Thalia rediviva  
THE Pass-Times and Diversions OF A COUNTREY-MUSE, In Choice POEMS On several Occasions WITH Some Learned Remains of the Eminent Eugenius Philalethes, Never made Public till now.  
— Nec erubuit sylvas habitare Thalia. Virgil.  
Licenced, Roger L'Estrange.  
London, Printed for Robert Pawlet at the Bible in Chancery-lane, near Fleetstreet, 1678.   

TO THE Most Honourable and truly Noble HENRY Lord Marquis and Earl of WORCESTER, etc.  
My Lord,  
THough Dedications are now become a kind of Tyranny over the Peace and Repose of great Men; yet I have confidence I shall so manage the present Address as to entertain your Lordship without much disturbance; and because my purposes are governed by deep Respect and Veneration, I hope to find your Lordship more facile and accessible. And I am already absolved from a great part of that fulsome and designing guilt, being sufficiently removed from the causes of it: for I consider, my Lord! that you are already so well known to the World in your several Characters, and advantages of Honour; it was yours by traduction, and the adjunct of your Nativity, you were swaddled and rocked in't, bred up and grew in't to your now wonderful height and eminence: that for me under pretence of the inscription to give you the heraldry of your family, or to carry your person through the famed Topics of Mind Body, or Estate, were all one as to persuade the World that Fire and Light were very bright Bodies, or that the Luminaries themselves had Glory. In point of Protection I beg to fall in with the common wont, and to be satisfied by the reasonableness of the thing, and abundant worthy precedents; and although I should have secret prophecy and assurance that the ensuing Verse would live eternally, yet would I, as I now do, humbly crave it might be fortified with your Patronage; for so the Sextile Aspects and Influences are watched for, and applied to the actions of Life, thereby to make the Scheme and good Auguries of the Birth pass into Fate, and a success infallible.  
My Lord! By a happy obliging Intercession, and your own consequent judulgence, I have now recourse to your Lordship; hoping, I shall not much displease by putting these Twin Poets into your Hands. The Minion and Vertical Planet of the Roman Lustre and Bravery was never better pleased, than when he had a whole Constellation about him: not his finishing Five several Wars to the promoting of his own Interest, nor particularly the prodigious success at Actium, where he held in chase the Wealth, Beauty and Prowess of the East; not the Triumphs and absolute Dominions which followed, all this gave him not half that serene Pride and Satisfaction of Spirit as when he retired himself to umpire the different Excellencies of his insipid Friends, and to distribute Laurels among his Poetic Heroes: If now upon the Authority of this, and several such Examples I had the Ability and Opportunity of drawing the Value and strange Worth of a Poet, and withal of applying some of the Lineaments to the following pieces; I should then do myself a real Service, and atone in a great measure for the present insolence. But best of all will it serve my Defence and Interest to appeal to your Lordships own conceptions and image of Genuine Verse; with which so just, so regular Original, if these Copies shall hold proportion and resemblance, then am I advanced very far in your Lordship's pardon: the rest will entirely be supplied me by your Lordship's Goodness, and my own awful Zeal of being,  
My Lord! Your Lordship's most obedient, most humbly devoted Servant J. W.   

To the Reader.  
THE Nation of Poets above all Writers 〈◊〉 ever 〈◊〉 perpetuity of Name, or as they please by their Charter of Liberty to call it, Immortality. Nor has the World much 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 claim, either easily resigning a Patrimony in itself not very substantial; or, it may be, 〈◊〉 of despair to control the authority of Inspiration and Oracle. Howsoevert he price as now quarrelled for among the Poets themselves is no such rich bargain: 'tis only a vanishing interest in the Lees and dregs of Time, in the Rear of those Fathers and 〈◊〉 in the Art, who if they know any thing of the heats and fury of their Successors must extremely pity them.  
I am to assure, that the Author has no portion of that airy happiness to lose by any 〈◊〉 or unkindness which may be done to his Verse: his Reputation is better 〈◊〉 in the sentiment of several judicious Persons, who know him very well able to give himself a lasting Monument, by undertaking any Argument of note in the whole Circle of Learning.  
But even these his Diversions have been valuable with the matchless Orinda, and 〈◊〉 they deserved 〈◊〉 esteem and commendations; who so thinks them not worth the publishing, will put himself in the 〈◊〉 Scale, where his own arrogance will blow him up.  
I. W.   

To Mr. Henry Vaughan the Silurist: upon these and his former Poems.  

HAd I adored the Multitude, and thence  
Got an Antipathy to wit and sense,  
And hugged that Fate, in hope the World would grant  
'Twas good Affection to the Ignorant:  
Yet the least Ray of thy bright fancy seen  
I had converted, or excuseless been.  
For each Birth of thy Muse to aftertimes  
Shall expiate for all this Ages Crimes.  
First shines thy 〈◊〉, twice crowned by thee:  
Once by 〈◊〉 Love, next by thy Poetry;  
Where thou the best of Unions dost dispense  
Truth clothed in Wit, and Love in Innocence.  
So that the muddy Lover may learn here,  
No Fountains can be sweet, that are not clear.  
There 〈◊〉, by thee revived declares  
〈◊〉 flat man's Joys are and how mean his Cares;  
And wisely doth upbraid the World, that they  
Should such a value for their ruin pay.   

But when thy sacred Muse diverts her Quill  
The Landscape to design of Zions Hill,  
As nothing else was worthy her, or thee:  
So we admire almost 〈◊〉 ' Idolatry.  
What savage Breast would not be raped to find  
Such Jewels in such Cabinets enshrined?  
Thou filled with joys (too great to see or count:)  
Descend'st from thence, like Moses from the Mount,  
And with a candid, yet unquestioned awe  
〈◊〉 the Golden Age, when Verse was Law.  
Instructing us, thou so secur'st thy Fame,  
That nothing can disturb it, but my name.  
Nay I have hopes, that standing so near thine  
'Twill lose its dross, and by degrees refine.  
Live! till the disabused World consent  
All Truths of Use, of Strength or Ornament  
Are with such Harmony by thee displayed  
As the whole World was first by number made;  
And from the charming rigour thy Muse brings  
Learn, there's no pleasure but in serious things!   
Orinda   

Upon the Ingenious Poems of his Learned Friend, Mr. Henry Vaughan the Silurist.  

FAirly designed! to charm our Civil Rage  
With Verse, and plant Bays in an Iron Age.  
But hath steeled Mars so ductible a Soul,  
That Love and Poesy may it control?  
Yes: brave Tyrtaeus, as we read of old,  
The Grecian Armies, as he pleased could mould;  
They marched to his high Numbers, and did fight  
With that instinct and rage, which he did write.  
When he fell lower, they would straight retreat,  
Grow soft and calm: and temper their bold heat.  
Such Magic is in Virtue! See hear a young  
Tyrtaeus too, whose sweet persuasive Song  
Can lead our Spirits any way, and move  
To all Adventures: either War or Love.   

Then veil the bright Etesia, that choice She,  
Lest Mars, (Timander's Friend) his Rival be.  
So fair a Nymph, dressed by a Muse so neat,  
Might warm the North, and thaw the frozen Get.   
Tho. Powel, D. D.   

To the ingenious Author of Thalia Rediviva.  

Ode I.  
WHere Reverend Bards of old have sat  
And sung the pleasant interludes of Fate,  
Thou takest the hereditary shade  
Which Natures homely Art had made,  
And thence thou giv'st thy Muse her swing, and she  
Advances to the Galaxy;  
There with the sparkling Cowley she above  
Does hand in hand in graceful Measures move.  
We grovelling Mortals gaze below,  
And long in vain to know  
Her wondrous paths, her wondrous flight  
In rain; alas! we grope,  
In vain we use our earthly Telescope,  
We're blinded by an intermedial night:  
Thine Eagle-Muse can only face  
The fiery Coursers in their race,  
While with unequal paces we do try  
To bear her train aloft, and keep her company.   

II.  
The loud harmonious Mantuan  
Once charmed the world, and here's the Us an Swan  
In his declining years does chime,  
And challenges the last remains of Time.  
Ages run on, and soon give o'er,  
They have their Graves as well as we,  
Time swallows all that's past and more,  
Yet time is swallowed in eternity:  
This is the only profits Poets see.  
There thy triumphant Muse shall ride in state  
And lead in Chains devouring Fate;  
Claudian's bright Phoenix she shall bring  
Thee an immortal offering;  
Nor shall my humble tributary Muse  
Her homage and attendance too refuse,  
She thrusts herself among the Crowd  
And joining in th' applause she strives to clap aloud.   

III.  
Tell me no more that Nature is severe  
Thou great Philosopher!  
Lo she has laid her vast Exchequer here.  
Tell me no more that she has sent  
So much already she is spent;  
Here is a vast America behind  
Which none but the great Silurist could find.  
Nature her last edition was the best,  
As big, as rich as all the rest  
So will we here admit  
Another world of Wit.  
No rude or savage fancy here shall stay  
The travailing Reader in his way,  
But every coast is clear: go where he will  
virtue's the road Thalia leads him still:  
Long may she live, and wreathe thy sacred head  
For this her happy resurrection from the dead.   
N. W. Jes. Coll. Oxon.   

To my worthy Friend, Mr. Henry Vaughan the Silurist.  

SEe what thou wert! by what Platonic round  
Art thou in thy first youth and Glories found!  
Or from thy Muse does this Retrieve accrue,  
Does she which once inspired thee, now renew!  
Bringing thee back those Golden years which time  
Smoothed to thy Lays and polished with thy Rhyme.  
Nor is't to thee alone she does convey  
Such happy change, but bountiful as day  
On whatsoever Reader she does shine  
She makes him like thee, and for ever thine.   

And first thy manu'al opening gives to see  
Eclipse and sufferings burnish Majesty,  
Where thou so artfully the draught hast made  
That we best read the lustre in the shade,  
And find our sovereign greater in that shroud:  
So Lightning dazzles from its night and cloud;  
So the first Light himself has for his Throne  
Blackness, and Darkness his Pavilion.   

Who can refuse thee company, or stay,  
By thy next charming summons forced away,  
If that be force which we can so resent  
That only in its joys 'tis violent:  
Upward thy Eagle bears us e'er aware  
Till above Storms and all tempestuous Air  
We radiant Worlds with their bright people meet,  
Leaving this little All beneath our feet.  
But now the pleasure is too great to tell,  
Nor have we other business than to dwell  
As on the hallowed Mount th' Apostles meant  
To build and fix their glorious banishment.  
Yet we must know and find thy skilful 〈◊〉  
Shall gently bear us to our homes again;   

By which descent thy former flight's implied  
To be thy 〈◊〉 and not thy pride.  
And here how well does the wise Muse demean  
Herself, and fit her song to every Scene!  
Riot of Courts, the bloody wreaths of War,  
Cheats of the Mart, and clamours of the Bar,  
Nay, life itself thou dost so well express  
Its hollow Joys, and real Emptiness,  
That Dorian Minstrel never did excite,  
Or raise for dying so much appetite.   

Nor does thy other softer Magic move  
Us less thy famed Etesia to love;  
Where such a Character thou giv'st that shame  
Nor envy dare approach the Vestal Dame:  
So at bright Prime Ideas none repine,  
They safely in th' Eternal Poet shine.   

Gladly th' Assyrian Phoenix now resumes  
From thee this last reprisal of his Plumes;  
He seems 〈◊〉 more miraculous thing  
Brighter of Crest, and stronger of his Wing;  
Proof against Fate in spicy Urns to come,  
Immortal past all risk of Martyrdom.   

Nor be concerned, nor fancy thou art rude  
T'adventure from thy Cambrian solitude,  
Best from those 〈◊〉 Cliffs thy Muse does spring  
Upwards, and boldly spreads her Cherub-wing.   

So when the Sage of Memphis would converse  
With boding Skies, and th' Azure Universe,  
He climbs his starry Pyramid, and thence  
Freely sucks clean prophetic influence,  
And all Serene, and rap't and gay he pries  
Through the Aethereal volum's Mysteries,  
Loath to come down, or ever to know more  
The Nile's luxurious, but dull foggy shore.   
I. W. A. M. Oxon.   

Choice POEMS on seveveral occasions.  

To his Learned Friend and Loyal Fellow-Prisoner, Thomas Powel of Cant. Doctor of Divinity.  

IF severed Friends by Sympathy can join,  
And absent Kings be honoured in their coin;  
May they do both, who are so curbed! but we  
Whom no such Abstracts torture, that can see  
And pay each other a full self-return,  
May laugh, though all such Metaphysics burn.   

'Tis a kind Soul in Magnets, that atones  
Such two hard things as Iron are and 〈◊〉,  
And in their dumb compliance we learn more  
Of Love, than ever Books could speak before.  
For though attraction hath got all the name,  
As if that power but from one side came,  
Which both unites; yet, where there is no sense,  
There is no Passion, nor Intelligence:  
And so by consequence we cannot state  
A Commerce, unless both we animate.  
For senseless things, though ne'er so called upon,  
Are deaf, and feel no Invitation;  
But such as at the last day shall be shed  
By the great Lord of Life into the Dead.   

'Tis then no Heresy to end the strife  
With such rare Doctrine as gives Iron life.   

For were it otherwise (which cannot be,  
And do thou judge my bold Philosophy:)  
Then it would follow that if I were dead,  
Thy love, as now in life, would in that Bed  
Of Earth and darkness warm me, and dispense,  
Effectual informing Influence.  
Since then 'tis clear, that Friendship is nought else  
But a Joint, kind propension: and excess  
In none, but such whose equal easy hearts  
Comply and meet both in their whole and parts:  
And when they cannot meet, do not forget  
To mingle Souls, but secretly reflect  
And some third place their Centre make, where they  
Silently mix, and make an unseen stay:  
Let me not say (though Poets may be bold,)  
Thou art more hard than Steel, than Stones more cold,  
But as the Marigold in Feasts of Dew  
And early Sunbeams, though but thin and few  
Unfolds its self, then from the Earth's cold breast  
Heaves gently, and salutes the hopeful East:  
So from thy quiet Cell, the retired Throne  
Of thy fair thoughts, which silently bemoan  
Our sad distractions, come: and richly dressed  
With reverend mirth and manners, check the rest  
Of loose, loathed men! why should I longer be  
Racked 'twixt two Ev'ls? I see and cannot see,    

Thalia Rediviva.  

The King Disguised.  
Written about the same time that Mr. John Cleveland wrote his.  

A King and no King! Is he gone from us,  
And stolen alive into his Coffin thus?  
This was to ravish Death, and so prevent  
The Rebel's treason and their punishment.  
〈◊〉 would not have them damned, and therefore he  
〈◊〉 deposed his own Majesty.  
〈◊〉 did pursue him, and to fly the Ill  
〈◊〉 wanders (Royal Saint!) in sheepskin still.  
〈◊〉, obscure shelter! if that shelter be  
〈◊〉, which harbours so much Majesty.  
〈◊〉 profane Eyes! the mysterie's so deep,  
〈◊〉 Esdras books, the vulgar must not see't.   

Thou flying Roll, written with tears and woe,  
〈◊〉 for thy Royal self, but for thy Foe:  
〈◊〉 grief is prophecy, and doth portend.  
〈◊〉 sad 〈◊〉 ' sighs, the Rebel's end.  
Thy robes forced off, like Samuel's when rent,  
Do figure out another's Punishment.  
Nor grieve thou hast put off thyself a while,  
To serve as Prophet to this sinful Isle;  
These are our days of Purim, which oppress  
The Church, and force thee to the Wilderness.  
But all these Clouds cannot thy light confine,  
The Sun in storms and after them, will shine.  
Thy day of life cannot be yet complete,  
'Tis early sure; thy shadow is so great.   

But I am vexed, that we at all can guests  
This change, and trust great Charles to such a dress.  
When he was first obscured with this corpse thing,  
He graced Plebeians, but profaned the King.  
Like some fair Church, which Zeal to Charcoals burned,  
Or his own Court now to an Alehouse turned.   

