SELECT Poems, and translations by Hen: Vaughan Silurist. Flumina amo, Sylvasque, inglorius    

OLOR ISCANUS. A COLLECTION OF SOME SELECT POEMS, AND TRANSLATIONS, Formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan Silurist.  
Published by a Friend.  
Virg. Georg.  
Flumina amo, Sylvasque, Inglorius—  
LONDON, Printed by T.W. for Humphrey Moseley, and are to be sold at his shop, at the sign of the Prince's Arms in St. Paul's churchyard, 1651.   

— O quis me gelidis in vallibus ISCAE  
Sistat, & Ingenti ramorum protegat umbrâ!   

TO The truly Noble, and most Excellently accomplished, the LORD KILDARE DIGBY.  
MY LORD,  
IT is a Position anciently known, and modern Experience hath allowed it for a sad truth, that Absence and time, (like Cold weather, and an unnatural dormition) will blast and wear out of memory the most Endearing obligations; And hence it was that some Politicians in Love have looked upon the former of these two as a main remedy against the fondness of that Passion. But for my own part (my Lord) I shall deny this aphorism of the people, and beg leave to assure your Lordship, that, though these reputed obstacles have lain long in my way, yet neither of them could work upon me: for I am now (without adulation) as warm and sensible of those numerous favours, and kind Influences received sometimes from your Lordship, as I really was at the Instant of fruition. I have no plot by preambling thus, to set any rate upon this present address, as if I should presume to value a Return of this nature equal with your lordship's Deserts, but the design is, to let you see that this habit I have got of being troublesome flows from two excusable principles, Gratitude, and Love. These inward counsellors (I know not how discreetly) persuaded me to this Attempt and Intrusion upon your name, which if your Lordship will vouchsafe to own as the Genius to these papers, you will perfect my hopes, and place me at my full height. This was the aim, my Lord, and is the End of this work, which though but a Pazzorello to the voluminoseè Insani, yet as jezamin and the Violet find room in the bank as well as Roses and lilies, so happily may this, and (if shined upon by your Lordship) please as much. To whose Protection, Sacred as your Name, and those eminent Honours which have always attended upon't through so many generations, I humbly offer it, and remain in all numbers of gratitude,  
Newton by Usk this 17. of Decemb. 1647. My honoured Lord, Your most affectionate, humblest Servant VAUGHAN.   

The Publisher to the Reader.  
IT was the glorious Maro, that referred his Legacies to the Fire, and though Princes are seldom Executors, yet there came a Caesar to his Testament, as if the Act of a Poet could not be repealed but by a King. I am not Reader Augustus vindex: Here is no royal Rescue, but here is a Muse that deserves it. The Author had long ago condemned these Poems to obscurity, and the Consumption of that Further Fate, which attends it. This Censure gave them a Gust of Death, and they have partly known that Oblivion, which our Best Labours must come to at Last. I present thee then not only with a Book, but with a Prey, and in this kind the first Recoveries from Corruption. Here is a Flame hath been sometimes extinguished: Thoughts that have been lost and forgot, but now they break out again like the Platonic reminiscency. I have not the Author's Approbation to the Fact, but I have Law on my Side, though never a Sword: I hold it no man's prerogative to fire his own House. Thou seest how saucy I am grown, and if thou dost expect I should Commend what is published, I must tell thee, I cry no Seville Oranges. I will not say, Here is Fine or Cheap: that were an injury to the Verse itself, and to the Effects it can produce. Read on, and thou wilt find thy Spirit engaged: not by the Deserts of what we call Tolerable, but by the Commands of a Pen, that is Above it.   

Upon the most Ingenious pair of Twins, Eugenius Philalethes, and the author of these Poems.  

WHat Planet ruled your birth? what witty star?  
That you so like in Souls as Bodies are!  
So like in both, that you seem born to free  
The starry are from vulgar calumny.  
My doubts are solved, from hence my faith begins,  
Not only your faces, but your wits are Twins.   

When this bright Gemini shall from earth ascend,  
They will new light to dull eyed mankind lend,  
Teach the stargazers, and delight their Eyes,  
Being fixed a Constellation in the skies.  T. Powell Oxoniensis.   

To my friend the author upon these his Poems.  
I called it once my sloth: In such an age  
So many Volumes deep, I not a page?  
But I recant, and vow 'twas thrifty Care  
That kept my Pen from spending on slight ware,  
And breathed it for a Prize, whose powerful shine  
Doth both reward the striver, and refine;  
Such are thy Poems, friend: for since th''ve writ,  
I can't reply to any name, but wit;  
And left amidst the throng that make us groan,  
Mine prove a groundless heresy alone,  
Thus I dispute. Hath there not reverence been  
Paid to the Beard at door, for Lord within?  
Who notes the spindle-leg, or hollow eye  
Of the thin Usher, the fair Lady by?  
Thus I sin freely, neighbour to a hand  
Which while I aim to strengthen, gives Command  
For my protection, and thou art to me  
At once my Subject and security.  I. Rowlandson Oxoniensis.  

Upon the following Poems.  
I Write not here, as if thy last in store  
Of learned friends, 'tis known that thou hast more;  
Who, were they told of this, would find a way  
To rise a guard of Poets without pay,  
And bring as many hands to thy Edition,  
As th'City should unto their mayors Petition,  
But thou wouldst none of this, left it should be  
Thy Muster rather, than our courtesy,  
Thou wouldst not beg as Knights do, and appear  
Poet by Voice, and suffrage of the Shire,  
That were enough to make my Muse advance  
Amongst the Crutches, nay it might enhance  
Our Charity, and we should think it sit  
The State should build an Hospital for wit.  
But here needs no relief: Thy richer Verse  
Creates all Poets, that can but rehearse,  
And they, like Tenants bettered by their land,  
Should pay thee Rent for what they understand,  
Thou art not of that lamentable Nation,  
Who make a blessed Alms of approbation,  
Whose fardel-notes are briefs in every thing,  
But, that they are not licenced By the King.  
Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth  
armed (though I speak it) with thy proper worth,  
And needest not this noise of friends, for we  
Write out of love, not thy necessity;  
And though this sullen age possessed be  
With some strange Desamour to poetry,  
Yet I suspect (thy fancy so delights)  
The Puritans will turn thy Proselytes,  
And that thy flame when once abroad it shines,  
Will bring thee as many friends, as thou hast lines.  EUGENIUS PHILALETHIS Oxoniensis.  

Olor Iscanus.  

To the River Isca.  
WHen Daphne's Lover here first wore the days,  
Eurotas secret streams heard all his lays.  
And holy Orpheus, nature's busy Child  
By headlong Hebrus his deep Eymns compiled.  
Soft Petrarch (Thawed by Laura's flames) did weep  
On Tiber's banks, when she (proved fair!) could sleep;  
Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the Thames  
Doth murmur Sidney's Stella to her streams,  
While Severn sworn with joy and sorrow, wears  
Castara's smiles mixed with fair Sabrin's tears.  
Thus Poets (like the Nymphs, their pleasing themes)  
Haunted the bubbling Springs and gliding streams,  
And happy banks! whence such fair flowers have sprung,  
But happier those where they have sat and sung!  
Poets (like Angels) where they once appear  
Hallow the place, and each succeeding year  
Adds reverence to't, such as at length doth give  
This aged faith, That there their Genii live.  
Hence th' ancients say, That, from this sickly air  
They pass to Regions more refined and fair,  
To Meadows strewed with lilies and the Rose,  
And shades whose youthful green no old age knows,  
Where all in white they walk, discourse, and Sing  
Like Bees soft murmurs, or a Chiding Spring.  
But Isca, whensoever those shades I see,  
And thy loved Arbours must no more know me,  
When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams,  
And my Sun sets, where first it sprang in beams,  
I'll leave; behind me such a large, kind light,  
As shall redeem thee from oblivious night,  
And in these vows which (living yet) I pay  
Shed such a Previous and Enduring Ray,  
As shall from age to age thy fair name lead  
Till Rivers leave to run, and men to read.  
First, may all Bards born after me  
(When I am ashes) sing of thee!  
May thy green banks and streams (or none)  
Be both their Hill and Helicon;  
May vocal Groves grow there, and all  
The shades in them prophetical,  
Where (laid) men shall more fair truths see  
Than fictions were of Thessaly.  
May thy gentle Swains (like flowers)  
Sweetly spend their youthful hours,  
And thy beauteous Nymphs (like Doves)  
Be kind and faithful to their Loves;  
Garlands, and Songs, and roundelays,  
Mild, dewy nights, and sunshine days,  
The Turtles voice, joy without fear,  
Dwell on thy bosom all the year!  
May the Evet and the toad  
Within thy Banks have no abode,  
Nor the wily, winding Snake  
Her voyage through thy waters make.  
In all thy journey to the Main  
No nitrous Clay, nor Brimstone-vein  
Mix with thy streams, but may they pass  
Fresh as the air, and clear as glass,  
And where the wandering crystal treads  
Rojes shall kiss, and Couple heads.  
The factour-wind from far shall bring  
The Odours of the scattered Spring,  
And loaden with the rich Aweare,  
Spend it in spicy whispers there.  
No sullen heals, nor flames that are  
Offensive, and Canicular,  
Shine on thy Sands, nor pry to see  
Thy scaly, shading family,  
But noons as mild as Hasper's rays,  
Or the first blushes of fair days.  
What gifts more heaven or Earth can add  
With all those blessings be thou Clad!  
Honour, beauty,  
Faith and duty,  
Delight and Truth,  
With Love, and Youth  
Crown all about thee And what ever Fate  
Impose elsewhere, whether the graver state,  
Or some toy else, may those lomd, anxious Cares  
For dead and dying things (the Common ●ares  
And shows of time) he'r break thy Peace, nor make  
Thy reposed arms to a new war awake!  
But freedom, safety, joy and bliss:  
United in one loving kiss  
Surround thee quite, and style thy borders  
The Land redeemed from all disorders!   

The Charnel-house.  
Bless me! what damps are here? how stiff an air?  
Kelder of mists, a second Fiats' care,  
Front speece o'th' grave and darkness, a Display  
Of ruined man, and the disease of day;  
Lean, bloudless shamble, where I can descry  
Fragments of men, Rags of anatomy;  
Corruptions wardrobe, the transplantive bed  
Of mankind, and th'Exchequer of the dead.  
How thou arrests my sense? how with the sight  
My wintered blood grows stiff to all delight?  
Torpedo to the Eye! whose least glance can  
Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue headlong man;  
Eloquent silence! able to Immure  
An Atheists thoughts, and blast an Epicure.  
Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dress  
Would make me wish a Saviour, and confess.  
Where are you shoreless thoughts, vast tentered hope,  
Ambitious dreams, aims of an Endless scope,  
Whose stretched excess runs on a string too high  
And on the rack of self-extension die?  
Chameleons of state, air-monging band,  
Whose breath (like gunpowder) blows up a land,  
Come see your dissolution, and weigh  
What a loathed nothing you shall be one day,  
As th' Elements by Circulation pass  
From one to th'other, and that which first was  
Is so again, so 'tis with you; The grave  
And Nature but Complote, what the one gave,  
The other takes; I think then, that in this bed  
There sleep the relics of as proud a head  
As stern and subtle as your own, that hath  
Performed, or forced as much, whose tempest-wrath  
Hath leveled Kings with slaves, and wisely then  
Calm these high furies, and descend to men;  
Thus Cyrus tamed the Macedon, a tomb  
Checked him, who thought the world too straight a Room.  
Have I obeyed the Powers of face,  
A beauty able to undo the Race  
Of easy man? I look but here, and straight  
I am informed, the lovely Counterfeit  
Was but a smother Clay. That famished slave  
Beggared by wealth, who starvea that he may save,  
Brings hither but his sheet; Nay, th' Ostrich-man,  
That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can  
Outswea: his Lordship, and reply as tough  
To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff,  
Is Chap-faln here, worms without wit, or fear  
Defy him now, death hath disarmed the Bear.  
Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score  
Of erring men, and having done meet more,  
Their shuffled Wills, abortive, vain Intents,  
Phautasrick humours, perilous Ascents,  
False, empty honours, traitorous delights,  
And what soe'er a blind Conceit Invites;  
But these and more which the weak vermins swell,  
Are couched in this Accumulative Cell  
Which I could scatter; But the grudging Sun  
Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone,  
Day leaves me in a double night, and I  
Must bid farewell to my sad library.  
Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee  
I'll season all succeeding jollity,  
Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit,  
Excess hath no Religion, nor wit,  
But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain  
On Check from thee shall Channel it again.   

