the Grave.  
Sure, having been so long your wife, it might  
Have quenched that brand, and others appetite.  
Come, come, I doubt, you thus made sure of her,  
To make yourself more safe Adulterer.  
But for the 'Pothecary, may it be said,  
A fool for once in his own Mortar braid.  
And may the Man that would so fain have had  
His Wi●e distracted, be Himself Hornmad.  
Cornu petit ille Caveto.   

Pallor in o'er Sedet.  
HEr piteous looks may haply move  
Compassion in Me, never Love.  
Shall I'bow down, or kneel to that,  
Which seems to me inanimate.  
So while I to my suit addict her,  
I pray with Papists to a Picture;  
Do ye not see how meager death,  
Seems through her Organs to steal breath?  
As Succubus had from the dust,  
Reared her to gratify his Lust.  
Tell me pale Phebe, don't you climb  
Old walls to banquet on the Lime.  
I know you love such Festivals,  
Your white-washt cheeks resemble walls.  
Say Mother piteous, do you not  
For Oatmeal, rob the Porridg-pot?  
Run you not into private holes,  
To break your Fast with self, and Coals?  
I might a thousand knacks repeat,  
What could I name, but you would eat?  
In shame whereof, your blood refrains  
Your Cheeks, and lurks within your veins.  
Until it be Subpoena'd thence,  
By your flagitious Conscience.  
Nor are you Lily like, but sallow,  
And sappy-countenanced, like tallow.  
For when your dripping Nose you handle,  
You seem to me to snuff a Candle.  
And they that keep you reap disgrace,  
Whilst Men read Famine on your Face.  
Nature's besieged, and all her pores  
Obstructed, block up her recourse,  
Nor can she such improvement feel,  
In Allome Posset, or crude steel.  
To whom, alas, there's nothing can  
Be so Effectual, as Man.  
What need we then care for such Wives?  
That marry but to save their Lives.  
He must as much, that weddeth thee,  
Thy Doctor, as thy Husband be.  
No, I'll to Tavern, where being come, ●  
The first Attendants shows a Room.  
The next presents a glancing Lass,  
Like Venus in a Venice- Glass.  
With that I knock, and as some spirit,  
I conjure up pure Red, and White.  
My Circle's a round Table; And,  
In midst thereof does Hymen stand,  
With a light Taper, when I call,  
To Celebrate my Nuptial.  
Here do I a French Madam place,  
And there a sweet-lipt Spanish Lass.  
Here all in white a Lady dances,  
And there in Red another glances.  
And, lest mine Eye want fresh delight,  
Here sets Claretta, Red, and White.  
Nor do I Compliment I trow ',  
But tell 'em plain, 'tis so, and so.  
They struggle not, nor are they Coy;  
But, I may what I will enjoy:  
No there's no Coil made for a kiss,  
Though melting, melting, melting Bliss.  
No shifting from the friendly Cup,  
But I may freely all take up.  
And in each face, if I so please?  
I'll court mine own Effigies.  
Who would not then on this Stage act Narcissus,  
Where lively Lips so sweetly say come kiss us.   

Upon One pretending to Treat His Wife with a Lobster, and putting of her in Lobspound.  

[1]  
NEws (Sirs) News from near the Exchange,  
News indeed, and wondrous strange,  
And what makes me the bolder.  
It is a story of an Ass,  
When Oliver took Horseback, was  
His Stirrop-holder.   

[2]  
His Wife, whom he suspected Light,  
He to a Lobster did invite,  
But she found no such matter:  
For, when unto the Place she came,  
To treat Her Palate with the same,  
Deile a bit, but Bread and Water.   

[3]  
Unto an Apothecary,  
Did the Hosier his Wife carry,  
Stock with neither groat, nor taster:  
Where a Fortnight's famishment,  
She found, and a lean-jawed Lent,  
When she looked for full-mouthed Easter.   

[4]  
Thus this woeful, wicked Scab,  
For a Lobster, gave a Crab,  
A Crab that did so claw Her;  
Her Husband did it for the nonce,  
And tore the Flesh so from her bones,  
He scarce could know her, when he saw her.   

[5]  
Did ever 'Pothecary think,  
To Cure her with such Diet-drink?  
A cruel, cursed Cromw●llian!  
Though he false Knave, was in the Plot,  
Alas good Woman, she was not,  
Nor in the least Rebellion.   

[6]  
What pity is it then, that she  
Should suffer for his Jealousy;  
Whom she had never injured:  
Because he at Bull-feather Fair,  
Had met a parcel of such Ware,  
Such Bread, was too much gingered.   

[7]  
Is this the way to tame a shrew?  
Believe me, I can't think it so.  
No wanton, nor no gadder;  
This was a course so cursed, so sad;  
That, if indeed she had been mad?  
It must have made her madder.   