But full as well may we blame Night, and chide  
His wisdom, who doth light with darkness hide:  
Or deny Curtains to thy Royal Bed,  
As take this sacred covering from thy Head.  
〈◊〉 of State are points we must not know;  
This vizard is thy privy Council now,   

Thou Royal Riddle, and in every thing  
The true white Prince, our Hieroglyphic King!  
Ride safely in his shade, who gives thee Light:  
And can with blindness thy pursuers smite.  
O may they wonder all from thee as far  
As they from peace are, and thyself from War!  
And wheresoever thou 〈◊〉 design to be  
With thy (now spotted) spotless Majesty,  
Be sure to look no Sanctuary there,  
Nor hope for 〈◊〉 in a temple, where  
Buyers and Sellers trade: O strengthen not  
With too much trust the Treason of a Scot!    

The Eagle  

'TIs madness sure; And I am in the Fit,  
To dare an Eagle with my unfledged wit.  
For what did ever Rome or Athens sing  
In all their Lines, as lofty as his wing?  
He that an Eagles Powers would rehearse  
Should with his plumes first feather all his Verse.   

I know not, when into thee I would pry,  
Which to admire, thy Wing first: or thine Eye;  
Or whether Nature at thy birth designed  
More of her Fire for thee, or of her Wind.  
When thou in the clear Heights and upmost Air  
Dost face the Sun, and his dispersed Hair,  
Even from that distance thou the Sea dost spy  
And sporting in its deep, wide Lap the Frie.  
Not the least Minoe there, but thou canst see;  
Whole Seas are narrow spectacles to thee.   

Nor is this Element of water here  
Below, of all thy miracles the sphere.  
If Poets ought may add unto thy store,  
Thou hast in Heav n of wonders many more.  
For when just Jove to Earth his thunder bends  
And from that bright, eternal Fortress sends  
His louder volleys: straight this Bird doth fly  
To Aetna, where his Magazine doth lie:  
And in his active Talons brings him more  
Of ammunition, and recruits his store.  
Nor is't a low, or easy Lift. He soars  
'Bove Wind and Fire; gets to the Moon, and pores  
With scorn upon her duller face; for she  
Gives him but shadows and obscurity.  
Here much displeased, that any thing like night  
Should meet him in his proud and lofty flight,  
That such dull Tinstures should advance so far,  
And rival in the glories of a star:  
Resolved he is a nobler Course to try  
And measures out his voyage with his Eye.  
Then with such fury he begins his flight,  
As if his Wings contended with his sight.  
Leaving the Moon, whose humble light doth trade  
With spots, and deals most in the dark and shade:  
To the day's Royal Planet he doth pass  
With daring Eyes, and makes the Sun his glass.  
Here doth he plume and dress himself, the Beams  
Rushing upon him, like so many Streams;  
While with direct looks he doth entertain  
The thronging flames, and shoots them back again.  
And thus from star to star he doth repair  
And wantoness in that pure and peaceful air.  
Sometimes he frights the starry Swan, and now  
Orion's fearful Hare and then the Crow.  
Then with the Orb itself he moves, to see  
Which is more swift th' Intelligence or Herald  
Thus with his wings his body he hath brought  
Where man can travel only in a thought.   

I will not seek, rare bird, what Spirit 'tis  
That mounts thee thus; I'll be content with this;  
To think, that Nature made thee to express  
Our souls bold Heights in a material dress.    

To Mr. M. L. upon his reduction of the Psalms into Method.  
SIR,  

YOu have obliged the Patriarch. And 'tis known  
He is your Debtor now, though for his own.  
What he wrote, is a Medley. We can see  
Confusion trespass on his Piety.  
Misfortunes did not only Strike at him;  
They charged further, and oppressed his pen.  
For he wrote as his Crosses came, and went  
By no safe Rule, but by his Punishment.  
His quill moved by the Rod; his wits and he  
Did know no Method, but their Misery.   

You brought his Psalms now into Tune. Nay, all  
His measures thus are more than musical.  
Your Method and his Airs are justly sweet,  
And (what's Church-music right) like Anthems meet.  
You did so much in this, that I believe  
He gave the Matter, you the form did give.  
And yet I wish you were not understood,  
For now 'tis a misfortune to be good!   

Why then, you'll say, all I would have, is this;  
None must be good, because the time's amiss.  
For since wise Nature did ordain the Night,  
I would not have the Sun to give us Light.  
Whereas this doth not take the Use away:  
But urgeth the Necessity of day.  
Proceed to make your pious work as free,  
Stop not your seasonable charity.  
Good works despised, or censured by bad times,  
Should be sent out to aggravate their Crimes.  
They should first Share and then Reject our store:  
Abuse our Good, to make their Gild the more.  
'Tis War strikes at our Sins, but it must be  
A Persecution wounds our Piety.    

To the pious memory of C. W. Esquire who finished his Course here, and made his Entrance into Immortality upon the 13 of September, in the year of Redemption 1653.  

NOw, that the public Sorrow doth subside,  
And those slight tears which Custom Springs,  
While all the rich & out-side-Mourners pass (are dried;  
Home from thy Dust to empty their own Glass:  
I (who the throng affect not, nor their state:)  
Steal to thy grave undressed, to meditate  
On our sad loss, accompanied by none,  
An obscure mourner that would weep alone.   

So when the world's great Luminary sets,  
Some scarce known Star into the Zenith gets,  
Twinkles and curls a weak but willing spark:  
As Glowworms here do glitter in the dark.  
Yet, since the dimmest flame that kindles there,  
An humble love unto the light doth bear,  
And true devotion from an Hermit's Cell  
Will heavens kind King as soon reach and as well  
As that which from rich Shrines and Altars flies  
Led by ascending Incense to the Skies:  
'Tis no malicious rudeness, if the might  
Of love makes dark things wait upon the bright,  
And from my sad retirements calls me forth  
The Just Recorder of thy death and worth.   

Long didst thou live (if length be measured by  
The tedious Reign of our Calamity:)  
And Counter to all storms and changes still  
Keptest the same temper, and the self same will.  
Though trials came as duly as the day,  
And in such mists, that none could see his way:  
Yet thee I found still virtuous, and saw  
The Sun give Clouds: and Charles give both the Law.  
When private Interest did all hearts bend  
And wild dissents the public peace did rend:  
Thou neither won, nor worn 〈◊〉 still thyself;  
Not awed by force, nor basely bribed with pelf.   

What the insuperable stream of times  
Did dash thee with, those Sufferings were, not Crimes.  
So the bright Sun Eclipses bears; and we  
Because then passive, blame him not, should he  
For enforced shades, and the Moon's ruder veil  
Much nearer us, than him; be Judged to fail?  
Who traduce thee, so err. As poisons by  
Correction are made Antidotes, so thy  
Just Soul did turn even hurtful things to Good;  
Used bad Laws so, they drew not Tears, nor Blood.  
Heaven was thy Aim, and thy great rare Design  
Was not to Lord it here, but there to shine.  
Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that e'er  
Thou prayedst for here, was Peace; and Glory there.  
For though thy Course in times long progress fell  
On a sad age, when Warr and opened Hell  
Licenced all Arts and Sects, and made it free  
To thrive by fraud and blood and blasphemy:  
Yet thou thy just Inheritance didst by  
No sacrilege, nor pillage multiply;  
No rapine swelled thy state: no bribes, nor fees  
Our new oppressors best Annuities.  
Such clean, pure hands hadst thou! And for thy heart  
Man's secret region and his noblest part;  
Since I was privy to't, and had the Key  
Of that fair Room, where thy bright Spirit lay:  
I must affirm, it did as much surpass  
Most I have known, as the clear Sky doth glass.  
Constant and kind, and plain and meek and Mild  
It was, and with no new Conceits defiled.  
Busy, but sacred thoughts (like Bees) did still  
Within it stir, and strive unto that Hill,  
Where redeemed Spirits evermore alive  
After their Work is done, ascend and Hive.  
No outward tumults reached this inward place,  
'Twas holy ground: where peace, and love and grace  
Kept house: where the immortal restless life  
In a most dutiful and pious strife  
Like a fixed watch, moved all in order, still;  
The Will served God, and every Sense the Will!   

In this safe state death met thee. Death which is  
But a kind Usher of the good to bliss.  
Therefore to Weep because thy Course is run,  
Or droop like Flowers, which lately lost the Sun:  
I cannot yield, since faith will not permit,  
A Tenure got by Conquest to the Pitt.  
For the great Victor fought for us, and He  
Counts every dust, that is laid up of thee.  
Besides, Death now grows decrepit and hath  
Spent the most part both of its time and wrath.  
That thick, black night which mankind feared, is torn  
By Troops of Stars, and the bright day's Forlorn.  
The next glad news (most glad unto the Just!)  
Will be the Trumpet's summons from the dust.  
Then I'll not grieve; nay more, I'll not allow  
My Soul should think thee absent from me now.  
Some bid their Dead good night! but I will say  
Good morrow to dear Charles! for it is day.    

In Zodiacum Marcelli Palingenii.  

IT is performed! and thy great Name doth run  
Through every Sign an everlasting Sun.  
Not Planet-like, but fixed; and we can see  
Thy Genius stand still in his Apogie.  
For how canst thou an Aux eternal miss,  
Where every House thine Exaltation is?  
Here's no Ecclyptic threatens thee with night,  
Although the wiser, few take in thy light,  
They are not at that glorious pitch, to be  
In a Conjunction with Divinity.  
Could we partake some oblique Ray of thine,  
Salute thee in a Sextile, or a Trine,  
It were enough; but thou art flown so high,  
The Telescope is turned a Common Eye.  
Had the grave Chaldee lived thy Book to see,  
He had known no Astrology, but thee;  
Nay more, (for I believe't,) thou shouldst have been  
Tutor to all his Planets, and to him.  
Thus whosoever reads thee, his charmed sense  
Proves captive to thy Zodiac's influence.  
Were it not foul to err so, I should look  
Here for the Rabbins universal Book:  
And say, their fancies did but dream of thee,  
When first they doted on that mystery.  
Each line's a via lactea, where we may  
See thy fair steps, and tread that happy way  
Thy Genius lead thee in, Still I will be  
Lodged in some Sign, some Face and some Degree  
Of thy bright Zodiac, Thus I'll teach my Sense  
To move by that, and thee th' Intelligence.    

To Lysimachus, the Author being with him in London.  

See not, Lysimachus, last day, when we  
Took the pure Air in its simplicity,  
And our own too: how the trimmed Gallants went  
Cringing, & past each step some Compliment?  
What strange, fantastic Diagrams they drew  
With Legs and Arms; the like we never knew  
In Euclid, Archimed: nor all of those  
Whose learned lines are neither Verse nor Prose?  
What store of Lace was there? how did the Gold  
Run in rich Traces, but withal made bold  
To measure the proud things, and so deride  
The Fops with that, which was part of their pride?  
How did they point at us, and boldly call,  
As if we had been Vassals to them all,  
Their poor Men-mules sent thither by hard fate  
To yoke ourselves for their Sedans and State?  
Of all ambitions, this was not the least,  
Whose drift translated man into a beast.  
What blind discourse the Heroes did afford?  
This Lady was their Friend, and such a Lord.  
How much of Blood was in it? one could tell  
He came from Bevis and his Arundel;  
Morglay was yet with him, and he could do  
More feats with it, than his old Grandsire too.   

Wonders my Friend at this? what is't to thee,  
Who canst produce a nobler Pedigree,  
And in mere truth affirm thy Soul of kin  
To some bright Star, or to a Cherubin?  
When these in their profuse moods spend the night  
With the same sins, they drive away the light,  
Thy learned thrift puts her to use; while she  
Reveals her fiery Volume unto thee;  
And looking on the separated skies  
And their clear Lamps with careful thoughts & eyes  
Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms & bars  
To Heaven, and there conversest with the Stars.   

Well fare such harmless, happy nights that be  
Obscured with nothing but their privacy:  
And missing but the false world's glories, do  
Miss all those vices, which attend them too!  
Fret not to hear their illgot, ill-giv'n praise;  
Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest days.    

On Sir Thomas Bodley's Library; the Author being then in Oxford.  

Boast not proud Golgotha: that thou canst show  
The ruins of mankind, and let us know  
How frail a thing is flesh! though we see there  
But empty Skulls, the Rabbins still live here.  
They are not dead, but full of Blood again,  
I mean the Sense, and every Line a Vein.  
Triumph not o'er their Dust; whoever looks  
In here, shall find their Brains all in their Books.   

Nor is't old Palestine alone survives,  
Atbens lives here, more than in Plutarch's lives.  
The stones which sometimes danced unto the strain  
Of Orpheus, here do lodge his muse again.  
And you the Roman Spirits, learning has  
Made your lives longer, than your Empire was.  
Caesar had perished from the World of men,  
Had not his Sword been rescued by his pen.  
Rare Seneca! how lasting is thy breath?  
Though Nero did, thou couldst not bleed to Death.  
How dull the expert Tyrant was, to look  
For that in thee, which lived in thy Book?  
Afflictions turn our Blood to Ink, and we  
Commence when Writing, our Eternity.  
Lucilius here I can behold, and see  
His Counsels and his Life proceed from thee.  
But what care I to whom thy Letters be?  
I change the Name, and thou dost write to me;  
And in this Age, as sad almost as thine,  
Thy stately Consolations are mine.  
Poor Earth! what though thy viler dust enrouls  
The frail Enclosures of these mighty Souls?  
Their graves are all upon Record; not one  
But is as bright, and open as the Sun.  
And though some part of them obscurely fell  
And perished in an unknown, private Cell:  
Yet in their books they found a glorious way  
To live unto the Resurrection-day.   

Most noble Bodley! we are bound to thee  
For no small part of our Eternity.  
Thy treasure was not spent on Horse and Hound,  
Nor that new Mode, which doth old States confound.  
Thy legacies another way did go:  
Nor were they left to those would spend them so.  
Thy safe, discreet Expense on us did flow;  
Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now.  
thoust made us all thine Heirs: whatever we  
Hereafter write, 'tis thy Posterity.  
This is thy Monument! here thou shalt stand  
Till the times fail in their last grain of Sand.  
And wheresoever thy silent Relics keep,  
This Tomb will never let thine honour sleep.  
Still we shall think upon thee; all our fame  
Meets here to speak one Letter of thy name.  
Thou canst not die! here thou art more than safe  
Where every Book is thy large Epitaph.    

The importunate Fortune, written to Doctor Powel of Cantre.  

FOr shame desist, why shouldst thou seek my fall?  
It cannot make thee more Monarchical.  
Leave off; thy Empire is already built;  
To ruin me were to enlarge thy guilt,  
Not thy Prerogative. I am not he  
Must be the measure to thy victory.  
The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgrace  
If in thy Annals I should make a Clause.  
The future Ages will disclose such men,  
Shall be the glory, and the end of them.  
Nor do I flatter. So long as there be  
Descents in Nature, or Posterity,  
There must be Fortunes; whether they be good,  
As swimming in thy Tide and plenteous Flood,  
Or stuck fast in the shallow Ebb, when we  
Miss to deferve thy gorgeous charity.  
Thus, Fortune, the great World thy period is;  
Nature and you are Parallels in this.   

But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone;  
I am resolved, I will not be undone.  
I scorn thy trash and thee: nay more, I do  
Despise myself, because thy Subject too.  
Name me Heir to thy malice, and I'll be;  
Thy hate's the best Inheritance for me.  
I care not for your wondrous Hat and Purse:  
Make me a Fortunatus with thy Curse.  
How careful of myself than should I be,  
Were I neglected by the world and thee?  
Why dost thou tempt me with thy dirty Ore,  
And with thy Riches make my Soul so poor?  
My Fancy's prisoner to thy Gold and thee,  
Thy favours rob me of my liberty.  
I'll to my Speculations. Is't best  
To be confined to some dark narrow chest  
And Idolise thy Stamps, when I may be  
Lord of all Nature, and not slave to thee?  
The world's my Palace. I'll contemplate there,  
And make my progress into every Sphere.  
The Chambers of the Air are mine; those three  
Well furnished Stories my possession be.  
I hold them all in Capite, and stand  
Propped by my Fancy there. I scorn your Land,  
It lies so far below me. Here I see  
How all the Sacred Stars do circle me.  
Thou to the Great giv'st rich Food, and I do  
Want no Content; I feed on Manna too.  
They have their Tapers; I gaze without fear  
On flying Lamps, and flaming Comets here.  
Their wanton flesh in Silks and Purple Shrouds,  
And Fancy wraps me in a Robe of Clouds.  
There some delicious beauty they may woe,  
And I have Nature for my Mistress too.   