In Amicum foeneratorem.  
THanks mighty Silver! I rejoice to see  
How I have spoiled his thrift, by spending thee.  
Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more,  
His Decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.  
As lesser lodestones with the North consent  
Naturally moving to their Element,  
As bodies swarm to th' centre, and that fire  
Man stole from heaven, to heaven doth still aspire,  
So this vast crying sum draws in a less,  
And hence this bag more Northward laid I guess,  
For 'tis of polestar force, and in this sphere  
Though th'least of many rules the master-bear.  
Prerogative of debts! how he doth dress  
His messages in Chink? not an express  
Without a fee for reading, and 'tis fit,  
For gold's the best restorative of wit,  
O how he gilds them o'er! with what delight  
I read those lines, where Angels do Indite?  
But wilt have money Og? must I dispurse?  
Will nothing serve thee but a poet's curse?  
Wilt rob an Altar thus? and sweep it once  
What Orpheus-like I forced from stocks and stones?  
‛ I will never swell thy Bag, nor ring one peal  
In thy dark Chest. Talk not of Shreives, or gaol,  
I fear them not. I have no land to glut  
Thy dirty appetite, and make thee strutt  
Nimrod of acres; I'll no Speech prepare  
To court the hopeful Cormorant, thine heir.  
Yet there's a kingdom, at thy beck, if thou  
But kick this dross, Parnassus' flower brow  
I'll give thee with my Tempe, and to boot  
That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.  
A Bed of Roses I'll provide for thee,  
And crystal Springs shall drop thee melody;  
The breathing shades we'll haunt, where every leaf  
Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf;  
Those waggish Nymph too which none ever yet  
Durst make love to, we'll teach the Loving fit,  
we'll suck the coral of their lips, and feed  
Upon their spicy breath, a meal at need,  
Rove in their Amber-tresses, and unfold  
That glistering grove, the Curled wood of gold,  
Then peep for babies, a new Puppet-play,  
And riddle what their prattling Eyes would say.  
But here thou must remember to dispurse,  
For without money all this is a Curse,  
Thou must for more bags call, and so restore  
This Iron-age to gold, as once before;  
This thou must do, and yet this is not all,  
For thus the Poet would be still in thrall,  
Thou must then (if live thus) my nest of honey,  
Cancel old bonds, and beg to lend more money.   

To his friend—.  
I Wonder, James, through the whole history  
Of ages, such entails of poverty  
Are laid on Poets; Lawyers (they say) have found  
A trick to cut them, would they were but bound  
To practise on us, though for this thing we  
Should pay (if possible) their bribes and fee.  
Search (as thou canst) the old and modern store  
Of Rome and ours, in all the witty score  
Thou shalt not find a rich one; Take each Clime  
And run o'er all the pilgrimage of time  
Thou'lt meet them poor, and every where descry  
A threadbare, goldless genealogy.  
Nature (it seems) when she meant us for Earth  
Spent so much of her treasure in the birth  
As ever after niggards her, and she,  
Thus stored within, beggars us outwardly.  
Woeful profusion I at how dear a rate  
Are we made up? all hope of thrice and state  
Lost for a verse: When I by thoughts look back  
Into the womb of time, and see the Rack  
Stand useless there, until we are produced  
Unto the torture, and our souls infused  
To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt  
That as some tyrant's use from their chained rove  
Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport  
They keep afflicted by some lingering art,  
So we are merely thrown upon the stage  
The mirth of fools, and Legend of the age,  
When I see in the ruins of a suit  
Some nobler breast, and his tongue sadly mute  
Feed on the vocal silence of his Eye,  
And knowing cannot reach the remedy,  
When souls of baser stamp shine in their store,  
And he of all the throng is only poor,  
When French apes for foreign fashions pay,  
And English legs are dressed th'outlandish way,  
So fine too, that they their own shadows woo,  
While he walks in the sad and pilgrim-shoe,  
I'm mad at Fate, and angry even to sin,  
To see deserts and learning clad so thin:  
To think how th'earthly Usurer can brood  
Upon his bags, and weigh the precious food  
With palsied hands, as if his soul did fear  
The Scales could rob him of what he laid there;  
Like devils that on hid Treasures sit, or those  
Whose jealous Eyes trust not beyond their nose  
They guard the dirt, and the bright Idol hold  
Close, and Commit adultery with gold.  
A Curse upon their dross! how have we sued  
For a few scattered Chips? how oft pursued  
Petitions with a blush, in hope to squeeze  
For their soul's health, more than our wants a piece?  
Their steel-ribed Chests and Purse (rust eat them both!)  
Have cost us with much paper many an oath,  
And Protestations of such solemn sense,  
As if our souls were sureties for the Pence.  
Should we a full nights learned cares present,  
They'll scarce return us one short hours Content,  
'las! they're but quibbles, things we Poets feign,  
The short-lived Squibs and Crackers of the brain.  
But we'll be wiser, knowing 'tis not they  
That must redeem the hardship of our way,  
Whether a Higher Power, or that star  
Which nearest heaven, is from the earth most far  
Oppress us thus, or angeled from that Sphere  
By our strict Guardians are kept luckless here,  
It matters not, we shall one day obtain  
Our native and celestial scope again.   

To his retired friend, an Invitation to Brecknock.  
SInce last we met, thou and thy horse (my dear,)  
Have not so much as drunk, or littered here,  
I wonder, though thyself be thus deceased,  
Thou hast the spite to Coffin up thy beast;  
Or is the Palfrey sick, and his rough hide  
With the penance of One Spur mortified?  
Or taught by thee (like Pythagoras' ox)  
Is then his master grown more Orthodox?  
What ever 'tis, a sober cause't must be  
That thus long bars us of thy company.  
The Town believes thee lost, and didst thou see  
But half her sufferings, now distressed for thee,  
Thou'dst swear (like Rome) her soul, polluted walls  
Were sacked by Brennus, and the savage Gauls.  
Abominable face of things! here's noise  
Of banged Mortars, blue Aprons, and boys,  
Pigs, Dogs, and Drums, with the hoarse hellish notes  
Of politicly-deaf Usurers throats,  
With new fine worships, and the old east team  
Of Justices vexed with the Cough, and phlegm.  
Midst these the cross looks sad, and in the Shirt-  
- Hall furs of an old Saxon Fox appear,  
With brotherly Ruffs and Beards, and a strange sight  
Of high monumental Hats ta'en at the sight  
Of Eighty eight; while every Bargessi feet  
The mortal Pavement in eternal boots.  
Hadst thou been batc'lour, I had soon divined  
Thy Close retirements, and monastic mind,  
Perhaps some Nymph had been to visit, or  
The beauteous churl was to be waited for,  
And like the Greek, e'er you the sport would miss  
You stayed, and stroak'd the Dislosse for a kiss.  
But in this age, when thy cool, settled blood  
Is tied th'ne flesh, and thou almost grown good,  
I know not how to reach the strange device,  
Except (Domitian like) thou murther'st flies;  
Or is't thy piety? for who can tell  
But thou mayst prove devout, and love a Cell,  
And (like a Badger) with attentive looks  
In the dark hole sit rooting up of books.  
Quick Hermit! what a peaceful Change hadst thou  
Without the noise of haircloth, whip, or Vow?  
But is there no redemption? must there be  
No other penance but of liberty?  
Why two months hence, if thou continue thus  
Thy memory will scarce remain with us,  
The Drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim  
They have not seen thee here since Charles his reign,  
Or if they mention thee, like some old man.  
That at each word inserts— Sir, as I can  
Remember— So the Cyph'rers puzzle me  
With a dark, cloudy character of thee.  
That (certs!) I fear thou wilt be lost, and we  
Must ask the Fathers e'er 't be long for thee.  
Come! leave this sullen state, and let not Wine  
And precious wit lie dead for want of thine,  
Shall the dull Market-land-lord with his Rout  
Of sneaking Tenants dirtily swill out  
This harmless liquour? shall they knock and beat  
For Sack, only to talk of Rye, and wheat?  
O let not such preposterous tippling be  
In our Metropolis, may I ne'er see  
Such Tavern-sacrilege, nor load a line  
To weep the Rapes and Tragedy of wine!  
Here lives that chemic, quick fire which betrays  
Fresh Spirits to the blood, and warms our lays,  
I have reserved 'gainst thy approach a Cup  
That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up,  
And teach her yet more Charming words and skill  
Than ever Celia, Chloris, Astrophil,  
Or any of the threadbare names inspired  
Poor rhyming lovers with a Mistress fir'd.  
Come then I and while the slow icicle hangs  
At the stiff thatch, and winter's frosty pangs  
Benumb the year, blithe (as of old let us  
'Midst noise and War, of Peace, and mirth discuss.  
This portion thou wert born for: why should we  
Vex at the times ridiculous misery?  
An age that thus hath fooled itself, and will  
(Spite of thy teeth and mine) persist so still.  
Let's sit then at this fire, and while we steal  
A revel in the Town, let others seal,  
Purchase or Cheat, and who can, let them pay,  
Till those black deeds bring on the dark some day;  
Innocent spenders we! a better use  
Shall wear out our short Lease, and leave th'obtuse  
Rout to their husks; They and their bags at best  
Have cares in earnest, we care for a jest.   

Monsieur Gombauld.  
I'Ave read thy Souls fair night-piece, and have seen  
Th'amours' and Courtship of the silint Queen,  
Her stolen descents to Earth, and what did move her  
To Juggle first with heaven, then with a Lover,  
With Latmos loweer rescue, and (alas!)  
To find her out a Hue and cry in brass,  
Thy journal of deep Mysteries, and sad  
Nocturnal Pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad  
In fancies darker than thy Cave, Thy gloss  
Of sleepy draughts, and as thy soul did pass  
In her calm voyage what discourse she heard  
Of Spirits, what dark Groves and ill-shaped guard  
Ismena lead thee through, with thy proud flight  
O'er Periardes, and deep, musing night  
near fair Eurotas banks, what solemn green  
The neighbour shades wear, and what forms are seen  
In their large Bowers, with that sad path and seat  
Which none but light-heeled Nymphs and Fairies heat;  
Their solitary life, and how exempt  
From Common frailty, the severe contempt  
They have of Man, their privilege to live  
A Tree, or Fountain, and in that Reprieve  
What ages they consume, with the sad Vale  
Of Diophania, and the mournful tale,  
Or th' bleeding vocal Myrtle; These and more  
Thy richer thoughts we are upon the score  
To thy rare fancy for, nor dost thou fall  
From thy first Majesty, or aught at all  
Betray Consumption, thy full vigorous bays  
Wear the same green, and scorn the lene decays  
Of stile, or matter; Just so have I known  
Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down  
Derived her birth, in gentle murmurs steal  
To their next Vale, and proudly there reveal  
Her streams in louder accents, adding still  
More noise and waters to her channel, till  
At last swollen with Increase she glides along  
The lawns and Meadows in a wanton throng  
Of frothy billows, and in one great name  
Swallows the tributary brooks drowned fame.  
Nor are they mere Inventions, for we  
In th' same piece find scattered philosophy  
And hidden, dispersed truths that folded lie  
In the dark shades of deep allegory,  
So neatly weaved, like Arras, they descry  
Fables with Truth, Fancy with history.  
So that thou hast in this thy curious mould  
Cast that commended mixture wished of old,  
Which shall these Contemplations render far  
Less mutable, and lasting as their star,  
And while there is a People, or a sun,  
Endymion's story with the Moon shall run.   