[8]  
Was this the way he did intend,  
The manners of his Wife to mend?  
I like not such forecasting:  
For I am almost of the mind,  
That he th● roguery designed,  
To find her fresh and fasting.   

[9]  
Might I now but have my will,  
I would throw away my Quill,  
And equal to his merit:  
I would to a Conduit bring.  
This cracked, and cra●●, hornmad thing,  
And souse Him for a spirit.   

[10]  
But He's such a knave in grain,  
Water would be spent in vain.  
No, no, he has a debtor;  
That is an offended Wife,  
Will requite him to the life;  
And who can do it better?    

SONG.  

[1]  
NOw since we are met,  
And a round, a round set,  
Fresh Joys to beget;  
Come, bless my right hand with a Bowl,  
A health to the King,  
And him that will bring,  
The like Offering,  
'Tis he, 'tis he is an honest Soul.   

[2]  
No Coffee we use,  
Ourselves to abuse,  
With plotting false News,  
Then fill up my Glass to the brim:  
In duty, and kindness,  
All health to his Highness,  
And to his Foes, Finis:  
Till my Tongue like his Squadrons swim.   

[3]  
Now in the Seas bottom,  
Let the Dutch besot 'em,  
Till we have forgot 'em,  
And tumble and toss to and fro:  
Like Victors I think,  
Now our Pockets chink,  
'Tis just that we drink,  
Since the Dutch are dead-drunk below.    

A Contest at the Hoop-Tavern between two Lawyers.  
TWo Lawyers had of late a Tavern-Jar●,  
And as 'twas made, 'twas tried at Bacchus' Bar;  
The jury, Pints, and Quarts, and Pottles were,  
Each of a quick and understanding Ear,  
Brought in their Verdict, which no sooner passed,  
But that the Lawyers they themselves did cast.  
Sir Bard●ux Claret, White, Signior Canary,  
Sir Reynold ●●h●nish, with a Certiorary,  
Whipped up my Youths, (& they ye know were able)  
This into th' Chimney, that beneath the Table,  
Where They lay both, instead of a demur,  
So foxed, that neither, in the case, could stir,  
They might have else a Writ of Error got,  
But, O the Error of the Pottle-pot I  
Both overthrown, and on their backs now laid,  
Let the Suit fall, and their own charges paid.  
And thus, though Westminster make Clients stoop,  
The Lawyer's Case was altered at the Hoop.   

An ELEGY upon Mrs. R. H. who died for Love of a piteous perfidious Presbyterian.  

UNhappy Maid! in this yet, ever blest,  
Paid Love, and Nature, Debt, and Interest.  
This happens not to common Souls, none save  
The Noble-minded, love deep as the Grave.  
Disdain did smother what she e●se had spoke,  
And to prevent complaint her heartstrings broke;  
Tamely submitting to her stubborn fate,  
Lest Love abused should end in equal hate.  
In this her Destiny seemed kind, and witty,  
Since he could slight his faith, to scorn his pity▪  
Love, lovely Maid, like Lightning came to thee,  
Dissolved the Steel, and set the Scabbard free,  
Base minds had never understood his quirks,  
Or Objects capable his Magic works.  
Her passion she did in her bosom choke,  
The flame was so all-pure, there was no smoke:  
Her looks she did to her concerns estrange,  
As her outside were ignorant of her change.  
For as those Apples, which we Sodom call,  
She flourished in the instant of her fall.   

But, that the Object of her love was such,  
So incorsiderable, troubled me much I!  
To rob her of herself, and honour too,  
What is't a Presbyterian will not do!  
Yet do not pity her, though she be dead,  
A Grave a safer, than a traitor's Bed.  
A miscreant, at Ends so base did drive,  
Would not permit her very Name survive.  
Go, go, perfidious wretch, thy fate abide,  
Fate that will find thee double homicide,  
Yet, if thou canst: (I doubt it though) farewell,  
But Conscience is a Prologue to thy Hell.  
Whilst lovely Rachel has shaked off this life,  
To be more happy, than to be a Wife.  
Since men turn women, and inconstant prove,  
More welcome Death, than either life, or love.  
Be this recorded for all dainty Dames.  
Here lies a Maid martyred in her own flames.    