But these are mean; the Archtype I can see,  
And humbly touch the hem of Majesty.  
The power of my Soul is such, I can  
Expire, and so analyse all thats man.  
First my dull Clay I give unto the Earth,  
Our common Mother, which gives all their birth.  
My growing Faculties I send as soon  
Whence first I took them, to the humid Moon.  
All Subtleties and every cunning Art  
To witty Mercury I do impart.  
Those fond Affections which made me a slave  
To handsome Faces, Venus thou shalt have.  
And saucy Pride (if there was aught in me,)  
Sol, I return it to thy Royalty.  
My daring Rashness and Presumptions be  
To Mars himself an equal Legacy.  
My ill-placed Avarice (sure 'tis but small;)  
Jove, to thy Flames I do bequeath it all.  
And my false Magic, which I did believe,  
And mystic Lies to Saturn I do give.  
My dark Imaginations rest you there,  
This is your grave and Superstitious Sphere.   

Get up my dismtangled Soul, thy fire  
Is now refined & nothing left to tyre,  
Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight  
Hath brought me to the Empyrean light.  
I am a separate Essence, and can see  
The Emanations of the Deity,  
And how they pass the Seraphims, and run  
Through every Throne and Domination.  
So rushing through the Guard, the Sacred streams  
Flow to the neighbour Stars, and in their beams  
(A glorious Cataract!) descend to Earth  
And give Impressions unto every birth.  
With Angels now and Spirits I do dwell.  
And here it is my Nature to do well,  
Thus, though my Body you confined see,  
My boundless thoughts have their Ubiquity.  
And shall I then forsake the Stars and Signs  
To dote upon thy dark and cursed Mines?  
Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buy  
Guiana with the loss of all the sky?  
Intelligences shall I leave, and be  
Familiar only with mortality?  
Must I know nought, but thy Exchequer? shall  
My purse and fancy be Symmetrical?  
Are there no Objects left but one? must we  
In gaining that, lose our Variety?   

Fortune, this is the reason I refuse  
Thy Wealth; it puts my Books all out of use.  
'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind  
Is big with speculation, when I find  
My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess  
There is no Blessing to an Emptiness!  
The Species of all things to me resort  
And 〈◊〉 then in my breast, as in their port.  
Then leave to Court me with thy hated store,  
Thou giv'st me that, to rob my Soul of more.    

To I, Morgan of Whitehall Esq upon his sudden Journey and succeeding Marriage.  

SO from our cold, rude World, which all things tires  
To his warm Indies the bright sun retires.  
Where in those provinces of Gold and spice  
Perfumes his progress: pleasures fill his Eyes.  
Which so refreshed in their return convey  
Fire into Rubies, into Crystals day;  
And prove, that Light in kinder Climates can  
Work more on 〈◊〉 Stones, than here on man.   

But you, like one ordained to shine, take in  
Both Light and Heat: can Love and Wisdom spin  
Into one thread, and with that firmly tie  
The same bright Blessings on posterity;  
Which so entailed, like Jewels of the Crown,  
Shall with your Name descend still to your own.   

When I am dead, and malice or neglect  
The worst they can upon my dust reflect,  
(For Poets yet have left no names, but such  
As men have envied, or despised too much;)  
You above both (and what state more excels  
Since a just Fame like Health, nor wants, nor swells?)  
To after ages shall remain Entire,  
And shine still spotless, like your planet's Fire.  
No single lustre neither; the access  
Of your fair Love will yours adorn and bless;  
Till from that bright Conjunction, men may view  
A Constellation circling her and you:   

So two sweet Rosebuds from their Virgin-beds  
First peep and blush, than kiss and couple heads;  
Till yearly blessings so increase their store  
Those two can number two and twenty more,  
And the fair Bank (by heavens free bounty Crowned)  
With choice of Sweets and Beauties doth abound;  
Till time, which Families like Flowers far spreads;  
Gives them for Garlands to the 〈◊〉 of heads.  
Then late posterity (if chance, or some  
Weak Echo, almost quite expired and dumb  
shall tell them, who the Poet was, and how  
He lived and loved thee too; which thou 〈◊〉 know)  
Straight to my grave will Flowers and spices bring  
With Lights and Hymns, and for an Offering  
There vow this truth; That 〈◊〉 (which in old times  
Was censured blind, and will contract worse 〈◊〉  
If hearts mend not; did for thy sake in me  
Find both his Eyes, and all foretell and see.    

FIDA: 〈◊〉 The Country-beauty: to Lysimachus.  

NOw I have seen her; And by Cupid  
The young Medusa made me 〈◊〉!  
A face, that hath no Lovers slain,  
Wants forces, and is near disdain.  
For every Fop will freely peep  
At Majesty that is asleep.  
But she (fair Tyrant!) hates to be  
Gazed on with such impunity.  
Whose prudent Rigour bravely bears  
And scorns the 〈◊〉 of whining tears:  
Or sighs, those false Alarms of grief,  
Which kill not, but 〈◊〉 relief.  
Nor is it thy hard fate to be  
Alone in this Calamity,  
Since I who came but to be gone,  
Am plagued for merely looking on.   

Mark from her 〈◊〉 to her foot  
What charming Sweets are there to do't.  
A Head adorned with all those glories  
That Wit hath shadowed in acquaint stories:  
Or pencil with rich colours drew  
In imitation of the true.   

Her Hair laid out in curious 〈◊〉  
And Twists, doth show like silken Nets,  
Where (since he played at Hitt or Miss:)  
The God of Love her prisoner is,  
And fluttering with his skittish Wings  
Puts all her locks in Curls and Rings.   

Like twinkling Stars her Eyes invite  
All gazers to so sweet a light,  
But then two 〈◊〉 Clouds of brown  
stand o'er, and guard them with a 〈◊〉.   

Beneath these rays of her bright Eyes  
beauty's rich Bed of blushes lies.  
Blushes, which lightning-like come on,  
Yet stay not to be gazed upon;  
But leave the Lilies of her Skin  
As fair as ever, and run in:  
〈◊〉 swift Salutes (which dull paint scom,)  
'twixt a white noon, and Crimson Morn.   

What Coral can her Lips resemble?  
〈◊〉 she are warm, swell, melt and tremble:  
And if you dare contend for Red,  
This is alive, the other dead.   

Her equal Teeth (above, below:)  
All of a Cise, and Smoothness grow.  
Where under close restraint and awe  
(Which is the Maiden, Tyrant law:)  
Like a caged, sullen Linnet, dwells.  
Her Tongue, the Key to potent spells.   

Her Skin, like heaven when calm and bright,  
Shows a rich azure under white,  
With touch more soft than heart supposes,  
And Breath as sweet as new blown Roses.   

Betwixt this Head-land and the Main,  
Which is a rich and flowery Plain:  
Lies her fair Neck, so fine and slender  
That (gently) how you please, 'twill bend her.   

This leads you to her Heart, which ta'en  
Pants under Sheets of whitest Lawn,  
And at the first seems much distressed,  
But nobly treated, lies at rest.   

Here like two Balls of new fallen snow,  
Her Breasts, Loves native pillows grow;  
And out of each a Rose-bud Peeps  
Which Infant beauty sucking, sleeps.   

Say now my Stoic, that mak'st sours faces  
At all the Beauties and the Graces,  
That criest unclean! though known thyself  
To every course, and dirty shelf:  
Couldst thou but see a piece like this,  
A piece so full of Sweets and 〈◊〉:  
In shape so rare, in Soul so rich,  
Wouldst thou not swear she is a witch?    

Fida forsaken.  

FOol that I was! to believe blood  
While swollen with greatness, then most good;  
And the false thing, forgetful man:  
To trust more than our true God, Pan,  
Such swellings to a dropsy tend,  
And meanest things such great ones bend.   

Then live deceived! and Fida by  
That life destroy fidelity.  
For living wrongs will make some wise,  
While death chokes loudest Injuries:  
And skreens the faulty, making Blinds  
To hide the most unworthy minds.   

And yet do what thou canst to hide  
A bad trees fruit will be described.  
For that foul guilt which first took place  
In his dark heart, now damns his face:  
And makes those Eyes, where life should dwell,  
Look like the pits of Death and Hell.   

Blood, whose rich purple shows and seals  
Their faith in Moors, in him reveals  
A blackness at the heart, and is  
Turned Ink, to write his faithlesness.  
Only his lips with blood look red,  
As if ashamed of what they said.   

Then, since he wears in a dark skin  
The shadows of his hell within,  
Expose him no more to the light,  
But thine own Epitaph thus write.  
Here burst, and dead and unregarded  
Lies Fida's heart! O well rewarded!    

To the Editor of the matchless Orinda.  

LOng since great wits have left the Stage  
Unto the Drollers of the age,  
And noble numbers with good sense  
Are like good works, grown an offence.  
While much of verfe. (worse than old story,)  
Speaks but Jack-Pudding, or John-Dory.  
Such trash-admirers made us poor,  
And Pies turned Poets out of door.  
For the nice Spirit of rich verse  
Which scorns absurd and low commerce,  
Although a flame from heaven, if shed  
On Rooks or Daws: warms no such head.  
Or else the Poet, like bad priest,  
Is seldom good, but when oppressed:  
And wit, as well as piety  
Doth thrive best in adversity;  
For since the thunder left our air  
Their Laurels look not half so fair.   

However 'tis 'twere worse than rude  
Not to profess our gratitude  
And debts to thee, who at so low  
An Ebb dost make us thus to flow:  
And when we did a Famine fear,  
Hast blest us with a fruitful year.  
So while the world his absence mourns  
The glorious Sun at last returns,  
And with his kind and vital looks  
Warms the cold Earth and frozen brooks:  
Puts drowsy nature into play  
And rids impediments away,  
Till Flowers and Fruits and spices through  
Her pregnant lap get up and grow.  
But if among those sweet things, we  
A miracle like that could see  
Which nature brought but once to pass:  
A Muse, such as Orinda was,  
Phoebus himself won by these charms  
Would give her up into thy arms;  
And recondemned to kiss his Tree,  
Yield the young Goddess unto thee.    

Upon sudden news of the much lamented death of Judge Trevers.  

LEarning and Law your Day is done,  
And your work too; you may be gone!  
Trever, that loved you, hence is fled:  
And Right, which long lay Sick is dead.  
Trever! whose rare and envied part  
Was both a wise and winning heart,  
Whose sweet civilities could move  
Tartars and Goths to noblest love.   

Bold Vice and blindness now dare act,  
And (like the grey groat,) pass, though cracked;  
While those sage lips lie dumb and cold,  
Whose words are well-weighed and tried gold.  
O how much to descreet desires  
Differs pure Light from foolish fires!  
But nasty Dregs out last the Wine,  
And after Sunset Glowworms shine.    

To Etesia (for Timander,) the first Sight.  

What smiling Star in that fair Night,  
Which gave you Birth gave me this Sight.  
And with a kind Aspect though keen  
Made me the Subject: you the Queen?  
That sparkling Planet is got now  
Into your Eyes, and shines below;  
Where nearer force, and more acute  
It doth dispense, without dispute,  
For I who yesterday did know  
Love's fire no more, than doth cool Snow  
with one bright look am since undone;  
Yet must adore and seek my Sun.   

Before I walked free as the wind,  
And if but stayed (like it,) unkind.  
I could like daring Eagles gaze  
And not be blinded by a face;  
For what I saw, till I saw thee,  
Was only not deformity.  
Such shapes appear (compared with thine,)  
In Arras, or a tavern-sign,  
And do but mind me to explore  
A fairer piece, that is in store,  
So some hang Ivy to their Wine,  
To signify, there is a Vine.   

Those princely Flowers (by no storms vexed,)  
Which smile one day, and droop the next:  
The gallant Tulip and the Rose,  
Emblems which some use to disclose  
Bodied Ideas: their weak grace  
Is mere imposture to thy face.  
For nature in all things, but thee,  
Did practise only Sophistry;  
Or else she made them to express  
How she could vary in her dress:  
But thou wert formed, that we might see  
Perfection, not Variety.   

Have you observed how the Daystar  
Sparkles and smiles and shines from far:  
Then to the gazer doth convey  
A silent, but a piercing Ray?  
So wounds my love, but that her Eyes  
Are in Effects, the better Skies.  
A brisk bright Agent from them Streams  
Armed with no arrows, but their beams,  
And with such stillness smites our hearts,  
No noise betrays him, nor his darts.  
He working on my easy Soul  
Did soon persuade, and then control;  
And now he flies (and I conspire)  
Through all my blood with wings of fire,  
And when I would (which will be never)  
With cold despair allay the fever:  
The spiteful thing Etesia names,  
And that new-fuells all my flames.    

The Character, to Etesia  

GO catch the Phoenix, and then bring  
A quill drawn for me from his wing.  
Give me a Maiden-beautie's Blood,  
A pure, rich Crimson, without mud:  
In whose sweet Blushes that may live,  
Which a dull verse can never give.  
Now for an untouched, spotless white,  
For blackest things on paper write;  
Etesia at thine own Expense  
Give me the Robes of innocence.   

Could we but see a Spring to run  
Pure Milk, as sometimes Springs have done,  
And in the Snow-white streams it sheds  
Carnations wash their bloody heads.  
While every Eddy that came down  
Did (as thou dost,) both smile and frown.  
Such objects and so fresh would be  
But dull Resemblances of thee.   

Thou art the dark world's Morningstar,  
Seen only, and seen but from far;  
Where like Astronomers we gaze  
Upon the glories of thy face,  
But no acquaintance more can have,  
Though all our lives we watch and Crave.  
Thou art a world thyself alone,  
Yea three great worlds refined to one.  
Which shows all those, and in thine Eyes  
The shining East, and Paradise.   

Thy Soul (a Spark of the first Fire,)  
Is like the Sun, the world's desire;  
And with a nobler influence  
Works upon all, that claim to sense;  
But in 〈◊〉 hath no fever,  
And in frosts is cheerful ever.   

As Flowrs, besides their curious dress  
Rich odours have, and 〈◊〉.  
Which tacitly infuse desire  
And even oblige us to admire:  
Such and so full of innocence  
Are all the Charms, thou dost dispense;  
And like fair Nature, without Arts  
At once they seize, and please our hearts.  
O thou art such, that I could be  
A lover to Idolatry!  
I could, and should from heaven stray,  
But that thy life shows mine the way,  
And leave a while the Deity,  
To serve his Image here in thee.    

To Etesia looking from her Casement at the full Moon.  

See you that beauteous Queen, which no age 〈◊〉?  
Her Train is Azure, set with golden flames.  
My brighter fair, fix on the East your Eyes,  
And view that bed of Clouds, whence she doth rise.  
Above all others in that one short hour  
Which most concerned in, she had greatest 〈◊〉.  
This made my Fortune's humorous as wind,  
But fixed Affections to my constant mind.  
She fed me with the tears of Stars, and thence  
I sucked in Sorrows with their Influence.  
To some in smiles, and store of light she broke:  
To me in sad Eclipses still she spoke.  
She bent me with the motion of her Sphere,  
And made me feel, what first I did but fear.   

But when I came to Age, and had o'ergrown  
Her Rules, and saw my freedom was my own,  
I did reply unto the Laws of Fate,  
And made my Reason, my great Advocate:  
I laboured to inherit my just right;  
But then (O hear Etesia!) lest I might  
Redeem myself, my unkind Starry Mother  
Took my poor Heart, and gave it to another.    