An elegy on the death of Mr. R.W. slain in the late unfortunate differences at Routon Heath, near Chester, 1645.  

I Am confirmed, and so much wing is given  
To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heaven.  
A full years' grief I struggled with, and stood  
Still on my sandy hopes uncertain good,  
So loath was I to yield, to all those fears  
I still opposed thee, and denied my tears.  
But thou art gone! and the untimely loss  
Like that one day, hath made all others cross.  
Have you seen on some Rivers flowery brow  
A well-built elm or stately Cedar grow,  
Whose Curled tops gilt with the Morning-ray  
Beckoned the Sun, and whispered to the day,  
When unexpected from the angry North  
A fatal sullen whirlwind sallies forth,  
And with a full-mouthed blast rends from the ground  
The Shady twins, which rushing scatter round  
Their sighing leaves, whilst overborne with strength,  
Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length;  
So forced fell he; So Immaturely Death  
Stifled his able heart and active breath.  
The world scarce knew him yet, his early soul  
Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole  
A sight, than gave one; as if su'bt'ly she  
Would learn our stock, but hide his treasury.  
His years (should time lay both his wings and glass  
Unto his charge) could not be summed (alas!)  
To a full score; Though in so short a span  
His riper thoughts had purchased more of man  
Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick,  
Have quite outgone their own arithmetic.  
He seized perfections, and without a dull  
And mossy grey possessed a solid skull,  
No Crooked knowledge neither, nor did he  
Wear the friend's name for Ends and policy,  
And then laid by; As those lost Youths of th'stage  
Who only flourished for the Play's short age  
And then retired, like jewels in each part  
He wore his friends, But chiefly at his heart.  
Nor was it only in this he did excel,  
His equal valour could as much, as well.  
He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst  
No injury, nor (as some have ●e'r purest  
The sweat and tears of others, yet would be  
More forward in a royal gallantry  
Than all those vast pretenders, which of late  
Swelled in the ruins of their King and State.  
He weaved not Self-ends, and the public good  
Into one piece nor with the people's blood  
Filled his own veins; In all the doubtful way  
Conscience and Honour ruled him. O that day  
When like the Fathers in the Fire and Cloud  
I missed thy face! I might in every Crowd  
See arms like thine, and men advance, but none  
So near to lightning moved, nor so fell on.  
Have you observed how soon the nimble Eye  
Brings th' Object to Conceit, and doth so vic  
Performance with the Soul, that you would swear  
The Act and apprehension both lodged there,  
Just so moved he: like short his active hand  
Drew blood, e'er well the foe could understand.  
But here I lost him. Whether the last turn  
Of thy few sands called on thy hasty urn,  
Or some fierce rapid fate (hid from the Eye)  
Hath hurled thee prisoner to some distant sky  
I cannot tell, but that I do believe  
Thy Courage such as scorned a base Reprieve.  
What ever 'twas, whether that day thy breath  
Suffered a civil or the Common death,  
Which I do most suspect, and that I have  
Failed in the glories of so known a grave,  
Though thy loved ashes miss me, and mine Eyes  
Had no acquaintance with thy Exequies,  
Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight  
On the Cold sheet have fixed a sad delight,  
Yet what e'er pious hand (in stead of mine)  
Hath done this office to that dust of thine,  
And till thou rise again from thy low bed  
Lent a Cheap pillow to thy quiet head,  
Though but a private turf, it can do more  
To keep thy name and memory in store  
Than all those Lordly fools which lock their bones  
In the dumb piles of Chested brass, and stones.  
thou'rt rich in thy own fame, and needest not  
These Marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot  
Of posthume honours; There is not one sand  
Sleeps o'er thy grave, but can outbid that hand  
And pencil too, so that of force we must  
Confess their heaps show lesser than thy dust.  
And (blessed soul!) though this my sorrow can  
Add nought to thy perfections, yet as man  
Subject to Envy, and the common fate  
It may redeem thee to a fairer date;  
As some blind Dial, when the day is done,  
Can tell us at midnight, There was a Sun,  
So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame,  
May keep some weak remembrance of thy name,  
And to the faith of better times Commend  
Thy loyal upright life, and gallant End.   

Nomen & arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi  
Conspicere,—    

Upon a cloak lent him by Mr. I. Ridsley.  
HEre, take again thy sackcloth! and thank heaven  
Thy Courtship hath not killed me; Is't not Even  
Whether we die by piecemeal, or at once  
Since both but ruin, why then for the nonce  
Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o'er  
Me this forced Hurdle to inflame the score?  
Had I near London in this Rug been seen  
Without doubt I had executed been  
For some bold Irish spy, and cross a sledge  
Had lain messed up for their sour gates and bridge.  
When first I bore it, my oppressed feer.  
Would needs persuade me, 'twas some leaden sheet;  
Such deep Impressions, and such dangerous holes  
Were made, that I began to doubt my soals,  
And every step (so near necessity)  
Devoutly wished some honest cobbler by,  
Besides it was so short, the Jewish rag  
Seemed circumcised, but had a Gentile shag.  
Hadst thou been with me on that day, when we  
Left craggy Biston, and the fatal Dee,  
When beaten with fresh storms, and late mishap  
It shared the office of a cloak, and Cap,  
To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood  
Like a thick turban, or some lawyer's Hood,  
While the stiff, hollow pletes on every side  
Like Conduit-pipes rained from the Bearded hide,  
I know thou wouldst in spite of that day's fate  
Let lose thy mirth at my new shape and state,  
And with a shallow smile or two profess  
Some Sarazin had lost the clouted dress.  
Didst ever see the good wife (as they say)  
March in her short cloak on the christening day,  
With what soft motions she salutes the Church,  
And leaves the Bedrid Mother in the lurch;  
Just so jogged I, while my dull horse did trudge  
Like a Circuit-beast plagued with a gouty Judge.  
But this was civil. I have since known mo●e  
And worser pranks: One night (as heretofore  
Th' hast known) for want of change (a thing which I  
And Bias used before me) I did lie  
Pure Adami●e, and simply for that end  
Resolved, and made this for my bosom-friend.  
O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I  
Might teach thee new Micro-cosmo graphie!  
Thou wouldst have ta'en me, as I naked stood,  
For one of th' seven pillars before the 'slud,  
Such Characters and hieroglyphics were  
In one night wo●n, that thou mightst justly swear  
I'd slept in Cere-cloth, or at Bedlam where  
The mad men lodge in straw, I'll not forbear  
To tell thee all, his wild Impress and tricks  
Like Speeds old Britan's made me look, or Pitts;  
His villainous, biting, Wire-embraces  
Had sealed in me more strange forms and faces  
Than Children see in dreams, or thou hast read  
In Arras, puppet-plays, and gingerbread,  
With angled Schemes, and Crosses that bred fear  
Of being handled by some Conjurer,  
And nearer thou wouldst think (such strokes were drawn)  
I'd been some rough statue of Fetter-lane,  
Nay, I believe, had I that instant been  
By Surgeons or Apothecaries seen,  
They had Condemned my razed skin to be  
Some walking herbal, or anatomy.  
But (thanks to th'day!) 'tis off. I'd now advise  
Thee friend to put this piece to merchandise;  
The Pedlars of our age have business yet,  
And gladly would against the Fayr-day fit  
Themselves with such a roof, that can secure  
Their Wares from Dogs and Cats rained in ●●owre,  
It shall perform; or if this will not do  
'Twill take the alewives sure; 'Twill make them two  
Fine rooms of One, and spread upon a stick  
Is a partition without Lime or Brick.  
horned obstinacy! how my heart doth fret  
To think what mouths and elbows it would set  
In a wet day? have you for two pence e'er  
Seen King Harry's chapel at Westminster,  
Where in their dusty gowns of brass and Stone  
The Judges lie, and marked you how each one  
In sturdy Marble-plets about the knee  
Bears up to show his legs and symmetry?  
Just so would this; That I think't weaved upon  
Some stiffneckt Brownists exercising loom.  
O that thou hadst it when this juggling fate  
Of soldiery first seized me! at what rate  
Would I have bought it then, what was there but  
I would have given for the Compendious h●tt?  
I do not doubt but (if the weight could please,)  
'Twould guard me better than a Lapland-lease,  
Or a German shirt with enchanted lint  
Stufted through, and th'devils beard and face weaved in't.  
But I have done. And think not, friend, that I  
This freedom took to jeer thy courtesy,  
I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse  
So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse;  
She did this, 'cause (perhaps) thy love paid thus  
Might with my thanks outlive thy cloak, and us.   

Upon Mr. Fletcher's plays, published, 1647.  
I Knew thee not, not durst attendance strive  
label to wit, Verser remonstrative,  
And in some Suburb-page (scandal to thine)  
Like Lent before a Christmas scatter mine,  
This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate  
Such remnants from thy piece entreat their date;  
Nor can I dub the copy, or afford  
Titles to swell the rear of Verse with Lord,  
Nor politicly big to Inch low fame  
Stretch in the glories of a stranger's name,  
And Clip those bays I Court, weak striver I,  
But a faint Echo unto poetry.  
I have not Clothes t'adopt me, not must sit  
For Plush and Velvets sake Esquire of wit,  
Yet modesty these Crosses would improve,  
And Rags near thee, some Reverencemay move.  
I did believe (great Beaumont being dead,)  
Thy widowed Muse slept on his flowery bed;  
But I am richly cozened, and can see  
Wit transmigrates, his Spirit stayed with thee,  
Which doubly advantaged by thy single pen  
In life and death now treads the Stage again;  
And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit  
Which starved the Land since into schisms split,  
Wherein th''ve done so much, we must needs guess  
Wits last Edition is now i'th' press,  
For thou hast drained Invention, and he  
That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.  
But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain  
At the design of such a tragic brain?  
Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see  
Thy most abominable policy?  
Will not the ears assemble, and think't fit  
Their Synod fast, and pray, against thy wit?  
But they'll not lyre in such an idle Quest,  
Thou dost but kill, and Circumvent in jest,  
And when thy angered Muse swells to a blow  
'Tis but for Fields, or Swansteed's overthrow.  
Yet shall these Conquests of thy bays outlive  
Their Scotish zeal, and Compacts made to grieve  
The Peace of Spirits, and when such deeds fail  
Of their foul Ends, a fair name is thy bail.  
But (happy thou!) ne'er saw'st these storms, our air  
teemed with even in thy time, though seeming fair;  
Thy gentle soul meant for the shade, and ease  
Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace;  
So nested in some Hospitable shore  
The Hermit-angler, when the mid-Seas roar  
Packs up his lines, and (ere the tempest raves,  
Retires, and leaves his station to the waves.  
Thus thou diedst almost with our peace, and we  
This breathing time thy last fair Issue see,  
Which I think such (if needless Ink not soil  
So Choice a Muse,) others are but thy foil;  
This, or that age may write, but never see  
A Wit that dares run parallel with thee.  
True, BEN must live! but bate him, and thou hast  
Undone all future wits, and matched the past.   