A. B. To an Old Woman was afraid He would steal her Daughter, who was ugly, and crooked as a Sith, and Light withal.  
STeal, didst thou think? and such a one as she?  
I'd hang myself then for such felony:  
My breeding makes me civil, even to them,  
Whom piety commands me not contemn;  
But to make serious love to such a one,  
Pigmaleon like, led sooner court a Stone  
Preterimperfect piece, who would come nigh her?  
Warped a to side with her own hot desire.  
Such a misshaped, such a ship timbered quean,  
An ill-grown crotch, of the Forest of Dean.  
A bunch-backed Camel, or a ragged Staff,  
An object could not make me love, but laugh?  
She's Nature's Paradox, Forms hypocrite,  
For she too crooked is, and yet too right.  
I'm not for Dolphin stamp, nor will I be  
Put off with such a Fourpences hal'pennie:  
No, (Deborah) thou Daughter of old Al'ce,  
I love not high and low, a wench of Wales.  
The second offspring of the curled Ocean,  
Whose Body shows its bendy-wavy motion.  
Sure Nat re thee did for some Pedlar make,  
And gave thee this thy Budget at thy back.  
Deb: thy affection on some other hurl,  
I am not bend to wed a crooked Girl.  
But, if against my will, thou wilt be mine?  
We'll wed at Bow, and at the Dolphin Dine.  
Of this, be sure I shall have scold enuff;  
For, though she hold her tongue, her back will huff.   

An ELEGY some Years after the Death of his honoured Cousin Mr. R. Cook.  

BUt now, to pump our Posthume Elegies?  
Fie, fie; we but blaspheme his Obsequies.  
No more, my Muse, for if our noise increase,  
His very dust will bind us to the peace:  
Wouldst thou revive his happy Memory?  
And make Immortal that which cannot die?  
No, no, Urania; there remains no more,  
But to Excuse what we did not before.  
Let what is truth, give us this just relief;  
We could not write at present for our grief.  
Our sighs were deeper than his dusty Bed,  
And Fancy from the Face of sorrow fled.  
Whilst every heart so sunk beneath its moan,  
It might, for heaviness have been his Stone.  
Nay now, even now, after so many years,  
I drown my Eyes and Paper with my tears.   

Of which, a Flood has blinded me so sore,  
As his, though cold, and closed, can be no more.   

Sleep on dear Dust, although with Head full low,  
Our Friend h'as paid that Debt to Nature now:  
That You, and I, and all Men living owe.    

The Woman's War; Or, the Dutch beat to Dirt by the Frowes.  
BUt are the Hogan Mogan grown so tame,  
The Belgic Lion made the Woman's game?  
Shall thus the froward Frowes with Basting ladle,  
Unstate the States out of the stately Saddle?  
Are they so chidish grown? so dead i'th' Nest,  
They must again by Women be undressed?  
To what a daring height will that Sex grow,  
If Lords, like Infants, must be swaddeled so?  
What, is the Stathouse then turned School? that they  
Must have School-mistresses their Points untie.  
Are these the Chair-women to sweep the Rome?  
I fear me, they have swept it with Trump's broom.  
Who would a Sweeper of the Sea have been,  
But Reformation they at home begin;  
For these Viragoes having other Ends,  
Did their own Stathouse first or Cobwebs cleanse.  
Frowes, that in private House no dirt endure,  
Will not allow it in the Public sure.  
Who then knows whether the Precedency,  
Belongs to valour, or good huswiferie!  
The word quoth Frow, and then she beards the Lord▪  
Strange Army sure, where Women ask the word!  
The word, the Soldier's guard, to Women give!  
Nay, then trust Aqua Vitae in a Sieve.  
They ask the word? I would have given 'em none:  
Women will give a hundred words for one:  
I should have thought, soon as they were so bold,  
To ask the word, they meant forthwith to scold.  
Give 'em the word; Give 'em the Breeches too:  
Custom has taugh▪ the Sex first give it you.  
Come, come, the Proverb our belief does wrong,  
Woman has other weapons than her tongu●,  
Doubtless their duty they do much neglect,  
Where Men do ill, and women must correct.  
If Husbands thus be under hatches penned?  
Next News will be a Woman Parliament.  
Where all for order-sake must out of course,  
Bells ring the Ropes, and the Cart draw the Horse.  
What then? you must a second Chaos see,  
Of all things in the Female Anarchy.  
The servile Sex the nobler will decrest;  
And turn Low-countries Amazons at least.  
Where Hercules himself must once again,  
Lay by his Club, and with his Distaff spin.  
What is't the Dutch must not of outrage feel,  
When Holland Gorgets are turned into steel.  
What can expected be, where Females sway,  
Where they have sworn, and aught too, to obey  
Men, that should be the head, must be the tail,  
When Petticoats put on the Coat of Male.  
If thus the Ladies lead the Lords a dance,  
No Saladine must any shirt advance.  
The Hogan Frowes would now, (O pretty sport)  
Because they kept the Shop well, keep the Court.  
The English Dames that once subdued the Danes,  
With honour were rewarded for their pains:  
Whereat the Frowes to make their glory such,  
Would Dane their Lords, and do for them as much.  
Would these be thought the Sovereigns of the Seas  
Lords, thus Bear-gardened with Mal-Cut-purses?  
If Women thus break the Republic pate?  
Faith, we must have a Riding for the State.  Mart. Ep. Haec jam foeminea vidimus act a man. 
FINIS.