To Etesia parted from him, and looking back.  

O Subtle Love! thy Peace is War;  
It wounds and kills without a scar:  
It works unknown to any sense,  
Like the Decrees of Providence,  
And with strange silence shoots me through:  
The Fire of Love doth fall like Snow.   

Hath she no Quiver, but my Heart?  
Must all her Arrows hit that part?  
Beauties like Heaven, their Gifts should deal  
Not to destroy us, but to heal.   

Strange Art of Love! that can make sound,  
And yet exasperates the wound;  
That look she lent to ease my heart,  
Hath pierced it, and improved the smart.    

In Etesiam lachrymantem.  

O Duicis luctus, risuque potentior omni!  
Quem decorant lachrymis Sydera tanta suis.  
Quam tacitae spirant aurae! vultusque nitentes  
Contristant veneres, collachrymantque suae!  
Ornat gutta genas, oculisque simillima gemma:  
Et tepido vivas irrigat imbre rosas.  
Dicite Chaldaei! quae me fortuna fatigat,  
Cum formosa dies & sine nube pervit?    

To Etesia going beyond Sea.  

GO, if you must! but stay— and know  
And mind before you go, my vow.   

To every thing, but Heaven and you,  
With all my Heart, I bid Adieu!  
Now to those happy Shades I'll go  
Where first I saw my beauteous Foe.  
I'll seek each silent path, where we  
Did walk, and where you sat with me  
I'll sit again, and never rest  
Till I can find some flower you pressed.  
That near my dying Heart I'll keep,  
And when it wants Dew, I will weep:  
Sadly I will repeat past Joys,  
And Words, which you did sometimes voice:  
I'll listen to the Woods, and hear  
The Echo answer for you there.  
But famished with long absence I  
Like Infants left, at last shall cry,  
And Tears (as they do Milk) will sup  
Until you come, and take me up.    

Etesia absent.  

LOve, the World's Life! what a sad death  
Thy absence is? to lose our breath  
At once and die, is but to live  
Enlarged, without the scant reprieve  
Of Pulse and Air: whose dull returns  
And narrow Circles the Soul mourns.   

But to be dead alive, and still  
To wish, but never have our will:  
To be possessed, and yet to miss;  
To wed a true but absent bliss:  
Are lingering tortures, and their smart  
Dissects and racks and grinds the Heart!  
As Soul and Body in that state  
Which unto us seems separate,  
Cannot be said to live, until  
Reunion; which days fulfil  
And slow-paced seasons: So in vain  
Through hours and minutes (Times long train,)  
I look for thee, and from thy sight,  
As from my Soul, for life and light.  
For till thine Eyes shine 〈◊〉 me,  
Mine are fast-closed and will not see.     

Translations. Some Odes of the Excellent and Knowing Severinus, Englished.  

Metrum 12. Lib. 3.  

HAppy is he, that with fixed Eyes  
The Fountain of all goodness spies!  
Happy is he, that can break through  
Those Bonds, which tie him here below!   

The Thracian Poet long ago  
King Orpheus, full of tears and woe  
Did for his loved 〈◊〉  
In such sad Numbers mourn, that he  
Made the Trees run in to his 〈◊〉,  
And Streams stand still to hear him 〈◊〉.  
The Does came fearless in one throng  
With Lions to his mournful Song,  
And charmed by the harmonious sound  
The Hare stayed by the quiet 〈◊〉   

But when Love heightened by 〈◊〉  
And deep reflections on his Fair  
Had swelled his Heart, and made it 〈◊〉  
And run in Tears out at his Eyes:  
And those sweet 〈◊〉, which did appease  
Wild Beasts, could give their Lord no 〈◊〉;  
Then vexed, that so much grief and Love  
Moved not at all the gods above,  
With desperate thoughts and bold intent,  
Towards the Shades below he went;  
For thither his fair Love was fled,  
And he must have her from the dead.  
There in such Lines, as did well suit  
With sad Airs and a Lover's Lute,  
And in the richest Language dressed  
That could be thought on, or expressed.  
Did he complain, whatever Grief,  
Or Art, or Love (which is the chief,  
And all innobles,) could lay out;  
In well-tuned woes he dealt about.  
And humbly bowing to the Prince  
Of Ghosts, begged some Intelligence  
Of his Eurydice, and where  
His beauteous Saint resided there.  
Then to his Lutes instructed groans  
He sighed out new melodious moans;  
And in a melting charming strain  
Begged his dear Love to life again.   

The Music flowing through the shade  
And darkness, did with ease invade  
The silent and attentive Ghosts;  
And Cerberus, which guards those coasts  
With his loud barkings, overcome  
By the sweet Notes, was now struck dumb.  
The Furies, used to rave and howl  
And prosecute each guilty Soul,  
Had lost their rage, and in a deep  
Transport did most profusely weep.  
Ixion's wheel stopped, and the cursed  
Tantalus almost killed with thirst,  
Though the Streams now did make no haste,  
But waited for him, none would taste.  
That Vultur, which fed still upon  
Tityus his liver, now was gone  
To feed on Air, and would not stay  
Though almost farnished, with her prey.   

Won with these wonders, their fierce Prince  
At last cried out, We yield! and since  
Thy merits claim no less, take hence  
Thy Consort for thy Recompense.  
But, Orpheus, to this law we bind  
Our grant, you must not look behind,  
Nor of your fair Love have one Sight,  
Till out of our Dominions quite.   

Alas! what laws can Lovers awe?  
Love is itself the greatest Law!  
Or who can such hard bondage brook  
To be in Love, and not to Look?  
Poor Orpheus almost in the light  
Lost his dear Love for one short fight;  
And by those Eyes, which Love did guide,  
What he most loved unkindly died!   

This tale of 〈◊〉 and his Love  
Was meant for you, who ever move  
Upwards, and tend into that light,  
Which is not seen by mortal fight.  
For if, while you strive to ascend,  
You droop, and towards Earth once bend  
Your seduced Eyes, down you will fall  
Even while you look, and forfeit all.    

Metrum 2. Lib. 3.  

WHat fixed Affections, and loved Laws  
(which are the hid, magnetic Cause;  
Wise Nature governs with, and by  
What fast, inviolable tye  
The whole Creation to her ends  
For ever provident she bends:  
All this I purpose to rehearse  
In the sweet Airs of solemn Verse.   

Although the Lybian Lions should  
Be bound with chains of purest Gold,  
And duly fed, were taught to know  
Their keeper's voice, and fear his blow:  
Yet, if they chance to taste of blood,  
Their rage which slept, stirred by that food  
In furious roar will awake,  
And fiercely for their freedom make.  
No chains, nor bars their fury brooks,  
But with enraged and bloody looks  
They will break through, and dulled with fear  
Their keeper all to pieces tear.   

The Bird, which on the Woods tall boughs  
Sings sweetly, if you Cage or house,  
And out of kindest care should think  
To give her honey with her drink,  
And get her store of pleasant meat,  
Even such as she delights to Eat:  
Yet, if from her close prison she  
The shady-groves doth chance to see,  
Straightway she loathes her pleasant food  
And with sad looks longs for the Wood  
The wood, the wood alone she loves!  
And towards it she looks and moves:  
And in sweet notes (though distant from,)  
Sings to her first and happy home!   

That Plant, which of itself doth grow  
Upwards, if forced, will downwards bow;  
But give it freedom, and it will  
Get up, and grow erectly still.   

The Sun, which by his prone descent  
Seems westward in the Evening bend,  
Doth nightly by an unseen way  
Haste to the East, and bring up day.   

Thus all things long for their first State,  
And gladly 〈◊〉 return, though late.  
Nor is there here to any thing  
A Course allowed, but in a Ring;  
Which, where it first began, must end:  
And to that Point directly tend.    

Metrum 6 Lib. 4.  

WHo would unclouded see the Laws  
Of the supreme, eternal Cause,  
〈◊〉 him with careful thoughts and eyes  
Observe the high and spacious Skies.  
There in one league of Love the Stars  
Keep their old peace, and show our wars.  
The Sun, though flaming still and hot,  
The cold, pale Moon annoyeth not.  
Arcturus with his Sons (though they  
See other stars go a far way,  
And out of sight,) yet still are found  
Near the North-pole, their noted bound.  
Bright Hesper (at set times) delights  
To usher in the dusky nights:  
And in the East again attends  
To warn us, when the day ascends,  
So alternate Love supplies  
Eternal Courses still, and vies  
Mutual kindness; that no Jars  
Nor discord can disturb the Stars.   

The same sweet Concord here below  
Makes the fierce Elements to flow  
And Circle without quarrel still,  
Though tempered diversely; thus will  
The Hot assist the Cold: the Dry  
Is a friend to Humidity.  
And by the Law of kindness they  
The like relief to them repay.  
The fire, which active is and bright,  
Tends upward, and from thence gives light.  
The Earth allows it all that space  
And makes choice of the lower place;  
For things of weight hast to the Centre  
A fall to them is no adventure.   

From these kind turns and Circulation  
Seasons proceed and Generation.  
This makes the Spring to yield us flowers,  
And melts the Clouds to gentle showers.  
The Summer thus matures all seeds  
And ripens both the Corn and weeds.  
This brings on Autumn, which recruits  
Our old, spent store with new fresh fruits.  
And the cold Winter's 〈◊〉 Season  
Hath snow and 〈◊〉 for the same reason.  
This temper and wise mixture breed  
And bring forth every living seed.  
And when their strength and substance spend  
(For while they live, they drive and tend  
Still to a change,) it takes them hence  
And shifts their dress; and to our sense  
Their Course is over, as their birth:  
And hid from us, they turn to Earth.   

But all this while the Prince of life  
Sits without loss, or change, or strife:  
Holding the Rains, by which all move;  
(And those his wisdom, power, Love  
And Justice are;) And still what he  
The first life bids, that needs must be,  
And live on for a time; that done  
He calls it back, merely to shun  
The mischief, which his creature might  
Run into by a further flight.  
For if this dear and tender sense  
Of his preventing providence  
Did not restrain and call things back:  
Both heaven and earth 〈◊〉 go to wrack.  
And from their great preserver part,  
As blood let out forsakes the Heart  
And perisheth; but what returns  
With fresh and Brighter spirits burns.   

This is the Cause why every living  
Creature affects an endless being.  
A grain of this bright love each thing  
Had given at first by their great King;  
And still they creep (drawn on by this:)  
And look back towards their first bliss.  
For otherwise, it is most sure,  
Nothing that liveth could endure:  
Unless its Love turned retrograde  
Sought that first life, which all things made.    

Metrum 3. Lib. 4.  

IF old tradition hath not failed,  
Ulysses, when from Troy he sailed,  
Was by a tempest forced to land  
Where beauteous Circe did command.  
Circe, the daughter of the Sun,  
Which had with Charms and Herbs undone  
Many poor strangers, and could then  
Turn into Beasts, the bravest Men.  
Such Magic in her potions lay  
That whosoever past that way  
And drank, his shape was quickly lost;  
Some into Swine she turned, but most  
To Lions armed with teeth and claws;  
Others like Wolves, with open Jaws  
Did howl; But some (more savage) took  
The Tiger's dreadful shape and look.   

But wise Ulysses by the Aid  
Of Hermes, had to him conveyed  
A Flower, whose virtue did suppress  
The force of charms, and their success.  
While his Mates drank so deep, that they  
Were turned to Swine, which fed all day  
On Mast, and humane food had left;  
Of shape and voice at once bereft.  
Only the Mind (above all charms,)  
Unchanged, did mourn those monstrous harms.   

O worthless herbs, and weaker Arts  
To change their Limbs, but not their Hearts!  
Man's life and vigour keep within,  
Lodged in the Centre, not the Skin.  
Those piercing charms and poisons, which  
His inward parts taint and bewitch,  
More fatal are, than such, which can  
Outwardly only spoil the man.  
Those change his shape and make it foul;  
But these deform and kill his soul.    

Metrum 6. Lib. 3.  

ALL sorts of men, that live on Earth,  
Have one beginning and one birth.  
For all things there is one Father,  
Who lays out all, and all doth gather.  
He the warm Sun with rays adorns,  
And fills with brightness the Moon's horns.  
The azur'd heavens with stars he burnished  
And the round world with creatures furnished.  
But Men (made to inherit all,)  
His own Sons he was pleased to call,  
And that they might be so indeed,  
He gave them Souls of divine seed.  
A noble Offspring surely then  
Without distinction, are all men.   

O why so vainly do some boast  
Their Birth and Blood, and a great Host  
Of Ancestors, whose Coats and Crests  
Are some ravenous Birds or Beasts!  
If Extraction they look for  
And God, the great Progenitor:  
No man, though of the meanest state  
Is base, or can degenerate;  
Unless to Vice and lewdness bent  
He leaves and taints his true descent.    

The old man of Verona out of Claudian.  Faelix, qui propriis aevum transegit in arvis, Una domus puerum etc. 

MOst happy man! who in his own sweet fields  
Spent all his time, to whom one Cottage yields  
In age and youth a lodging: who grown old  
Walks with his staff on the same soil and mould  
Where he did creep an insant, and can tell  
Many fair years spent in one quiet Cell!  
No toils of fate made him from home far known,  
Nor foreign waters drank, driven from his own.  
No loss by Sea, no wild lands wasteful war  
Vexed him; not the bribed Coil of growns at bar,  
Exempt from cares, in Cities never seen  
The fresh field-air he loves, and rural green.  
The years set turns by fruits, not Consuls knows;  
Autumn by apples: May by blossomed houghs.  
Within one hedge his Sun doth set and rise,  
The world's wide day his short Demesnes comprise.  
Where he observes some known, concrescent twig  
Now grown an Oak, and old, like him, and big.  
Verona he doth for the Indies take,  
And as the red Sea counts Benacus lake.  
Yet are his limbs and strength untired, and he  
A 〈◊〉 Grandsire three descents doth see.  
Travel and sail who will, search sea, or shore;  
This man hath lived, and that hath wandered more.    

The Sphere of Archimedes out of Claudian.  Jupiter in parvo cum cerneret 〈◊〉 vitro Risit, & ad superos etc. 

WHen Jove a heaven of small glass did behold,  
He smiled, and to the Gods these words he told.  
Comes then the power of man's Art to this?  
In a frail Orb my work new acted is.  
The poles decrees, the fate of things: God's laws  
Down by his Art old Archimedes draws.  
Spirits enclosed the several Stars attend,  
And orderly the living work they bend.  
A feigned Zodiac measures out the year,  
Every new month a false Moon doth appear.  
And now bold industry is proud, it can  
Wheel round its world, and rule the Stars by man.  
Why at Salmoneus thunder do I stand?  
Nature is rivalled by a single hand.    

The Phoenix out of Claudian.  Oceani summo 〈◊〉 aequore lucus Trans Indos, Eurumque viret &c, 

A grove there grows round with the Sea confined  
Beyond the Indies, and the Eastern wind.  
Which, as the Sun breaks forth in his first beam,  
Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team.  
When with his dewy Coach the Eastern Bay  
Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching day;  
And blasted with his burnished wheels, the night  
In a pale dress doth vanish from the light.   

This the blessed Phoenix Empire is, here he  
Alone exempted from mortality,  
Enjoys a land, where no diseases reign;  
And ne'er afflicted, like our world, with pain.  
A Bird most equal to the Gods, which vies  
For length of life and durance, with the skies;  
And with renewed limbs tires every age,  
His appetite he never doth assuage  
With common food. Nor doth he use to drink  
When thirsty, on some River's muddy brink.  
A purer, vital heat shot from the Sun  
Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come  
From Tethis lap, he tasteth at his need;  
On such abstracted Diet doth he feed.   