Upon the Poems and plays of the ever memorable Mr. William Cartwright.  
I Did but see thee! and how vain it is  
To vex thee for it with Remonstrances,  
Though things in fashion, let those judge, who sit  
Their twelve pence out, to clap their hands at wit;  
I fear to sin thus near thee; for (great Saint!)  
'Tis known, true beauty hath no need of paint.  
Yet, since a label fixed to thy fair Hearse  
Is all the Mode, and tears put into Verse  
Can teach Posterity our present grief  
And their own loss, but never give relief;  
I'll tell them (and a truth which needs no pass,)  
That wit in Cartwright at her Zenith was,  
Arts, Fancy, Language, all convened in thee,  
With those grand Miracles which deify  
The old world's Writings, kept yet from the fire,  
Because they force these worst times to admire.  
Thy matchless Genius, in all thou didst write,  
Like the Sun, wrought with such stayed beat, and light,  
That not a line (to the most critic he)  
Offends with flashes, or obscurity.  
When thou the wild of humours track'st, thy pen  
So Imitates that Motley flock in men,  
As if thou hadst in all their bosoms been,  
And seen those Leopards that lurk within.  
The amorous Youth steals from thy Courtly page  
His vowed address, the soldier his brave rage;  
And those soft beauteous Readers whose looks can  
Make some men Poets, and make any' man  
A Lover, when thy Slave but seems to die,  
Turn all his Mourners, and melt at the Eye.  
Thus, thou thy thoughts hast dressed in such a strain  
As doth not only speak, but rule and reign,  
Nor are those bodies they assumed, dark Clouds,  
Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrouds,  
Which who looks on, the rays so strongly beat  
They'll brush and warm him with a quickening heat,  
So Souls shine at the Eyes, and Pearls display  
Through the loose-Chrystal-streams a glance of day.  
But what's all this unto a royal Test?  
Thou art the Man, whom great Charles so expressed!  
Then let the Crowd refrain their needless hum,  
When Thunder speaks, than Squibs and Winds are dumb.   

To the best, and most accomplished Couple—  

BLessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads  
As the mild heaven on Roses sheds,  
When at their Cheeks (like Pearls) they wear  
The Clouds that court them in a tear,  
And may they be fed from above  
By him which first ordained your love!   

Fresh as the hours may all your pleasures be,  
And healthful as eternity!  
Sweet as the flowers first breath, and Close  
As th' unseen spreadings of the Rose,  
When he unfolds his curtained head,  
And makes his bosom the sun's bed.   

Soft as yourselves run your whole lives, and clear  
As your own glass, or what shines there;  
Smooth as heaven's face, and bright as he  
When without Mask, or Tiffanie,  
In all your time not one jar meet  
But peace as silent as his feet.   

Like the day's Warmth may all your Comforts be,  
untoiled for, and Serene as he,  
Yet free and full as is that sheaf  
Of sunbeams gilding every leaf,  
When now the tyrant-heat expires  
And his cooled locks breathe milder fires.   

And as those parceled glories he doth shed  
Are the fair Issues of his head,  
Which ne'er so distant are soon known  
By th' heat and lustre for his own,  
So may each branch of yours we see  
Your copies, and our Wonders be!   

And when no more on Earth you must remain  
Invited hence to heaven again,  
Then may your virtuous, virgin-flames  
Shine in those heirs of your fair names,  
And teach the world that mystery  
Yourselves in your posterity!   

So you to both worlds shall rich presents bring,  
And gathered up to heaven, leave here a Spring.    

An elegy on the death of Mr. R. Hall, slain at Pontefract, 1684.  

I Knew it would be thus! and my Just fears  
Of thy great spirit are improved to tears.  
Yet slow these not from any base distrust  
Of a fair name, or that thy honour must  
Confined to those cold relics sadly sit  
In the same Cell an obscure Anchorite.  
Such low distempers murder, they that must  
Abuse thee so, weep not, but wound thy dust.  
But I passed such dim Mourners can descry  
Thy same above all Clouds of obloquy,  
And like the Sun with his victorious rays  
Charge through that darkness to the last of days.  
'Tis true, fair Manhood hath a female Eye,  
And tears are beauteous in a victory,  
Not are we so high-proof, but grief will find  
Through all our guards a way to wound the mind;  
But in thy fall what adds the brackish sum  
More than a blot unto thy martyrdom,  
Which scorns such wretched suffrages, and stands  
More by thy single worth, than our whole bands,  
Yet could the puling tribute rescue aught  
In this sad lofle, or wert thou to be brought  
Back here by tears, I would in any wise  
Pay down the sum, or quite Consume my Eyes.  
Thou fel●'st our double ruin, and this rent  
Forc●d in thy life shaked both the Church and tent,  
Learning in others steals them from the Van,  
And basely wise Emasculates the man.  
But lodged in thy brave soul the book●sh seat  
Serveed only as the light unto thy heat;  
Thus when some quitted action, to their shame,  
And only got a discreet towards name,  
Thou with thy blood mad'st purchase of renown,  
And diedst the glory of the Sword and Gown  
Thy blood hath hallowed Pomfret, and this blow  
(Profaned before) hath churched the Castle now.  
Nor is't a Common valour we deplore,  
But such as with fifteen a hundred bore,  
And lightning like (not cooped within a wall)  
In storms of fire and steel fell on them all.  
Thou went no woolsack soldier, nor of those  
Whose Courage lies in winking at their foes,  
That live at loopholes, and consume their breath  
On Match or Pipes, and sometimes peep at death;  
No it were sin to number these with thee,  
But that (thus poised) our loss we better see.  
The fair and open valour was thy shield,  
And thy known station, the defying suld.  
Yet these in thee I would not Voturs call.  
But that this age must know, that thou hadst all.  
Those richer graces that adorned thy mind  
Like stars of the first magnitude, so shined,  
That is opposed unto these lesser lights  
All we can say, is this, They were fair nights.  
Thy Paty and Leamme did unite,  
And though with several beams made up one light,  
And such thy Judgement was, that I dare swear  
Whole Counsels might as soon, and Synods err.  
But all these now are out! and as some Star  
Hurled in diurnal motions from far,  
And seen to droop at night, is vainly said  
To fall, and find an occidental bed,  
Though in that other world what we Judge west  
Proves Elevation, and a new, fresh East.  
So though our weaker sense den'es us sight  
And bodies cannot trace the Spirits flight,  
We know those graces to be still in thee,  
But winged above us to eternity.  
Since then (thus flown) thou art so much refined,  
That we can only reach thee with the mind,  
I will not in this dark and narrow glass  
Let thy scant shadow for Perfections pass,  
But leave thee to be read more high, more quaint,  
In thy own blood a soldier and a Saint.   

— Salve aetcrnum mihi maxime Palls!  
AEteraumg; vale!—    

To my learned friend, Mr. T. Powell, upon His Translation of Malvezzi's Christian Politician.  
We thank you, worthy Sir, that now we see  
Malvezzi languaged like our infancy,  
And can without suspicion entertain  
This foreign statesman to our breast or brain,  
You have enlarged his praise, and from your store  
By this Edition made his worth the more.  
Thus by your learned hand (amidst the corpse)  
Outlandish plants thrive in our thankless soil,  
And wise men after death, by a strange fate,  
Lie Leiguer here, and beg to serve our State.  
Italy now, though Mistress of the bays,  
Waits on this wreath, proud of a foreign praise,  
For, wise Malvezzi, thou didst lie before  
Confined within the language of one shore,  
And like those Stars which near the Poles do steer  
Were't but in one part of the Globe seen clear,  
Provence and Nap'es were the best and most  
Thou couldst thine in, fixed to that single Coast,  
Perhaps some Cardinal to be thought wise  
And honest too, would ask, what was thy price?  
Then thou must pack to Rome, where thou mightst lie  
E'er thou shouldst have new clothes eternally,  
For though so near the seven hills, nevertheless  
Thou cam'st to Antwerp for thy Roman dress:  
But now then art come hither, thou mayst run  
Through any Clime as well known as the Sun,  
And in thy several dresses like the year  
Challenge acquaintance with each peopled Sphere.  
Come then rare Politicians of the time,  
Brains of some standing, Elders in our Clime,  
See here the method: A wise, solid stare  
Is quick in acting, friendly in debate,  
Joint in advice, in resolutions just,  
Mild in success, true to the Common trust.  
It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand  
Allays the heat and burnings of a land,  
Religion guides it, and in all the Tract  
Designs so twist, that heaven confirms the act;  
If from these lists you wander as you steer,  
Look back, and Caltchile your actions here,  
These are the Marks to which true statesmen tend,  
And greatness here with goodness hath one End.   

To my worthy friend Master T. jews.  
SEes not my friend, what a deep snow  
candy's our Countries woody brow?  
The yielding branch his load scarce bears  
Oppressed with snow, and frozen tears,  
While the dumb rivers slowly float,  
All bound up in an icy Coat.  
Let us meet then! and while this world  
In wild excentrics now is hurled,  
Keep we, like nature, the same Key,  
And walk in our forefather's way;  
Why any more cast we an Eye  
On what may come, not what is nigh?  
Why vex ourselves with fear, or hope  
And cares beyond our Horoscope?  
Who into future times would peer  
Looks oft beyond his term set here,  
And cannot go into those grounds  
But through a churchyard which them bounds;  
Sorrows and sighs and searches spend  
And draw our bottom to an end,  
But discreet joys lengthen the lease  
Without which life were a disease,  
And who this age a Mourner goes,  
Doth with his tears but seed his foes.   

To the most Excellently accomplished, Mrs K. Philips.  
SAy witty fair one, from what Sphere  
Flow these rich numbers you shed here?  
For sure such Incantations come  
From thence, which strike your Readers dumb,  
A strain, whose measures gently meet  
Like Virgin-lovers, or times feet,  
Where language Smiles, and accents rise  
As quick, and pleasing as your Eyes,  
The Poem smooth, and in each line  
Soft as yourself, yet Masculine;  
Where not course trifles blot the page  
With matter borrowed from the age,  
But thoughts as Innocent, and high  
As Angels have, or Saints that die.  
These Raptures when I first did see  
New miracles in poetry,  
And by a hand, the●r good would miss  
His bays and fountains but to kiss,  
My weaker Genius (cr●ss● to fashion)  
Slept in a silent admiration,  
A Rescue, by whole grace disguise  
Pretenders oft have past for wise,  
And yet as Pilgrims humbly touch  
Those Shrines to which they bow so much,  
And Clouds in Courtship flock, and run  
To be the Mask unto the Sun,  
So I concluded, It was true  
I might at distance worship you  
A Persian votary, and say  
It was your light showed me the way.  
So Lodestones guide the duller steel,  
And high perfections are the wheel  
Which moves the less, for gifts divine  
Are strung upon a Vi●al line  
Which touch●d by you, Excites in all  
Affectio●s epidemical.  
And this made me (a truth most fit)  
Add my weak echo to your wit,  
Which pardon, Lady, for assays  
Obscure as these might blast your bays,  
As Common hands soil flowers, and make  
That dew they wear, weep the mistake.  
But I'll wash off the stain, and vow  
No laurel grows, but for your Brow.   

An Epitaph upon the Lady Elizabeth, Second Daughter to his late majesty.  

YOuth, Beauty, virtue, Innocence  
Heaven's royal, and select expense,  
With Virgin-tears, and sighs divine,  
Sit here the Genii of this shrine,  
Where now (thy fair soul winged away,)  
They guard the Casket where she lay.  
Thou hadst, e'er thou the light couldst see,  
Sorrows laid up, and stored for thee,  
Thou suckedst in woes, and the breasts lent  
Their Milk to thee, but to lament;  
Thy portion here was grief, thy years  
Distilled no other rain, but tears,  
Tears without noise, but (understood)  
As loud, and shrill as any blood;  
Thou seem'st a Rose bud born in Snow,  
A flower of purpose sprung to bow  
To headless tempests, and the rage  
Of an Incensed, stormy Age,  
Others, ere their afflictions grow,  
Are timed, and seasoned for the blow,  
But thine, as rheums the tend'rest part,  
Fell on a young and harmless heart.  
And yet as Balm-trees gently spend  
Their tears for those, that do them rend,  
So mild and pious thou wert seen,  
Though full of sufferings, free from spleen,  
Thou didst nor murmur, nor revile,  
But d●ank'st thy wormwood with a smile.  
As envious Eyes blast, and Infect  
And cause misfortunes by aspect,  
So thy sad stars dispensed to thee  
No influx, but calamity,  
They viewed thee with eclipsed rays,  
And but the backside of bright days.   