A secret Light there streams from both his Eyes  
A fiery 〈◊〉 about his cheeks doth rise.  
His Crest grows up into a glorious Star  
Given t' adorn his head, and shines so far.  
That piercing through the bosom of the night  
It rends the darkness with a gladsome light.  
His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings  
(More swift than Winds are,) have sky-coloured rings  
Flowery and rich: and round about enrolled  
Their utmost borders glister all with gold.  
he's not conceived, nor springs he from the Earth,  
But is himself the Parent, and the birth.  
None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves  
Old age, and by his funerals he lives.  
For when the tedious Summer gone about  
A thousand times: so many Winters out,  
So many Springs: and May doth still restore  
Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before;  
Then pressed with years his vigour doth decline  
Foiled with the number; as a stately Pine  
Tired out with storms, bends from the top & height  
Of Causacus, and falls with its own weight:  
Whose part is torn with daily blasts, with Rain  
Part is consumed, and part with Age again.  
So now his Eyes grown dusky, fail to see  
Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be  
Fallen slow and dreggy from them; such in sight  
The cloudy Moon is, having spent her light.  
And now his wings, which used to contend  
With Tempests, scarce from the low Earth ascend.  
He knows his time is out! and doth provide  
New principles of life; herbs he brings dried  
From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames  
A Pile shall burn, and Hatch him with its flames.  
On this the weakling sits; salutes the Sun  
With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some  
Of his own fire, that quickly may restore  
The youth and vigour, which he had before.  
Whom soon as Phoebus' spies, stopping his reins,  
He makes a stand and thus allays his pains.  
O thou that buriest old age in thy grave,  
And art by seeming funerals to have  
A new return of life! whose custom 'tis  
To rise by ruin, and by death to miss  
Even death itself: a new beginning take,  
And that thy withered body now forsake!  
Better thyself by this thy change! This sed,  
He shakes his locks, and from his golden head  
Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire  
The willing bird; to burn is his desire,  
That he may live again: he's proud in death,  
And goes in haste to gain a better breath.  
The spicy heap 〈◊〉 with celestial rays  
Doth burn the aged Phoenix, when straight stays  
The Chariot of th' amazed Moon; the pole  
Resists the wheeling, swift Orbs, and the whole  
Fabric of Nature at a stand remains,  
Till the old bird a new, young being gains.  
All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they  
Suffer not nature's glory to decay.   

By this time, life which in the ashes lurks  
Hath framed the Heart, and taught new blood new works;  
The whole heap stirs, and every part assumes  
Due vigour; th' Embers too are turned to plumes.  
The parent in the Issue now revives,  
But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives  
With very little space between the same,  
Were parted only by the middle flame.   

To Nilus' strait he goes to consecrate  
His parent's ghost; his mind is to translate  
His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away  
Into a distant land, and doth convey  
The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend  
His Journey without number, and defend  
His pious flight like to a guard; the sky  
Is clouded with the Army, as they fly.  
Nor is there one of all those thousands dares  
Affront his leader: they with solomn cares  
Attend the progress of their youthful king;  
Not the rude hawk, nor th' Eagle that doth bring  
Arms up to Jove, fight now; lest they displease;  
The miracle enacts a common peace.  
So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris side  
His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride  
In pearls and habit, he adorns his head  
With royal tires: his steed with gold is lead.  
His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought,  
With rare Assyrian needle work are wrought.  
And proudly reigning o'er his 〈◊〉 bands,  
He raves and triumphs in his large Commands.   

A City of Egypt famous in all lands  
For rites, adores the Sun, his temple stands  
There on a hundred pillars by account  
Digged from the quarries of the Theban mount.  
Here, as the Custom did require (they say,)  
His happy parent's dust down he doth lay;  
Then to the Image of his Lord he bends  
And to the flames his burden straight commends.  
Unto the Altars thus he destinates  
His own Remains: the light doth gild the gates;  
Perfumes divine the Censers up do send:  
While th' Indian odour doth itself extend  
To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all  
The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale  
To which compared, Nectar itself is vile:  
Fills the seven channels of the misty Nile.   

O happy bird! sole heir to thy own dust!  
Death, to whose force all other 〈◊〉 must  
Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise;  
'Tis not thy nature, but 〈◊〉 age that dies.  
Thou hast seen All! and to the times that run  
Thou art as great a witness, as the Sun.  
Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied  
The land, and drowned the mountains with the tide.  
What year the straggling Phaeton did fire  
The world, thou knowst. And no plagues can conspire  
Against thy life; alone thou dost arise  
Above mortality; the Destinies  
Spin not thy days out with their fatal Clue;  
They have no Law, to which thy life is due.     

Pious thoughts and Ejaculations.  

To his Books.  

BRight books! the perspectives to our weak sights:  
The clear projections of discerning lights.  
Burning and shining Thoughts; man's posthume day:  
The tract of fled souls, and their Milkie-way.  
The dead alive and busy, the still voice  
Of enlarged Spirits, kind heavens white Decoys.  
Who lives with you, lives like those knowing flowers,  
Which in commerce with light, spend all their hours:  
Which shut to Clouds, and shadows nicely shun;  
But with glad haste unveil to kiss the Sun.  
Beneath you all is dark and a dead night;  
Which whoso lives in, wants both health and sight.   

By sucking you, the wise (like Bees) do grow  
Healing and rich, though this they do most slow:  
Because most choicely, for as great a store  
Have we of Books, as Bees of herbs, or more.  
And the great task to try, then know the good:  
To discern weeds, and Judge of wholesome Food.  
Is a rare, scant performance; for Man dies  
Oft e'er 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flies.  
But you were all choice Flowers, all set and dressed  
By old, sage florists, who well knew the best.  
And I amidst you all am turned a weed!  
Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.  
Then thank thyself wild fool, that wouldst not be  
Content to know— what was to much for thee!    

Looking back.  

FAir, shining Mountains of my pilgrimage,  
And flowery Vales, whose flowers were stars:  
The days and nights of my first, happy age;  
An age without distaste and wars:  
When I by thoughts ascend your Sunny heads,  
And mind those sacred, midnight Lights:  
By which I walked, when curtained Rooms and Beds  
Confined, or sealed up others sights:   

O then how bright  
And quick a light  
Doth brush my heart and scatter night;  
Chase that shade  
Which my sins made;  
While I so spring, as if I could not fade!  
How brave a prospect is a bright Backside!  
Where flowers and palms refresh the Eye:  
And days well spent like the glad East abide,  
Whose morning-glories cannot die!    

The Shower.  

Waters' 〈◊〉 eternal Springs!  
The dew, that 〈◊〉 the Doves wings!  
O welcome, welcome to the sad:  
Give dry dust drink; drink that makes glad!  
Many fair 〈◊〉, many Flowrs  
Sweetened with rich and gentle showers  
Have I enjoyed, and down have run  
Many a fine and shining Sun;  
But never till this happy hour  
Was blest with such an Evening-shower!    

Discipline.  

FAir prince of life, lights living well!  
Who hast the keys of death and hell!  
If the mule man despise thy day,  
Put chains of darkness in his way.  
Teach him how deep, how various are  
The Counsels of thy love and care.  
When Acts of grace and a long peace  
Breed but rebellion and displease;  
Then give him his own way and will,  
Where lawless he may run until  
His own choice hurts him, and the sting  
Of his 〈◊〉 sins full sorrows bring.  
〈◊〉 Heaven and Angels, hopes and mirth  
Please not the mole so much as, Earth:  
Give him his Mine to dig, or dwell;  
And one sad Scheme of hideous hell.    

The Eclipse.  

WHither, O whither didst thou fly  
When I did grieve thine holy Eye?  
When thou didst mourn to see me lost,  
And all thy Care and Counsels crossed.  
O do not grieve where e'er thou art!  
Thy grief is an undoing smart.  
Which doth not only pain, but break  
My heart, and makes me blush to speak.  
Thy anger I could kiss, and will:  
But (O!) thy grief, thy grief doth kill.    

Affliction.  

O Come, and welcome! Come, refine;  
For Moors if washed by thee, will shine.  
Man blossoms at thy touch; and he  
When thou drawest blood, is thy Rosetree.  
Crosses make straight his crooked ways,  
And Clouds but cool his dog-star days.  
Diseases too, when by thee blest,  
Are both restoratives and rest.   

Flowers that in Sunshines riot still,  
Dye scorched and sapless; though storms kill.  
The fall is fair even to desire,  
Where in their sweetness all expire.  
O come, pour on! what calms can be  
So fair as storms, that appease thee?    

Retirement.  

FResh fields and woods! the Earth's fair face,  
God's footstool, and man's dwelling-place.  
I ask not why the first Believer  
Did love to be a Country liver?  
Who to secure pious content  
Did pitch by groves and wells his tent;  
Where he might view the boundless sky,  
And all those glorious lights on high:  
With flying meteors, mists and showers,  
Subjected hills, trees, meads and Flowers:  
And every minute bless the King  
And wise Creator of each thing.   

I ask not why he did remove  
To happy Mamre's holy grove,  
Leaving the City of the 〈◊〉  
To Lot and his successless train?  
All various Lusts in Cities still  
Are found; they are the Thrones of iii.  
The dismal Sinks, where blood is spilled,  
Cages with much uncleanness filled.  
But rural shades are the sweet fence  
Of piety and innocence.  
They are the Meek's calm region, where  
Angels descend, and rule the sphere:  
Where heaven lies Leiguer, and the Dove  
Duly as Dew, comes from above.  
If Eden be on Earth at all,  
'Tis that, which we the Country call.    

The Revival.  

UNfold, unfold! take in his light,  
Who makes thy Cares more short than night.  
The Joys, which with his Daystar rise,  
He deals to all, but drowsy Eyes:  
And what the men of this world miss,  
Some drops and dews of future bliss.   

Hark! how his winds have changed their note,  
And with warm whispers call thee out.  
The frosts are past, the storms are gone:  
And backward life at last comes on.  
The lofty groves in express Joys  
Reply unto the Turtles voice,  
And here in dust and dirt, O here  
The Lilies of his love appear!    

The Dayspring.  

EArly while yet the dark was gay,  
And gilt with stars, more trim than day:  
heavens Lily, and the Earth's chaste Rose: 
1 S. Mark c. 1. v. 35.   
The green, immortal BRANCH arose; 
1 S. Mark c. 1. v. 35.   
And in a solitary place  
Bowed to his father his blessed face.   

If this calm season pleased my Prince,  
Whose fullness no need could evince,  
Why should not I poor, silly sheep  
His hours, as well as practise keep?  
Not that his hand is tied to these,  
From whom time holds his transient Lease:  
But mornings, new Creations are,  
When men all night saved by his Care,  
Are still reviv d; and well he may  
Expect them grateful with the day.  
So for that first drawght of his hand,  
Which finished heaven and sea and land, 
Job. c. 38. v. 7.   
The Sons of God their thanks did bring, 
Job. c. 38. v. 7.   
And all the Morning-stars did sing. 
Job. c. 38. v. 7.   
Besides, as his part heretofore  
The firstlings were of all, that bore:  
So now each day from all he saves,  
Their Soul's first thoughts and fruits he craves.  
This makes him daily shed and shower  
His graces at this early hour;  
Which both his Care and Kindness show,  
Cheering the good: quickening the slow.  
As holy friends mourn at delay,  
And think each minute an hour's stay:  
So his divine and loving Dove  
With longing throws doth heave and move,  
And soar about us, while we sleep:  
Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep,  
And shine; but always without fail  
Before the slow Sun can unveil,  
In new Compassions breaks like light,  
And Morning-looks, which scatter night.   

And wilt thou let thy creature be  
When thou hast watched, asleep to thee?  
Why to unwellcome, loathed surprises  
Dost leave him, having left his vices?  
Since these, if suffered, may again  
Led back the living, to the 〈◊〉.  
O change this Scourge! or, if as yet  
None less will my transgressions fit:  
Dissolve, dissolve! death cannot do  
What I would not submit unto.    

The Recovery.  

FAir Vessel of our daily light, whose proud  
And previous glories gild that blushing Cloud:  
Whose lively fires in swift projections glance  
From hill to hill, and by refracted chance  
Burnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and then  
Fly off in coy and winged flams again:  
If thou this day  
Hold on thy way,  
Know, I have got a greater light than thine;  
A light, whose shade and backparts make thee shine.  
Then get thee down: then get thee down;  
I have a Sun now of my own.   

II.  
Those nicer livers, who without thy Rays  
Stir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise: (know!)  
And wanting light (light, which no wants doth  
To thee (weak shiner!) like blind Persians bow;  
But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head,  
From his own bright, eternal Eye doth shed  
One living Ray,  
There thy dead day  
Is needless, and man to a light made free,  
Which shows what thou canst neither show, nor see.  
Then get thee down, Then get thee down;  
I have a Sun now of my own.    

The Nativity.  
Written in the year 1656.  

PEace? and to all the world? sure, one  
And he the prince of peace, hath none.  
He travels to be born, and then  
Is born to travel more again.  
Poor 〈◊〉! thou canst not be  
The place for his Nativity.  
His restless mother's called away,  
And not delivered, till she pay.   

A Tax? 'tis so still! we can see  
The Church thrive in her misery;  
And like her head at Bethlem, rise  
When she oppressed with troubles, lies.  
Rise? should all fall, we cannot be  
In more extremities than he.  
Great Type of passions! come what will,  
Thy grief exceeds all copies still.  
Thou cam'st from heaven to earth, that we  
Might go from Earth to Heaven with thee.  
And though thou foundst no welcome here,  
Thou didst provide us mansions there.  
A stable was thy Court, and when  
Men turned to beasts; Beasts would be Men.  
They were thy Courtiers, others none;  
And their poor Manger was thy Throne.  
No swaddling silks thy Limbs did fold,  
Though thou couldst turn thy 〈◊〉 to gold.  
No Rockers waited on thy birth,  
No Cradles stirred: nor songs of mirth;  
But her chaste Lap and sacred Breast  
Which lodged thee first, did give thee rest.   

But stay: what light is that doth stream,  
And drop here in a gilded beam?  
It is thy Star runs page, and brings  
Thy tributary Eastern Kings.  
Lord! grant some Light to us, that we  
May with them find the way to thee.  
Behold what mists eclipse the day:  
How dark it is! shed down one Ray  
To guide us out of this sad night,  
And say once more, Let there be Light.    

The true Christmas.  

SO stick up Ivy and the Bays,  
And then restore the heathen ways.  
Green will remind you of the spring,  
Though this great day denies the thing.  
And mortifies the Earth and all  
But your wild Revels, and loose Hall.  
Could you wear Flowers, and Roses strew  
Blushing upon your breasts warm Snow,  
That very dress your lightness will  
Rebuke, and wither at the iii.  
The brightness of this day we owe  
Not unto Music, Masque nor Show:  
Nor gallant furniture, nor Plate;  
But to the Manger's mean Estate.  
His life while here, as well as birth,  
Was but a cheek to pomp and mirth;  
And all man's greatness you may see  
Condemned by his humility.   

Then leave your open house and noise,  
To welcome him with holy Joys,  
And the poor Shepherd's watchfulness:  
Whom light and hymns from Heaven did bless.  
What you abound with, cast abroad  
To those that want, and ease your load.  
Who empties thus, will bring more in;  
But riot is both loss and Sin.  
Dress finely what comes not in sight,  
And then you keep your Christmas right.    

The Request.  

O Thou! who didst deny to me  
This world's adored felicity,  
And every big, imperious lust,  
Which fools admire in sinful Dust;  
With those 〈◊〉, subtle twists, that tie  
Their bundles of foul gallantry:  
Keep still my weak Eyes from the shine  
Of those gay things, which are not thine,  
And shut my Ears against the noise  
Of wicked, though applauded Joys.  
For thou in any land hast store  
Of shades and Coverts for thy poor,  
Where from the busy dust and heat,  
As well as storms, they may retreat.  
A Rock, or Bush are douny beds,  
When thou art there crowning their heads  
With secret blessings: or a Tire  
Made of the Comforter's live-fire.  
And when thy goodness in the dress  
Of anger, will not seem to bless:  
Yet dost thou give them that rich Rain,  
Which as it drops, clears all again.   

O what kind Visits daily pass  
'Twixt thy great self and such poor grass,  
With what sweet looks doth thy love shine  
On those low Violets of thine!  
While the tall Tulip is accursed,  
And Crowns Imperial die with thirst.  
O give me still those secret meals,  
Those rare Repasts, which thy love deals!  
Give me that Joy, which none can grieve,  
And which in all griefs doth relieve.  
This is the portion thy Child begs,  
Not that of rust, and rags and dregs.    

Jordanis  

QUid celebras auratam undam, Et combusta pyropis  
Flumina, vel Medio quae scrit aethra salo?  
Aeternùm refluis si pernoctaret in undis  
Phoebus, & incertam sydera suda Tethyn  
Si colerent, tantae gemmae! nil caerula librem:  
Sorderet rubro in littore dives Eos.  
Pactoli mea lympha macras ditabit arenas,  
Atque Universum gutta minuta Tagum.  
O charum caput! O cincinnos unda beatos  
Libata! O domini balnea Sancta mei!  
Quod fortunatum voluit spectare Canalem,  
Hoc erat in laudes area parva tuas.  
Jordanis in medio perfusus flumine lavit,  
Divinoque tuas ore beavit aquas.  
Ah! Solyma infoelix rivis obsessa prophanis!  
Amisit Genium porta Bethesda suum.  
Hic Orientis aquae currunt, & apostata Parphar,  
Atque Abana immundo turbidus amne fluit.  
Ethnica te totam cum faedavere fluenta,  
Mansit Christicolâ Jordanis unus aqua.    

Servilii Fatum, five Vindicta divina.  

ET sic in cythara, sic in dulcedine vitae  
Et facti & luctus regnat amarities.  
quam subito in fastum extensos atque effera 〈◊〉  
Ultrici oppressit vilis arena sinu!  
Si violae, spiransque crocus: si lilium 〈◊〉  
Non nisi Justorum nascitur è cinere:  
Spinarum, tribulique atque infoelicis avenae  
Quantus in hoc tumulo & qualis acervus erit?  
Dii superi! damnosa piis sub sydera longum  
Mansuris stabilem conciliate fidem!  
Sic olim in coelum post nimbos clariùs ibunt,  
Supremo occidui tot velut astra die.  
Quippe ruunt horae, qualisque in Corpore vixit,  
Talis it in tenebras bis moriturus homo.    

De Salmone. Ad virum optimum, & sibi familiariùs notum: D. Thomam Poellum Cantrevensem: S. S. Theologiae Doctorem.  

ACcipe praerapido Salmonem in gurgite captum,  
Ex imo in summas cum penetrâsset aquas.  
Mentitae culicis quem forma elusit inanis:  
Picta coloratis plumea musea notis.  
Dum captat, capitur; vorat inscius, ipse vorandus;  
Fitque cibi raptor grata rapina mali.  
Alma quies! miserae merces ditissima vitae,  
quam tuto in tacitis hic 〈◊〉 aquis!  
Qui dum spumosi fremitus & murmura rivi  
Quaeritat, hamato fit cita praeda cibo.  
Quam grave magnarum specimen dant ludicra rerum?  
Gurges est mundus: Salmo, homo: pluma, dolus.    

The World.  

CAn any tell me what it is? can you,  
That wind your thoughts into a Clue  
To guide out others, while yourselves stay in,  
And hug the Sin?  
ay, who so long have in it lived, That if I might,  
In truth I would not be repriev d: Have neither sight,  
Nor sense that knows  
These Ebbs and Flows.  
But since of all, all may be said,  
And likeliness doth but upbraid.  
And mock the Truth, which still is lost  
In fine Conceits, like streams in a sharp frost:  
I will not strive, nor the Rule break  
Which doth give Loser's leave to speak.  
Then false and foul World, and unknown  
Even to thy own:  
Here I renounce thee, and resign  
Whatever thou canst say, is thine.   

Thou art not Truth; for he that tries  
Shall find thee all deceit and lies.  
Thou art not friendship; for in thee  
'Tis but the bait of policy.  
Which, like a Viper lodged in 〈◊〉,  
Its venom through that sweetness pours.  
And when not so, then always 'tis  
A fadeing paint; the short-lived bliss  
Of air and Humour: out and in  
Like Colours in a Dolphin's skin.  
But must not live beyond one day,  
Or Convenience; then away.  
Thou art not Riches; for that Trash  
Which one age hoards, the next doth wash  
And so severely sweep away;  
That few remember, where it lay.  
So rapid streams the wealthy land  
About them, have at their command:  
And shifting channels here restore,  
There break down, what they banked before.  
Thou art not Honour; for those gay  
Feathers will wear, and drop away;  
And princes to some upstart line  
Give new ones, that are full as fine.  
Thou art not pleasure; for thy Rose  
Upon a thorn doth still repose;  
Which if not cropped, will quickly shed;  
But soon as cropped, grows dull and dead.   

Thou art the sand, which fills one glass,  
And then doth to another pass;  
And could I put thee to a stay,  
Thou art but dust! then go thy way,  
And leave me clean and bright, though poor;  
Who stops thee, doth but dawb his floor,  
And Swallow-like, when he hath done,  
To unknown dwellings must be gone!   

Welcome pure thoughts and peaceful hours  
Enriched with Sunshine and with showers;  
Welcome fair hopes and holy Cares,  
The not to be repent shares  
Of time and business: the sure road  
Unto my last and loved Abode! 
O supreme Bliss!    

The Circle, Centre and Abyss  
Of blessings, never let me miss  
Nor leave that Path, which leads to thee:  
Who art alone all things to me!  
I hear, I see all the long day  
The noise and pomp of the broad way;  
I note their Course and proud approaches:  
Their silks, perfumes and glittering Coaches.  
But in the narrow way to thee  
I observe only poverty.  
And despised things: and all along  
The ragged, mean and humble throng  
Are still on foot, and as they go,  
They sigh and say; Their Lord went so!   

Give me my staff then, as it stood  
When green and growing in the Wood  
(Those stones, which for the Altar served,  
Might not be smoothed, nor finely carved:)  
With this poor stick I'll pass the Ford  
As Jacob did; and thy dear word.  
As thou hast dressed it: not as Wit  
And depraved tastes have poisoned it:  
Shall in the passage be my meat,  
And none else will thy Servant eat.  
Thus, thus and in no other sort  
Will I set forth, though laughed at for't;  
And leaving the wife World their way,  
Go through; though Judged to go astray.    

The Bee.  

FRom fruitful beds and flowery borders  
Parcell'd to wasteful Ranks and Orders.  
Where state grasps more than plain Truth needs  
And wholesome Herbs are starved by Weeds:  
To the wild Woods I will be gone,  
And the course Meals of great Saint John.   

When truth and piety are missed  
Both in the Rulers and the Priest;  
When pity is not cold, but dead,  
And the rich eat the Poor like bread;  
While factious heads with open Coil  
And force first make, then share the spoil:  
To Horeb then Elias goes,  
And in the Desert grows the Rose.   

Hail Crystal Fountains and fresh shades,  
Where no proud look invades.   

No busy worldling hunts away  
The sad Retirer all the day:  
Hail happy harmless solitude,  
Our Sanctuary from the rude  
And scornful world: the calm recess  
Of faith, and hope and holiness!  
Here something still like Eden looks,  
Honey in Woods, Julips in Brooks:  
And Flowers, whose rich, unrifled Sweets  
With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets.  
When the toils of the Day are done  
And the tired world sets with the Sun,  
Here flying winds and flowing Wells  
Are the wise, watchful Hermit's Bells;  
Their busy murmurs all the night  
To praise or prayer do invite,  
And with an awful sound arrest  
And piously employ his breast.   

When in the East the Dawn doth blush,  
Here cool, fresh Spirits the air brush;  
Herbs (straight) get up, Flowers peep and spread:  
Trees whisper praise, and bow the head.  
Birds from the shades of night released  
Look round about, then quit the nest,  
And with united gladness 〈◊〉  
The glory of the morning's King.  
The Hermit hears, and with meek voice  
Offers his own up, and their Joys:  
Then prays, that all the world may be  
Blest with as sweet an unity.   

If sudden storms the day invade,  
They flock about him to the shade:  
Where wisely they expect the end,  
Giving the tempest time to spend;  
And hard by shelters on some bough  
Hilarion's servant, the sage Crow.   

O purer years of light, and grace!  
The difference is great, as the space  
'Twixt you and us: who blindly run  
After false-fires, and leave the Sun.  
Is not fair Nature of herself  
Much richer than dull paint, or pelf?  
And are not streams at the Springhead  
More sweet than in carved Stone, or Led?  
But fancy and some Artist's tools  
Frame a Religion for fools.   

The truth, which once was plainly taught,  
With thorns and briers now is fraught.  
Some part is with bold Fables spotted,  
Some by strange Comments wildly blotted:  
And discord (old Corruption's Crest,)  
With blood and blame hath stained the rest.  
So Snow, which in its first descents  
A whiteness, like pure heaven presents,  
When touched by Man is quickly soiled  
And after trodden down, and spoiled:   

O lead me, where I may be free  
In truth and Spirit to serve thee!  
Where undisturbed I may converse  
With thy great self, and there rehearse  
Thy gifts with thanks, and from thy store  
Who art all blessings, beg much more!  
Give me the Wisdom of the Bee,  
And her unwearied Industry:  
That from the wild Gourds of these days  
I may extract Health and thy praise;  
Who canst turn darkness into light,  
And in my weakness show thy might!   

Suffer me not in any want  
To seek refreshment from a Plant  
Thou didst not set! since all must be  
Plucked up, whose growth is not from thee.  
'Tis not the garden and the Bowers,  
Nor fence and forms that give to 〈◊〉  
Their wholsomness: but thy good will,  
Which truth and pureness purchase still.   

Then since corrupt man hath driven hence  
Thy kind and saving Influence,  
And Balm is no more to be had  
In all the Coasts of Gilead:  
Go with me to the shade and cell,  
Where thy best Servants once did dwell.  
There let me know thy Will, and see  
Exiled Religion owned by thee.  
For thou canst turn dark Grots to Halls,  
And make Hills blossom like the vales:  
Decking their untilled heads with flowers  
And fresh delights for all sad hours:  
Till from them, like 〈◊〉 Bee,  
I may fly home, and hive with thee.    

To Christian Religion.  

FArewel thou true and tried Refection  
Of the still poor and meek Election!  
Farewell Souls Joy, the quickening health  
Of Spirits, and their secret wealth!  
Farewell my Morningstar, the bright  
And dawning looks of the true Light!  
O blessed shiner! tell me whither  
Thou will be gone, when night comes hither?  
A Seer, that observed thee in  
Thy 〈◊〉, and watched the growth of Sin,  
Hath given his Judgement and foretold,  
That Westward hence thy Course will hold:  
And when the day with us is done,  
There fix, and shine a glorious Sun.  
O hated shades and darkness! when  
You have got here the Sway again,  
And like unwholesome fogs withstood  
The light, and blasted all that's good:  
Who shall the happy shepherds be  
To watch the next Nativity  
Of Truth and brightness, and make way  
For the returning, rising day?  
O! what year will bring back our bliss,  
Or who shall live, when God doth this?   

Thou Rock of Ages, and the Rest  
Of all, that for thee are oppressed!  
Send down the Spirit of thy truth,  
That Spirit, which the tender Youth  
And first growths of thy Spouse did spread  
Through all the world, from one small head!  
Then, if to blood we must resist  
Let thy mild Dove, and our high Priest  
Help us, when man proves false, or frowns,  
To bear the Cross, and save our Crowns:  
O! honour those, that honour thee!  
Make Babes to still the Enemy:  
And teach an Infant of few days  
To perfect by his death, thy praise!  
Let none defile what thou didst wed,  
Nor tear the garland from her head:  
But chaste and cheerful let her die,  
And precious in the Bridegroom's Eye!  
So to thy glory, and her praise  
These last shall be her brightest days.   
Revel. Chap. last, vers. 17.  
The Spirit and the Bride say, Come.    

DAPHNIS. An Elegiac Eclogue.  

The Interlocutors,  
Damon,  
Menalcas.   Da. 

WHat clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thybrow?  
Flowers in a Sunshine never look so low.  
Is Nisa still cold Flint? or have thy Lambs  
Met with the Fox by straying from their Dams?   Men. 

Ah! Damon, no; my Lambs are safe, & she  
Is kind, and much more white than they can be.  
But what doth life, when most serene, afford  
Without a worm, which gnaws her fairest gourd?  
Our days of gladness are but short reliefs,  
Given to reserve us for enduring griefs.  
So smiling Calms close Tempests breed, which break  
Like spoilers out, and kill our flocks, when weak.   

I heard last May (and May is still high Spring,)  
The pleasant Philomela her Vespers sing.  
〈◊〉 green wood glittered with the golden Sun  
And all the West like Silver shined; not one  
Black cloud, no rags, nor spots did slain  
The Welkin's beauty: nothing frowned like rain;  
But e'er night came, that Scene of fine sights turned  
To fierce dark showers; the Air with lightnings burned;  
The woods sweet Siren rudely thus oppressed,  
Gave to the Storm her weak and weary Breast.  
I saw her next day on her last cold bed;  
And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis dead!   Da. 

So Violets, so doth the Primrose fall,  
At once the Spring's pride and its funeral.  
Such easy sweets get off still in their prime,  
And stay not here, to wear the soil of Time.  
While courser Flowers (which none would miss, if past;  
To scorching Summers, and cold Autumn's last.   Men. 

Souls need not time, the early forward things  
Are always fledged, and gladly use their Wings,  
Or else great parts, when injured quit the Crowd,  
To shine above still, not behind the Cloud.  
And is't not just to leave those to the night,  
That madly hate, and persecute the light?  
Who doubly dark, all Negroes do exceed,  
And inwardly are true black Moors indeed.   Dam, 

The punishment still manifests the Sin,  
As outward signs show the disease within.  
While worth oppressed mounts to a nobler height,  
And Palm-like bravely overtops the weight.   

So where swift Isca from our lofty hills  
With loud farewells descends, and foaming fills  
A wider Channel, like some great port- 〈◊〉,  
With large rich streams to feed the humble plain:  
I saw an Oak, whose stately height and shade  
Projected far, a goodly shelter made,  
And from the top with thick diffused Boughs  
In distant rounds grew, like a Wood-nymphs house.  
Here many Garlands won at Roundel-lays  
Old shepherds hung up in those happy days,  
With knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dress  
Of such bright maids, as did true lovers bless.  
And many times had old Amphion made  
His beauteous Flock acquainted with this shade;  
A Flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and white  
As those, the wellkin shows in Moonshine night.  
Here, when the careless world did sleep, have I  
In dark records and numbers nobly high  
The visions of our black, but brightest Bard  
From old Amphion's mouth full often heard;  
With all those plagues poor shepherds since have known,  
And Riddles more, which 〈◊〉 times must own.  
While on his pipe young Hylas played, and made  
Music as solemn as the song anacute; d shade.  
But the cursed owner from the trembling top  
To the firm brink, did all those branches lop,  
And in one hour what many years had bred,  
The pride and beauty of the plain lay dead.  
The undone Swains in sad songs mourned their loss,  
While storms & cold winds did improve the Cross.  
But Nature, which (like virtue) scorns to yield  
Brought new recruits and succours to the Field;  
For by next Spring the checked Sap waked from sleep  
And upwards still to feel the Sun did creep,  
Till at those wounds, the hated Hewer made,  
There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade.   Men. 

So thrives afflicted Truth! and so the light,  
When put out, gains a value from the Night.  
How glad are we, when but one twinkling Star  
Peeps betwixt clouds, more black than is our Tar?  
And Providence was kind, that ordered this  
To the brave Sufferer should be solid bliss;  
Nor is it so till this short life be done,  
But goes hence with him, and is still his Sun.   Da. 