These were the Comforts she had here,  
As by an unseen hand 'tis clear,  
Which now she reads, and smiling wears  
A Crown with him, who wipes off tears.    

To Sir William D' avenant, upon his Gondibert.  
WEll, we are rescued land by thy rare Pen  
Poets shall live, when Princes die like men.  
Th''ve cleared the prospect to our harmless Hill,  
Of late years clouded with imputed Ill,  
And thy Soft, youthful couples there may move  
As chaste as Stars converse and smile above.  
Th''ve taught their Language, and their love to flow  
Calm as Rose-leafes, and cool as Virgin-snow,  
Which doubly feasts us, being so refined  
They both delight, and dignify the mind,  
Like to the watery music of some Spring,  
Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing.  
And where before heroic Poems were  
Made up of Spirits, Prodigies, and fear,  
And showed (through all the Me●ancholy flight,)  
Like some dark Region overcast with night,  
As if the Poet had been quite dismayed,  
While only Giants and enchantments swayed,  
Thou like the Sun, whose Eye brooks no disguise  
Hast chased them hence, and with Discoveries  
So rare and learned filled the place, that we  
Those famed Grandeza's find outdone by thee,  
And underfoot see all those visards hurled,  
Which bred the wonder of the former world.  
‛ I was dull to sit, as our forefathers did,  
At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid  
Refrain wise appetite. This made thy fire  
Break through the ashes of thy aged Sire  
To lend the world such a Convincing light  
As shows his fancy darker than his sight.  
Nor was't alone the bars and length of days  
(Though those gave strength and starwe to his bays,)  
Encountered thee, but what's an old Complaint  
And kills the fancy, a forlorn Restraint;  
How couldst thou mured in solitary stones  
Dress BIRTH A'S simi'es, though well thou might'st her groans?  
And, strangely Eloquent, thyself divide  
twixt Sad misfortunes, and a Bloomie Bride?  
Through all the tenor of thy ample Song  
Spun from thy own rich store, and shared among  
Those fair Adventurers, we plainly see  
Th' Imputed gifts, Inherent are in thee.  
Then live for ever (and by high desert)  
In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert,  
And in bright Birtha leave thy love enshrined  
Fresh as her emerald, and fair as her mind,  
While all confess thee (as they ought to do)  
The Prince of Poets, and of Lovers too.   

Tristium Lib. 5o. Eleg. 3a. To his fellow-Poets at Rome, upon the birthday of Bacchus.  
THis is the day (Blithe god of Sack) which we  
If I mistake not, Consecrate to thee,  
When the soft Rose we marry to the bays,  
And warmed with thy own wine rehearse thy praise,  
'Mongst whom (while to thy Poet fate gave way)  
I have been held no small part of the day,  
But now, dulled with the Cold Bears frozen seat,  
Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike Gere.  
My former life, unlike to this my last,  
With Rome's best wits of thy full Cup did taste,  
Who since have seen the savage Pontic band,  
And all the Choler of the Sea and Land:  
Whether sad Chance, or heaven hath this designed,  
And at my birth some fatal Planet shined,  
Of right thou shouldst the sister's knots undo,  
And tree thy votary and Poet too.  
Or are you God (like us) in such a slate  
As cannot alter the decrees of fate  
I know with much ado thou didst obtain  
Thy jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain  
Was no whit less, so wandering thou didst run  
To the Getes too, and Snow-weeping Strymon,  
With Persia, Ganges, and what ever streams  
The thirsly Moon drinks in the midday beams.  
But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee  
(To make all sure) doubled thy misery,  
My sufferings too are many: if it be  
Held safe for me to boast adversity,  
Nor was't a Common blow, but from above  
Like his, that died for Imitating Jove,  
Which when thou heardst, a ruin so divine  
And Mother-like, should make thee pity mine.  
And on this day, which Poets unto thee  
Crown with full bowls, ask, what's become of me?  
Help buxom God then! so may thy loved Vine  
Swarm with the numerous grape, and big with Wine  
Load the kind Elm, and so thy orgies be  
With priest loud shouts, and Satyrs kept to thee!  
So may in death Lycurgus ne'er be blessed,  
Nor Pentheus wandering ghost find any rest!  
And so for ever bright (thy chief desires,)  
May thy wife's crown out shine the lesser fires!  
It but now, mindful of my love to thee,  
Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.  
You Gods have Commerce with yourselves, try then  
If Caesar will restore me Rome again.  
And you my trusty friends (the jolly Crew  
Of careless Poets!) when, without me, you  
Perform this days glad mysteries, let it be  
Your first Appeal unto his deity,  
And let one of you (Touched with my sad name)  
Mixing his wine tears, lay down the same,  
And (sighing) to the rest this thought Commend,  
O! There is Ovid now our banished friend?  
This do, if in your breasts I e'er deserved  
So large a share, nor spitefully reserved,  
Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow  
Condemning others, did myself allow.  
And may your happier wits grow loud with fame  
As you (my best of friends!) preserve my name.   

De Ponto, Lib. 3. To his friends (after his many solicitations) refusing to petition Caesar for his releasement.  
YOu have consumed my language, and my pen  
Incensed with begging scorns to write again.  
You grant, you knew my suit: My Muse, and I  
Had taught it you in frequent elegy,  
That I believe (yet sealed) you have divined  
Our Repetitions, and forestaled my mind,  
So that my thronging Elegies, and I  
Have made you (more than Poets) prophesy.  
But I am now awaked; forgive my dream  
Which made me cross the Proverb and the Stream,  
And pardon, friends, that I so long have had  
Such good thoughts of you, I am not so mad  
As to continue them. You shall no more  
Complain of troublesome Verse, or write o'er  
How I endanger you, and vex my s●●ife  
With the sad legends of a banished life.  
I'll bear these plagues myself: for I have past  
Through greater ones, and can as well at last  
These petty Crosses. 'Tis for some young beast  
To kick his bands, or with his neck released  
From the sad Yoke. Know then, That as for me  
Whom Fate hath used to such calamity,  
I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare  
The highest ills your malice can prepare.  
'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now  
Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowy brow  
Of cloudy Amles, and if she decree  
Her sportive pilgrims List bed here must be  
I am content; nay more, she cannot do  
That Act which I would not consent unto.  
I can delight in vain hopes, and desire  
That state more than her Change and Smiles, than highed  
I hug a strong despair, and think it brave  
To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave.  
Have you not seen cured wounds enlarged, and he  
That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th'tree  
Waters, without th'expense of arms or breath  
Hath still the easiest, and the quickest death.  
Why nurse I sorrows then? why these desires  
Of Changing Scythia for the Sun and fires  
Of some calm kinder air? what did bewitch  
My frantic hopes to fly so vain a pitch,  
And thus outrun myself? Madman! could I  
Suspect fate had for me a courtesy?  
These errors grieve: And now I must forget  
Those pleased idoeas I did frame and set  
Unto myself, with many fancied Springs  
And Groves, whose only loss new sorrow brings.  
And yet I would the worst of fate endure,  
Ere you should be repulsed, or less secure,  
But (base, low souls!) you left me not for this,  
But 'cause you durst not. Caesar could not miss  
Of such a trifle, for I know that he  
Scorns the Cheap triumphs of my misery.  
Then since (degenerate friends) not he, but you  
Cancel my hopes, and make afflictions new,  
You shall confess, and same shall tell you, I  
At Isler dare as well as Tiber die.   

De Ponto, lib. 4o. Eleg. 3a. To his Inconstant friend, translated for the use of all the Judases of this touch-stone-Age.  
SHall I complain, or not? Or shall I mask  
Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task  
Master my just Impatience, and write down  
Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown?  
Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see  
And teach thy person to posterity?  
No, hope is not; for know, most wretched man,  
'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can  
Buy thee a Poem, nor move me to give  
Thy name the honour in my Verse to live.  
Whilst yet my Ship did with no storms dispute  
And tem'prate winds fed with a calm salute  
My prosperous sails, thou were the only man  
That with me then an equal fortune ran,  
But now since angry heaven with Clouds and night  
Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight,  
Thou knowst I want thee, and art merely gone  
To shun that rescue, I relied upon;  
Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim  
Not only my Acquaintance, but my name;  
Yet know (though deal to this) that I am he  
Whose years and love had the same infancy  
With thine, Thy deep familiar, that did share  
souls with thee, and partake thy joys or Care,  
Whom the same Roose lodged, and my Muse those nights  
So solemnly endeared to her delights;  
But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown  
The Abject of thy breast, not to be known  
In that false Closes more; Nay, thou wilt not  
So much as let me know, I am forgot.  
If thou wilt say, thou didst not love me, than  
Thou didst dissemble: or, if love again,  
Why now Inconstant? came the Crime from me  
That wrought this Change? Sure, if no Justice be  
Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide  
Thy reasons then? for me, I did so guide  
Myself and actions, that I cannot see  
What could offend thee, but my misery.  
'las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow  
Some rescue to my wants, at least I know  
Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two  
Relieved my famished Eye, and eased me so.  
I know not what to think! and yet I hear,  
Not pleased with this, thou'rt witty, and dost jeer;  
Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back  
I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.  
Knowsed not that Fortune on a Globe doth stand,  
Whose upper slippery part without command  
Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind  
Are but dull Emblems of her fickle mind.  
In the whole world there's nothing I can see  
Will throughly parallel her ways, but thee.  
All that we hold, hangs on a slender twine  
And our best states by sudden chance decline;  
Who hath not heard of Croesus proverbed gold  
Yet knows his foe did him prisoner hold?  
He that once awed Sicilia's proud Extent  
By a poor art could famine scarce prevent;  
And mighty Pompey e'er he made an end  
Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend;  
Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been,  
And forced Jugurtha, and the Cimbrians in,  
Great Marius! with much want, and more disgrace  
In a foul Marsh was glad to hide his face.  
A divine hand sways all mankind, and we  
Of one short hour have not the certainty;  
Hadst thou one day told me, the time should be  
When the Getes bows, and th'Euxine I should see,  
I should have checked thy madness, and have thought  
Th' hadst need of all Anticira in a draught;  
And yet 'tis come to pass! nor though I might  
Some things foresee, could I procure a sight  
Of my whole destiny, and free my state  
From those eternal, higher ties of fate.  
Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high,  
Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.   