Come Shepherds then, and with your greenest Bays  
Refresh his dust, who loved your learned Lays.  
Bring here the florid glories of the Spring,  
And as you strew them pious Anthems sing,  
Which to your children and the years to come  
May speak of Daphnis, and be never dumb.  
While prostrate I drop on his quiet Urn  
My Tears, not gifts; and like the poor, that mourn  
With green, but humble Turfs; write o'er his Hearse  
For false, foul Prose-men this fair Truth in Verse.   

Here Daphnis sleeps! & while the great watch goes  
Of loud and restless Time, takes his repose.  
Fame is but noise, all Learning but a thought:  
Which one admires, another sets at nought.  
Nature mocks both, and Wit still keeps ado;  
but Death brings knowledge and assurance too.   Men. 

Cast in your Garlands, strew on all the flowers  
Which May with smiles, or April seeds with showers.  
Let this days Rites as steadfast as the Sun  
Keep pace with Time, and through all Ages run.  
The public character and famous Test  
Of our long sorrows and his lasting rest;  
And when we make procession on the plains,  
Or 〈◊〉 keep the Holiday of Swains,  
Let 〈◊〉 still be the recorded name  
And solemn honour of our feasts and fame.  
For though the Isis and the prouder Thames  
Can show his relics lodged hard by their streams,  
And must for ever to the honoured name  
Of Noble Murrey chiefly owe that fame:  
Yet, here his Stars first saw him, and when fate  
Beckoned him hence, it knew no other date.  
Nor will these vocal Woods and Valleys fail,  
Nor Isca's louder Streams this to bewail,  
But while Swains hope and Seasons change, will glide  
With moving murmurs, because Daphnis died.   Da. 

A fatal sadness, such as still foregoes,  
Then runs along with public plagues and woes,  
Lies heavy on us, and the very light  
Turned Mourner too, hath the dull looks of Night.  
Our vales like those of Death, a darkness show  
More sad than Cypress, or the gloomy Yew,  
And on our hills, where health with height complied,  
Thick drowsy Mists hang round and there reside.  
Not one short parcel of the tedious year  
In its old dress and beauty doth appear;  
Flowrs hate the Spring, and with a sullen bend  
Thrust down their Heads, which to the Root still tend,  
And though the Sun like a cold Lover, peeps  
A little at them, still the Days-eye sleeps.  
But when the Crab and Lion with acute  
And active Fires their sluggish heat recruit,  
Our grass strait russets, and each scorching day  
Drinks up our Brooks as fast as dew in May.  
Till the sad Herdsman with his cattle faints,  
And empty Channels ring with loud Complaints.   Men. 

Heaven's just displeasure & our unjust ways  
Change Nature's course, bring plagues dearth and decays.  
This turns our lands to Dust, the skies to Brass,  
Makes old kind blessings into curses pass.  
And when we learn unknown and foreign Crimes,  
Brings in the vengeance due unto those Climes.  
The dregs and puddle of all ages now  
Like Rivers near their fall, on us do flow.  
Ah happy Daphnis! who, while yet the streams  
Ran clear & warm (though but with setting beams,)  
Got through: and saw by that declining light  
His toil's and journey's end before the Night.   Da. 

A night, where darkness lays her chains and Bars,  
And feral fires appear instead of Stars.  
But he along with the last looks of day  
Went hence, and setting (Sunlike) past away.  
What future storms our present sins do hatch  
Some in the dark discern, and others watch;  
Though foresight makes no Hurricane prove mild;  
Fury that's long fermenting, is most wild.   

But see, while thus our sorrows we discourse,  
Phoebus hath finished his diurnal course.  
The shades prevail, each Bush seems bigger grown:  
Darkness (like State,) makes small things swell and frown.  
The Hills and Woods with Pipes and Sonnets round  
And bleating sheep our Swains drive home, resound.   Men. 

What voice from yonder Lawn tends hither? hark!  
'Tis Thyrsis calls, I hear Lycanthe bark.  
His Flocks left out so late, and weary grown  
Are to the Thickets gone, and there laid down.   Da. 

Menalcas, haste to look them out, poor sheep  
When day is done, go willingly to sleep.  
And could bad Man his time spend, as they do,  
He might go sleep, or die, as willing too.   Men. 

Farewell kind Damon! now the Shepherd's Star  
With beauteous looks smiles on us, though from far.  
All creatures that were favourites of day  
Are with the Sun retired and gone away.  
While feral Birds send forth unpleasant notes,  
And night (the Nurse of thoughts,) sad thoughts promotes.  
But Joy will yet come with the morning-light,  
Though sadly now we bid good night! Da. good night!     

Eugenii Philalethis, VIRI INSIGNISSIMI ET Poetarum Sui Saeculi, meritò Principis: VERTUMNUS ET CYNTHIA, etc.  
Q. Horat. — Qui praegravat artes Infra se positas, extinctus ambitur.—  
LONDINI, Impensis Roberti Pawlett, M. DC. LXXVIII.  

Ornatissimo viro Domino MATHEO HERBERT, Institutori suo imprimis suspiciendo.  

ACcipe primitias, dilecte Herberte, tuosque  
Quales formâsti, docte Mathaee, modos.  
Te mea dissimili sequitur conamine Musa,  
Pallet ut ad vivas picta tabella rosas.  
Sic quae mella sacri congessit Alumnus Hymetti  
Servant libati Suavia prima Thymi.   

Aliud.  
Quae viridi, Mathaee, fuit tibi messis in herba,  
Hoc te compensat faenore cocta Ceres.  
Non potes in nostri furtivis litibus aevi  
Dicere, te segetem non decimâsse meam.   
E. P.   

Vertumnus.  

HEus! Vertumne, adsum, tumuloque incumbo rapinam  
Commeditans: Tu quos incepit dextra tumultus  
Fugisti, partamque tenes in funere pacem.  
Non liceat dormire; Ego te, cineremque superbum  
Excutiam somno. Non hic Equites peditesque  
Circumstant; nulla est lateri Rhomphaea, Satelles  
Nullus: nulla humeris jactatis laena lacertis  
Fluctuat, & nostrum deridet murice pannum.  
Praeterît illa aetas, quâ te timuisse necesse  
Et tutum fuit; haud umbras, manesque reclusos  
Horremus: nihil est, si clausis naribus adsto,  
Quod metuam, morbos, hircum, excrementaque: vermes  
Sollicito; lectusque tuus de stercore versus.   

Cur non eloqueris? neque palma morebere, nec Crus?  
Tende manus; hic sunt tibi vectigalia, Census,  
Poculaque argentumque auratusque annulus instar  
Hannibalis; Sejanus Equus tibi ducitur, aut si  
Non placeant, praesto est meretrix; hanc accipe saltem  
In foveam, Vertumne. Neque hanc? quid? tunè clientem  
Deseris? ut video, NULLA est Captura Sepulchri.   

Tolle caput, raucâque iterùm cum voce phalanges  
Increpita; Satis est latrare audactèr in hostem.  
O qualis facies! recitanda Litania nunc est  
Si possem; Lupus est, taceoque. Irata Minerva  
Non tenuit tales, objectâ Gorgone, vultus.  
Sunt oculi patres, qui Lyncea, qui Galilaeum  
Cum speculo vicere; & prophylactica Galli  
Strumaque viderunt: quibus ipso Hispanus in ovo  
Emicuit dolus; hic Scoti tentoria vidit  
Prima, novasque faces in Sydere Cassiopeaes.  
Nunc nihil hic praeter caecosque cavosque meatus,  
Pejoresque isto spurcoque foramine per quod  
Claudius, impleto jam ventre, cacare solebat.  
Depasta est facies, magnaeque proboscidis uncus  
Depastus, totoque exesus 〈◊〉 nasus.  
Formosum faceret Tongillum & Rhinoceroten.  
O patulam gingivam! ubi nunc tua pharmaca, malas  
Quae radant, scabrosque albent rubigine dentes?  
Haud equidem infaelix tales pandebat hiatus  
Hecuba, cum misso vultu meliore, pudendis  
Faucibus oblatret Graecis, rictuque canino.   

Tune humilis tritusque cinis decreta piorum  
Excindi petis, & divini lumina verbi  
Nocte premi, umbrisque: ac sole funalia praefers?  
Et superesse putas? Cujus jam brachia fracta  
Curaque, multiplicis dispersa cadavera fati  
Praesentant; tua quanta dedit documenta ruina,  
Quae speciem immensae cladis, mortesque coactas  
Multorum, tumulo Vertumni ostendit in uno?  
Par cinis est, aequale lutum, similesque favilla  
Quâ constas, milesque triobolus; aut Agoraeus,  
Quo foetat Quintana, parem coelestia sortem  
Non tribuere. Horum miseras stipendia vitas  
Venales faciunt, animasque ut villica porcos  
Expendunt pretio: Tu non bibis in Nymphaeo  
Cum grege; purpureus tecum commilitat, aut Dux;  
Parmosos spernis; quotiesque ad Jurgia Currus  
Conveniunt, crassa cum Majestate precantem  
Absque oculis rides, & qui pede claudicat uno.  
Nonne pudet duplicasse scelus, miserosque secunda  
Morte premi, nec velle istis solatia servis,  
Quos tua lignipedes fecit fuga, monoculosque?  
Nunc scio quò tendit tua parsimonia; promus  
Solvendus, meretrixque, & quae nasuta lupanar  
Olfecit, rugosa Venus. Respublica tuta est  
His instrumentis. Si vivida vina supersint  
Quo pugnabis, habes; hic tota nocte tibi Mars  
In lingua est, Spirasque inter tua pocula fumos,  
Quales Amsanctus vomit, aut Vesuvius ardens.  
Grande stratagema! Et quo Chinense domabis  
Imperium, Budamque atque altos Ottomannos.  
Procede, expugna mundum; tibi serviet orbis  
Terrarum, regnique extremo in margine pones,  
Arcturumque Crucemque & Sydera Medicaea.  
Sclopetum loquere & flammas: tormenta globosque  
Ferratos; verbisque tuis, tanquam Catapultâ,  
Disjice vicinas aures: hoc tramite victrix  
Palma redit, quaerenda tibi est his moribus. Hoc tu  
Hannibalem fecisse putas, cum funera Cannis  
Roma ageret, luscoque acies demessa Gradivo est?  
Supremos expende dies, sitque exitus hujus  
Fabellae antè oculos: quid nunc inconditus iste  
Mos tibi profecit? vel quid sonus, & celeris vox  
Juramenta rotans, & lassâ opprobria linguâ?  
Quis te miratur? vel quis tua fulgura pluris  
Esse putat, quam sunt crepitus tibi posteriores?  
His tamen alta malis laturum in Sydera nomen  
Sperâstite posse tuum, nostrosque nepotes  
Visuros aliquod Sydus, brutumuè hominemve,  
Assurgens, Angloq, ardentes Hercule Caelos.  
Appia clausa via est, tumuit quâ Julius olim  
In Stellas, quâ qui expiravit podice, repsit.  
Tunè istos, Vertumne, inter numeraberis heros?  
Numinibus si Scurra placet, si sancta libido  
In trutina Jovis est, & Bacchanalia Sacra:  
Justiùs in coelum quis scandet? apertior ibit:  
Porta, & suprema sedeas, Vertumne, cathedrâ.   

Quicunque es, qui scorta, dolos, homicidia, furta  
Exerces, caecaeque armamentaria mentis,  
Hîc studeas; vocat è tumulo major Cicerone.  
In Cinere hoc scriptum est, extatque in manibus illis  
Quod discas: Brevis est, & transit vita, nihilque  
Profeci his telis! Dic, quis Necromantica sumit  
Haec praecepta sibi, creditque sagacior urnae  
NON unum invenio, cui consiliarius est mors.  
Tu legesque forumque & barbara Causidicorum  
Labra moves, majora alio tua praedia fundo  
Ut pateant; addisque tuis malè jugera pauca  
Pauperis: haec magna & praeter ludibria fati  
Fixa putas; cum tu tantùm examine vero  
Aetatem laceras concessam, atque ardua nugis  
Seria posthabeas; quotiès improvida tecum  
Digeris haec intraque coquis: mea vota secundet  
Si non quae praesens lux est, tamen altera, saltem  
Tertia; nec cernis repentem in saecula mortem  
Incautus, credisque dies, ut suavia, posse  
Te rapere, & stabilem furto producere vitam.  
Temporis (heu!) nulla est, Annorum nulla rapina,  
Quisq, suos numeros 〈◊〉. Altae 〈◊〉 famae  
Nos agitant, properique nimis vestigia fati  
Nemo audit, struit hîc turrita palatica, montes  
Marmoreos; tetroque alludit regia busto.  
Quippe Sepulchra etiam sunt ipsa Cubilia, quae 〈◊〉  
Exanimes videre, & tristia funera; nec stat  
Improba posteritas, possitque in limine scribi  
Hic vixit. Si vis animae Compendia nostrae  
Ista petas, quae sola fides mercatur, & alto  
Intendas coelo, terramque moramque relinques.  
DIVITIAE verae illae sunt, & vera Supellex  
Quae divina domos & praedia ponit in astris.   

Cynthia.  

TRansierat jam pura dies, & fortior ignis  
Coelorum, temerasque ferens in lumine flammas  
Phoebus, Venturae fecit praeludia nocti.  
Cynthia cum molles aestus & mitia sensit  
Astra, levemque leves errare per aëra ventos  
Egressa est, hortosque suos floretaque sacra  
Intravit, mediisque 〈◊〉 in floribus ibat.  
Dumque omnem explorat circà se provida partem,  
Excurrunt oculorum ignes, & purior oris  
Aura tremit, roseisque halat Diapasma labellis.  
Luxuriant auro crines, dimissaque vestis  
Ludentem insequitur specioso syrmate Nympham.  
Hîc gratas umbrarum hyemes, & frigora quaerit;  
Aestivas hic sola rosas carpebat, & albis  
Intexit rubeas, positoque è vertice peplo  
Ipsa genis docuit similes fratrare colores.  
Carpit te Narcisse puer! vosque O! sua 〈◊〉  
(Nam cecidit, nulloque jacet curante,) Ligustra!  
Lilia connectit violis, sacrosque Amaranthos  
Fasciculo immifcet; nodoque maritat in uno  
Dispersas florum veneres, speculoque remoto  
Et formam faciemque suis agnovit in herbis.   

Haec illa. At vegetam Florae sobolemque micantem  
Dum legit, 〈◊〉 est! obitusque in 〈◊〉 est 〈◊〉!  
Nunc, O nunc sylvae pereant, animaeque virentes  
Hortorum, plantaeque! Et fascia 〈◊〉 valeto!  
Ecce! ruunt Veneres, multoque Cupidine cingunt  
Spem vitae studiumque meae; spoliatur amoenus  
Hortulus, & rapto, stant moesta rosaria flore.  
O si non ultrà 〈◊〉! si mea tantum  
Cynthia mansisset similis sibi! 〈◊〉 mores  
Fata regunt, frustraque omnes meliora docemur.  
Aureus assurgit, multoque nitore Cupido  
Aggreditur nympham, spiratque superbior ignes.  
Nectare distillant alae, & divina volatu  
Ambrosia exiliens coelestes seminat auras.  
Utque stetit, vidi celerem librare sagittam  
Pennatamque suis plumis; stat missile fixum,  
Accenditq, novas non duro in 〈◊〉 flammas.  
Illa ardet, clademque suam 〈◊〉 ambit  
Blanditiis, ipsoque sinu fovet 〈◊〉 mortem.  
O toties miseranda! deam hanc 〈◊〉 Cupido  
Faedâsti, simul ora tuam superantia matrem.  
Ast ego prospiciens sensi discedere 〈◊〉  
Purpureos, niveosque mori cum virgine flores.  
Nulla rubent tepidis immixta roseta pruinis,  
Nec tremulae ludunt inter sua lilia flammae.  
Marcet tanta venus, tristique in vertice sylva  
Aurea dispersis pendet neglecta capillis.  
Nil manet 〈◊〉 nullusque Hyacinthus, ut olim,  
Vernat in his labiis; tora est in funere Tempe.  
Non nego (sit tua justa licèt sententia) coelos  
Crudeles; lapsae stellae revocantur in altum  
Ex oculis, totoque excedunt sydera vultu.  
Ingemuit, flevitque suum mea Cynthia fatum  
Tristior, & nullâ foelix albedine mansit.    