Tristium Lib. 3o. Eleg. 3a. To his Wife at Rome, when he was sick.  
DEarest! if you those fair Eyes (Wondering) stick  
On this strange Character, know, I am sick.  
Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I  
Breath hopeless of all Comforts, but to die.  
What heart (think'st thou) have I in this sad seat  
Tormented twixt the Samomate and Get?  
Nor air nor water please: their very sky  
Looks strange and unaccustomed to my Eye,  
I scarce dare breathe it, and I know not how  
The Earth that bears me shows unpleasant now,  
Nor Diet here's, nor lodging for my Ease,  
Nor any one that studies a disease;  
No friend to comfort me, none to defray  
With smooth discourse the Charges of the day.  
All tired alone I lie and (thus) what e'er  
Is absent, and at Rome I fancy here,  
But when then c●m'st, I blot the any scroll,  
And give thee full possession of my soul,  
Thee (absent) I embrace, thee only voice,  
And night and day holy a husband's joys;  
Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make  
That I am thought distracted for thy sake;  
When my tired Spirits fail, and my sick heart  
Draws in that fire which actuates each part,  
If any say, thou'rt come! I force my pain,  
And hope to see thee, gives me life again.  
Thus I for thee, whilst thou (perhaps) more blessed  
Careless of me dost breathe all peace and rest.  
Which yet I think not, for (dear soul!) too well  
Know I thy grief, since my first woes befell.  
But if strict heaven my stock of days hath spun  
And with my life my error will be gone,  
How easy then (O Caesar!) were't for thee  
To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?  
That I might yield my native air this breath,  
And banish not my ashes after death;  
Would thou hadst either spared me until dead,  
Or with my blood redeemed my absent head,  
Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou  
Wouldst have me live to die an Exile now.  
And must I then from Rome so far meet death,  
And double by the place my loss of breath?  
Nor in my last of hours on my own bed  
(In the sad Conflict) rest my dying head?  
Nor my souls Whispers (the last pledge of life,)  
Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?  
My last words none must treasure, none will rise  
And (with a tear) seal up my vanquished Eyes,  
Without these Rites I die, distressed in all  
The splendid sorrows of a funeral,  
Unpitied, and unmourned for, my sad head  
In a strange Land goes friendless to the dead.  
When thou hear'st this, O how thy faithful soul  
Will sink, whilst grief doth every part control!  
How often wilt thou look this way, and cry,  
O where is't yonder that my love doth lie!  
Yet spare these tears, and mourn not now for me,  
Long since (dear heart!) have I been dead to thee,  
Thank than I died, when Thee and Rome I lost  
That death to me more grief than this hath Cost;  
Now, if thou canst (but thou canst not) best wise  
Rejoice, my Cares are ended with my life,  
At least, yield not to sorrows, frequent use  
Should make these miseries to thee no news.  
And here I wish my Soul died with my breath  
And that no part of me were free from death,  
For, if it be immortal, and outlives  
The body, as Phythagoras believes,  
Betwixt these Sarmates ghosts, a Roman I  
Shall wander, vexed to all eternity.  
But thou (for after death I shall be free,)  
Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me,  
A few flowers give them, with some balm, and lay  
Them in some Suburb grave hard by the way,  
And to inform posterity, who's there,  
This sad Inscription let my marble wear,  
Here lies the loft-souled Lecturer of Love,  
Whose envied wit did his own ruin prove.  
But thou, (who e'er thou be'st, that passing by  
Lendest to this sudden stone a dirty Eye,  
If e'er thou knew'st of Love the sweet disease,  
Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!  
This for my tomb: but in my books they'll see  
More strong and lasting Monuments of me,  
Which I believe (though fatal) will afford  
An Endless name unto their ruined Lord.  
And now thus gone, It rests for love of me  
Thou showst some sorrow to my memory;  
Thy funeral offerings to my ashes bear  
With wreaths of cypress bathed in many a tear,  
Though nothing there but dust of me remain,  
Yet shall that Dust perceive thy pious pain.  
But I have done, and my tired sickly head  
Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;  
Take then this word (perhaps my last to tell)  
Which though I want, I wish it thee, farewell.   

Ausonii Cupido, Edyl. 6.  
IN those blessed fields of Everlasting air  
(Where to a Myrtle-grove the souls repair  
Of deceased Lovers,) the sad, thoughtful ghosts  
Of injured Ladies meet where each accosts  
The other with a sigh, whose very breath  
Would break a heart, and (kind souls!) love in death,  
A thick wood clouds their walks where day scarce peeps,  
And on each hand cypress and Poppey sleeps,  
The drowsy river's slumber, and Springs there  
Blab not, but softly melt into a tear,  
A sickly dull air fans them, which can have  
When most in force scarce breath to build a wave.  
On either bank through the still shades appear  
A Scene of pensive flowers, whose bosoms wear  
Drops of a Lever's blood, the emblemed truths  
Of deep despair, and Love-slain Kings and Youths.  
The Hyacinth, and self-enamoured Boy  
Narcissus flourish there, with Venus' Joy  
The spruce Adonis, and that Prince whose flower  
Hath sorrow languaged on him to this hour;  
All sad with love they hang their heads, and grieve  
As if their passions in each lease did live;  
And here (alas!) these soft-souled Lady's stray,  
And (oh! too late!) treason in love betray.  
Her blasted birth sad Semile repeats,  
And with her tears would quench the thunderers heats,  
Then shakes her bosom, as if fired again,  
And fears another lightnings slaming train.  
The lovely Pocris (here) bleeds, sighs, and 'swounds,  
Then wakes, and kisses him that gave her wounds.  
Sad Hero holds a torch forth, and doth light  
Her lost Leander through the waves and night.  
Her boatman desperate Sappho still admires,  
And nothing but the Sea can quench her fires.  
Distracted Phoedïa with a restless Eye  
Her disdained Letters reads, than casts them by.  
Rare, faithful Thysbe (Sequestered from these)  
A silent, unseen sorrow doth best please,  
For her love's sake, and last good-night, poor she  
Walks in the shadow of a mulberry.  
Near her young Canace with Dido sits  
A lovely Couple, but of desperate wits,  
Both dy'd alike, both pierced their tender breasts,  
This with her father's Sword, that with their Guests.  
Within the thickest textures of the Grove  
Diana in her Silver-beams doth rove,  
Her Crown of stars the pi●chi● air Invades,  
And with a faint light gilds the silent shades,  
Whilst her sad thoughts fixed on her sleepy I ever  
To Latmos-hill, and his retirements move her.  
A thousand more through the wide, darksome wood  
Feast on their cares, the Maudlin-Lovers food,  
For grief and absence do but Edge desire,  
And Death is fuel to a lover's fire.  
To see these Trophies of his wanton bow  
Cupid comes in, and all in triumph now  
(Rash, unadvised Boy!) disperseth round  
The sleepy Mists, his Wings and quiver wound  
With noise the quiet air. This sudden stir  
Betrays his godship, and as we from far  
A clouded, sickly Moon observe, so they  
Through the false Mists his ecclypsed torch betray.  
A hot pursuit thy make, and though with care,  
And a slow wing he softly stems the air,  
Yet they (as subtle now as he) surround  
His silenced course, and with the thick night bound  
Surprise the Wag. As in a dream we strive  
To voice our thoughts, & vainly would revive  
Our entraunced tongues, but can not speech enlarge  
Till the soul wakes and reassumes her Charge,  
So joyous of their Prize, they flock about  
And vainly Swell with an imagined shout.  
Far in these shades, and melancholy Coasts  
A Myrtle grows, well known to all the ghosts.  
Whose stretched top (like a great man raised by Fate)  
Looks big, and scorns his neighbours low estate;  
His leafy arms into a green Cloud twist.  
And on each Branch doth sit a lazy mist.  
A fatal tree, and luckless to the god,  
Where for disdain in life (love's worst of odds)  
The Queen of shades, fair Proserpina did rack  
The sad Adonis, hithet now they pack  
This little God, where, first disarmed, they bind  
His skittish wings, than both his hands behind  
His back they tie, and thus secured at last  
The peevish wanton to the tree make fast.  
Here at adventure without judge of jury  
He is condemned, while with united fury  
They all assail him; As a thief at Bar  
Lest to the Law, and mercy of his Star,  
Hath Bills heaped on him, and is questioned there  
By all the men that have been robbed that year,  
So now what ever Fate, or their own will  
Scored up in life, Cupid must pay the bill.  
Their servant's falsehood, jealousy, disdain,  
And all the plagues that abused Maids can feign,  
Are laid on him, and then to heighten spleen  
Their own deaths crown the sum. Pressed thus between  
His fair accusers, 'tis at last decreed,  
He by those weapons, that they died, should bleed.  
One grasps an airy Sword, a second holds  
Illusive fire and in vain, wanton folds  
Belies a flame; Others less kind appear  
To let him blood, and from the purple tear  
Create a Rose. But Sappho all this while  
Harvests the air, and from a thickened pile  
Of Clouds like Leucas top, spreads underneath  
A Sea of Mists, the peaceful billow's breath  
Without all noise, yet so exactly move  
They seem to Chide, but distant from above  
Reach not the ear, and (thus prepared) at once  
She doth o'rwhelm him with the airy Sconce.  
Amidst these tumults, and as fierce as they  
Venus steps in, and without thought, or stay  
Invades her Son; her old disgrace is cost  
Into the Bill, when Mars and she made fast  
In their Embraces were exposed to all  
The Scene of gods stark naked in their fall.  
Nor serves a verbal penance, but with haste  
From her fair brow (O happy flowers so placed!)  
She tears a rosy garland, and with this  
Whips the untoward Boy, they gently kiss  
His snowy skin, but she with angry haste  
Doubles her strength, until bedewed at last  
With a thin bloody sweat, their Innate Red,  
(As if grieved with the Act) grew pale and dead.  
This laid their spleen: And now (kind souls!) no more  
They'll punish him, the torture that he bore,  
Seems greater than his crime; with joint Consent  
Fate is made guilty, and he Innocent.  
As in a dream with dangers we contest.  
And fictious pains seem to afflict our rest,  
So frighted only in these shades of night  
Cupid (got loose) stole to the upper light,  
Where ever since (for malice unto these)  
The spiteful Ape doth either Sex displease.  
But O that had these Ladies been so wise  
To keep his Arms, and give him but his Eyes!   

Boet. Lib. 1. Metrum 1.  
I Whose first year flourished with youthful verse,  
In slow, sad numbers now my grief rehearse;  
A broken stile my sickly lines afford,  
And only tears give weight unto my words;  
Yet neither fate nor force my Muse could fright  
The only faithful Consort of my flight;  
Thus what was once my green years greatest glory,  
Is now my Comfort, grown decayed and hoary,  
For killing Cares th'Effects of age spurred on  
That grief might find a fitting Mansion;  
O'er my young head runs an untimely grey,  
And my loose skin shrinks at my blood's decay.  
Happy the man whose death in prosperous years  
Strikes not, nor shuns him in his age and tears.  
But O how deal is she to hear the cry  
Of th' oppressed S●ule, or shut the weeping Eye!  
While treacherous Fortune with slight honours fed  
My first estate, she almost drowned my head,  
But now since (clouded thus) she hides those rays,  
Life adds unwelcomed length unto my days;  
Why then, my friends, judged you my state so good?  
He that may fall once, never firmly stood.   

Metrum 2.  
O In what haste with Clouds and Night  
ecclypsed, and having lost her light,  
The dull soul whom distraction rends  
Into outward Darkness tends!  
How often (by these mists made blind,)  
Have earthly cares oppressed the mind!  
This soul sometimes wont to survey  
The spangled zodiacs fine way  
Saw th'early Sun in Roses dressed  
With the cool Moons unstable Crest,  
And whatsoever wanton Star  
In various Courses near or far  
Pierced through the orbs, he could full well  
Track all her Journey, and would tell  
Her Mansions, turnings, Rise and fall,  
By Curious Calculation all.  
Of sudden winds the hidden Cause,  
And why the Calm Seas quiet face  
With Impetuous waves is curled,  
What spirit wheels th'harmonious world,  
Or why a Star dropped in the West  
Is seen to rise again by East,  
Who gives the warm Spring temperate hours  
Decking the Earth with spicy flowers,  
Or how it Comes (for man's recruit)  
That autumn yields both Grape and fruit,  
With many other Secrets, he  
Could show the Cause and mystery,  
But now that light is almost out,  
And the brave soul lies chained about  
With outward Cares, whose pensive weight  
Sinks down her Eyes from their first height,  
And clean Contrary to her birth  
Poares on this vile and foolish Earth.   

Metrum 4.  
WHose calm soul in a settled state  
Kicks under foot the frowns of Fate,  
And in his fortunes bad or good  
Keeps the same temper in his blood,  
Not him the slaming Clouds above,  
Nor Alita's fiery tempests move,  
No fretting seas from shore to shore  
Boiling with Indignation o'er  
Nor burning thunderbolt that can  
A mountain shake, can st●rre this man.  
Dull Cowards then! why should we start  
To see ●hese tyrants act their part?  
Nor hope, no fear what may befall  
And you d●sarm their malice all.  
But wh● doth faintly fea●, or wish  
And sets no law to what is ●●s,  
Hath lost the buck●er, and (poor elf!)  
Makes up a Chain to bind himself.   

Metrum 5.  
O Thou great builder of this starry frame,  
Who fixed in thy eternal throne dost tame  
The rapid Spheres, and lest they jar  
Hast given a law to every star!  
Thou art the Cause that new the Moon  
With full or be dulls the stars, and soon  
Again grows dark, her light being done,  
The nearer still she's to the Sun.  
Thou in the early hours of night  
Mak'st the cool Evening-star shine bright,  
And at sunrising ('cause the least)  
Look pale and sleepy in the East.  
Thou, when the leaves in Winter stray,  
Appoint'st the Sun a shorter way,  
And in the pleasant Summer-light  
With nimble hourses dost wing the night.  
Thy hand the various year quite through  
Discreetly tempers, that what now  
The northwind tears from every tree  
In Spring again restored we see.  
Then what the winter-starrs between  
The furrows in mere seed have seen  
The Dog-star since (grown up and born)  
Hath burnt in stately, full-eared Corn.  
Thus by creation's law controlled  
All things their proper stations hold  
Observing (as thou didst intend)  
Why they were made, and for what end.  
Only human actions thou  
Hast no Care of, but to the flow  
And ebb of Fortune leavest them all,  
Hence th' Innocent endures that thrall  
Due to the wicked, whilst alone  
They sit possessors of his throne,  
The Just are killed, and virtue lies  
Buried in obscurities,  
And (which of all things is most sad)  
The good man suffers by the bad.  
No perjuries, nor damned pretence  
Coloured with holy, lying sense  
Can them annoy, but when they mind  
To try their force, which most men find.  
They from the highest sway of things  
Can pull down great, and pious Kings.  
O then at length, thus loosely hurled  
Look on this miserable world  
Who e'er thou art, that from above  
Dost in such order all things move!  
And let not man (of divine art  
Not the least, nor vilest part)  
By casual evils thus bandied, be  
The sport of fates obliquity.  
But with that faith thou guid'st the heaven,  
Settle this Earth, and make them even.   

Metrum 6.  
WHen the Crabs fierce Constellation  
Burns with the beams of the bright Sun,  
Then he that will go out to sow,  
Shall never reap where he did plough,  
But in stead of Corn may rather  
The old world's diet, Accorns gather.  
Who the Violet doth love  
Must seek her in the flowery grove,  
But never when the Norths cold wind  
The Russet fields with frost doth bind.  
If in the springtime (to no end)  
The tender Vine for Grapes we bend,  
We shall find none, for only (still)  
Autumn doth the winepress fill.  
Thus for all things (in the world's prime)  
The wise God sealed their proper time,  
Nor will permit those seasons he  
Ordained by turns, should mingled be;  
Then whose wild actions out of season  
Cross to nature, and her reason,  
Would by new ways old orders rend,  
Shall never find a happy End.   

Metrum 7.  
Curtained with Clouds in a dark night  
The Stars cannot send forth their light.  
And if a sudden Southern blast  
The Sea in rolling waves doth cast,  
That angry Element doth boil,  
And from the deep with stormy coil  
Spews up the Sands, which in short space  
Scatter, and puddle his curled face;  
Then those calm waters, which but now  
Stood clear as heavens unclouded brow,  
And like transparent glass did lie  
Open to every searchers Eye,  
Look soulely stirred, and (though desired)  
Resist the sight, because bemired,  
So often from a high hills brow  
Some Pilgrim-spring is seen to flow,  
And in a straight line keep her Course  
Till from a Rock with headlong force  
Some broken piece blocks up her way  
And fo●ceth all her streams astray.  
Then thou that with enlightened rays,  
Wouldst see the truth, and in her ways  
Keep without error; neither fear  
The future, nor too much give ear  
To present joys; And give no scope  
To grief, nor much to flattering hope.  
For when these Rebels reign, the mind  
Is both a prisoner, and stark blind.   

Lib. 2. Metrum 1.  
FOrtune (when with rash hands she quite turmoils  
The state of things, and in tempestuous foils  
Comes whirling like Eurious,) beats choir down  
With head long force the highest monarch's crown,  
And in his place unto the throne doth fetch  
The despised looks of some mechanic wretch.  
So Jests at tears and miseries, is proud,  
And laughs to hear her vassals groan aloud.  
These are her sports, thus she her wheel doth drive  
And plagues man with her blind prerogative;  
Nor is't a favour of inferior strain,  
If once kicked down, she lets him rise again.   

Metrum 2.  
IF with an open, bounteous hand  
(Wholly left at man's Command)  
Fortune should in one rich flow  
As many heaps on him beslow  
Of massy gold, as there be sands  
Tossed by the waves and winds rude bands,  
Or bright stars in a Winter night  
Decking their silent Orbs with light,  
Yet would his lust know no restraints,  
Nor cease to weep in sad Complaints.  
Though heaven should his vows regard,  
And in a prodigal reward  
Return him all he could in plore,  
Adding new horours' to his store,  
Yet all were nothing. Goods in sight  
Are scorned, and lust in greedy flight  
Lays out for more; What measure then  
Can tame these wild desires of men?  
Since all we give both last and first  
Doth but inflame, and feed their thirst;  
For how can he be rich, who 'midst his store  
Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor.   

Metrum 3.  
WHen the Sun from his rosy bed  
The dawning light begins to shed,  
The drowsy sky uncurtains round,  
And the (but now bright stars all drowned  
In one great light, look dull and tame,  
And homage his victorious flame,  
Thus, when the warm Etesian wind  
The Earth's sealed bosom doth unbind,  
Straight she her various store discloses,  
And purples every Grove with Roses;  
But if the Souths tempestuous breath  
Breaks forth, those blushes pine to death.  
Oft in a quiet sky the deep  
With unmoved waves seems fast asleep,  
And oft again the blustering North  
In angry heaps provokes them forth.  
If then this world, which holds all Nations,  
Suffers itself such alterations,  
That not this mighty, massy frame,  
Nor any part of it can claim  
One certain course, why should man prate,  
Or Censure the designs of Fate?  
Why from frail honours, and goods lent  
Should he expect things permanent?  
●●nce 'tis enacted by divine decree  
●hat nothing mortal shall eternal be.   

Metrum 4.  
WHo wisely would for his retreat  
Build a secure and lasting seat,  
Where stoved in silence he may sleep  
Beneath the Wind, above the Deep;  
Let him th' high hills leave on one hand,  
And on the other the false sand;  
The first to winds lies plain and even  
From all the blustering points of heaven;  
The other hollow and unsure,  
No weight of building will endure.  
A voiding then the envied state  
Of buildings bravely situate,  
Remember thou thyself to lock  
Within some low neglected Rock;  
There when fierce heaven in thunder Chides,  
And winds and waves rage on all sides,  
Thou happy in the quiet sense  
Of thy poor Cell with small expense  
Shall lead a life serene and fair,  
And scorn the anger of the air.   

Metrum 5.  
HAppy that first white age! when we  
Lived by the earth's mere charity,  
No soft luxurious Diet then  
Had Effeminated men,  
No other meat, nor wine had any  
Then the Course Mast, or simple honey,  
And by the Parents care laid up  
Cheap Berries did the Children sup.  
No pompous wear was in those days  
Of gummy Silks, or Ska●let bays,  
Their beds were on some slowrie brink  
And clear Spring water was their drink.  
The shady Pine in the sun's heat  
Was their cool and known Retreat,  
For than 'twas not cut down, but stood  
The youth and glory of the wood.  
The daring sailor with his slaves  
Then had not cut the swelling waves,  
Nor for desire of foreign store  
Seen any but his native shore.  
No stirring Drum had scared that age,  
Nor the shrill Trumpets active rage,  
No wounds by bitter hatred made  
With warm blood soiled the shining blade;  
For how could hostile madness arm  
An age of love to public harm?  
When Common Justice none withstood,  
Nor sought rewards for spilling blood.  
O that at length our age would raise  
Into the temper of those days!  
But (worst then AEtna's fires!) debate  
And Avarice inflame our state.  
Alas! who was it that first found  
Gold hid of purpose under ground,  
That sought out pearls, and dived to find  
Such precious perils for mankind!   

Metrum 6.  

HE that thirsts for glories prize,  
Thinking that the top of all,  
Let him view th'Expansed skies,  
And the earth's Contracted ball,  
'Twill shame him then, the name he won  
Fills not the short walk of one man.   

2.  
O why vainly strive you then  
To shake off the bands of Fate,  
Though same through the world of men  
Should in all tongues your names relate,  
And with proud titles swell that story  
The dark grave scorns your brightest glory.   

3.  
There with Nobles beggars sway,  
And Kings with Commons share one dust,  
What news of Brutus at this day,  
Or Fabricius the Just,  
Some rude Verse Cut in stone, or led  
Keeps up the names, but they are dead.   

4.  
So shall, you one day (past reprieve)  
Lie (perhaps) without a name,  
But if dead you think to live  
By this air of human fame,  
Know, when time stops that posthume breath,  
You must endure a second death.    

Metrum 7.  
THat the world in constant force  
Varies her Concordant course;  
That seeds jarring hot and cold  
Do the breed perpetual hold;  
That in his golden Coach the Sun  
Brings the Rofic day still on;  
That the Moon sways all those lights  
Which Helper ushers to dark nights;  
That alternate tides be sound  
The Seas ambitious waves to bound,  
Lest o'er the wide Earth without End  
Their fluid Empire should extend;  
All this frame of things that be,  
Love which rules Heaven, Land, and Sea,  
Chains, keeps, orders as we see.  
This, if the reins he once cast by,  
All things that now by turns comply,  
Would fall to discord, and this frame  
Which now by social faith they tame,  
And comely orders in that fight  
And jar of th●ngs would perish quite.  
This in a holy league of peace  
Keeps King and People with Increase;  
And in the sacred nuptial bands  
Ties up chaste hearts with willing hands,  
And this keeps firm without all doubt  
Friends by his bright Instinct found out.  
O happy Nation then were you  
If love which doth all things subdue,  
That rules the spacious heaven, and brings  
Plenty and Peace upon his wings,  
Might rule you too! and without guile  
Settle once more this floating isle!   

Casimirus, Lib. 4. Ode 28.  
Almighty Spirit! thou that by  
Set turns and changes from thy high  
And glorious throne, dost here below  
Rule all, and all things dost foreknow;  
Can those blind plots we here discuss  
Please thee, as thy wise Counsels us?  
When thou thy blessings here dost strew,  
And pour on Earth, we flock and flow  
With joyous strife, and eager care  
Struggling which shall have the best share  
In thy rich gifts, just as we see  
Children about Nuts disagree.  
Some that a Crown have got and foiled  
Break it; Another sees it spoiled  
Ere it is gotten: Thus the world  
Is all to peece-meals cut, and hurled  
By factious hands, It is a ball  
Which Fate and force divide twixt all  
The Sons of men. But o good God  
While these for dust fight, and a Clod,  
Grant that poor I may smile, and be  
At rest, and perfect peace with thee.   