In Chloen intuentem.  

AFfixis formosa Chloe dum ludit occellis,  
Et tacito in vultus 〈◊〉 meos.  
Obvia luminibus mea forma occurit apertis,  
Hospitat inque oculis transanimata suis.  
Hîc & aquas penetratque ignes, vitreasque pupillas  
Plena vel aerumnis pingit imago meis.  
Flevit sacra Chloe, formosaque lumina plorat  
In speculum tantis facta fuisse malis.    

In Ephemeridas J. Kepleri.  

ECce! mori properat dum prodigus annus, & horas  
Urget sydereis in sua fata rotis,  
Das, Keplere, novam temeris Echineida coelis;  
Et stupet ad remoram machina tota tuam.  
Nunc duraturo radias, Aurora, rubore;  
Et praesens hîc est, praeteritusque dies.    

Vitrum horarium ex sepulti Mathematici pulvere.  

SIc inclusa tuae respondet Mimula dextrae  
Et coeli assuetas audet arena vices.  
Affectare juvat superos post funera cursus,  
Surgitque ex atomis certior hora tuis.  
Si numerat, partitque diem tam nescia techna,  
Quid facit ad solem doctior umbra suum?    

Ad virum eximium. D. Thomam Poellum Cantrevensem S. S. Theologiae Doctorem  

ESt niveae amicus mentis, & calens mihi:  
Rurique semper degit urbanus comes;  
Nec scire possum, quas meus vices agit.   

Non in remotis trutinâ & pace Curiis  
Exercet ille lege quod cautum est, scelus;  
Forique tritis litibus, jungit novas.  
Non hospes intùs rebus haud suis vacat,  
Nec ambit arte, quicquid est dispar deo.   

At ore fundit ille non inops suo  
Rosas, salesque mentis & mares Jocos:  
Interque Doctos humilis & summus simul  
Quos hîc solutus perdo, componit dies.    

Ad Fontem, ex quo bibere solita est Stella.  

OMeae Stellae speculum! liberque  
Suaviûm, castos ubi pingit ignes  
Umbra subridens, & amantis Echo 
Muta puellae!    

quam nimis grato querulus susurro  
In fugam serpis, viridesque tophi  
Pectinas cinnos, vitreoque fundis 
Ore fluentem?    

Hac Venus spumâ poterit creari  
Succubae praestans vetulaeque divae;  
Quae novo formae, fideique solvet 
Foedere litem.    

Pulchrior vultus, meliorque scaena  
Fonte Narcisfi facieque fluctus  
Hos facit lautos magis, atque nulla 
Caede cruentos.    

Hic leves albis volitare pennis  
Adsolent Ludi, veneresque castae;  
Ista cultori dedit unda mortem, 
Haec mihi vitam.     

In Stellam Lachrymantem.  

NOn miror, mea Stella, tuo tua lumina fletu  
Suffusa, & mixtas ignibus Ignis aquas.  
Ex oculis ducendus erat fons. Altera nulla est  
Digna satis faciem quae lavet unda tuam.    

In Eandem acra febre dormientem.  

HIc jaceo: mixta mortis & vitae Venus;  
Amare Parcam docuit vel somnus meus.  
Ludit Corallis morbus, & multa in nive  
Combusta mors est, dum meas genas petit  
Mirata praedam, transit in vitam tepens:  
Et quam necâsset, stravit in jectum sibi  
Dormitque capta. Quos superfusos vides  
Florum popellos: Lilia & diam Rosam  
Amator sparsit; exprimi nullis suam  
Ut par, figuris ille sic deam docet.  
Vix est creatus in 〈◊〉 tropus mihi.    

Ejusdem Epitaphium.  

ADesto multâ superûm Nepenthe madens  
Ver: annus infans, primula & florens Hebe.  
Tuusque tecum Zephyrus accedat, tui  
Serenus oris halitus, promus Rosae:  
Florum solennis fascinus, carmen potens  
Ipsis sepulchris mortuum germen vocans.  
Adstes et Euri mitiùs volans ala,  
Aurâque degens divite, & thure in sacro  
Fumata, pennis incubet tuis Eos.   

Est urna parva Stellulam meam tenens,  
Quae vos in arctum postulat typum deae.  
Florum huc adesto, quicquid hic mundus parit,  
Sui character sparsus, ac inops Icon.  
Cognata venis viola, sanguini est rosa.  
Natura ubique pingit in luctus meos,  
Et tophus omnis parturit Stellae notas.  
Sit Epitaphium par Hyacinthus tibi,  
Qui flore pandens, quas tegit tellus genas,  
Aiacis instar 〈◊〉 meum semper ferat,  
Tuaeque cladis annuè monens Epos.  
Visurus ora qualia, & quales manus,  
Amplectar albas, purpurâ & tinctas rosas;  
Tibique flores servient, spinae mihi!  
Si liliis adsto, dicam, hîc vivit meae,  
Et si sepulchris, hîc perit 〈◊〉 color.    

Gustavus Adolphus Rex Sueciae Intrat Germaniam.  

SIste aquilas Caesar: quae solem, ignesque potentes  
Sustinet, his oculis caeca revertet avis.  
Explorare mori est: haud tanto in lumine tentes  
Degenerem & nullo nomine pullitiem.  
Fulminibus servire aquilae est; non regia flammis  
Imperat; est superis penna ministra focis.  
Gustavus fulgetra regit Mavortis, & Ille est  
Invenient vel quem flammae, aquilaeque Jovem.    

Tillium congrediens augurium rident.  

ADstitit, in bellum Sueco veniente, volantûm  
Turba, & Lipsiacum fusa tegebat agrum.  
Cum miles sub utroque ruens ductore Catervam  
Dissipat, & turmis territa surgit avis.  
Primò te, Tilli, comitesque supervolat, & mox  
Gustavum: at raptâ ex hoste salute, petit.  
Non erat augurium hoc: aliud victoria pennis  
Et dignum vel te gessit, Adolphe, suis.    

Moriens Wallenstenium fundit.  

ADsis & extrema major, Gustave, ruinâ,  
quam per tot vitae sparsa trophaea tuae.  
Hîc congesta jacent tanti miracula belli,  
Contrahit inque unum se tua fama diem.  
Cedite Romani! vobis vicisse, triumphus;  
Gustavo plus est quam superare, mori.    

Testatur se Germanorum libertatem sanguine suo sigillare.  

SCripserat hanc, hostisque prius sua dextra cruore;  
Jam signata suo sanguine charta valet.  
Libertas quam lata tibi, Germania magna, est!  
Cujus vel mundo tessera major erat.    

Carolus Primus, Anglorum Rex.  

EN, en Deorum Magnes, & tracti Numinis  
Sub sole Thronus: Ignium Coeli Silex  
Ferroque tritus in suas flammas abiens!  
Depressa palma, quae veram palmam tulit,  
Crevitque in ipsos oneri non cedens deos.  
Christi, suoque sanguine hic unctus fuit,  
Crucisque nemo majus Exemplum dedit.  
Rex ille Regni, rex idem vixit sui,  
Legemque, quam nec subditi ferrent, tulit.  
Jus semper illi summa & regalis comes.  
Fidesque sancta dirigens dextram suam,  
Quam sic coercet, praesidem agnovit manum.  
Furor, rapina, caedes & dolus malus  
Unius omnes regium invadunt caput:  
Caditque (nôsti coelum!) tam sanctus parens  
Ab his peremptus, vel quibus vitam daret.  
Secunda ab ipso victima haec Christo fuit.    

Disce Lector,  

NOn semper bona invenit, qui bonum quaerit.    

Epitaphium Gulielmi Laud Episcopi Cantuariensis.  

OFida tellus! coeli depositum cape,  
Neque illum topho premas, sed amplectere.   

Hic jacet Lector, (serva tu lachrymas malis,)  
Ecclesiae pharus, Idemque naufragium sibi;  
Repumicator Orbis & Coeli pugil:  
Frigentis arae titio, haud ignis novus,  
Sed Angelorum flamma Manoae capax.  
Desiste saeclûm: majus non potes nefas.  
Lassata crux est, martyrum appendix fuit.  
Quotidiana non est talis manus.   

Liberiùs nemo sanguinem patriae daret  
Si res vocâssent; nec confidentiùs dedit  
Cum non vocabant, nempe curavit mori,  
Anteitque istam, quam stabiliret fidem.  
Sic ille coelum rapuit, & vitae tomos  
Obliteratos maculis adversae manûs  
Proprio rescripfit sanguine, innocuus simul  
Et condemnatus: sic citat testes Deus!   

O festus ille cinis! & foelix miser,  
Qui probro honores mutat, & mundi satur  
Injuriis emit coelos, ac Stellas tenet!  
Fecisti probè! fidei senex malum  
Mors est: Ereptus vitae pugillus tibi  
Cum diis acquirit annos, omisit diem.  
Palles sceleste? non 〈◊〉 sanum sibi  
Cruorem, quisquis sic alienum sitit.  
Sed non in terram fluxit, ne bibit lutum  
Fluentem: sitiens sanguinem pulvis suum  
Pulvere formatus homo est.  
Non periit ergo. Laudis tam justae threnos  
Nec morituras naenias hostes sui  
Qui habent aures, audient.  
Abi jam Lector, & benè discas mori.    

Mauritius Pontisfracti Castrum ingreditur.  

ARx alta! & Caroli spes una atque ultima nostri,  
Quâ tria conveniunt hospita regna simul.  
His extrema fides ponet vestigia muris,  
Clarior éque tuis moenibus astra petet.  
Non superesse licet: cupio fundamina mortis  
Ponere, & hoc nostram condere teste necem.  
Praeside Mauritio tua moenia digna tueri,  
Nec nisi Mauritio praeside digna capi.    

Propositâ ab hoste pactione, solus excluditur.  

HAnc mea mors, mea vita diem celebrate: paresque  
Et similes habeant utraque fata vices.  
Vita, meam mortem celebra: tu mors mea, vitam;  
Sitque audere mori, pactio Mauritii.  
Vivere me trepidant hostes: faciamus & ipsos  
Quam petiere, meam vel trepidare necem.    

Dedito Castro, & pactione exclusus per medios hostes erumpit.  

SOl, orbis spectator ades, curruque represso  
Mirandum è superis aspice Mauritium!  
Solus in hostiles audet procedere turmas,  
Hac illi oblata est conditione salus.  
Mille refert, & mille ruit varia arte per hostes:  
Et varios quasi se dividit usque locos.  
Stravit totam aciem dux atque Exercitus ipse:  
Illa dies, quod vix postera credat habet.  
Victricem obtinuit, morte indignante, salutem:  
Credibile est tantum fata timere manum.    

Aliud.  

ARcta est, quam tribuis fortuna, redemptio; vel mors,  
Vel requiem hostilis pervia turma dabit.  
Aut manus haec nobis tutela, aut nulla; cadamque  
Hoste semel major: me, Caroloque minor.  
Par illi exemplum est; regem assimulare docemur:  
Fataque inauditis exuperare modis.  
〈◊〉! levis est vobis, nullusque triumphus;  
Non poteram vinci, nec dabo posse mori.    

Aliud.  

VEnit summa dies, & quâ pepigisse, perire est.  
Major sum, quam cui sic superesse licet.  
Percutimus pulchrum posito cum funere foedus,  
Sitque haec pro vita pactio, velle mori.  
Plebeius vigor hoc, quivifque gregarius haud dat:  
Hoc solius habent pectora Mauritii.    
Desiderantur Alcippus & Jacintha (Poema Heroicum absolutissimum,) cum multis aliis 〈◊〉 ab Authore relictis.  
FINIS.    

A Catalogue of Books Printed for, and sold by Robert Pawlet at the Bible in Chancery Lane near Fleetstreet.  
VIllare Anglicanum, or a view of all Towns, Villages, etc. In England and Wales, so that naming any Town or place, you may readily find what Shire, Hundred, Rape or Wapentake it is in. Also the number of Bishoprics, Counties, under their several jurisdictions, and the Shire-Towns, Burroughs and Parishes in each County, by the appointment of the eminent Sir Henry Spelman Kt.  
The Nun's Complaint against the Friars, being the Charge given in the Court of France by the Nuns of St. Katherine's near Provence, against the Father Friars, their Confessors; showing their abuses in their allowance of undecent Books, and Love-letters, and Marriages of the Friars and Nuns, their Frolicks and Entertainments, etc. several times printed in French, and now faithfully done into English.  
Marry Magdalen's Tears wiped off; or the voice of Peace to an unquiet Conscience.  
The Golden Remains of that ever memorable Mr. John Hales of Eton College etc. the second Impression with many additions not before published, in Quarto.  
Episcopacy as established by Law in England, written by the command of the late King Charles, by Robert Saunderson, late Lord Bishop of Lincoln, in Oct.  
Incestuous Marriages, or Relations of Consanguinity and Affinity hindering and dissolving Marriage, as making all Marriages within such Relations to be Incestuous, and all Children of such Marriages to be Illegitimate, or Bastards to all intents and purposes.  
A Collection of Articles, Injunctions, Canons, Orders, Ordinances and Constitutions Ecclesiastical, and other public Records of the Church of England, with a Preface by Anthony Sparrow Lord Bishop of Norwich.  
The Causes of the Decay of Christian Piety; both by the Author of the whole Duty of Man.  
A Scholastical History of the Canon of Holy Scripture, or the certain and indubitable Books thereof, as they are received in the Church of England, by Dr. Cousin Lord B. of Durham.  
An Historical Vindication of the Church of England, as it stands separated from the Roman, etc. by Sir Roger Twisden Baronet.  
Mr. Chillingsworth's Reasons against Popery, persuading his Friend to turn to his Mother the Church of England, from the Church of Rome.  
The Book of Homilies appointed to be read in Churches.  
Constitutions and Canons Ecclesiastical.  
Divine Breathe, or, a Pious Soul thirsting after Christ in an hundred excellent Meditations.  
Hugo Grotius de Rebus Belgicis, or, the Annals and History of the Low Country Wars.  
A Treatise of English Particles: with a Praxis upon the same; by William Walker B. D. Schoolmaster of Grantham.  
The Royal Grammar, commonly called Lilies 〈◊〉 explained, with 〈◊〉 plainness, to Children of the meanest capacity, by William Walker, B. D. Author of the Treatise of English Particles.  
A Rationale on the Book of Common prayer of the Church of England, by Anthony Sparrow, Lord Bishop of Norwich, with his caution to his Diocese against false Doctrines.  
A Treatise proving Spirits, Witches, and Supernatural operations, by pregnant Instances and Evidences, by Meric Causabon. Octa.  
A Catalogue of all the Parliaments, or reputed Parliaments from the year 1640.  
A Narrative of some passages, in or relating to the long Parliament, by a Person of Honour.  
Nemesius, Nature of Man in English by George Withers, Gent.  
Inconveniencies of Toleration.  
Toleration intolerable.  
A Thanksgiving Sermon, preached before the King, by J. Dolbin, D. D. Dean of Westminster.  
B. 〈◊〉 Sermons on Gunpowder-Treason.  
A Narrative of the burning of London 1666. with an Account of the Losses, and a most remarkable parallel between it and Moscow, both as to the Plague and Fire.  
Lluellins three Sermons on the King's Murder.  
〈◊〉 Lusitanicum, or, the Portugal Voyage, with what memorable passages 〈◊〉 at the Shipping and Transportation of her sacred Majesty Katherine Queen of Great Britain from Lisbon to England, by Dr. Samuel Hind.  
All sorts of Law-Books.  
FINIS.