Casimirus, Lib. 2. Ode 8.  
IT would less vex distressed man  
If Fortune in the same pace ran  
To ruin him, as he did rise;  
But highest states fall in a trice.  
No great success held ever long:  
A restless fate afflicts the throng  
Of Kings and Commons, and less days  
Serve to destroy them, then to raise.  
Good luck smiles once an age, but bad  
Makes kingdoms in a minute sad,  
And every hour of life we drive,  
H●●● o'er us a Prerogative.  
Then leave (by wild Impatience driven,  
And rash resents,) to rail at heaven,  
Leave an ●●●●●●nly, weak complaint  
That De●●●●●● and Fate have no restraint.  
In the same hour hat gave thee breath,  
Thou hadst ordained thy hour of death,  
But he loves most, who here will buy  
With a few tears, eternity.   

Casimirus, Lib. 3. Ode 22.  
LEt not thy youth and false delights  
Cheat thee of life; Those headely flights  
But wast thy time, which posts away  
Like winds unseen, and swift as they.  
Beauty is but mere paint, whose dye  
With times breath will dissolve and fly,  
'Tis wax, 'tis water, 'tis a glass  
It melts, breaks, and away doth pass.  
'Tis like a Rose which in the dawn  
The air with gentle breath doth sawn  
And whisper too, but in the hours  
Of night is sullied with smart showers.  
Life spent, is wished for but in vain,  
Nor can past years come back again.  
Happy the Man! who in this vale  
Redeems his time, shatting out all  
Thoughts of the world, whose longing Eyes  
Are ever Pilgrims in the skies,  
That views his bright home, and desires  
To slain amongst those glorious sores.   

Casimirus Lyric. Lib. 3. Ode 23.  
'TIs not rich furniture and gems  
With Cedar-roofes, and ancient stems,  
Nor yet a plenteous, lasting flood  
Of gold, that makes man truly good.  
Leave to Inquire in what fair fields  
A River runs which much gold yields,  
virtue alone is the rich prize  
Can purchase stars, and buy the skies.  
Let others build with Adamant,  
Or pillars of carved Marble plant,  
Which rude and rough sometimes did dwell  
Far under earth, and near to hell.  
But richer much (from death released)  
Shines in the fresh groves of the East  
The Phoenix, or those fish that dwell  
With silvered scales in Hiddekel.  
Let others with rare, various Pearls  
Their garments dress, and in forced Curls  
Bind up their locks, look big and high,  
And shine in robes of scarlet-dye.  
But in my thoughts more glorious far  
Those native stars, and speckles are  
Which birds wear, or the spots which we  
In Leopards dispersed see.  
The harmless sheep with her warm sheet  
Clothes man, but who his dark heart sees  
Shall find a wolf or Fox within  
That kills the Castor for his skin.  
virtue alone, and nought else can  
A difference make twixt beast and man,  
And on her wines above the Spheres  
To the true light his spirit bears.   

Casimirus, Lib. 4. Ode 15.  
NOthing on Earth, nothing at all  
Can be exempted from the thrall  
Of peevish weariness! The Sun  
Which our sorefathers' judged to run  
Clear and unspotted, in our days  
Is taxed with sullen, eclipsed rays.  
What ever in the glorious sky  
Man sees, his rash, andacious Eye  
Dares Censure it, and in mere spite  
At distance will condemn the light.  
The wholesome mornings, whose beams clear  
Those hills our fathers walked on here  
We fancy not nor the moon's light  
Which through their windows shined at night,  
We change the air each year, and scorn  
Those seats, in which we first were borne.  
Some nice, affected wond'rers love  
Belgia's mild winters, others remove  
For want of health and honesty  
To Summer it in Italic;  
But to no end: The disease still  
Sticks to his Lord, and kindly will  
To Venice in a Barge repair,  
Or Coach it to Vienna's air,  
And then (to late with home Content,)  
They leave this ●rilfull banishment.  
But he, whose constancy makes sure  
His mind and mansion, lives secure  
From such vain tasks, can dine and sup  
Where his old parents bred him up.  
Content (no doubt!) most times doth dwell  
In Countrey-shades, or to some Cell  
Confines itself, and can alone  
Make simple straw, a royal Throne.   

Casimirus, Lib. 4. Ode 13.  
IF weeping Eyes could wash away  
Those evils they mourn for night and day,  
Then gladly I to cure my fears  
With my best jewels would buy tears.  
But as dew feeds the growing Corn,  
So Crosses that are grown sorlorn  
Increase with grief, tears make tears way,  
And cares kept up, keep cares in pay.  
That wretch whom Fortune finds to sear,  
And melting still into a tear,  
She strikes more boldly, but a face  
Silent and dry doth her amaze.  
Then leave thy tears, and tedious tale  
Of what thou dost misfortunes call,  
What thou by weeping think'st to ease,  
Doth by that Passion but Increase,  
Hard things to Soft will never yield,  
'Tis the dry Eye that wins the field;  
A noble patience quells the spite  
Of Fortune, and disarms her quite.   

The Praise of a Religious life by Mathias Casimirus. In Answer to that Ode of Horace, Beatus Ille qui procul negotiis, &c.  
FLaccus not so: That worldly He  
Whom in the country's shade we see  
Ploughing his own fields, seldom can  
Be justly styled, The Blessed man.  
That title only fits a Saint,  
Whose free thoughts far above restraint.  
And weighty Cares, can gladly part  
With house and lands, and leave the smart  
Litigious troubles, and loud strife  
Of this world for a better life.  
He fears no Cold, nor heat to blast  
His Corn, for his Accounts are cast,  
He sues no man, nor stands in Awe  
Of the devouring Courts of Law;  
But all his time he spends in tears  
For the Sins of his youthful years,  
Or having tasted those rich joys  
Of a Conscience without noise  
Sits in some fair shade, and doth give  
To his wild thoughts rules how to live.  
He in the Evening, when on high  
The Stars shine in the silent sky  
Beholds th'eternal flames with mirth,  
And globes of light more large than Earth,  
Then weeps for joy, and through his tears  
Looks on the fire-enameled Spheres,  
Where with his Saviour he would be  
Listed above mortality.  
Mean while the golden stars do set,  
And the slow-Pilgrim leave all wet  
With his own tears, which flow so fast  
They make his sheps' light, and soon past.  
By this, the Sun o'er night deceased  
Breaks in fresh Blushes from the East,  
When mindful of his former falls  
With strong Cries to his God he calls,  
And with such deep-drawn sighs doth move  
That he turns anger into love.  
In the calm Spring, when the Earth bears,  
And feeds on April's breath, and tears,  
His Eyes accustomed to the skies  
Find here fresh objects, and like spies  
Or busy Bees search the soft flowers  
Contemplate the green fields, and bowers,  
Where he in veils, and shades doth see  
The back Parts of the deity  
Then sadly sighing says. 
O how  
These flowers with hasty, stretched heads grow  
And strive for heaven, but rooted here  
Lament the distance with a tear!  
The Honey-suckles Clad in white,  
The Rose in Red point to the light,  
And the lilies hollow and bleak  
Look, as if they would something speak,  
They sigh at night to each soft gale,  
And at the dayspring weep it all.  
Shall I then only (wretched I!)  
Oppressed with Earth, on Earth still lie?   
Thus speaks he to the neighbour trees  
And many sad Soliloquies  
To Springs, and fountains doth impart,  
Seeking God with a longing heart.  
But if to ease his busy breast  
He thinks of home, and taking rest  
A rural Cott, and Common fare  
Are all his Cordials against Care.  
There at the dour of his low Cell  
Under some shade, or near some well  
Where the cool Poplar grows, his Plate  
Of Common Earth, without more state  
Expect their Lord, Salt in a shell,  
Green Cheese, thin beer, Draughts that will tell  
No Tales, a hospitable Cup,  
With some fresh berries do make up  
His healthful feast, nor doth he wish  
For the fat Carp, or a rare dish  
Of Lucrine Oysters; The Swift Quist  
Or Pigeon sometimes (if he list)  
With the slow Goose that loves the stream,  
Fresh, various salads, and the Bean  
By Curious palates never sought,  
And to Close with, some Cheap unbought  
Dish for digession, are the most  
And Choicest dainties he can boast.  
Thus feasted, to the slowrie Groves,  
Or pleasant Rivers he removes,  
Where near some fair oak hung with Mast  
He shuns the Souths Infectious blast.  
On shady hanks sometimes he lies,  
Sometimes the open Current tries,  
Where with his line and feathered fly  
He sports, and takes the Scaly fry.  
Meanwhile each hollow wood and hill  
Doth ring with lowings long and shrill,  
And shady Lakes with Rivers deep,  
echo the bleating of the Sheep.  
The blackbird with the pleasant Thrush  
And Nightingale in every Bush  
Choice music give, and Shepherds play  
Unto their sticks some loving Lay;  
The thirsty Reapers in thick throngs  
Return home from the field with Songs,  
And the Carts laden with ripe Corn  
Come groaning to the well-stored Barn.  
Nor pass we by as the least good,  
A peaceful, loving neighbourhood,  
Whose honest wit, and chaste discourse  
Make none (by hearing it) the worse,  
But innocent and merry may  
Help (without Sin) to spend the day.  
Could now the Tyrant usurer  
Who plots to be a Purchaser  
Of his poor neighbour's seat, but taste  
These true delights, o with what haste  
And hatred of his ways would he  
Renounce his Jewish cruelty,  
And those cursed sums which poor men borrow  
On use to day, remit to morrow!   

Ad fluvium Iscam.  
ISea parens florum, placido qui spumeus ore Lambis lapillos aureos,  
Qui moestos hyacinthos & picti {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} topbi Mulces susurris humidis,  
Dumquenovas pergunt menses Consumere Lunas Coelumquemortale terit,  
Accumulas cum Sole dies, oevumque per omne Fidelis Induras latex,  
O quis Inaccessos & quali murmare lucos Mutumq; Solaris nemus!  
Per te discepti credo Thracis ire querelas Plectrumquedivini senis.   

Venerabili viro, praeceptori suo olim & semper Colendissimo M●o. Matheo Herbert.  
Quod vixi, Mathaee, dedit Pater, haec tamen olim  
Vita sluat, nec erit fas meminisse datam.  
Vltrà Curâsti Solers, perituraque mecum  
Nomina post Cineres das resonare meos.  
‛ Divide discipulum: brevis haec & lubrica nostri  
Pars vertat Patri, Posthuma vita tibi.   

Praestrantissimo viro, Thomae Poëllo in suum de Elementis oplicae libellum.  
VIvaces oculorum Ignes & lumina dia  
Fixit in angusto maximus orbe Deus,  
Ille Explorantes radios dedit, & vaga lustra  
In quibus Intuitus lexque modusque latent.  
Hos tacitos Jactus, lususque volubilis orbis  
Pingis in Exiguo, magne Poëlle, libro,  
Excursusque situsque, ut Lynceus opticus, edis  
Quotque modis fallunt, quotque adhibenda sides.  
AEmula naturae manus! & mens Conscia coeli!  
Illa videre dedit, vestra videre docet.   

Ad Echum.  
O Quae srondosae per amoena Cubilia silvae  
Nympha volas, lucoquelequax spatiaris in alto,  
Annosi numen nemoris, saltusque verendi  
Effatum, cui sola placent postrema velatûs!  
Per te Narcissi morientis verba, precesque  
Per pueri Lassatam animam, & Conamina vitae  
Ultima, palantisque precor suspiria linguae.  
Da quo secretae haec Incaedua devia sylvae,  
Anfractusq; loci dubios, & lusha repandam.  
Sic tibi perpetuâ (meriloque) haec regna Juventâ  
Luxurient, dabiturque tuis, sine sine, viretis  
Intactas Lunae lachrymas, & lambere rorem  
Virgineum, Caeliqueanimas haurire tepentis.  
Nec cedant avo stellis, sed lucida sempèt  
Et satiata sacro aeterni medicamine veris  
Ostendant longè vegetos, ut Sydera, vultus!  
Sit spiret Muscata Comas, & Cynnama passim!  
Dissundat levis umbra, in funere qualia spargit  
Phoenicis rogus out Panchea nubila slammae!